A Kiss for the Enemy (37 page)

‘I was to report on the state of the German troops in Stalingrad.'

‘Report to whom?'

‘The Staff of Army Group Don.'

‘So you are on the Staff of Army Group Don?'

This was getting more difficult. Toni was anxious to avoid, as long as possible, questions touching his real area of knowledge, the strength, composition and capabilities of the divisions
of Army Group Don, the troops outside the pocket, the German Army on the Don front. At that moment, however, the man at the table with the officer's epaulettes started to mutter in Russian to the interrogator. Toni kept his face blank. He distinguished a word or two. They seemed to be reminding each other of something. Toni heard Epaulettes say, Tester-day', and, ‘Orders from Division'. The other nodded. He looked at Toni and then spoke in Russian to the soldier standing behind him. With sacking again pulled over his head but with a faint whisper of hope in his heart Toni found himself hauled up the slippery steps of the dug-out to cleaner and drier air above. He had no picture of his surroundings to help compose the mind. He could envisage nothing.

He heard the words, ‘This one's got to go back to Headquarters. Over the river.'

Toni reckoned he had been walking for nearly two hours. His watch had been dexterously snatched from his wrist when the sacking was first put over his head. After emerging from the dug-out he had been prodded along steep, slimy paths, falling often. At last he had found himself treading on boards, resonant, slippery. The sacking had been taken away. Jammed between Russian soldiers they were crossing the great river on a creaking, paddle-driven ferry. Then he had been pushed and harried up the east bank and along a track of beaten snow. He seemed to be escorted by only one soldier. After walking a short way they appeared to be alone, trudging through the snow beneath a leaden sky. Toni reckoned that it must be about three o'clock in the afternoon.

The pain in Toni's knee was sharp and showed no signs of diminishing. Every step was torment. Nausea had been replaced by hunger. He felt incapable of a long march: a long march, however, looked to be his fate. He limped on as well as he could. His escort shuffled along behind him. Toni glanced at him periodically. In his mind he christened him Vassili. If they were going to spend some time together he had better have a name, if only in imagination.

Vassili's face was barely visible. His fur cap had ear-pieces, and a mouth and nostril cover – Toni could see eyes which
looked at him incuriously. He wore felt boots, huge, shapeless articles which were undoubtedly warmer and more serviceable than anything in German use – and greatly preferable to Toni's field boots, in which his legs were so frozen at the start of the march as to raise doubts in his mind as to whether they were still attached to his body. Vassili had a rifle with fixed bayonet slung over the shoulder. Marching along behind Toni he periodically uttered a strange cry which somehow penetrated the mouth cover and was interpreted by Toni as an instruction to move faster. There was nothing to be done about this.

Toni, twisted with pain, felt the temptation strong, now and then, to sink into the snow, to let the man shoot or bayonet him – or simply leave him to die, here on the icy Volga steppe. Every pace brought a fresh twinge to his knee. His face, unprotected from the wind, was frozen. He supposed he would get, probably already had, frostbite. His nose would drop off. His gloves, although fleece lined and, miraculously, still in his possession were of little use. He kept his hands in his pockets. He supposed he still had ears because he could hear the crunch of snow beneath his feet. He trudged on, looking at the ground five paces ahead. The biting wind sighed and sang. The will to live is strong but it was ebbing in Rudberg.

Toni heard, once again, a meaningless call from his escort. He plodded forward and then felt, dully, the new pain of a blow between the shoulder blades. It was the butt of Vassili's rifle. Toni turned. Vassili was stationary and shouting something. He appeared to be commanding a halt. Toni turned again, apathetically. Then he saw the reason.

Trudging towards them through the snow in the opposite direction was another Russian soldier. He and Vassili called greetings to each other. Soon they all formed a bizarre threesome beside the track. The two Russians evidently knew each other. They took no notice of Toni. Toni could now distinguish their words. The chance of a social occasion was too great to miss, and each soldier lowered his mouth cover and fumbled in his pocket producing tobacco and paper. Soon they were rolling, lighting and puffing cigarettes. They chatted, oblivious of Toni. Eventually the soldier who had met them said,

‘What have you got here?'

Toni listened with interest. He could follow them pretty clearly although he took care to show nothing.

‘A Fritz. An officer, I've got to take him to Headquarters.

The other looked at Vassili pityingly.

‘You know it's another hour's march?'

‘Yes, I know,' Vassili drew on his cigarette.

‘Well, why don't you shoot him?'

‘No, Comrade,' said Vassili seriously. ‘That won't do. I've been ordered to take him.'

‘You could say he collapsed on the way. The snow will soon cover him. They'll never know. Here, I'll shoot him if you like, my rifle's dirty already. Otherwise you've got three hours in front of you by the time you get home again.'

‘I know,' said Vassili regretfully, ‘but Headquarters know he's coming. I'll end in the snow myself if he doesn't arrive.'

The other digested this. He seemed to find the conclusion depressing. He turned to Toni and looked at him, considering. Then he spoke to Vassili again.

‘Well, if you won't shoot him and you won't let me shoot him, you might at least look after him better.'

‘How – better?'

‘Well, the poor fellow's absolutely done in, anybody can see that. Here, Comrade,' he said to Toni, without any reasonable expectation of being understood. ‘Here, you'd better have a cigarette.'

He rolled one, shoved it with a grin between Toni's frozen lips, and produced a light. Watching with satisfaction as Toni puffed, he felt in his pocket and produced a bottle. He took a swig, roared with laughter and held it out to Vassili, who drank greedily. Then its owner recovered the bottle and pushed it at Toni.

‘Go on, Comrade, it will do you good. You never know when a drink will be your last. It's a terrible world, Comrade – a terrible, terrible world!'

John and Hilda Marvell led a separate existence from the American officers who had largely taken over Bargate in the autumn of 1943. Relations were cordial, contacts few. The Americans belonged to the communications unit of a large Headquarters in Flintdown. They were invariably courteous. Colonel Schultz, the Commanding Officer, a large, sallow-faced man from Illinois with rimless glasses, was particularly friendly. Hilda loathed having them in the house, and despised herself for loathing it.

‘They're a long way from home,' she told herself. ‘And they certainly didn't ask to come. And what am I doing to win the war?'

Nevertheless, she could not help herself – the military presence sprawling over Bargate was a defilement. Grey vehicles with huge white stars painted on them crowded every yard, driveway and paddock. Noise was incessant.

‘It would be no better if they were British,' thought Hilda. ‘In fact in many ways it would be worse.' The Americans were generous and good-mannered. Individually, Hilda found them endearing. The fact remained that the heart of the house no longer beat for her and hers. She and John inhabited three rooms on the first floor, where a small washroom had been converted to a kitchen for them. Apart from the few Marvell rooms, Bargate – inner hall, drawing room, dining room, billiard room and all the rest – was part of General Eisenhower's command. It was 31st May, 1944.

‘They've been up at all hours these last few days,' said John. ‘They've hardly had their clothes off as far as I can see.'

It was six o'clock in the evening and he had made the same remark three times. They were sitting in their small upstairs sitting room.

‘Do you think the invasion's about to begin, John? I've
always thought it would happen on the anniversary of Dunkirk. The end of May, the beginning of June.' It was a futile speculation, something to say. John shrugged –

‘I don't think that the American Command, which must largely decide the matter, is likely to be sentimentally influenced by memories of Dunkirk!'

Everybody in England was waiting, of course. It had to be this summer.

John felt he had been snubbing to his beloved wife.

‘No, I've no idea, my love. These American fellows jump about such a lot, seem to be rushing to and fro all the time, one can't tell if anything unusual is up. Nor should one, of course. Security, you know, walls have ears, all that. And these chaps are the signals outfit of a Corps Headquarters, pretty important –'

There was a knock at the door. John opened it and uttered friendly greetings.

‘Do come in. Darling, it's Colonel Schultz.'

Schultz came into the room carrying a parcel, glasses flashing, an enthusiastic smile on his face.

‘Mrs Marvell, Mr Marvell, I wanted to call on you this evening because these days we never know when we might be called away suddenly.'

‘We understand.'

‘There could be no time for proper goodbyes. That would make me sad. Mrs Marvell, I'd like you to know how much I and my boys have appreciated being in your lovely home. Maybe I'll get the opportunity to say this many more times and if so I'll do just that. But just in case, I wanted to say it now. Ma'am, it's been a wonderful experience.'

Hilda felt particularly guilty.

‘And you've been wonderful too, Mrs Marvell.'

More guilt. This, Hilda thought, was especially untrue. John said, ‘It's been a great privilege for us, Colonel, to be able to do anything to help you. Personally we've done little, I'm afraid. But I hope you've found the house convenient.'

‘It's a wonderful old place, sir. I'll always have some great memories. And believe me, I can imagine it's no fun having strangers tramping all over your home.'

The garden had suffered most, Hilda thought. They were
assured that compensation for damage to the house would be scrupulously assessed and they had little doubt of it. The Americans appeared so lavish and to command such immense resources that the Marvells were unworried. And what does it all matter, Hilda said to herself irritably, garden, furniture, inanimate things, what do they matter? These men are going to war, going to fight our battles as well as their own, going to risk their lives, may never see their families again! And how extraordinarily, terribly nice they are! She felt confused and close to tears.

Schultz was addressing John Marvell.

‘Mr Marvell, I have here a small present. It's rather a special whisky. I know you like Bourbon and I believe you'll appreciate this.'

John thanked him profusely. In providing periodic benefits of this nature, the Americans had been kind well beyond the call of manners, and probably beyond the limit of regulations. They did not seem greatly concerned about the latter. Schultz looked pleased. Hilda laughed.

‘Don't you think we ought to open it, and have a drink together? As Colonel Schultz said, he never knows when he'll see us again. There may not be many more opportunities.'

The bottle was opened. Schultz smiled, gratified. Then he looked serious and cleared his throat.

‘Mrs Marvell, may I ask, have you had any word recently of your son?'

John shook his head. Hilda said brightly,

‘We had a letter a month ago. They can't say much, you know, but he was alive and not, as far as one could tell, sick. Of course, we haven't the faintest idea where he is.'

‘It's been a long time, ma'am. A long time of anxiety for you. I can just imagine how this last year and a half has been. Well – let's hope we'll soon be getting on, finishing it.'

When Schultz left them Hilda said, ‘Do you think any of the ones with German names – like Colonel Schultz – feel any reservations about this war? I expect lots of them are only second generation Americans. They must have close relations in Germany. They can't find it easy to regard them as automatically vile.'

John looked at her. ‘And do we? Do we regard them as
automatically vile? What about that charming young man, Frido von Arzfeld, whom Anthony brought here? I know the name upsets us because of little Marcia, but he wasn't vile. He was decent and delightful. Darling, we've got to fight against the temptation to lump everybody in the same pot of iniquity because we're at war with their beastly government, we really have.'

Hilda pursed her lips. ‘I don't think women find it easy to feel like that. That delightful young man, as you call him, may have been spending the winter of 1942 trying to kill Anthony. I think you're too forgiving, my dear.'

They generally tried to avoid subjects of contention between them and long practice made them good at it, but the habit sometimes failed.

‘I doubt if one can be,' said John, suddenly feeling exhausted. ‘But I know it's all too easy to forgive injuries done to other people. Still, if Frido von Arzfeld spent the winter of 1942 trying to kill Anthony, at least he failed. I wonder if he's alive. Arzfeld, I mean.'

‘When there's no air raid, when the sun is shining, the
Grunewald
can almost persuade one there are other things than war.' Klaus Becker, like his companion, Frido von Arzfeld, had been wounded in Russia. Disabled, one empty sleeve pinned to his jacket, he had recovered sufficiently to be posted to the staff of the Army High Command, in Berlin,
Oberkommando des Heeres
– OKH. He had arrived at the end of June, 1944. Frido, who had for two years been attached to the Headquarters of ‘Home Army', was delighted. They were old friends.