The Farmer's Daughter (3 page)

‘Very well, I will bear your request in mind.'

‘Thank you,
Herr Kolonel.
'

‘You speak excellent English. Where did you learn it?'

‘At school and during holidays in England when I was a boy. I came on school exchange visits. My father thought it would be good for me to learn another language and culture.'

‘Where did you stay?'

‘In Cambridge.'

‘Have you kept in touch with your hosts?'

‘No. It was frowned upon.'

‘Yes, I suppose it would be. Very well. Off you go. I will speak to Major Schultz about your request and let you know in due course.'

Karl saluted him and left. Some of his fellow prisoners had refused to salute and when this had been insisted upon gave the Nazi extended arm salute. This did nothing but alert the British authorities to those who would bear watching. He went back to play chess with Otto, which would last until the midday meal. Food was one of the things they could look forward to; their rations were the same as a British soldier received and infinitely better than any they had had from their own forces.

Their own propaganda had told them the British were starving and near to giving up, but he had seen no evidence of it. He had seen the results of bombing while travelling through the country by train when they first arrived, but the population seemed able to absorb it and carry on. Some were antagonistic and didn't trouble to hide it, but others simply stared at the demoralised prisoners as they shuffled to their trains guarded by British Tommies, most of whom treated them reasonably and shared their cigarettes which made a welcome change from the stinking rubbish called Marhoka they had been issued with.

‘Sei nicht so dumm,'
Otto said when he told him about his request to work. ‘That's aiding and abetting the enemy and you know what happened to Ernst Schumann and Franz Keitel a week or two ago.'

‘No, what did happen?'

‘They were beaten up.'

‘Who by?'

‘They said it was the English farmhands, but there was a rumour it was some of our own men out to teach them a lesson. They have refused to go out to work since then.'

‘It's only farm work, for goodness' sake, and we can earn camp
Geld
for doing it. It's better than playing chess all day.' Camp
Geld
was token money which they could spend in the camp shop on cigarettes, toiletries and books or a second-hand pair of shoes, things like that, but it was worthless in the outside world.

Otto laughed. ‘Which you do very badly, my friend. That's checkmate.'

Karl turned his king over. ‘I wasn't paying attention.'

‘There's one thing about getting out of camp, you might be able to reconnoitre the lie of the land. It could come in handy.'

‘Not you too?'

‘What about me?'

‘Thinking about escape.'

‘Why not? It gives me something to occupy my mind besides chess.'

Karl laughed. ‘How do you propose to go about it?'

‘I don't know yet. I will tell you when I do. You interested?'

‘It depends. It would have to have a good chance of succeeding. I'm not risking my neck on some hare-brained scheme that will cost us our lives.'

‘Fair enough. Let's go and eat.'

Karl mused on the idea of escape as they queued up for meat stew, dumplings, mashed swede and potatoes. The thought of making it home was an attractive one, or it would have been if it hadn't been for Hitler and the Nazis. It was true, he had been in the Hitler Youth, but that had not been done out of any ideology on his part, simply because all his pals joined and his life would have been made hell if he had not. After school, all he wanted to do was make an honest living in agriculture. He had gone to work for his father until 1938 when he had been called up. The army had become his home. But here? In England? None of it seemed real. Heidi didn't seem real any more. The last he heard from her was that she was working in a factory in the suburbs of Berlin, but she could be anywhere by now.

When they had arrived in England they had been issued with a printed postcard which said: ‘I have fallen into English captivity. I am well.' On the other side, by the stamp, it said: ‘Do not write until the POW has notified you of his final address.' Since coming to this camp he had been allowed to write and tell his parents of his address which went through the International Red Cross in Geneva. They could write no more than twenty-five words which were heavily censored. What could you say in that short space
except to say you were okay and being well treated? He had, as yet, received no reply.

He took his plateful of food and his cutlery to a table and sat down beside Otto to eat it.

‘I'm going for a walk this afternoon,' his friend said.

‘Walk!' Karl laughed. ‘Where?'

‘Round the perimeter to see if there are any weaknesses in the wire.'

‘I've no doubt someone has already done that.'

‘I want to see for myself. Coming?'

‘I might as well, since I've nothing better to do and I need to walk off the effects of this dumpling. It's as heavy as a brick. Nothing like the
Knödel Mutti
used to make.'

As soon as they had finished eating and washed up their used crockery and cutlery, they set off, strolling unhurriedly towards the wire before turning to trace it round the perimeter of the camp. There was nothing to see beyond the wire except flat fields and a distant village whose church spire rose above a stand of trees. Anyone trying to escape that way would find very little cover.

‘Talking of going home,' Otto said. ‘Where is home for you?'

‘Hartsveld. It's a small village halfway between Falkenberg and Eberswalde. My folks are farmers, have been for generations.' Falkenberg was an important railway junction, while Eberswalde was known for its thriving heavy industry. It was why the area had been heavily bombed and why he was so worried about his family. ‘How about you?'

‘I come from Arnsberg.'

‘Isn't that near where English bombers breached the Möhne last year?'

‘That's only British propaganda,' Otto said. ‘The dams can't be breached, we were promised that when they were built; the
concrete is too thick. All they could have done was make a dint in it. I've got a wife who's working in one of the factories in Düsseldorf. Last I heard she and my parents were safe, but I worry about them.'

‘I worry about mine too,' Karl said.

‘You married?' Otto asked him.

‘No, not yet. Engaged though.'

‘What's her name?'

‘Heidi. I've known her for years.'

‘Damn this war.'

‘Amen to that.'

Jean was about to haul a churn of milk onto the platform just outside the farm gate, ready for the lorry from the Milk Marketing Board to pick up, when a camouflaged truck drew up and stopped. She stood up, pushing a stray lock of hair under the scarf she wore as a turban, and watched as an army corporal, gun slung over his shoulder, lowered the tailboard and jumped down. ‘Mrs Coleman?'

‘That's my mother.' Laddie, who followed her everywhere when the boys were at school, was barking at the man and she grabbed his collar. ‘Quiet, Laddie.' He stopped at once.

‘I'm Corporal Donnington. I believe you asked for POW help.'

‘Yes, we did.'

‘How many do you want?'

Jean smiled. ‘One is enough, Corporal, so long as he's used to farm work.'

He went to the back of the lorry. ‘You,' he said, pointing to one of the men sitting inside. ‘
Raus
.'

A German POW, in a scruffy field grey uniform with a large
yellow patch on the leg of his trousers and another on the back of his uniform jacket, jumped down onto the road. The corporal climbed back and refastened the tailboard. ‘Don't stand for any nonsense, miss,' he said, banging on the side to tell the driver to move off. ‘We'll be back to fetch him at six.' The lorry went on its way delivering more workers to other farms and Jean was left facing her new hand.

He was, she decided, a good-looking man, tall and fair with very blue eyes, a typical Aryan in looks, but with none of the arrogance she had expected. On the other hand, he was certainly not cowed. He clicked his heels together and bowed. ‘
Feldwebel
Karl Muller,
gnädiges Fräulein
,' he said.

She smiled. ‘I am Jean Coleman. Do you speak English?'

‘Yes,
Fräulein
, I speak English.' He bent to stroke the dog.

‘Good,' she said, noting that Laddie appeared pleased to see him, judging by the way he was wagging his tail. ‘I don't know a word of German and it might be difficult giving you instructions if you don't understand. Let's go inside and I will introduce you to my parents.'

Without being asked, he picked up the churn and placed it on the platform for her. She thanked him and led him up the drive, across the yard and into the kitchen. Her mother was boiling pig swill on the range. She had the windows open because of the smell.

‘Mum, this is
Feldwebel
Karl Muller. He's come to help us.'

Doris turned to face him. ‘Know anything about farming?' she asked.

‘I was raised on a farm,
gnädige Frau
.'

‘I'm Mrs Coleman,' she said. ‘I can't be doing with all that German stuff. And what does “
Feldwebel
” mean?'

‘Sergeant, Mrs Coleman,' he said with a smile, wondering whether the mess in the pan she was stirring was their dinner.
Perhaps the English were starving, after all. She was far from thin though. ‘But Karl will do.'

‘That's better.' She lifted the pan off the stove and handed it to him. ‘You can take this out to the pigs for a start. Jean will show you where.'

‘Where's Pa?' Jean asked her.

‘He's having a lie-down in the sitting room. I think he's asleep, better not disturb him.'

Jean led Karl back across the yard to an outbuilding. ‘Put it on the bench to cool,' she said. ‘Then I'll show you round.'

He did as she asked, then followed her outside and was given a tour of the farm buildings. The cowshed was clean and all milking utensils shone. ‘We have six dairy cows and twenty sheep,' she said. ‘My father was a shepherd in his early days and he still likes to keep a few for wool and meat but most of this area is arable, known for its strawberries. They aren't growing many of those now; wheat, potatoes and sugar beet are more important. We have a couple of pigs.' She opened the top half of the pigsty door as she spoke. Two fat porkers started to grunt, expecting their swill. ‘You'll have to wait,' she told them, opening the door and ushering them out into the orchard where they could feed on fallen apples. It wasn't a proper orchard with evenly spaced rows of fruit trees, but a meadow in which different fruit trees were scattered. It housed the pigsty and the hen coops. Beyond it he could see a large pit.

‘Do you and your father work the farm on your own?' he asked as they continued the tour.

‘My brother used to work with Pa but, like you, he's a prisoner of war, has been since 1940. Pa has had a stroke and can't do anything very much.'

‘Do you mean you manage alone?' he asked in surprise.

‘The villagers give a hand at busy times. We all help each other
as much as we can, but there is an acute shortage of labour. I expect it is the same where you come from.'

‘Yes, it is.'

‘There's a cart, a trap, and a pickup truck in here,' she said, opening the door so he could look inside. ‘The trap is the best way of getting about, considering petrol is rationed and only allowed for essential business. We have a darling grey pony called Misty to pull it. She spends most of her time in the pasture.'

There was another shed which was a storehouse of strange objects. The walls were hung with garden and farm implements of all kinds – shovels, rakes, sickles, scythes, flails, weed hooks – and iron implements and bits of leather tackle whose original use had been forgotten but which Arthur insisted on keeping. There were bins for chicken feed, bags of seed and trays for storing apples and even an ancient wooden plough. Jars and tins of ointments, powders, scours, linseed oil and turpentine stood on shelves. It had a strange yet familiar smell all of its own. Karl roamed round it smiling and occasionally putting out a hand to touch something.

‘Pa can't bear to throw anything away,' she said. ‘And some of it comes in handy.'

‘My father is like that,' he said. ‘This reminds me so much of home.'

‘What would you be doing if you were at home now?'

‘Much the same as I will do here.'

‘What sort of farm do you have?'

‘Mixed, like this,' he said. ‘But I do not know what has happened to it and my family since the Russian raids. My older brother, Wilhelm, died on the Polish front very early in the war. I have a sister, Elise, and uncles, aunts and cousins, but I don't know what has happened to them either. And I have a fiancée. She is in Berlin.'

‘I'm sorry. Perhaps we shouldn't talk about the war.' She remembered the regulations for employing German prisoners: there was to be no fraternisation and all conversation was to be kept to giving instructions about the work they were to do. Already she had broken one of them.

‘No, perhaps not.'

She opened the door of the stables. ‘This is the home of Dobbin and Robin, our percherons.' The horses snickered with pleasure when Karl patted their necks. ‘We are waiting for a tractor, but it hasn't arrived yet.' She looked at the shabby uniform he was wearing. ‘Is that all you've got to work in?'

‘Yes. When we arrived in England we were issued with a kitbag, a shirt, underwear, socks and toiletries, but no outer clothes.'

‘I'll find you some dungarees of Pa's. You'll get filthy otherwise. And you need some rubber boots.'

She led the way back to the house. That was another rule she had broken; the prisoners were not to be allowed into the homes of their employers. He wiped his shoes thoroughly on the mat before he entered the kitchen. Her mother was not there, but her father was sitting by the hearth, reading a newspaper. He let it drop in his lap and turned towards them. ‘Who's this?'

‘Pa, this is Sergeant Muller. He is here to help us on the farm.'

‘I told you I don't want no truck with Jerries. Nasty deceitful people, murderers the lot of 'em.'

‘Pa. They are no more murderers than we are. It's the war …'

‘I will leave,' Karl said.

‘You can't,' Jean said. ‘Not until you're fetched. We are responsible for you, I signed a paper to say so. Besides, Pa doesn't mean it.'

‘Oh, yes I do.'

‘Pa,' she said patiently. ‘The sergeant is a prisoner, just as
Gordon is. I would like to think the German people are treating him well. Think of that, will you? Sergeant Muller is a farmer, or he was, he could be a great help to me.'

‘Then work him hard. Work him damned hard.' He went back to reading his paper.

Jean smiled at Karl. ‘Come on. There's work to do.' She found some dungarees and a pair of boots in the hallway and led the way outside again.

‘I am sorry to be a trouble to you,' he said.

‘You are not. Take no notice of Pa, he's just frustrated and angry that he's so helpless. He still likes to think he's master though.'

‘I understand.'

‘Your English is very good. Where did you learn it?'

‘At school. Some of us came on exchange visits to England during the school holidays. My father was able to afford it and he said it would be a good thing for me to learn. I seem to have a natural aptitude for languages. The officer who interrogated me said I might be useful as an interpreter.' He smiled suddenly. ‘In the general confusion they must have forgotten about it because I was sent here, and the only translating I do is for my fellow prisoners.'

Dressed in dungarees over his uniform and wearing a pair of Arthur's rubber boots, he helped her pour the pig swill into the trough to the accompaniment of noisy squealing as the animals pushed each other to get at the food, then she fetched two scythes from the barn. ‘Can you use one of these?'

‘Yes.'

‘Good because I'm hopeless at it. Pa despairs of me.' It did not occur to her that she was handing him a weapon.

She led the way through the orchard to the meadow where he began scything the long grass. His movements were rhythmic and
assured. She left him to get on with it, while she concentrated on doing the rough edges along the side of the ditch. They had half of it done when Doris arrived with sandwiches and cider for their lunch. They sat under the hedge to eat and drink.

‘This is good,' he said, biting into an egg sandwich. ‘In Germany we were told the British were starving and ready to surrender.'

Jean laughed. ‘Propaganda. Mind you, rations are pretty tight. We are fortunate in the country, it's not so easy in the towns.' She paused, musing. ‘On the other hand townspeople are nearer the shops and can get to them quickly when word gets round there's something new in that's not on ration. By the time we've tidied ourselves up and caught the bus to town, it's all gone.'

‘I suppose it is the same for us. Heidi wrote about long lines of people waiting for the shops to open.'

‘Heidi is your fiancée, is she?'

‘Yes. I proposed when I was called up. We planned to marry when I went on leave the next time, but it was not possible. I have not heard from her in over a year.'

‘You are allowed to receive letters in the camp?'

‘Yes. They are censored, of course. But I have had no letters since I came here.'

‘Does she know you are in England?'

‘I do not know. I have written to tell her how to write to me, but …' He shrugged.

‘She lives in Berlin, you said.'

‘Yes, but she comes from Hartsveld, the same as I do. It is a small village, halfway between Berlin and the Polish border. We have known each other all our lives. She was sent to Berlin to work in a factory at the beginning of the war. I am worried about her.'

‘Because of the bombing?'

‘Yes.'

‘I'm sorry. Perhaps you will hear soon. How long have you been here? In England, I mean.'

‘Just over a month. I was captured in Normandy.'

‘There you are then. No time at all. Letters take a long time, I know. We hear from Gordon, not often but we do hear, though we have no idea exactly where he is, everything is done through the Red Cross. I don't suppose it really matters, a POW camp is a POW camp wherever it is.'

‘Yes, on both sides of the North Sea.'

‘Mum worries about the air raids.'

‘You have not had any near here, have you?'

‘A few aimed at the airfields, but I meant our raids on Germany.'

‘Oh, I see. But I think perhaps your air force knows where the camps are and do not bomb them. Our aeroplanes do not bomb us because they know where we are.'

‘I hadn't thought of that. How do they know?'

‘I have no doubt there are ways and means of communicating.'

‘Spies, you mean?'

‘Perhaps, but there are neutral countries; Switzerland, Sweden and Portugal have access to the news on both sides and pass it on.'

‘Can't you find out about your family that way?'

‘No.' If he knew any more than that, he was obviously not going to tell her. ‘You are very kind to me.'

‘Why wouldn't I be? You have done me no harm.'

‘Your father does not agree.'

‘That was Hitler, not you personally.'

He blinked hard. Harsh treatment he could accept, could shrug his shoulders and endure, but kindness touched the core of him and crumbled his defences. He poured more cider from the heavy jug into his mug and drank deeply to cover his embarrassment, then he rose, picked up his scythe and went back to work.

They finished by the middle of the afternoon. ‘A good day's work,' she said. ‘I couldn't have done it without you, at least, not in the time.'

They returned to the farm. Leaving Karl to put the scythes away, she fetched the cows into the byre where they knew their own stalls. ‘Watch that one,' she told him when he joined her. ‘Gertrude's been known to kick.'

He patted the cow's rump and settled himself on the milking stool.
‘Sachte, sachte,'
he murmured to the animal as he put his head into her side and washed her udders before taking them into his hands. ‘You will soon be more comfortable.'