Wilde left Sunny and Klara in the trees by a railway track and made his way stealthily towards the back garden of the isolated cottage that they had been studying for the last fifteen minutes. A line of clothes fluttered in the breeze. Sheets and shirts and, most importantly, a dark skirt and white blouse that looked from a distance as though it might belong to a girl of Klara’s age or thereabouts.
‘That’s like my JM uniform,’ Klara had said.
‘Jungmädelbund,’ Sunny whispered to Wilde. ‘Young Girls’ League, you’d call it. Junior section of the BDM – the female version of the Hitler Youth.’
‘But what are you going to do?’ Klara asked.
‘I’ll get the clothes and bring them to you,’ Wilde said.
‘You cannot just steal clothes!’
‘But you have to have something to wear, Klara.’
‘Then at least leave money to pay for them. We are not Jews.’
Wilde brought out his wallet and removed a twenty Reichsmark note.
‘Is that enough?’
‘That is plenty.’
‘Stupid to put washing out on such a day anyway,’ Sunny said. ‘Who puts out washing on the line in December? They deserve to lose it.’
No one had entered or left the cottage in the past quarter of an hour. Hopefully that meant everyone was out; it was a chance Wilde had to take, but he was still worried about dogs.
With only one outhouse, the property did not have the look of a farm. The main building was small and modest, the bricks rendered with a dull grey wash. Wilde wondered whether it might be a railway worker’s home, given the proximity of the line. Up the track there was a signal box. Perhaps that was where the householder worked. With luck he would be there now, the children would be at school and the wife off queuing at the shops. Although the house had no immediate neighbours, Wilde could see a church steeple not more than half a mile away, behind trees, so there must be a village or town there. An unmade road led in that direction from the front of the house. If the woman of the house came back with her shopping, they should see her in time.
Wilde opened the garden gate. He was very exposed here. Beyond the fence there were fields with labourers, but none close enough to see what was going on. Within seconds he had unpegged the skirt and blouse, both already dry. He put the twenty Reichsmark note on a flat stone close to the washing line, and secured it with two smaller stones so that it was easily visible and would not blow away.
He stood for a few moments looking about him, half-expecting to be discovered. But there was no one there. He looked across to Sunny and Klara, standing at the edge of the leafless woodland. The child looked strong, but she must be getting hungry and thirsty. They had already trekked some distance and there was likely to be a great deal further to go. Wilde walked a few paces to the kitchen window. Crouching down, he slowly rose until he had a view inside. No one was there. Surely they must have some food. He could leave a little more money.
The door was open. For a second he wondered whether he should call out, but thought better of it, and slipped straight into the little kitchen. A side of bacon was hanging from a ceiling hook. By the range he saw a selection of knives. He took a carver and cut a good half-pound slice off the bacon and thrust it in his pocket. He also cut a doorstop from a black loaf, which just about fitted in his other jacket pocket, then looked about for some bottle or flask in which to carry some water, but there was nothing but cups and glasses. He took another five Reichsmarks from his wallet and placed the money by the knife. He was about to leave when he had a rethink, and picked up the knife, too.
At the back door, something made him stop and he decided to look further into the house, not sure what he was hoping to find – a firearm, perhaps, or a flask. He peered around the door to the front parlour and instantly cursed himself for his idiocy. Someone was there – an old man. No, an ancient man, sitting in a stiff-backed chair by the fireplace.
Wilde froze.
The old man looked at him through watery eyes.
Wilde found himself putting up a hand in an inane greeting.
‘Guten tag,’ he said.
The old man nodded, then closed his eyes.
‘Shit,’ Wilde said to himself under his breath. Hopefully the old man would dismiss the encounter as a dream.
Outside, Wilde breathed again. Damn it, that was close. He gazed across to Sunny. She was gesticulating to him frantically as though saying ‘Hurry up, for God’s sake.’ He waved back at her and made clear he was coming now. But she was beating the air, as though he should drop down or take cover.
It was as he emerged from the gate that he realised what she had been warning him about. A troop of a dozen or so Hitler Youth was marching across the meadow, all in their warm winter uniforms of dark, belted woollen blousons and trousers, with caps similar to the army’s, and the ubiquitous swastika armbands.
They were approaching him. The boys were all about fifteen or sixteen years old. It was possible he might be able to outrun them, but where would he go? And running was a bad idea because only fugitives ran – and he couldn’t afford to look like a fugitive. He tried to hide the skirt and blouse behind his back.
The troop came to a halt in front of him. As one, they stood to attention, clicked their heels and threw out their arms with a crisp ‘Heil Hitler’, Wilde fervently returned the salute while with his other arm he desperately tried to thrust the stolen clothes in the waistband of his trousers under his jacket.
One of the youths, with epaulettes of rank, stepped forward.
‘Who are you?’ He spoke in German.
Wilde understood the question readily enough.
‘Je suis Francais. Je m’appelle Monsieur Sable.’
‘What is wrong with your left arm? What are you hiding?’
The German had continued to talk in his own language. Wilde breathed out; if the boy had replied in French, he would have been lost. The skirt and blouse were tucked away now and he brought his left arm to the front and held up his hand to show it contained nothing.
‘Entschuldigung, aber ich nicht verstehen Sie. Ich bin Gastarbeiter.’
I’m sorry, I don’t understand you – I am a guest worker.
He made a motion with his hands as though holding a steering wheel.
‘Ich bin Chauffeur.’
‘Franzose, huh?’
‘Oui, je suis Français.’
‘And what were you doing in Frau Spitzweg’s house?’
‘Ich wollte Milch kaufen.’ I wanted to buy milk.
The boy, who had the correct Aryan attributes of a fair complexion and strong, lean body, turned to his equally healthy looking friends and laughed. He made an obscene gesture, ringing the thumb and forefinger of his left hand and thrusting his right forefinger in and out of the hole.
‘Milk! He wanted milk from Frau Spitzweg!’ The troop fell about laughing. He turned back to Wilde. ‘And Katharina, too – do you ask her for milk?’
Once again, the boys laughed loudly. Wilde laughed with them. Clearly the disreputable Spitzweg mother and daughter were a source of local amusement. He gave the young men a lingering, conspiratorial smile, then touched the peak of his chauffeur’s cap and edged sideways to take his leave.
‘Papiere,’ the troop leader said, stepping in front of Wilde to block his way. ‘Show me your papers.’
‘Ah, natürlich,’ Wilde said.
He dug into his inside pocket and produced his identity card and ration card.
The youth looked at them, and studied the photo against Wilde’s face. He nodded in approval and handed them back. Wilde thanked him, gave a Hitler salute and tried once more to take his leave.
‘You forgot your residency permit,’ the youth said.
Wilde had deliberately avoided handing it over, as it gave an address in Potsdam. He would need to explain why he was out here in Brandenburg, many miles from home. Things were becoming complicated. He noted that the rest of the troop was grinning and sniggering. It was a big joke for them – let’s play at tormenting the Frenchman.
The residency permit came out. Once more, the Hitler Youth took an age studying it.
‘This says you are resident in Potsdam,’ he said at last.
‘I was driving my mistress. Auto kaput.’
He was struggling for German now. He couldn’t keep this up much longer.
‘Then we will accompany you,’ the youth said.
‘Nein danke,’ Wilde said, vigorously shaking his head.
‘Yes, it is no problem for us. Where is the car. Perhaps we can fix it. And where is your mistress?’
Wilde could not allow this to happen. He also had to get away from there before any occupant of the house appeared. The day was not warm, but sweat was dripping down the back of his neck and he feared his uneasiness must be visible on his face.
For a few moments, he wondered about taking them on. He was a fully grown man, an amateur boxer and, if all else failed, he had a kitchen carving knife. But there were twelve of these boys, and some of them were over six feet tall. And they had sheathed daggers at their belts. Wilde might get a few punches in, but the end result was inevitable.
‘She is with the car,’ he said.
The Hitler Youth leader was no longer looking at him. Wilde followed his eyes.
In the sky, to the west, an airplane was approaching. It was coming in low, not more than a few hundred feet off the ground, and its markings did not look German. Some sort of twin-engined bomber, with a star on the fuselage and tail fin. One engine was spluttering, and a thin trail of black smoke and oil drifted in its wake. How the hell had a Soviet plane got this far from the front? And why?
It was a mile or two away, losing height. And then something else appeared in the sky. Something dark, falling behind the plane. Of course, a parachute. One of the crew bailing out.
The troop leader looked at his comrades, then grinned at Wilde.
‘Auf wiedersehen, Franzose. Good luck with the car.’
He tossed the residency permit to Wilde and then they all broke into a run. They had found a better game to play: hunt the parachutist.
*
‘Gott in bloody Himmel, Tom – how did you get out of that?’
‘Luck. Pure bloody luck, Sunny. I thought I was done for.’ He handed the clothes to her. ‘I’ll explain all as we walk. First, you two had better slip behind a tree and get the young lady dressed. Then the faster we move on, the better. The good news is, I’ve got a bit of food.’
His relief was tempered with shock. That had been a great deal too close; he had acted recklessly. One more mistake like that and they would all be done for.
*
Romy had no idea where she was or where to go. Her whole body was racked with pain. Soon after getting away from the farmhouse, she had run full on into a tree and had fallen, unconscious, into a bed of leaves. When she came to, her forehead throbbing, she did not know how long she had been there, and she had lost all sense of direction.
She thought of her impending death. She had loved every day of her old life, bringing children into the world. It was always her tragedy that she had been unable to have children of her own, a failing that had brought her marriage to an end. Franzchen was a weak man and he had wanted children more than he had wanted her.
Rising to her feet, she flexed her shoulders and neck, then ran again until she fell again, exhausted, in the lee of a hedge close to a village which had no name post. Not that knowing the name of the village would have helped her. She didn’t even know whether she had travelled east, west, north or south. If only she could find some way of cutting her wrists free of the cords that seemed to bite deeper into her flesh with each passing minute.
Bound like this, she couldn’t even get on to a bus or train without arousing instant suspicion. The police would be called – and what would they do with her then?
Here, beneath the hedge, she slept fitfully. The pain in her head and neck only exceeded by the nightmare of her fingers where the nails had been drawn out one by one.
As morning grew lighter, she got up again.
Would anyone help her – or would they hand her back to the farmwife and her husband? She had no idea who these people were or what sway they held in this district. If they worked for Martin Bormann, then they must have influence. She had the knife, but no way of applying it to the bindings. Several times, she buried the handle in the earth and sat with her back to it, pressing the knot between her wrists against the blade, but the knife just fell away. She tried the same thing with the blade against the trunk of a tree, but she couldn’t hold the blade steady enough to saw at the knotted cords.
‘Good day, Fräulein.’
The words made her legs go weak. She turned to face the man behind the voice. As she did so, a shot rang out.