flexible.' Her German was good, though her accent sometimes made him pause. 'I am a teacher, but quite junior, Ernst. I can find cover. It's not as if there is any great enthusiasm for education just now, and soon the summer vacation will come. My timetable is subordinate to yours.'
She always spoke to him briskly, challengingly, with no hint of weakness or dependency in her voice. He told himself that he would not have chosen any girl if he could not have had that. But was this some subtle rejection? His old inadequacies bubbled up inside him. Suddenly he was no longer a soldier of the all-conquering German army, but just poor foolish Ernst Trojan from Munich, he of the spiky hair and sticking-out ears. 'You seem troubled,' he said. 'Do you think I would be ashamed to be seen out with you?'
'Not that. It's just that what we have – whatever that is – others might not see it the same way, Ernst.'
'If others judge us, into the sea with them! All that matters is us, and what we have together. And we know what that is, do we not, Claudine?'
'If you say so,' she said evenly. She pulled on the stockings he had given her, and rummaged for the cosmetics he had bought her, and tucked the pile of marks he had given her into her purse.
They walked through the old town, heading towards the sea. The district was surrounded by walls left by the Romans. Ernst had grown up in a place the empire had never reached; his imagination was caught by such antiquity. And today there were Party flags everywhere, red with a bold black swastika on a circle of white. He commented on the splashes of colour they lent to the buildings from which they were draped, the Hotel de Ville, the wall gates. Claudine said nothing. Ernst held Claudine's hand, and as they walked her body swayed against his, brushing easily. She was so beautiful, he thought, suffused with the summer light that shone through the fabric of her blouse. He felt proud to be walking with her, he in his Wehrmacht uniform, his cap on his head. Yet he could never forget, even on this beautiful morning, that she was taller than he was, taller and older.
They walked down to the coast road, the Quai Gambetta, and set off north, heading towards the harbour and ultimately the road to Calais. And here they saw the most remarkable sight in town: the invasion fleet.
The harbour was full of river and canal barges, drafted for the purpose and floated down the Seine and the Rhine. They were lined up like logs on a river, jammed so close that you could have walked across the harbour from one sea wall to the other without getting your feet wet. These clumsy vessels would not provide a comfortable ride across the Channel; they would have to be towed, and looked horribly vulnerable to attack. But the crossing would be short, he had been assured by his superiors, over in less than half a day. Out at sea heavier craft, motor transports and others, stood at anchor, grey shadows on the bright water.
They walked further, reaching the beaches north of the town, where the men were going through landing exercises. The landing boats ran onto the beach, one after another, and the infantrymen jumped out into the shallow water and waded to the shore, laden with packs and weapons. One squad of men was struggling to haul a field gun up the beach. Elsewhere unhappy horses were being led through the shallow water. Despite the sudden fame of the Panzers, the German Army was basically horse-drawn; there would be one horse for every four men, so that twenty-four thousand of the animals would be shipped across the Channel in the first three days alone.
A boat-load of soldiers tipped over, leaving the men splashing in the surf, laughing like children.
Claudine laughed too. 'I'll tell you something. You Germans are hopeless on the ocean! All summer I've seen you flounder around like this. Your commanders even seem to be baffled by the tides!'
He shrugged. 'We're not a nation of sea dogs, not like the British. But we have mounted one successful seaborne invasion before, when we took Norway. Why can't we do it again?' He gestured at the Channel. 'It will be an unlucky man who loses his life to that miserable ditch.'
She pulled a face, and he saw age lines around her eyes and mouth, caught by the sun. At twenty-eight, she was five years older than him. 'But that 'miserable ditch held back Napoleon. Well, good luck. And if you Germans know so little of the sea, what on earth will you make of England when you get there?'
He snorted. 'We know all we need to know of England. It is a land of plutocrats in fine houses, who leave the defence of the nation to the shambolic old men of the Home Guard, while the working people cower in fear of our parachutists.' He rummaged in his jacket and produced a picture book. 'This bildheft has been given to every man.'
She flicked through the book. It showed pretty little harbours, country houses, romantic ruins. 'How attractive,' she said drily. 'Does England have no factories, then? No major roadways, no big cities? Well, I suppose you're going to find out.' She looked at him. 'But why do you do this, Ernst? Not Germany – you. You are a clever man, I know that much.'
He shrugged. 'I hoped to be a teacher, like you, or a scholar. I studied mathematics, though when I was drafted I was not advanced enough for my skills to be useful to the war effort.'
'But why do you fight?'
'For my father,' Ernst said simply. 'My brother might tell you differently, but he joined the SS. My father fought in the first war. He saw the ruin of the country after the unjust Versailles settlement. And he nursed an old wound that made it impossible for him to work. We were impoverished. He was a proud man, my father. He died bitter. I was pleased when the war came. I fight for my country, for my father.'
'But the soldiers in England have fathers too.' Claudine found one image in the book, of a place called Hastings. It was evidently taken from a postcard; it showed a shingle beach crowded with families. 'I wonder if children will ever play on these beaches again.'
'There is no reason why not,' Ernst said primly. 'Provided that such play does not conflict with the goals of the occupation.'
She laughed again. 'Ah, Ernst. Perhaps it will be mockery that defeats you Germans in the end, not guns.'
They were distracted by a new noise from the sea, a throaty roar. A different sort of boat ripped across the water, running parallel to the shore; jet black and sleek, it created a wake that sent lesser craft bobbing. The men on the beaches whooped and applauded.
Claudine swore softly. 'And what is that?'
Ernst's heart sank. 'It is a schnelleboote. Powered by an aircraft engine. Designed to roar across the Channel and dance up the beaches of England. More noise than performance…'
'It's stopping,' Claudine said. 'Look. Somebody's waving at us!' She waved back.
'And that,' said Ernst, his gloom deepening, 'is my older brother. Who can't leave me alone for one day.'
'Oh, don't be so grumpy. How exciting, a brother in the SS!'
The schnelleboote turned and made for the shore.
And a flight of planes, the bombers and fighters of the Luftwaffe, poured suddenly over their heads, making them duck. It had been going on since the beginning of the month, assaults on English ports and railways and aerodromes and factories, all part of the great softening-up. The planes roared on, wave after wave, a three- dimensional armada that towered thrillingly into the sky.
V
Josef, in the crisp black uniform of the Waffen SS, was nothing but good manners. 'Mademoiselle,' he said correctly, in German. 'How you must illuminate the shadowy life of my stunted brother!' He bowed and kissed Claudine's hand, holding it just a little too long, Ernst thought.
Claudine laughed in her pretty way, laughed with Josef. Of course Ernst knew they were laughing at him. His brother was ten years older than Ernst, that bit taller, that bit better looking; he and Claudine, side by side, looked as if they belonged together much more than Ernst and Claudine ever did.
It made it worse that Josef had turned up with a girl still more stunning than Claudine. Tall, blonde, she too was in uniform, that of an SS-unterscharfuhrer; she carried a small canvas bag. Her name was Julia Fiveash, and she was, surprisingly, English. She was in an SS unit called the Legion of St George, made up of British subjects. She barely seemed to notice Claudine, and she looked at Ernst haughtily. But she made the black SS uniform she wore almost unbearably glamorous.
Josef brought them to a bar near the harbour. They sat in the open air, at a polished table with a pretty lace covering, and Josef ordered coffee and cognac for them all. The servile barkeeper insisted he would take no payment from an officer of the SS; Josef, just as politely, insisted that he would, and handed over crisp mark notes.
When Julia spoke to Ernst her German was crisp and precise, with barely a trace of an English accent. 'Josef is an SS-standartenfuhrer, which I believe corresponds roughly to colonel in the English army,' she said. 'Whereas you, Ernst?'
