‘There’s a reason I never joined the navy, miss. A blooming good one too!’ He cackled to himself and rammed the cigarette back into his mouth. He tipped his hat at her and walked on.
Fen smiled to herself. She was pleased there were so many nice young men like that on their way home. Some Americans too, which reminded her of Miss Miller-Wright, who they’d bumped into earlier. She was just wondering if perhaps at dinner tonight she’d get to make her acquaintance a little better, and even meet the ‘aged aunt’, furs and jewels and all, when a voice coming from one of the cabins made her stop.
Fen realised, as she paused to listen more carefully, that she was outside cabin thirteen, the one a few doors down from her own, the one that Dodman, the steward, had shown the German to only an hour or so ago.
‘Ich bin foreign!’ the voice wailed.
I am… Fen’s rudimentary knowledge of German helped her translate the first part of his outburst, though she couldn’t make sense of it at all. I am foreign?… Why was he exclaiming it over and over again while obviously walking – nay, stomping – up and down his small cabin? Fen wondered what was causing him such anguish, his foreignness aside, but didn’t feel like lingering outside his porthole in case he caught her eavesdropping.
She hurried along, thinking of that soldier she’d just met and how she’d very much have liked a long, thick winter coat like his regulation moss-green-coloured one, which, if not high fashion, at least looked warm. Luckily it was only a few steps before she was at the open door to the inner deck and she hurried along to her own cabin.
As she passed the narrow corridor that led to cabin thirteen, she couldn’t help but turn her head towards that cabin’s door, wondering what the German had been saying to himself. Then, suddenly, a figure loomed out of the dark narrow passageway, his bottle-end glasses and wispy blond hair instantly recognisable. Fen felt like a rabbit caught in headlights and all of her fears about knowing his identity resurfaced, yet she was glued to the spot, too shocked and insensible to move.
‘Fräulein,’ he nodded to her, and Fen sidestepped away from him, the shock of hearing herself addressed in a language she’d been taught to fear almost paralysing her.
Once she could breathe again, she reminded herself that they were on a passenger ship with what felt like half the British Army, so she should be as safe here as anywhere. And, as she’d said to Dodman, they really should be making allowances for each other. Not every German citizen had agreed with the Führer’s regime, and she knew she’d do well to remember that.
Having calmed herself – this whole encounter had happened in the space of a few moments – she nodded a response. Looking at his pallid complexion and the light sheen that was reflecting the main corridor’s lights off his balding pate, Fen realised that perhaps it was the German who was scared of her, and not the other way around.
And, to be fair, if the soldiers on this ship even had a whiff of the fact that a… Well, she didn’t like to think. With this in mind, she said, unintentionally gruffly perhaps, ‘I think you should stay in your cabin. It’s not, I mean, it’s possibly not wise for you to walk around out here.’
‘Fräulein, I know this.’ His accent was heavy, and each word seemed to be said with a certain amount of laborious effort. It struck her that he had the countenance of someone who was either very ill or very shocked.
‘Well, that’s that then. Good evening.’ Fen turned and walked towards her own cabin.
She was almost at the entrance to the narrow passageway of cabin doors when she heard the German’s voice again.
‘Perhaps I deserve to die after all. That’s what you all think. Here at sea, like so many other men…’
‘Shhh.’ Fen raised her finger to her lips. Luckily no one was around to hear his strong German accent, but she checked around them just in case. ‘Please, sir, stop talking. You’ll get yourself in trouble.’
The German took a deep breath in and stood still for a moment. Then, with a click of his heels and a nod of his head, he turned back into the passageway and, Fen assumed, into his cabin, leaving her feeling both relieved but at the same time uneasy.
‘Mademoiselle Churche, is it?’
Fen jumped at the sound of her name, her nerves not quite restored to their usual calm equilibrium. She turned to see a handsome naval officer, or rather crew member, standing in the corridor holding the same sort of clipboard as Dodman had. This officer looked much more authoritative, older than the steward, his dark hair flecked with grey, but smartly cut. He clamped his cap under his arm as he looked down at her. ‘Yes, that’s me,’ Fen said, wondering what might come next.
The officer coughed to clear his throat. ‘I hope that man wasn’t, how you say, bothering you?’
‘No, not in the least.’ It wasn’t a lie, but it wasn’t exactly the truth either and Fen hoped that didn’t show in her voice. ‘He’s…’
‘German. Oui.’ The officer cleared his throat again. His English was good, but his accent was thickly French. ‘He is travelling with us to America.’
‘Why?’ Fen asked before she could stop herself.
‘I cannot tell you that, mademoiselle, but I can tell you that we should ferme les bouches – how you say, keep schtum.’
‘I agree. The poor man will be lynched if it gets out that he—’
‘Poor man? Sacre bleu!’ The handsome officer shook his head. ‘You were not in Le Havre for the war, I can tell. You were not the last man standing, taking down the swastika,’ he spat on the
