They all knew the two men were not what they were presented as. Some knew exactly what they were, some even knew what they had once been, depending on the level of confidence they enjoyed with Wilders, or his wife, for that matter.
Tonight was Christmas Eve, a time when Germans find a soulful depth not normally on display.
The cold was offset by beer, wine, and brandy, all washing down plates of steaming pork, potatoes and cabbage.
The two fires were tended as the meal was cleared away, permitting tradition took over.
It fell to the master of the house to talk about the year past, and the year ahead, thanking those who had excelled, and mapping out the course for the estate over the coming twelve months.
Wilders, without notes, went through 1945 and the joys and horrors it had brought, but only relative to the estate.
There was silence for the son of his Head Gardener, killed by a strafing Soviet fighter some months before.
His description of the year ahead could only be his hopes; the war would not stop and accommodate the needs of an agricultural community.
After seventeen minutes of hopes, fears, thanks, acknowledgements, and inspiration for the future, he finished and reached for his drink.
Raising his glass, he toasted his workers, their families, and Germany.
The hour left, a new one came, and with it came Christmas Day.
He then departed with tradition, as he had been asked to do.
The room fell silent as the two ‘new workers’ stood.
“Kameraden. We thank you for helping us. You have saved our lives, and we are very grateful. One day, we will be able to repay you all. Until then, please accept this gift.”
The younger man surprised everyone by starting to sing.
His voice was a like a dream, every note precise and with the feeling required of the German’s most favourite Christmas song.
Eyes moistened, the wonderful voice bringing every colour and emotion ever necessary to the carol.
When the older man joined in, the harmony brought the song to a higher level.
No-one else sang until the two Legionnaires encouraged them to join in.
It was a magical time that none present would ever forget.
The whole hall reverberated with the wonderful carol, rising voices bringing it to a worthy conclusion.
There was silence, all save the occasional crack as heated wood spat its resin. The tears fell silently.
Caporal Fritz Zenden, until recently a driver of a Panther tank, nodded to the assembly and sat down, leaving his commander to speak.
“Thank you all and Merry Christmas.”
He sat down and raised his glass to Wilders, both men understanding that the tears in their eyes were for other times and other people, now long gone.
“Thank you, Artur. Merry Christmas.”
“And to you, Rolf, and to you.”
This was always going to be the trickiest part, and the Russian carefully surveyed the ground and positions with his damaged field glasses, the single intact lens finding the weakness he sought almost immediately.
He checked his watch, immediately understanding that his period of grace would soon be over.
Twelve minutes to get across and identify himself before some sentry took a pot shot at him.
He made his calculations.
‘Two hundred metres, possibly two-ten.”
The opposing positions were one hundred metres behind him, containing men who had been told not to fire at anything until 2345hrs precisely.
A flare rose up and he froze.
As it sank to earth, all he could think of was the time.
In his badly weakened state, even covering the two hundred metres might prove too much, as his guides had now left him, their support and steadying hands having got him this far on the coldest night of the year so far.
The raggedly dressed man lunged forward, his initial approach masked by a drift.
On he went, his breathing seemingly loud enough to waken the dead, but nothing; no reaction at all.
In good time, he made the position he had spotted earlier, and nestled between the two rocks.
Checking his watch, he found that five minutes remained, five minutes in which he had to convince the soldiers in the position adjacent to him that he was a friend, not a foe.
He had decided on his method and started into the famous Simonov poem, speaking as loudly as caution permitted.
The rising sound of voices encouraged him and his volume rose.
The duty officer had been summoned and arrived quickly but, for some reason, let the unknown voice finish the first section of the poem to Valentina Serova.
“Shut the fuck up, you shithead!”
The Senior Lieutenant had been warm in his bed and was in no mood to play games, no matter how well the soldier recited the famous poem.
“I’m a Red Army soldier. Help me!”
“Move this way, quickly, No tricks or you’ll be shot like a fucking dog. C’mon, move your fucking ass. It’s too cold for… what the fuck is that?”
The apparition that scrambled over the top of the trench seemed like it had come from another world.
On top, the vestiges of some sort of heavy duty civilian coat, tied together with something that could have once been strips of animal skin. Whatever it was, it had an odour all of its own, even in the freezing cold of Christmas Eve 1945.
On the ‘thing’s’ head was a cap that might once have looked like a Soviet officer’s side cap.
The light of the brazier did little to aid investigation, so the officer decided to take the problem into somewhere lighter and, for his own comfort, much warmer.
“Yefreytor Amanin. Two men, search this… person… and then bring whatever it is to my bunker immediately. Serzhant Kremov, send a runner to Captain Arganov. Tell him what we have caught. Move.”
The party moved swiftly, the guards and prisoner also encouraged to speedier movement by the promise of warmth.
Sitting on the table, swinging a booted leg, Senior Lieutenant Chamanov wished he had just shot the man out of hand and not wasted his time.
When the bundle of rags arrived, Chamanov was surprised to find that he was not held firm, neither was he restrained in any way.
“What is the meaning of this, Amanin?”
He extracted his pistol, intent on getting rid of the problem.
“Comrade Starshy Leytenant.”
Amanin held out a disheveled identity card.
Chamanov read it in the candle light, a sense of foreboding spreading across his chest and into his heart.