“I would fine her one hundred Reichsmarks,” he declared finally.
A chorus of disappointment was thrown round the room. Only Bohde could think of something so prosaic. He held up his hands. The mutiny ceased.
“And as it is unlikely that a woman of her means could find such a sum,” he continued, “I would make her…” he made a crude sucking sound with his pursed lips while twirling his cigar in the air, “…and so forth on a couple of these. Flush her innards out. Then we’d see what else she’d stolen.” He sank back into his chair.
“That’s the only way you’ll ever get anyone to smoke them,” Zep called out.
Veronica sat, staring unhappily at the floor. Lentsch attempted to lift her spirits.
“Don’t worry, my dear. Bohde has no sense of humour. I know exactly what I would do.”
“And what would that be?” she asked timidly.
“Confiscate your pyjamas!” He slapped her thigh. “Now go on. Make me happy. Dance.”
In the hall the phone started to ring. Lentsch started up, thinking it might be Isobel, but Helmut was already out of the door. Watching Veronica cavort round the room, showing her stomach to the half-bored remnants of the night, Lentsch couldn’t help but contrast her with Isobel. She would never demean herself in this manner, and he would never ask her to do such a thing. Her flirtations were of a different class altogether. The other girls looked on, uncertain whether Veronica’s performance was undermining their status or improving it. Their faces were nervous, intent, looking for signs, conscious of their precarious position and what might be expected of them. What was it that brought them here? Lentsch wondered. What did they hope to get out of it? Was it simply that they imagined that they were hitching themselves to the winning side? At first perhaps, though not now. Albert maintained that it was the uniform. Was that it? Certainly it was more attractive than that sad brown affair the British were forced to wear. Some women might be drawn to it, but so many, so readily, so often? Molly had told him, in a moment of disarming frankness, that it was down to the physical stature of the men themselves. “You’re all so much bigger than what we’re used to here,” she had yawned, delighting in the ofïhand crudity of her remark. “It’s such a change to have a man who doesn’t look like some troll from the Hall of the Mountain King. Compared with what we’re usually saddled with, you lot look like gods.” Gods! As usual, Molly’s remark was not completely flippant. Though in reality they were nothing special, just ordinary soldiers possessed with ordinary charms, capable of ordinary cruelties, to begin with they must have appeared to be quite extraordinary—conquerors of Europe, sublime in their authority, correct in their conviction, tall and tanned and sounding the death knell of corrupt cultures.
As if on cue the girls began to turn away from Veronica’s embarrassed contortions, in preparation for their own nocturnal manoeuvres. With their stomachs full of food, their vanity flushed with drink and their limbs loosened by the persuasive decadence of America’s forbidden music, they were ready to lead their escorts to the promised land. Lentsch looked on, mesmerized by the brazen quality of their several embrace, tired of the weary predictability.
Helmut returned and whispered something into Zep’s ear. Dropping his hold on Molly, he hurried out of the room, leaving her standing there, discarded and alone. That was Zep all over. When it came to his work, nothing got in his way. The nurse dancing with Wedel nodded in her direction and whispered something uncomplimentary. The two of them laughed out loud. Lentsch made a mental note to see that she was never allowed in again. He wasn’t going to have some nurse from Bremen insult one of his guests, however Teutonic her physique. The music came to a halt. Veronica’s dance was over. She had done her best but towards the end hardly anyone had taken any notice. Zep came back, his greatcoat over his arm. Ignoring Molly he stood before Lentsch and said simply, “I have to go.”
“Trouble?” Lentsch asked, not caring whether there was trouble or not.
Zep opened his palms. For a moment conversation ceased as all eyes feil on this young man, in so many ways the epitome of the Occupation. Wedel looked longingly at his new conquest, his prospects fading fast. Zep shook his head and winked.
“You stay here,” he told him. “No reason for everyone’s evening to be spoilt. I’ll drive myself. Teil Albert he need not wait up for me either.”
Molly walked over to the drinks cabinet and poured herself a large glass of brandy. She knew better than to protest. She would simply curl up on the sofa and wait for his return. One of the unwritten rules in the house was that no matter whose girlfriend you were, there was never any question of going upstairs without an escort.
Veronica came over and taking Lentsch’s hand bent down towards her host.
“Was that Turkish enough for you?” she asked. Lentsch knew what was required of him.
“Delightful,” he said.
“Every Little Movement Has A Meaning of its Own,” she told him stupidly, feeling herself slip out of control.
“What?”
“It’s a song, a silly song. ‘Every Little Movement’. I could sing it for you if you like. In private.”
Almost without thinking she slipped his hand inside the loose fold of silk. She held herself still for a moment, letting him feel the weight and hang of her, then took a deep breath.
“I think we can excuse Herbert any more driving duties tonight, don’t you?”
Four
There were three of them coming up the cobbled street, Tommy Ie Coeur, Peter Finn, and the German. Ned stood motionless in the dark doorway and switched off his torch. Two hours earlier the streets had been thick with soldiers, waltzing around the town with beer on their lips and girls on their arms. Now it was half-past twelve, the island suspended once more in the dark waters of the curfew hours, its girls either safely home or stretched out on some requisitioned bed. The German was a big man on his way back to the Soldatenheime and as he stumbled along bawling an incoherent lullaby, one hand draped around Tommy le Coeur’s neck, sparks flew out from under the metal caps of his regulation boots illuminating the road beneath him.
Ned watched as the two policemen led the man up the street towards the Old Government House, now a residential club for officers. Tommy and the new recruit were taking good care of their charge and Ned was surprised by their display of concern. He followed at a distance, hugging the other side, his outline hidden by the wall’s deep shadows. Left to himself the man would have crawled back rather than walked, but between them they managed to keep him upright. When they reached the marble steps outside the building they eased him up slowly, pausing on each lip as the man tried to reason with his sense of balance. At the top of the steps they let him go. He stood there, swaying back and forth, confronted by the impossible conundrum of the dark revolving door.
“Straighten him up a bit, Peter,” Ned heard Tommy ask.
Peter grabbed hold of the man’s collar and pulled him upright.
“That better?”
“Just the ticket. Hold still a moment, sunshine.”
Tommy span on his heel and crashed his fist into the man’s mouth.
“That’s for my brother in the Royal Artillery,” he shouted.
The German catapulted backwards, losing his cap as he tumbled over. Drink had anaesthetized his body. He lay in the road and started to laugh.
“Es gefallt mir hier,” he giggled, waving up at his new found friends. “Es gefallt mir.”
“That’s right, you flat-headed piece of shite,” Tommy agreed. “All fall down. Tommy help you up.” He ran down and picked him up. Ned watched as Tommy led the German back up and then hit him again.