Weaver

He grinned. 'Your other lover. Claudine, was she called? It's good news. She's coming to England!'

'You read it?'

'Censorship, my boy. A military requirement. Behave yourselves, now.' And with a nod to Viv, he walked towards the gate.

Suddenly planes roared low overhead. Ernst flinched, a reflex that was a relic of the days when he had been under attack from the air. The planes were a schwarm of Messerschmitt 109s, patrolling the line on the German side. And there was a countering roar from the British side, Spitfires augmented by Mohawks of the USAAF.

IV

For all her bravado, Viv had been intimidated by the troops at the Objective, and the bored, mildly hungry looks they gave her. She stayed subdued all the way back to the farm. Ernst, Claudine's letter clutched closely to his heart inside his jacket, was distracted himself, and had little to say.

Viv brightened up once she and Ernst were back home. She practically skipped down the rough track to the farm. They were back not long after six o'clock, and the smell of the roast filled the house. Ernst went off to wash, relieved to be free of Viv for a few minutes. His room was the best in the farmhouse, with a view to the south; it had once been Fred and Irma's own bedroom. As he changed into a fresh shirt, he heard Viv brightly chattering about her day, how she had been chauffeured by an SS officer, and how she saw Americans through the wire like monkeys in a zoo. Elsewhere in the house Alfie was practising his violin. He played 'Lill Marlene'. On Saturdays he busked in Battle or Hastings, playing for pfennigs from homesick soldiers.

When Ernst came downstairs Fred was sawing away at the lamb joint with a carving knife that had been sharpened so often it had been reduced to a sliver of steel. Irma stood at the oven, stirring a pan of gravy. Plates heaped with vegetables, potatoes and cabbage, stood beside her. She looked quite exhausted.

Ernst produced one more present: a bottle of wine, imported by Wehrmacht stores from France. 'So we can toast the health of the King.'

'I'd prefer a beer,' Fred growled. But there had been very little beer about for many months; all of Albion's grain was requisitioned.

'And there's a present for you on the table, Obergefreiter,' Irma said over her shoulder.

Ernst looked. It was a book, a paperback, printed on cheap, pulpy paper. He read the title. Pied Piper by Nevil Shute.

'It was in our last parcel from the family in London,' Irma said. 'Story of an old man who has to flee the German invasion of England. He saved some children on the way. You might like the detail. Good story, too. Just a little something for you-' Her hand flew to her mouth. 'Oh – I didn't check if it is on the verboten list.'

'I will enjoy it,' Ernst said quickly. 'Perhaps it will improve my English also.'

Relieved, she turned back to the gravy.

Ernst sat beside Fred as he carved. With Claudine's letter upstairs he felt bright, lively, eager for some conversation. 'So, Fred, how are you this evening? Where is the new wireless?'

Fred's farmer's hands were huge; the knife looked small in his fingers as he sliced through the steaming meat. 'I told you. Gave it to old Joe down the road, so he can bugger it to pick up the BBC.'

Ernst tut-tutted like a mother. 'You'll get it confiscated, you reckless fellow.'

'You'll have to find the bloody thing first, won't you?'

'Any news of Jack?'

Irma turned, ladling her gravy. 'Alfie and I went down to Hastings. They're talking about releasing more cadres. Great War veterans. Postmen. The sons of doctors.'

Fred grunted. 'The sons of bloody doctors. It's always who you know in this country, even under the Nazis. I was a POW in the last lot. I'd give up my liberty again if I could swap places with Jack, I'd do it in a second, I'll tell you that.'

'I'm sure you would,' Ernst said.

Fred stared at him. Then he stood back from the joint and looked at the knife in his hand. 'Sometimes I can't believe what I'm doing. I got my kneecap shot off at the Somme. Now here I am not thirty years later carving a bit of lamb for the benefit of the bloody Wehrmacht, while some black-hearted Nar-zee arse in Kent or France is working out whether my son, my son, is to be allowed to come home again.'

'He doesn't mean anything,' Irma said to Ernst, her eyes hollow. 'You know how he is.'

Ernst did not react to Fred's words. He was in authority over these people, even to the matter of life and death, within the military law. And yet he did not feel any such authority.

Viv came bustling in, followed by Alfie. 'Here I am!' She had changed into a more sober black dress, run up from blackout curtain. She wore a yellow star on her breast. She looked at them, crowded around the table. 'Have I missed anything?'

Alfie said, 'Can't we just bloody eat?'

'Language,' Irma murmured automatically.

Fred limped to a seat and sat down. 'God save the bloody King.' He reached for a corkscrew from a drawer, and began to open the wine.

Ernst said, 'I will finish the carving.' He stood and took Fred's place at the head of the table. Hot fat splashed his bare skin, and the smell of the meat rose up, a cosy, family smell. But his own family were very far away, he was reminded.

Alfie sneered at Viv. 'I bet you didn't wear that yellow star in front of the SS officer.'

'Well, that would have been very bad taste, wouldn't it? But besides, I know they say you can arrest a Jew for not wearing a star, but what are you supposed to do about a Gentile who is wearing one?'

'This is a foolish gesture,' Ernst said uneasily.

'There's a girl at school, Jane Mathie, who went up to London on a week's pass to see her grandmother who was dying, and she said they're all wearing them up there. Quite the fashion. It's funny how things turn out, isn't it, Ernst? Who would ever have thought I would end up wearing yellow? It just isn't my colour.'

'Oh, Viv,' said Irma tiredly.

Fred got the cork out of the wine bottle and took a slug, straight from the neck.

'Do you think I'm being provocative, Obergefreiter?' Viv came closer to Ernst. He flinched away, trying to keep smiling, but now she took a bit of hair at the nape of his neck and pulled it gently.

'Enough!' Fred lashed out from where he was sitting. His big fist caught Viv in the belly, and she went flying back.

Irma screamed, 'Fred!' She ran to her daughter, and Alfie pushed his chair back and hurried over. Viv was trying to sit up, gasping. She was a crumple of blackout cloth, her legs splayed.

Ernst, stunned, found himself still holding the carving knife in one hand, a serving fork in another. He turned to Fred. 'What have you done?'

'I won't have my daughter turn into a Jerrybag. I won't, do you hear?' He made to stand up.

'Sit still,' Ernst commanded him.

Fred subsided. He took another mouthful of the wine. 'Like being back in the stalag,' he said.

'Ow!' Irma, kneeling beside her daughter, doubled over, her hands around her belly. 'Oh, God!'

Alfie scrambled backwards. 'There's water on the floor. Urgh.'

Ernst put down the knife and hurried over. 'Let me see, Alfie, it's all right. Irma?' He held her shoulders, and tried to look into her face. 'The baby?'

She nodded jerkily. 'I think so.'

'Yuk!' Alfie said.

'The water is normal,' said Ernst, thinking fast. 'There is no telephone here. This is what I will do. I will go to your neighbour, Joe, who has a phone-'

'No. Not you.' Irma grabbed his arm in a claw-like hand; she held him hard enough to hurt. 'Stay here.'

Bewildered, he said, 'Very well. Then Fred must phone.' He turned to Fred, who sat staring at the wine. 'Fred, call an ambulance. Tell them about your wife. And see if he, Joe, can offer any help before they come.'