Weaver

Viv came bubbling in. She was still in her school uniform, but Ernst could see she had put a bit of lipstick on, no doubt for his benefit. 'Good evening, Ernst! I heard you come in.'

'I must have noisy socks.'

'What do you think of the Nativity? I set it up.'

'It is very nice.'

'See what I did?' She picked out the infant Jesus from His crib. The tiny doll, small enough to fit in the palm of her hand, was quite delicately carved, though worn from handling. And it had a yellow star on its breast, cut out from paper and fixed with a spot of glue. Viv winked at Ernst, as so often trying to draw him into a private connection. Ernst said nothing. She put the model back in the crib, and got to what she was clearly longing to ask. 'I just wondered, you know, if there was any more news about the exchange programme.'

In fact he had enquired at the town hall in Hastings that day. 'As far as I am aware, nothing has changed. Although, look, the war situation is changing daily, even hourly. Everything is' – he hunted for the colloquialism – 'up in the air.'

'I don't see why the Japanese bombing a lot of American boats in Hawaii should make any difference. I'm so glad I'm going, ever so. I mean, it will be ever such fun, to see Berlin!'

Irma said wearily, 'Oh, you're such a silly girl, Viv. And so selfish. Don't let your father hear you talking like that.'

Viv sniffed. 'I'll say what I like.'

Ernst touched Irma's arm. 'It is all right. She is young, after all-'

It was the wrong thing to say. 'I'm not young!' Viv turned and stormed out of the kitchen, and almost collided with her father. Fred walked in and glared at Ernst.

'Good evening, Fred.'

Fred scowled, the dirt rubbed deep into his lined face. 'Battle. I suppose you've heard.'

'What?'

'The auxiliaries blew up an ammo store there. It's on the German radio. There'll be reprisals, won't there?'

Ernst knew nothing about what had happened at Battle, but he was sure that this was another consequence of Hitler's declaration of war against the Americans. But the news was grave and depressing. In Albion resistance attacks had blossomed, bombs and assassinations and attacks on collaborators. And the reprisals had been harsh.

'They're taking one from every house, they say,' Fred said.

'It is best not to speak of this until necessary,' Ernst said stiffly.

Fred turned to his wife. 'And what's wrong with that empty-headed little bitch upstairs?'

'Don't speak of her that way.' Irma used a fork to test how the swedes were cooking. 'She's just fretting about her exchange trip, that's all.'

'She can't think she's still going to Berlin. Not after Alfie. And not after the way everything's blowing up.'

'You know what she's like, Fred.'

'Yes, I know what she's like, she's bloody selfish and she couldn't care less about her brother, and I know she's not going to Berlin.'

'Yes, well, you let her work that out for herself if that's how it's going to be. Don't go wading in and calling her names.'

He walked to the sink, his limp pronounced. He stepped over baby Myrtle as if she was no more than a heap of firewood. He never acknowledged the baby's existence, not even by a glance. He rolled up his sleeves. He dumped out washing from the sink, underwear and smalls, shoving aside the box of Rinso, and began to wash hands and arms grimy from the fields. 'I tell her the truth, that's all. You're too bloody soft.'

'I wish you'd wash in the yard,' Irma said. 'Look at the mess you're making. And never mind calling me soft. I'm just trying to protect Viv, is all.'

'Protect her? What about protecting Alfie, eh?' He glared over his shoulder at Ernst. 'How can it be right to call up a fourteen-year-old boy for forced labour?'

Irma opened the oven to draw out the roast. The air was filled with greasy steam, and the heat of the kitchen was oppressive. Ernst suddenly felt very weary. Fred had been just as angry this morning, when Alfie's call-up letter had come; Ernst imagined him raging all day, inwardly, taking it out on his family, and himself.

Ernst pulled out a chair and sat at the table. 'Look, Fred. You have to see the context. Since the declaration yesterday, we are at war with a power that already has military assets in position just the other side of the First Objective. Suddenly there is an enormous amount of defensive work that must be done, along the Objective, at the coasts. Airfields must be rebuilt, ports extended. And in Albion there is a shortage of young men of working age. There were the casualties of the invasion, the prisoners taken, the labour drafts for the continent-'

'If Hitler needs fourteen-year-old English boys to defend himself against the Americans he shouldn't have declared war on them. Alf's not even going to get paid, is he?' Wiping his hands, Fred jabbed his finger for emphasis. 'I let him join the Jugend because I thought it might spare him this sort of thing, but no.'

Irma snorted. 'I'm surprised you don't tell him it'll toughen him up. That's what you used to say to Jack. I had to do my time in the last lot and now it's your turn." You called him a girl, for wanting to go to technical college.' She laughed, bitter.

'You leave Jack out of this.'

'Fred, I understand,' Ernst said hastily. 'Truly I do. But I am an obergefreiter, a corporal. I have little influence on policy.'

'You're a bloody useless little prick, is what you are.'

Irma turned on him, suddenly furious. 'Oh, you're such a big man, aren't you? You sit here night after night beating up Ernst. Why don't you take on the Gestapo? No, you won't, because you're a coward and a bully, and you take it out on kids and women and-'

'Now see here, I won't be spoken to like that.' Fred's face was crimson, a vein in his neck bulging.

'I heard shouting.'

The three of them turned.

Alfie stood in the doorway. He was growing fast, but he was so thin his ill-fitting clothes hung off him, his cuffs and ankles showing. His face was blotchy, as if he had been crying. He actually had his letter from the Obligatory Work Service programme in his hand. Ernst imagined him carrying it around all day, as his father had his anger.

Fred made an obvious effort to calm down. 'It's all right, son. We weren't shouting.'

'Yes, you were. It's my fault, isn't it?'

Fred crossed to him and took his son in his massive arms, his sleeves still rolled up. 'Oh, no, son, it's not like that. We're upset about you having to go off to work, but it's not your fault, don't ever think that.'

Ernst couldn't meet Alfie's yearning eyes. They both knew that Alfie's best chance of being spared was to get a medical certificate, but such exemptions tended to favour the well-connected and wealthy. He said, 'Alfie, it is only work. It will not be so bad. You will be with others of your age, and older.'

'You see,' Fred said. He mock-punched Alfie on the chest, and pinched his arms. 'A bit of outdoor work. Better than school, eh?'

'Will we get more food?' Alfie asked Ernst.

'I do not know. I will try to find out.'

'Well, there's food now,' Irma said. She had the roast on a big serving plate; the crackling was golden brown. 'And that's enough fuss for now. Fred, come over here and carve. And Alfie, will you tell your sister to-'

There was a knock at the door.

They all froze. Fred caught Ernst's eye, and Ernst knew what he was thinking.

Viv came running down the stairs. She seemed excited, not alarmed. 'Was that a knock? Who is it?'

'Shut up.' Fred walked heavily to the door, and opened it.

The voice was a woman's, her English heavily accented. 'I am looking for Ernst Trojan. I – he used to lodge here-'