“The station is ominous at midnight,” she said softly. “Hope is a dead letter.”
He stared at her. “Where did you hear that?”
“One of your bad poems,” she said. “That first day I met you at the cottage the brigadier was reading it. You took it from him, crumpled it up and threw it into the fireplace.”
“And you retrieved it?”
“Yes.”
For a moment she thought he would be angry. Instead he smiled. “Wait here.” He left her and crossed the line to the Kubelwagen and opened the door. When he returned he was carrying a small Kodak camera. “Helen gave me this. As the film is four years old she can’t guarantee the results.”
He walked up to the soldiers. There was a brief exchange in which they put their heads together for a moment, standing stiffly to attention. Martineau gave one of them the camera and returned to her.
“Don’t forget to smile.” He lit a cigarette and turned, hands in the pockets of the trenchcoat.
Sarah took his arm. “What’s this for?”
“Something to remember me by.”
It made her feel uneasy and she held his arm even more tightly. The young soldier took the photo. “Another,” Martineau called in German, “just to make sure.”
The boy returned the camera, smiling shyly, then saluted and walked away. “Did you tell him who you were?” she asked.
“Of course I did.” He took her ami. “Let’s get going. IVe got things to do.” They crossed the railway track and returned to the Kubelwagen.
Karl Muller prided himself on his control, his remarkable lack of emotion in all situations. He thought of it as his greatest asset, and yet, standing by the window in his office at the Silvertide Hotel, it almost deserted him for the first time.
“You what?” he demanded.
Kleist’s face was in a dreadful state, flesh around the eyes purple and dark, the broken nose swollen. “A misunderstanding, Herr Captain.”
Muller turned to Greiser. “And that’s your version also? A misunderstanding?”
“We were only questioning the girl, Herr Captain. She panicked, then Gallagher arrived. He placed entirely the wrong construction on the affair.”
“As your face proves, Willi,” Muller said. “And Vogel was involved.”
“He arrived on the scene at an unfortunate moment,” Greiser told him.
“And he also placed entirely the wrong construction on things.” Muller was furious. “Leaving me to get you off the hook when he turns up here this afternoon. Go on, get out of my sight!”
He turned to the window and slammed his palm against the wall.
Following Sarah’s instructions, Martineau drove along Gloucester Street past the prison. “One thing,” he said. “When we’re together in the town speak French. You never know who’s listening, understand?”
“Of course.”
They could hear music now and turned into the Parade to find a German military band playing on the grass between the statue of General Don, a previous governor of the island, and the Cenotaph. There was quite a crowd standing listening, mainly civilians with a few soldiers.
“Just like Workers’ Playtime on the BBC back in the
UK,” Martineau said. “Supposed to make people feel better about being occupied.”
“Pull in here,” she said. “The Town Hall is just at the end.”
He parked at the curb and they got out, people turning to stare curiously, attracted by the sight of the military vehicle. Many seemed indifferent, but there were those unable to hide their anger when they looked at Sarah, especially the older women.
Someone muttered “Gerrybag!” as they walked past. It was an ugly word meant to express the contempt most people felt for a girl who consorted with the enemy. Martineau swung around, Vogel to the life, and confronted the gray-haired woman who had spoken.
“You said something, madam?” he asked in English.
She was immediately terrified. “No-not me. You’re mistaken.” She turned and hurried away in a panic.
Sarah took his arm and said softly, “There are times when I hate you myself, Harry Martineau.”
They passed the entrance of the Town Hall with the Nazi flag flying above and a Luftwaffe sentry on the steps with a rifle. They crossed to the other side of York Street and came to Charing Cross. Some of the shop windows were still taped to avoid flying glass, probably from the first year of the war. The Luftwaffe had bombed St. Helier once in 1940. It was obviously the last thing the RAF intended to do, which probably explained why a lot of shopkeepers had cleaned the tape off.