He took a Mauser from his right-hand pocket and sat there nursing it in his lap as he waited.
At Septembertide, Baum and Hofer had enjoyed a surprisingly excellent meal. Cold roast chicken, Jersey new potatoes and a salad, washed down with a bottle of excellent Sancerre provided by Captain Heider. The half moon gave a wonderful view of St. Aubin’s Bay, and they went out onto the terrace to finish their wine.
After a while, the corporal who had cooked the meal appeared. “All is in order, Herr Major,” he told Hofer, “the kitchen is clear again. IVe left coffee and milk on the side. Will there be anything else?”
“Not tonight,” Hofer told him. “We’ll have breakfast at nine sharp in the morning. Eggs, ham, anything you can lay your hands on. You can return to your billet now.”
The corporal clicked his heels and withdrew. Baum said, “What a night.”
“My dear Berger, what a day,” Hofer told him. “The most remarkable of my life.”
“And the second act still to come.” Baum yawned.
“Speaking of tomorrow, I could do with some sleep,” and he went back inside.
Hofer said, “You, of course, in deference to your superior rank, will take the large bedroom above this, which has its own bathroom. I’ll take the small room at the end of the corridor. It overlooks the front of the house so I’ll be more aware of what’s going on there.”
They went upstairs, Baum still carrying his glass of wine. “What time?” he said.
“If you’re not already up I’ll wake you at seven-thirty,” Hofer told him.
“Rommel would be up at five, but one can take playacting too far.” Baum smiled. He closed the outer door to the bedroom suite, walked through the dressing area into the bedroom itself. It was plainly furnished with two wardrobes, a dressing table and a double bed, presumably left by the owners from whom the house had been requisitioned. The corporal had drawn the curtains at the windows. They were large and heavy, made of red velvet and touched the floor. When he parted them, he found a steel and glass door, which he opened and stepped out onto the upper terrace.
The view was even better at this height, and he could see down into St. Aubin’s Harbor in the distance on his right. It was very still, the only sound a dog barking a couple of fields away. The blackout in St. Helier was anything but complete, lights dotted here and there. The sea was calm, a white line of surf down there on the beach, the sky luminous with stars in the moonlight. A night to thank God for.
He raised his glass. “L’chayim,” he said softly and he turned, parted the curtains and went back inside, leaving the door open.
It took Martineau twenty minutes to make his way up through the trees. The undergrowth was thick in places and the going was rough, but he’d expected that and there was no barbed wire on the final approach to the garden, he’d noticed that earlier. He still had no idea what he intended and pulled himself up over the concrete block wall cautiously, aware of voices. He stood in the shadow of a palm tree, and looked up to see Hofer and Rommel on the terrace in the moonlight.
“What a night,” the field marshal said.
“My dear Berger, what a day,” Hofer told him.
“And the second act still to come.”
Martineau stayed in the shadow of the palm tree, astonished at this amazing exchange. It didn’t make sense. After they had gone inside, he advanced cautiously across the lawn and paused by the covered way. A moment later, the field marshal appeared on the upper terrace and stood at the rail looking out over the bay.
He raised his glass. “L’chayim,” he said softly, turned and went back inside.
L’chayim, which meant “to life,” the most ancient of Hebrew toasts. It was enough. Martineau stood on the low wall, reached for the railings on the first terrace and pulled himself over.
Heini Baum took the Blue Max and the Knight’s Cross with Oak Leaves, Swords and Diamonds from around his neck and laid them on the dressing table. He removed his cheek pads and examined his face in the mirror, running his fingers through his hair.