Andrew Williams - The Interrogator

At the stable gates he stopped and turned quickly to face Samuels:

‘A bottle of whisky says they joined the 112 for this war patrol.’

‘Don’t touch the stuff,’ said Samuels, wrinkling up his nose.

‘But find out, Charlie. Find out. I know it’s important.’

It was only eight o’clock but Hatchett’s was in boisterous swing, the dance floor crowded with khaki and blue uniforms swaying to the hypnotic wail of Dennis Moonan’s clarinet. In the smoky gloom at the back of the room, elderly waiters weaved between tables and men without partners sipped their drinks with studied nonchalance. At one table, tired, hungry and a little cross, sat Mary Henderson in her Citadel clothes, the only woman not on the dance floor. She lifted her watch to the light from the stage. Lindsay was twenty minutes late.

It was almost a fortnight since she had seen him last. They spoke on the telephone but short businesslike exchanges that left her feeling unloved. The grey war filled their waking moments, imprisoning them in their separate secret boxes. The ‘Swingtet’ took a bow and couples began to drift back cheerfully to their tables. As the floor cleared, Mary caught sight of Lindsay at the door. He was dressed in his charcoal grey suit and looked every bit as handsome in it as he had at her brother’s party. She watched him gaze about the room before rising to wave. He saw her and smiled, then turned to speak to a short, dark-looking man in an ill-fitting brown suit who was standing at his shoulder.

‘Darling, I’m so sorry I’m late, the car didn’t arrive.’ Lindsay turned to look at the man at his side, ‘I’ve had to bring a friend.’ He must have noticed her disappointment because he leant forward to kiss her forehead and stroke her cheek.

‘Forgive me,’ she said, turning to his companion. ‘You must be one of Douglas’s colleagues?’

The man smiled blankly at her.

‘Speak slowly, darling, his English isn’t very good,’ said Lindsay.

‘I’m sorry. You’re one of Douglas’s colleagues?’

Lindsay sat down and indicated to his companion that he should do the same. Then he leant closer, elbows on the table, and spoke quietly to him in German.

‘I’ve told my friend here that I want to explain to you in English,’ he said, turning back to her, ‘but first, how are you? I’ve missed you.’

‘Good. You’re late, and I don’t like sharing you with Hatchett’s.’

‘No, sorry. It wasn’t to be for the whole evening. I rather think it will be now,’ he said, glancing at his companion.

‘Are you going to explain why?’

‘We’ve been sightseeing and we saw The Great Dictator just round the corner in Haymarket. A jeep was supposed to take him back but it didn’t show up.’

‘Your friend works at Trent Park?’

‘Works?’ said Lindsay. ‘No. He’s a prisoner.’

Mary leant back in her chair.

‘His name’s Helmut. Helmut Lange.’

She glanced at Lange. He was watching the ‘Swingtet’ prepare for its next set, fingers drumming excitedly on the table.

‘Herr Lange is very fond of jazz,’ said Lindsay.

‘Herr Lange, perhaps you will excuse us for a moment,’ said Mary stiffly and she got to her feet. ‘Douglas is going to dance with me.’

‘What do you think you’re doing bringing a prisoner here?’ she asked crossly as they made their way to the dance floor. ‘Does anyone know he’s out?’

Lindsay squeezed her waist a little tighter. ‘I didn’t want to bring him but when the Military Police didn’t show, it was that or leave you sitting here alone. And yes, we take prisoners out all the time. Lange’s very grateful.’

‘Yes, but you don’t bring Germans to meet people like me.’

‘Why ever not?’

Mary stopped and shook her hand free.

‘Because, you idiot, I work at the Citadel.’

Lindsay took her hand and pushed her forward again: ‘It’s fine. Trust me. It’s our secret. Lange doesn’t even know your name.’

‘I should go.’

They swayed about the crowded floor in silence. For a time, Mary was caught up in the music and the movement and the pressure of Lindsay’s body against hers. When the dance ended she allowed him to lead her back to the table. Lange was on his feet applauding politely.

‘Helmut thinks we make a handsome couple,’ said Lindsay, smiling broadly.

At first Lange looked uncomfortable and spoke in little more than a whisper but no one seemed to care that he was speaking German. He was soon talking with boyish enthusiasm of his jazz heroes and of the visit he would make to New York when the war was over.

‘I’ve just told him jazz is decadent and played by coloureds,’ said Lindsay. Lange smiled weakly and said in faltering English: ‘I like things that are decadent. I’m from the south.’ Then they spoke of Lange’s home in Munich, of the city’s baroque churches, of skiing and hill-walking.

Mary felt a little more at ease too. Lange was very engaging and either commendably discreet or just plain incurious, for he made no effort to ask her anything about herself. Lindsay was soon too busy translating their conversation to play a full part himself.

‘And did you enjoy The Great Dictator , Herr Lange?’ Mary asked after a time.

Lange smiled thoughtfully, leant forward a little and in broken English said: ‘We can laugh at the Führer in Germany but we don’t because he is a good man.’ Mary glanced at Lindsay. There was a small, enigmatic smile on his face, a restaurant smile, as if he was waiting to be served an interesting dish. He asked Lange a question in German, then said to Mary: ‘He means “great” not “good”. Hitler is a great man not a good one.’

‘Is he a member of the Nazi Party?’ she asked.

Lindsay shook his head but translated her question anyway and Lange’s reply: ‘He says all Germans love and admire their Führer.’ Lindsay paused, then said: ‘But he doesn’t believe that. Propaganda is a bad habit, like biting your nails — not easy to stop once you’ve started.’ He translated this too and Lange chuckled, rocking his chair backwards and forwards.

‘He’d like to believe it, of course’, Lindsay said to Mary, ‘but he can’t quite.’

And he explained that Lange had served as a despatch rider during the invasion of Poland in ’39 but had hated the iconoclasm and easy brutality of the Army: ‘He wanted to be a journalist so he volunteered for the Navy’s propaganda service.’

Mary gave a short disbelieving laugh. ‘He wanted to work for Goebbels. It was a career move?’

‘Is that so strange?’ asked Lindsay.

‘What does he write in his pieces about the invasion of Poland and France and Yugoslavia and Greece?’

Lindsay clucked sceptically.

‘Well?’

‘Well, he’ll only talk of the defence of the Fatherland. Why don’t you ask him about his visit to a concentration camp?’

‘He’s been to one?’