Michael Ridpath - Shadows of War

She had been in England for over a year, but things weren’t the same between them. Things were, well, difficult. But Conrad wasn’t one to give up.

‘Oh, Conrad. This is a surprise. I didn’t know you were in London,’ she said in German.

He bent down to kiss her, and she turned her cheek, in a gesture that could have meant she was offering it to him, or withdrawing it from him.

‘I’ve been abroad,’ he said. ‘And I’m… um… going again. I thought I would drop in and see you before I went.’

‘Ah.’

‘Can I take you out for a drink?’

Anneliese glanced at her parents, Conrad’s allies. She smiled quickly. ‘Yes. That would be nice. Shall we go now?’

It was about half a mile to the Royal Oak. As they walked through the pitch-dark streets to Finchley Road — or ‘Finchley Strasse’, as the bus conductors had taken to calling it following the recent influx of German-speaking inhabitants — Anneliese seemed to warm. She talked about her job at St George’s; she had only been there three weeks. Despite all the preparations for a flood of air-raid casualties, the hospital was filled with the victims of traffic accidents as a result of the blackout.

A warm fug of chatter and beer enveloped them as they went through to the saloon bar, and Conrad ordered drinks.

‘So where are you going?’ Anneliese said, in English this time. Her English had improved dramatically over the last year; although she had a distinct German accent, it was nowhere near as strong as it had been when she had arrived in London the previous October. It wasn’t a good idea to speak German in public places. ‘Or I suppose it is a secret?’

Conrad glanced at the stern poster from the Ministry of Information urging patrons ‘not to discuss anything that might be of national importance, the consequence of which might be loss of many lives’. True enough, of course. But he had trusted Anneliese before in a much more dangerous place than North London, with more dangerous secrets. He did, however, glance around to make sure there was no one in earshot. The saloon bar was half full, and it wasn’t possible for the two middle-aged men closest to them to hear their murmured words above the hubbub of the pub.

‘It sounds as if Theo’s friends are about to make a move again.’

Anneliese’s eyebrows shot up. ‘Really! Are you going to see him?’

‘I hope so. I don’t know. There’s been some… trouble. I need to find out what he knows about it.’

A look of concern crossed her face. ‘You’re not going to Germany, are you?’

‘No.’ Conrad shook his head. ‘Don’t worry.’

‘I am worried,’ said Anneliese. ‘Be careful, Conrad. Please be careful.’ She bit her bottom lip, in a gesture Conrad knew so well.

‘I will.’ Conrad smiled. Although he couldn’t admit it, he was pleased to see her sudden concern for him. And she was perfectly right to be concerned. It was only just over twenty-four hours since he had had a German pistol pressed against his temple.

‘Good.’ Anneliese smiled quickly. Closed her eyes. Opened them again. ‘Conrad?’

‘Yes?’

‘There is something I must tell you.’

‘What is it?’ Conrad had a feeling this wasn’t going to be good.

‘I am planning to go to New York. We are planning to go to New York. The three of us.’

‘New York?’ Conrad said. ‘You can’t do that! Can you get the papers?’

‘I’m working on it. It’s difficult, but I think I can. Father has a cousin over there, and he is prepared to help.’

Conrad could feel disappointment welling up inside him — worse than disappointment: desperation. ‘Please stay,’ he said.

‘We need to make a new life. I mean really new. Somewhere far away. It’s ridiculous that my father cannot work here.’

‘But once the war really gets going, they will need him, whatever the damned BMA says.’

‘Perhaps.’ Anneliese looked down at her drink. And then straight at him. Her eyes were dull. ‘But I need to go. I need to go somewhere new.’

Conrad reached across the table and took her hand. ‘I know I’ve asked you before. But please marry me.’

Anneliese shook her head. ‘I can’t. I told you I can’t.’

‘But why not? I love you. You love me.’ Conrad hesitated. ‘I think. I know you used to love me.’

Anneliese nodded. She squeezed Conrad’s hand. ‘I know I did. But I am a different person now. I have been trying to tell you that for the last year, but you won’t hear it. Sachsenhausen changed me. I’m sorry, I wish I was the same woman I used to be, but I am not. I’m different.’ She let go of his hand. Took a deep breath. ‘I need to start again. Somewhere else. Somewhere away from you.’

‘I can’t accept that,’ Conrad said. In Berlin they had made love several times a day. But then Anneliese had spent six weeks in solitary confinement in first Sachsenhausen and then Lichtenburg Castle. It was true: after that she had been different. She hadn’t let Conrad touch her beyond the occasional gentle kiss. She had joined her parents in London and, with a dull determination, had set herself to survive. She had refused all Conrad’s offers of financial help.

Conrad had returned to England from Germany soon after her. He had been patient. He had been understanding. Or at least he had tried to understand, but he hadn’t quite managed it. He knew she was hurt, deeply damaged, but he didn’t know exactly how, and she seemed unable to tell him.

The night before he had been due to leave for Sandhurst, he had asked her to marry him. She had said no. She hadn’t really explained why. He had been disappointed, but he hadn’t given up. He had seen her during weekend leave, either in North London or occasionally taking her out to a restaurant or club in the West End. He had even brought her down to Somerset twice to see his own family. They had had some good times; she had smiled, told him she was enjoying herself. They had even kissed. But there was always a barrier. He had been willing to wait, confident that the barrier would eventually melt away and reveal the old Anneliese.

Even now, a year later, he still didn’t understand her. All he knew was that she wanted to leave him.

‘You have to accept it, Conrad,’ Anneliese said. She had switched to German, which soon attracted the attention of the two men at the next table. ‘We shouldn’t see each other anymore.’

‘No, I don’t accept it.’

A tear leaked out of the corner of her eye.

She pushed back her chair and rose to her feet. ‘Goodbye, Conrad,’ she said, bending to kiss his cheek, and then she was gone.

Conrad stared after her. ‘ Leb wohl, ’ Conrad repeated.

She hadn’t said ‘ Auf Wiedersehen ’, or ‘when we meet again’.

He had lost her.

The Ritz, Paris

Fruity Metcalfe sloped into the lobby of the Ritz and headed straight for the bar. He had had a perfectly bloody day and he needed a drink. Several drinks.

He liked the bar at the Ritz. It was always lively. Although a lot of English soldiers thought that the French officers’ uniforms looked a bit effete, they certainly added colour. As did their women. Throw in a few Americans and one or two Englishmen, plus Fruity the Irishman, and you had quite an atmosphere.

‘ Un Johnny Walker avec soda, Marcel, ’ Fruity said to the barman while taking possession of a free stool. ‘ Un grand, s’il vous plaît. ’

Fruity sipped his drink with pleasure. A bloody day.

There had been trouble at the mission at Vincennes. Fruity had expected to help the duke draw up his report for the Wombat on their visit to the French lines, but the duke had rebuffed him. Which offended Fruity. Fruity had been a first-rate officer in his time, and it was important to convey accurately what they had seen, especially along the Meuse on the border with Luxembourg and Belgium. Frankly, there was a bloody great hole there that the Germans could stroll through any time they liked, once they had penetrated the forests of the Ardennes. The French troops were mostly reservists: fat, untrained and unfit. The anti-tank defences were pathetic: positioned in the wrong place, in plain view; and in many cases the anti-tank traps and the barbed wire were on top of each other, which meant they could be knocked out simultaneously by well-placed artillery fire. General Huntziger, Commander of the 2 ndArmy, oozed complacency. The French 9 thArmy, just to the west of the 2 nd, commanded by the obese Corap, was only a little better.