Len Deighton - SS-GB

‘Darling,’ said Sylvia. There was not much passion in the word but then with Sylvia there never had been. Douglas put an arm round her and she held her cold face up to be kissed.

‘I’ve been worried all morning. The letter said you were going away.’

‘You must forgive me, darling,’ said Sylvia. ‘I’ve despised myself ever since sending the damned letter. Say you forgive me.’

‘You’re pregnant?’

‘I’m not absolutely sure.’

‘Damn it, Sylvia – you sent the letter and said…’

‘Don’t shout in the street, darling.’ She held a hand up to his mouth. The hand was very cold. ‘Perhaps I shouldn’t have come here?’

‘After three days I had to report your absence. The tea lady asked where you were. It was impossible to cover for you.’

‘I didn’t want you to take any risks, darling.’

‘I phoned your aunt in Streatham but she said she’d not seen you for months.’

‘Yes, I must go and see her.’

‘Will you listen to what I’m saying, Sylvia.’

‘Let go of my arm, you’re hurting me. I am listening.’

‘You’re not listening properly.’

‘I’m listening the same as I always listen to you.’

‘You’ve still got your SIPO pass.’

‘What pass?’

‘Your Scotland Yard pass – have you been drinking or something?’

‘Of course I haven’t been drinking. Well, what about it? You think I’m going to go down Petticoat Lane and sell the bloody pass to the highest bidder? Who the hell wants to go into that hideous building unless they are paid for it?’

‘Let’s walk,’ said Douglas. ‘Don’t you know that Whitehall has regular Gendarmerie patrols?’

‘What are you talking about?’ She smiled. ‘Give me a proper kiss. Aren’t you glad to see me?’

He kissed her hurriedly. ‘Of course I am. We’ll walk up towards Trafalgar Square, all right?’

‘Suits me.’

They walked up Whitehall, past the armed sentries who stood immobile outside the newly occupied offices. They were almost as far as the Whitehall Theatre when they saw the soldiers doing the spot-check. Parked across the roadway there were three Bedford lorries, newly painted with German Army Group L (London District) HQ markings: a crude Tower Bridge surmounting a Gothic L. The soldiers were in battle-smocks with machine pistols slung on their shoulders. They moved quickly, expanding the spiked barrier – designed to pierce tyres – so that only one lane of traffic could pass through in each direction. The check-point command car was parked against the foot of Charles the First’s statue. The Germans learned quickly thought Douglas, for that was the place the Metropolitan Police always used for central London crowd-control work. More soldiers made a barrier behind them.

Sylvia showed no sign of apprehension but she suggested that it would be quicker if they turned off at Whitehall Place and went towards the Embankment. ‘No,’ said Douglas. ‘They always block the side roads first!’

‘I’ll show my pass,’ said Sylvia.

‘Have you gone completely out of your mind?’ said Douglas. ‘The Scotland Yard building houses the SD and the Gestapo and all the rest of it. You might not think much of it, but the Germans think that pass is just about the most valuable piece of paper any foreigner can be given. You’ve stayed away without reporting illness, and you’ve kept your pass. If you read the German regulations that you signed, you’d find that that’s the same as theft, Sylvia. By now, your name and pass number will be on the Gestapo wanted list. Every patrol from Land’s End to John o’Groats will be looking for it.’

‘What shall I do?’ Even now there was no real anxiety in her voice.

‘Stay calm. They have plain-clothes men watching for anyone acting suspiciously.’

They were stopping everything and everyone; staff cars, double-decker buses, even an ambulance was held up while the Patrol Commander examined the papers of the driver and the sick man. The soldiers ignored the rain which made their helmets shiny and darkened their battle-smocks, but the civilians huddled under the protection of the Whitehall Theatre entrance. There was a revue showing there, ‘Vienna Comes to London’, with undressed girls hiding between white violins.

Douglas grabbed Sylvia’s arm and before she could object he brought out a pair of handcuffs and slammed them on her wrist with enough violence to hurt. ‘What are you bloody well doing!’ shouted Sylvia but by that time he was dragging her forward past the waiting people. There were a few muttered complaints as Douglas elbowed them even more roughly. ‘Patrol Commander!’ he shouted imperiously. ‘Patrol Commander!’

‘What do you want?’ said a pimply young Feldwebel wearing the metal breastplate that was the mark of military police on duty. He was not wearing a battle-smock and Douglas guessed he was a section leader. He waved his SIPO pass in the air, and spoke in rapid German. ‘Wachtmeister! I’m taking this girl for questioning. Here’s my pass.’

‘Her papers?’ said the youth impassively.

‘Says she’s lost them.’

He didn’t react except to take the pass from Douglas and examine it carefully before looking at his face and his photo to compare them.

‘Come along, come along,’ said Douglas on the principle that no military policeman is able to distinguish between politeness and guilt. ‘I’ve not got all day.’

‘You’ve hurt my bloody wrist,’ said Sylvia. ‘Look at that, you bastard.’ The Feldwebel glared at him and then at the girl. ‘Next!’ he bellowed.

‘Come on,’ said Douglas and hurried through the barrier dragging Sylvia after him. They picked their way through the traffic that was waiting for the checkpoint. They were both very wet and neither spoke as a luxury bus came through Admiralty Arch and into Trafalgar Square. Its windows were crowded with the faces of young soldiers. Softly from inside there came the amplified voice of the tour guide speaking schoolboy German. The young men grinned at his pronunciation. One boy waved at Sylvia.

A few wet pigeons shuffled out of the way as they walked across the empty rainswept square. ‘Do you realize what you said, just now?’ said Sylvia. She was still rubbing her wrist where the skin had been grazed.

It was just like a woman, thought Douglas, to start some oblique conversation about something already forgotten.

‘One of the most important pieces of paper that the Germans issue to foreigners; that’s what you said just now.’

‘Give over, Sylvia,’ said Douglas. He looked back to be sure they were out of sight of the patrol, then he unlocked the handcuff and released her arm.

‘That’s what we are as far as you’re concerned – foreigners! The Germans are the ones with a right to be here; we’re the intruders who have to bow and bloody scrape.’

‘Give over, Sylvia,’ said Douglas. He hated to hear women swearing like that, although, working in a police force, he should by now have got used to it.

‘Get your hands off me, you bloody Gestapo bastard.’ She pushed him away with the flat of her hand. ‘I’ve got friends who don’t go in fear and trembling of the Huns. You wouldn’t understand anything about that, would you. No! You’re too busy doing their dirty work for them.’

‘You must have been talking to Harry Woods,’ said Douglas in a vain attempt to turn the argument into a joke.

‘You’re pathetic,’ said Sylvia. ‘Do you know that? You’re pathetic!’

She was pretty, but with the rain making rats’ tails of her hair, her lipstick smudged, and the ill-fitting raincoat that had always been too short for her, Douglas suddenly saw her as he’d never seen her before. And he saw her, too, as she’d be in ten years hence; a tight-lipped virago with a loud voice and quick temper. He realized that he’d never make a go of it with Sylvia. But when her parents were killed by bombs, just a few days before Douglas lost his wife, it was natural that they sought in each other some desperate solace that came disguised as love.