Peter Davies - The Welsh Girl

“No!” Karsten calls, pointing. “The lane, the lane. They won’t be coming up the lane.” He clings to the fence, pointing, scales the first few rungs of wire to get a better view, watches the children scatter, the guards chase after them, the searchlights weaving. And Karsten finds himself climbing higher and higher to watch them go.

ROTHERAM IS RACING the sunset, the old staff car careening through the Welsh countryside as if he’s the one escaping, not hurrying to investigate an escape. Perhaps that isn’t so far from the truth, though, he reckons.

He’s working his way northwest, following the Wye into the hills of mid-Wales. Twisting and turning with the road, he’s caught flashes of the river through the trees, and once the distant roar of falls, but as he’s climbed higher towards it’s source, it’s dwindled to a coppery stream glimpsed only dimly under stone bridges.

He’d been making good time until, barreling round one tight bend, he’d almost plowed into a flock of sheep filling the road. For a second he thought he’d driven into the river itself, the rippling white backs flooding the narrow lane like water rushing over rapids. He’d stamped on the brakes, fishtailed to a halt, tearing a spray of grit from the verge. In the abrupt silence of the stalled car, he heard it patter through the grass, watched it skip towards the advancing sheep eyeing him blankly. He’d leaned on the horn then, but they just bleated back at him, and he’d had to sit for long minutes while they broke around him, their flanks brushing the car, rocking it gently. He watched them go in his mirror, until the last bobbing back rounded the bend, then belatedly roared onwards.

He grits his teeth now as he jounces over a pothole, and the broken-down suspension of the Humber jars his bandaged ribs. Beside him on the passenger seat, the silver film canisters jingle-jangle like a giant’s loose change.

HE’D COME DOWN to breakfast late that morning, surprised that he’d finally been able to sleep after his call to Hawkins and the vigil at Hess’s door in the small hours.

He found Lieutenant Mills and one of the corporals — not the one he’d woken the night before — lounging at a long wooden table in the kitchen, washing down charred toast with cups of tea from the largest china teapot he’d ever seen. The doctor, his mouth full, pointed to it, and Rotheram nodded.

“There you are,” Mills said, swallowing and setting a cup before him. “So what’s your plan for today?”

“I’m leaving,” Rotheram said simply. “Appears I was wasting my time. Perhaps everyone’s. New orders should come through this afternoon.”

Mills nodded for what seemed a long time and finally nudged the toast rack.

“Go on,” he said when Rotheram hesitated. “The butter’s local, and we’ve also got this.” He slid a crystal jar across the table. “Honey. Special rations on account of our guest. Not that he eats half of it — afraid of poisoning!”

Rotheram lifted the lid, dipped his knife, and studied the honey before he spread it thickly on his toast and took a bite. The rich sweetness was incredible. He wondered that he could have forgotten the taste. How long had it been since he’d had honey? “Good, eh?” Mills said, and Rotheram nodded as he chewed.

“No hard feelings about last night?”

Rotheram took a mouthful of tea, shook his head. “It’s just that I’m not Jewish,” he said.

“Course not, old chap.”

Rotheram detected a hint of the bedside manner in the way Mills said it, but the mere thought of explaining his history to the lieutenant was exhausting.

Mills was silent for a moment, then brightened. “If you’re waiting for orders this afternoon, your morning’s free, yes?”

Rotheram looked up slowly.

“Why not come along with us, then?” He gestured to the corporal. “We’re taking Hess for a Sunday drive. He likes a little fresh air every so often.”

“I don’t need another crack at him, you understand.”

“I know,” Mills said, grimacing slightly. “It’s not just for you. The thing is, he asked if you’d come.” He laughed awkwardly. “Seems he’s bored with our company.”

And so, thirty minutes later, Rotheram found himself in the front seat of an open-top staff car, the corporal, whose name was Baker, at the wheel, and Mills with Hess beside him in the back seat. The car reminded Rotheram uncomfortably of Hitler’s tourer in the previous night’s film.

The drive seemed to restore Hess. He’d been subdued when he climbed into the car, pausing on the running board to tuck his red woolen scarf into the collar of his sweater and wrap his greatcoat around his knees before sitting down. But now Rotheram, half turned in his seat, saw the color return to the older man’s cheeks. Hess noticed his scrutiny.

“How do you like my gift from Mr. Churchill?” he asked jovially, indicating the car. “It’s just the thing for the beautiful Welsh countryside, wouldn’t you say?”

“Why do you think you’re in Wales?” Rotheram asked blandly, but Mills broke in with a shrug. “No need to be coy. We ran into some locals at a crossroads on one of these jaunts last month and he recognized the lingo. Bit of a cock-up, really, but at least they didn’t recognize him.”

It was still chilly, but the sun had come out, and Hess slipped on a pair of dark glasses.

“He recognized Welsh?” Rotheram asked skeptically. He was addressing Mills, but Hess answered, sounding impatient.

“Where else in the British Isles do they speak another language? In fact, it seems a peculiarly apt place for my confinement.”

How so?

“Isn’t Wales where the ancient Britons retreated to? When the Romans came, I mean. Wasn’t this their last redoubt? Aren’t these”—he waved an arm around, but the country was deserted apart from sheep and cattle—“their descendants? Your Mr. Churchill, I gather, had plans to pull back here if we had invaded.” Hess smiled thinly. “We’d have made you all Welsh. Instead, it’s me who’s a little Welsh now.”

“Hardly the party line, that,” Mills sneered. “To think a few months’ stay in a country is a claim to nationality.”

“Months? No, I suppose it takes — what would you say, Captain — a few years?”

Mills gave a wincing smile, but Rotheram wouldn’t rise to the bait.

“Wales,” Rotheram considered. “The land of retreat? Or defeat?”

“Of last stands, perhaps,” Hess offered, turning away.

They rode in silence after that, driving uphill along a tight lane hemmed in by high stone walls. Rotheram, gripped by a sudden claustrophobia, staring ahead, flinching as startled rabbits bolted before their wheels. At the brow of a ridge the track opened into a small dirt yard. The view, tumbling hills speckled purple and yellow with heather and gorse, spread before them.

They climbed down to admire it, while the corporal steered the huge car through a five-point turn, so laboriously that Mills felt compelled to direct him.

“You never said what you made of our film, Captain,” Hess suggested companionably.

“I thought it was vile lies. Rabble-rousing propaganda.”

“You think so?” Hess mused. “That it incited the mob?”

“You don’t?”

“I suppose so. But the mob was only a small number, really. A few thousand out of millions who saw the film. Not so efficient if it’s goal was to rouse. You saw it in Germany?” he asked, and Rotheram, caught off-guard, nodded slightly.

“A film like that,” Hess went on, “does something more important than stir the few, don’t you think? It makes the rest an audience. Passive, you see? You watch a film, you sit in a cinema, you see things, you feel things, but you do nothing.” He leaned closer. “That film made our actions a drama to be watched, talked about, as if it were only happening on a screen, on a set. Forget incitement. That’s the power of film, to draw a line between those who act and those who watch.”