Peter Davies - The Welsh Girl

Rotheram shook his head. He looked for Mills, who was helping Baker wrestle the canvas roof of the car into place.

“You disagree, Captain? It had some other effect on you?”

“Tell me something,” Rotheram said, turning to him. “Let’s grant, for the sake of argument, that you have no recollection of why you came to Britain. Why do you think you came? You must have wondered.”

“I was on a secret diplomatic mission, as far as I can determine.”

“Yet you can’t recall the details, and no one else from Germany has tried to fulfill the mission since.”

“I imagine you have other theories.”

“Some say you were crazy before you crashed. That you were already unstable when you decided to fly here.” Hess was impassive. “Others, that you’d fallen out of favor with Hitler, that you felt your position, your life, threatened. They say you ran.”

“Would you like me to be an exile, is that it, Captain? Another refugee? Should we sympathize with each other now? Is that the form this takes? Why yes. It’s all coming back to me. I’m remembering, remembering. Mein Gott, I’m really a Jew. How could I have forgotten?”

He started to laugh, then saw the blunt fury in Rotheram’s face.

“Why won’t you believe me when I tell you I’m not a Jew?”

“Why won’t you believe me when I say I do not remember things?” Hess smiled. “But for the sake of argument — yes? — let’s say that you are not a Jew. But if not, why do you hate me so?”

“Why?” Rotheram exclaimed. “Why!”

“Please. There’s no need to raise your voice.”

“Because,” Rotheram pressed, “because you and your kind drove me from my home, accused me of being a Jew—” He caught himself, suddenly conscious of Mills’s approach.

“But don’t you wonder, Captain,” Hess whispered, leaning close and slipping into German, “what that says about the way you feel about Jews?” He pivoted to Mills, and Rotheram felt his face flush. “Ah, Doctor, I was just suggesting a stroll to the captain.”

Mills nodded. “If you’re up to it.” He looked quizzically from Rotheram, gazing off, to Hess, who raised his eyebrows.

“It’s downhill, after all. If the corporal would be so kind as to meet us at the crossroads?”

Mills gave a wave to Baker, and the car rumbled back down the lane while Hess led them through a rusty kissing gate onto the hillside.

Rotheram watched him go, still stunned by Hess’s question.

“You’re sure this is all right?” he roused himself to ask as Mills stepped through the gate ahead of him.

“Quite. We’ve done this walk before. It’s the bugger’s favorite. The locals are all at chapel this time of a Sunday morning, and believe me, he isn’t likely to escape.” He gestured at Hess, who was gingerly lowering himself down the path. His limp was more apparent now than in the house. When they drew level with him he was already breathing hard.

“We can go back,” Mills said, putting a hand on his shoulder. “If you’re unwell. Don’t want you getting a chill.” He grinned at Rotheram behind the other man’s back.

“The herr doktor is worried about my health,” Hess told Rotheram, shaking Mills off. “He watches me well, so that I won’t catch cold, or stub my toe, or fall down stairs.”

Mills colored at this reference to the latest suicide attempt.

“I just want what’s best for you.”

“Yes, yes.” He paused before a steep stretch of the path that had been washed out by rain water.

“Perhaps?” Hess raised his hands, and for a second Rotheram thought it was a gesture of surrender. Then he saw Mills duck under one arm, and he bent to let Hess lay the other across his own shoulders. In this way they eased down the slope, silent apart from Hess’s panting, now that they were so close. The old man was surprisingly heavy, Rotheram thought, despite his gangly frame. He felt his arm weighing on the back of his neck. The faint scent of after-shave wafted from Hess’s collar.

When the slope was more gentle, the older man lifted his arms, and Rotheram was glad to step away, pressing a hand to his bruised ribs.

“Thank you, gentlemen. Where were we?” Hess asked. “Oh, yes, the doctor. He does take fine care of me, but Doctor, don’t you find that difficult?”

“Well, you’re not always the most cooperative patient.”

“No. Forgive me. Don’t you find it a…” He searched for the word. “A conflict?”

Mills shook his head gravely. “My oath as a doctor—”

Hess held up his hand. “Forgive me again. I didn’t mean this conflict. Your hippokratischer oath, I know. We have this in Germany. Every doctor has this. No. I mean, is it not a conflict that you are keeping me alive in order for your government to kill me?”

“What makes you say that?” Rotheram asked.

Hess looked at him.

“ You know, Captain Roth. It’s why you’re here. To decide if you can try me. Let’s see. Can we, can we?” Hess held his palms out before him like an unsteady pair of scales. “But I ask you, why bother? You want to kill me, just kill me.”

Mills, put out, had walked ahead.

“Doctor! I’ve shocked you with my talk. And on such a beautiful morning. Please. Of course I don’t mean you should kill me. Besides, I’d do it for you, if you’d let me.”

“You want to die?” Rotheram said.

“Does that seem mad to you? In which case, does that mean you shouldn’t try me and kill me? Or does it seem sane, under the circumstances, which would mean that you should?”

Rotheram had pulled up beside Mills, a little below Hess on the slope, and now he found himself looking up at the speaker as if he were on a stage. A shadow crept over them and Hess glanced up at the clouds. When he looked down again his smile had faded.

“I have no one left, you understand. I do not remember my wife, my children. I do not remember my country. My life has already been taken.”

Mills sighed and shook his head, but Rotheram was rapt.

“You are still trying to decide about me,” Hess said.

Rotheram nodded.

“You really shouldn’t trouble yourself. It doesn’t matter in the end.”

“It matters to me.”

Hess shook his head. “All those signs you look for, dilating of the eyes, for instance.” He took his dark glasses off, folded them away, gazed at Rotheram. “Those only matter if the subject cares about being believed. I don’t care, because whether you believe me or not…” He shrugged. “ Kaputt! ”

“Oh, now,” Mills began, but Hess didn’t take his eyes off Rotheram.

“You want the truth about me? First you tell me — am I right or not?”

It occurred to Rotheram that he had been the last to know this truth. Even Hess was there before him. He found himself nodding slowly.

“So,” Hess sighed. “I thank you for this honesty.”

“Your turn,” Rotheram said.

Hess studied him. “Indulge me. One last question. Then I promise to tell you what you want to know.”

“What question?” Rotheram asked tiredly.

“You know already.”

As if from a long way off, Rotheram heard the scrape of a match beside him as Mills lit a cigarette. He took a long breath and shook his head.

“Some think I’m a Jew, but I’m not. Not to myself at least. Still, perhaps that doesn’t matter, the way I see myself, not compared to the way others see me. Not when the way you see me is a matter of life and death.” He shrugged. “Is that an answer?”

“An answer? No.” Hess gave a crooked smile. “But maybe the truth.”

Rotheram looked up. “Well, then, I believe we had a bargain.”

“Quite. So, am I unbalanced? Am I faking my amnesia?” He leaned close and Rotheram could feel Hess’s breath against his cheek. “The truth is — I don’t remember anymore.” He stepped back, smiling apologetically. “We have something in common, you and I. The same dilemma. Are we who we think we are, or who others judge us to be? A question of will, perhaps.” He glanced over Rotheram’s shoulder, and then back, meeting his eyes. “How can you hope to judge me, Captain, if you can’t decide about yourself?”