possibly attach a meaning, as if she were a member of the
inner circle at the Compound. He had simply overlooked her limited knowledge,
drawn by her extreme attractiveness.
Among
the women in the house where she is billeted is large Princess Xavier who has
already met Paul in London. ‘Poppy,’ says Elsa, ‘would you marry Paul if you
were me?’
‘I’m
not ambitious,’ Paul says to Elsa when he has fallen in love with her. ‘Not
ambitious at all.’
He
takes Elsa to London on their fortnightly leave, which they arrange to
coincide. They have stayed first at a borrowed flat in Clarges Street, then at
the Strand Palace Hotel which is less comfortable since they have to produce
their identification cards and ration books, each bearing different names, so
that they are obliged to creep in and out of one or the other single rooms
early in the morning, and to tip the floor-page heavily.
Elsa’s
main job at the Compound consists of taking messages and reports from military
intelligence personnel on a special green telephone used everywhere during the
war for secret communications. It is known as a scrambler, because the connection
is heavily jammed with jangling caterwauls to protect the conversation against
eavesdropping; this harrowing noise all but prevents the speakers from hearing
each other, but once the knack is mastered it is easy to hear the voice at the
other end giving such information as flight details from newly-returned bomber
missions, the numbers sent, the numbers lost, the numbers of enemy planes
felled. Numbers and numbers over Germany and France. Cities and factories. Pinpoints
and numbers piercing the scrambler.
And
sometimes in the afternoons she takes the Germans for walks within the five-mile
radius of the Compound that is allowed to them. Perhaps it is because she
speaks no German that these men tend to say more to her in English than they
would do in their own language. It is a common misunderstanding that one who
does not know another’s mother tongue is assumed to be less intelligent and
discerning than he is. In this way, most of the handful of the German
prisoners whom Elsa takes for country walks underestimate her wits.
Besides
which, they are mostly edgy; whatever the degree of conviction that has led
them to work for the enemy, there remains a nagging knowledge that they have
deserted their native forces. Only two amongst them are entirely at ease with
themselves: a young dedicated communist and an Austrian count.
And so,
before Paul arrives at the Compound and about the time that Miles Bunting is
starting loftily to put her at odds, she occupies her bored afternoons by
taking them for walks, one by one.
They
are walking along the edge of a wood. Rudi is a flat-faced man in his early
twenties. He walks with a curious wading motion, with Elsa by his side keeping
solemn time while blankly noting him within herself, placing him on record with
her indwelling dæmon. He is gloomy today. The men he is billeted with, the
other prisoners of war, who are working for the British, are getting on his
nerves. He says they had a fight the night before; it all started with one
accusing another of leaving a rim round the edge of the bath. He says that
anyhow, he is sure to be shot before long. D-Day is coming up, he says. And he
waves his hands towards the thick woods to their left and tells her that
Hitler’s parachutists will soon be filling these woods. He speaks with a sort
of bitter, convinced pride like a Judas foretelling hell-fires awaiting him as
a boastful proof of his betrayed master’s divinity. Elsa tells him to cheer
up. She reminds him that only last week he was bubbling with joy to think that
the war would soon be over, and he could go down to the beach with his friends
at home as he had done before. But he wades on gazing down at the path,
depressed. ‘My family will find that I’ve been working for the British. Here,
we have lard to eat. They have no lard in Germany today. They
inner circle at the Compound. He had simply overlooked her limited knowledge,
drawn by her extreme attractiveness.
Among
the women in the house where she is billeted is large Princess Xavier who has
already met Paul in London. ‘Poppy,’ says Elsa, ‘would you marry Paul if you
were me?’
‘I’m
not ambitious,’ Paul says to Elsa when he has fallen in love with her. ‘Not
ambitious at all.’
He
takes Elsa to London on their fortnightly leave, which they arrange to
coincide. They have stayed first at a borrowed flat in Clarges Street, then at
the Strand Palace Hotel which is less comfortable since they have to produce
their identification cards and ration books, each bearing different names, so
that they are obliged to creep in and out of one or the other single rooms
early in the morning, and to tip the floor-page heavily.
Elsa’s
main job at the Compound consists of taking messages and reports from military
intelligence personnel on a special green telephone used everywhere during the
war for secret communications. It is known as a scrambler, because the connection
is heavily jammed with jangling caterwauls to protect the conversation against
eavesdropping; this harrowing noise all but prevents the speakers from hearing
each other, but once the knack is mastered it is easy to hear the voice at the
other end giving such information as flight details from newly-returned bomber
missions, the numbers sent, the numbers lost, the numbers of enemy planes
felled. Numbers and numbers over Germany and France. Cities and factories. Pinpoints
and numbers piercing the scrambler.
And
sometimes in the afternoons she takes the Germans for walks within the five-mile
radius of the Compound that is allowed to them. Perhaps it is because she
speaks no German that these men tend to say more to her in English than they
would do in their own language. It is a common misunderstanding that one who
does not know another’s mother tongue is assumed to be less intelligent and
discerning than he is. In this way, most of the handful of the German
prisoners whom Elsa takes for country walks underestimate her wits.
Besides
which, they are mostly edgy; whatever the degree of conviction that has led
them to work for the enemy, there remains a nagging knowledge that they have
deserted their native forces. Only two amongst them are entirely at ease with
themselves: a young dedicated communist and an Austrian count.
And so,
before Paul arrives at the Compound and about the time that Miles Bunting is
starting loftily to put her at odds, she occupies her bored afternoons by
taking them for walks, one by one.
They
are walking along the edge of a wood. Rudi is a flat-faced man in his early
twenties. He walks with a curious wading motion, with Elsa by his side keeping
solemn time while blankly noting him within herself, placing him on record with
her indwelling dæmon. He is gloomy today. The men he is billeted with, the
other prisoners of war, who are working for the British, are getting on his
nerves. He says they had a fight the night before; it all started with one
accusing another of leaving a rim round the edge of the bath. He says that
anyhow, he is sure to be shot before long. D-Day is coming up, he says. And he
waves his hands towards the thick woods to their left and tells her that
Hitler’s parachutists will soon be filling these woods. He speaks with a sort
of bitter, convinced pride like a Judas foretelling hell-fires awaiting him as
a boastful proof of his betrayed master’s divinity. Elsa tells him to cheer
up. She reminds him that only last week he was bubbling with joy to think that
the war would soon be over, and he could go down to the beach with his friends
at home as he had done before. But he wades on gazing down at the path,
depressed. ‘My family will find that I’ve been working for the British. Here,
we have lard to eat. They have no lard in Germany today. They
Similar Books
