A Kiss for the Enemy by David Fraser Read Free Book Online Page B

will,’ said Anthony, ‘I will indeed.’
    With a further ‘Heil Hitler’ and a bow to Marcia imitated by all three companions, the young man took his little group on their way. Brother and sister walked on in silence.
    Marcia pointed to a shop window.
    â€˜Look, Anton!’
    In the window – repeated in a number of alternative wordings to the same effect by more than half the shops in the street – was a large notice.
    â€˜
Juden unerwünscht.
’
    â€˜Pretty categoric!’ muttered Anthony. ‘Jews not wanted!’ Then, ‘Who are these? We’ve not seen these before.’
    Coming towards them on the pavement marched a knot of seven or eight young men in black uniforms, with side-caps and armbands bearing the ubiquitous swastika. Their buttons were of silvertoned metal. Swinging from the belt against the left buttock each carried a short, white rubber truncheon.
    â€˜I think these are what they call “SS”. Sort of private Nazi army.’
    More groups of SS men passed. All looked young, cheerful and confident. Marcia drew admiring glances. Several exchanged remarks as they passed and there was some broad laughter.
    â€˜Back to the car!’ said Anthony. ‘We said we’d reach Frido by this evening. We’ve quite a way to go and we know how slow some of these roads are.’
    â€˜Don’t you think we ought to stay a bit, Anton, and see what happens here, at their celebration?’ Already they could hear the insistent notes of a band, the intoxicating, rhythmic throb of a military march from what seemed to, be a square, two hundred yards ahead.
    â€˜No,’ said Anthony, ‘I think we’ll go. I think, just for now, I’ve had enough of Herzenburg.’ They had already loaded the Morris and soon were on their way.
    Anthony let his thoughts run. In these uniforms, banners and slogans, in this posturing and stridency, there was something curiously unreal, theatrical. It was as if a large part of the population had decided to put on fancy dress and enact a series of dark, mediaeval charades – and then found themselves caught up in the enactment, somehow enchanted, intoxicated, unable to break the spell and return to the more prosaic, the drabber, liberal modes of thought and life they had been bewitched into deserting.
    The Shylock looks of the Jew caricature hung in his mind, as did the sneering hatred which seemed to drift like a gas from the heavy black, Gothic characters of the texts all over Herzenburg. He was reminded of other faces of exultant onlookers, at the Crucifixion or some comparable scene of cruelty and pain, as depicted by early Flemish artists – that grinning enjoyment of others suffering, that incapacity for pity which, if the painters were to be believed, must have been a hideous counterweight to the simple beauty of so much mediaeval life. Had Germany reached back, and reverted to such types? Anthony drove into a filling staton.
    â€˜We need some oil.’
    The garage attendant, another elderly veteran as was clear from heavy military moustache and erect bearing, had beautifulmanners, and kind, courteous eyes. To exchange the briefest of greetings with him was to feel more at peace.
    Frido von Arzfeld walked back towards his home through woods bursting into leaf. Winter was surely over, he thought, although last year there had, remarkably, been a heavy fall of snow in the first week of May. He was content that the Marvells should see Arzfeld in the spring. He loved it at all seasons but spring and autumn were best. He knew Anthony and Marcia were driving north from Franconia. They might arrive at any time from mid-afternoon.
    Frido thought of his last meeting with them, of Bargate. Anthony had shaken his hand and looked into his face with what was, he knew, real affection, although, with the English, one could never be absolutely sure. And Marcia – his mind’s eye saw Marcia’s