Resistance by Owen Sheers Read Free Book Online Page B

one side of his actions, his character, washing up against the rest of him.
    Steiner, Sebald, Klepper, Mann, Ehrhardt.
    Albrecht took out his notebook and pencil and wrote the names down in his clearest handwriting. Calling to one of the runners, he ordered him back to battalion headquarters to find these men’s records and to confirm battalion clearance for this request. In the meantime he’d get Alex to inform the men they’d been selected for a patrol. Once he had their records he’d find a motorbike to takehim over to Southern Headquarters, where he hoped he’d discover exactly what choice he’d just made for them. Where they were going, for how long, and why. He also hoped he’d find out why he’d been chosen. Why an SS order to a Wehrmacht officer? Why a patrol when they were still only on the fringes of this country? He was a fluent English speaker. He’d studied here before the war, in Oxford and London. But whatever the reason for the patrol, it couldn’t be London, that’s what he told himself again. Not London, and therefore whatever their mission, it had to be good news for him and the men. Better news at least. Anywhere was better than London.
    As if to confirm this thought another Panzer division came rumbling round the corner past the cottage accompanied again by more infantry. All of them were heading north, towards the capital. Albrecht turned and watched the sullen progression of the tanks once more. A dog, a scruffy Jack Russell, had appeared from somewhere. It leant back on its haunches and barked and snarled at the feet of the passing soldiers. One of them swung a lazy kick at its head and missed. Another, a few rows later, threw it the bitten end of a piece of salami. The dog snatched it from the air and lay down to chew on it, keeping one wary eye on the passing soldiers. French salami, bought just a few days ago, thrown to an English dog. Once again the speed of all this overtook Albrecht. The speed and momentum of this spiralling, unnatural world he had somehow found himself caught up in, like a man woken from a coma into a life no longer his.

 
    “O f course they’ll be back. Don’t talk nonsense.”
    Maggie spoke over her shoulder, still fussing with the kettle steaming from its spout on the front hob of her Rayburn. This was their third pot of tea. The other women murmured in agreement, nodding their heads at Mary, who sat at the end of the table, an anxious frown slanting over her eyes. Mary, who had finally said what they’d all been thinking. Maggie went back to the kettle, wrapping a cloth round its handle and lifting it in a smooth movement from the hob onto the sideboard. Just as William had got the first tractor in the valley so Maggie had got the first Rayburn, and she moved about it with the authority of a captain at the bridge of a ship. Sarah sipped at her tepid tea. One bird ticked away irregularly outside Maggie’s kitchen window like a one-finger typist taking the minutes of the day. It was left to Menna Probert, the other younger woman in the room, to break the silence.
    “I don’t understand it. Jack’s got a whole field of mangels t’do this morning. He wouldn’t just leave that.”
    Maggie glanced at Sarah. No, Menna didn’t understand, and Maggie was beginning to lose her patience. Bringing the pot of new tea to the table she sat down beside the younger woman, put her hand on her arm, and tried once more. And again all of them listened as Maggie attempted to explain the impossible to Menna, as she tried to paint a picture of an altered world sitting there in her kitchen that looked so familiar, so unchanged and unchangeable that it challenged every word she spoke.

    When Sarah had got back from looking for Tom on the hill, she’d found Maggie waiting for her in the cobblestoned yard. The dogs had got to her first and were sniffing round her legs. Maggie ruffled their heads, shielding her eyes with one hand as she looked up at Sarah.
    “Hello, Maggie,”