barracked with the homosexuals, and those men were, on the whole, the best of men.’
‘Sachsenhausen? North of Berlin?’
‘Yes.’
‘You’re Category A. You arrived with a sum of money …’
‘If you read on, you’ll see I have already given a full account of the counterfeiting operation – or as full an account as I myself was given.’
‘You’ll need to sign a statement saying you heard the warning shot and that you persisted in your escape. Your guard had no choice but to fire again.’
‘I hope he was commended for his marksmanship.’
Something hot and dark flared in the Superintendent’s eyes. ‘You’re lucky he hit your shoulder.’
Otto smiled. ‘I’ve had luckier days.’
‘The Home Department will require you to confirm a good standard of care.’
‘Nazi bunk-mates and enforced imprisonment aside.’
‘Are you being insolent, Mr Gottlieb?’
‘No, Mr Beaumont. Merely accurate.’
Geoffrey stood and moved to the window, as if suddenly indifferentto the company he was required to keep. ‘Your English is excellent. We had no idea.’
‘I don’t believe I ever said my English wasn’t excellent.’
‘No?’
‘No. I have merely avoided conversation. Surely that right at least remains to me?’
‘Discretion is an enviable quality – particularly in a spy, for example.’
‘Yes, I imagine it’s highly desirable, though Jewishness isn’t, I understand.’
‘Still, it’s rare to meet a German, here at the coastal front, with so little trace of an accent …’
Otto smiled at the floor. ‘I daresay it’s also rare to meet a Superintendent who takes so great an interest in his prisoners. My father was a linguist, Mr Beaumont, or was until Jews, including all secular Jews, were relieved of their posts at the universities. Alas, my dear old nanny is the person we must hold to account for my diction. English. And, coincidentally, Sussex born and bred. From a place called Petworth, I seem to recall.’
Geoffrey turned to him, nodding as if amused. ‘A small world.’
‘Yes.’ Otto met his eyes. ‘Terribly small.’
13
Saturday, June the 22nd. It was to be the last Royal Pavilion Midsummer Ball until the peace.
The atmosphere was one of rigid good cheer. If the windows of the Pavilion were necessarily blinded, the chandeliers were polished and bright, and if good alcohol was in short supply, there was always the big band to obliterate all thought.
The two couples spilled out on to the north balcony, drinks in hand. ‘I can’t see a thing!’ Sylvia protested, and Tom had to steer her from behind, his hands on her waist, following the glow of Geoffrey’s white shirt and tie.
Evelyn laughed, then sighed. Sylvia was always good spectacle. What a relief her and Tom’s company was.
Geoffrey hitched up his trousers and let the balcony’s low stone balustrade take his weight. He for one was glad of the sudden dark-ness; glad to be, for a short while, an exile from society. There was no moon, but the night was generous. It seemed to grant them a reprieve from formality; to cloak them in an easy intimacy, as if they were young again and free of the weight of the persons they were yet to become.
With a shy smile, Tom passed Geoffrey an uncharacteristically large flask of whisky. He took a grateful swig, admiring the white of his wife’s throat and her slim arms as she motioned across the darksea of the gardens. The Theatre Royal was at that moment disgorging its crowd into the blackout. Evelyn was remarking on the sight to Sylvia. Dozens of beams from pocket-torches flickered to life, making a sieve of the night.
He took another mouthful from the flask, nodded at Tom’s measured account of the latest rumours out of the Traveller’s Club, and let his mind idle to the sound of the women’s voices and the glimmer of their smiles. They chatted, happily it seemed, and Tom was on excellent form, quiet-spoken but as solid as ever.
Had Evelyn told Sylvia about their
‘Sachsenhausen? North of Berlin?’
‘Yes.’
‘You’re Category A. You arrived with a sum of money …’
‘If you read on, you’ll see I have already given a full account of the counterfeiting operation – or as full an account as I myself was given.’
‘You’ll need to sign a statement saying you heard the warning shot and that you persisted in your escape. Your guard had no choice but to fire again.’
‘I hope he was commended for his marksmanship.’
Something hot and dark flared in the Superintendent’s eyes. ‘You’re lucky he hit your shoulder.’
Otto smiled. ‘I’ve had luckier days.’
‘The Home Department will require you to confirm a good standard of care.’
‘Nazi bunk-mates and enforced imprisonment aside.’
‘Are you being insolent, Mr Gottlieb?’
‘No, Mr Beaumont. Merely accurate.’
Geoffrey stood and moved to the window, as if suddenly indifferentto the company he was required to keep. ‘Your English is excellent. We had no idea.’
‘I don’t believe I ever said my English wasn’t excellent.’
‘No?’
‘No. I have merely avoided conversation. Surely that right at least remains to me?’
‘Discretion is an enviable quality – particularly in a spy, for example.’
‘Yes, I imagine it’s highly desirable, though Jewishness isn’t, I understand.’
‘Still, it’s rare to meet a German, here at the coastal front, with so little trace of an accent …’
Otto smiled at the floor. ‘I daresay it’s also rare to meet a Superintendent who takes so great an interest in his prisoners. My father was a linguist, Mr Beaumont, or was until Jews, including all secular Jews, were relieved of their posts at the universities. Alas, my dear old nanny is the person we must hold to account for my diction. English. And, coincidentally, Sussex born and bred. From a place called Petworth, I seem to recall.’
Geoffrey turned to him, nodding as if amused. ‘A small world.’
‘Yes.’ Otto met his eyes. ‘Terribly small.’
13
Saturday, June the 22nd. It was to be the last Royal Pavilion Midsummer Ball until the peace.
The atmosphere was one of rigid good cheer. If the windows of the Pavilion were necessarily blinded, the chandeliers were polished and bright, and if good alcohol was in short supply, there was always the big band to obliterate all thought.
The two couples spilled out on to the north balcony, drinks in hand. ‘I can’t see a thing!’ Sylvia protested, and Tom had to steer her from behind, his hands on her waist, following the glow of Geoffrey’s white shirt and tie.
Evelyn laughed, then sighed. Sylvia was always good spectacle. What a relief her and Tom’s company was.
Geoffrey hitched up his trousers and let the balcony’s low stone balustrade take his weight. He for one was glad of the sudden dark-ness; glad to be, for a short while, an exile from society. There was no moon, but the night was generous. It seemed to grant them a reprieve from formality; to cloak them in an easy intimacy, as if they were young again and free of the weight of the persons they were yet to become.
With a shy smile, Tom passed Geoffrey an uncharacteristically large flask of whisky. He took a grateful swig, admiring the white of his wife’s throat and her slim arms as she motioned across the darksea of the gardens. The Theatre Royal was at that moment disgorging its crowd into the blackout. Evelyn was remarking on the sight to Sylvia. Dozens of beams from pocket-torches flickered to life, making a sieve of the night.
He took another mouthful from the flask, nodded at Tom’s measured account of the latest rumours out of the Traveller’s Club, and let his mind idle to the sound of the women’s voices and the glimmer of their smiles. They chatted, happily it seemed, and Tom was on excellent form, quiet-spoken but as solid as ever.
Had Evelyn told Sylvia about their
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