Page 36 of V2

Seidel laughed. ‘You’re a deep one, Graf! Do you have a shoe size you prefer?’

The madam nodded judiciously. ‘I believe I have the perfect girl.’

She went over to the bar. Seidel took out a pack of cigarettes and offered one to Graf. The cognac came. Graf downed his straight and held out his glass for another. They sat back in their chairs. The lieutenant closed his eyes and conducted the music with his forefinger. He started to sing along with Mimi Thoma. Sleep, darling, sleep, and dream a fairy tale …

Ilse returned with a tall young woman with curly copper-coloured hair, who made an effort to seem pleased to see Seidel. Behind her, tiny in comparison, was a doll-like girl dressed in a sleeveless tight red satin sheath. Her scarlet lipstick and heavy mascara rendered her almost unrecognisable. The moment she saw Graf, her professional smile vanished. She stopped, and swayed back slightly on her high heels. Marta climbed into Seidel’s lap and put her arms around his neck. Ilse steered the blonde girl forward by the shoulders, like a mother presenting a child for inspection. ‘This is Femke.’ Graf stood. ‘See how polite he is, sweetheart,’ she murmured into her ear, ‘a real gentleman! Look at the way he’s staring at you – I can tell he likes you. Why don’t you take him upstairs?’

The girl hesitated. Ilse gave her a firm push. ‘Go on, darling.’

Slowly, reluctantly, looking past Graf to some point beyond his shoulder, Femke held out her hand. He took it – there was no grip in her thin cold fingers – and followed her out of the bar and into the empty hall. The moment they were out of sight of the drinkers, she snatched it away and stood with her back pressed to the wall. Quietly, in German, she said, ‘What is this? Are you Gestapo?’

‘No.’

‘You’re dressed like one.’

‘Well, I’m not.’

‘Where’s your uniform?’

‘I don’t have a uniform. I’m an engineer.’

‘If you’re not Gestapo, what do you want?’ She sounded almost irritable, as if he were wasting her time.

‘You’re asking me that?’ He showed her the marks in the flesh at the base of his thumb. ‘What do you think I want? I want to talk to you.’

She opened her mouth to reply. A door slammed above them. They both looked up. Heavy footsteps stamped across the landing. A man began to descend. A pair of jackboots appeared, then black trousers, and finally an SS officer, buttoning his tunic across a fat belly. He stopped at the foot of the stairs and inspected himself in the mirror, smoothing down his hair. He turned and saw them, nodded affably to Graf, then went past them into the bar. Femke waited until he had gone. She looked at Graf, then began to climb the stairs. When she was halfway up she leaned over the banister. ‘Well?’

She waited until he was behind her, then continued on ahead of him, a slim, straight, almost sexless figure in her red dress, precariously balanced on her high black heels. Eighteenth-century portraits lined the stairs. The eyes of the prosperous burghers followed them with disapproval. On the landing was a table with a Roman bust. She went past that and up a smaller staircase to the second floor. She threw open a door and stood aside to let him enter. The room was candlelit, seductive. She switched on the overhead light, dispelling the effect, closed the door and leaned her back against it. She was shaking slightly. When she saw that he had noticed, she folded her skinny bare arms to hide it.

‘Well? What now? Do we fuck, or what?’

She looked so young – so tiny and fierce – that he almost burst out laughing. ‘No, don’t worry. No offence – but I don’t want to.’

He felt very tired suddenly, and quite drunk. He went over and sat on the edge of the bed. From the room next door came the sound of bedsprings creaking, and the rhythmic knock of a headboard striking the wall. A woman cried out. He swung his legs onto the mattress and lay full length. It was much softer than his bed in Scheveningen. The room seemed to spin. He closed his eyes once more. He could hear the girl moving around. When he opened them again, she was standing over him, pointing a kitchen knife at his throat.

‘If you’re going to report me, I might as well kill you – at least I’ll take a fucking Boche with me.’

‘If I was going to report you, I would have done it by now. Put it away.’ He closed his eyes again. He felt as he had on the evening before the Peenemünde air raid – disconnected from the world, as if he were drifting over deep cold water. Presently he heard her moving away from the bed, the sound of a drawer opening and closing. ‘How old are you?’

There was a pause.

‘Eighteen.’

‘What were you doing in the woods this morning?’

‘I heard the explosion in the night. I wanted to look when it was light.’

‘Why?’

‘I was curious. The soldiers had gone.’

He opened his eyes and propped himself up on one elbow. She had her back pressed against the dressing table, watching him. ‘Femke, right? Is that a Dutch name?’ She didn’t reply. ‘You must have been very curious, to risk getting shot. You’re not that stupid. I’m not sure I believe you.’

She pouted at the floor.

Wearily he rolled over and planted his feet on the carpet. He looked around the room. It was like a time capsule from another world. A little armchair, upholstered in pink. Pink curtains. The wallpaper was patterned with pink-beribboned poodles – prancing, playing, standing on their hind legs. He went over to the wardrobe and opened it, ran his hands over the dresses. There was a small riding jacket. Lined up neatly on the wardrobe floor were girls’ shoes, riding boots, a pair of ballet pumps. He closed the wardrobe and went over to the chest of drawers, started opening that – blouses, socks, underwear. He left the drawers hanging open, got down on his knees and looked under the bed. Nothing. He stood.

He gestured to the dressing table. ‘Move out of the way, please.’