The Welsh Girl (29 page)

"Months? No, I suppose it takes--what would you say, Captain--a few years?"

Mills gave a wincing smile, but Rotheram wouldn't rise to the bait.

"Wales," Rotheram considered. "The land of retreat? Or defeat?"

"Of last stands, perhaps," Hess offered, turning away.

They rode in silence after that, driving uphill along a tight lane hemmed in by high stone walls. Rotheram, gripped by a sudden claustrophobia, staring ahead, flinching as startled rabbits bolted before their wheels. At the brow of a ridge the track opened into a small dirt yard. The view, tumbling hills speckled purple and yellow with heather and gorse, spread before them.

They climbed down to admire it, while the corporal steered the huge car through a five-point turn, so laboriously that Mills felt compelled to direct him.

"You never said what you made of our film, Captain," Hess suggested companionably.

"I thought it was vile lies. Rabble-rousing propaganda." "You think so?" Hess mused. "That it incited the mob?" "You don't?"

"I suppose so. But the mob was only a small number, really.

A few thousand out of millions who saw the film. Not so efficient if its goal was to rouse. You saw it in Germany?" he asked, and Rotheram, caught off guard, nodded slightly.

"A film like that," Hess went on, "does something more important than stir the few, don't you think? It makes the rest an audience. Passive, you see? You watch a film, you sit in a cinema, you see things, you feel things, but you do nothing." He leaned closer. "That film made our actions a drama to be watched, talked about, as if it were only happening on a

screen, on a set. Forget incitement. That's the power of film, to draw a line between those who act and those who watch."

Rotheram shook his head. He looked for Mills, who was helping Baker wrestle the canvas roof of the car into place.

"You disagree, Captain? It had some other effect on you?" "Tell me something," Rotheram said, turning to him. "Let's grant, for the sake of argument, that you have no recollection of why you came to Britain. Why do you
think
you came? You

must have wondered."

"I was on a secret diplomatic mission, as far as I can determine."

"Yet you can't recall the details, and no one else from Germany has tried to fulfil the mission since."

"I imagine you have other theories."

"Some say you were crazy before you crashed. That you were already unstable when you decided to fly here." Hess was impassive. "Others, that you'd fallen out of favour with Hitler, that you felt your position, your life, threatened. They say you ran."

"Would you like me to be an exile, is that it, Captain? Another refugee? Should we sympathise with each other now? Is that the form this takes? Why yes. It's all coming back to me. I'm remembering, remembering.
Mein Gott
, I'm really a Jew. How could I have forgotten?"

He started to laugh, then saw the blunt fury in Rotheram's face.

"Why won't you believe me when I tell you I'm not a Jew?" "Why won't you believe
me
when I say I do not remember things?" Hess smiled. "But for the sake of argument--yes?--

let's say that you are not a Jew. But if not, why do you hate me so?"

"Why?" Rotheram exclaimed. "Why!"

"Please. There's no need to raise your voice." "Because," Rotheram pressed, "because you and your

kind drove me from my home, accused me of being a Jew--" He caught himself, suddenly conscious of Mills's approach.

"But don't you wonder, Captain," Hess whispered, leaning close and slipping into German, "what that says about the way
you
feel about Jews?" He pivoted to Mills, and Rotheram felt his face flush. "Ah, Doctor, I was just suggesting a stroll to the captain."

Mills nodded. "If you're up to it." He looked quizzically from Rotheram, gazing off, to Hess, who raised his eyebrows.

"It's downhill, after all. If the corporal would be so kind as to meet us at the crossroads?"

Mills gave a wave to Baker, and the car rumbled back down the lane while Hess led them through a rusty kissing gate onto the hillside.

Rotheram watched him go, still stunned by Hess's question. "You're sure this is all right?" he roused himself to ask as

Mills stepped through the gate ahead of him.

"Quite. We've done this walk before. It's the bugger's favourite. The locals are all at chapel this time of a Sunday morning, and believe me, he isn't likely to escape." He gestured at Hess, who was gingerly lowering himself down the path. His limp was more apparent now than in the house.

When they drew level with him he was already breathing hard. "We can go back," Mills said, putting a hand on his

shoulder. "If you're unwell. Don't want you getting a chill." He grinned at Rotheram behind the other man's back.

"The
herr doktor
is worried about my health," Hess told

Rotheram, shaking Mills off. "He watches me well, so that I won't catch cold, or stub my toe, or fall downstairs."

Mills coloured at this reference to the latest suicide attempt. "I just want what's best for you."

"Yes, yes." He paused before a steep stretch of the path that had been washed out by rainwater.

"Perhaps?" Hess raised his hands, and for a second Rotheram thought it was a gesture of surrender. Then he saw Mills duck under one arm, and he bent to let Hess lay the other across his own shoulders. In this way they eased down the slope, siknt apart from Hess's panting, now that they were so close. The old man was surprisingly heavy, Rotheram thought, despite his' gangly frame. He felt his arm weighing on the

back of his neck. The faint scent of cologne wafted from Hess's collar.

When the slope was more gentle, the older man lifted his arms, and Rotheram was glad to step away, pressing a hand to his bruised ribs.

"Thank you, gentlemen. Where were we?" Hess asked. "Oh, yes, the doctor. He does take fine care of me, but Doctor, don't you find that difficult?"

"Well, you're not always the most cooperative patient." "No. Forgive me. Don't you find it a..."He searched for the

word. "A conflict?"

Mills shook his head gravely. "My oath as a doctor--"

Hess held up his hand. "Forgive me again. I didn't mean this conflict. Your
hippokratischer
oath, I know. We have this in Germany. Every doctor has this. No. I mean, is it not a conflict that you are keeping me alive in order for your government to kill me?"

"What makes you say that?" Rotheram asked.

Hess looked at him.

"
You
know, Captain Roth. It's why you're here. To decide if you can try me. Let's see. Can we, can we?" Hess held his palms out before him like an unsteady pair of scales. "But I ask you, why bother? You want to kill me, just kill me."

Mills, put out, had walked ahead.

"Doctor! I've shocked you with my talk. And on such a beautiful morning. Please. Of course I don't mean
you
should kill me. Besides, I'd do it for you, if you'd let me."

"You want to die?" Rotheram said.

"Does that seem mad to you? In which case, does that mean you shouldn't try me and kill me? Or does it seem sane, under the circumstances, which would mean that you should?"

Rotheram had pulled up beside Mills, a little below Hess on the slope, and now he found himself looking up at the speaker as if he were on a stage. A shadow crept over them and Hess glanced up at the clouds. When he looked down again his smile had faded.

"I have no one left, you understand. I do not remember my wife, my children. I do not remember my country. My life has already been taken."

Mills sighed and shook his head, but Rotheram was rapt. "You are still trying to decide about me," Hess said.

Rotheram nodded.

"You really shouldn't trouble yourself. It doesn't matter in the end."

"It matters to me."

Hess shook his head. "All those signs you look for, dilating of the eyes, for instance." He took his dark glasses off, folded them away, gazed at Rotheram. "Those only matter if the subject cares about being believed. I don't care, because whether you believe me or not..." He shrugged. "
Kaputt!
"

"Oh, now," Mills began, but Hess didn't take his eyes off Rotheram.

"You want the truth about me? First you tell me--am I right or not?"

It occurred to Rotheram that he had been the last to know this truth. Even Hess was there before him. He found himself nodding slowly.

"So," Hess sighed. "I thank you for this honesty." "Your turn," Rotheram said.

Hess studied him. "Indulge me. One last question. Then I promise to tell you what you want to know."

"What question?" Rotheram asked tiredly. "You know already."

As if from a long way off, Rotheram heard the scrape of a match beside him as Mills lit a cigarette. He took a long breath and shook his head.

"Some think I'm a Jew, but I'm not. Not to myself at least. Still, perhaps that doesn't matter, the way I see myself, not compared to the way others see me. Not when the way you see me is a matter of life and death." He shrugged. "Is that an answer?"

"An answer? No." Hess gave a crooked smile. "But maybe the truth."

Rotheram looked up. "Well, then, I believe we had a bargain."

"Quite. So, am I unbalanced? Am I faking my amnesia?" He leaned close and Rotheram could feel Hess's breath against his cheek. "The truth is--I don't remember any more."

He stepped back, smiling apologetically. "We have something in common, you and I. The same dilemma. Are we who we think we are, or who others judge us to be? A question of will, perhaps." He glanced over Rotheram's shoulder, and then back, meeting his eyes. "How can you hope to judge me, Captain, if you can't decide about yourself?"

He held up his hand before Rotheram could answer.

"If you go now," Hess said softly, "you may outrun him."

Behind him, Rotheram heard Mills whisper, "Oh, bloody hell."

He turned to where they were looking. A bull had appeared on the hillside below them. Rotheram was stunned. Where had it come from? Had it been hidden in the shadows by the wall or lying in a shallow dell? It trotted steadily across the field, brushing aside frothy blooms of Queen Anne's lace almost daintily, not more than twenty feet below them, and as Rotheram watched, its dark, velvety head swung round--he saw the pale curve of its horns turn--to study them.

"Hell," Mills said again. The cigarette that was dangling from his lower lip fell to the ground. "Bloody bloody bleeding hell."

It occurred to Rotheram that Hess, slightly higher and looking past them, would have seen the beast first. He wondered if all the talk had simply been a way to distract them while the bull approached.

"Come on," Mills was saying. Rotheram felt a hand on his arm.

"I believe he's seen us," Hess noted calmly. "Gentlemen, I am fifty years old, and with a limp, I might add. I can hardly outrun him, but you might. If you go now."

Rotheram felt himself fill with disgust. What foolishness! To lose the prisoner to a bull.

"Are you coming?" Mills hissed.

"The corporal can shoot it," Rotheram said, searching beyond the bull, but although he could make out the car, beyond the stile at the near corner of the field, there was no sign of Baker, who might have gone for a smoke or a piss. Rotheram and the doctor were unarmed, standard procedure for interrogators with a prisoner, but even if Rotheram had had his service revolver, he doubted he could stop a charging bull with it.

"Even if the good corporal were to see us," Hess said, "he

would need to move very smartly to get a clear shot. And," he added wryly, "I'm not so confident of his marksmanship. Not on a Sunday morning."

"Come on!" Mills had already started to edge towards the stile, but as he took a step in that direction, the bull moved almost leisurely to cut him off. Its bulk seemed ponderous, but it was flanking them, Rotheram noticed, shocked by the animal's intelligence, angling up the slope, avoiding charging uphill at them. In a few moments it would be above them. It was already close enough for him to see its dark coat wasn't

smooth, but kinked with tight woolly tufts, the black curls licking at the base of its horns. He could smell it, too, a rich smoky scent on the breeze.

"Go now, please," Hess told Rotheram.

Before he could make up his mind, Mills took to his heels. He'd seen what Rotheram had seen, and spotted also that the route to the near corner was now open. Rotheram felt Hess's hand on his back. "Really, there is no need to die for me, Captain. It would be foolish, no? To die for a dead man?"

He pushed again, but weakly, and Rotheram stood fast. He was trying to decide if he could carry Hess (he doubted it, given the condition of his ribs) or perhaps draw the bull off. He stared at the creature, and for a second its huge dark eyes appraised him in return, and he was suddenly and profoundly conscious of himself as no more than an animal. For all his learning, his civilisation, he might still be killed by a beast.

"Captain." Hess raised his voice. "I really must insist." Rotheram, glancing away from the bull, saw the determination in his face. He tried to steel his own will, to keep his eyes on the old man's, but he could hear the hoofbeats now. "Wouldn't this be easiest for all of us?" Hess whispered. He was fumbling with the buttons of his greatcoat, drawing out the bright red scarf that had been tucked into his collar. With a final feeble shove, not much more than a pat on the back, he

set Rotheram in motion towards the stile and himself hobbling towards the bull, the scarf flourished behind him on the breeze like a signature.

Rotheram found himself running--it came so easily, instinctively, his legs adjusting to the steep slope of the ground--chasing the doctor, making headlong for the stile. He couldn't remember the last time he had run. He made a point of walking out of the building during raids in London. He must have run since that time he fled the cinema in Berlin, he thought, but he couldn't recall. It troubled him because, even as his rib seemed to grind in his side, even as he heard the thunder of hoofs behind him, he found he rather liked running,