LITMIR.BIZ

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constant speculation. Meanwhile Frenzel’s Stube was patronized by Altgarten’s most important citizens and none of them asked questions. There was good wine in Frenzel’s cellar and champagne and old brandy too. For those with money to pay there were Bayonne ham and paté Strasbourg studded with truffles. For without Britain and the USA, and with the mark pegged artificially high, Germany had become the best customer for Europe’s home-grown luxuries.

      Müller, who owned the parachute factory, came to Frenzel’s almost every night. Nazi Party officials held banquets here. The commanding officer of the TENO engineers was a regular and so was the electricity station chief. So also was Frau Kersten who ran the vegetable farm. Tonight, however, was to be special. The Burgomaster was sitting near the window with Herr Frenzel himself, planning every detail for the Burgomaster’s fifty-third birthday dinner.

      Walter Ryessman, the Burgomaster, was six feet two inches tall, a white-haired ex-cavalry officer with a duelling scar on his forehead. He had joined the Nazi Party in 1928 when dignified upper-class members were in short supply. The Burgomaster was still an ardent Nazi but also a German of the old school. He was a calm dignified man to whom honour meant telling the truth, fighting to the death and ruthlessly rejecting all non-Aryan influence. Over half of Altgarten’s population had grown up in Catholic homes but the Burgomaster’s political creed did not extend to anti-Catholic persecution. The crucifixes in the Volkschule had, of course, been removed and destroyed and there was no longer any religious instruction but no policemen had ever been posted at the church to record the names of worshippers. As Herr Ryessman had boasted at a Party gathering in Dortmund, ‘No non-Jewish citizen who is prepared to march forward with National Socialism to victory and honour need fear injustice from me.’

      But the Burgomaster’s greatest and most popular triumph was a bureaucratic one. Just five months previously he had, by string-pulling, form-filling and judicious bargaining, saved the bells of the Liebefrau church from being melted down for armaments. The response from all sides had surprised him. In one month he had managed to find favour with Catholics, traditionalists, historians and colleagues. Oddly enough, Herr Berger – senior full-time SS officer in Altgarten – had been one of the first people to congratulate him.

      ‘Not a large affair,’ the Burgomaster explained. ‘Eighteen persons, most of them of my family.’

      ‘I understand,’ said Frenzel. ‘I will personally supervise the Herr Bürgermeister’s food and wine and service.’

      ‘A Burgundy. The same one as last year.’

      ‘I have it written down,’ said Herr Frenzel.

      ‘Who’s that with Herr Bach?’

      The Burgomaster had respect for August Bach. Not only had Bach had a distinguished career in the First World War but he was a man of good family and a serving officer of the Luftwaffe, a true German, honourable and silent. Furthermore, his cousin, Gerd Böll – although a frivolous and unconventional fellow – was one of the town’s most prosperous tradesmen. Mind you, if Bach had paid a little more attention to practical politics he could have done far better for himself than Oberleutnant’s rank. A man with the ‘Blue Max’ – the highest decoration of the first war – at his throat should be a general. What couldn’t the Burgomaster have done if he’d had that medal.

      ‘His housekeeper,’ said Frenzel without looking up, for he had already surveyed his restaurant and amended his knowledge of his fellow citizens.

      ‘He’s lunching with her?’ asked the Burgomaster.

      ‘Yes,’ said Frenzel.

      ‘How long since his wife was killed?’

      ‘Thirteen months,’ said Frenzel, who had already calculated it.

      ‘She’s a very beautiful girl,’ said the Burgomaster.

      ‘A beautiful girl,’ agreed Frenzel. ‘Her father is from Breslau: a high-ranking official of the Propaganda Ministry.’

      ‘Indeed,’ said the Burgomaster. He fingered the Party badge in his lapel.

      August Bach was seeing an Anna-Luisa that he had only suspected might exist. She laughed readily and was delighted with everything he said and did.

      ‘I’m glad to see that Herr Frenzel’s sausages also burst out of their skins,’ she said and giggled. She wasn’t used to drinking two large glasses of wine at midday. ‘They are full of bread,’ she explained, solemnly stabbing the Mettwurst.

      ‘No,’ said August. ‘It’s a secret ray the British have. A man in London flicks a switch and every sausage skin in the Ruhr splits from end to end. The great Wurstwerfer, is the British secret weapon.’

      She searched his face, for she had not yet got used to the idea that this man was capable of teasing her, then she laughed at his silliness and her own happiness. It was a nice laugh.

      ‘Kirschtorte,’ said August; ‘Frau Frenzel makes it herself.’

      ‘Yes,’ said Anna-Luisa, gazing into his eyes without hearing him.

      She was still laughing as they came out of Frenzel’s through the bar room. At the bar there were several people they knew. A group of TENO engineers waved to Anna-Luisa and she blew them a kiss.

      ‘They are friends of little Hansl’s,’ she explained. ‘Last week they took him for a ride on the heavy crane. He loved it. Everyone likes your little son, August.’

      They had walked only a few paces along the street when they heard a voice calling August’s name. Across the road there was a grey van with the name ‘Gerhard Böll’ painted on its side. Gerd himself was driving. He got out and came across the road.

      Gerd Böll had been a widower for four years. He was a cheerful little man, with long arms and large powerful hands which combined to make him look like a laughing bald gorilla. This resemblance Gerd did nothing to disguise, and after a few glasses of the schnapps which he distilled in the garage behind his grocer’s shop he would swing around lamp posts and frighten people picking their way carefully through the blackout. At least, he used to frighten passers-by in this way but by now too many local inhabitants had grown used to it. Gerd Böll’s practical jokes were often of a more complex nature that befitted a man who had once been a doctor of engineering at Leipzig University. Gerd Böil had two grocer’s shops in Altgarten and a relative managed another one in Krefeld. Each evening he reported with his van to the air-raid defence office at the Rathaus. For putting his van at the disposal of the Luftschütz he was eligible for sixty litres of petrol per month. After particularly heavy air raids upon the Ruhr cities Gerd took his van to the bombed areas to help. Sometimes at the bar he would tell hair-raising stories of the death and damage he had seen and the TENO engineers would add tales of their own.

      ‘August,’ he called. ‘I’ve been looking for you. I stopped by at the house hoping for some of that real coffee.’

      ‘What is it? We were shopping this morning.’

      ‘It can wait,’ said Gerd. ‘I didn’t know you were with Anna-Luisa.’

      ‘We are going to be married, Herr Böll,’ she said.

      August’s cousin looked so surprised that both Anna-Luisa and August laughed. ‘Is it so awful?’ Anna-Luisa asked him.

      ‘It’s wonderful news,’ said Gerd Böll.

      ‘It looks like it,’ August said.

      ‘I’m sorry,’ said Gerd.

      ‘Herr Oberleutnant,’ called a rough voice from the roadway. Parked against the kerb there was a Kübelwagen, the military version of the Volkswagen. Its camouflage was hidden under ancient mud and its equally dirty windscreen was folded flat upon the bonnet. There were dents in its side and four rusting bullet holes ran in a line above the rear wheel. The car bore SS registration plates and the rear seat was piled high with kit. In the front sat an unmistakably Russian driver and alongside him a Waffen SS officer in a very battered leather coat and dust goggles. The officer threw

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