Chapter Seven
Sam woke with a start, his mouth rasping dry and his cheeks wet with tears.
He wiped them away with his sleeve. The taunting images of Tubs’s death refused to fade back into the land of nightmares.
During the day he had difficulty recalling the sequence of events that had led to Tubs’s failing health and death, yet in his dreams each painful detail returned in vivid colour — the smell of unwashed bodies and open wounds, the taste of a mouth lacking water or food, the feel of Tubs’s weight as his body sagged in his arms, the whisper of his surrender and the crack of the bullet as it sliced through the air.
And each time Sam woke from those devilish reminders he was left with a stomach churning with grief and guilt.
He lifted the leg of his trouser to check on his wound.
He had fallen into a gully and out of the guards’ view when he’d been shot.
It had been a lucky twist of fate that the bullet that should have killed him had no more than kissed his leg.
Although it had left a deep graze that later became infected, ultimately it had saved his life.
But that was what war was — unpredictable.
It left one living on the edge. It was a game where medals were awarded but success depended just as much on good luck as it did on planning and execution.
He gently folded down the material, glad to see that the wound had almost healed.
The initial minor infection had soon become rampant and his body, weak from malnutrition, had struggled to fight it.
If someone had told him his saviour would appear in the form of a German farmer taking pity on him, he would not have believed them.
Yet that was what had happened. How pitiful he must have looked when the farmer came upon him, desperately attempting to scavenge for rotting vegetable peelings in his pigs’ trough, barely having the strength to hold himself over the rim of the rusty metal container.
He looked around the barn that had become his temporary home.
The goats were peacefully drinking from their trough as the cat leisurely groomed himself as if he had all the time in the world.
He noticed that the pitchfork had moved.
His gaze skirted along the wall and found it lying beside a sleeping woman with a young child cradled close to her body.
He stared, open-mouthed. Had his fever and delirium returned?
Several minutes later they were both still there, the rise and fall of their sleeping chests barely visible.
The peace and simplicity they represented made it almost impossible to drag his eyes away.
He had not realized how hungry he was for the sight of something less rough and dirty than the men he had been with.
Apart from the farmer, he had not been in the close presence of civilians since 1940.
Since his capture he had been in the company of men, and to be presented with such a vision of femininity and innocence was mesmerizing, reminding him that tenderness and softness still existed and stirring feelings that he had thought had long since died.
The woman was slim, too slim, perhaps, and looked pale.
It seemed that the war had taken its toll on everyone, one way or another.
Her hair was fair, sleek to her head but ending with soft natural curls at her jawline.
She reminded him of someone, but he could not recall who.
Her dress was just visible through the shapeless winter coat and was high-buttoned and virtuous.
He had a glimpse of her shapely calf. Her small feet were encased in sensible, sturdy walking shoes.
She wore nothing to attract him, not like the stylish Frenchwomen or sweet English girls at home — even Moira dressed better than this, yet he found the sight of her utterly absorbing.
The child was equally so, although in a different way.
Her hair was dark with soft curls, her body slim and curled up for warmth, and her gloved hands were small miniatures of those that were wrapped around her.
How selfish power-hungry warmongers were!
They thought nothing of destroying the innocence and joy of childhood.
His gaze wandered back to the woman. She was pretty.
He mentally shook himself at his fallibility.
The woman must be German. To find a German attractive was as good as fraternizing with the enemy, and from what he had heard, a soldier could be fined ￡16 for doing so.
Unless she proved him wrong, like the farmer who had given him food, clothes and shelter, he would do well to remember that people like her had supported Hitler and had much to unlearn and atone for.
Yet she had fallen asleep in his company and not reported him, as he had not been arrested. Perhaps this was her way of atonement?
He tilted his head and once again found himself staring at her face and the soft lips that had yet to move.
He ran a hand through his hair and wondered what he must look and smell like.
The last time he had bathed was more than three weeks ago in a river full of silt and weeds.
He lifted his jumper and sniffed his body tentatively.
It could have been worse, but perhaps one got used to one’s own odour after a while.
He raised his gaze and met a pair of deep blue eyes that called up childhood memories of living by the sea — or at least they did until she reached for the pitchfork.
The woman sprang to her haunches with the pitchfork in her hands.
Sam raised his open palms in a sign of non-aggression.
She ignored him and stood to gain more height and advantage.
The child, awakened by the moment, slowly sat up, watching her warily, which disconcerted him.
Why was the child more afraid of her mother than a stranger?
He had a lot of questions, but unfortunately his German did not stretch further than the orders barked by his guards.
The child’s watchful gaze turned on him: it seemed to him that she had seen violence and felt terror and knew it was better to stay silent, to watch and to wait.
He decided to do the same. The stand-off stretched to less than a minute before the farmer unknowingly interrupted their battle of schoolyard stubbornness and chose that moment to arrive with food and drink.
If anything could put things into perspective, it was the appearance of food.
Heinrich paused to look at the raised prongs, set the food on the ground between them and quietly berated the woman in German.
The woman listened, argued a little, then threw Sam an angry glare.
Finally, she reluctantly lowered the pitchfork and sat back down on the straw in what he could only describe as a huff.
The farmer rolled his eyes and left, leaving them alone to stare at the food.
Sam’s stomach felt hollow and he was tempted to grab all that he could.
However, manners drilled into him by a loving mother and overzealous father ensured that he indicated she and the child should go first. The woman’s blue eyes narrowed suspiciously.
He impatiently mimed eating. If it wasn’t bad enough to wait for a German to eat first, it was another to have her still questioning his character when he was being so polite.
She reached for the bread and carefully tore it in three, a smaller piece for the child, and two larger ones, although one still managed to be a little larger than the other.
They exchanged glances as she compared the two larger ones, knowing every morsel was much needed if they were both to survive.
She jutted out her chin and defiantly gave him the smaller of the two.
His heart sank, but he took it without complaint.
Now it was his turn to share out the three apples.
One was spotted with disease, the other two were not.
He lifted one brow in revenge, gave the finest one to the child and the spotted one to her.
He thought it was the end of it, but then she proceeded to tear a little off her bread and offered it to him so their share could be equal.
He had not expected this generosity. He looked at her hand and then up at her, confused.
‘If I had given you the larger piece,’ she explained in near perfect English, ‘you would have kept it all.’ She took his hand roughly and slammed the bread into his hand. He wanted to deny it, but how could he when he had a perfect apple and she did not?
‘Thank you,’ he replied, surprised how much the experience of hearing his own language again had thickened his voice. He wanted to hear it again. ‘You speak good English.’
As if knowing how much it had meant to him, she moved away from him and encouraged the child to do the same.
They ate in silence and at one point she gave him a cursory glance, perhaps to check he was still in the same place.
He looked down at his larger piece of bread and began to eat too.
It seemed there was more to this German woman than he had first thought.