The Prisoner

  He’d only managed a few short naps, a stare-out competition with a ginger cat and hours of dark thoughts when the sun began rising. The garden was too dangerous in daylight and the dead soldier’s pocket watch told him it was just before six as he crept around to the alleyway at the side of the house.

  He brushed mud off the clothes he’d slept in and stashed them in his barley sack as he changed into shoes, shirt and trousers stolen from the wardrobe inside. Marc heard the lady of the house stirring as he laced his shoes. His heart ran quick as he grabbed his things, jogged up a path and tried his best to silence a squealing front gate.

  Marc didn’t want to arrive at the bus station early, because the more time you spend hanging around the more chance there is of someone spotting you and asking questions. But he’d badly underestimated the time he’d spent walking away from the station the night before and ended up running through dead Sunday morning streets.

  The dark blue bus was half full. All but one of Marc’s fellow passengers came from a group of newly-trained soldiers returning from leave, none more than eighteen years old.

  He half listened to bold claims about things they’d done to their girlfriends, along with more fearful conversations about where they’d be posted.

  With room to spread out, Marc dozed off after his restless night. He was woken by a shout, and absolutely crapped himself as his blurry eyes saw the bus being stormed by an army patrol.

  Two military police officers were working from the front of the bus, inspecting documents, while a third stood in the road behind. Gun poised, in case anyone tried doing a runner through the emergency exit.

  Marc’s documentation was authentic. But it was for a French labourer returning home from Frankfurt on compassionate grounds, which made his presence on a bus between Mainz and Saarbrücken grounds for suspicion.

  He couldn’t understand why the young soldiers looked so worried as their identity documents and leave passes were inspected. When the military police officers got to the row in front of Marc an out-of-date document was discovered.

  ‘This counts as desertion,’ the military policeman shouted, as the youth got dragged off the bus towards a waiting army truck. ‘Deserters can be shot!’

  Marc watched nervously as the deserter was slammed against the side of the truck, frisked for weapons and then beaten down ruthlessly with a baton swipe across the back of the knees.

  ‘So,’ the military police officer said, when he reached Marc. ‘You’re a little young to be my concern just yet, eh?’

  Marc had his paperwork ready, but the officer didn’t ask for it.

  ‘Did you see any soldiers leaving this bus after they boarded?’ he asked.

  ‘I’ve been asleep some of the way, sir,’ Marc stuttered. ‘But I don’t think so.’

  The military policeman pointed at the young troops. ‘And what has this rabble been talking about, exactly? What are they up to?’

  ‘All I heard was rude things about their girlfriends,’ Marc said.

  The military policeman roared with laughter and some of the young troops even joined in. But Marc’s laughter got pricked by the next question.

  ‘Interesting accent,’ the policeman said. ‘French?’

  Marc’s tongue suddenly felt huge and he didn’t fancy admitting to being a foreigner in this company.

  ‘Germanisation,’ he said, thinking back to what Commandant Vogel had told him. ‘I was born in France, sir. But my parents died and now I’m here.’

  The officer turned to his colleague and laughed. ‘Blond hair, blue eyes. Proper little Aryan trooper, isn’t he?’

  ‘Needs feeding up,’ the colleague replied.

  Lying about Germanisation could have backfired if Marc had been asked for his documents, but he’d correctly judged that the military policeman was fixated on his hunt for deserters. The officer nodded and moved his attention to the soldiers in the rows behind.

  When the inspection was over and the bus moved off, Marc was surprised by a hand tapping his shoulder. One of the young soldiers held out the stub of a paper tube, with three boiled sweets left in the bottom.

  ‘Take ’em,’ he said. ‘Thanks for keeping your mouth shut.’

  Marc realised he’d slept through something. Exactly what it was eluded him, but it was interesting that these young troops were prepared to jump off their bus and risk being shot as deserters sooner than go east to fight Russians.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  After a four-and-a-half-hour ride, Marc worked the stiffness out of his legs on a long walk, from the bus station at Saarbrücken’s edge to the train station in the city centre.

  The town was a transport hub for cargo coming from France, and for the vast coal fields in surrounding Saarland. British bombs hadn’t stopped much cargo moving, but there was more sense of a war going on than in Frankfurt. Many windows were sandbagged or shattered and streets were scarred with bombed buildings and fire damage.

  The station also served as a border post, so it was no surprise to find tight security. The guards at the station entrance stood rigid as Marc passed unhindered on to a small passenger concourse. He sat on a wooden bench, studying the set-up.

  Trains travelling within Germany were boarded in the normal fashion, but there were special signs guiding passengers wanting to enter France to a customs post. Marc had hoped he’d be able to buy a ticket to somewhere in Germany, pass through the barriers and then sneak aboard a train travelling into France. But apparently he’d have to clear customs.

  After using the toilet, Marc strode casually towards the entrance to the customs post. From a distance he’d been pleased by the lack of a queue, but as he closed in he saw that the gates were locked.

  ‘Looking for something, son?’ an elderly station cleaner asked.

  ‘I like watching trains,’ Marc said, slurring his voice in the hope that it made him sound simple instead of French. ‘I wanted to see a French train.’

  The man opened his mouth, revealing nothing but gums as he pointed to the back of the station. ‘Best place to watch trains is up on the road bridge over the tracks. It’s quite a sight when the Frankfurt–Paris express goes through at full steam, but you won’t see it today. The border doesn’t reopen until midnight and the first passenger train runs a little while after that.’

  Marc kept up the thicko act and looked suitably crestfallen. ‘Oh …’

  It was just past two, so Marc had ten hours to kill. He reckoned his best bet was a cinema he’d passed a few hundred metres before the station.

  The screen showed a rolling programme of news, short films and a main feature which was advertised as the sensational retelling of a romantic German folk tale. After a short queue, Marc entered a room with a cavernous screen that was about four-fifths full.

  An usher fought through a haze of cigarette smoke and showed him to a seat in a quiet corner off to one side. The main feature had about twenty minutes to run, then there was a short interval before the news started.

  The lead story was an optimistic take on progress at the Russian front, with photos of advancing German troops, suspiciously clean tanks and shots of raggedy Red Army soldiers being dragged away in leg irons, where these barbarians would be re-educated in the ways of the Reich through a corrective programme of physical labour.

  The next story told how a group of Berlin Jews had been executed for forging clothing coupons, while the third and final story was a lighter piece, following the life of teenage German girls working in a munitions factory.

  The factory was even cleaner than the tanks fighting in Russia and of the many factory workers Marc had seen over the past months, these were the only ones whose uniforms showed cleavage.

  The report ended with shots of these attractive German girls playing volleyball on a beach in frilly swimming costumes, and Marc wasn’t the only teenager in the auditorium who had to fend off an erection when the lights came on and everyone had to stand for the German national anthem.

  Although the
re was always a big changeover of patrons during the intervals, the programme was continuous. There was no restriction on how long you could stay, though to avoid the place turning into a doss house there were signs warning that the management would kick out anyone who fell asleep.

  Marc fought heavy eyes as he watched the cycle of news, short films, adverts and main feature twice, then perked up when the news came on for a third time and he got to see the volleyball girls again.

  He took a good drink from the water fountain in the cinema foyer, then stepped out bracing himself for a final showdown at the customs post in the station. Seven hours in a cinema had given him more than enough time to fret about his chances.

  After a brief panic because everything looked different in the dark and he couldn’t remember which way the station was, Marc set off at a slow stroll, unaware that eight lads in Hitler Youth uniform were tailing him.

  ‘Who are you?’ a stocky lad of about thirteen demanded, as he jogged up alongside. ‘It’s a Sunday. Why aren’t you in uniform?’

  ‘I’m not from around here,’ Marc said, copying the questioner’s surly tone. ‘Not that it’s any of your business.’

  A couple of bigger lads ran ahead, blocking Marc’s path.

  ‘So you’re in Hitler Youth?’ one of them asked.

  ‘I am where I live,’ Marc said, not comfortable with the lie, but wanting to admit to being a foreigner even less.

  ‘And where’s that?’

  ‘Mainz,’ Marc replied.

  Apparently this wasn’t a good answer. The boys moved in closer and jeered. One spat on the cobbles. Marc thought his accent had given him away, but the outrage had nothing to do with his voice.

  ‘Mainz,’ the big lad spat. ‘Didn’t we beat you lot down at our last training camp?

  ‘How dare you come down here and pollute our turf, Mainz boy,’ another lad added.

  The bulky pair pinned Marc against a shop front. Up to now he’d assumed the Hitler Youth were a brotherhood who persecuted foreigners and Jews, but apparently they persecuted each other too.

  ‘Strutting around our town. How dare you!’

  ‘What’s in his bag?’ Another lad asked.

  ‘We should strip him down and piss on him,’ a kid at the back who was no older than ten suggested.

  Another boy spat in Marc’s face. ‘Dirty little gypsy.’

  ‘My dad’s waiting for me at the station,’ Marc said weakly. ‘He’ll come looking in a minute.’

  Someone tugged at the sack slung over Marc’s back, but it had his change of clothes, his travel permits and the gun inside, so it would take more than that to get hold of it.

  ‘Cheeky,’ the boy said. ‘Give us the sack before I slap you one.’

  ‘Give him a kicking, then throw him in the canal,’ the little kid with the bright ideas said.

  ‘What if he can’t swim?’ someone asked.

  ‘Is that our problem?’

  Marc wished he had one of the cook’s knives in his trouser pocket, but all that came to hand was the uncoiled spring he’d been using to pick locks. He knew he’d only get one surprise move before eight bodies overwhelmed him, so he waited until the kid moved close to spit in his face again before launching an upwards punch.

  The spring speared the base of the kid’s jaw, and on through his tongue. Blood spurted as Marc ripped the spring out. In the darkness most of the other kids thought it was a knife and backed off.

  One of the kids pinning Marc to the wall stood his ground. Marc braced against the shopfront for extra strength as he kneed him in the groin. There was now a gap and Marc made a run for it. A fist glanced his head but he broke free.

  Marc still had the bloody spring in his hand as he started running. Some of the gang stayed back to look after the kid who was bleeding, but three lads – including a big bugger who looked about fifteen – gave chase.

  Marc ran four hundred metres along a busy street. There were loads of adults out for a Sunday evening stroll, but none of them thought they were seeing anything more serious than teenagers messing about.

  By the time Marc cut into a side street, the biggest lad had mercifully dropped back and the only kid close enough to matter was the un-kneed half of the team who’d pinned him to the wall. He was fast and managed to get an arm around Marc’s neck and bundle him hard into a wall.

  ‘Mainz shit,’ the lad gasped, as he pulled a dagger from his belt and lunged at Marc’s belly. ‘I’ll kill you.’

  Marc’s mind flashed back to his training on CHERUB campus. Catching the clumsy lunge was ludicrously easy. Marc twisted the kid’s arm behind his back, making the blade drop to the cobbles. The kid still had forward momentum from the lunge and Marc used it to shove him head first into a metal gate post.

  The hollow thud was awful and Marc couldn’t help thinking that he’d cracked the kid’s skull. He was groaning horribly as Marc jogged out into a wider street, where there was a bit of moonlight.

  Marc had a splash of the stabbed kid’s blood across the entire width of his shirt. Running attracted attention, so after half a minute and a turn into another alleyway Marc dropped his pace to a brisk walk.

  The alleyway exited within sight of the station, though he’d found it more by luck than skill. Remembering the rear exit that the toothless station guard had pointed out earlier on, Marc walked a long footbridge that spanned more than twenty sets of tracks.

  When he reached the rear of the station, Marc found a tiny row of shops that looked like they’d been shuttered for years. After glancing about to make sure nobody was around, he backed into a urine-scented gap between a wall and a disused flower kiosk

  Buttons flew off as he ripped away the bloody shirt. After using it to wipe blood off his hands, he stepped out of the shorts, then opened his sack, then grabbed a clean shirt and a brown cap which he pulled down over his face.

  A couple walked by arm in arm, and Marc kept still in the shadows. When they’d passed without seeing him he sorted his backpack. There was every chance he’d be searched by customs, so he ditched the gun, the bloody spring, bloody shirt and the larger of the two cook’s knives.

  The pocket watch said it was only a quarter past eleven, but his paperwork was immaculate and he fancied his chances queuing on a station concourse better than his chances if the local Hitler Youth caught up with him on the street.

  When he reached the station, Marc was surprised to find the customs desk already open.

  The attendant waved him through. ‘Have your ticket and passport, or your travel warrant, ready when you reach the top of the stairs.’

  Marc felt queasy as he climbed two dozen wooden steps, then queued behind four other passengers in front of a wooden counter.

  The walls were decked with posters, warning about everything from not discussing secret information on busy trains, to a list of items that civilians weren’t allowed to carry into occupied territory. In the best Nazi tradition, smoking in the customs line earned up to ten years in prison, while everything else was punishable by death.

  Marc waited long enough to get seriously nervous. He was sure his description would have been sent to all French border crossings, but he had no idea how significant this was.

  Were the customs officers looking out for a few faces? A few dozen? Or thousands? Had they tracked down and distributed his photo, or were they working from a vague description like the one he’d seen in the newspaper? Did they have information about the distinctive X-shaped scar above his eye? And were they aware that he’d been able to gain access to original travel documents?

  When it was Marc’s turn, the customs officer kept staring at the lookalike photo, then up at Marc’s face. He fought off a shudder every time she frowned.

  ‘When was this photograph taken?’ she asked, in French.

  ‘About a year back. I’ve lost weight.’

  ‘You look younger too,’ the woman said suspiciously, as she tapped the warrant with the end of her pencil.

  Marc smiled
uneasily. ‘Better than getting older, I guess.’

  ‘This warrant is dated yesterday. Why have you taken so long to get here?’

  ‘I got on the wrong train,’ Marc said. ‘I ended up in Mainz.’

  ‘And why are you boarding here? Wouldn’t it have been quicker to go back through Frankfurt?’

  Marc felt doomed. The woman seemed to have it in for him.

  ‘I thought it would be better to keep moving west.’

  She rolled out her bottom lip. ‘There are no trains from Mainz to Saarbrücken on weekends.’

  ‘The lady at Mainz told me to get the early morning bus,’ Marc explained.

  ‘I guess that’s in order,’ the woman said, but still didn’t seem sure. ‘What were the grounds for your compassionate release?’

  ‘My mother died. I’ve got three little sisters who need looking after.’

  ‘That sounds like a handful,’ the woman said, her tone warming as she smiled slightly and placed a rubber stamp on the travel warrant. She then pulled out a small cardboard exit visa and wrote Marc’s false name on it before stapling it to the warrant.

  ‘This warrant entitles you to third-class travel only. Seats are on a first come first served basis, but you’re early so at least you’ll be near the front of the queue. The train should arrive at 00:25. If it’s too busy to board, the next one is at 04:30. Be sure to keep your documents ready for further inspection on the train, and when you arrive in Paris.’

  The woman slid Marc’s documents across the desk.

  ‘Is that it?’ Marc asked.

  ‘That’s it,’ the woman said. ‘Have a safe trip and I hope it all works out with your family.’

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Marc entered France squashed on a wooden bench, with a fat German bun-head jabbing him with her elbows as she click-clacked a set of knitting needles. But he was still luckier than the people forced to stand for a six-and-a-half-hour journey, which ended up taking nearer ten.