El Alamein, Jack Murray [best autobiographies to read .txt] 📗

her eyes. News of the battles had gradually filtered through.

‘I suppose no news is good news,’ said Kate.

Sarah nodded, unable to speak. The two women looked at one another for a moment and then they heard a man’s voice just behind.

‘Hello, Lady Sarah,’ said Stan Shaw. ‘I thought it was you.’

Stan Shaw was tall and rangy, with grey-flecked black hair and haunted eyes. He smiled at Sarah, but she could sense the fear within him.

‘Hello, Mr Shaw,’ replied Sarah. ‘I was just hearing about Tom and Danny. I sent them, and the other boys from the village, letters. It’s not much, I know. But they are all in our thoughts.’

Kate smiled at Sarah. It seemed conspiratorial, not that Stan would have noticed. Then Kate saw Sarah take something out of her saddle bag.

‘What’s that? A camera?’ asked Kate.

Sarah’s grin lit up her face as she showed off her new Eastman Kodak Ektra camera.

‘Father Christmas was very generous this year,’ replied Sarah with a wink. ‘I thought that it would be nice if I could take a photograph of you both to send to Tom and Danny.’

Kate smiled and responded, ‘I’m not sure he’d not prefer a photograph of someone else, Lady Sarah.’

Sarah pretended not to hear but the reddening face told Kate that the message had been received. Then she started to organise the Shaws. It took four photographs and a large amount of good-natured abuse directed at Stan’s inability to smile before Sarah was happy that she had a good shot.

‘I think I’ve just seen Father Christmas,’ said Kate, motioning with her eyes towards a point over Sarah’s shoulder.

Sarah turned and saw her father, Lord Henry Cavendish. He was with another man at the centre of the village. They were standing by a monument to the fallen from the Great War. When Henry saw his daughter, he waved. He touched the arm of the man he was with. They both started to walk towards Sarah and the Shaw’s.

‘Good afternoon, I’d like to introduce you to Stan and Kate Shaw. Their boys Tom and Danny are over in North Africa.’

‘How do you do?’ said the man holding out his hand.

Stan’s eyes widened in shock. The accent was not what he’d been expecting. The man before him was German. There was a moment of hesitation from Stan. Henry quickly realised that explanations were necessary.

‘This is Max Kahn. He’s a refugee from the Nazis. How long have you been working for me now Max? Five, six years?’

Understanding broke like a wave over Stan Shaw and he held out his hand.

‘I’ve heard terrible rumours about what the Nazis were up to, Mr Kahn. Are they true?’

Kahn’s face changed immediately. He nodded and replied, ‘Sadly, the rumours probably don’t come close to telling the full truth, Mr Shaw. Jewish people have been sent to camps. Imprisoned without trial. I have many friends who’ve lost everything. Britain must defeat this man. He is evil.’

‘We shall,’ said Henry. ‘With the Americans in the war now, Germany can’t win.’

The talk of the war cast a pall over the group. Recognising the awkwardness of the moment Kate changed the subject.

‘We’ve just had our photographs taken.’

Henry laughed but there was more than a tinge of fatherly pride when he replied, ‘Yes, Sarah’s photographing anything that moves. The dogs are hiding in fear at the moment.’

The group laughed and Stan felt relaxed enough to speak to a German, perhaps for the first time in his life.

‘Where are you from, Mr Kahn?’

‘A small town near Heidelberg. Ladenburg.’

-

Geschäft Ladenburg, read the sign over the shop. It was late afternoon. The sky was gradually darkening and there was a bite in the air. Peter Brehme made his way past a group of soldiers chatting by a fountain and into the grocery shop. The shop was empty save for a middle-aged man and his Labrador.

‘Hello, Otto,’ said Peter, bending down to give the dog a pat on the head. ‘Hello to you too, Felix.’

Felix jumped up and put his paws on Brehme’s thighs, tail wagging furiously. Otto Becker smiled nervously at the police chief and told Felix to get down. Brehme could see there was some anxiety in Manfred’s old primary school teacher’s eyes. Perhaps it was his police uniform. People instinctively were on their guard these days. Brehme felt sad about this but recognised this was a sign of these times.

‘How is Agatha?’

‘Very well, Herr Brehme. Have you heard from Manfred?

Brehme tried to smile but the effort proved too much. His face slipped into the neutral mask that it wore most every hour of the day. He was neither happy nor sad now. The despair of losing his wife, Renata, had transformed into a detachment that he tried to veil behind a smile or a joke. It rarely worked. Every day was the same now. The work he hated was an escape from the loneliness he felt. He was caught between two worlds, neither of which he liked. His friends had stopped calling. This was a relief. He had little purpose now. A glance out of the window to a street full of soldiers told him he was redundant. He didn’t care. Crime had been legalised, murder industrialised, and it had a black uniform. One such man, clad in black, came into the shop behind Brehme.

Just at that moment, Arnold Weber, the shop manager appeared from the back of the shop. He held up a bag.

‘Here you are, Otto. I knew I had some sardines in the back,’ said Weber. He was a big man and widely liked in the town. He grinned at Brehme and said, ‘Your usual?’

‘Yes thanks,’ replied Brehme. The big shop keeper took down a several packs of cigarettes and handed them to the policeman. Brehme paid for the cigarettes, nodded to Weber and followed Otto Becker out of the shop. The little man, he noticed, was carrying two very large bags.

‘Otto, wait,’ called Brehme. ‘You seem to be feeding the five thousand. Let me take one of those.’

There