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possible to believe that the life he had known while growing up was not a mirage but a substantial and continuing thing; that it was the camp that was the chimera.
    Working his way to the edge of the wooden bunk, his face away from Trembath’s feet, Geoffrey began to hope that some divine intervention might come to their assistance. A Pole called Tomasz, who spoke a little English, told him that most of the prisoners candidly prayed for a miracle and that many of them had come to believe that one day the pine forests would part and that a shining chariot would sweep through, pluck them up and bear them all to safety in a place above the clouds.
    The God of the Church of England was a vague and biddable person in Geoffrey’s mind, not one that he had ever been encouraged to imagine closely. If Jesus was his son and Jesus was a Jew did that mean that God was also Jewish? He knew this speculation was childish, but his idea of religion was based entirely on the exemplary lives of Jews, including Christ, and it was difficult to think of God and religion in the framework of any other people. The questions of divinity and incarnation or of a life beyond this one were all posed in Hebrew; the odd meeting of universal and particular had found a pure expression in the black smoke from the chimney.
    ‘For God’s sake, Talbot. Are you afraid of something?’ said Trembath. ‘I’m not going to put up with much more of this. It’s my duty as a British—’
    ‘I know. But this is not a prisoner-of-war camp. The guidelines for officers don’t apply here. I want to escape, too, but we need help. We need organisation.’
    ‘You’re like that bloody Roman general we had to read about at school. The Delayer. Cunctator. The chap who was always putting off the action. What was his name?’
    ‘Can’t remember. I think he was victorious in the end, though,’ said Geoffrey.
    ‘I don’t want to stay any longer in this place.’ Trembath had raised his voice and Geoffrey placed a restraining hand on his arm. ‘I tell you, Talbot, I’d rather be killed outright than murdered on the quiet. Stuffed into a gas room with the Jews and the “nancy boys”.’
    Trembath’s face was so close to Geoffrey’s that he could feel his breath on his cheek.
    ‘Even though I am one,’ said Trembath.
    Geoffrey was not sure that, despite their proximity, he had heard properly. ‘What did you say?’
    ‘I said, “Even though I am one.” A nancy boy, I mean. Not a Jew. A queer.’
    There was a silence while Geoffrey tried to digest what he had heard. He thought at first that Trembath must be joking, but soon saw there could be no reason for such an odd jest. Eventually he said, ‘I didn’t know.’
    ‘I didn’t tell. It’s not something you go round shouting about. I wasn’t always sure myself. Then something happened. There was a young corporal at Colchester. He seemed to have got my number. He was a very knowing young man. I used to sneak out and meet him every night. He made me see I’d always been like that, really.’
    ‘God.’
    ‘I won’t tell you any more. I can tell you’re embarrassed. But I couldn’t see much point in keeping it to myself.’
    ‘None at all. I’m … glad you told me.’
    They were sitting in their bunk while many of the other prisoners had gathered round to hear Tomasz tell them a story. He could keep a hundred of them entertained with folk stories, legends or the entire plots of books his memory had stored. Geoffrey began to wonder if he ought to contribute something from his own education; he could pass it on to Tomasz to translate. His night-time discipline of forcing his mind into a better world now took the shape of trying to remember the various novels he had read. It was shocking how little had stayed with him.
Moby-Dick
, for instance: a sailor bent on killing a white whale that had bitten off his leg. Little else came back to him. Or
Jane Eyre
. A poor and ill-treated governess who eventually