He found himself praying, absurdly, that the Germans would not see him at all, that he would simply pass through the checkpoint invisibly. But they turned and watched him approach, and it took everything he had to keep walking.
He thought, My God, this is real. These are real Germans. I can’t do this. He had a mad desire to burst out laughing, to confess, to be forgiven, to be allowed home. Then he remembered that he had no home, and, strangely, the thought gave him a little strength.
“Your papers, please.”
It was the younger one, facing him at the gap in the wire. Dart looked down and saw his left hand move to his coat pocket as if someone were pulling it on a string. The hand emerged, holding the little booklet. The German took it. To Dart it seemed that the booklet had the word FAKE stamped all over it, but the sentry didn’t seem to notice. He turned the pages slowly, twice. He looked at the photograph and then at Dart and then at the photograph again. He lifted his steel head.
“Dr. Lubbers? Ernst Lubbers?”
“Yes.”
The young German had pale grey eyes. Dart made himself imagine what they saw: a dark-haired, narrow-faced man wearing a slightly shabby overcoat with a red cross armband on the left sleeve. A man carrying a leather medical bag with a false bottom concealing a gun. An agent. A spy.
“I don’t think we have seen you before, Dr. Lubbers.”
Dart heard words come out of his mouth. “Probably not. I was transferred here recently.” His hand went out and turned the pages of the booklet. “You see? The authorization from the Department of Internal Security.”
It was a flimsy piece of paper forged in England. Obviously. The German flipped the booklet shut. Dart held out his hand to take it back, but the young man turned away and went to confer with his older colleague. They spoke together, looking at the identity papers. They both looked again at Dart. The young German soldier returned to the barrier.
“What is the purpose of your journey?”
Dart gazed at the man. “I have a number of patients to visit,” he managed to say. Remembering, he made a show of looking at his watch. “Now, if everything is in order, I —”
“The names and addresses of these patients, please.”
“I . . . Well, I . . .” Dart attempted to make his stutter sound indignant. “Really, I do not think that it’s any of your . . .”
Then Dart realized that the German’s gaze had shifted. Something behind Dart had taken his attention, and he jerked his head in a signal to the other soldier. Dart turned to see Trixie shoving the bicycle up to the checkpoint. She looked hot and bothered. She had opened her coat so that the sentries could see her breasts tipping forward inside the threadbare summer dress. Rosa was crying. The expression on Trixie’s face was apologetic, as if she were late for an appointment with the Germans and was relieved to see them still waiting. The thin sentry shouldered his rifle and shoved past Dart, grinning. Dart had to attract the attention of the younger German.
“Er . . . My papers? Is everything in order?”
The man barely looked at him. “You may go.”
Dart squeezed through the now unguarded gap in the barrier. From the darkness under the gate he looked back briefly. The two Germans were crowding in on Trixie, who was smiling and shaking her head. Dart turned away. The icy film on his body had turned to sweat. He walked as steadily as he could into the town. The last thing he heard was Trixie’s laughter.
The square was almost deserted when Dart entered it. One or two women and girls hurried across, perhaps to take their places in the hopeless queue outside the bakery on De Kooning Street. He saw the Marionette House immediately, at the forefront of a wedge of ancient brick houses backing up towards the church. Its sign, crackled gold lettering on a dark green board, spanned most of the narrow front wall.
Dart pushed open the shop door and set jangling a
He thought, My God, this is real. These are real Germans. I can’t do this. He had a mad desire to burst out laughing, to confess, to be forgiven, to be allowed home. Then he remembered that he had no home, and, strangely, the thought gave him a little strength.
“Your papers, please.”
It was the younger one, facing him at the gap in the wire. Dart looked down and saw his left hand move to his coat pocket as if someone were pulling it on a string. The hand emerged, holding the little booklet. The German took it. To Dart it seemed that the booklet had the word FAKE stamped all over it, but the sentry didn’t seem to notice. He turned the pages slowly, twice. He looked at the photograph and then at Dart and then at the photograph again. He lifted his steel head.
“Dr. Lubbers? Ernst Lubbers?”
“Yes.”
The young German had pale grey eyes. Dart made himself imagine what they saw: a dark-haired, narrow-faced man wearing a slightly shabby overcoat with a red cross armband on the left sleeve. A man carrying a leather medical bag with a false bottom concealing a gun. An agent. A spy.
“I don’t think we have seen you before, Dr. Lubbers.”
Dart heard words come out of his mouth. “Probably not. I was transferred here recently.” His hand went out and turned the pages of the booklet. “You see? The authorization from the Department of Internal Security.”
It was a flimsy piece of paper forged in England. Obviously. The German flipped the booklet shut. Dart held out his hand to take it back, but the young man turned away and went to confer with his older colleague. They spoke together, looking at the identity papers. They both looked again at Dart. The young German soldier returned to the barrier.
“What is the purpose of your journey?”
Dart gazed at the man. “I have a number of patients to visit,” he managed to say. Remembering, he made a show of looking at his watch. “Now, if everything is in order, I —”
“The names and addresses of these patients, please.”
“I . . . Well, I . . .” Dart attempted to make his stutter sound indignant. “Really, I do not think that it’s any of your . . .”
Then Dart realized that the German’s gaze had shifted. Something behind Dart had taken his attention, and he jerked his head in a signal to the other soldier. Dart turned to see Trixie shoving the bicycle up to the checkpoint. She looked hot and bothered. She had opened her coat so that the sentries could see her breasts tipping forward inside the threadbare summer dress. Rosa was crying. The expression on Trixie’s face was apologetic, as if she were late for an appointment with the Germans and was relieved to see them still waiting. The thin sentry shouldered his rifle and shoved past Dart, grinning. Dart had to attract the attention of the younger German.
“Er . . . My papers? Is everything in order?”
The man barely looked at him. “You may go.”
Dart squeezed through the now unguarded gap in the barrier. From the darkness under the gate he looked back briefly. The two Germans were crowding in on Trixie, who was smiling and shaking her head. Dart turned away. The icy film on his body had turned to sweat. He walked as steadily as he could into the town. The last thing he heard was Trixie’s laughter.
The square was almost deserted when Dart entered it. One or two women and girls hurried across, perhaps to take their places in the hopeless queue outside the bakery on De Kooning Street. He saw the Marionette House immediately, at the forefront of a wedge of ancient brick houses backing up towards the church. Its sign, crackled gold lettering on a dark green board, spanned most of the narrow front wall.
Dart pushed open the shop door and set jangling a
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