pittance a carpenter earned in Germany in the 1920s, hampered all the time by his gas-damaged lungs. He had died three years before of TB, a death made yet more horrible than it might have been by those weakened lungs. It had been left to Krebbs to support his younger sister and their mother. Well, fortunately, he had been up to the challenge and now they could feel proud to have a son in Schutzstaffel. And he had reason for pride in himself: already he had seen more action than many senior officers. First, he had taken part in the subjugation of Poland with Germany’s Russian allies who, though they might not be trustworthy in other ways, were at least sound where the Poles were concerned; secondly, he had then had the good fortune to take part in the invasion of France and had seen real fighting during the advance to Dunkirk. The French and British would have good cause to remember the SS Totenkopf – Death’s Head – division. A pity many of the enemy had escaped across the sea, though gratifying numbers had not.
Thinking of this inevitably reminded him of that other business that had happened at the same time, the massacre of the English prisoners at the farm near Le Paradis. It was not his fault, not his doing, but the memory of those sprawling bodies heaped behind the barn was sawdust in his mouth, spoiling the taste of everything he recalled from that period. Not that his other memories were the luxuriating sort he liked to pick over and chew in quiet moments, though there was nothing to be ashamed of in them, either. Most vivid was the afternoon trapped in that bitter, hot little gully with the lead company, thirsty, exhausted, sweating in their uniforms, the screams of the wounded mingling with the shouted commands, the thumps and shocks of mortars and shells, the hateful whine of shrapnel, the spiteful whipcracks of bullets, the stink of cordite and shit. This was all too vivid if he let himself dwell on it, as was his own confusion and fear when he realised they were trapped. There was the first numbing shock of not knowing what to do next, no orders, no procedure to follow, no way forward, no way back. Then there was the sight of troopers from another company fleeing in panic, and the sickening certainty that something had gone suddenly, horribly, irreversibly wrong. Everything in life had made sense until that dry, unexpected afternoon; things had followed on one to another, everything seemed to be leading somewhere until now, incredibly, it was as if it were all about to end in that ridiculous little gully. It was unreasonable, absurd. It could not, surely, end in this squalid, insignificant bit of turf, fit only for sheep to die in, not for him. Yet while it seemed it might, he had been reduced to a waking trance, aware of everything but incapable of anything. Along with his soldiers, he had simply lain there, numbed and paralysed, until the breakout, made by troops to their right, when all had been well again. Except, afterwards, for those English prisoners.
Krebbs was lifted from these memories by the sight of a young woman – a maidservant to judge by her dress and apron – who had come round from the back of the house and was walking down the drive towards them. His soldiers had noticed her and were already making remarks. For him there had been neither time nor opportunity for girls since Renate in Munich. The Polish girls were pretty – those Slavic cheekbones – but full of hate and fear. In France he had seen hardly any, his unit having fought its way through woods and fields while others had the less arduous task of relieving towns and villages that were quickly surrendered, like Paris itself. He had heard, though, that the French girls were more available than the Polish. As for these Dutch, it was early days – he had yet to get near enough one to speak – but there had been that encouraging vision in the orchard, a tall blonde beauty carrying a basket who had stood her ground and stared as the soldiers in the back of the lorry whistled and waved.
He glanced at himself in the full-length mirror he had had fitted to the wall around the corner from the guardroom door so that the guards could check that they were always properly turned-out. Briefly, surreptitiously, he approved his own reflection: his field grey uniform was smart despite campaigning, his boots respectable, his chiselled features clear and fit-looking. Since the invasion of Poland the Führer himself had adopted the grey tunic of the Waffen SS, which was essentially the Wehrmacht uniform but with the eagle and swastika prominent on its left sleeve. The collar of Krebbs’s tunic, however, bore not only his rank insignia but his Totenkopf divisional symbol, the silently eloquent Death’s Head. He could never see it, on himself or anyone else, without a tremor of pride. Death to the enemy, unsparing unto death of oneself; this was what it meant to be in the Waffen SS, the Führer’s Praetorian guard, the shock troops of first and last resort. With luck, there would be time for a run later that afternoon. It was paradoxical that war, for which you trained so hard, should make it difficult to maintain an acceptable fitness routine.
The girl, meanwhile – no tall blonde beauty – nevertheless looked trim and shapely enough as she approached. He would talk to her himself, even though she were only a servant. She might have useful intelligence on the Kaiser’s attitudes and on how things were in the household which he could report back to Colonel Kaltzbrunner. Also, she might know when the Dutch major could be expected to return from lunch. He remained anxious about that.
He walked unhurriedly up the gravel path towards the maid, his hands clasped behind his back, staring as a policeman might stare at a citizen he was about to challenge. At first she looked straight back at him but as they closed she lowered her eyes. He approved the clean smartness of her apron and dress, the smoothness of her dark hair, parted in the middle of her submissively bowed head and neatly gathered into a tight bun. He imagined her letting it slowly down while seated at a candle-lit dressing table.
She dispersed his fantasy by looking up, her grey eyes betraying neither nervousness nor any hint of flirtation. Her eyebrows were dark and even, her lips and teeth regular, her skin smooth and slightly tanned. She was older than him, he guessed; late twenties, perhaps even thirty. He had to resist the impulse to click heels and bow, as one did to ladies, since she was only a servant and his soldiers would mock him among themselves.
‘Herr Offizier,’ she said, before he could address her. ‘His Royal Highness and Princess Hermine hope you will be free to join them for dinner this evening.’
His Royal Highness was Highness no longer and should be addressed merely as Prince Wilhelm, as he had been before he succeeded to the throne. The briefing had been strict on that. Clearly, things were different in the household, but Krebbs let it pass. He should not accept this invitation without permission, he thought, as he looked at her.
‘Please thank them for the invitation and say I am pleased to accept.’ There was time to seek permission and if he had to turn them down, well, so be it. The thing now was to keep her talking. ‘If you have a moment, Fräulein, there are some questions I must ask.’ He turned off the path and began walking slowly towards the moat, at a slight angle to the house and away from the gatehouse. The short grass had dried off and he could feel the sun on his uniformed shoulders. It was a bright, cheerful day, with blue sky and puffy white clouds. As he had hoped, she fell in alongside him. ‘My questions concern the attitudes of Prince Wilhelm and Princess Hermine and those of their German staff towards the Third Reich in Germany, and also their attitudes concerning the occupation of The Netherlands. Also, whether they have had any contact with enemy powers or with powers sympathetic to the enemy.’
‘I am new to His Highness’s staff, Herr Offizier, and I have no intimate knowledge of Their Highnesses’ attitudes, nor of the attitudes of the Germans who are here with them. My position is a junior one.’
Her voice was quiet and low, which he liked, and her German flawless, her diction almost too precise. He liked that, too. ‘You are Dutch?’
‘Yes, from Friesland. Fries is my first language.’
‘Has Prince Wilhelm ever, in your hearing, said anything about Herr Hitler, or the Nazi Party or the Third Reich?’
‘Here in Huis Doorn Their Highnesses keep what is called Doorn Law, according to which it is not permitted to discuss the new German government.’
‘What does he say about England?’
She was looking straight ahead at the narrow bridge across the moat, to the side of the house. There were ducks and water lilies. ‘He says that England has always caused him trouble because his mother was English and because many German people thought he was too much in favour of the English and because it is well known that Queen Victoria died in his arms. But the English did not trust