The Tunnel Read Online Free PDF Page A

bridge – the well known silhouette with its scuttle-shaped helmet and long full-skirted greatcoat. He had seen it so often in illustrations and in films that now it seemed familiar. There was only one soldier, at this end of the bridge, and after watching for some time he came to the conclusion that this must be the border. The barrier was a temporary affair and by the attitude of the peasants it seemed that the soldier was not usually there.
    He made up his mind to wait until nightfall and try to cross under cover of darkness. He studied the construction of the bridge, and decided that he would be able to climb it from the river bank and edge his way across outside the parapet. He crept back to a clump of bushes below the level of the road, and composed himself to wait.
    He must have fallen asleep, for it was nearly dark and he could hear German voices around him in the bushes. There were shouts and the sound of men beating the dead grass aside with sticks. He looked carefully out from his hiding-place and saw a long line of men in green uniforms, armed with shotguns and rifles. They were about twelve feet apart and were beating steadily towards him.
    Once again he knew the fear that he had known as a child, a fear that he had forgotten until he started flying over Germany. The rising of the stomach, the dizziness, the nausea. Then came the sudden calmness, the desire to laugh, the joy when he had overcome the fear.
    He must get out of this. He was nearly home. To get caught now would be stupid. One more effort and he would be over the border. The Germans were beating towards the river, hemming him in between themselves and the water. If he could slip quietly into the river and swim across … Cautiously he rose to his feet, tumed round, and found himself face to face with the policeman.
    He was a wizened little man in a bottle-green uniform with breeches and jackboots. Under the narrow-brimmed helmet his face was stern, his jaw set beneath a straggling grey moustache. On his hand the old-fashioned revolver, pointing uncertainly at Peter’s stomach, looked incongruously lethal. He stood, a yard between them, dangerous in the very strangeness of his unaccustomed role.
    Peter hesitated. There was only the old man between him and river, but behind him were the foresters with their guns. Slowly he raised his hands above his head.

Chapter Two
    Now that the hunt was over he could not help thinking how theatrical the whole thing seemed. He stood self-consciously with his hands above his head, while the policeman prodded him nervously in the stomach with the revolver. The foresters, guns levelled, stood in a solemn half-circle behind him. No one appeared to know what to do next. He half-lowered his hands, but a sharp jab with the revolver reminded him that, to his captors at least, he was an object of considerable menace.
    The policeman held out his left hand. ‘Papiere!’
    Peter did not understand.
    ‘Papiere!’ the policeman repeated, and impatiently rubbed his thumb and forefingers together.
    ‘I have no papers,’ Peter said.
    ‘Papiere, Papiere!’ The policeman was getting angry. Peter lowered his arms, this time with the policeman’s consent, and made the motions of tearing paper and throwing away the pieces.
    ‘Jude!’ The policeman spat the word, his old face screwed into an expression of distaste.
    Yuda, thought Peter, what the hell’s Yuda? … Jude! Christ, he thinks I’m a Jew. ‘Nicht Jude!’ he said and shook his head.
    The policeman seemed to be forcing himself into some kind of rage. He scowled again. ‘Roosevelt Jude.’
    ‘Roosevelt nicht Jude,’ Peter said.
    ‘Churchill Jude.’
    Peter looked around at the foresters. He was tired and he did not feel up to a political argument. He did not feel up to any sort of argument. Racial hatred had always frightened him. He was frightened now that they might take him for Jew and shoot him out of hand.
    ‘Churchill nicht Jude,’ he said.
    The