The Tunnel Read Online Free PDF Page B

small private room, with its stiff ancestral photographs and lace curtains, trying to appear at ease. The policeman was explaining something to him in German, but he did not even begin to understand what it was all about. At times one or other of the foresters would say something to him, apparently speaking a dialect because he could not pick out a single familiar word. The policeman had a notebook in which he had so far written nothing but the date.
    When the naval officer arrived they all stood up. He was young and his face was tanned by the weather. As he held out his hand to Peter he made it an act of friendliness. ‘My name is Friedrichs,’ he said. ‘I have come because I speak English.’
    ‘How d’you do.’ Peter shook his hand.
    ‘The policeman would like some information from you.’
    There was a common disregard for the non-fighting services in his manner.
    ‘I would prefer to wait until I am in a prison camp.’
    The officer smiled. ‘You are right,’ he said. ‘I would have said the same in your place.’ He spoke to the policeman in German.
    The policeman looked disappointed. He fingered the notebook, and said something emphatically in the same language.
    ‘He wants your name and details for his report,’ the officer explained. He took out a cigarette case and handed Peter a cigarette. ‘I am here unofficially. I live here in the village. If there is anything I can do for you …’
    ‘Where shall I be taken?’ Peter asked.
    The officer spoke again to the policeman. ‘An escort is on its way to fetch you. You will be taken to a prison camp, probably Frankfurt.’ He smiled. ‘It is not too bad. You are alive at least.’
    Peter did not answer.
    The officer emptied his cigarette case. ‘I will leave you these. You need not tell the policeman anything.’ He looked suddenly young and shy. ‘Good luck. It is all the fortune of war. You were only a few kilometres from the Dutch border.’
    Peter’s barriers were nearly down, the dammed-up words of days of loneliness were waiting to be released to this man who spoke to him in English. But he held himself in check. They stood for a moment in silence, awkwardly, before the German, after shaking hands again, saluted and left the room.
    When he had gone a girl brought sandwiches of black bread and a cup of ersatz coffee. She was young and dark, and when she put them on the table in front of Peter she smiled.
    ‘Essen,’ the policeman said, and pointed to his mouth.
    Peter handed the sandwiches round the table but the foresters would not eat them, urging him to go ahead. They left him alone at one end of the table while they engaged in low-voiced discussion at the other end.
    He tried to eat, but could not swallow. He tried to drink the coffee but it was too hot. Once he started eating, the sandwiches vanished quickly and when he had finished he drank the coffee, feeling its bitter warmth restore his spirits. He lit one of the naval officer’s cigarettes and wondered how long his escort would be.
    Apparently the policeman and the foresters had reached a decision for, rising to their feet, they made signs for him to accompany them to the bar. They made him sit on a chair in the middle of the room, and opened the door to allow in a long queue of curious villagers. At first he was irritated by this, but the policeman’s pride was so naive that he could not be angry. He supposed that he was the first Englishman they had seen; so he sat there, patient but embarrassed, hoping that the naval officer would return and rescue him.
    After the last civilian had left, the policeman made Peter remove his flying boots which he took and placed behind the bar. The foresters then drew chairs around the central stove and invited their prisoner to drink. Schnapps was poured from a large wicker-covered bottle behind the bar. They drank schnapps and beer, and one of the foresters smoked a pipe. Peter had a pipe in his pocket and the forester gave him some tobacco. It