and his lips were more brown than red too. “Until June I was a teacher in your country.”
“You were?” I was flabbergasted. “Where?”
“Stratford-upon-Avon. Shakespeare is very popular in Germany— he translates very well. Falstaff called Prince Henry ‘Hal,’ right, in Shakespeare?”
I nodded. “It’s what my family call me.”
“Hal it is then.” He continued, “I was on an exchange scheme—I taught German in Stratford and my exchange partner taught English in Göttingen, where I work. I was born in Mannheim but I grew up in Göttingen—that’s an old, very beautiful university town, like your Cambridge. Where did you learn German?”
I told him about my years in Berlin and Munich.
“Did you ever go to the Paris bar?” he asked.
“On Kantstrasse? But of course. Never before two o’clock in the morning, though.”
He laughed again. “I know what you mean. Is there anywhere like that in London?”
“I don’t know,” I replied. “I worked in London just before the war started, but only for a few weeks. I know Berlin and Munich better than I know my own capital city. And I did a Goethe course in Weimar.”
“Well, what’s Munich like? I’ve never been.”
“If you’re a bohemian it couldn’t be better. There are more painters, more playwrights, more musicians, more cabaret performers than anywhere I’ve ever been. To think I may have killed a few, over the past few weeks and months…” I trailed off. “It doesn’t bear thinking about. Did you like Stratford?”
He nodded. “The river is very beautiful. Smaller than rivers in Germany, but so many swans. They can be quite aggressive, swans, especially if you get too close to their young. And there are cricket games by the river—such a lovely idea for everyone to dress in white.” He smiled. “As Shakespeare has always been popular in Germany, so Stratford is popular too. You know it?”
I shook my head. “No. I’ve never been. I’m ashamed to say that you are probably more familiar with Shakespeare than I am.”
“What a pair we are,” he said, grinning again. “You’re English and know more about Goethe than I do, and I’m German and know more about Shakespeare. Maybe we should swap places?”
Dare I say it but I liked him. I certainly liked him a good deal more than many of the officers of our own side that I had encountered in Flanders, not all of whom one would want to spend time with back in London.
Nevertheless, I thought it right to bring the conversation around to the business of the bodies. We agreed that we would spend the rest of the day on this task, each side burying its own, and not interfering with the other. We also agreed that we would each repair, as best we could, our own barbed wire, if time allowed. Wilhelm—I think of him as Wilhelm—then asked if the truce should be extended to the following day. I said I couldn’t guarantee it, and added that I thought he couldn’t guarantee it either. Both sets of top brass were vehemently against fraternization, he and I were disobeying orders as it was, and if word came down later that day from further up the chain of command, both of us would have no choice but to obey. He agreed, but we told each other that we would wait out the night, enjoy our Christmas dinners, and take the morning as it came. I then added that we British would not be the first to fire, unless explicitly instructed to do so by superior officers, and that so far as I was concerned the truce would last until midnight British time the following evening.
He accepted that, and agreed.
We knew the men would take their lead from us, so we prepared to part, to set about the supervising of the burial parties. Just before he turned away, however, he said, “Are you married, Hal? Do you have children?”
“No, twice over. Not married, no children.”
“Engaged maybe?”
“No.”
“I am.” He reached into another of his tunic pockets and took from it a photograph. He handed it to me. It was a portrait of a very beautiful blond woman—a girl really. Clear skin, wavy hair but swept back and held in place by an Alice band. A shy smile of someone who hadn’t quite discovered yet what effect she had on men.
“You’re lucky,” I said. “She’s very beautiful. What’s her name?”
“Sam.”
“Short for Samantha?”
“Oh, no. Her real name is Sally. Sally … Ann … Margaret Ross, so she’s always been called after her initials—S.A.M.”