preserved, including a pocket watch in the bedside drawer and polished boots under the bed. As well as the dead man’s clothes, the wardrobe contained items from childhood, including a Hitler Youth uniform, shirts and trousers, plus pairs of good-quality shoes, going all the way back to a size that would fit a lad of eleven or twelve.
After all Marc had been through, he’d have happily lobbed a live grenade into a truckload of Germans, but he could almost feel the dead soldier’s presence, and the idea of stealing his things unsettled him.
However, Marc’s rubber boots, tattered clothes and shaved head made him look very different from a typical German fourteen-year-old. Regular shoes and German clothes would help him fit in and he guiltily tried on a couple of pairs of shoes, seeking the best fit, before grabbing a cap, trousers a spare shirt and a couple of sets of clean underwear.
Marc would have to leave the house before the old couple got back from dancing, but a glance out of the window made him wonder about the possibilities of sleeping in the back garden, rather than setting off on another risky trek through town.
Like most lawns in Germany, this one had been dug up to grow food. Tall rows of beans and crude glass frames shielding rows of tomatoes made plenty of hiding spots. As long as Marc hid his break-in well, he saw no reason why the middle-aged couple would come back late from dancing and start rummaging around in their garden. And even if they did, Marc felt he’d have a better chance in a confrontation with them than if he got picked up by cops wandering the streets, or sleeping on a bench near the bus station.
*
Marc had fun playing fetch with the dog, but he let it carry on too long and had to rush out of the back door when the couple got home at 10:30. If spaniels could talk Marc would have been in trouble, but the couple just seemed slightly baffled by the excitable state of their dog.
‘He’s panting,’ the woman said. ‘You mad thing, it’s after your bedtime!’
Marc had already put his things outside and made a little den by spreading some cloth sacks he’d found over the damp earth between fruit bushes and the garden’s back wall. The ground was lumpy and he worried about rain, or sleeping late and missing the bus.
He’d only managed a few short naps, a stare-out competition with a ginger cat and hours of dark thoughts when the sun began rising. The garden was too dangerous in daylight and the dead soldier’s pocket watch told him it was just before six as he crept around to the alleyway at the side of the house.
He brushed mud off the clothes he’d slept in and stashed them in his barley sack as he changed into shoes, shirt and trousers stolen from the wardrobe inside. Marc heard the lady of the house stirring as he laced his shoes. His heart ran quick as he grabbed his things, jogged up a path and tried his best to silence a squealing front gate.
Marc didn’t want to arrive at the bus station early, because the more time you spend hanging around the more chance there is of someone spotting you and asking questions. But he’d badly underestimated the time he’d spent walking away from the station the night before and ended up running through dead Sunday morning streets.
The dark blue bus was half full. All but one of Marc’s fellow passengers came from a group of newly-trained soldiers returning from leave, none more than eighteen years old.
He half listened to bold claims about things they’d done to their girlfriends, along with more fearful conversations about where they’d be posted.
With room to spread out, Marc dozed off after his restless night. He was woken by a shout, and absolutely crapped himself as his blurry eyes saw the bus being stormed by an army patrol.
Two military police officers were working from the front of the bus, inspecting documents, while a third stood in the road behind. Gun poised, in case anyone tried doing a runner through the emergency exit.
Marc’s documentation was authentic. But it was for a French labourer returning home from Frankfurt on compassionate grounds, which made his presence on a bus between Mainz and Saarbrücken grounds for suspicion.
He couldn’t understand why the young soldiers looked so worried as their identity documents and leave passes were inspected. When the military police officers