22
‘YOU-COME-BACK-at-six-thirty,’ Terry almost shouted at the German corporal who had escorted them from the camp to the commandant’s quarters.
The blank look on the corporal’s face left Giles in little doubt that he was never going to make sergeant.
‘Come-back-at-six-thirty,’ repeated Terry, enunciating each word slowly. He grabbed the corporal’s wrist and pointed to the six on his watch. Giles only wished he could say to the corporal, in his own language, ‘If you return at six-thirty, corporal, there’ll be a crate of beer for you and your friends in the guard house.’ But he knew that if he did, he would be arrested and be spending New Year’s Eve in solitary confinement.
Terry once again pointed to the corporal’s watch, and imitated a man drinking. This time the corporal smiled and mimicked the same action.
‘I think he’s finally got the message,’ said Giles as they made their way into the commandant’s quarters.
‘We still have to make sure he picks the beer up before the first officer arrives. So we’d better get a move on.’
‘Yes, sir,’ said Terry as he headed off in the direction of the kitchen. Natural order restored.
Giles went to the cloakroom, removed the waiter’s uniform from its peg and changed into the white shirt, black tie, black trousers and white linen jacket. He spotted a pair of black leather gloves on the bench that an officer must have left behind on some previous occasion, and tucked them into his pocket thinking they might prove useful later. He closed the cloakroom door and made his way to the dining room. Three waitresses from the town – including Greta, the only one he’d ever been tempted to flirt with, but he knew Jenkins wouldn’t have approved – were laying a table for sixteen.
He checked his watch: 6.12 p.m. He left the dining room and went downstairs to the wine cellar. A single bulb lit a room that had once stored filing cabinets full of archives. Since Giles’s arrival, they had been replaced by wine racks.
Giles had already decided he would need at least three cases of wine for the dinner that night, as well as a crate of beer for the thirsty corporal and his comrades in the guard house. He studied the racks carefully before selecting a couple of bottles of sherry, a dozen bottles of Italian pinot grigio, two cases of French burgundy and a crate of German beer. Just as he was leaving, his eyes settled on three bottles of Johnnie Walker Red Label, two bottles of Russian vodka, half a dozen bottles of Rémy Martin and a flagon of vintage port. Giles felt that a visitor might be forgiven for not being sure who was at war with whom.
For the next fifteen minutes he lugged the cases of wine and beer up the stairs, constantly stopping to check his watch, and at 6.29 he opened the back door to find the German corporal jumping up and down and slapping his sides in an effort to keep warm. Giles raised the palms of both hands to indicate that he should stay put for a moment. He then moved swiftly back down the corridor – Jenkins never ran – picked up the crate of beer, returned and handed it to him.
Greta, who was clearly running late, watched the handover and grinned at Giles. He returned her smile, before she disappeared into the dining room.
‘The guard house,’ said Giles firmly, pointing towards the outer perimeter. The corporal nodded, and headed off in the right direction. Terry had asked Giles earlier if he should smuggle some food from the kitchen for the corporal and his friends in the guard house.
‘Certainly not,’ Giles had replied firmly. ‘We want them drinking all night on an empty stomach.’
Giles closed the door and returned to the dining room, where the waitresses had almost finished laying the table.
He uncorked the dozen bottles of merlot, but only placed four on the sideboard, discreetly hiding the other eight underneath it. He didn’t need Müller to work out what he was up to. He also put a bottle of whisky and two of sherry at one end of the sideboard, before lining up, like soldiers on parade, a dozen tumblers and half a dozen sherry glasses. Everything was in place.
Giles was polishing a tumbler when Colonel Schabacker walked in. The commandant checked the table, made one or two adjustments to the seating plan, then turned his attention to the array of bottles on the sideboard. Giles wondered if he might comment, but he simply smiled and said, ‘I’m expecting the guests to arrive around seven-thirty, and I have told the chef we will sit down for dinner at eight.’
Giles could only hope that in a few hours’ time, his German would prove as fluent as Colonel Schabacker’s English.
The next person to enter the dining room was a young lieutenant who had recently joined the officers’ mess and was attending his first commandant’s dinner. Giles noticed him eyeing the whisky and stepped forward to serve him, pouring him half a glass. He then handed the commandant his usual sherry.
The second officer to make an appearance was Captain Henkel, the camp’s adjutant. Giles handed him his usual glass of vodka, and spent the next thirty minutes serving each new guest, always having their favourite tipple to hand.
By the time the guests sat down for dinner, several empty bottles had been replaced by the reserves Giles had secreted under the sideboard.
Moments later waitresses appeared carrying plates of borscht, while the commandant sampled the white wine.
‘Italian,’ said Giles, showing him the label.
‘Excellent,’ he murmured.
Giles then filled every glass except that of Major Müller, who continued to sip his water.
Some of the guests drank more quickly than others, which kept Giles moving around the table, always making sure that no one had an empty glass. Once the soup bowls had been whisked away, Giles melted into the background because Terry had warned him what would happen next. With a flourish, the double doors opened and the chef entered carrying a large boar’s head on a silver salver. The waitresses followed and placed dishes of vegetables and potatoes, along with jugs of thick gravy, in the centre of the table.
As the chef began to carve, Colonel Schabacker sampled the burgundy, which caused another smile to appear on his face. Giles returned to the task of topping up any half-empty glasses, with one exception. He’d noticed that the young lieutenant hadn’t spoken for some time, so he left his glass untouched. One or two of the other officers were beginning to slur their words, and he needed them to stay awake until at least midnight.
The chef returned later to serve second helpings, and Giles obliged when Colonel Schabacker demanded that everyone’s glasses should be replenished. By the time Terry made his first appearance to remove what was left of the boar’s head, Major Müller was the only officer still sober.
A few minutes later, the chef made a third entrance, this time carrying a black forest gateau, which he placed on the table in front of the commandant. The host plunged a knife into the cake several times, and the waitresses distributed generous portions to each of the guests. Giles continued topping up their glasses, until he was down to the last bottle.
As the waitresses cleared the dessert plates, Giles removed the wine glasses from the table, replacing them with brandy balloons and port glasses.
‘Gentlemen,’ announced Colonel Schabacker just after eleven, ‘please charge your glasses, as I would like to propose a toast.’ He rose from his place, held his glass high in the air and said, ‘The Fatherland!’
Fifteen officers rose at various speeds, and repeated, ‘The Fatherland!’ Müller glanced towards Giles, and tapped his glass to indicate that he would require something for the toast.
‘Not wine, you idiot,’ said Müller. ‘I want some brandy.’ Giles smiled, and filled his glass with burgundy.
Müller had failed to trap him.
Loud, convivial chatter continued as Giles carried a humidor around the table and invited the guests to select a cigar. The young lieutenant was now resting his head on the table, and Giles thought he detected a snore.
When the commandant rose a second time, to drink the health of the Führer, Giles poured Müller some more red wine. He raised his glass, clicked his heels together and gave a Nazi salute. A toast to Frederick the Great followed, and this time Giles made sure Müller’s glass had been topped up long before he rose.
At five minutes to midnight, Giles checked that every glass was full. When the clock on the wall began to chime, fifteen officers cried almost in unison, 10, 9, 8, 7, 6, 5, 4, 3, 2, 1, and then broke into ‘Deutschland, Deutschland über alles’, slapping each other on the back as they welcomed in the New Year.
It was some time before they resumed their places. The commandant remained standing and tapped his glass with a spoon. Everyone fell silent in anticipation of his annual speech.
He began by thanking his colleagues for their loyalty and dedication during a difficult year. He then spoke for some time about the destiny of the Fatherland. Giles remembered that Schabacker had been the local mayor before he took over as commandant of the camp. He ended by declaring that he hoped the right side would have won the war by this time next year. Giles wanted to scream, Hear, Hear! in any language, but Müller swung round to see if the colonel’s words had evoked any reaction. Giles stared blankly ahead, as if he hadn’t understood a word. He had passed another of Müller’s tests.