The Baker's Secret(41)

“Don’t delay,” Thalheim snarled. “No one here is in good humor.”

He stormed ahead, Emma trotting to catch up. But after a moment the young guard fell into step beside her. “I speaks your language,” he said. “I only needs practice of.”

“What is this place?”

“Brilliant, no? These guns can hits a target twenty kilometers away. And their shelters can takes a direct hit from guns as big as they.”

“Don’t talk to her,” Thalheim barked. “Don’t give her any kind of information.”

“Yes, sir.”

But the captain could not help speaking himself. “You are a pathetic, weak people,” he said to Emma. “We are the greatest military power in the history of mankind, and you are insects. We can crush you at any time.”

She trudged through the wet grass, her dress heavy, the bag of bread an awkward burden with its umbrella. But the exertion warmed her, as did the annoyance of Thalheim’s blabbering. With the young guard huffing alongside, however, Emma could not see any way to shed the spare baguettes.

“Of course our leader knows the waters are narrowest between Dover and Calais,” Thalheim continued. “He built there the launching sites for our new rocket missiles, like inviting an invasion. That is how certain we are of superiorities. The one bad element is that if the Allied attack comes there, we here will miss the action. We will be deprived of the opportunity for glory.”

“There is no such thing as glory,” Emma said.

He laughed at that, one harsh bark. “Not for you people, no. But our E-boats engaged with your Allies in April, very near to here, and sank all their ships, every one. That was glory.”

Emma did not reply. The young guard with the big rifle did, though. “Glory for our navy, perhaps yes, sir, but not so much for we soldiers here on this lands.”

“If your friends attack here,” Thalheim told Emma, “it will be at high tide, when the beaches are narrow and the exposure is limited. I personally heard the Field Marshal say so.”

They were nearly across the field. Emma could see officers clustered beside a construction zone, a rain canopy over their heads. They kept their backs to the wind, and to the men laboring with shovels a few steps away.

“You people,” Thalheim continued, raising his voice against the weather, “are lazy, passive, and weak. The wine, the climate, the women.” He shook his head in dismay. “But we have the wisest commanders, the greatest discipline, the best armaments.”

“Begs to differ on that last item, sir,” the young guard said.

Thalheim pulled up short. “Excuse me?”

“This weapon I carries here, sir, for example.”

“Gewehr 41, excellent rifle. Very powerful, very accurate.”

“But heavy, sir. Almost impossible to runs with.”

“Which makes it ideal for these circumstances, defending high ground.”

Emma marveled at the debate between them, conducted in her language and therefore somehow for her benefit, though why they would care about her opinion was a mystery.

“Well, what about the single-shot bazooka I were issued at my regular post, sir?”

Thalheim nodded. “The iron fist.”

“Impossible to aim and therefore useless for guardings. From what I see in training, it is nearly suicidal to operate.”

“Nonsense. Your comments are treasonous.”

“But I’ve heard you yourself, sir, speaks of problems with using captured weapons, and our less excellent models.”

“Naturally our best matériel must go to the Eastern Front, where the enemy is stubborn and strong. Nonetheless . . .” Thalheim recommenced striding, chest out as they crossed the last of the field. “Nonetheless, I say, our weapons are finest of quality. Our leaders make no wrong decisions, provide no wrong leadership. And you. Be careful what you say. You are very disloyal.”

The three of them reached the edge of the canopied area. At the last moment Thalheim stopped, adjusted his helmet, tugged down on the ends of his sleeves, and cleared his throat. As the officers turned and cleared a path for him, Emma deduced what this moment was actually about: impressing people. Thalheim had brought her quickly in order to impress the Kommandant, who in turn had commanded Emma to bring the loaves in order to impress the Field Marshal.

That man, however, stood aside, not speaking, his trimness and stillness a form of contained menace, like a land mine. He turned to an aide, who provided a set of field glasses without the Field Marshal needing to ask. Emma recognized the aide with a surprising surge of venom: it was the officer with the pencil-thin moustache, the one who had struck her father with a club. Emma marveled that he could not feel the heat of her yearning for vengeance. He merely bowed and moved away. The Field Marshal raised the binoculars to his face and inspected up and down the coastline. Emma wondered if there was anyone whom he needed to impress.

“I have brought the bread woman,” Thalheim announced.

A murmur of approval went through the cluster of men, a space opened, and Emma stepped beneath the canopy. At once she experienced how much pleasanter life was out of the downpour.

She scanned the soldiers despite the close quarters, till her eye lit upon the Kommandant. Emma slid the canvas bag from her shoulder. Perhaps his desire to impress the Field Marshal would mean that he did not notice the extra loaves. Perhaps she would not be revealed.