The Baker's Secret(42)
“I tried my best to keep them dry,” Emma said, setting the umbrella down without taking the time to close it. Trembling all over, whether from fear or the chill, she took a moment to imagine herself still alive in an hour, walking home in the rain.
“I’ll be the judge of that,” the Kommandant growled, handing his gloves to Thalheim without a word, as if the captain were a side table, placed there to hold house keys or the day’s mail.
“I brought her as quickly as I could, sir,” Thalheim said.
The Kommandant made no reply, sliding two baguettes from the bag and passing them to an aide. “Distribute these,” he ordered. “The Field Marshal first, of course.”
“Sir,” the aide said, bowing.
Now, Emma thought. Now he will pay attention to his superior’s appreciation of the bread, and I will be safe.
But the Field Marshal held up a gloved hand, making the aide wait while he continued to study the equipment and defenses on the beach below, taking time to deliberate. Emma suspected he was imagining a battle down there, probing his plan for any weakness. She wanted to tell him, “Don’t worry, don’t bother. They will never come.”
The Kommandant removed two more baguettes, slid them out like swords from scabbards, half turned to give them to Thalheim for distribution, then caught himself. Emma watched his face as he calculated: two loaves to the Field Marshal, plus one now in each of his hands, plus the baguettes remaining in the canvas sack, one for each finger, poking out like the noses of ten popes.
With an expression of honest perplexity, the Kommandant looked into Emma’s rain-drenched face for the first time since she had arrived.
“Fourteen?”
Chapter 20
The Field Marshal chose just that moment to call for the Kommandant, who stared at the baguette in each of his hands as if they were grenades, then pressed them against the chest of the guard with a gruff order. The young man took the loaves with wide eyes, as if he were being chastised, while the Kommandant hurried to present himself at the Field Marshal’s elbow, announcing his arrival with a clack of boot heels.
The Field Marshal was explaining something in soft tones, his hands relaxed while he pointed here and there, as if it were a casual conversation rather than preparations for savagery. The aide with binoculars at the ready stood by his side as tense as a violin string, and another remained a single step behind, holding one of Emma’s baguettes. The Kommandant listened intently, his back taut like a drawn bow, eyes darting wherever the Field Marshal gestured, leaning closer so as not to miss a word.
“Come,” Thalheim said, speaking from the side of his mouth. “See how strong we are.”
Emma found that it took an effort to look away from the Field Marshal, wondering when he would eat her bread, and whether he would taste the straw. For the moment he continued to gesture up and down the beach.
“Don’t mind them,” Thalheim said. “They are discuss gun sighting, and the need to finish building of observation platform. Come observe, and despair.”
Emma followed him to the side of the tent nearest the bluff and the slate-gray water below. It teemed from the rainfall, a billion eyes winking. The captain lit a cigarette, then spoke in low tones, a billow of smoke appearing with his words.
“See the iron barriers, there in the shallows? They have artillery shells attached to their tips, which we removed from the armories of your defeated army. Anything that touches them will be explode. The waters conceal at present, but likewise one hundred meters past low tide, we have driven logs into the sand with mines at their tips. Also railroad ties cut in half, rough end up, to rip the hull of any craft lucky enough to miss mines. We expect few if any ships to reach shore.”
He pointed while he spoke, in unconscious imitation of the Field Marshal, continuing as coolly as if he were reciting the alphabet. Emma glanced at the Kommandant, who hovered at the Field Marshal’s elbow, nodding every few seconds. The Field Marshal noticed the aide with a baguette, which he took without interrupting his speech. Rather, he continued lecturing, but instead of using his hand to gesture, the Field Marshal pointed with the long loaf of bread. Emma found it comical, that her life was at stake and the bread was serving as a pointer.
“Down there observe a section of the Atlantic Wall,” Thalheim continued in her ear. “If anyone through miracles should survive our obstacles, the wall stops them. This barrier spans from Norway to Spain, four years of work thanks to our highest commander’s brilliant vision. Thousands of tons of concrete, hundreds of thousands of steel rods. Also we have hundreds of kilometers of trenches, thousands of kilometers of barbed wire, millions of mines strung along the coast like a necklace of pearls. This requires manpower, materials, leadership.” He squeezed one hand into a fist. “Above all else, discipline.”
He drew on his cigarette and held the smoke in. Emma realized he was waiting for a reply. “Formidable,” she said.
“Formidable? It is impenetrable.” He exhaled, pointed over one shoulder. “The invaders deserve your deepest pity. Around this command post we have build twelve strong points, armed with 88s, 74s, and mortars. Those holes in the ground with tank turrets in them, those are Tobruks, and we have dozens. We place artillery in pillboxes above the beaches, concrete two meters thick. We have made install guns at angles to the beach for flanking fire. Most important, we have soldiers who are all educate and drill in following orders. They will not improvise, or feel fear, or leave their posts. They will do precisely as told.”