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  ‘When she died… I was already pregnant again when that happened, Doctor. This new one was a good four months on its way when Ida died. “I don’t want it!” I shouted after the funeral. “I won’t have it! I have buried enough children!” And my husband… he was strolling among the guests with a big glass of beer in his hand… he turned around quickly and said, “I have news for you, Klara, I have good news.” Can you imagine that, Doctor? We have just buried our third child and he stands there with a glass of beer in his hand and tells me that he has good news. “Today I have been posted to Braunau,” he says, “so you can start packing at once. This will be a new start for you, Klara,” he says. “It will be a new place and you can have a new doctor…” ’

  ‘Please don’t talk any more.’

  ‘You are the new doctor, aren’t you, Doctor?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘And here we are in Braunau.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I am frightened, Doctor.’

  ‘Try not to be frightened.’

  ‘What chance can the fourth one have now?’

  ‘You must stop thinking like that.’

  ‘I can’t help it. I am certain there is something inherited that causes my children to die in this way. There must be.’

  ‘That is nonsense.’

  ‘Do you know what my husband said to me when Otto was born, Doctor? He came into the room and he looked into the cradle where Otto was lying and he said, “Why do all my children have to be so small and weak?” ’

  ‘I am sure he didn’t say that.’

  ‘He put his head right into Otto’s cradle as though he were examining a tiny insect and he said, “All I am saying is why can’t they be better specimens? That’s all I am saying.” And three days after that, Otto was dead. We baptized him quickly on the third day and he died the same evening. And then Gustav died. And then Ida died. All of them died, Doctor… and suddenly the whole house was empty…’

  ‘Don’t think about it now.’

  ‘Is this one so very small?’

  ‘He is a normal child.’

  ‘But small?’

  ‘He is a little small, perhaps. But the small ones are often a lot tougher than the big ones. Just imagine, Frau Hitler, this time next year he will be almost learning how to walk. Isn’t that a lovely thought?’

  She didn’t answer this.

  ‘And two years from now he will probably be talking his head off and driving you crazy with his chatter. Have you settled on a name for him yet?’

  ‘A name?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I don’t know. I’m not sure. I think my husband said that if it was a boy we were going to call him Adolfus.’

  ‘That means he would be called Adolf.’

  ‘Yes. My husband likes Adolf because it has a certain similarity to Alois. My husband is called Alois.’

  ‘Excellent.’

  ‘Oh no!’ she cried, starting up suddenly from the pillow. That’s the same question they asked me when Otto was born! It means he is going to die! You are going to baptize him at once!’

  ‘Now, now,’ the doctor said, taking her gently by the shoulders. ‘You are quite wrong. I promise you you are wrong. I was simply being an inquisitive old man, that is all. I love talking about names. I think Adolphus is a particularly fine name. It is one of my favourites. And look – here he comes now.’

  The innkeeper’s wife, carrying the baby high up on her enormous bosom, came sailing across the room towards the bed. ‘Here is the little beauty!’ she cried, beaming. ‘Would you like to hold him, my dear? Shall I put him beside you?’

  ‘Is he well wrapped?’ the doctor asked. ‘It is extremely cold in here.’

  ‘Certainly he is well wrapped’

  The baby was tightly swaddled in a white woollen shawl, and only the tiny pink head protruded. The innkeeper’s wife placed him gently on the bed beside the mother. ‘There you are,’ she said. ‘Now you can lie there and look at him to your heart’s content.’

  ‘I think you will like him,’ the doctor said, smiling. ‘He is a fine little baby.’

  ‘He has the most lovely hands!’ the innkeeper’s wife exclaimed. ‘Such long delicate fingers!’

  The mother didn’t move. She didn’t even turn her head to look.

  ‘Go on!’ cried the innkeeper’s wife. ‘He won’t bite you!’

  ‘I am frightened to look. I don’t dare to believe that I have another baby and that he is all right.’

  ‘Don’t be so stupid.’

  Slowly, the mother turned her head and looked at the small, incredibly serene face that lay on the pillow beside her.

  ‘Is this my baby?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Oh… oh… but he is beautiful.’

  The doctor turned away and went over to the table and began putting his things into his bag. The mother lay on the bed gazing at the child and smiling and touching him and making little noises of pleasure. ‘Hello, Adolfus,’ she whispered. ‘Hello, my little Adolf…’

  ‘Ssshh!’ said the inkeeper’s wife. ‘Listen! I think your husband is coming.’

  The doctor walked over to the door and opened it and looked out into the corridor.

  ‘Herr Hitler!’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Come in, please.’

  A small man in a dark-green uniform stepped softly into the room and looked around him.

  ‘Congratulations,’ the doctor said. ‘You have a son.’

  The man had a pair of enormous whiskers meticulously groomed after the manner of the Emperor Franz Josef, and he smelled strongly of beer. ‘A son?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘How is he?’

  ‘He is fine. So is your wife.’

  ‘Good.’ The father turned and walked with a curious little prancing stride over to the bed where his wife was lying. ‘Well, Klara,’ he said, smiling through his whiskers. ‘How did it go?’ He bent down to take a look at the baby. Then he bent lower. In a series of quick jerky movements, he bent lower and lower until his face was only about twelve inches from the baby’s head. The wife lay sideways on the pillow, staring up at him with a kind of supplicating look.

  ‘He has the most marvellous pair of lungs,’ the innkeeper’s wife announced. ‘You should have heard him screaming just after he came into this world.’

  ‘But my God, Klara…’

  ‘What is it, dear?’

  ‘This one is even smaller than Otto was!’

  The doctor took a couple of quick paces forward. ‘There is nothing wrong with that child,’ he said.

  Slowly, the husband straightened up and turned away from the bed and looked at the doctor. He seemed bewildered and stricken. ‘It’s no good lying, Doctor,’ he said. ‘I know what it means. It’s going to be the same all over again.’

  ‘Now you listen to me,’ the doctor said.

  ‘But do you know what happened to the others, Doctor?’

  ‘You must forget about the others, Herr Hitler. Give this one a chance.’

  ‘But so small and weak!’

  ‘My dear sir, he has only just been born.’

  ‘Even so…’

  ‘What are you trying to do?’ cried the innkeeper’s wife. ‘Talk him into his grave?’

  ‘That’s enough!’ the doctor said sharply.

  The mother was weeping now. Great sobs were shaking her body.

  The doctor walked over to the husband and put a hand on his shoulder. ‘Be good to her,’ he whispered. ‘Please. It is very important.’ Then he squeezed the husband’s shoulder hard and began pushing him forward surreptitiously to the edge of the bed. The husband hesitated. The doctor squeezed harder, signalling him urgently through fingers and thumb. At last, reluctantly, the husband bent down and kissed his wife lightly on the cheek.

  ‘All right, Klara,’ he said. ‘Now stop crying.’

  ‘I have prayed so hard that he will live, Alois.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Every
day for months I have gone to the church and begged on my knees that this one will be allowed to live.’

  ‘Yes, Klara, I know.’

  ‘Three dead children is all that I can stand, don’t you realize that?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘He must live, Alois. He must, he must… Oh God, be merciful unto him now…’

  The Hitch-hiker

  I had a new car. It was an exciting toy, a big B.M.W. 3·3 Li, which means 3·3 litre, long wheelbase, fuel injection. It had a top speed of 129 m.p.h. and terrific acceleration. The body was pale blue. The seats inside were darker blue and they were made of leather, genuine soft leather of the finest quality. The windows were electrically operated and so was the sun-roof. The radio aerial popped up when I switched on the radio, and disappeared when I switched it off. The powerful engine growled and grunted impatiently at slow speeds, but at sixty miles an hour the growling stopped and the motor began to purr with pleasure.

  I was driving up to London by myself. It was a lovely June day. They were haymaking in the fields and there were buttercups along both sides of the road. I was whispering along at seventy miles an hour, leaning back comfortably in my seat, with no more than a couple of fingers resting lightly on the wheel to keep her steady. Ahead of me I saw a man thumbing a lift. I touched the footbrake and brought the car to a stop beside him. I always stopped for hitch-hikers. I knew just how it used to feel to be standing on the side of a country road watching the cars go by. I hated the drivers for pretending they didn’t see me, especially the ones in big cars with three empty seats. The large expensive cars seldom stopped. It was always the smaller ones that offered you a lift, or the old rusty ones, or the ones that were already crammed full of children and the driver would say, ‘I think we can squeeze in one more.’

  The hitch-hiker poked his head through the open window and said, ‘Going to London, guv’nor?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Jump in.’

  He got in and I drove on.

  He was a small ratty-faced man with grey teeth. His eyes were dark and quick and clever, like a rat’s eyes, and his ears were slightly pointed at the top. He had a cloth cap on his head and he was wearing a greyish-coloured jacket with enormous pockets. The grey jacket, together with the quick eyes and the pointed ears, made him look more than anything like some sort of a huge human rat.

  ‘What part of London are you headed for?’ I asked him.

  ‘I’m goin’ right through London and out the other side,’ he said. ‘I’m goin’ to Epsom, for the races. It’s Derby Day today.’

  ‘So it is,’ I said. ‘I wish I were going with you. I love betting on horses.’

  ‘I never bet on horses,’ he said. ‘I don’t even watch ’em run. That’s a stupid silly business.’

  ‘Then why do you go?’ I asked.

  He didn’t seem to like that question. His little ratty face went absolutely blank and he sat there staring straight ahead at the road, saying nothing.

  ‘I expect you help to work the betting machines or something like that,’ I said.

  ‘That’s even sillier,’ he answered. ‘There’s no fun working them lousy machines and selling tickets to mugs. Any fool could do that.’

  There was a long silence. I decided not to question him any more. I remembered how irritated I used to get in my hitchhiking days when drivers kept asking me questions. Where are you going? Why are you going there? What’s your job? Are you married? Do you have a girl-friend? What’s her name? How old are you? And so on and so forth. I used to hate it.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘It’s none of my business what you do. The trouble is, I’m a writer, and most writers are terrible nosey parkers.’

  ‘You write books?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Writin’ books is okay,’ he said. ‘It’s what I call a skilled trade. I’m in a skilled trade too. The folks I despise is them that spend all their lives doin’ crummy old routine jobs with no skill in ’em at all. You see what I mean?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘The secret of life,’ he said, ‘is to become very very good at somethin’ that’s very very ’ard to do.’

  ‘Like you,’ I said.

  ‘Exactly. You and me both.’

  ‘What makes you think that I’m any good at my job?’ I asked. ‘There’s an awful lot of bad writers around.’

  ‘You wouldn’t be drivin’ about in a car like this if you weren’t no good at it,’ he answered. ‘It must’ve cost a tidy packet, this little job.’

  ‘It wasn’t cheap.’

  ‘What can she do flat out?’ he asked.

  ‘One hundred and twenty-nine miles an hour,’ I told him.

  ‘I’ll bet she won’t do it.’

  ‘I’ll bet she will.’

  ‘All car makers is liars,’ he said. ‘You can buy any car you like and it’ll never do what the makers say it will in the ads.’

  ‘This one will.’

  ‘Open ’er up then and prove it,’ he said. ‘Go on, guv’nor, open ’er right up and let’s see what she’ll do.’

  There is a roundabout at Chalfont St Peter and immediately beyond it there’s a long straight section of dual carriageway. We came out of the roundabout on to the carriageway and I pressed my foot down on the accelerator. The big car leaped forward as though she’d been stung. In ten seconds or so, we were doing ninety.

  ‘Lovely!’ he cried. ‘Beautiful! Keep goin’!’

  I had the accelerator jammed right down against the floor and I held it there.

  ‘One hundred!’ he shouted… ‘A hundred and five!… A hundred and ten!… A hundred and fifteen! Go on! Don’t slack off!’

  I was in the outside lane and we flashed past several cars as though they were standing still – a green Mini, a big cream-coloured Citroën, a white Land-Rover, a huge truck with a container on the back, an orange-coloured Volkswagen Minibus…

  ‘A hundred and twenty!’ my passenger shouted, jumping up and down. ‘Go on! Go on! Get ’er up to one-two-nine!’

  At that moment, I heard the scream of a police siren. It was so loud it seemed to be right inside the car, and then a policeman on a motor-cycle loomed up alongside us on the inside lane and went past us and raised a hand for us to stop.

  ‘Oh, my sainted aunt!’ I said. ‘That’s torn it!’

  The policeman must have been doing about a hundred and thirty when he passed us, and he took plenty of time slowing down. Finally, he pulled into the side of the road and I pulled in behind him. ‘I didn’t know police motor-cycles could go as fast as that,’ I said rather lamely.

  ‘That one can,’ my passenger said. ‘It’s the same make as yours. It’s a B.M.W. R90S. Fastest bike on the road. That’s what they’re usin’ nowadays.’

  The policeman got off his motor-cycle and leaned the machine sideways on to its prop stand. Then he took off his gloves and placed them carefully on the seat. He was in no hurry now. He had us where he wanted us and he knew it.

  ‘This is real trouble,’ I said. ‘I don’t like it one bit.’

  ‘Don’t talk to ’im any more than is necessary, you understand,’ my companion said. ‘Just sit tight and keep mum.’

  Like an executioner approaching his victim, the policeman came strolling slowly towards us. He was a big meaty man with a belly, and his blue breeches were skintight around his enormous thighs. His goggles were pulled up on to the helmet, showing a smouldering red face with wide cheeks.

  We sat there like guilty schoolboys, waiting for him to arrive.

  ‘Watch out for this man,’ my passenger whispered. ‘’Ee looks mean as the devil.’

  The policeman came round to my open window and placed one meaty hand on the sill. ‘What’s the hurry?’ he said.

  ‘No hurry, officer,’ I answered.

  ‘Perhaps there’s a woman in the back having a baby and you’re rushing her to hospital? Is that it?’

  ‘No, officer.’

  ‘Or perhaps your house is on f
ire and you’re dashing home to rescue the family from upstairs?’ His voice was dangerously soft and mocking.

  ‘My house isn’t on fire, officer.’

  ‘In that case,’ he said, ‘you’ve got yourself into a nasty mess, haven’t you? Do you know what the speed limit is in this country?’

  ‘Seventy,’ I said.

  ‘And do you mind telling me exactly what speed you were doing just now?’

  I shrugged and didn’t say anything.

  When he spoke next, he raised his voice so loud that I jumped. ‘One hundred and twenty miles per hour!’ he barked. ‘That’s fifty miles an hour over the limit!’

  He turned his head and spat out a big gob of spit. It landed on the wing of my car and started sliding down over my beautiful blue paint. Then he turned back again and stared hard at my passenger. ‘And who are you?’ he asked sharply.

  ‘He’s a hitch-hiker,’ I said. ‘I’m giving him a lift.’

  ‘I didn’t ask you,’ he said. ‘I asked him.’

  ‘’Ave I done somethin’ wrong?’ my passenger asked. His voice was as soft and oily as haircream.

  ‘That’s more than likely,’ the policeman answered. ‘Anyway, you’re a witness. I’ll deal with you in a minute. Driving-licence,’ he snapped, holding out his hand.

  I gave him my driving-licence.

  He unbuttoned the left-hand breast-pocket of his tunic and brought out the dreaded books of tickets. Carefully, he copied the name and address from my licence. Then he gave it back to me. He strolled round to the front of the car and read the number from the number-plate and wrote that down as well. He filled in the date, the time and the details of my offence. Then he tore out the top copy of the ticket. But before handing it to me, he checked that all the information had come through clearly on his own carbon copy. Finally, he replaced the book in his tunic pocket and fastened the button.

  ‘Now you,’ he said to my passenger, and he walked around to the other side of the car. From the other breast-pocket he produced a small black notebook. ‘Name?’ he snapped.

  ‘Michael Fish,’ my passenger said.