Stromness Dragon

It was snowing hard. The line of people stamped their feet and blew on their fingers as they waited for the office to open. The internment office was manned by a retired policeman who had been hoping to spend his retirement doing nothing more than growing cabbages. In the few conversations she had had with him, Olivia had gleaned that working for the Reich was not a matter of choice; he had confided in her that his daughter was hoping to get a secretarial position, and that by co-operating he would smooth the path for her. It would not do, she said, for her father to show unwilling.

Herr Brocken unlocked the iron gate and they filed in. Looking around, Olivia saw the French teacher, Pierre. He nodded at her – he was here most mornings. At the front of the queue to have her papers checked she saw Frau Weiss, an American who had married a German musician shortly before the war. Whilst he travelled Europe playing to the troops, his wife was under strict controls. America might be a neutral country, but the talk was that they would swing the Allies’ way if push came to shove.

Herr ex-Polizei looked at her papers and slid the forms under the glass for her to sign.

‘Cold today.’ It was a statement of fact, rather than a question.

‘Yes,’ she said. Then, thinking this might be her only vocal interaction of the day, she made herself speak.

‘Is the butcher’s open today, do you know?’ she said, pushing the papers back. Her voice sounded cracked and croaky.

‘Oh yes,’ he looked up, his forehead catching the orange glow of the streetlight. ‘Herr Jonathan came in last night with some good meat. You should go quick!’ His eyes flickered at the queue behind Olivia and he leaned forward, baring his yellow teeth.

‘Your friend Herr Jonathan will save the best bits for the English Fraulein, eh?’ he laughed and looked delighted at his own wit. Olivia made herself smile and left the office quickly.

Out in the street the snow was still swirling, coating the drab streets with a layer of white. There was already a queue at the butcher’s. Herr Brocken was right –there had clearly been a delivery. A tired-looking woman with yellow hair came out, clutching a seeping brown parcel. She scowled at Olivia, who lowered her gaze; she should be used to it by now – the underlying resentment towards an enemy foreign national. It would be no consolation to the woman to know that Olivia’s movements were severely restricted, and that she was obliged to report to the authorities every day. As far as the local volk were concerned, she was a snake in their midst – a snake fed and clothed at their expense, eating food that they could be giving to their children.

At the butcher’s counter she peered through the smeared glass. A plate of glistening offal seemed the freshest thing on offer. There was no indication of what animal it had once been, but Olivia swallowed hard and bought a kilo. Lowering her head against the battering wind and snow, she walked the two miles back to the convent. She pulled the iron ring and heard the bell ring deep inside the medieval walls. Sister Konstanza peered through the bars, saw who it was, and hefted the circle of keys hanging at her belt.

Olivia walked to her cell, removed her sodden coat, and took the parcel of meat to the convent kitchen. She pulled a bucket of small grey potatoes towards her and began to peel.

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