by Jan Casey
‘What will we do if they ask your young man’s name?’ Annie said.
‘Look coy,’ Gerda said. ‘No girlfriend would want her fiancé to know she had been showing her intimates to other men, after all.’
They all giggled at that.
‘And when we get there?’ Ilse said. ‘Do we stick together or go our separate ways and meet up again later?’
They turned to the men; for this they wanted a consensus and it was decided they stay together. ‘Watch over each other and be ready to step in with an explanation or excuse for what might come across as your strange behaviour,’ Carl said.
So on Thursday they would spread the word in Berlin and Annie told herself she wasn’t afraid. It was the right thing to do.
*
The sights in Berlin were terrible to see, just as Frau Wilhelm had described and worse. Ilse nudged Annie’s elbow and they watched an elderly woman pick her way over the rubble in front of her building with a shopping basket on her arm. Annie ran to help her, but she turned away without a smile or a nod. At one time, people would have thanked each other for offering assistance, but now everyone regarded each other with suspicion.
Keeping up their pretence of bubbly optimism, anything important Annie, Gerda and Ilse wanted to say to each other they did so under their breath. ‘How will all of this ever be rebuilt?’ Annie whispered to Ilse.
‘I hope it never will be,’ Ilse hissed back. ‘Not as it was. That will only remind us of the dictator. And who wants that?’
They made their way through debris-strewn streets, past shells of churches and crocodile lines of women waiting for the dregs of nothing in shops. No one was dressed well or looked clean. Babies had sooty snot running down their faces and children were wearing dirty clothes that were at least two sizes two small or too large.
‘What’s that smell?’ said Gerda.
‘Which one?’ Annie answered.
‘I think it’s smoke, burning, sewage, rotten food,’ Gerda said. ‘It’s putrid.’
‘If this,’ Ilse said, ‘is the Wehrmacht winning, then I dread to think what London is like. Now, stop talking and look happy.’
As they rounded a corner towards the university, they were confronted by three SS officials who sneered and leered at them. One of them, who had a scar running from the middle of his forehead to top of his mouth, asked them to identify themselves.
‘Ilse.’
‘Annie.’
‘And Gerda.’
‘Where are you lovely girls off to?’ another officer asked.
‘Yes,’ his older companion said. ‘It cannot be more interesting than sitting in there.’ He pointed to a café. ‘And sharing a drink with us.’
Annie was petrified. They had not practised for this eventuality. She felt her face drain of colour and she hiccoughed sick into her mouth.
But Gerda held her nerve. Batting her eyelashes, she said, ‘I am spoken for by an officer and my friends are helping me to shop for my wedding requirements.’
‘Oh ho,’ the one with the scar sung out. ‘His name?’
Gerda shook her head and pointed to her chin. ‘Do you want to be hit hard right here?’ she asked. ‘Because you will be when I describe you to him.’
‘What is in your knapsacks?’ the older man said. ‘Open them for inspection.’
Gerda shrugged and began to loosen the opening enough to expose a flash of white brassiere. ‘Yes, okay. But he will be most displeased when he knows you have seen his wedding night surprise before he has. A beating will be the least of your—’
‘Go,’ the third officer said. ‘Get out of our sight.’
They linked arms, with Annie in the middle and pretended to whisper and titter amongst themselves. Annie could feel the pounding of Gerda’s heart on one side and Ilse’s racing pulse on the other. Gerda was right, Nazi men were superficial and hollow. And stupid with it; all brawn and no brain and that was probably why they were so dangerous.
They found their way to the Friedrich Wilhelm University and left leaflets where they could. In the ladies’ cloakroom, the library, the central hall, under other brochures on the reception desk, on tables in the dining hall, in the middle of books in the bookstore, under doors in the student accommodation blocks. Annie couldn’t believe they were so bold, driven by a blind passion to make themselves heard and to reach others who may be thinking along the same lines as them; they must be out there and they must find each other as there would be power in numbers.
On the way back to the station, they stopped in as many bars and coffee shops and late-night dives as possible – to think, once upon a time, Berlin was known all over the world for its night life, now this was all that was left of those glory days. Wherever possible, they left a leaflet or two under tables or in hidden corners and got rid of the last few in dark cubbyholes. All that remained in their knapsacks was their snowy white smalls.
Annie wasn’t sure if she would sleep that night as adrenaline was coursing around her body like an electric shock. Fred was so relieved when she returned safely that he hugged her to him with all his might. He listened to her recount the day and asked many questions. Then he fell asleep in a chair. Annie covered him with a blanket and hoped he slept for a few hours whilst she would try for the same in bed.
*
At the beginning of February, they had news that the German 6th Army had surrendered in Stalingrad. On her way to visit Frau Wilhelm, Annie felt as if fresh spring air was streaming into the heart of her, giving her all of those old Germanic attributes like strength and vitality and a sense of well-being. Perhaps Walther would be home any day now and it would all be over soon.
Frau Wilhelm greeted her at the door with a smile. They looked each other in the eyes and nodded. ‘Now,’ she said, ‘I have made cake.’
‘Oh, lovely,’ Annie said. ‘It’s been a long time since I’ve tasted any of that.’
‘Well, I had to substitute some ingredients, but here it is. Look.’ She held up the plate and showed off the pale, golden squares, a proud look on her face.
It was not as good as Annie had tasted before rationing, but it was more than good enough. They mentioned Stalingrad but didn’t go into details and they certainly didn’t say, in words, how happy they were with the Allied victory. But at least half a dozen times, one of them said, ‘Now Walther will be coming home.’
Later that day, she and Fred caught the train into Munich and went straight to Gustav’s rooms. The others were already assembled. ‘The sixth leaflet is ready to go,’ Carl said. ‘And it’s perfect.’
‘Good timing,’ said Helmuth. He handed a copy each to Annie and Fred. It was written entirely by Professor Frans and was so eloquent that it put their previous efforts to shame. He was as articulate and impassioned on paper as he was in the lecture theatre where students from all disciplines listened to him criticise the regime in a clever, cloaked manner. But in the leaflet, he came straight to the point. Fellow Students! The day of reckoning is upon Germany and the dead of Stalingrad are pleading with us to do something here. It was as if he was holding a personal dialogue with each and every reader. He called for German youth to rise up, as they had done in the riot and fight for their freedom. It was a literary masterpiece. Not a single edit was deemed necessary and they decided that they must copy and distribute the leaflets as soon as possible.
‘Are those the stencils?’ Ernst pointed to the corner where five small, rectangular metal templates were poking out from under a curtain. ‘How did you get them here without being seen?’
‘We made them here,’ Gustav said. ‘Klaus Weber taught me how to do it.’ He held up the stencils which spelled out Down with Hitler and Freedom and Hitler is the Devil. Annie’s stomach dropped with fear then surged with excitement. Writing graffiti on walls seemed much more dangerous than dropping leaflets, but that was what it had been decided they would do. And they were going to start the next day.
*
18 February 1943
I ca
n barely hold my pen. My hand and whole body are shaking almost uncontrollably. But I have three items to list and not in any particular order of most to least distressing; all three are equally appalling and heart-rending.
Ilse, Gustav and Carl have been arrested by the Gestapo.
Walther is dead.
I am pregnant.
11
April 1943
Pulling back the curtain a fraction, Viola looked out on the tall, lush trees in the front garden and the pink and purple tulips bobbing their heads at either end of the bench where she would sit later with Lillian. Beyond that all of London was bustling. Or at least she imagined it must be, but had no way of knowing for certain as she had been removed from everyday society and was waiting out her time in this cool, quiet convent with six other ‘fallen women’ and eight attending nuns.
The walls of her room, or cell as the nuns called it, were white. All the rooms were painted in the same stark absence of colour. The bedclothes and towels and soft furnishings were white. The staircases were white and the statues of Mary and the saints were white. Viola thought the colour scheme had been chosen specifically to remind the young women that they lacked the attributes that white traditionally symbolised – chastity, cleanliness, purity, innocence, spotlessness, restraint, virtue.
Mum had trudged around London on her own, vetting homes that Viola could be admitted to and said she had chosen this particular one because it looked so neat and clean and hygienic. Of course Viola was grateful to Mum, but she disagreed and thought her place of confinement antiseptic, impersonal and desolate – but in her position, she had no weapons with which to fight.
There was a soft knock on the door and a nun carrying a tray entered with soft, light, brisk footsteps. With a month to go, Viola was allowed several dispensations from the convent routine and breakfast in her room was one of them. Every morning Sister Marietta brought the meal in to her. Never granting a smile, she nodded to Viola and placed the white porridge, white toast and tea in a white teapot on the small white side table, made the sign of the cross and turned to leave so quickly that her veil billowed out behind her. It took all the willpower Viola possessed not to shout, ‘I’m pregnant, not infectious!’ at the disappearing figure.
The home was run with military routine and the nuns seemed to thrive on their tight schedule. Personal ablutions at six-thirty, breakfast at seven, cleaning at eight, laundry at nine, personal reflection at ten, exercise in the grounds at eleven, lunch at twelve, rest time at one, leisure time – which amounted to reading, writing letters or needlework – at two, doctor and midwife visits at three, visitors at four, tea at five, more reading at six, communal time at seven during which they listened to the news on the wireless, supper at eight, night ablutions at nine-thirty, lights out at ten. Viola had never thought of herself as rebellious or nonconformist, but she hated this rigorous timetable. It was a constant reminder that all her independence and ability to make choices and decisions had been taken from her. She was absolutely reliant now on Mum, Dad and these despotic nuns.
Viola stood, cupping her hand under her tummy to nurse some of her baby’s weight. She had decided months ago that the active, kicking, rolling, punching baby was a boy. She looked down at herself, in her uniform of pale grey skirt and white smock and could not believe how much she resembled a barrage balloon. Her legs, under the surgical stockings the doctor had ordered, were a crisscross of lumpy, aching veins. Lillian had given her a pair of men’s slippers to wear as her feet had swollen by two sizes and reminded her of pink, gristly sausages ready to burst their skins. No face creams or cosmetics were permitted either, but as mirrors weren’t allowed in the convent, Viola had no way of knowing if the bare-faced look suited her or not. Lillian had offered to bring in a pocket mirror and help Viola to take a surreptitious look at herself, but Viola was worried that what she saw reflected back would cause her greater distress than she was already experiencing.
She wore her hair, which Fred had loved and stroked so tenderly, in a clasp at the nape of her neck as the inmates could not visit the hairdresser; one wash a week with the regulation bar of coal tar soap and a perfunctory comb-through, then the clip at the back was the limit of styling allowed. On Lillian’s second visit, she had brought a pair of scissors with her and trimmed Viola’s hair in the garden, the light, bronzed, wavy spirals floating down amongst the shrubbery. Viola had been chastised by a spying nun who told her in a quiet, disappointed voice that she must not allow herself to be vain. ‘Yes, Sister,’ Viola had said. But she would have loved to explain that her pregnancy had nothing to do with ostentation or conceit and everything to do with loneliness that cut deep into the centre of her being like the set of sharp, pointed blades that Lillian had held in her hand.
Stretching backwards as far as possible, Viola kneaded and rubbed into the small of her back. Tears pooled in her eyes when she imagined the gentle touch Fred would have used to massage her sore muscles if he was here and if he was the baby’s father. Or Mum. She would have known the exact spots that needed relief. But her parents had been forced to abandon her, and Fred, when he returned, would surely renounce her, too. It didn’t matter, either, how often she told herself that her defence was the alienation wrought by the war, she had to take full responsibility for her actions.
She eased herself down onto the hard-backed chair near the small table and pulled the bowl of porridge towards her. This morning the oats were runny and fell from the spoon in a river of tiny globules. Other mornings they stuck to the spoon in a huge lump. Either way it was served, it cemented itself to her throat as she tried to gag it down. But today she was not sure she could stomach it.
She dropped the spoon back into the gluey mixture and closed her eyes. In her mind, she could hear the nuns telling her she must eat. When Mum came to visit, she said the same thing. Of course, she knew it was important for her and the baby so she reached for the toast, which was always dry despite the margarine and jam the nuns scraped across the centre of the bread; like an obedient child, she bit into the crumbly slice and white powder rained down on the plate, the table, the surface of her grey smock. I couldn’t be in more of a state if I tried, she thought, so with the help of the insipid tea she forced the rest down her throat.
Looking around, she thought the chaos she’d created was all she was good for now – making a mess of things for herself and everyone else. But dealing with the breakfast debris would be easy. At clean-up time she would borrow the carpet sweeper and run it over the floor and hey presto! All would be spotless again. If only, she thought, I could clear up the shambles of my life so effectively.
Every day she played out what had happened since she’d sealed the letter to Mum in an envelope and pushed it into the postbox. Mum had come straight to London and much to Viola’s surprise and relief, had hugged her daughter hard to her. ‘It’s alright, it’s alright,’ she said over and over again, as if she was trying to convince herself as well as Viola. ‘These things shouldn’t happen,’ she said. ‘But they do. And there but for the grace of God…’ Mum stopped short, blushed a deep crimson and turned away. Viola’s first reaction was to ask for an explanation, a womanly confidence that would help her to feel less isolated, but she couldn’t and realised she did not want to know about that part of her Mum and Dad’s life. Or maybe she didn’t want to be faced with Mum’s near-miss partner not being Dad as the little boy growing inside her did not belong to Fred.
During that visit, Lillian had reiterated that if she were in Viola’s position, she would try to abort the baby. Mum was not shocked, as Viola thought she would be, but neither did she try to persuade her either way. Like Switzerland, she remained neutral, saying she would help Viola in whatever decision she made. But Viola would not and could not be persuaded to change her mind.
‘But why, Vi?’ Lillian pleaded. ‘It’s not as if this Mike means anything to you. To carry and give birth to his baby and suffer the humiliation that entails. Well, it’s stuff and nonsense to m
e.’
Viola looked down at her hands. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said in a feeble voice. ‘But I couldn’t bring myself to do that.’
Eventually, Mum put a stop to the discussion by taking Viola’s hand in hers and saying, ‘You have made up your mind, haven’t you?’
Viola nodded.
‘Then there are other decisions that have to be made,’ Mum said. ‘You will have to go into a special confinement home and therefore, Arthur will have to be told as he will have to decide whether or not to pay for such a thing. Are you prepared for that, Vi?’
‘No,’ Viola said, the thought of the consequences making her answers sound more and more childish to her ears. She had been hoping that Mum would insist she be allowed to wait out her time at home. But that ephemeral hope was blighted when Mum said, with tears in her eyes, ‘I will pave the way with your dad as best I can and I truly believe that he will not see you destitute, Vi. Neither of us will.’
That simple statement made Viola’s eyes fill in sympathy with Mum’s. How she had let her down. ‘Do you think he will want to see me?’ Viola asked.
‘I have no way of knowing,’ Mum said. ‘He might want to talk with you face to face or he might not be able to look at you for some time. I’ll write and let you know.’
But Dad had wanted to see her and wrote himself to tell her so in no uncertain terms. Viola Victoria, his letter began in fierce black ink that almost tore through the paper, so violently had his hand pressed down on the pen.
Mum tells me you have disgraced yourself and are now in want of my assistance and indulgence. I cannot believe that you – my beautiful, intelligent, promising daughter – have got yourself into this unprecedented situation. Mum tells me it has become most common in this time of modern war, but you are not common, we are not common and, as a family, we do not lend ourselves to the histrionics and superficial displays of the age, no matter how horrific the era may be. But it would appear that you have given in to the loss of dignity that often befalls young people, in particular, during time of war, convincing yourselves that to live in the moment is justified. However, in most cases, living in the moment leads to a lifetime of living in shame and guilt.