Women at War

by Jan Casey

  Here at least, she could feed the baby without having to pander to convention. She unbuttoned her blouse, rearranged her vest and pulled Freddie close. The only sounds were the snuffles of the baby as she settled to the serious business of feeding. Then there was a soft knock at the door, followed by a subdued, ‘Yoo-hoo.’ Mrs Barfoot’s soft voice, rather more solemn than yesterday. ‘May I come in, Vi?’ She peered around the door.

  ‘Of course,’ Viola said, grabbing a woollen blanket and placing it over her chest.

  Mrs Barfoot’s jolly face had been transformed by a look of concern. Deep lines pulled her mouth down rather than up; the twinkling brown eyes were clouded. Instead of a white apron, she wore a dark skirt and cardigan. ‘Vi, hen,’ she said, as if they’d known each other for years. ‘I fear I’m bringing you bad news.’

  Sitting as close to Viola as she could without disturbing Freddie, she held out a telegram bordered in black. Viola’s hand clamped her mouth, but not hard enough to stifle the strangulated sob that seemed to come from a place she’d never needed to delve into before.

  14

  October 1943

  From Annie’s first pain to the moment her beautiful baby boy Walther greeted the world was a matter of two and a half hours. And he gave her no trouble, waking only when he needed to be fed and changed and waiting with utmost patience if it took her a few moments to get to him. Frau Wilhelm had not stopped telling her how lucky she was.

  As a consequence of the short labour, she had been in shock for a day or two but other than that, no ill effects for either mother or baby. In fact, she had so much energy that lying-in proved to be a frustrating experience. On a number of occasions she tried to get out of bed, tiptoe across the bedroom and set about doing something – folding napkins, changing linen in the crib, opening a window, rearranging flowers in a vase – anything to occupy her restless limbs. But Frau Wilhelm would burst into the room, order her back to bed, take over whatever chore she was attempting and make her feel like an insubordinate schoolgirl. ‘Please, Annie,’ she would say, one hand on her hip, the other pointing to the bed. ‘Do as you’re told.’

  And Annie would turn, shuffle towards the bed and allow herself to be hoisted back in between the sheets. Then, more often than not, Frau Wilhelm would lift Walther from his crib, place him in her arms and tell her that all she should be doing for six weeks was feeding and cuddling her baby. They’d spent so much time staring at each other that it would be reasonable to think she’d had her fill of him. But she held the baby at every opportunity and studied him with a fascination that seemed to intensify with each day she had been his Mutti.

  As soon as Walther had been born, Frau Wilhelm sent a telegram to the forwarding address they had for Fred, telling him that he had become an uncle and Annie was well. There had been no reply, so Herr Doctor thought he had probably been posted to Italy where the Germans had occupied Rome, rescued Mussolini and allowed the dictator to re-establish a Fascist government. They boasted about this in the papers and on the radio like small, swaggering boys bombast about cuffing each other on the way home from school.

  A few days later, sitting up in bed, Annie had written him a long letter describing his nephew in detail.

  We call the dear little boy Walti, which stops us from having to ask each other whether we are talking about Big Walther or Little Walther. He looks so like his Vati that it takes my breath away. His tiny ears are flat against his head, which is covered in the most abundant amount of dark hair that spikes in every direction. And do you remember the little line that ran between Walther’s nostrils? His son has inherited that feature but his eyes are a hazy blue, which is the colour Frau Wilhelm tells me all babies are born with, so they will probably change to the same pale hazel as Big Walther’s in time.

  She had felt happy, but at that point in her letter a tear had plopped onto the paper and sent diluted ink running through the words. She could have started again, but they must not waste paper and why shouldn’t Fred know she had cried? She didn’t doubt that he shed tears, too, even if he had to swallow them down and not allow them to manifest themselves where others could see the evidence of all his sadnesses.

  So, she’d explained that her tears were for him, whose introduction to his nephew was delayed until a future unknown date. And for Walther who would never get to meet his son. But more than that, she cried for the baby, who had been deprived of both of those strong, handsome, wonderful men who should, by this time, be a significant part of his life.

  She had written about how kind and attentive both Herr Doctor and Frau Wilhelm had been to her since he left and how much she appreciated and loved them. Yes, it was true. She did love them, not as her own parents, but as outstanding replacements. They could not do enough for her or the baby and she knew she would do whatever she could for them.

  Luckily, the midwife was in Ulm when the baby started because if Herr Doctor had to drive to another town and collect her, she would probably have been too late. He stayed downstairs and the way he walked up and down, backwards and forwards, reminded me of your pacing, Fred, when you had a problem to think about. Which was often. Frau Wilhelm stayed with me and I was worried that her presence would be overpowering, but she did whatever the midwife asked of her – nothing more and nothing less. Most of the time, she stood next to me and pressed my hand, telling me how strong and brave I was. And she did not attempt to have the first cuddle, but she did look at her grandson with longing in her eyes when he was wrapped and given straight to me. She busied herself then, helping the midwife to clear up, but I held the baby out to her after a few minutes and watched as she wrapped her arms around him as if she was holding a precious, fragile treasure. Herr Doctor was called upstairs to join us and he, too, admired the baby, with a visible lump in his throat.

  But there was always a but in life, she told Fred. And as her six weeks of confinement went on, Frau Wilhelm remained helpful and attentive but she had become more of a clucking hen. Apart from not letting Annie leave her bed, she organised everything – cooking, cleaning, sewing, burping Walti, changing him and shopping which she’d designated to a friend’s little girl so she would not have to leave the house. Watching and listening to her from the bedroom made Annie feel tense.

  But Annie had at last, after much discussion, persuaded Frau Wilhelm to go into Munich to see her sister who was recovering from a stomach complaint. It would have been more beneficial if she had gone earlier, but she insisted on waiting until her sister was somewhat better as she didn’t want to bring illness back to them. She was the epitome of thoughtfulness. So, how could it be that Annie was weak with relief and excitement to see someone so kind and caring turn her back on the house, walk down the path and leave her alone with the baby for eight or perhaps ten joyful, carefree hours? She was ashamed to say that when she waved for the last time and disappeared around the corner, Annie put her palms together, said a thank you to the heavens, then jumped and clicked her heels together. Right away she felt guilty, peered into Walti’s crib, put a finger to her closed mouth and told him that her reaction would be their secret.

  She waited to make sure Frau Wilhelm wasn’t going to pretend to miss her train, then made herself a cup of coffee, fished out her journal, pulled the crib close so she could keep an eye on the baby, ignored the full nappy bucket, the dry garments on the clothes horse, the potatoes, carrot, half a cabbage and slab of pork on the sideboard waiting to be prepared for dinner and sat down to write.

  She set out how she was longing to go into Munich and show Walti to her ex-colleagues at the university, but when she mentioned the possibility of such an outing, Frau Wilhelm had been horrified. Her face drained of colour and left behind two amethyst stains under her eyes.

  ‘Annie,’ she had said, shaking her head.

  ‘What?’ Annie was bemused by her reaction.

  Frau Wilhelm’s head continued to shake for some minutes. ‘Walther told us you had grown to be a determined, strong-willed young woman and I
have come to understand that about you. But that suggestion is beyond…’

  ‘Did he?’ Annie asked, a tiny piece of forgotten biscuit between her fingers. ‘Beyond what? I don’t understand…’

  Frau Wilhelm sat next to her on the couch, bundling the blue and white blankets she had been folding onto her lap.

  ‘You must not go anywhere,’ she said. ‘You must stay here.’

  ‘Oh, but my confinement is almost over.’

  Again, the older woman’s head moved from side to side in an almost mournful manner. ‘It is more treacherous in Munich than it is here – you know that,’ she said. ‘People are trying to run from the worst of the war, not towards it. And definitely not with a tiny baby.’

  That comment made Annie prickle with shame. ‘But I am so proud that I want to show him off. And I cannot stay cooped up here for, well, I don’t know how long.’

  Frau Wilhelm took a deep breath and exhaled for a long moment. When she spoke, there was the slightest edge of irritation in her voice, something Annie had never heard before and that, more than her previous remark, filled her with humiliation. She could feel her neck and face redden. ‘We are all in the same position, Annie,’ she said. ‘Do you think any of us like the way we are being forced to live?’

  When no reply was forthcoming, Frau Wilhelm dipped to look Annie in the eyes and prodded again, ‘Well, do you?’

  ‘No,’ Annie said.

  ‘No,’ Frau Wilhelm echoed. ‘That’s right. But we all have responsibilities towards our loved ones, especially when they are too helpless to look after themselves.’

  ‘Yes.’ She nodded. ‘I know you’re right.’ Annie grabbed at her hand. ‘I’m so sorry,’ she said.

  ‘No need to apologise. I am sorry, too, that you are young and have to go through all of this.’

  ‘It’s not just the young,’ Annie said. ‘As someone wise told me – we’re all in this together.’

  They laughed then and Frau Wilhelm continued folding and smoothing the blankets. ‘Perhaps when you are well and truly on your feet,’ she said, ‘you can go into Munich on your own and leave Walti with me for a morning or afternoon. Or maybe we can go together.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Annie said. ‘Either one of those will be something to look forward to.’

  Walti started to murmur and thrash his little fists about for his feed, so Frau Wilhelm brought him to her and went into the kitchen to continue her daily tasks there. The living room was quiet, apart from the gratified sounds of Walti’s greedy sucking, and Annie was left to think about what had been said. She closed he eyes against the guilt she felt but when she opened them, the feelings of remorse continued to nag at her. That’s not a bad thing, she thought, to be brought down to earth by the truth. She did have responsibilities now, not only to Walti but to Frau Wilhelm and Herr Doctor and to Fred and as such, she had to mature and live up to them without sulking or complaining or figuratively stamping her feet.

  30 October 1943

  What surprised me most, though, was understanding that Frau Wilhelm was fed up and disgruntled, too. Other than the tragedy of losing her only son, I thought she was content with her lot. How dare I harbour the assumption that she wanted nothing more for her life than to be a wife, mother-in-law and grandmother here in Ulm. Of course, I know her political leanings and understand she would like to go about her business without being under the control of the Nazis, but I presumed that was the extent of it. Then I remembered her telling me about dancing and visiting nightclubs in Berlin and realised that what we see of Frau Wilhelm now is the tip of what constitutes her. Who knows what ambitions she had for this time in her life that have now been quashed? Maybe she had envisaged herself creating an award-winning garden. Or writing a Kuchen recipe book. Travelling to Paris or London or further afield with Herr Doctor when he handed over the practice to Walther. In my mind, Frau Wilhelm had taken on other dimensions – not merely those I had fashioned her into for my convenience. She has a right to her own aspirations, too, or at least to the longing for them. And I have a duty to honour and respect her for them.

  Walti stirred, so Annie picked up the notebook and, taking the stairs two at a time, made her way up to the hiding place in her bedroom. A knock on the door cemented her to a step, enough evidence to execute all of them on plain view in her hand. The last time there was someone at the door whilst she was on her own it had been horrible Horst. But even he wouldn’t let himself into a feeding mother’s home, would he? ‘Who is there?’ she called, wondering if she could make it up to her bedroom and back without him noticing.

  ‘Gisela,’ a small voice answered. ‘I’ve come with the rations, young Frau Wilhelm.’

  Annie’s heart thumped so hard that she hoped the stress wouldn’t turn her milk sour. That was what Frau Wilhelm said could happen.

  ‘One moment, Gisela,’ she called back. She wanted to let the little girl think she was buttoning her blouse or making sure the baby was safe in his crib, not scrabbling to hide a lethal document.

  By the time she opened the door, her breathing had returned to its usual rhythm and she was composed enough to offer Gisela a benign smile. The child skipped away, none the wiser, her long, thick ponytail streaming down her back.

  *

  As the weeks went by, Frau Wilhelm and Annie began to take Walti for walks in his baby carriage until at last, Annie was allowed out with the baby on her own. It took so long to bundle him up that she thought he would need his next feed before they stepped out the door. But then they were walking in the crisp, autumn air and the sting of it on her face made her laugh out loud. If she hadn’t been in charge of the pram she would have taken off her hat and gloves, perhaps her coat, and run into the biting wind. As it was, she turned down the finger sleeves on her mittens and ran her fingers along the hoar frost on the top of a low wall, enjoying the tingle of cold needling into her flesh.

  So many people stopped to admire Walti and Annie dutifully pulled back his covers a tiny bit and let them peep at him. How they oohed and aahed. Everyone knew Herr Doctor and his family, so they all had an opinion about who the shape of the baby’s face resembled, or how Walther’s hair had stuck out in the same pattern of disarray as his son’s, or how his nose had the same curve as Frau Wilhelm’s. There was no mention of how the baby might take after her or Fred or Oma in some small way – the tilt of his head on the pillow, the arch of his eyebrows, the translucence of his skin. She didn’t feel resentful about that and preferred that he favoured Walther as that would be a lifetime’s reminder of the man she had loved.

  But then to a person they offered condolences about Walther and said what an illustrious young hero of a man he had been for dying in service to his country and how proud she should be of him as he would be of her and the baby and on and on in that vein. Her stomach wrapped itself around in a tight twist when she realised that most of them knew Walther better than she did, or at least had known him for longer, and she had been robbed of that chance. But did they know him? She had to stop herself from scoffing aloud when he was called a war hero time and again. He hated the war, the Nazis, the regime and was posted only as a medic and that was against his wishes. Her initial feelings of invigoration seeped from her and she wondered if Walther, with his good humour and optimistic outlook on life, would find anything here and now to laugh at. If so, she wished he could somehow point it out to her.

  Something had shifted in Ulm from before she gave birth and had been confined to the house. At first, she thought her overstrung imagination was at work again as she could not grasp what the difference was. Then she began to piece together what she observed and came to some conclusions. Many people were beginning to look very shabby, as if they could not keep mending over the mending they had already used to mend their clothes. A number of women were stockingless, a sight that would never have previously been seen, whatever the weather; the shine on men’s trousers was so glassy, she could have used it to make sure her hair was in place. And all the colour had
been washed out of the clothes – no black, brown, beige, lavender, blue – everything was a variant of grey.

  That was the colour favoured for faces, too. Gaunt, ghostly and sunken with bones more prominent than flesh. Shopping bags hanging off spindly wrists were less than half full, no loaves peeking out of the top or cabbages balancing on bulging bags of flour. Her tummy rumbled as she walked closer to the market, reminding her that despite having a few more rations as a feeding mother, there seemed to be less on her plate for each meal. Herr Doctor and Frau Wilhelm’s bowls and spoons seemed to hold even less than hers. She thought she had been so on the ball after having the baby, but she must have been somewhat foggy or ensconced in her own world staring at Walti, that she missed or misjudged what was going on around her. Vaguely, she recalled hearing the end of a hushed conversation between Frau Wilhelm and Herr Doctor about ‘nutrition’ and ‘making sure she gets enough’ and having another look for vegetables tomorrow.

  She reasoned that she had a voracious appetite because she was producing milk, but today, wandering through Ulm, she realised that rations were dwindling. Icy, agitated fingers moved through her chest and settled in her stomach. If she couldn’t feed Walti what would she do? Reaching under his canopy, she tucked the blanket closer around his chin.

  But she listened to the radio and read the papers. They were being told there was more than enough for the entire population. They had the fat of the conquered lands. Their gardens and vegetable plots were overflowing. The cows were bellowing to be milked and begging to be slaughtered – if only the farmers could get around to them. Of course, the people were ordered to believe the military got most of the food and that was right and proper as they were defending the Fatherland. How she wished she had the right to express herself freely. If she did, she would let it be known that she, for one, wished all the fighting men had only just enough to keep them alive so the Axis would surrender to the Allies and put an end to this insanity.