by Jan Casey
‘It was on the ground in the marketplace. In Ulm. Someone told me it was dropped by the RAF and I wanted to verify that was a fact.’
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘That has been happening. It’s good.’
‘It is. And I wanted to see if I could help. In any way.’
But before he replied, Annie knew what the answer would be. She could tell by the atmosphere in the university, the weary, rather cynical tone in Professor Frans’ voice, the lack of old contacts. ‘Do you remember Helmuth?’ he said.
‘Yes, he has been in prison for eight months, so I believe.’
‘Well he was, but I thought you might have missed the news during your confinement,’ he said. ‘He has been executed.’
‘I cannot believe it.’ Anger and sadness churned together inside her creating a foul-tasting bile that rose from her stomach.
‘Oh, Annie,’ he said in that same fatigued tone. ‘I do not think that is the case. Even you must, by now, accept this as normal. Is that not so?’
She nodded. It was true. She knew that the regime would undertake any barbaric, uncivilised or brutish deed in order to remain in power.
‘There is no one left here that I can put you in touch with, Annie,’ he said. ‘They are all gone, other than old men like me. Go home, take care of your baby and pray that your brother returns.’
She finished her brandy in one gulp, turned the pram and then stretched across the desk to formalise their goodbye. He took her hand in both of his and said, ‘You have done so much already.’
She shook her head.
‘You have no idea, but you have been wonderfully brave.’
Outside, Frau Wilhelm strode towards her with a smile of relief on her face. ‘Did you see who you wanted to see?’ she asked.
‘No,’ Annie answered. ‘They’ve all gone. How is your sister?’
‘Weak. And fragile.’
Like this city, she thought and the people in it.
23 November 1943
This morning my unwarranted suitor revealed himself in the most improper manner. I thought I was being cautious and wary, but as I drew level with the passageway that leads to the butcher’s shop, a man in a diesel factory uniform stepped out in front of me. My heart somersaulted and landed hammering in my throat. Then I recognised him as a boy who Fred sometimes kicked a football with during the summer. He stood, hands in pockets, smiling at me in a rather fatuous way. He called me by my name, but I struggled to remember his, then it came to me – Dietmar.
Not wanting to unfairly denounce him when I didn’t know if he was, in fact, my tormenter, I nodded and made to walk around him and carry on with my business. But he blocked my way and shoved me into the alley. I kept one hand on the handle of the pram, dragging it behind me and cried out, but there was no one to hear. I’d heard about girls who were violated by soldiers or interfered with by drunken men, but never thought I would be in their position. Everything in me was electrified and I wanted to kick, punch, bite, spit but Dietmar pushed me against the wall and whispered that he’d liked me since we were small and now that Walther was gone, he wanted to have me. Two of his teeth were black and his breath smelled of rotting pork. I flailed around, bashing the back of my head against the wall and tried in desperation to knock the chassis of the pram into the back of his legs. Rather than frighten him off, that only served to make him laugh and explore the skin under my scarf with his scratching, dirt-encrusted fingers.
Then, just when I thought I would have to suffer his molestations there was the sound of boots, clumping on the flagstones and a flash of brown from the other end of the passageway. I don’t know where my presence of mind came from, but the intrusion gave me enough time to kick Dietmar hard in the shin and duck out from under his grasp. I took one, cursory look over my shoulder to make sure he wasn’t following me and I caught a glimpse of two Wehrmacht officers, the first pinning Dietmar’s arms to his sides and the second pressing his forearm hard into the assailant’s windpipe. All I could think about was getting away with Walti, so I wasn’t convinced, but I thought the tallest and heaviest-handed officer was Horst. And the more I think about it and turn the episode over in my mind, the more certain I am that it was him. Horst, of all people, was my hero and the upholder of my dignity.
The letterbox rattled and Frau Wilhelm and Annie looked at each other, thinking the same thing – it was Horst again. Frau Wilhelm must have presumed Annie wouldn’t want to see him, so she drew back her shoulders, fastened her cardigan, set her mouth in a straight line and gave Annie a look that meant she would get rid of him.
But Annie had thought long and hard about what had happened with Dietmar and made up her mind that when next Horst called, she would thank him and try to rekindle the feelings she had for him as her younger cousin and make sure she found him a piece of cake.
Both women made it to the door at the same time to find no one on the other side but there was an envelope, facing down, on the mat. Annie gasped when she turned it over, the half-crossed Ts and looped Gs enough for her to know it was from Fred.
Annie held it close, desperate to open it but wanting to savour the moment. She and Frau Wilhelm sat close together in the living room and Annie slit the envelope with care. Inside were two pages of regulation army writing paper. She unfolded them and read with reverence.
Congratulations and well done to you, my Liebling Annie. Although I have not seen him yet, I have formed a perfect picture in my mind of my little nephew Walti from your description. I know that your husband died a hero for the Third Reich, but I want to reassure you that you and your child will always have my love and protection.
Annie had to read through that paragraph again to believe her eyes. Icy cold fear churned in her bowels. ‘Has he been brainwashed or indoctrinated into the ways of the regime?’ she asked Frau Wilhelm.
‘No, no, of course not,’ Frau Wilhelm said. ‘He is protecting himself and us. Now, read on.’
I long to hold you both close and tell you this in person, but that is not possible at the moment. Just know it in your wonderful heart, Annie. For me, you and Walti and my fiancée mean more than anything in this world and I will fight for all of you.
Give my special thanks to Herr Doctor and Frau Wilhelm for all they do for you and I hope that in victory, we can share a glass of schnapps together.
Here he did not state whose victory, but she knew what he meant.
The second page was more about logistics and had been heavily censored.
I am in -----, having been posted here from -----. We have -----, -----, ----- and ---- for our rations and ----- blankets to keep us warm at night. I am well and very happy to be doing my duty for the Fatherland.
Please write to me, Annie, as your letters are such a comfort; I keep them together in my Bible and have read them so many times over that the paper has worn thin. I will write as often as I can, but as I’m sure you know, the post from here is slow or perhaps non-existent in some cases.
As a Wehrmacht soldier on the -----, I can assure you we will all be together again soon and I will take my proper place amongst you as brother, uncle, friend, benefactor and patron. Especially to our Walti who I am already devoted to completely.
Heil Hitler!
Your loving Brother
Frederick
They read and devoured the letter three times and ended up with tears in their eyes. ‘He is alive,’ Annie said.
‘Yes, and let’s hope that his predictions about the end being in sight come to fruition.’
‘I wish I had your faith,’ Annie said, realising that in the last two minutes they had mentioned faith and hope.
But what about charity, the most important of the three virtues? That was apparent in the love and devotion expressed in Fred’s letter to them. And in Horst’s unforeseen, unexpected but most laudable act of chivalry.
15
December 1943
There were two weeks until Christmas. In Scotland, Jeanie told Viola, Christmas was a quiet af
fair, but Hogmanay was a different matter altogether. The Barfoots would invite as many friends and family as they could fit into their farmhouse and there would be food, drink and reels. Of course, Viola and Freddie were invited and although it was difficult for Voila to imagine such wild revelry during these austere times, she was looking forward to the occasion.
But, she thought as she opened the back door to shake out a rug, she would like to do something to celebrate Freddie’s first Christmas. That day was, after all, a huge part of the baby’s heritage and it was awful enough that they would be missing their family let alone the traditions she was used to observing.
Like a fascinated child, Viola puffed frozen billows of mist into the air and watched as they gradually dispersed into thin silvery wisps. It was bitterly cold; snow covered the ground and it was only possible to pick out sheep in the distance when they moved. She smiled when she remembered one of the first questions she’d had about the surroundings when she moved here – where do the sheep go when it snows? Nowhere, was the answer, except those on very high ground that can be rounded up and moved to lower pastures where it might be a bit warmer. Pulling Lillian’s old brown cardigan around her, she shivered in her stockinged legs. The rug would have to do, she thought, retreating to the kitchen and closing the door behind her.
Viola tiptoed to the crib to look in on Freddie, sleeping on her side with her thumb in her mouth. After that first night when the baby had slept through, there had been arduous months of trying to settle her into a proper routine and Viola had worried the baby might have assimilated much more than she was given credit for about the circumstances of her birth and their evacuation to Sorn. But now, with perseverance and the help of that little plug of a thumb, life was easier and more structured. What light there was from the heavy sky cast a shadow of Freddie’s eyelashes that played, for a moment, across her cheeks; the contours of her face, fleshing out and caving in with each fierce pull on the substitute teat; her hair, dark and thick fell about her ear and neck in waves. In that moment, Viola wanted to pluck her from sleep, wake her and savour every bit of her. But that would be madness, especially given how often she had longed for the little mite to sleep and give her a break. And how many times Jeanie had taken over for an hour or two and instructed her to have a lie-down.
As quietly as possible, Viola took dry napkins from the clotheshorse and replaced them with wet clothing. Not for the first time she wondered what she would do without Jeanie and Finlay. She didn’t know how or why she had been so lucky to have landed firmly on her feet with those two. They could not have been more welcoming or accommodating; it was almost as if the only reason they needed to be magnanimous was that she was a human being who required comfort and help – it was humbling.
After the telegram from Mum had arrived telling her about the news of Robert’s death in action, she had been beside herself with anguish. She had tortured herself with the fact that he hadn’t known he was an uncle and that her letters to him, via Mum, had been based on a lie. Her dreams, when Freddie had allowed her to sleep, had been focused on her brother. Often, they would be running around a tennis court, serving aces or producing drop shots from the net, chasing after poorly aimed balls. Sometimes David would appear, too, hanging around waiting to play the winner. And there, on the side-lines, was Pitch, tongue lolling, alert and following every rally with a swivel of his regal head.
In one particular dream that she’d experienced a good few times, she’d seen Robert as he had looked when they’d last been together at his eighteenth birthday party. Tall, handsome, angsty, brooding. Waiting to join the RAF even if it was against their father’s wishes. He’d wanted to be a hero and now he had fulfilled that longing in the most conclusive manner possible. She had once read that it was no good thinking about what-ifs when someone dies as those possibilities simply do not exist – there was never anything else on the cards for that particular person so their death, when it came, must be accepted. That theory had seemed logical and sensible when she was yet to experience the death of a loved one and she had thought she could implement that wisdom when the time came for her to be bereaved. But it had been anathema to her after Robert died. All she could think about was the person he had not had the chance to become.
She had wanted her mum, Fred or Lillian. Even David or Dad would have had their arms tight around her and she could have cried on their necks. But instead there had been the devoted Jeanie who had come up to her every day during that month, bringing food that had only to be heated, lighting the fire, washing napkins, jiggling the baby. Jeanie had told her that she and Finlay, try as they might, had not been able to have children.
‘There’s still time, surely?’ Viola had asked.
‘Oh, aye.’ Jeanie had shrugged. ‘There’s a wee bit of that. But Fin and I decided that we cannae let it stop us being happy. So we find comfort without bairns.’
Easier said than done, Viola had thought. But that had given her some insight into their attachment to each other and the fun that was always present when they were together.
After much deliberation, Viola had told Jeanie about Fred, Mike and how Freddie had come to be. Her head on one side, Jeanie had listened without making any outward sign or murmur of disapproval. But when she’d finished her story and Jeanie had not responded, Viola had felt a tingling of fear crawl down her arms and into the tips of her fingers. Perhaps she should have kept that information to herself; the Barfoots were, after all, churchgoers and might have been offended by a fallen woman in their croft.
‘Och, hen, so sad,’ Jeanie had said at last, distress lacing her voice. ‘We knew you weren’t married, but we didn’t know the surrounding circumstances.’
‘But you both called me Mrs Baxter from the first time we met.’
‘We thought that would be the most befitting course of action.’
‘Yes, of course. It was. Is.’
‘Do you want people to know otherwise?’
Viola had shaken her head with conviction. ‘No. I don’t think others would be as understanding as you.’
Jeanie had agreed but said she didn’t know why as she could name a fair few around Sorn and Ayr who had been in the same position and had then gone on to marry the father or another man who turned a blind eye to the indiscretion – her own dear, deceased mother for one.
But now, Viola was beginning to feel better. Not any less bereaved, but resigned to the process that bereavement would take – she wasn’t sure where her grief or dreams or thoughts and feelings would take her, but she would follow them down their natural paths and deal with them there. Knowing that she could do that gave her strength and she needed fortitude and tenacity to be a good mother to Freddie.
Her dreams, too, no longer centred on Robert alone, but had reverted to Fred, which was comforting as during her waking hours she was alarmed to find that his image in her mind was becoming a pinprick. It was as if he was in the distance, watching and waiting for her still, but try as she might she could not bring him closer, where she longed for him to be. At night, though, when she closed her eyes he was there as he had been when they were courting in Cambridge. She could see his startling blue eyes that were never tempted away from gazing at her, almost feel his thick brindled hair between her fingers, breathe in the musty scent of his soap and a warm spring day on his skin. His breath on her neck, his hands on her hips, the shape of his fingernails, the warmth of his mouth on hers. Sometimes she woke with a start, certain that he was there with her, only to be crestfallen when what she had been convinced was his side of the bed remained cold and uncrumpled. In the morning after those dreams had visited her, she opened Fred’s incomplete thesis and the resistance leaflet and stroked them or held them close to where the ring glanced her chest.
Jeanie came to the croft less often now, but insisted Viola and Freddie spend as much time as possible with her and Finlay in the main house. Initially, Viola had thought she might be intruding but soon felt comfortable enough to come and go as s
he pleased. Finlay was often busy with the sheep and the farm and when he was at home for meals and a bit of rest time, he was amiable and easy-going, fitting in with whatever Jeanie was doing. If dinner was a few minutes late, that was fine; if the floor had that minute been scrubbed then he would use the other door; if the baby was fractious then of course he would walk up and down with her to give the two women a break.
With Jeanie, a profound friendship had taken root and grew in depth with the amount of time they spent together. Viola felt such ease with her hostess that they were able to talk about many things in great detail and to laugh at themselves, each other and the world at large; she knew that no matter what happened after this stage in her life, Jeanie would always be a part of it. Of course, no one could take Lillian’s place, she thought, stroking the faithful cardigan, but there was room in her heart for more than one intimate friend. Besides, in time she hoped that Jeanie and Lillian would meet and get on well; she felt certain they would.
Careful to avoid creaks and squeaks on the stairs, Viola went into the bedroom to tidy up. She opened the curtains and wiped away the half-frozen condensation on the inside of the window then opened it a crack to let in some fresh air. The glacial mist had not lifted and she wondered if she would, as planned, walk down to the house. She wondered that every day when the weather was so cold and inhospitable, but was pleased when she wrapped up and headed out.
Lillian was on her mind so much this morning. She longed to see her and talk with her like they had on countless occasions. But for now, letters would have to suffice and there were plenty of those flying backwards and forwards. Viola kept every single one in a special drawer, along with letters and cards from Mum and the boys. At the bottom of the pile was the black-edged telegram that told her she would never receive another letter, card, smile or touch from Robert.
The most exciting news from London was that Lillian and George had become engaged. Viola wrote back immediately.