Miss Graham's Cold War Cookbook

by Celia Rees

  Herr Hecht conducted her around his classroom. To begin with, most of the children were too shy to answer her questions, but they gradually grew bolder, encouraged by Herr Hecht’s smiles and his gentle manner.

  The children were well turned out: the boys’ hair neatly combed and parted, the girls’ plaited and ribboned, their clothes clean but a jumble mix of winter and summer wear and nearly all threadbare, patched and darned, faded fabrics rotting and splitting. There were obvious signs of malnutrition. Some of the faces looking up at her were gray and yellowish, the eyes dull and sunken, noses red and running, the areas around the mouth crusted with impetigo. The napes of those bent over their slates were pocked with eruptions, boils, and rashes. At home these would be seen as marks of neglect, the parents visited, homes inspected. The parents were not at fault here.

  “They do their best.” Herr Hecht shook his head. “They give up their own clothes, their shoes, so that the children can come to school. Shoes are the worst problem. They wear out. The children grow out of them so quickly, but without—” he shrugged “—it is impossible for them to come at all.”

  A look under the desks showed the pitiful truth of it. Shoes cracked and broken, the toes cut out because they were sizes too small, worn-through soles replaced by roughly shaped wooden blocks, improvised clogs bound on with rags. Some wore sandals, even though the ground was frozen, red knobs of chilblains throbbed on bare toes; others shuffled in adult boots like small, sad clowns. The children sat with their feet tucked well back, away from scrutiny. She walked the rows with Jack, careful not to shame them further, or to show how their brave dignity was moving her to tears.

  At first, the children were awed by Jack. His size and, Edith realized, his uniform. Then came one spluttered laugh, then another as Jack waggled his ears, pulled hideous faces, made sticks of gum and foil-wrapped squares of chocolate disappear and appear from behind ears or out of noses.

  “You are good with them,” Herr Hecht said, smiling as Jack gave one delighted boy his cap to wear.

  “My sister’s got kiddies.” Jack grinned and gave him the rest of the chocolate to hand out later.

  It was nearing lunchtime. The children lined up to have soup ladled out to them. It was thin stuff. Hardly more than water with a few vegetable scraps floating in it. They ate at their desks, mopping up every last drop with small squares of coarse bread.

  “It’s little enough, but more than they get at home,” Herr Hecht remarked. “Every week I have ten, more than that, absent because they are too weak to come. What food there is goes to the man, if there is one, the older brother, older sister, whoever is working. Things will improve, Fraulein Graham.” He looked around the crowded classroom. “Our present deprivations are merely physical. They will lift in time. I did not agree with the former regime, but I am lucky. I survived.” Edith knew from Roz that he’d spent time in a concentration camp and had been sent to Belgium to do forced labor. “Now it is better, I think. At least we are free,” he tapped his temple, “up here.”

  “I’ll do what I can, Herr Hecht.”

  “I know you will.”

  Edith shook his hand in parting. His palm was still calloused, the knuckles swollen and prominent, the bones ribbed beneath his dry, papery skin. Edith suspected that, whatever food he had, he shared with the children, even if he himself went hungry.

  “Did you see what was in that pot?” Jack cut into her thoughts. “Not enough to keep body and soul together. Poor little sods. Freezing cold in there and all.”

  “They bring in what they can, Jack.” The only fuel was what the children brought with them. “I’ve tried to get more for them, but nothing happens . . .”

  Edith’s hands clenched tight on her lap, and she turned away. She didn’t want Jack to see her anger, frustration, and, yes, humiliation. There was plenty of food in the stores and warehouses, coal in the depots. As soon as she saw how bad things were in the schools, she’d gone straightaway to the departments responsible—only to be blocked at every turn. Passed on to a succession of people who seemed to extract real pleasure from saying no, in making an impossible job even more impossible, and all this added to her gnawing sense of futility. She’d come here to make a contribution, make a difference. Why did she think she could succeed where others had failed? So far she’d contributed absolutely nothing and made no difference at all. She was letting down the children, the very people that she was here to help.

  “Penny for ’em,” Jack said.

  Edith sighed. “Oh, nothing.” She straightened her gloves. “It just seems impossible, that’s all.”

  “Nil carborundum, eh? Don’t let the bastards grind you down.” He kept his eyes on the road as they slowly nosed their way through the still crowded streets. “I was in tanks in the war. We used to say, “If you can’t go under, you go over. If you can’t go round, you go straight through.” I’ll see what I can do.”

  At the next school, things appeared to be much better. The school was running smoothly, the children attending regularly. The staff were very young, but they seemed to know what they were doing. The Head, Frau Holstein, was older, a hairpin of a woman, draped in rusty black, iron-gray hair in tight plaits, wrapped at the side of her head like ear muffs. She’d returned to teaching after a long bout of Kinder und Kuche under the Nazis. Her husband had been killed in a raid so now she needed to work. Her credentials were excellent, and, since she’d left teaching relatively early, her record wasn’t tainted. Her Persilschein had pride of place above the blackboard in a space probably previously occupied by Herr Hitler.

  Frau Holstein was very different from Herr Hecht. Her welcome was frosty to the point of curtness. She might be getting the school whipped into shape, but Edith sensed that something was not quite right.

  The children all shot to rigid attention. When she motioned for them to sit down, they bent to their tasks as if their lives depended on it. The room was pin-drop quiet. No fidgeting. Just the squeak of chalk on slate. If Edith asked them anything, their eyes went straight to Frau Holstein. None of them answered in a voice above a whisper, and they visibly flinched from Frau Holstein’s encouraging pats and smiles.

  “As you see, Frau Graham, we have strong discipline here. So important for learning. You must agree.” She didn’t wait for Edith to answer that but went straight on to a new thought. “You are new here of course. Very new. Not, perhaps, very familiar with how things are working. The Brigadier is happy to leave to us the running of the schools. On that, he is very clear. It is not your job to interfere in any way at all.”

  Edith felt herself redden.

  “I don’t know about that,” she said as equably as she could manage. A blazing row might upset the children and Frau Holstein would take it out on them as soon as she left.

  Edith knew her type, and she knew fear when she saw it. The staff showed the same quiet wariness as the children. A sliding-eyes watchfulness followed Frau Holstein wherever she went. The woman was almost certainly overstepping her authority. Discipline was necessary, of course, but Edith would not tolerate cruelty, or any kind of tyranny. They’d had enough of that, surely? And it would be all too easy. Defeat had taken away all certainty; it had made people vulnerable and frightened. Children and adults alike.

  After the day was over, Edith walked home with Roz.

  “You’re quiet,” Roz ventured.

  “It’s been a long day. When I see some of it, the state of their clothes, their shoes, the way their parents try to keep them clean and smart, I just feel like howling, and that wouldn’t do, would it?”

  “No, it would not! Who did you go to see?”

  “Herr Hecht then Frau Holstein.”

  “Herr Hecht’s a sweetie.” Roz smiled. “But Frau Holstein’s enough to tire anybody out.” She gave the smallest shudder of disgust. “Rather you than me with that one.”

  “Yes.” Edith frowned. “There’s something going on there. A surprise visit might be in order.”

  “I’d
leave it a week or so, if I was you.” Roz thrust her mittened hands deeper into her pockets. It was cold and getting colder. The Trave was properly freezing over. “Lull her into a false sense of security. Then pounce. Come on, you need a drink!” Roz linked arms. “Dinner at the mess?”

  “Why not?”

  “Billet getting to you?”

  “A bit.”

  That first night seemed to have fixed the pattern for how things would be in the house. Edith felt not exactly ostracized, more isolated. Not one of them. They were younger than her and in far more junior positions. She felt like a House Mistress in a girls’ boarding school. Chatter died down when she came into a room, conversation turning awkward and stilted, laughter and animation only reviving when she took her leave.

  Miss Slater had taken a particular dislike to Edith, which didn’t help. She was the center of attention. The emotions that eddied below the surface of the house swirled around her, but she was capricious with her favors. Any who offended, even in the slightest, became the butt of vicious jibes, left out in the cold, excluded until she made amends. It was all very adolescent, but these girls were very young. Young enough for such things to matter. Edith had heard the crying behind the bathroom door. Then there were the nicknames that Molly had given them. Rusty, Joey, Baby, Gol, Betty Boop. Names that held an edge of truth honed on cruel observation, angled to wound, or undermine. No doubt she had one for Edith, and it would not be kind.

  Edith laughed. “They’re a nice enough bunch. A bit young, but there’s one . . .”

  “There is always one.”

  “Her name’s Molly. Molly Slater.”

  “Tall blonde? Thinks she’s Jean Harlow?”

  “That’s her. Do you know her?”

  “Of her. Blonde bombshell. A bit of a fast piece.”

  “The odd thing is, she’s the billet monitor. Very thick with Frau Schmidt.”

  Edith had been surprised to find Miss Slater in such a domestic capacity. It was a role that didn’t really suit her. Part quartermaster, part housemother, the Billet Monitor worked closely with the housekeeper to order in food for meals taken in the billet and day-to-day necessities: tea, coffee, sugar, soap. There was an allowance, so much per person, taken out of their rations.

  “Really? Hmm.” Roz frowned at the frosty ground. “Wouldn’t surprise me. I’d keep an eye on that. There’s a lot of fiddling goes on. You wouldn’t believe how much. There’s a darker side to life in the Zone.” Roz dropped her voice, even though they were walking alone. “There’s an area down by the docks, notorious for brothels and black marketeering. Cigarettes, coffee, canned and packaged food, toiletries and such, traded for cameras, wirelesses, binoculars, watches, jewellery, silverware, porcelain, paintings, furniture, bicycles, even cars. They keep the illicit swag in the derelict warehouses. There are regular police raids, but that never seems to make any difference. Everybody’s at it. You can find half the Control Commission down there any given Sunday buying up goodies to ship back home. The whole thing’s run by foreign DPs from the east. They’re rapidly turning into a bunch of racketeers, according to Jeff.”

  “Do you think that’s the reason she’s Billet Monitor?”

  Added to other odd things that she’d noticed, it made sense. Something didn’t ring true about Miss Slater. The stories she told about herself: her family; the house in the country, another in London; the school she’d attended. None of it quite added up. A certain vagueness on detail. Somewhere on the South Coast, I don’t remember. A testiness when questioned. Does it really matter? It was as if she was acting a part. The others lapped it up, but Edith could see through it, and Molly knew it. One of the reasons for her antipathy.

  “Oh, yes.” Roz nodded, as if it was obvious. “Siphoning stuff off to sell on the black market. It’s a big business being used to fund all sorts, not just crime gangs but underground organizations hiding fugitive Nazis, helping them escape. It’s a real headache, Jeff says.”

  “I was wondering if Jeff found anything?” Edith said as they sat down to dinner.

  “About your friend?” Roz looked up from the menu. “Not so far. He thinks it’s rather peculiar, in fact.”

  “Oh, why’s that?”

  “The Germans are supposed to be registered, to get rations, and so on, but she’s not on any list. Maybe she’s not even here.”

  “Maybe.”

  Was that a good or bad thing? Too soon to tell.

  Roz had gone back to the menu. “Soup that’s never even seen a turtle and Dutch Steak with Espagnole Sauce.” She snorted. “Rissole and gravy. Nothing here is the real thing, have you noticed?” She looked round at the other diners. “Like this lot. Pretending to be something they’re not. Living like lords. Lining their pockets. Making as much as they can out of it. The German ration’s going down and in this weather.” She snapped the menu shut. “Shall I ask Jeff to keep looking?”

  “Oh, no,” Edith replied, “it was just on the off chance, that’s all.”

  Edith was disappointed that her only lead, slim as it was, had come to nothing, but some instinct told her not to draw any more attention to her search for Elisabeth.

  They came out of the mess, the air numbingly cold to mouth and nose, catching the throat. The town, lit by a platinum-bright moon, looked like a story from the Brothers Grimm: an icy glitter of ancient roofs and towers under a diamond dusting of stars.

  “Jolly cold, isn’t it? And awfully slippy.” Roz linked arms, and they held each other up as they slipped and slid along together. “Oh, before I forget.” Roz hugged Edith’s arm closer. “That chap phoned again. Captain Adams. He wants you to call him back.”

  “Oh, right. Thanks, Roz.”

  “Are you all right from here?” They were at the Hüxterdamm Bridge. Roz peered up at her. “Cold getting to you? Apart from your nose, you’ve gone a tiny bit pale. Doesn’t do to linger. Better get your skates on!”

  She went off, laughing at her own joke. Edith steadied herself on the parapet of the bridge.

  No lead on Elisabeth. Nothing to report to Dori. She was keeping menus and recipes as a kind of aide-mémoire, dessous des cartes, but so far they were just that. Recipes. Now Adams was on to her. What was she going to say to him? She’d been busy settling in, getting to grips with the job. Or not on today’s showing. Distinct lack of success in all areas. She obviously wasn’t cut out for any of this. Sometimes, she wondered what she was doing here at all.

  She leaned over parapet. Blocks of ice clashed in the turbid, thickening water. There were more of them each day. She leaned out farther. How long would you last in that? A minute? Less, probably. It was very cold; her coat was sticking to the iron. Her breath wreathed round her like smoke.

  She wouldn’t have to throw herself in if she stayed here for much longer. She heeded Roz’s advice and turned for home. She had a sense of things moving just below the surface, like the dark waters beneath the thickening ice. The British presented an outward show of office routine and Club at weekends, but this was not the Home Counties. Roz had given the lie to that screening blandness. As for the Germans, they were enigmatic at best. It was hard to know what lay behind the mask of willing compliance. There was plenty going on that both sides had reasons to hide, but how was she going to find out?

  13

  CCG Billet, Lübeck

  17th January 1946

  Refugee Potato pancakes (Kartoffelpuffer)

  Potato peelings

  Handful of flour

  Salt and pepper

  Take potato peels, cut them to very small pieces mix them with some flour and salt, fry them on top of the stove. (Seraphina’s recipe--refugees subsist on this)

  Edith got back to rather an ugly scene.

  Frau Schmidt and Miss Slater had the German girls gathered together in the hall. To the others they were just “those girls,” “this girl,” or “that girl,” but Edith was getting to know them, or as much as they would allow. She chatted while they made her bed, brought h
er morning tea, hot water. Hilde was the most forthcoming. Blond, fresh faced. Originally from Hanover, family bombed out in ’44. She’d been sent to an aunt who lived in a village outside Lübeck. She cycled in every day. Grete, smaller, sharper featured, a native of the town and relative of Frau Schmidt. Magda, thin, dark with darting brown eyes. She was from the east and said very little about what had happened to her, very little about anything. And there was Seraphina. The others waited at table, brought hot water, changed the beds. Seraphina was treated like a skivvy. She waited on Frau Schmidt and the others and did the heavy, dirty jobs: clearing snow, hauling coal and logs, clearing out the stoves, lighting fires. Jobs that Stephan was supposed to do. Exempted by his war injuries, presumably.

  Hilde, Grete, and Magda were standing apart from Seraphina. They had the same look of innocence mixed with faint accusation, as if the combination would deflect blame from them. Seraphina stood, head held high, her large, dark eyes shiny with tears that she would not shed.

  The other residents were watching from the stairs or the doorway of the sitting room.

  “What’s all this?” Edith stripped off her gloves. Some sort of hoo-ha in the billet really would put the tin lid on it.

  “It has come to my notice.” Miss Slater’s tone had a pompous ring that she’d no doubt learned from some superior at work. “It has been brought to my attention by Frau Schmidt, that Seraphina has been stealing.”

  “I see.” Edith unpinned her hat.

  Miss Slater looked to Frau Schmidt to take up the story.

  “She is Jewish,” the older woman said with a look of contempt. “What can you expect? I give her a chance. Now this happens. I should have known better.”