by Susan Firman
CHAPTER 21
The Last Christmas
With the removal of all the Italian and German prisoners of war from North Africa, the campaign there was really at an end. Major Erwin Resmel was one of the last men of the Afrika Korps to leave. He had remained as an interpreter and having done so, he, too, was to be shipped out. It was only a matter of waiting for a vessel to leave.
While he had been at the camp, he had earned the respect of his captors. Hans was sitting for the last time in Commander Brownless’s office. During the past month the two men had got to know each other more as human beings than as officers in opposing armies. Their conversations had been cordial yet each man had full knowledge of what could not be discussed. Hans had been on edge since he knew Jan was to return to England because even though the threat from U-boots was no longer as bad, there were still enough of them lurking in the Atlantic waters to pose a continuing threat to Allied shipping.
“You must be quite taken up with Nurse Turner to keep such close tabs on her whereabouts, Major,” he commented. He picked up the phone and rang through to Headquarters to find out if the nurses had arrived. Hans waited patiently, his hopes rising with each nod of the Commander. “Yes, Nurse Turner’s ship arrived safely in Southampton three days ago and that her tour of duty outside Britain is over. I shouldn’t have told you that information, though. You never heard it, do you understand? But you can rest easy. She’s safe.”
“Thank you, Commander.”
Hans was fully aware that the Commander could not divulge the date nor the ship that had transported her. He knew he could be told no more but he was relieved to hear that she was safe and that she would no longer be near any further front line action
“For a German officer to take such an interest, she must be quite special. A most capable woman. But then our British ones are!”
“Oh, we’ve got plenty of our own, Commander. Our German girls are something, too!”
“Then, why one of ours, Major?”
“The connection goes back a long way.”
“Ah, yes. She nursed you while you were injured. Is that it?”
Hans shook his head. Commander Brownless continued.
“It is well known that the patient falls for the doctor, or nurse in your case. Never mind, you may find a Fräulein of your own.”
“If you had looked at my file, Commander, you would have seen that I’m already married. My wife lives in Neubrandenburg in northern Germany. No, Nurse Turner and I have known each other since before the war when at school. We’re very good friends, that’s all.”
“Well I never! Small world. So that’s the connection between you two. And I thought it only started in the hospital out here.”
“No.” Hans gave a small laugh. “I, also, find it is most strange; us meeting like that, out here in a war zone.”
Commander Brownless grinned and offered Hans a cigarette.
“Thank you, but no. I have managed to keep clear of the habit so far.”
“Don’t mind if I do?” Brownless waved the unlit cigarette in the air. Hans shook his head and waited while the Commander struck a match, lit the cigarette and then leaned back in his chair, drawing a breath of satisfaction as a thin wisp of smoke crept upwards from the glowing end. “Must be something in that,” he continued. Taking the cigarette from his lips “Call it fate or whatever, don’t you agree?”
“Possibly,” answered Hans. “In a few days my war will be over and I gather I will be following most of the others to Canada or the states for the duration.”
“Possibly, Major. One never quite knows.”
Both men managed to laugh and Hans stood up for the last time and saluted a fellow officer.
The strangest thing about this war was that Erwin Hans Resmel was not taken across the Atlantic but his ship ended up docking in England. This time he arrived on British soil, not as some awkward, insecure foreign student, but now as a very self-assured Major of the Third Reich, albeit a Prisoner of War. The majority of those from the Afrika Korps who had been captured had ended up in one of the camps in America, but by the time Major Resmel was shipped out, so few men from the Afrika Korps remained in Africa that they were put on a British destroyer together with some of the British forces and Commander Brownless.
Upon arrival, the prisoners of war were immediately taken to Doncaster for further interrogation. Again questions were asked regarding name, rank, company and where each man was captured. The entire procedure was as thorough as any military questioning found in German quarters.
That having been completed, there was the usual procedure of delousing, together with a clean-up shower before each man received into his care the rations that were specific to him, alone: meat, bacon, bread and margarine together with a small pot of jam, a small packet of tea, a few slices of cheese and some cake wrapped up in plain brown paper. This was better than Hans had been living off since he was sent to North Africa.
Hans was given a white patch to attach to his uniform so that the guards realised he had no further interest in carrying on the fight for Hitler and Nazi Germany. After a few weeks he was informed that he would be spending the remainder of his war years behind wire in one of the POW camps located within the Oxfordshire countryside.
In June, 1944, news resounded around the camp that the Invasion had begun. British and American forces had made landfall in France and Hitler’s armies were now having to fight on two fronts. Then, in September, a bombshell came. A letter arrived for Major Resmel and when he checked to see who the sender had been, Hans was most surprised to find it came from Commander Brownless.
1944
Dear Major Resmel,
There was a plot to remove Hitler in July. Unfortunately, it failed. Our information is that thousands have been arrested as the Gestapo and SS hunt out all those in connection with the attempt. Our sources have also discovered that your commanding officer in North Africa, Field-marshal Rommel was one of those implicated. It is our belief that he may have been silenced but no further information has surfaced.
May I say that, if this information is proven to be correct, I am sorry. Field-marshal Rommel was not only a worthy foe but also a reasonable man to deal with and many of our own POWs have nothing but admiration for that very professional soldier.
Yours respectfully,
Commander William Brownless.
The POW camp in England would often broadcast bulletins from the BBC, partly for propaganda purposes and partly in the hope of proving how futile the war was becoming for Germany. Hans was already aware that Hitler’s entire regime was not to be trusted and that much of what the men of the Afrika Korps had been told by Dr Goebbles were only half-truths for the satisfaction of a war-driven philosophy. He felt anguish for those fighting men still out there in the front lines, the Alte Hasen, who were still giving up their lives for such an insane cause. He wondered how much longer the madness would, or could go on: all the senseless killing, before it could be stopped. And yet there were men who had tried to find an end: the Afrika Korps’ commanding officer had been one of them.
As news came in about the failed plot, Hans was to learn that almost five thousand military and civilian personnel had been rounded up within Germany, including many of the officers from the Abwehr with whom he had spoken. He had heard nothing from Axel for many months, almost a year, and Uncle Karl had not said anything about his younger brother. He hoped that Axel had not been implicated in any way for Axel had confided in him that, when the need should arise, he would not hesitate to ally himself against their leader or his most devout followers. So far, the news was fragmented and certain facts could not yet be substantiated but there was an indication that the SS were dealing with the plotters in a most barbaric manner. Hans found it difficult to comprehend that the governing powers could do such things, if they were indeed true, especially to the officers and generals who had once proved their loyalty and it was shortly after that that he received Commander Brownless’s letter telling him about Rommel. Was
there a connection? The British broadcasts only announced that Fieldmarshal Rommel had succumbed to wounds he had received after a spitfire attacked his car on a quiet French road. Hans wondered whether there was a different truth.
A letter arrived. It had taken three months to reach him for the post dates told him it had not been posted recently but then he was not surprised as mail was handed out lately so infrequently.
The address was in aunt Laura’s hand. He ran the edge of his thumb between the two sides of the envelope and wondered if there might also be another, this time from Elisabeth.
As he extracted the note paper, he saw that it came from uncle Karl. He was expecting to get news about his brother as he had heard rumours that the U-boat fleet had now virtually been destroyed.
Strange, that Elisabeth hasn’t written, he thought and as he began reading, a shudder slithered between his shoulder blades and brought tiny beads of sweat onto his brow.
August 1944
Dear Erwin,
Renard has been appointed to a new position ++++++++++++++++ U-Boat +++++ which has joined our front-line service. Same boat but a different crew so all +++++++++++++++.
We’re all thinking of you. Life is much the same here with certain items ++++++++++ get hold of. We are told ++++++++++ that our sacrifices will +++++ in the end and that ++++++ ++++++++++++++++ than it is today. +++++++.
There are several empty houses opposite us now. The elderly man who lived there seems to have moved. I haven’t seen him lately. They went +++++++++++++ +++++++++++ He was a decent sort and I often met him in the pub and we chatted about so many things. He was good company and I miss him.
We’re told that everyone’s happy and healthy here. It must be true, for Dr Goebbles says so. +++++++++++++++++++++++++ I was able to read a book by its light. ++++++++++ evening, just as it was becoming dark, we heard rumblings. I know ++++++++++ are doing a good job. We are told that it won’t be long ++++++++++++++++
Now, my boy, I’ve got some bad news to pass on. We believe Elisabeth’s been killed in an air-raid but she couldn’t have suffered for it all happened so quickly. Siege was not with her at the time. I believe he was with his grandmother on the other side of town and as far as we know, he is safe and well.
Look after yourself.
Your Uncle Karl.’
Much of the letter had been censored.
Poor Elisabeth, Hans thought. Herr and Frau Kohler did not write to tell me. It is possible they are still in shock.
He felt cold but he could not bring himself to feel an overwhelming sense of loss. It was as though Elisabeth was a stranger and he had just read about her death in a newspaper.
How dreadful I feel so little. In truth, they had hardly got to know each other. He wondered if his reaction would be similar if he had heard it had been Miss Turner or Jan killed in an air-raid. There was still the odd air attack over British soil but he had not heard of many. Not now.
Hans hoped that the end had been swift and that Elisabeth had not suffered. Then, his thoughts turned to Siege. His little son would be two years old by now. He had kept a small photo in his top pocket of the child but that was taken six months ago. He hoped the child was still alive. Uncle Karl had written that the child was safe but the date on the letter indicated that it had been written some time ago and with the daily air-raids over Germany, anything could have happened.
The reminder of his son brought back memories that he also had a daughter and she was here in England. What a father he had been to his two children! He had not meant to be an absent parent. It just happened that way. It upset him that Andrea would only know him by a name as she had been too young to remember him. Sure, he was her father but a father without a face. That is how he is for his little son: a father without a face. Hans cursed himself. He should have been there with Elisabeth, too. Isn’t that what marriage and family is all about? To be together!. But he wasn’t! He wasn’t there to protect them. He was a prisoner. What a mess this war had created!
The camp comprised of several large brick blocks, probably once used as a mill. Within the barbed-wire enclosure were the army tents which accommodated the lower ranks. They were bitterly cold when temperatures dropped or when the cold winds whipped up around their flimsy sides. Hans was luckier as his bed, together with others of higher ranks, was in a small round corrugated-iron Nissan-hut but there was little space to be private or to get away from the other men. Private letters and pictures were hidden under pillows or poked between mattresses and bed boards. The only decently large building in the complex was the dining area; another Nissan-hut but far larger than the one he slept in. the men referred to it as the Hanger, for they reckoned they could fit several large Heinkel bombers inside.
Hans often visited the tent of Feldwebel Luttow, a man who had been captured not far from Liege six months ago. He also had family north of Berlin and he had heard that bombing had been extremely heavy in that part as the Allies sent wave after wave, a constant stream of bombers to Germany to destroy as much of the Führer’s capital as they could, to lay to waste the German cities as Germany had done to so many other cities across Europe. Hans had had time to reflect and he wondered what madness had driven them all into this killing and destruction.
It was freezing cold trying to huddle under the few blankets Luttow had been given, for the sides of the tents offered little resistance for the raw English winter. Hans had received a small food parcel sent on to him by Jan. It had made a pleasant surprise. He decided to share with Luttow. It would make the cold more bearable. And Luttow had made himself a calendar, his Advents Calendar, he called it. Each day, he prayed, for Luttow was a religious man and never did want to do any harm to his fellow man. And day after day he crossed off the number, watching them get closer and closer to the birth of Christ.
“There’s always hope at Christmas, Major. Life has to be blessed even just for one day. I’ve made an application for Christmas dinner. For both of us. Anything to get out beyond these walls.”
“Application, Luttow?”
“Ja. Didn’t you see the notice on the dining room wall?” Hans shook his head. Not that he’d taken much notice of the notice board lately. “It was there last night,” Luttow informed him with pleasure. “Right in the centre.”
Now that Luttow mentioned it, Hans did catch a glimpse of a new sheet of paper that had been pinned on the board just inside the mess Nissan hut but he’d been too occupied in his thoughts to have taken much notice of it. When he checked after his discussion with Luttow, he saw that it said that applications could be made by prisoners who wished to accept an invitation to enjoy Christmas dinner with an English family who lived in the area. How thoughtful.
Christmas carols could be heard coming out of the loud-speaker system in the room. Hans was reminded of the Christmases in England. There was one he could remember as if it were yesterday: the one where Gerald and Anne, Loppy, Robert, himself and Caroline had been invited round to an afternoon tea of carol singing with Jan and her aunt. It was the last time they had all been together and the flood of memories brought prickly tears into his eyes. He swallowed deeply. It was all he could do to stop the welling he could feel.
Life in the twenties was so much easier than now, he thought. We had our lives ahead of us and we all knew our place in the world. Where did we go wrong to get into such a mess? direction
To spend a Christmas with a family sounded too good to be true. But Luttow had seen it in black and white. To be allowed outside these barricades other than to work in the fields ¨C that was the stuff dreams were made of. But there it was an invitation to prisoners of war from British families who were willing to extend the hand of reconciliation and friendship.
He must thank Luttow for thinking of him. Then just before he found Luttow, he was handed a letter. He recognised Jan’s handwriting and tore it open. Jan told him that she had made arrangements with the camp Commander for him to spend the day with her. She would be his ‘English’ fa
mily. How she had managed to get through all the red-tape, he couldn’t even begin to know but she had written that everything was in order and the necessary papers had been stamped and signed. What she did not tell him was that she had booked herself into a small bed and breakfast for the holiday period and that would be the place she would be taking him.
The week and a half dragged by. It was worse than waiting for any order to come through from army headquarters. Life in the camp moved at such a slow pace and the pauses between each hour seemed endless.
Now was Christmas Eve and the weather had turned bitterly cold. Nurse Turner produced her identity credentials for the guard on the main gate and waited for a soldier to escort her to the Commander’s office. One of his officers was on duty.
The small room was heated by an upright kerosene fire that stood in one of the corners. Even so, the tin-clad building was not particularly warm and the officer invited Jan over to the heater so that she could stand and warm her numb fingers. She had brought an extra thick army coat she had managed to borrow for Hans as she did not think the town locals would be pleased to see her accompanying a German uniform. People may think them spies and call for the military police or Home Guard and that would most certainly upset all her plans.
The officer sent a guard into the prisoners’ quarters to find Major Resmel and bring him to the office. Then, everything would depend on Jan; her ability to make sure the day went smoothly together with the prompt return of the Major at 22.00 hours.
“It’s good of you to offer one of the prisoners the chance to savour a little of Christmas,” the officer said as soon as the guard left. He was stamping his feet on the cold floorboards, trying to fathom out why such a nurse would be making such an offer. “Awfully cold out there, today. Wouldn’t be surprised if we didn’t have a bit of snow.” He looked out through the small window pane up into a mono-textured grey sky outside. “Later, I reckon. Cold enough for it.”
“Might do.”
Jan was not in the talking mood to say much more. She began to rub life and warmth back into her pale fingers. They started to tingle and ache.
“It’s cold enough in here to freeze the balls off a brass monkey,” he commented. “Bad enough in ’ere. Goodness knows what they must be feeling in those huts!”
“Or not feeling as the case may be,” she answered in a dry tone.
The soldier smirked. As an active duty nurse, this woman would have heard it all; and seen it all. Nothing would shock her.
“Exactly!” He laughed a little. “Bloody cold, I should imagine.”
“What about the ones in the tents?” She had made note that at least some of the POWs had to make do with erected army tents. Only this time, they were not in the desert of North Africa. “Must be absolutely freezing out there for them.” She tucked her hands deep into her pockets.
“They’ve got a roof over their heads, haven’t they?” There was no hint of empathy in his comment. “Lucky to have that. Most of our lads over there in France have nought but stars above them. They’ve got luxury here compared with our lads.”
“Is it normal to put up tents?” she wanted to know.
“Not normal. Ran out of Nissan-hut accommodation for the last intake. Now it’s a case of make do with what’s offered.”
“But the walls are so thin.”
“They’ve got heaters in each tent and blankets. They’re not too bad off. For Jerries. Should be grateful. After all, they started it so what do they expect!”
“Still, it can’t be very pleasant in those tents.”
She walked to the window and looked out. There was no sign of the guard or Hans. The officer reached for some papers on the Commander’s desk. He picked up the top two pages and began reading.
“I see you’re taking the Major out,” he said still glancing through the print on the page. “He wouldn’t be one of those under canvas. The lower ranks get that.” The officer lowered his hand that was holding the papers. “Major, eh?” His eyes looked Jan in the face. “Hope this one appreciates what you are doing.”
“He will. I know he will,” she answered curtly.
“Hope you’re right! Don’t trust these Nazi sods. Can be quite tricky so be aware.”
Jan ignored his last remark. She could hear footsteps approaching and then the NCO flung open the door.
“Major Resmel, sir.”
“Thank you, Private.” The English officer quickly placed his hat on his head and faced the prisoner who had just come in. He saluted. “Major.”
The major came to attention and clicked his heels. He saluted first the officer and then the nurse.
“Lieutenant.”
The Major removed his cap.
“Everything’s in order, Major. Lucky man. Aren’t our people good to make such an offer?” Hans nodded but said nothing, all the while keeping his eyes on Jan. The officer continued, “Good, then. We’ll expect you back in barracks by 22.00 hours when your parole expires. I trust you to keep your word, one officer to another, and not let the lady down.”
“Twenty two hundred hours.” The major nodded. “I shall be here.”
“Good. This lady’s brought you a coat. I suggest to wear it. You can leave yours here.”
“I’d prefer to keep it with me, thank you. But I will wear this one. Don’t want to be taken for a spy. Might be shot, eh?” He laughed a little but his joke fell on deaf ears.
“Thank you, Lieutenant.” Jan put on her hat and gave him a quick salute. “I’ve got a driver waiting outside.” She turned to Hans. “Are you ready, Major?”
Major Resmel replaced his cap, clicked his heels, saluted his fellow officer once more and followed his escort out of the building.
They were driven for five or six miles to the outskirts of town. Hans noticed several damaged buildings without roofs and guessed that they had been hit during one of the air raids. As they drove past, Jan mentioned that she, too, had heard about Elisabeth’s death, and even though she knew that Hans had not been close to his wife, she did remember to express her regret.
“Thank you. I see your families suffer in the same way: your bombs, our bombs; what’s the difference?”
She didn’t answer but continued to look out of the small window by the back seat.
“Here we are!” she announced. “We’ve arrived. I think you’d better keep the army coat on that I brought for you, Hans.”
The car had pulled up outside a very modest building. Its front windows had heavy dark curtains which had been pulled together. Hans noticed the glass was protected with criss-cross tape and guessed that it had been done to prevent the panes shattering should a bomb fall near by. He thought everything appeared secluded and drab as though each house was trying to camouflage itself and become one with the greyness of its surroundings.
He sat in the rear of the car and exchanged his own army coat for the English one. He pushed his cap through one of the shoulder straps of his uniform jacket. As he stepped out of the vehicle, he pulled up the coat collar and sank his head downwards into its protective fabric. Jan gave instructions to the driver and then, together, they walked up to the door and rang the bell.
“It’s all right, Hans. The owner knows. He’s made a small room available for us. We can sit and eat there without being disturbed. So, once inside, it’s fine to remove the coat.”
A servant led them through the dark, narrow corridors of the house until they came to a small room somewhere near the back of the building. They entered. The first thing he saw were the dark black-out curtains hanging loosely to one side of each window. It brought the reality of being on the receiving end of a bombing raid, even if the bombs were being dropped by pilots from his own side, very much closer to him. For a minute he felt foreign and uncomfortable but then Jan’s familiar voice curtailed his thoughts.
“Give me your coat. It can go here.” She indicated several coat hooks alongside the door. “You can take that army coat off as well and I will hang it on this hook. Then we
can go inside.”
The small room was cosy and warm, and smelt somewhat smoky from burning coal. It brought back memories of the Turner house and he half-expected the elderly lady to come walking through the door.
“Here, put your hat over there.” Jan pointed to a small cupboard with a set of drawers. He laid his cap on the surface and walked across the room closer to the fire.
“Pleased?” she asked, joining him. They stood side by side looking at the pale blue and red flames flickering between the black, shiny coal lumps.
“Yes. I am.” He held out his hands towards the fire to warm them. There was a homeliness about everything which he felt deep inside. He had not felt it for a long time.
“Like a drink?”Jan asked holding up a sealed bottle.
“Thanks.” He was overwhelmed by the normality of everything. “What is it?”
“Sherry.”
“Do you want me to open it for you?” he asked.
“No, thank you. I can manage.”
She left his side and carried the bottle over to the table and picked up the bottle opener. There was a hissing sigh as the cork was loosened. He watched her intently and, for the first time, he noticed that the table had already been set but it had been set for three.
He was about to ask her who the other person might be but Jan got in first.
“Oh, I see you have noticed. Well, I’m not going to tell you. Not yet. How much sherry?”
She picked up one of the glasses.
“How much am I allowed?”
“As much as you want.” The way she answered sounded as though there was a cellar full of the liquid. She laughed and poised the neck of the bottle over the rim of the glass.
“Fill it up then.”
Jan poured his glass first and then her own. She brought them over to the fire.
“Prost!”
He clicked his heels together and held the filled glass above his head.
“Cheers!”
Each of them celebrated in their own secret way; neither of them divulged their innermost thoughts to the other. Jan bent down and stood her wine glass down on the edge of the hearth. She stood again and walked over to a small gramophone that had been placed on the sideboard top and turned it on. Vera Lynn’s voice crooned liltingly from the speaker.
We’ll meet again, don’t know where, don’t know when but I know we’ll meet again some sunny day . . .
He ignored its implication. As the song came to its end and the voice of the singer faded away, he stretched his shoulders and made the comment that the table was set and ready. He pointed in a way that indicated it was how he expected it to be: knife, fork, spoon, plate.
“But . . . three?” He paused and waited for an answer but she stood before him grinning like the Cheshire cat from Alice in Wonderland. And her felt as confused as Alice as his eyes sought her face for any hint. It was unbearable. He was beginning to feel tortured. “Who? Who else is coming, Jan?” he pleaded.
“You’ll see.”
He felt the smile sit on his shoulder. As he turned his head to check the fire, Jan disappeared just like the Cheshire cat. He did a complete one-hundred and eighty turn and there she was again. Still smiling at him. It was infuriating.
She reached backwards and pulled a crimson tasselled rope that was hanging from the ceiling.
“You’ll see soon enough, Hans Resmel,” she laughed. “Just wait and all will be revealed.” She sided up to him and arched her back as she stood on tip-toe and whispered into his ear. “Curiosity killed the cat. Be patient and enjoy the moment. Want some more wine?”
“I haven’t finished what’s in my glass yet.” He took another few sips as Jan bent down and retrieved hers from the hearth.
“To us!” she exclaimed.
They talked about the old days as they continued to sip their wine. Hans added a few extra coal lumps to the fire and then turned around so that he could more easily take in the entire room. He noted that it was larger than he had first thought, more like a small lounge or living room, for it had several mellow paintings and a grandmother pendulum clock on the far wall behind the table. He listened, soaking up the atmosphere of its quietness, the dull sound of the tick-tock and the occasional hiss and crack from the fire. A mellow yellow glow from the overhead light mingled with the patterns of dancing shapes over the wallpaper as the flames flickered behind the grating. The room was filled with a softness which even made the hard wooden surfaces of the sideboard and table appear welcoming. It was all very English and for once he appreciated its familiarity.
“I never knew how much I missed it,” he said.
“Missed what?”
“English way of life,” he answered. “It is so strange. I felt such an outsider when I first came to England. Now it’s almost like returning home.”
Jan laughed. It was a really happy laugh.
“And you say that standing here in that uniform!”
She touched the insignia on his uniform. He grinned.
“It is rather ironic, isn’t it?”
“So much is these days.”
“I think it was ironic before, too,” he answered.
“Well, you were so anti-everything back then. Not at all English!”
“I am partly. Remember, my grandmother.”
“I guess that gives you a foothold. Fancy aunt knowing her!” Jan took several large gulps from her wine glass. “Gosh, didn’t we cross words when you were at my aunt’s?”
“Doch! Yes! Funny, looking back on those times. We’re not the same. We’ve changed. Seen both the bad and the good side of life.”
“There’s got to be more of the good to look forward to, don’t you think?”
“I hope so. When this war’s finished and we get back our lives . . . .”
He was about to continue when there was a knock at the door. Jan hurried across the room and opened it.
“Come in. Don’t be shy. He’s not going to eat you.”
A girl, somewhere about fourteen or fifteen walked in. She wore a dark blue jacket and pleated skirt and had small, black leather shoes that buckled on one side. Her eyes caught Hans’ attention. Blue and bright, bluer than even his own eyes. Her light brunette hair hung in soft waves to just below her earlobes so that the up swept ends seemed to frame her young face as if in a gentle embrace. She stood in the doorway, clutching a small black, leather handbag close to her breast.
Jan took the girl gently by the hand and escorted her into the room. Hans was most eager to know who she was.
“This is your daughter, Hans.” Jan let go the girl’s hand but did not move away from her side.
“Andrea?” He exclaimed, his voice going up several tones. Hans was astounded for he had forgotten how much the child would have grown since he last saw her. And now when he looked more closely, he could see the photograph likeness to Caroline when she had been a child. And yes, there was something there he recognised from his own mother: the two small dimples when she smiled. “Andrea.”
He was too amazed to say anything more. Jan put her arm reassuringly around Andrea’s shoulder.
“Say hello to your father, Andrea.” She laughed. “See, he’s quite real.”
Politely, the girl held out her hand. It was a reserved gesture and it shook his insides up a little. He stood in disbelief, unsure of what to say for fear of how she would react. It took him several minutes to gather his thoughts together and take the girl’s hand. It was cool and trembling.
“Andrea! Please . . . ”
He could feel tears of joy welling up in his eyes and he really longed to wrap his arms around her slim youthful body. But both actions and words failed him. The lump stuck hard in his throat as his face muscles tightened around his jaw. He had never felt such a strong emotion as this before. No, never. He let her hand drop and they stood facing each other as if eternity had no span. Andrea moved only her eyes in Jan’s direction.
“It’s all right, Andrea.”
“I’m so
sorry!” Hans blurted out as a wave of remorse surged through him. “I didn’t mean to leave you. Believe me, I would have been a good father to you had I been able to remain in England. Life just did not go the way I had planned.”
“You did not completely abandoned Andrea,” Jan added, indicating they move closer to the fireplace where they could sit down. “It was your father who paid for your education, Andrea and provided money for you to go on that holiday when you were eleven.”
“I know. Aunty told me.”
The girl kept her eyes on her father but she sat down very close to Jan on the small settee, seeking reassurance from the woman she had known all her life.
Hans sat opposite and noticed the way Andrea was observing him.
“Oh dear, I hope my uniform doesn’t frighten you. Does it?”
Andrea shook her head. When she smiled, there were Great-grandmother’s dimples.
“What uniform is that?” When she spoke she sounded so English.
“It’s a German one,” he answered. “Afrika Korps.”
“Does that mean you’re a Nazi?” she asked, as she raised her eyebrows and looked as if she were staring at him. Andrea faced Jan. “Mr Churchill says the Nazis are bad. They want to kill us.” She turned her head back in her father’s direction. “Are you like that?”
Hans laughed.
“No, I’m not a Nazi. I am just a soldier who was called up to fight for his country.”
“Like Uncle Gerald?”
“Who?”
Jan leaned forward and spoke.
“Don’t say you have forgotten your English friends already, Hans Gerald! Remember, Anne’s husband.”
“That Gerald,” he answered.
“Andrea’s known them all her life and calls him Uncle Gerald.”
“I see. Yes, just like Uncle Gerald.”
It felt as if he knew them in another world; not in the crazy one that had upturned the world that had been created now.
“That’s all right, then! I like Uncle Gerald. He flies aeroplanes.” Andrea laughed. She was more relaxed and sounded more perky than before. Jan said something quietly to Andrea and then got up and moved away.
Hans was relieved that his daughter accepted his uniform and was relaxed about their meeting. With the ice broken and the formalities over, they could sit and enjoy the warmth, taking time to get to know each other. There were so many missing years to fill in.
“When I knew I was going to meet you, Aunty has told me that you were from Germany.” Andrea screwed up her nose and half closed her eyes so that she looked kitten-like.
“I grew up in Austria and in Germany,” he answered leaning back comfortably into the softness of the well-padded armchair.
“Did you meet my real mother in Germany?” Andrea asked after she had had time to digest what he had just told her.
“No. Your mother was English. Her name was Caroline.”
“Real English? From here?”
“Yes.”
“And your surname is Resmel?”
“Correct.”
A puzzled look crossed her face.
“But my name is Andrea Crawford-Turner. Was that my mother’s name?”
“No. Crawford was your great-grandmother’s name and Turner . . . ”
“That’s auntie’s name. And Jan’s.” Andrea said it quite naturally as if she had quite accepted the situation. “But am I a Resmel as well?”
“You are, Andrea. One day, when the war has ended, I’ll take you to Austria and show you where your grandmother and great-grandmother lived in Salzburg. It’s so beautiful, there, Andrea. There are mountains and a river: the Salzach River. Have you heard of Mozart?” The girl looked a little puzzled.”
“Mozart wrote that music I played the other day,” Jan commented from the other side of the room.
“Oh.” Andrea smiled. “On the piano?”
“Yes. And he was born in Salzburg, like your grandfather.”
“Were you born in Mozart’s house, too?” Andrea wanted to know.
Hans laughed. He loved her innocence.
“No. But I was born not that far away, Neither am I as famous as Mozart. Never-the-less, I’d still love to take you there.”
“Can Jan come, too?” Andrea twisted the handle of her bag between her fingers. Hans looked over towards Jan who was putting things on to the table.
“Of course. I’ll take you both. Look, I’ve got a photo in my jacket pocket of me when I was a boy.” He walked over to where his uniform jacket had been placed and unclipped one of the pockets. He pulled out a small wallet and took out a photograph. “Would you like to see? I was a lot younger than you are now. I am standing outside my grandmother’s house.”
He returned to his chair and held out the photograph for her to take. She hesitated and looked towards Jan.
“Do you want to see, Jan?”
“It’s all right, Andrea. I will look at it later.”
Hans was beginning to realise how close Jan was to his daughter. But then, he remembered that Jan had told him her aunt had taken over the care of the child when it was school holiday time and so she and Jan were the only family she had known. Andrea handed the picture back and Hans was just about to lead his daughter over to his jacket, when Jan intercepted him and laid a hand on his arm.
“Give her time, Hans. We didn’t tell her everything, you understand. With the war on, and all. We didn’t want the others treating her any differently so we use to tell her that her father was fighting overseas and had no leave. Like others in the overseas forces. Many other children never see their fathers so for Andrea it was no different. She needs time to adjust to all the new information.”
“Yes, I see. I can see the sense in telling her that. But now that she realises who I really am, do you think it will cause her a problem?”
“I don’t think so. She’s a bright girl. She’ll be able to cope.”
“You have no objection to me showing her other photographs, then?”
Jan shook her head and returned to the table. Hans walked back to Andrea. He asked for her permission to sit next to her on the couch and began to take out other old photographs from the wallet. He handed another to his daughter.
“That’s me and that’s my brother, Uncle Renard. That’s your Uncle Axel when he was a baby and that’s my mother, your grandmother. Father ah, your grandfather is the man standing at the back.” He handed her yellowing photograph of the relatives she had no knowledge of. The photo was a smaller copy of one that had been taken in a studio when Papi was home on leave. He was in uniform at the time. It was the only one he had of his family and because he had carried it with him wherever he was, it was ragged and bent at the edges.
Andrea studied the photograph most carefully, turning it towards the light of the fire so that its surface was easier to see.
“That’s you?” she asked pointing to the younger slight-built child.
“Correct.”
She drew the photo closer to her face and inspected it as though she were looking at something through a microscope. After a while, she looked back up at her father again and giggled. Then, she dropped her head and returned to the the figures in the picture. They looked so strange and yet she felt a familiarity with them. She kept looking at her grandmother, the young mother in the photograph, until she raised her head again.
“Was she born here?” Andrea wanted to know.
“No. It was her mother. My grandmother.”
Hans took another photo from his wallet. It was very faded. A woman in the middle of her age peered out at Andrea through a cracked eggshell veil. The shut doors behind her were made from timber and were so high they made the woman look small.
“Was she a tiny person?” Andrea looked from the photo to her father and back to the photo.
“Not especially,” he replied. “That is grandmother Crawford and she was born in England.”
“My name has Crawford in it,” Andrea commented. As she handed back the pictur
e, she screwed up her eyes and laughed. Her dimples reappeared and Hans immediately thought of his mother. Maybe Grandmother Crawford had dimples, too, when she was younger. He smiled at the girl and she allowed him to pat her on the shoulder.
“Thank you, Andrea.”
She watched while he tucked all the photographs back into his wallet and then replaced the wallet in his pocket.
“What do those things mean?”
She pointed to the stripes on the collar of his uniform.
“That means I’m a Major.”
“That sounds very important,” she commented with an air of wonder.”
“Not any more, for me at least. I now do as I’m told.” He pulled a funny face and dropped his voice almost to a whisper as if it were a secret just between her and him. “Don’t you have to do that, too?”
She giggled at the thought. The ice between them had been broken and she accepted him as if she had known him all her life.
“Now, my Little one” he said. “You’ve heard all about me. Let me hear everything about yourself.”
Jan rejoined them and now with Jan’s help, Andrea told her father about her school and friends, the things she liked doing and about the day when the large bomb landed and exploded near to the house. The chatter completely shattered any concerns he had and before long all three were laughing and enjoying the last few minutes of the morning, until, as the clock was chiming mid-day, there was a knock at the door. Three maids brought in the food for their Christmas dinner.
“Come on you two. Come and eat before it gets cold.”
Hans was the first to get up. Hans’ eyes must have betrayed his surprise, for as soon as they had all sat down, Andrea leaned across the table towards him.
Jan began dishing out the vegetables. She poured thick gravy over the piece of goose that had been previously cut off the bird and handed Hans the plate of food.
“Excuse me, father. Did they feed you real food in the army?”
“Of course. Not as good as this, though. This smells delicious and looks good, too. I can’t wait to try it.”
“What did you have to eat?”
“Dried potato. Cheese and biscuits. Tins of sauerkraut. Sardines. They were a treat. When we were lucky to get them. Oh, and tinned sausages on special days. You must try a real German one, Andrea.”
She giggled a little and looked at Jan and wanted to know more.
“Was that all? It doesn’t sound like much,” Andrea commented screwing up her nose at the thought.
“Well, when we really wanted a feast, we’d raid the Tommies.”
Jan picked up on his last comment by did not say anything. She knew full well that there were some serious raids made on their food depots, for as rations became scarcer, those in the Afrika Korps acted like rats and took what they could, when they could.
“Try some stuffing, Hans. It’s English but this time, it’s freely offered. Here’s the spoon.”
Jan passed over a bowl and he lifted out a small amount and put it on the side of his plate. Hans thought that it was no wonder Germany was losing the war if the British could afford to eat like this. Even when he was home on during his last leave, the rationing had been most severe and he did not like to think about the conditions this year. There were things now on his plate that he had not seen, let alone tasted for years.
All the food had been well prepared. It tasted wonderful. He realised that meat was heavily rationed in England so he was puzzled as to where the slices of goose had come from. Had they been bought on the black market? He didn’t even know if there was such a thing here. Then, they even had crackers. Real home made ones. Jan told him they had been made by Miss Turner and Andrea. And so, here he was, sitting at a table with the two people he loved most in this world, with a funny paper hat perched on the top of his head and, in between mouthfuls of delicious food, blowing through a tiny tin whistle and laughing like a little boy. Plum pudding and custard. The last time he had eaten this, was . . . it must have been before Andrea was born. And when he found the small farthing pieces, he handed them over to Andrea with a hearty ‘Merry Christmas.’
But this was not a usual festive time and before long, the pressures of war crept into the conversation again.
“Did you ever kill anyone when you were a soldier?” The pupils in the girl’s eyes grew large with curiosity.
“Possibly, who knows. It’s not that I wanted to. You must understand that where there are guns . . . ”
The inquisitive girl did not wait for him to finish.
“Did you fly any aeroplanes or drop bombs on to the houses? I saw a bomb land one day and it was so scary.”
He was reminded of the terrible devastation he had seen in Europe after the Luftwaffe had attacked the cities in Poland. One had a completely different perspective on the ground. He had been told of the bombing Andrea had witnessed and all he could think of was how relieved he was that she had not been hurt.
“No, Andrea. I didn’t drop any bombs.”
“What did you do?”
“Most of the time I rode round in vehicles. And, for a short time, I worked with the people my army had caught.”
“Pee-oh-double-yous,” Andrea said slowly. “Prisoners of war.”
“That’s how I met Jan. She was in a camp hospital.”
“I know,” she said without blinking an eye at the thought. “Jan has already told me. I’m glad you met her.”
Andrea gave Jan a smile that told Hans the two were very close. He was pleased about that. It would make things easier for them when this war was over. It was a strange feeling for everyone, for their respective countries had put more of a division between them than they had done of their own making. Yet, in some way, it had brought them closer together, for he never would have thought he could feel for Jan Turner as he was feeling now.
It proved to be a memorable afternoon. They sat and played games; they talked and laughed. Jan poured out cups of tea and it was just like any pre-war family afternoon. Then, Jan delved into a large canvas bag she had brought with her and handed out the Christmas presents.
“It’s not much, Hans. There’s a war on, you know. But I managed to save my ration coupons and get you something from my heart.”
“Jan, this really is too much. What can I say? This was not expected.” Hans unrolled the paper from around the soft parcel. Inside, was a beautiful leather wallet with his name engraved on the front. “Thank you. I’ll make sure I keep this with me, always.”
He shuffled over to where she was sitting and kissed her on her cheek. There was a long pause while they remained looking into each others eyes. Andrea coughed loud enough to catch Jan’s attention. Hans suspected there was some form of silent communication going on between the two. Jan rummaged around in her bag again, drew out a plain wrapped parcel and handed it to Andrea.
“For you . . . father.” She walked over to her father and dropped her present into his lap. ‘Father:’ the word was gift enough. He turned it over and over, not wanting to break the magic of the moment. “Aren’t you going to open it?”
Her eyes were wide with anticipation. He laughed easily.
“Yes, of course. Are you going to tell me what’s inside?”
“No! Of course not! It’s something I’ve made.”
“And you made it for me?”
Andrea nodded and leaned forward, elbows resting on her knees and watched him intently. She did not take her eyes off the soft, immobile bundle still lying in his lap. Slowly he began unwrapping it, turning it over, making funny little comments which made he laugh.
“Will it bite?”
“No.”
“Will it jump out to escape?” He winked at Jan who was finding it difficult not to burst out laughing.
“No! It’s not alive!”She giggled.
He enjoyed playing games like this. He remembered his own mother teasing them like this when he and his brothers were children.
As the last piece of wrapping paper fl
uttered on to the carpet, he began to unfold something very long and very colourful. It was soft and warm.
“Ah, it’s a scarf! Just right for those cold nights. Many, many thanks, Andrea.” He wound the colourful scarf around his neck covering the insignia on his shirt collar. “So many colours. And it will keep me warm.”
His daughter found his behaviour amusing and she folded over in a convulsion of giggles.
“Wool’s hard to get,” she finally managed to say. “I had to unpick old jumpers and things to get enough to make it.”
“It’s still very good. Thank you. Who taught you to knit?”
“Aunty.”
Hans remembered what Miss Turner had told him about the man she was to marry. She had been knitting for him when she heard of his death.
What a strange world. The thought brought back the connection he and Andrea had to the retired school mistress. Miss Turner could have easily been his aunt, so it was natural and proper that Andrea call her aunty.
As daylight faded during late afternoon, the darkness outside became impenetrable and it was more and more difficult to decipher any shapes the other side of the window, and turning one’s focus inward. Hans began to realise how little he really knew about his own child: her experiences and memories, her friends and her life. The war had taken away so much: the joys of family and fatherhood. He and his daughter were strangers. He wondered whether he could bridge the huge gap that had yawed open between them. It pleased him that Andrea had found someone to love and care for her and during the afternoon, he had been lucky enough to see how well Andrea and Jan related to each other; not like friends, nor as sisters but more like mother and daughter. As he watched them together, his heart began to grow fonder for the English woman he had known for almost half his life.
“Come, Andrea, give your father a hug.” Jan looked at the clock on the mantelpiece. “Time for a return to reality. Our car will be here in a few minutes. Your father is still a prisoner of war and I have to get him back on time.”
Hans picked up his jacket and began buttoning up the front of it. Jan handed over the heavy British overcoat.
“Better put this one on over the top again. Just as well to be safe until we get you back inside.” She turned to Andrea. “I shouldn’t be long. You’ll be fine on your own?”
The girl nodded.
“No planes will be over tonight, Jan. Too cloudy. I can always ring for room service.”
Hans was lost for words. He’d only just found his daughter and the thought of any raid shook him up. His daughter was so precious. and he did not want to lose her.
The army driver arrived exactly to the minute. Army time. So punctual. Jan and Hans sat in the back. The car picked up speed as they got to the main road. There was still a blackout and the vehicle headlights had little hoods over them so that they would not be seen from the air. It made driving more difficult and dangerous but people managed. In wartime, you coped with anything.
“I still don’t know how you managed it, Jan.”
“You are not the only prisoner of war to be invited into a British home for Christmas,” she explained. “It is the closest we can be to being a family. Did you enjoy it?”
Hans patted her on her knee. It was the most he dared do with the driver sitting directly in front of them.
“Wonderful day, many thanks.”
They sat quiet for a few minutes peering into the pitch black outside the windows. It was impossible to tell whether one were still in town or driving along a country road. How the driver was able to stay on the road was beyond belief.
One thing that had been puzzling Hans was how Jan and her aunt had managed to be guardians for Andrea so long. He broached the subject with Jan as the car crawled along the roadway.
“When the Blitz hit London,” she said. “many of the records were destroyed. Then, with things being topsy-turvy . . .”
“Topsy-turvy?” he asked. He had never come across that expression before.
“All mixed up,” she explained. “It was easy to fill in forms I knew would never be checked on. I said Andrea was my love child and that’s why aunt wanted to care for her. That’s why her name is recorded as Crawford-Turner. Caroline’s father never wanted anything to do with his grand-daughter. He never forgave Caroline for what she did. Anyway, I managed to get a pass for Andrea to share Christmas with us. And once we had that pass, the rest was easy.”
“I do appreciate what you have done, Jan and don’t know how to thank you. You realise you’ve made me very happy?”
“It’s made me very happy, too, Hans, to see you two together.”
The car rounded a corner and the vehicle’s headlights lit up part of the high barbed-wire gates of the POW camp. Hans reached along the seat until he found Jan’s hand. He squeezed it gently, urging her to shift a little closer towards him but not too much or their driver might become suspicious. The next moment, the car slowed and came to a halt. The duty guard checked the papers and then the gates yawned open and it was like being expelled from some giant mouth as they drove out of the civilian blackness and into the lit quadrangle of the British Army’s prisoner of war camp.
“Jan, I wish . . . .” But he did not finish for the driver opened his door and got out.
Hans released Jan’s hand but did not make an immediate effort to get out of the vehicle. The driver was occupied with handing over the travelling documents concerning the return of the prisoner and Hans knew he had only a short time left before the rear door would be opened and he would be told to exit. He wrapped his arm around Jan’s shoulders and drew her closer until he could sense her breath. Her face was so close now, that to reach her glasses, she had to slide her fingers upwards, lightly brushing his cheek as she did so. As she gently pushed the frame, the memory of its familiarity touched his heart. Their lips touched and he could sense her willingness to respond. He kissed her deeply and passionately. He felt tingling pleasure pulse throughout his body. She returned his kiss and he knew at once by the intensity, that she really did love and care for him.
Quite a few families this year had opened up their homes during this Christmas. They had been willing to extend the goodwill of the festive season to those who were considered their enemy. The prisoner of war camps had allowed well-behaved prisoners to enjoy these few hours. Yet none had enjoyed themselves quite as much as Major Erwin Hans Resmel.