Beyond the Storm

by Diana Finley

  ‘You must agree, we have not been close for many years. I’m not saying this is totally your fault … but there it is.’

  ‘I must agree? What if I do not agree?’

  ‘I do not want to hurt you any more than necessary, but really you have no choice. You have not produced children for me, or … er … for the Führer. I’m sure you know that under the infertility laws, I can divorce you immediately. I will be marrying Carla, my … fiancée.’

  ‘Oh, Carla? And how old is Carla?’

  ‘Really, Helga, that is no business of yours. It happens that Carla is thirty. She is very eager to have children. Of course, I too long for children – and Germany needs children.’

  ‘This longing seems to have developed only recently, Klaus.’

  ‘Now, Helga, there is no need for any unpleasantness. I have considered your welfare in this situation at all times. I want to tell you that it was my wish for you to have the house in the Harz Mountains to keep for yourself.’ Klaus paused to gauge the effect of this generosity on Helga.

  ‘Yes, I know you’ve always been fond of it. But, of course, Carla pointed out to me that this was not in the spirit of party policy – and after considering the matter, I had to agree. Furthermore, we realised we might well need this house if our marriage is blessed with children.’

  Stunned, Helga could take in little more of what Klaus was saying. She walked slowly from the room as if in a dream, a nightmare. She put up no further arguments and made no fuss. She did not want to see Klaus again, and he was relieved to keep out of her way. Within the week, she left the house she had grown up in and loved so much, never to return. Her sole possessions were one small suitcase and two thousand Reichsmarks. She wandered from one cheap lodging house to another, numbing her pain with alcohol and cigarettes. By 1945, only a few Marks remained, and by that time they were almost worthless.

  Helga was saved from total destitution by her own former cook, Lena, now retired and living on the outskirts of her home town of Berlin. Lena had lost both her sons to the war. Her husband, a butcher, was sent to the Russian front at the age of fifty-nine. As German manpower became seriously depleted, the military recruited boys as young as twelve and men up to sixty years of age into the Volkssturm. Lena’s husband was killed late in 1944. Her house, badly damaged in the relentless bombing, was little more than a shell. When Helga knocked at her door, Lena gave her refuge and taught her the only thing she knew about: how to cook. There were few ingredients available on which to practise. The two women formed a close bond in their mutual loneliness and distress. They scratched a living in what remained of Lena’s house. Many nights they retreated to the freezing cellar, where they huddled under a heavy table, embracing one another for comfort and warmth, as bombs screamed and crashed nearby, and rubble and dust drifted downwards all around them like a cloud of spring petals.

  Helga regularly made soups from whatever she could obtain: a handful of bones begged from a friendly butcher, a few potatoes, some shrivelled vegetables, wild mushrooms, nettles or sorrel. Lena jokingly nicknamed Helga ‘Maggi’, after the soup firm.

  Maggi became her new name. Helga liked it. Helga no longer existed – she did not deserve to. She would never again be Helga. Maggi was the name she brought to the Lawrence household, when she joined them in 1945 to take up her position of family cook. It was the name by which she would be known for the remainder of her life.

  Chapter 8

  The Officers’ Wives Group holds fortnightly coffee mornings or ‘bring and buy’ sales, events which Anna dreads and detests. The women take it in turns to host these occasions. As a Brigadier’s wife, not only is she required to participate during such gatherings, she is expected to take a lead as well. Reminiscent of her experiences with Constance in Surrey, there is a precise etiquette, a code of behaviour, a series of expectations, about which all the women, except Anna, appear to be fiercely aware. There is an assumption that she must also understand the rules; as the wife of a Brigadier, how could she not?

  Much of the system, she later learns, centres on rank. At the latest gathering, Anna commits a faux pas in relation to the observance of the hierarchy. She finds herself drawn to one or two women over and above others. Surely that is only natural, she believes, everyone likes some people better than others, and logically, some people less than others. In particular, Nancy Jordan is someone with whom she feels she could become friends. Nancy, about Anna’s age and with toddler twins of Ben’s age, is warm, friendly and unpretentious. She has a straightforward wit and intelligence. Anna feels a growing affection for her.

  As the women gather to say their goodbyes and thank Betty Swinburn for her hospitality, Anna grasps Nancy’s hands and invites her to come for coffee the following week, and to bring her children to play with Ben. This is overheard by several women, including Betty, who gives Anna a dark look.

  Mother has been staying with them for three months. Anna is thankful for her mother-in-law’s company, and particularly glad to be able to talk to her about the officers’ wives. She fights back rising tears. She stands up and paces the distance from the coffee table to the window and back again.

  ‘It’s so difficult, Winnie. I never will feel a part of their group, I’ll never belong. I don’t know if I even want to. I just seem to get everything wrong. If I behave coolly they think I’m snooty. If I try to be friendly it upsets them even more! Honestly, I wonder if I should just give up and not bother to go to their rotten gatherings.’

  ‘Well no, no. You mustn’t do that, my dear. That would just isolate you – it would put you in a very lonely position. And, it could harm Samuel too.’

  ‘Sam? What’s it got to do with Sam?’

  ‘Everything.’ Mother takes Anna’s hand and draws her down onto the sofa beside her. ‘Tell me, who is Betty Swinburn’s husband?’

  ‘Ted? He’s a Brigadier, like Sam. A small man, a bit stuffy and pompous. I’m not sure Sam likes him much.’

  Mother looks thoughtful. ‘Hmm. And Nancy Jordan’s husband?’

  ‘He’s called Stephen. Captain Stephen Jordan. He’s friendly and funny – yes, he’s awfully nice.’

  ‘Aha. How nice he is, is neither here nor there. What matters is that he is a mere Captain, and your invitation to his wife deeply offended Betty Swinburn. She’s bound to feel you should favour her, as a fellow Brigadier’s wife. After you’ve done justice to her, she might allow you to move on to the Colonels’ wives, and then perhaps the Majors’ wives – all before you even consider inviting Nancy.’

  ‘You mean they’re jealous?’

  ‘Indeed they are, dear girl.’

  ‘But how idiotic! What do I care what rank their husbands are? Can’t I choose my own friends? Surely I can see whomever I want, whenever I want? Must I be dictated to by a bunch of snobbish women?’ Tears of fury course down Anna’s cheeks.

  ‘Anna, darling. It has taken the British Army two hundred years to establish a strict hierarchical order, to which these women are adhering. You may regard it as idiotic, and you’re probably right, but you can’t expect to undermine the system on which a whole institution depends – some might say a whole nation depends – and not cause serious ructions!’

  Mother hands Anna a handkerchief. Anna blows her nose and shakes her head. She grins and gives a deep chuckle.

  ‘What power! I thought I was simply asking a pleasant woman and her children to come round for an afternoon. I had no idea I was undermining the whole British nation!’

  * * *

  For weeks Anna has remained at home, scarcely venturing beyond the garden walls. She strolls around the large garden with Ben toddling ahead. There’s plenty to interest him. He veers off to examine a flower, a tree or a dip in the path, often returning with a beetle, a worm or a pebble clutched in his hand to show her. The agony of being so restrained and limited by her surroundings begins to impel Anna to venture further afield. She pushes Ben in his pushchair half a mile along their leafy road, one day turning left
, another day to the right. After a week she is longing to extend her walks. She is ready to scream with frustration and boredom. Should she be a prisoner in her own home?

  Anna’s restlessness is disquieting for Sam too; it makes him nervous. He writes a list of streets and nearby areas that he feels are relatively safe for her to walk in, provided she takes Mother or Della for company. He draws detailed maps of their district of Berlin, with certain routes and sections marked ominously in red: those he regards as potentially dangerous and to be avoided.

  ‘It’s just while there are such appalling shortages – and the police aren’t fully up and running yet. It’s still the law of the jungle out there and I don’t want you taking any risks, especially at the moment.’ Sam runs his hand tenderly over the expanding curve of her stomach.

  Anna protests, but is secretly glad of Sam’s protection. Her desire to explore freely conflicts with a natural cautiousness, and her lingering distrust of the local population. She comments that it’s almost as though a yellow star suddenly appears emblazoned on her sleeve the moment she steps outside the safety of the house. Sam tries to reassure her that this particular fear is irrational.

  ‘No one here knows anything about your background. Their most likely assumption will be that you’re English – an English army wife.’

  ‘I’m not so sure. Maybe I don’t look very English. After all, Frau Hartmeyer clearly knew – or guessed. And as soon as I open my mouth they’ll know I’m not English.’

  As a precaution, Sam advises her to dress simply outside and not to carry large bags, which could invite attention. Instead he makes up a small paper package containing four cigarettes and a large pebble for added weight.

  ‘Carry this at all times in your pocket or handbag,’ he instructs her. ‘In the unlikely event that you are accosted by a dubious character, shout ‘cigarettes!’ and throw the package as far away from you as you can, preferably into a heap of rubble or some bushes. Then, while they go after it, you make a rapid escape.’

  Anna looks doubtful. Somehow, this plan does not make her feel any more secure. When she explains it to Della, her response is to smile wryly and sing a line of a slightly bawdy popular song:

  ‘T’ja, dann kann man’s laufen lernen, wenn man auch ni’t will …!’ ‘Oh yes, then you’ll learn to run fast, even if you don’t intend to …!’

  What a joy it is to walk. They find a park, muddy and neglected, but rich in shrubs and trees. Anna lifts Ben out of the pushchair so that he can run and run as he loves to do, like a tiny energetic gnome in his bright green siren suit. Della takes his hand and draws it gently over the bark of tree trunks to feel the different textures: the silky surface of silver birch, the rough oak, and the crinkled bark of beech, as dry and grey as the limb of an elephant. Ben runs laughing from one trunk to another to feel them again and again. They find some rusting swings and Della holds him on, while he shrieks and kicks his feet in delight.

  The park should be full of children enjoying themselves, Anna thinks. Sometimes, she even has the feeling that a small child’s face is peeping wistfully out at them from a bush or behind a tree. But when she stares at the spot, there is nothing, just clusters of leaves creating patches of dark shadow; the three of them are alone. Della clasps Ben under his arms and swings him round and round in a circle, while his laughter fills the deserted space.

  ‘You are so good with him, Della.’

  ‘And you are a fine mother.’ Della links her arm with Anna’s and looks thoughtful. ‘I have always been very fond of young children, Frau Lawrence.’

  ‘Have you never wanted children of your own, Della?’ Anna asks.

  * * *

  Selma Rausch was born on a farm in Silesia in Eastern Germany in 1893, the youngest of three children. The farm was set among gentle hills and mixed woodland, rich with wild berries, mushrooms, chestnut and hazelnut trees. The soil was good: dark, rich and fertile. Selma’s father Aloysius was a simple man, an illiterate peasant farmer, but also a wily businessman. Every autumn his neighbours rushed to sell any surplus crops, their eyes fixed on instant gain. It was what they had always done. A little money in the bank, or under the mattress, to stave off hunger in lean times. Aloysius, however, kept back a proportion of his grain and potatoes every year. He stored it in the driest part of his barns.

  One year, when an unusually stormy spring brought torrential rain and floods, newly planted crops throughout the area were destroyed. Most of the peasants lost the bulk of their plantings and had no further seed in reserve. There was fear of a famine in the coming autumn and winter. Aloysius, however, had his large store of seed corn and potatoes, plenty for himself and for his neighbours. He was a reasonable man. He did not overcharge, although the neighbours were desperate to replace their ruined crops. Those who could pay did so. For the others, he got his daughter Selma to write up an agreement. They would pay as they could the following year, with some extra as interest. Everyone was satisfied. Aloysius became one of the most prosperous farmers in his region.

  Aloysius wanted his children to have the education he never had himself. Each in turn walked the five kilometres to the nearest village school. Selma’s older sister Gerta trudged towards her education, showing little interest in learning, but much interest in the farmers’ sons, who sweated and sighed over their books and struggled to fit their large boots under the desks. She left school at the age of twelve to help her mother in the house and her father on the farm. Gerta was admired for her healthy complexion and robust good looks. By sixteen she was married to a neighbour’s son, returning home for visits, often with another plump baby in her arms.

  Selma’s brother Peter was also a reluctant student. He longed to leave his books behind and join his father in the fields. After many arguments and some threats, Aloysius had to agree that Peter’s stolid brain and massive hands were more suited to the plough than the pen.

  It was Selma who carried the mantle of her father’s educational ambitions. She took to school with enthusiasm and application. Her teachers pronounced her to be a clever child, and encouraged Aloysius and his wife Magda to allow her to remain in school as long as possible.

  Until the age of thirteen, Selma was joyfully happy. She skipped home from school with a different book every day, which she eagerly showed her uncomprehending parents. This did not exempt her from what her mother considered to be proper work. Before school, Selma rose early, often before dawn, and milked the cows. She beat and shook the feather beds and hung them out of the windows to air. She swept the floor, washed the morning dishes and fed the hens. After returning home, she scrubbed the stone floor of the kitchen, and helped Magda make bread and prepare the evening meal. Then she was allowed to devote her time to completing homework and reading. It never occurred to Selma to complain.

  When Selma approached the age of fourteen, her mother Magda began to lose her speech. At first it became slurred, as though she had drunk too much beer. Soon she could not speak at all. Her eyes widened with fear and frustration as she pointed and gargled towards Selma, trying to get a message across.

  ‘I’m sorry, Selma,’ Aloysius said one night, ‘I know how you love school, but Mutti needs someone at home with her.’

  Selma made no objection – how could she do anything other than care for her own dear mother? Gradually Magda’s limbs became weak and wasted. She could walk only by holding on to the furniture, her face contorted with effort. She began to drop dishes as she attempted to wash them. Aloysius was deeply worried about his wife; he sensed a desperate fate. Despite the expense, he sent Peter in the cart to fetch the doctor from the nearest small town. It was the first time a doctor had set foot in the house. His visit was not encouraging. He informed the family that Magda had a serious wasting disease. It would only get worse. She would become bedridden. She was unlikely to survive the year.

  Selma devoted herself to her mother. She took over all of Magda’s tasks. She washed her gently morning and evening. She cooked the family meal,
then mashed some in a little dish and attempted to feed it to Magda. Magda coughed and choked. Selma patiently fed her thin soup and water with a tiny spoon. Soon Magda could no longer swallow even water without choking. When Aloysius returned from his work on the farm, he went to see his wife lying pale and helpless in bed. A man of few words, he took her hand and patted it awkwardly. Then he shook his head impotently and left the room. Just before Christmas, Magda was released from the agony of her suffering.

  There was no question of Selma returning to school. She remained at the farm, taking on the role of woman of the house. In many ways her life suited her. She was spirited and independently minded. Her father appreciated her contribution to the household, and largely left her to pursue her own interests in her own time. Selma was short and stocky in build, with a broad face and high cheekbones. She was not unattractive to men and, over the years, had several lovers. She made love enthusiastically and without inhibition. Growing up on the farm, the coupling of men and women was as natural to her as breathing. She did not expect to marry, nor did she especially wish to.

  Selma’s brother Peter had been courting Else, the daughter of a local forester. In 1925 they were married, and Peter brought Else to live on the farm. Selma was pleased to have another woman for company, but Else was jealous of her sister-in-law and resented her position in the household. Else was surly and unfriendly, and found any opportunity to complain to Peter about Selma.

  ‘She wants to be in charge – more like a mother-in-law than a sister-in-law.’

  ‘Of course, of course,’ said Peter impassively. ‘Since Mutti died, she has to be both.’

  Else was lazy by nature, and soon realised that it was in her own interests to allow Selma to take charge of the domestic running of the house. When Else became pregnant, she began to value Selma’s hard work and support even more. In 1927, Peter and Else’s son Heinrich was born, with the help of a midwife from the village. Selma squeezed Else’s hand and spoke words of encouragement throughout. It was a long and difficult birth – Else’s pelvis was narrow – but all was well in the end. It was Selma who cut the cord, wiped the baby clean and swaddled him tightly, as if he was in a cocoon. He gazed into her face with mysterious deep blue eyes.