The Uncommon Life of Alfred Warner in Six Days

by Juliet Conlin

  Take your rifle.

  Alfred gripped his rifle tighter.

  He’s panicking. Kssss. He will have you both killed. Use the butt of your rifle to knock him unconscious.

  Alfred shook his head violently. ‘No.’

  Hans was struggling to get dressed. ‘We’ll just wait in here until they leave,’ he said, fumbling with his buttons. His hands were shaking uncontrollably.

  You must, Alfred. Do not defy us.

  As Hans got to his feet, there was a voice just outside the barn door: ‘Check inside.’ They looked at each other for a second, and then both dived towards the ladder, Hans beating Alfred to it. He began to climb down, rifle dangling from his shoulder and hitting every second rung. Alfred took a deep breath and then jumped straight from the hayloft, rousing the chickens that began squawking hysterically.

  Now’s your chance! Knock him out, or you’ll be sorry!

  Alfred raised the butt of his rifle as Hans came towards him.

  ‘I can’t do it,’ he whispered.

  Now! Hit him, now!

  Hans looked Alfred straight in the eye. A look flashed between them, a look both intimate and despairing. Then Hans calmly removed the braces from the iron ring, turned to Alfred and nodded, and burst through the barn door.

  Alfred felt the shots as though he’d been hit himself. Sobbing silently, feeling great shudders of wretchedness heave through his body, he tore a strip of cloth from his own vest and tied it around the pitchfork. Then he got to the floor onto his stomach, shuffled forwards, and poked his white flag through the door.

  Day Three

  It was already light outside when I woke up on Christmas Eve; in fact, the winter sun must have been out in force, because I could make out a slice of very blue sky between the curtains. I rolled onto my side and yawned. My bedside clock told me that it was already half past nine and I sat up quickly. I don’t usually sleep this late. My inner clock is so attuned to a six a.m. start that even during school holidays I can’t help but wake up early. Alfred’s presence was obviously affecting my bio-rhythm. Or perhaps my subconscious had needed the extra sleep to process the stories he had told me the day before. Either way, I didn’t feel much refreshed, even after ten hours of sleep.

  I swung my legs out of bed and got up. Two piles of my pupils’ exam papers lay on the desk. I had hoped to have finished grading them before the New Year, but it was three days into the holidays and I hadn’t even started. I opened the bedroom door quietly, thinking Alfred was still asleep, but when I got to the living room it was empty, except for the sheet and blankets he’d slept with, in a pile on the sofa. My heart gave a little lurch as I scanned the room for his suitcase.

  ‘Alfred?’ I called, trying to sound casual. But nothing. His suitcase was nowhere in sight. I had a sudden image of him wandering the icy Berlin streets, vulnerable and desperate, not knowing where to go. God, why had I mentioned a hotel yesterday? Of course he felt unwelcome. And now he might be lying on some empty street with a broken hip . . . I told myself to calm down and think. Where would he have gone? The hospital. Of course. I rushed over to pick up the phone. But before I could dial, I heard the sound of keys in the lock.

  I put the phone down and called, ‘Alfred? Is that you?’

  His bobbing little head appeared in the doorway. ‘Sorry, Julia. I didn’t mean to alarm you. You were sleeping, so I thought I’d go out for a short walk. I took your keys. I hope you don’t mind?’

  ‘No,’ I said, pulling my dressing gown tighter. ‘That’s fine. I was just . . . worried you might have – ’

  ‘I got us some breakfast.’ He grinned and held up a paper bag from the bakery on the corner. Then his face dropped. ‘You look pale. Did you have a bad sleep?’

  I shook my head. ‘Just promise me you won’t disappear like that again.’

  We arrived at the hospital just after lunchtime. The nurse on guard at the ICU let us in without a word. Brynja was still lying in the same position we’d last seen her in yesterday; the machines were bleeping with the same monotonous tone; and the respirator, which sounded awfully Darth-Vader-like, was still on. Alfred walked over to the bed and gently stroked her arm.

  Someone at the door cleared their throat in an ‘excuse me, may I have your attention please’ sort of way. Alfred and I both started slightly and turned to see a youngish woman, mid-thirties or so, clasping a clipboard across her chest.

  ‘Hello,’ she said, coming towards me swiftly with an outstretched hand and an air of confidence that verged on the aggressive. I stretched out my own hand to meet hers, having got the distinct impression that if I hadn’t, she would have run her hand right into me. ‘I’m Dr Baal. Resident psychiatrist.’

  Her handshake was cool and tight. She didn’t offer Alfred her hand, but perhaps she might not have spotted him; he was standing in the shadow of some enormous life-sustaining piece of equipment.

  ‘Are you Brynja’s mother?’ she continued.

  ‘Um, no,’ I replied quickly.

  ‘Frau Krüger is a friend of the family,’ Alfred said, taking a step forward out of the shadow. ‘A close friend.’

  Dr Baal displayed no evident surprise at his presence, but then again, perhaps she was one of those people who had trained herself never to appear nonplussed.

  ‘Mmhmm. I see,’ she said. She stared down at her clipboard for a long while. ‘It’s a terrible time of year for this sort of thing,’ she said finally. ‘So. Are either of you in a position to offer an explanation for her suicide attempt?’

  I looked to Alfred. He opened his mouth as though to speak, but then shut it again. I was relieved. I wasn’t sure this woman would understand.

  In the absence of a response from either of us, she continued. ‘It’s a minor miracle that she survived at all. That was quite a drop. And I’m afraid some degree of brain damage is to be expected when – if – she recovers.’

  ‘Oh, I’m not worried about that,’ Alfred said.

  The woman let out a brief snort. ‘Well I’m glad you’re taking this with such equanimity,’ she said. ‘But a skull fracture is a very serious matter, whatever you may think.’

  Her beeper must have vibrated or something, because she took the device from a clip on her belt and looked at it.

  ‘I’m sorry, you’ll have to excuse me, I’m needed elsewhere. But please don’t rush off. Herr Doktor Schmidt will want to speak with you about the possibility of organ donation. You know, just in case.’ She paused when she got to the door. ‘Oh, and please contact Administration on the second floor as soon as you can. They’ve been asking about the patient’s health insurance documentation. And they can be pretty – ’ she smiled curtly, ‘insistent about these things, you know?’

  As soon as she had left, Alfred turned back to Brynja, taking her hand in his. He spoke softly. ‘I won’t let her anywhere near you, I promise.’

  1946 - 1947

  ‘Make the hole a wee bit bigger. Aye, that’s it.’

  Alfred dug away at the moist dark earth until the hole was about twelve inches in diameter. Then he took a handful of bone meal from a small bucket next to him and sprinkled it into the bottom of the hole. Finally, he placed the root of the sapling gently into the hole and filled in the gaps with the earth he’d dug up, pressing it down firmly with his palms. As he straightened up, Harding clapped him on the back.

  ‘Aye, that’s it,’ he said. He smiled at Alfred, squinting slightly in the sun. ‘You’ve quite the green fingers, haven’t you son?’

  Alfred smiled back. He liked being called son, although Harding was hardly old enough to be his father. He was perhaps ten years older than Alfred, at the most. But the man’s gentle, patient manner, the way he clucked his tongue quietly when Alfred made a mistake, but praised him openly when he got things right, reminded him of his own father. Physically, though, the difference couldn’t have been greater: Harding was a small, dark man with caterpillar eyebrows and crooked, nicotine-stained teeth. He had a harsh, frequent laugh
, which was never far away from a cough. Alfred had been working with him for two months now, dispatched from Kingencleugh POW camp just outside Mauchline village, as a garden labourer. It was a pleasant change from the back-breaking farm work he had been assigned to since his arrival in Scotland as a prisoner of war eighteen months earlier.

  Harding turned to survey the line of trees they’d planted. ‘Looking good, aye. Not a crooked one in sight, eh Alfred?’

  Alfred nodded. His English was by now good enough to understand most of what people said, and his active vocabulary wasn’t bad either, but he couldn’t seem to shake off his self-consciousness for long enough to engage in meaningful conversation, fearful of stumbling over his own tongue or forgetting a carefully rehearsed phrase. Harding, however, didn’t seem to mind. He liked talking, Alfred had gathered, and evidently appreciated Alfred’s listening skills. He hawked noisily and spat a glob of saliva onto the ground, as large as a small slug. Then he reached into his shirt pocket and brought out his cigarettes. He tapped one out and offered it to Alfred, who shook his head.

  ‘Ach, I keep forgetting,’ he said, taking the cigarette himself and lighting it with a match.

  Alfred wiped his dirty hands on the front of his uniform.

  ‘Be careful, there,’ Harding said through a cloud of smoke. ‘Dinnae want to dirty your patch, or else they’ll nae ken you’re one of the good ones.’

  Alfred hastily tried to rub his white patch clean with his sleeve but succeeded in making it even dirtier than before. He looked up and saw Harding grinning.

  ‘Don’t mind me,’ he said and winked. ‘I’m just having ye on.’

  It took Alfred a good few seconds to understand that that meant he was joking.

  ‘Well, that’s the last of them for today.’ Harding checked his watch. ‘D’you fancy a beer before I get you back? Or a wee dram?’ He grinned at Alfred, almost impishly. ‘You’ve an hour until curfew.’

  But Alfred was tired. They’d been planting trees since lunchtime and his legs and back were aching. ‘No,’ he said, speaking slowly and deliberately. ‘No thank you.’

  ‘Right.’ Harding pinched his cigarette out with two calloused fingers and bent down to pick up the bucket of bone meal. ‘Home it is then.’

  Alfred lived in a small hostel on Mansfield Road in the village of Mauchline – a former coaching inn that had been requisitioned as accommodation for prisoners of war living and working in the village. It was draughty and damp, but still far more comfortable than the dark and cramped Nissen hut Alfred had lived in for the past year and a half. His room on the top floor was not much larger than a broom cupboard. There was a narrow bed with a worn mattress, a wooden chair, a rag rug on the floor and a wash-basin in the corner. It was very basic, and there was only a tiny gas heater that had no hope of facing up to a Scottish winter despite its insatiable appetite for shillings, but at least he didn’t have to share the room. It was his alone. Best of all, the hostel had the luxury of an indoor toilet. It was run by a stout and perpetually jolly woman named Mrs McAllister, whose cheerfulness made up for the blistering wallpaper and shabby furniture.

  When he got to the hostel, Alfred mumbled a good-bye to Harding and stepped inside, where the sharp, eye-watering smell of bleach hit him immediately. Mrs McAllister’s preferred cleaning technique was to slosh bleach onto everything – floors, furniture, bathroom ceramics, even plates and cups – making it difficult to breathe sometimes and rendering the skin on her hands a worryingly red colour. While Alfred was not exactly an expert on cleaning techniques (although he had done his fair share of slopping out latrines back at the camp), he did sometimes wonder whether this might have lasting effects on his health. Trying not to inhale too deeply, he poked his head into the front room and was greeted by Schulz and Holzdorff, two other POWs who had also been classified as anti-Nazi and thus suitable for relocation from the camp to the village.

  ‘Hey, there’s our third man,’ Schulz cried when he spotted Alfred.

  ‘We were just thinking of getting a game of Skat in before dinner,’ Holzdorff added.

  ‘Fritz not back yet?’ Alfred asked. Fritz Masowski was the fourth POW in the group living at the hostel, and was working on the construction of a warehouse on the village outskirts.

  Holzdorff shook his head. ‘No, they’ll have him working till curfew tonight. There’s a storm forecast for tomorrow and they’ll want to get as much done today as they can. So, how about it?’ He held up the pack of cards.

  But Alfred declined. He was on lesson nine of his ‘Beginner’s English’ textbook – Present Perfect Progressive – and wanted to finish it before dinner. He shook his head apologetically and headed upstairs to his room. He kicked his boots off and lay down on the bed, feeling the heaviness of his body on the lumpy mattress. He closed his eyes for a moment, but fought off sleep and dragged himself up into a sitting position. The room was tucked just beneath the roof, and the air had become stuffy, so Alfred reached up and opened the small skylight that was set into the slanted ceiling.

  Chapter 9. Present Past Progressive. I have been planting trees all day.

  ‘All right, all right,’ Alfred said quietly. It was unlikely anyone would be able to hear him from downstairs, but he kept his voice low just in case. He picked up the textbook from a small wobbly bedside table and flicked it open.

  Has Jane been waiting long?

  ‘No, Jane has been waiting only for ten minutes.’

  Incorrect. It should be: No, Jane has only been waiting for ten minutes.

  Alfred sighed.

  Go on, repeat after me: No, Jane has only been waiting for ten minutes.

  ‘No, Jane has only been waiting for ten minutes.’

  Another voice chimed in: Ksss, I would consider it quite rude if someone made me wait for ten minutes.

  That’s completely irrelevant. Now, Alfred, how long has Peter had his car?

  ‘Peter has been having his car for two years.’

  Incorrect! Trick question, ha ha! It should be: Peter has had his car for two years.

  Alfred screwed up his face. His voice-women had proven useful in learning English; he would certainly not have got as far as he had if they weren’t at him constantly to practise. But on occasion, like today, they appeared to think it a great joke.

  ‘I’m hungry,’ he said and snapped the book shut. The smell of frying was drifting upstairs. ‘And I can’t concentrate on an empty stomach.’

  Tut tut. There’s always some excuse . . .

  And the voice faded away. Alfred shoved his feet into his slippers (a gift from Mrs McAllister – she didn’t like the men thumping about the house in their boots) and headed back downstairs for his dinner. The men received soldiers’ rations, which, Alfred soon discovered after arriving at the hostel, were greater than those of the civilians, including Mrs McAllister, so one evening the men had decided, on a vote of three to one, to pool their weekly rations of meat, bacon, bread, margarine, cheese, tea and vegetables, and divide them equally with their landlady. Also, because Alfred was not a smoker (he had of course tried it, but found the experience wholly unpleasant), he happily gave her his ration of cigarettes. In her gratitude, Mrs McAllister had taken on the chore of preparing two meals a day for the men; a hearty breakfast and an even heartier dinner. Unlike his German comrades, Alfred quite enjoyed the stodgy and greasy food. It certainly filled his stomach, and he had even put on a little weight.

  The following morning at eight sharp, Alfred stood outside the hostel waiting for Harding. He was not permitted to walk around the village unaccompanied, so he stood leaning against the brickwork, enjoying the April sun, which over the past few weeks had already begun to tan his face and arms. Despite Holzdorff’s prediction, it didn’t look as though a storm was on its way, but he had learned that here, the weather could turn within minutes. A young couple walked past and nodded a greeting. The man, though limping badly with his left leg, held his sweetheart proudly around the waist.

  The
war in Europe had been over for nearly a year, but despite his best efforts, Alfred hadn’t yet managed to trace Johanna. He had written several letters to the Red Cross, but had received no response so far. Perhaps she had indeed been swept off her feet by that handsome stranger and was too busy planning her wedding, or knitting for babies. It was certainly easier to believe this than to ruminate on the rumours of barbarities committed by the Russian forces in Berlin – especially towards women.

  In the distance, he spotted Harding hurrying towards him.

  ‘Sorry I’m late,’ he said, wheezing audibly. ‘Dinnae mean to keep you waiting, but the wife burned my breakfast, and then one of the bairns hid my keys.’

  ‘I have only been waiting for ten minutes,’ Alfred said, grinning at his own audacity and the sudden look of surprise on Harding’s face.

  ‘Aye, that’s the most I’ve heard you say in the past two months!’ he said, clapping Alfred on the back. ‘Was beginning to think ye might be simple.’

  Alfred blushed. ‘No, I . . . ’ But he couldn’t think of what else to say.

  ‘Well, I’ve got a wee treat for you,’ Harding said, filling the gap. ‘The flower show is coming up in June – a big event round these parts – and I’ve volunteered you to help.’ He nodded towards Alfred’s hands. ‘Put them green fingers to the test. Now, come on, we dinnae want to keep the minister waiting.’

  It was a short walk through the village to the parish church. Alfred had been here several times before to attend Sunday worship along with Schulz, Holzdorff and Masowski. None of the men were especially religious, but they had been welcomed so warmly by the community that it had become a comforting ritual to sit among the villagers, absorbing the songs and words spoken in that soft, gentle language. The war, the bombings, the fear – it all seemed so far away to Alfred now, almost as if it had been some prolonged night terror that now, on a fine, sunny April morning, was nothing but an unpleasant memory. But at the same time, he knew he was one of the lucky ones, not like the young man with the limp he’d seen just a few moments ago. After his capture, when Alfred had heard stories of the atrocities – the word seemed too mild – he hadn’t wanted to believe them. The thought of Salomon and his grandparents, Nadel, Fräulein Merz wearing that yellow patch . . . it was too much to bear. At his initial interrogation at the Command Cage in Kempton Park when he arrived in Britain, Alfred had been graded as anti-Nazi, which of course he was. But still, hadn’t he put on a Wehrmacht uniform and taken up a rifle, ready to fire it at the enemy? Yet he had met with such kindness and warmth since he arrived here. It was almost impossible, this capacity for forgiveness. He desperately hoped the victors in Berlin had shown Johanna the same clemency.