The Forgotten

by Mary Chamberlain

  Greta pushed her chair free.

  ‘May I leave, Frau Fischer?’

  ‘Not yet, Greta,’ her mother said, not even glancing Greta’s way, her eyes fixed on the empty food safe on the other side of the table. ‘Bette, take Greta into the living room. Don’t go near the window. I have to go out.’

  Sorry, Bette mouthed, sidling close to Greta and squeezing her hand, walking her into the sitting room where they sat on the floor behind the old Biedermeier sofa, cosy, out of sight.

  ‘My mother says that Frau Baumann was raped by four Russians.’ Greta spoke into Bette’s ear, covering her mouth with her hand. ‘And the old man did nothing.’

  Bette opened her eyes wide. ‘Mutti never told me.’

  Greta shrugged. ‘She’s too polite.’ She picked at her fingernail. ‘Your sister has got herself a wolf.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘A Russian,’ Greta said. ‘An officer. To keep away the pack. That’s what Waltraud said. A wolf to keep away the pack.’

  One of the Ivans who’d been there in the morning returned that evening, with another, younger soldier. He smiled as he came in, removed his cap and pulled out of the pockets of his overcoat some bread, a bottle of schnapps and a packet of cigarettes. He nodded to the younger man, who carried a knapsack which he put on the table. Bette watched as he opened it and took out bacon, herrings, butter, sugar, a can of milk and some candles. He placed them on the table and sat down.

  The older Russian was smiling at her. He had a gap in the front of his teeth and his lip curled into the cavity. He was stocky, thickset, looked like one of the pictures of the Slavs, die Untermenschen, in their schoolbooks. His hair was dark and wavy, his eyes pale blue and crinkled at the edges as if he laughed a lot. The younger soldier was taller, and thin, with vile spots and boils on his face and neck. His eyes, Bette saw, were taking in everything, appraising it all – the pictures, the rugs, the furniture. Her sister, her mother, herself. His fellow soldier, watching his every move, like a spy. Or a chess player, Bette thought, calculating his advantage.

  ‘Eat,’ he said, breaking into her thoughts, nodding to Lieselotte, and then to Mutti and Bette. Bette thought she must try and save some of the food for Greta, hide it under the table or slip it in her pocket.

  ‘Boris,’ the older man added, pointing to himself. ‘Boris.’ He poked his finger towards Bette.

  ‘Bert,’ Lieselotte said, glaring at Bette, be careful, tapping her on the head. ‘His name is Bert.’

  ‘Hitler Youth?’ Boris said.

  ‘Net,’ Lieselotte said. Bette guessed it meant no. Lieselotte must have learned some Russian words. ‘Too young.’ She gestured with her hand to indicate shortness.

  She was grateful to Lieselotte. She would have forgotten her new name, her boy’s name. She’d never had to talk to any of the Ivans before.

  The Russian beamed, pointing to himself and to Lieselotte.

  ‘Boris marry Lieselotte,’ he said. He, too, had learned some German words. ‘Boris love Lieselotte.’

  ‘Here,’ Mutti said, pushing between Lieselotte and Boris, placing a board on the table and breaking up the bread. Bette couldn’t work out whether it was disgust or resignation on her mother’s face.

  ‘Boris is a major,’ Lieselotte said, as if this explained everything.

  ‘Very important,’ Mutti said. There was no warmth in her voice, no recognition, just a be careful in her tone. ‘So we will be polite to him in our home.’ She nodded at Boris.

  ‘You all come to Soviet Union,’ Boris said, pushing the bread board towards Bette. ‘Novgorod. Boris, teacher.’ He beamed, waved his hand. ‘After. Before.’ He looked at Mutti. ‘Good job.’ He smiled at Bette. ‘Boris like boys.’

  ‘He means children,’ Lieselotte said. ‘Boys and girls.’

  The younger soldier was opening the tin of milk with his army knife and said something in Russian to Boris.

  He laughed, then said, ‘Comrade here. He call Vasily. He want good girl. Clean girl. You know?’

  Bette swallowed. She was wearing Otto’s shirt and trousers, a dead boy’s clothes.

  ‘You have friend?’ Boris said.

  ‘Net,’ Lieselotte said.

  He pointed at Bette. ‘You have friend with sister?’

  Bette stared at Lieselotte, shaking her head. She didn’t like this talk, and there was Greta in the ceiling space. What if she moved? Coughed? Frau Weber said that they didn’t know about ceiling spaces, as they didn’t have them in Russia. The apartments in the back buildings didn’t have them, which was why Greta was here. Bette looked at the food, at the young Russian slathering butter on his chunk of bread, reaching out for the bacon. She was desperate to eat but dared not grab. She could sense the tension in the kitchen, for all of Lieselotte’s smiles and the major’s toothless grins. Then the young soldier handed her the bread and butter, and the bacon he had sliced with his army knife. He waved it, take it, smiling. Bette remembered the young soldier at the water pump. Kindness and cruelty, but her stomach cramped and she could stand the hunger no longer. She grabbed the bread and shoved the crust in her mouth. In normal times, she’d have been sent from the table for such rudeness.

  Boris was passing round the schnapps. Bette took the bottle.

  ‘May I try?’

  ‘Nein,’ Mutti said, grabbing the bottle and passing it back to Boris.

  ‘A little,’ Boris said. ‘Like a man.’

  ‘Nein,’ Mutti said again. Bette could hear the rage in her voice, could see the set of her jaw as she controlled herself. She coughed again, turned away for a moment, calming herself. Boris smiled and passed the bottle to Lieselotte, who held it to her lips and gulped. Bette heard her mother gasp, saw her leap up and grab the bottle, saw Boris’s face cloud to anger as he snatched the bottle back. Mutti walked away, into the sitting room. She returned a few minutes later, wiping some dusty schnapps glasses clean on her apron. She placed them on the table. Four glasses. For Boris and his soldier. For Lieselotte, for herself.

  ‘Bedtime,’ she said to Bette, adding, ‘Take the bucket.’

  Bette wanted to stay. The heat from their bodies warmed the kitchen. Even though Mutti had covered the broken windows with old newspaper, the apartment was still cold, and the heating hadn’t worked for months. For the first time in weeks, Bette’s hands were not frozen and she was enjoying Boris, and his soldier friend who said nothing but cut bread and buttered it and pressed the sawn-off pieces of bacon into its centre before he passed it round, a piece for her, for Lieselotte, for Mutti. It was good to eat, to feel her stomach full. These were not like the Russians they had learned about, the monstrous Slavs with their savage instincts or the ones who’d taken Waltraud, or Lieselotte, that first night.

  ‘He stay,’ Boris said, winking at her, then held up his hand. ‘Five minute.’

  Bette looked at her mother, and Mutti nodded. She picked up her glass and tipped back her schnapps in one. Bette had never known her mother take a drink, even before the war, when Vati was at home, even at Christmas, when they ate the goose, not even when she and the Baumanns held a party to celebrate the victory over France. Boris was beaming again, filled Mutti’s glass and Mutti inclined her head and nodded and smiled, cheeks flushed.

  ‘Ballet,’ she said, pointing to herself. ‘Lindenoper. Ballet.’

  ‘Ballet?’ He stood up, knocking over his glass. ‘Dance?’ He was around the table in two strides, taking Mutti’s hand, leading her across the hall into the sitting room. He called to the young soldier, who followed him in with his rucksack. Boris was speaking in Russian, Vasily smiling as he pulled a small accordion out of his knapsack. He sat on one of the hard chairs, opened the bellows, felt for the keys and began. A few slow chords and as the tempo sped up, Boris pushed the other chairs out of the way.

  ‘You.’ Boris pointed at Mutti.

  ‘Oh no,’ she said. ‘I’m out of practice. I need to warm up, I need to do exercises.’

  Boris looked
confused and Lieselotte said, ‘He doesn’t understand. Do something, Mutti, please.’

  Bette could see the panic on her mother’s face.

  Mutti had often waltzed round the sitting room, in better days, scooping Bette up as she went, twirling her round. She loved watching her mother, her grace and poise, weightless in motion.

  ‘Waltz,’ Bette said. ‘Do a waltz.’

  ‘Yes, waltz,’ Lieselotte repeated. ‘Waltz.’ She began to hum ‘The Blue Danube’. The soldier shook his head.

  ‘Wait,’ Bette said. ‘The gramophone.’ Mutti had locked it in a cupboard in the attic, with their records, so the Russians couldn’t steal them. ‘We can play it.’

  ‘No,’ Mutti said, frowning and shaking her head. ‘No. Not that.’

  ‘You idiot, Bette,’ Lieselotte said, her teeth clenched tight.

  ‘Bert,’ Bette said, glaring at her sister. You forgot. Lieselotte stared like a hare in headlights. This was all a sham, the dancing, the manners, the flattery. Bette understood that now. Humour them.

  ‘It’s all right,’ Bette said. ‘He doesn’t understand.’ The wolf doesn’t understand.

  ‘Dance.’ Boris had grabbed the schnapps bottle and was shouting, stomping his feet in time with the beat.

  Mutti nodded at Lieselotte and walked to the centre of the room with that splayed-out walk that ballerinas have and Bette watched as she rose onto tiptoes, raised her chin so her neck stretched in a graceful arc, and began to dance across the floor, pulling Lieselotte with her, one arm round her waist, one raised above her shoulder, and together they waltzed and polkaed, dipping and rising, graceful as doves, light as fairies.

  ‘Now me,’ Bette said. ‘Dance with me.’ She forgot Boris and the other Russian, rushed towards her mother and sister.

  ‘Teach,’ Boris said, striding towards Mutti, arms stretched as if he were holding her already, pushing Bette aside as if she were no more than a mote of dust. Bette could smell the schnapps on Mutti’s breath, on Boris’s. She slunk away, lay on the floor behind the Biedermeier, watching as her mother and Boris and Lieselotte danced as if there were no war, as if they were not bitter enemies. The sky grew lighter and Boris took Lieselotte and led her into the bedroom, shutting the door. The soldier slumped into a chair, his accordion on the floor beside him.

  Bette didn’t hear the Russians go, but when she went into the kitchen in the morning they had left what remained of the schnapps, and the food and the cigarettes. Mutti was already up. Bette sat at the table, watching as her mother broke up the bread and soaked it in the milk, sprinkling the top with the sugar and cinnamon.

  ‘Fetch Greta,’ she said without looking up, but Bette heard the waver in her voice. Her mother untied her apron, stepped into the hall, picked up the bucket and opened the front door. There were two chamber pots on the threshold, the ones Frau Baumann used to use. She heard Mutti breathe in, watched as she flew to the Baumanns’ door, rattling the handle, knocking hard with her fist, calling.

  ‘Frau Baumann. Herr Baumann. Open up.’

  She saw her mother lean her head against the wall, coughing and sobbing. Their neighbours’ door would not open again.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  North Germany: early May 1945

  The truck lurched to the left, passing a line of refugees with shabby suitcases and ragged coats.

  ‘So if Hitler done himself in,’ Arthur said, squinting at the refugees, against the sun, ‘how come the war ain’t over?’

  He was grateful to Arthur for not showing him up when Private Nash got shot. John respected him, though he wasn’t sure this was reciprocated. Still, hours in a troop truck, all jolted spines and spiked nerves, did wonders for camaraderie. Arthur, he thought, tolerated him.

  ‘Search me,’ he said.

  The tarpaulins were rolled up. John could see the refugees four or five abreast. Their faces were sallow and grim, eyes hollow and fearful, filling the road, thousands of them in a line that stretched to the horizon, like a river coursing through the countryside, rising higher by the moment.

  A man in a hat was struggling with a wheelbarrow, an old woman scrunched in its tray. Her ankles hung over the end, her feet bandaged against the chill spring air. Her head rested on a cushion propped against the edge of the bowl. She was covered in a rug. He wanted to stop the truck, jump down. It could have been his grandmother. Perhaps this old woman baked a seed cake every Sunday, saw her grandson once a week. The man had paused, removed his hat, was wiping his forehead and the woman raised a corrugated finger, whispered a word. The man shook his head, heaved at the barrow. He’d lost his place in the line, but there was no rush, no end to find or deadline to meet.

  John knew he wouldn’t have survived, wrenched from home, if the boot had been on the other foot. Where would he have gone in England? Tramping to nowhere?

  ‘This will take forever.’ John stood up in the truck and peered over the heads of the flow. It was already late afternoon. ‘What’s the hold-up?’

  ‘Rations, sir,’ Arthur said. ‘Our boys have set up a station along the way. Water, biscuits, you know. Feeding them.’ He rolled his eyes. ‘Talk about a miracle. Where’s this lot heading?’

  John shrugged. ‘Anywhere but east. They’re fleeing the Russians.’ He sat back onto the bench.

  ‘Where’s the Green Line bus when you need it, eh, sir?’ Arthur said. ‘Bremen to Braintree. Nordhausen to Northolt.’

  John liked Arthur, with his dry, sly humour, found himself turning round, looking for the familiar transport, just in case.

  ‘After Dunkirk,’ John said, ‘I wouldn’t be surprised at anything.’ He fished in his pocket for his NAAFI cigarettes, offered one to Arthur.

  ‘Where are they going to put all these people when they get to where they’re going? That’s what I want to know.’

  People.

  John had braced himself for war back home but even so, every sense and sinew reeled from its horror. Death screamed from the ruins, polluted the air, soured the taste, blighted his sight. But the people. The life, in all this death. Clinging on. That took his breath away. Wherever he turned there was a frenzy to survive. A kaleidoscope. That’s what he saw now. Not a flowing river at all, but a human fractal changing at each twist of its body, a never-ending mosaic of Germans, Jews, Russians, Italians, Poles. Men, women, children.

  He pulled out his matches, lit Arthur’s cigarette and his own.

  The lorry edged to the side of the road, revved its engine hard. The crowd was too dense to move. Above them, scudding clouds and a late spring sun filled the cupola of sky, like a Constable painting, John thought. The same sky had hung over this part of the world when it tore itself to pieces in all the wars that had gone before. The Great War. The Schleswig Wars. The Seven Years’ War. Thirty Years’ War. Now that was a war. Almost wiped out Europe and those it didn’t kill it pushed around. Movement. People. Refugees. This was what was meant by dis-location, to un-place. Dis-place. Displaced Persons.

  ‘So who’s in charge?’ Arthur was saying. ‘Now Hitler’s gone.’

  John dragged on his cigarette, his mind away, playing with words. He focused his gaze on Arthur.

  ‘I think his name is Dönitz. It can’t be long now, before it’s over.’ Added, ‘They’re not in Berlin anymore, so I heard.’

  ‘Who’s not?’

  ‘The German government. They left.’

  ‘Then who’s in Berlin?’

  ‘The Russians.’

  He finished his cigarette, flipped it over the side of the lorry.

  They left the refugees behind and the truck picked up speed, skirting the potholes. On either side of the road, the fields and dykes of the north German countryside lay flat and wasted. Now they were moving there was a chill in the air, reminding them that spring still had a bite. But the breeze was fresh and salty, and screeling above them John spotted seagulls. They couldn’t be far from the sea.

  ‘So where is it this time?’ Arthur said.

  ‘Kiel,’
John said. ‘Walterwerke.’

  ‘What’s that when it’s at home?’

  ‘We shall find out more later,’ John said. ‘They made torpedoes, U-boats. Rockets. Fuel.’

  ‘Oh,’ Arthur said. ‘Bastards. Especially those doodlebugs.’ His mouth twitched, as if he was thinking aloud. ‘So do you understand it all? What they’re saying, all those scientists?’

  John laughed. ‘I translate,’ he said. ‘I haven’t a clue about the physics.’ He tapped his pockets. ‘Have you got a cigarette?’

  Arthur pulled out a pack and offered it. John had a twenty a day habit now, more in the hard times, or the bored times, like now, churning over the miles for days on end.

  ‘Still,’ he said, cupping his hand around the match flame and dragging on his cigarette, ‘the scientists seem to understand each other. It’s a kind of code to them, I guess.’

  ‘That makes sense.’ Arthur paused for a moment, gazing into the distance, his mouth moving with silent thoughts. ‘I wish I’d had your chances. I would’ve liked to have learned a language. Force for peace, I reckon.’

  ‘Never too late to learn.’ John smiled. ‘What’ll you do when the war’s over, Arthur?’

  Arthur shrugged, twisted his mouth.

  ‘Find a job,’ he said. ‘It won’t be easy, will it? Six years in the bloody army, fighting this sodding war, then we’re supposed to go back to Civvy Street like nothing happened.’ He flicked the cigarette stub over the side of the truck. ‘My own son won’t even know me.’ He looked away, wiped his nose on the back of his hand.

  ‘What did you do before the war?’

  Arthur shrugged, turned back to face John.

  ‘This and that,’ he said. ‘I left school at fourteen. No training, no trade. Not like you. I got work where I could, when I could.’ He smiled. ‘I always liked learning. Great respect for teachers. I even married one. She teaches little ones.’

  The truck stopped with a jolt and the driver stepped down from his cab, walked towards John.