Bonfire Memories

by Sally Quilford

  She’s so trusting that she nods. I despise her for her foolishness where I’m concerned. How can she not realise how dangerous I am to her? How can she be so blind about the things I’ve had to do to survive in this godforsaken little village? A woman as stupid as that deserves to die.

  That’s what I tell myself when I slip the needle into the back of her neck. But it doesn’t stop me from cradling her in my arms, begging for her forgiveness as she dies. At the last moment she opens her tear soaked eyes and whispers my name. ‘I understand you now,” she says.

  What does she mean? What does she understand? Does it mean she forgives me? Does she understand why she could not live? I shake her to try and get her answer, but she is silent.

  Did she mean that she finally understands what I am? Did she realise I have always been, even in the days our love was at its strongest?

  If she can tell, with her trusting, open nature, then others who are more suspicious will know too.

  I cradle her in my arms for hours. Stroking her hair. Crying over her body. I tell her how sorry I am. But it’s too late for all that. She’s gone from me.

  1966

  Shrewsbury library was quiet when Cara and Guy arrived. Only a few older men and women sat at tables reading books. The librarian pointed them in the direction of the family archives and the old newspapers.

  Cara breathed in the smell of old books. There was nothing quite like it in the world. When she was a little girl, a trip to the library once a month had been a treat. Now her stomach knotted a little, because she feared what they might find out about Greta Mueller-Schwartz.

  “Where shall we start?” Guy said, opening a drawer full of index cards. There were hundreds in that one drawer alone and it only covered the A-Ab. The cabinet had dozens of other drawers.

  “I don’t know,” said Cara. “Maybe the electoral register for Midchester in nineteen forty-six? It will give us an idea who was around here at that time.”

  “See? I knew there was a reason I needed your help.”

  “Actually, I was going to suggest we start at A in the index cards,” Cara said, her eyes sweeping across the cabinet. “But they go back several generations, so it would take forever just to find people who were around in nineteen-forty-six.”

  “I agree. Let’s look at the electoral register for that year, then we can try the index cards if we see anyone who could be a possible. You know most of the people in the village. You might be able to tell me about them.”

  The electoral registers were in bound volumes on the shelves in the family archives. They also only listed people who were old enough to vote. “How old would your brother-in-law have been in nineteen forty-six?” she asked Guy.

  “Let me think. I was about eight the last time I saw him in nineteen-thirty-eight, and he was in his twenties then. Greta was twenty-eight when they married. He’d be in his early fifties I should think.”

  “Good, so we can quickly dispense with women, and any men under the age of fifty and over the age of sixty. But let’s look from forty-five onwards, just in case we miss him.”

  “Good idea. I’m in your hands, Cara.”

  Was he flirting with her? She certainly hoped so.

  They perused the register for over an hour. Midchester was only a small village but the electoral register also took in several hamlets in the vicinity. There were also a lot of itinerant workers who came in throughout the summer months, lodging with local families or staying in hostel accommodation. It also turned out that most of those listed were done so with an initial and their surname, making it difficult to tell what gender they might be.

  As luck would have it, Cara knew a lot of them so could name them.

  “Abercrombie A. at twenty-nine Station Road is my old headmistress, Mrs. Abercrombie. I think the A stands for Agnes. She’d be about sixty-five now. In fact, yes, she retired about five years ago. So that would be right. She shares her house with another old teacher of mine, Miss Watson, who’s a bit younger.” Cara flicked through another register, which had names beginning with W and found Watson. L. “I think her name is Lilian. She’s still working at the school, though she must be close to retiring. She’s supposed to be Mrs. Abercrombie’s spinster sister, who moved in with her during the war. But they say…” Cara hesitated.

  “What?”

  “Oh, it’s just local gossip, you know. That they’re not really sisters. They’re… erm … together.”

  “Lesbians, you mean.”

  “Mmm.” Cara’s cheeks burned crimson. She wished she had never started telling him about the two women.

  “There’s nothing wrong with that. Or at least there shouldn’t be. And it’s not illegal.”

  “Well, no. But you forget Guy, we’re in the provinces. Things may well be swinging in London, but around here people are old-fashioned. I reckon they’d still burn witches if they could get away with it. Last year a man and a woman moved into one of the flats above the shops and they weren’t married. You should have heard the whispering every time they came into the pub. I felt sorry for the girl more than anything because none of the women would talk to her. Nancy and I talked to her because we felt sorry for her. The men were much more forgiving of the bloke. I suppose that’s because men tend to be forgiven for such things.” She was remembering her own transgression and how she had been blamed, whilst the man’s reputation remained intact. “The couple moved away only a few months later.”

  “I suppose I should feel lucky I haven’t been hounded out then,” said Guy.

  “Well, if you ask me, the sooner you marry Enid, the better,” Cara quipped.

  Guy laughed at that. “Enid is old enough to be my mum. She behaves like a mum to me too. She’s the only one who knew the whole truth about me.”

  “She’s a bit scary, but I’m sure she’s a nice woman.”

  “She is. She married a German, so she doesn’t have the same prejudice as everyone else. He died towards the end of the war and she’s never remarried.”

  “Oh look,” said Cara, who had been perusing the registers as they talked. “Here’s Peg Bradbourne. She’s been living in the Old Constable’s house, just up the road from mum’s, forever. That’s what it was, during Victorian times. The constable used to live there.” Cara grimaced. “Obviously. Then they built the new constable’s house, but that name never caught on. They just call it the Police House, which doesn’t sound half as romantic, if you ask me. We really should go and speak to Peg about newcomers during or after the war.”

  “Okay, if you say so.”

  “Could your brother-in-law speak English?” Cara asked as they searched more of the register.

  “Not that I remember. But I only saw him a few times. It was a bit of a surprise when Greta turned up and said she was married.”

  “Why?”

  “She’d never shown any interest in being anyone’s wife. I don’t think she’d ever had a boyfriend. Then she met Frederick and it was love at first sight. Or so I’m led to believe.”

  “You sound doubtful.”

  “It’s just that whilst they were separated, she didn’t seem to pine for him in the way most women would when separated from their husbands.”

  “Maybe she did in private, but didn’t want to upset you or your parents. She must have loved him to come all the way across the world to find him.”

  “Yes, you’re right. It’s just that my sister was always very expressive in her affections. My niece suffers from the same problem.”

  “Suffers? Is there anything wrong with showing affection?”

  “No, not really, even though us Germans are supposed to be very closed and cold in our emotions. We’re not really. We have the same passions as everyone else. We just have a different way of showing them. But it makes Brigitte too trusting with people. Then she falls for the wrong man and gets hurt. Greta was too trusting too. When we were in the internment camp, other prisoners would have talked her out of her food if mum and dad hadn’t been there to keep an
eye on her. She was an angel with a heart as big as the ocean. That’s why it’s so hard not knowing what happened to her. Who did she trust this time? Was it Frederick? Or did someone else harm her?”

  Cara was silent for a while, not knowing what to say next. Guy had become lost in some reverie. She guessed he was thinking about his sister and how she might have come to harm. After giving him a few moments to compose himself, she said gently, “So you can’t think of any reason Frederick would have come to Midchester?”

  Guy shook his head and shrugged. “Not really. From what I know of him, he wasn’t a staunch supporter of the Reich, but he knew how to seem to be. It was something a lot of Germans had to do to survive the war. Please don’t judge them too harshly.”

  “No, of course not. People do what they have to do to stay alive and protect their family. That’s the same regardless of what nationality they are.”

  “Actually, Frederick was the one who got us out of Germany. He made sure we had the right papers. I never asked how he managed it, and I’ve never had chance to thank him. That’s why it’s so hard to think he might have hurt Greta. He loved her, of that I am sure. He wanted to see her safe. He even wrote to her for a while, before war broke out properly. Of course, he could never say where he was.”

  “Did she have any friends who might have come here? Someone who would know where Frederick went?”

  “I don’t know. She was a good few years older than me, and I’m sure I was just a pesky little brother to her. Her friends came and went from our house, and some of the girls would make a fuss of me.”

  “I bet they did.”

  Guy grinned. “When I was eight years old, I’m pretty certain they only saw me as a younger brother. I didn’t mind. I usually got ice cream out of it. I can’t say I ever knew them very well. They were a blur of Leisls and Helgas and Lottes to me. In fact I’m pretty sure there were several Lottes.”

  “Would your mother know?”

  “Yes, she might. Perhaps I should telephone her and ask. That’s something else I never thought of. I knew there was a reason I brought you along.”

  “So it wasn’t my good looks and scintillating conversation?” Cara raised a sardonic eyebrow.

  “Of course. That goes without saying.”

  “I don’t mean … I mean … I don’t think I’m good looking. I was just joking.”

  “You’re not just good looking, Cara. You’re utterly gorgeous.”

  Their eyes met over the electoral registers. It was not the most romantic of settings, but Cara still felt her heart swell. “We should get on,” she whispered, hardly able to talk.

  About ten minutes later, Cara was still going through the B’s, checking and re-checking, trying to think who was who. It did not help that some families gave their sons the same name as the father and grandfather, all of whom were still living, so there were lots of R. Barretts or W.Browns. She kept coming back to one name. Black. E. She had a vague recollection of German lessons at school. “Guy, what did you say your sister’s married name was?”

  “Schwartz.”

  “Doesn’t that mean black in English?”

  “Yes, it does.”

  “Frederick Schwartz?”

  “That’s right. Why? What have you found?”

  Cara turned the book towards him and showed him the register. “Eric Black. The man we’re having dinner with tonight. It might be a long shot, but Schwartz would obviously be Black, but he might also have used the ‘Eric’ part of his first name.”

  “My God, you’re a genius. Maybe this is what Anderson found.”

  Before leaving for Shrewsbury, Cara had called back to her mother’s and borrowed a notebook. She wrote down the details. “Do you think that if he was Frederick, you’d recognise him?”

  “I’m not sure after all this time,” said Guy. “But it’s worth a try. He must know who I am by now.”

  “Yes, news travels fast in Midchester. Perhaps that’s why he invited you. To see if you do know him. Oh, you must be careful, Guy.” She put her hand over his. “If he …” She did not want to say anymore. Not for the first time in the past few days an icy finger trailed down her spine. Something bad happening to Guy was too awful to contemplate.

  “You’re thinking that if he killed Greta, then he might kill me to stop his identity being known.”

  Cara nodded, frowning. “Who knows what he’s capable of? We should look in the newspaper too, and see what he was up to around that time. I’m sure he owned it then, and he has a habit of filling the pages with his own exploits. The other candidates in the mayoral elections have called him on his overt self-aggrandisement several times, but he never stops. I’m convinced the paper is something of a vanity project for him. We should also speak to Peg. She’ll know all about him, I’m sure. If you feel you want to trust her, that is.”

  “Do you trust Peg?”

  “Oh, yes. With my life.”

  “Then I trust her too.”

  “Would your brother-in-law have spied for Hitler?”

  “I guess he would have, if it meant staying alive. But like I say, I don’t even know if he spoke English. He’d have to be bloody good at it to infiltrate a typical British village like Midchester. From what I remember of him, he was always very correct and rather dull. I can’t see him having the imagination to be a spy. But again, who know what he did to survive?”

  “It’s something else to ask your mother. She might know.”

  “Why would he want to spy here?” Guy asked. “It seems rather a quiet backwater.”

  “There was an American airbase nearby during the war, but now it only has private planes for chartered flights.”

  “Ah, yes, I passed that on the way to Midchester. I guess that’s his motive for being here then. He must have decided to stay on after the war. Having a German wife would not have gone down well with the locals. He’d have had a job explaining her and a seven year-old daughter.”

  “Yes, he would,” said Cara, sadly. “They’re not bad people in Midchester. They work hard all their lives and they’re honest, for the most part. They’re just a bit limited in their world view.”

  They spent another half an hour looking through the electoral registers, but despite Cara knowing a lot of the people listed in them, there was no one who stood out as being a possible Frederick Schwartz.

  “Let’s look through some of the newspapers, and then we’ll have to get back,” said Guy. “All I can think about now is meeting Eric Black.”

  “Yes, me too,” Cara agreed.

  They scrolled through the microfiche records and found the papers for nineteen-forty-six. They had reached December when they found it in the local paper.

  Fifth Columnist Hanged

  “An unknown woman was hanged as a German spy yesterday. The woman was arrested after being seen around the Shropshire area, close to the American airbase. She was thought to be in her mid-thirties, five feet six inches tall, with blonde hair. Anyone having any information about the woman’s identity should inform the police.”

  Cara looked up at Guy and saw the colour drain from his face.

  “Is that her?” Cara asked.

  “It sounds like her…” Guy seemed barely able to speak.

  “Oh Guy,” she whispered, taking his hand. “I’m so sorry.”

  Chapter Nine

  1946

  I can barely bring myself to do what needs to be done. But if I’m to get her up to the bonfire, it’s the only way. If I’m stopped, I can always say it’s my contribution to the festivities, and pray that my ruse works better than the one young Sammy and his friends tried.

  It feels like a violation, removing her clothes and replacing them with the clothes of his tramp mother. I’ll have to get rid of her clothes in some other way, just in case they don’t burn through properly. Someone might have remembered her and what she was wearing.

  “I’m sorry, my love,” I murmur, as I begin preparing her for the bonfire. “If there were any other way,
we could have lived happily together. Even with Brigitte.” I explain to her how much I like my life here. How good it feels to be a big fish in a small pond. One day I’ll be an even bigger fish. Then I can guide this country towards being what it should be. She stares back at me blankly, accusingly, so that I have to close her eyes.

  Soon she is ready. She looks grotesque with the paper bag over her head. It was not enough that I killed her. I have violated her too. Made her into something inhuman.

  What’s more, I have to keep her here until it gets dark. When I can no longer bear looking at her, I put her into the boot of the car. I sit and wait for dusk to fall. I can’t risk being seen, so I drive the car up through the trees, at the back of the common. There’s an old footpath there that no one ever uses. It leads up to the Roman ruins. My guess is that none of the locals has walked that route since that old Jew finished his digging, and the area was plundered by other archaeologists for artefacts. Occasionally, in summer, day trippers hike the lanes in the area, but it’s November, so there’s no risk of that.

  She’s so slight, like a wisp of air, that I lift her easily in and out of the bonnet. I carry her to the bonfire and lean her against the side, whilst I walk around, looking for a large enough gap in which to put her. Anyone glancing up from the village at this time of the evening will think that it’s just another Guy Fawkes put here by the children.

  Someone is coming! I wait behind the bonfire, holding my breath. Damn! It’s that dirty little gypsy girl. What’s her name? Cara. That’s it. Why does this country allow such people to live? It’s an abomination.

  She’s seen the body and is walking towards it. If I have to kill her, and shove her into the bonfire, I will. No one will miss her, except that vile gypsy mother of hers and no one cares about her feelings. I’ve heard the women talking about her behind her back. They’d probably thank me for giving her a reason to leave Midchester. They don’t much like people who are different here and Martha Potter is very different, with her chaotic house and feral children.

  I’m just about to reach out and grab the kid when she starts running away. She’s realised that the effigy is real. She’ll send others up here and then what shall I do?