by Iris Gower
It took her hours to drive back through the gloom of the blackout and, sometimes, when the moon appeared from behind the clouds and the roadway was a ribbon of light, she thought the bombers would spot her and drop their load on her. It was a relief to enter the familiar streets of Swansea and park the jeep at the curb outside her house.
Inside, the kitchen still had the scent of fruit and cake but Jessie was sitting at the table, her apron screwed up between her hands, her face white. ‘They’ve got out. The prisoners—they’ve got out.’
‘What do you mean?’ Hari’s mouth was dry.
‘A man called James came here, told me to tell you, “report to you”, he said. The Germans have escaped, girl, run away. Dug a tunnel they did, made the place all tidy like with milk tins and lights and such. Anyway, over seventy of them have got out, gone, God knows where, we could be killed in our beds.’
Hari wished she could faint, be out of the grip of fear and pain and the thought of Michael on the run with police and army and men with guns chasing him. But she just slumped into a chair and stared into the fire. How could she tell Jessie that her son, the boy she believed dead, was alive and probably with the other escaped prisoners on the run?
Sixty-Nine
It was days now since the escape and Hari had heard nothing about the prisoners. Outside the camp the guard had doubled and even though Hari managed now and again to talk to James he was more tight-lipped than he’d been previously.
She saw him now outside the fence and waved and to her relief he came over to her. He took her in his arms and to her surprise buried his face in her neck.
‘For Gawd’s sake pretend you’re my girl,’ he murmured, the other fellows are getting a bit suspicious like.’
Hari felt uncomfortable as she put her arms round James’s neck but she could see the sense of his words. A warning bell sounded in her head, even James must be suspicious the way she kept standing around the camp. She put a bit of enthusiasm in her hug and James responded, kissing her soundly.
She drew away and forced a smile. ‘I’m sorry, James, it’s early days yet but I do like talking to you.’ She hated herself for the deception but it was necessary; she had to hide the fact that one of the German prisoners was in fact brought up on a farm in Carmarthen by a Welsh mother.
The Welsh guards might be sympathetic but the Germans would manage to do away with Michael because they would most certainly think him a spy.
‘Where do you think they are, the prisoners I mean?’
James looked dour. ‘One of them has got out of Wales, I know that, he was seen on a train, pretending to be a Welshman, could even speak Welsh. Wonderful what these chaps have picked up in here. Intelligent blokes these Germans.’
Hari’s heart pounded. ‘Was he caught, this man?’
‘Aye, he’s been caught, don’t know what state he’s in, mind, might have been shot or something or at least given a good hammering, don’t look right for prisoners to escape from our camp in Bridgend.’ He looked even gloomier. ‘So far this is the first escape ever of German prisoners, they don’t want to go back to war, most of ’em, havin’ a fine time doin’ nothing but lying around being treated like lords. I can only hope our boys are bein’ treated half as good in Germany.’
Hari handed James an apple she’d stolen from Jessie’s store, the orchard behind the farm in Carmarthen, which, though neglected now, had still yielded some fine apples. She and Jessie had brought them to Swansea and Jessie had ‘set them down’ in the cool larder in the back kitchen of Hari’s house.
‘A little treat for you James.’ Hari wished she could give it to Michael but of course that was impossible, especially now. Hari bit back a sigh. Where was Michael? Was he still alive or had he been shot attempting to escape? Fear was like a cold knife in her heart but she tried to smile as James took the apple, his features softening.
‘You’re like that there Eve in the Bible, girl,’ he said softly, ‘but I don’t need any tempting, see?’
Hari moved away from him. ‘I’d better not stay too long, don’t want to lose my reputation now, do I?’
‘You won’t do that, Hari, everyone can see you’re respectable. We only been inside the camp once and then we weren’t alone, like. No, you won’t lose your reputation as a nice girl, don’t you worry.’
Hari walked back to the munitions gate and settled down to wait for the next bus. She missed Violet’s company but Vi was on her honeymoon, enjoying life as a new bride.
As she waited, Hari remembered the way George had fought with Meryl. But they were children then and war had changed George: he’d seen violence and death on the streets; he’d done dangerous work; he was honed now into a good man. Violet had done well for herself.
When Hari at last got home, she saw her father sprawled in a chair, a steaming meal of hot pie on a tray on his lap. Jessie as usual was fussing over him. To be fair, with Violet and George away, Father was the only one Jessie had left to fuss over.
‘Jess has made us a delicious pie for our dinner, Angharad.’ Her father put down his knife and fork. ‘It will put some meat on those thin bones of yours.’
‘Precious little meat in that pie,’ Jessie said, in her usual blunt way, but her eyes gleamed at the praise. ‘Mostly veg from the farm and a bit of offcuts of lamb, bits and pieces, and pastry mostly made from lard.’
‘Still, it’s delicious.’ Father was in a good mood though lines of pain from his leg etched his face. He caught Jessie’s hand and held it for a long moment. She blushed and Hari hid a smile; her father and Jessie were clearly very fond of each other. She supposed they weren’t really that old. Father was fifty-two and Jessie was an indeterminate age, perhaps fifty, maybe younger, but her hair was white and long and always coiled into a bun which might make her look older. Anyway, they both appeared transformed, happy. Could there be love in the air?
Suddenly, Hari felt upset. She went outside into the tiny back garden, planted now with vegetables which were tended mainly by Jessie, and forced back the tears. Everyone had a loved one: Violet, even Father, and of course Meryl, who had the best love of all, married to dear darling Michael, who had once loved her, had lain with her, made a woman of her.
‘Don’t be so melodramatic!’ she said aloud. ‘You’re acting like a Victorian maid. Grow up, Angharad Jones, for God’s sake.’ She felt ashamed of herself, her little sister might be dead for all she knew.
‘Taking the Lord’s name in vain now, then, girl?’ Jessie stood beside her, her voice was anxious. ‘You’re upset. Is it me and your father? We’re not rushing into anything if that’s what you’re worried about. I just find I care for him.’ She was pleading for Hari to understand.
‘No, it’s not that.’ Hari decided it was time to tell Jessie the truth. ‘It’s about Michael.’
‘What about Michael—has anything happened to him?’ Jessie clutched her arm. ‘There’s me thinking about myself, acting like a girl again, and not thinking about my son.’
‘It’s all right, Jessie, at least I think Michael is all right, but you’ve heard the news about the escaped prisoners from Bridgend?’
Jessie shook her head. ‘Of course, but I didn’t think too much about it. But what’s that got to do with my Michael?’
‘He crashed as you know, Jessie, but he lived and was a prisoner in Island Farm. I wasn’t sure at first if it was him then he looked at me and gave me a sort of signal.’ She took a deep breath. ‘He escaped but they’ve got him again. God knows what state he’ll be in when they fetch him back.’
‘No love, you’re mistaken, Michael is dead, you’re dreaming, wanting him to be alive. Don’t fool yourself girl, what would Michael be doing in a prison with a lot of Germans? You’re just being plain daft.’
Jessie hugged her. ‘Forget my Michael, Hari, he was never for you; find another man; you’re young, beautiful and you’re alive. Michael is dead; dead; do you understand?’
Hari nodded. ‘I understand Jessie, go back to Fathe
r, he needs you. I’ll just calm myself before I come in.’ But how could she be calm when her thoughts were a confusion of doubts and hopes and her every sinew yearned for one man only, and that man was Michael Euler?
Seventy
The days and nights passed without incident, that is until Fritz got us near the coast. We were emerging from a small forest when suddenly shots were fired, whizzing overhead like a swarm of bees. German voices shouted the order to ‘halt’ and Fritz accelerated away into another group of trees. He stopped among thick brush.
‘You get out,’ he said, almost gently, ‘for your sake and for ours. I’ll try to come back to pick you up. If I don’t, you’re on your own.’ He drove away and I wished him luck with all my heart.
I must have waited hidden in the trees for hours but no one came for me. At last, as it was growing dark, I knew Fritz wasn’t coming back and I began to walk. I was so tired I wanted to cry, to give myself up to the Germans, tell them everything and let them shoot me. And then I thought of the baby, my baby—Michael’s baby—and I knew I had to make an effort to escape.
My legs were aching and my belly grumbled with hunger by the time I saw the lights of a dockyard. I knew it was dangerous to go any further but I had to bluff my way back home, live by my wits as I’d done since I left British shores.
I could see German uniforms everywhere. I dug out my German papers. They were all in order, German and Irish, thanks to my dear father-in-law.
I walked into the dockyard and my heart lightened. I might get a passage to Ireland from here if I was lucky. It didn’t occur to me I didn’t know where ‘here’ was. Head high, I was stopped at a barrier and showed my German papers.
‘What is your business at the docks?’ The guard spoke in heavily accented German and I barely understood him.
‘I think I’m lost.’ It was all I could think of on the spur of the moment.
‘From Berlin, eh?’ He looked me up and down.
‘Hamburg,’ I said at once.
‘Berlin has been attacked again by the British and the Americans.’ He stumbled for the right words. ‘Soon be burned like Dresden.’ I could swear there was a touch of glee in his voice; he must be Belgian or Dutch I decided.
‘Why you leave Hamburg?’ He almost shouted the question and I jumped.
I am leaving for Ireland,’ I said, in German, ‘Sick mother to visit.’ I patted my rounded stomach. ‘Tell her about my baby, too.’
‘No ship from this port to Ireland. You go somewhere else.’
I stood there with my little bag in my hand feeling abandoned. ‘I don’t know where to go or what to do, my husband, a pilot, is lost over enemy territory.’
That was as much of the truth as I wanted to tell him. I hoped he wouldn’t probe too deeply. If he did he might discover who I really was and he’d soon find out I had been wanted in Germany as a spy. He looked at my bag and I held it out to him. He shook his head.
‘Please help me.’ I perched uncomfortably on a bollard and put my case on the ground.
He was silent for a long time and then he sighed in resignation. ‘Wait here.’ He disappeared.
I sat uncomfortably on the uneven surface feeling the cold from the pewter, oily water of the docks chill my bones. I sat there for at least an hour unnoticed. Then he was back.
‘You stubborn.’ He smiled suddenly. ‘Must be Irish in you. Show papers again.’
I showed him my papers and he nodded hesitantly. ‘You Catolic, then?’ It seemed to please him. ‘I speak to wife Ella, she Catolic as well, say you can stay in my house.’
I didn’t bother to tell him I was Welsh Baptist down to the bone. ‘I don’t want to put you to any trouble,’ I said, just to be polite.
‘No trouble, it is all right.’ He took me to the edge of the dock and pointed to the house.
‘Oh, thank you.’ I stepped from one foot to the other not knowing what to do.
‘You sit on bench,’ he said, pointing. ‘I relieved of duty in only few minutes. I am Freddie, I take you.’
Relieved, I sat on the bench; it seemed if you were small, young, pregnant and alone every man wanted to take care of you.
About an hour later I was seated near a warm fire with Freddie’s wife, Ella. She was Belgian too and brought me a hot drink of chocolate. It was a treat and though I knew that the tin of powdered chocolate was probably pinched from one of the ships on the dock, I drank with relish.
I slept on the sofa tucked into a warm blanket, the fire burned low in the grate but the embers gleamed comfortingly and out of sheer fatigue I fell asleep almost at once.
In the morning, Freddie had to go to work and Ella and I poured over a map. I wondered if I could hitch a lift into France which, to my delight, had been liberated some months ago by the British army. It was miles away, but if I could hitch a lift to Calais I would surely find a way to go to Ireland and from there to Britain.
Ella told me I was in Antwerp where the Germans had command of the dock and the seas beyond.
‘But the Allies will come soon; the Germans haf lost. You good married girl, you haf ring on finger,’ she said softly, her hand over mine. ‘You are soon to haf child?’
I smiled widely and she nodded sagely. ‘You stay us till Allies come.’
Christmas came and went. It was cold, the water in the docks looked like ice. Ella made little dolls for her two daughters and Freddie made a wooden train for his son. I just grew fatter.
One morning in February I awoke to the sounds of shooting and my heart turned over, I had grown comfortable, safe. But now I realized the war was not yet over.
Seventy-One
It was a momentous time at the beginning of the year 1945. The Americans had come to the Ardennes, the whole country was celebrating and I began slow labour at the unearthly hour of twelve o’clock in the night.
I got up and dressed and packed my little bag and then I woke Ella and Freddie. ‘I’m going home to have my baby,’ I said firmly. I knew Ella would argue and she did.
‘Not now,’ she said, ‘wait till baby come.’
‘That won’t be for a few weeks.’ I was lying through my teeth but Ella didn’t know it and she nodded.
‘I understand, you want your child to be Catolic like us.’
‘That’s right, Catholic,’ I said. It was the only way she would allow me to go. She frowned.
‘But at least wait till morning.’
‘I will go now.’ I kissed her and hugged her and then kissed Freddie. ‘Thank you for all you’ve done, I’ll write to you when I’m home.’
I set out, well wrapped in Freddie’s scarf, to the edge of the docks. There was a battalion of British soldiers and one American pilot.
‘What you doing here lady?’ The American pilot stood looking at my round figure with surprise.
‘I must get home,’ I said, trying my best to hide a small contraction.
‘You an English lady?’ He was even more surprised.
‘I’m Welsh,’ I said stubbornly. ‘My husband was a pilot, shot down a few months ago. I’m having his baby and I don’t want to have it here.’ I didn’t mention that Michael was flying for the Germans.
‘What do you expect us to do?’ one of the other men said, frowning at me.
‘I’ve been spying for the British,’ I volunteered, ‘I’ve put myself in danger to help my country and now I want to go home to have my child. Is that asking too much?’ I demanded. No one replied.
‘Look, I was supposed to be taken out of the country by the resistance but they had to leave rather hurriedly if you get my meaning and I was left to fend for myself, but now I’m asking, begging for help.’ I looked directly at the American pilot.
‘You got a plane?’
‘Of course I got a plane, lady, so what?’
‘My name is Meryl,’ I said sharply, ‘yours?’
‘Aldo,’ he said reluctantly. ‘You got a sister in Swansea, a girl called Hari?’
‘Yes, you know Hari?’
I was a little piqued, everyone admired my sister. ‘Well, Aldo, you can take me home. It will only take an hour or so, won’t it?’
‘There are fuel checks—you can’t just take an aeroplane, you know, mam.’
‘Why not, who is to know? I thought you pilots were daredevils.’
The men talked among themselves, one or two argued, and then Aldo grinned. ‘All right, for your cheek and because your sister was so nice, I’ll risk it. Tom, you drive us to the field and see about refuelling, OK?’
I breathed out a huge sigh. I didn’t think I was going to get away with it. Every bump of the jeep threatened to break my waters. I’d seen enough birthing on the farm to know more or less what happened. I knew the mother ewe delivered the lamb sometimes alone in a field and if a dull sheep could do it so could I.
It was an ordeal climbing into the plane but, by lifting up my heavy belly, I succeeded, managing not to moan with the pain. Thankful, I sat down and closed my eyes. Incredibly, I must have dozed and then I woke up sharply to the rat-tat-tat of guns.
‘Gerry on my tail,’ Aldo said, ‘some cloud to the right, I’ll hide in there.’ Through his windscreen I saw nothing but grey fog and I knew we would be in trouble if he couldn’t get out of the clouds again, but at least the enemy plane had given up and gone away. That was until we slid out of the clouds and then the shooting, alarmingly close, began again.
I pressed my palms together and like a child recited the Lord’s Prayer in English and in Welsh. ‘Ein Tad, Our Father’—the words whispered out like molten silver between my lips. Aldo ducked and dived and turned the plane and fired his own guns. I saw the German plane begin to smoke and then it screeched down towards the sea. ‘Good shot!’ I said, then, ‘Diolch yn fawr’, as I looked up towards heaven.
‘What damn language are you speaking now?’ Aldo asked.
‘Welsh of course,’ I said huffily as if he should know. ‘By the way, you can drop me on the Welsh coast, Carmarthen, it will be nearer for you and there are plenty of fields to land in.’