Wartime Brides

by Lizzie Lane

  Aaron nodded silently as he got to his feet. ‘Shall I send in your first appointment?’

  She got the papers out of her briefcase. ‘Please do.’

  As she’d expected, Josef Schumann was first. She smiled up at him as if he were just another displaced person in need of help. He smiled back at her knowingly, with a look in his eyes that seemed to be asking her a question. What are you going to do about it? She remembered the scarf slipping from her neck and the pitying look he had given her. He knew her secret and it unnerved her. She put on a brave front.

  ‘I’ve found your family. Your parents are in Potsdam. It appears they moved in with an uncle there after Hamburg was bombed. This is the address.’ Without looking into his eyes she slid a note across the table on which someone at the Red Cross central sorting office had scribbled an address.

  For the first time she sensed just how badly he was hurting inside. Now it was she that looked at him, mentally asking, How are you feeling? Potsdam was in the Russian sector, but he didn’t refer to that.

  ‘What about my sister?’

  Charlotte delved into the pile of paperwork she’d set out before her.

  ‘Erica?’ she said, screwing up her eyes better to see the faint carbon copy of a piece of paper headed Export Visa Application. Her mouth went dry, making it necessary to clear her throat before she replied. ‘She’s applied to marry. An American soldier according to this.’

  Josef smiled wanly and shook his head. ‘First we fight. Then we …’

  His eyes met hers. She blushed and looked away.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘It’s all so ironic.’

  It wasn’t easy, but she did manage to regain her composure.

  ‘You told me last time that you were thinking of staying here. Is that idea still in your mind?’

  The smile came back to his lips and the knowing look to his eyes. ‘Certainly. I believe that the fact of my family being in the Russian sector would help. Of course it would also help if I married a British girl.’

  ‘Yes. So I understand. Is that a possibility?’

  There was no doubting the meaning in his look. ‘If the right woman came along and was free to marry.’

  Don’t blush! Charlotte hid her discomfort by studying the mass of carbon copies, scribbled messages and stencilled notes sat before her.

  ‘These things take time,’ she said curtly. ‘It could be a year before we get round to repatriating you. Things aren’t good in Germany. Agriculture is destroyed. Food is scarcer than it is here and that’s saying something!’

  Josef got to his feet, all six foot of him towering over her. ‘Nature provides. Isn’t that what you English say?’

  ‘What?’ she stared at him, puzzled.

  ‘I have a present for you,’ he said, turning and making for the door. He returned with a brace of rabbits hanging from each hand. ‘We are allowed to go out snaring some extra food. Sometimes it’s pigeons, this week it is rabbits.’

  Charlotte got to her feet. ‘But what about you?’

  ‘Wednesday was a good day for hunting. These are extra.’

  For the rest of the morning she worked like a robot. She did everything she was required to do with automatic precision but her thoughts were anything but precise.

  The same officer who had taken charge of her induction on the first day brought lunch of cheese soup and raisin cake on a tray.

  ‘British fare?’ she asked him, her eyebrows raised after surveying the food.

  ‘Afraid so,’ he replied. ‘Just as the camp is a mix of British and American, so is the food. Can’t say I’ve come across cheese soup before. And hopefully, never again.’

  She smiled and pushed the pile of official documentation to one side and, with an uneasy heart, added the white envelope containing her resignation. ‘I’d like to see the commanding officer this afternoon. Would that be possible?’

  ‘He’s a busy man but I dare say I can swing something for you. I’ll come back later if I manage to fix it. All right with you?’

  ‘Yes,’ she replied and although she knew the officer was waiting for her to invite him to stay, she bent her head and dipped her spoon into the uninviting off-white soup.

  However, she was grateful to him for getting her an appointment. The CO was a thickset man with a shiny head and small eyes. REUBEN M. COHEN stated the wooden plaque on his desk.

  With gentlemanly politeness, he rose from his seat as she entered and came from behind his desk, offering his hand.

  ‘Mrs Hennessey-White! Great to meet you. Please. Take a seat.’ He was full of typical American warmth.

  She did as ordered.

  ‘Coffee? Tea?’

  She shook her head.

  He rested his backside against the desk, folded his arms and looked down at her. ‘Ask me for whatever you want. Anything! Anything at all! If we haven’t got it I promise I’ll get it for you. OK?’

  She smiled and nodded her appreciation. ‘I have a question to ask.’

  ‘Ask away.’

  ‘Is there a law forbidding a Negro soldier from marrying a British girl?’

  ‘Ah!’ His jaw dropped slightly.

  ‘I take it you mean there is.’

  As if putting a barrier between her and the question, he went back behind his desk and sank heavily into his chair.

  ‘In twenty-three of the states of the union, mixed marriages are forbidden.’

  Charlotte eyed him accusingly. ‘This isn’t the United States, Commander. This is Great Britain. Those laws don’t apply here.’

  Cohen sighed heavily and clasped his podgy hands on his belly. ‘Sure, this guy, whoever he is, could marry under your law. But as a serving soldier he’d need his commanding officer’s consent and that would not be given. They’d end up having kids of mixed race. We have enough of our own mongrels in the States, Mrs Hennessey-White, without importing another batch.’

  A flush of anger warmed Charlotte’s cheeks. It was all she could do to stay sitting, to stay unflustered. ‘We’ve been fighting a war against that sort of thing. I find your statement objectionable.’

  Cohen leaned forward. ‘Statement of the American Senate. No mixed race kids, period!’

  Outraged, she sprang to her feet. ‘So what was the damn point of it all! What was the point of millions dying for a cause!’

  Too angry even to say goodbye, she stormed out, slamming the door behind her so hard that his nameplate became dislodged and rattled to the floor.

  And his name’s Cohen, she thought, as she made her way to her car. A Jewish name. Ironic, Josef had said. He was right.

  Josef was leaning on her car. ‘You forgot your rabbits,’ he called as she made her way towards him. He held them high, floppy little bodies tied by their ears.

  Words of thanks didn’t come easily because her mind was preoccupied. All the hopes and dreams of a world at peace were turning into a nightmare. Rights and wrongs were not as clear-cut as the voices of leadership had led her to believe.

  She was aware of him watching her, silently assessing her mood. ‘There’s a pub in the village,’ he said suddenly. ‘Too early yet, but perhaps, one night – a Tuesday or Wednesday maybe, at about seven.’

  ‘Perhaps.’ She secreted the game in the boot of the car then sat herself at the wheel. ‘And I will be out again,’ she blurted decisively. ‘I’m bringing civilian clothes, things to make life a little easier for you while you wait to go home.’

  ‘Wherever home happens to be,’ he said solemnly.

  ‘I must also see Corporal Grant again. I went to see the CO about him. He was not helpful.’

  Josef’s face darkened. ‘You shouldn’t have done that.’

  ‘But someone had to do something,’ she blurted. ‘It’s not a hanging offence, is it?’

  ‘Not for you. But it could be for the corporal.’

  The way he spoke turned her blood cold.

  He noticed her concern and rested his hand on hers. ‘I will keep watch over him – a
s much as I can.’

  She had no doubt of his capabilities and couldn’t help but smile. But she’d seen the bruises on the corporal’s face. It was worrying.

  The car engine roared into life as her eyes met his. She saw warmth there, the sort she’d once seen in David’s.

  ‘I’ll be seeing you,’ she said softly and put her foot down on the accelerator, her heart racing in time with the engine.

  Back in his office Reuben Cohen telephoned the guardhouse. ‘Send Sergeant Noble into me will you? And then after that I want to see Corporal Grant.’

  He reached into his humidor, a stupid gift from his wife shaped like an elephant – so he wouldn’t forget her. As if he could! Women. They were all fools. He didn’t like the natives coming in, demanding this and that and then storming out of his office. Grant was to blame. Had to be. And because of that he’d arrange for Sergeant Noble to give him something to remember him by.

  Charlotte changed into a green dress of soft silk and prewar length for dinner. She and David were going to dine in the great hall of the university’s medical school, a glimmer of pageantry to light the drabness of real life. She spent time over her hair, added a touch of perfume and told herself over and over again that if she were overly pleasing at dinner, David would forgive her for not giving in her notice. After all, he’d got his way with regard to the children. And what would she do at home all day without them?

  She decided to tell him while there were plenty of people about. He couldn’t get angry then, could he? No doubt he would be angry but, hopefully, by the time they got home, he would have calmed down.

  He’ll understand, she reassured herself. He’ll understand.

  Edna felt her life was on tramlines and she was completely incapable of getting off to freewheel around on her own. On her way home from work she thought how best she could ask her mother the address of the orphanage where Sherman was. The child was now three months old and she badly wanted to see him, but up until now his whereabouts had remained a closely guarded secret.

  It was her mother who had taken the child from the hospital where he’d been born and made the arrangements with the orphanage. She had cried bitterly, pleaded to keep him a little while longer, begged to know where he was, but her mother had stood firm.

  ‘You’ve the rest of your life to think of,’ she’d snapped.

  Ethel Burbage was a ramrod of determination and lack of emotion. All her life Edna had allowed herself to be moulded into whatever her mother wanted her to be. Each time she had tried to have a night out with the factory girls, or attempted to buy something outstandingly frivolous or deliriously sexy, her mother had come down on her like a ton of bricks. And a nauseating sensation of shame and fear came over her every time she tried to pluck up the courage to demand to know where Sherman was.

  Only when she’d joined the ATS and had manned the searchlight had she enjoyed some measure of freedom. It had been hard for Ethel to check whether her daughter had been on duty or not, and it was then that she’d met Jim and discovered a freedom she’d never experienced.

  But once she’d got pregnant, her position had reverted to what it had always been. She was almost a prisoner. Not so much in her own home, but in the sense that the things she did had to mirror the things her mother would do in a similar situation.

  There was no question of her not marrying Colin. Her mother had ordained that it should be so and the sooner the better. Basically, the case was that she had to marry where she could and as quickly as possible, just in case the truth came out. And in the meantime her child would remain in a faceless institution until, perhaps, someone came to adopt him. In the meantime she’d been told to get on with her life.

  Her job typing invoices at the tobacco factory was hardly exciting but, as her mother kept telling her, it was far superior to working on a factory floor or being a shop girl. She was in the office and a better class of person worked there.

  Colin had been kept very busy before Christmas, making toys to order from any bits of wood he could get hold of. He’d saved all the money he’d earned, insisting they’d need it if they were to marry in May as planned. ‘No one wants toys in January,’ he said, ‘and my pension won’t get us very far.’

  It was a Tuesday night when she came home from work and another unwelcome command from Ethel.

  A note was jammed in the letterbox. It said, ‘We’re at the Smiths for tea. Join us there.’

  Her mother’s writing. No please. No thank you.

  When she got to Colin’s house, both sets of parents were sat in the front room. Colin was in his wheelchair. He looked up at her as she entered, said hello, but both his voice and his smile were stiff. There was a look in his eyes that told her something was troubling him.

  Despite it not being her house, her mother pointed to a chair. ‘Edna! Sit down there and we can tell you what’s been done.’

  Colin’s mother passed her a plate. ‘Have a sandwich, dear. I’ll pour you a cuppa. One sugar or two?’

  ‘One,’ said Edna swiftly, still wondering what was going on. She immediately turned back to her mother. ‘What’s been done?’

  ‘The wedding arrangements.’ A smile swept across her mother’s face and stayed there stiffly like a warning.

  ‘Now don’t worry about a thing.’ She glanced at Colin’s parents who were looking decidedly uncomfortable. ‘We’re sharing the costs between us all. We’ve arranged the church, the reception and the wedding cars. You can wear my wedding dress. It’s still good as new and you’re about the size I was then. Then Gladys and I,’ she said indicating Colin’s mother, ‘will go into town and choose some material for the bridesmaids’ dresses.’

  Edna trembled with dismay. ‘But I want to choose my own!’

  The plate clattered to the floor along with the untouched sandwich.

  Her usually meek and silent father dared to open his mouth. ‘Now, now, Edna, if you don’t like it …’

  ‘She’s got to like it!’ interjected Ethel. ‘Ungrateful little madam!’ She sprang to her feet. ‘Me and your father are willing to foot the bill along with Gladys and Fred here. You should be grateful, you should. In fact, you should be down on your bended …’

  For once she found the courage to protest. ‘No I shouldn’t! It’s my wedding. I want to organise it myself. I want to choose my own wedding dress, my own bridesmaids’ dresses. I want to do everything myself!’

  Her mother took up a threatening stance directly in front of her and wagged a finger in her face. ‘Now, you look here my girl …’

  ‘I’m going home!’ Edna spun towards the door. It wasn’t in her to fight and she didn’t want to stay. Her mother grabbed her arm. ‘Oh no you don’t!’

  Colin rolled forward. ‘Leave her alone! If you don’t leave her alone and stop yer bickering there ain’t going to be any wedding!’

  Everyone turned to Colin. Edna took advantage of the opportunity and ran out of the room, tears stinging her eyes.

  Back in her mother’s house, she slammed the outer door behind her and leaned against it, squeezing her eyes and clenching her fists. Her anger was just too much to bear.

  Slowly she opened her eyes to the oppressive browns of the hallway. Even the coats on the hallstand were shades of brown or beige, flecked wools or tweedy jackets. There was only one bright spot, one hint of brilliance. Like snowdrops peeping through the winter ground, an opened letter lay on the floor. It looked as if it had fallen out of the envelope.

  Edna picked it up, her heart skipping beat after beat as she read the heading. Muller Orphanage.

  And it wasn’t that far!

  She read the letter. It thanked her mother for the generous contribution of baby clothes she regularly made to them. Generous! It wasn’t her being generous. It was the last thing she could ever be.

  Because of her anger her first thought was to screw up the letter and throw it to the floor.

  Think! Think ahead!

  She wanted to see her baby. She wanted to
know if he had his first tooth, how big he’d grown and whether he looked like his father. After memorising the address, she put the letter back where she’d found it.

  In the solitude of her own bedroom she wrote the address in her diary then flung herself onto the bed and wished she was dead. What a mess she’d made of her life. A secret baby, marriage to a man with no legs, an act her mother was determined to make her go through regardless of whether she loved him or not. But everything had changed suddenly. There was now a chance that she could see her baby.

  That night in the twilight realm between waking and sleeping she dreamed of her wedding; Colin in a suit with ribbons tied around the empty legs of his trousers, roses festooned all over his wheelchair. And herself, cheeks red, eyes wet, walking down the aisle wearing her mother’s wedding dress that had been out of fashion since nineteen twenty-two. Rationing was still in force but that didn’t mean she shouldn’t have some choice.

  Colin was waiting for her at the end of the street on Wednesday night. Although his chair was designed for pushing, his arms were still strong enough for him to propel himself forward by turning the extra rim he’d made and connected to his wheels.

  ‘The worker returns bearing gifts,’ he said merrily.

  ‘How did you guess?’ She managed to return his smile and tossed him a five of Woodbines – free issue for the week. They started walking – or at least she did.

  ‘At least you’re no sacrifical lamb.’

  She frowned. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘You refuse to be led to the slaughter. All that organising going on behind your back. And I didn’t help.’

  ‘What good’s a mere man against my mother?’

  When their laughter had died away, Colin came to a halt and took hold of her hand. ‘You don’t have to go through with it you know. I would understand.’

  She looked down at him. A mixture of guilt and hope swept over her. He’d given her a chance to escape but in her heart of hearts she knew she couldn’t take it. Her son and his father had both been taken away from her. Colin was all she had left. Would the day ever come when she could tell him about Sherman?