by Clare Harvey
‘Cleaning?’ she repeated the word in English, and looked at him as if he were mad. But she was the housekeeper, wasn’t she? She lapsed into German then. ‘I’ve brought you some medication. I think treating your friend is a higher priority than housework, don’t you?’ He nodded, and she gestured to the basket she’d put down by the bedstead. ‘If you want to get those opened, I’ll go and get us some warm water and a sponge and we can get started.’
‘Yes of course.’ He went over to the bed, where Gordon lay on top of the covers. In the doorway, she stopped, and it was like an echo of when they’d first seen each other on the path, in the snowstorm. The air contracted between them. His lungs felt tight. She held his gaze, but didn’t speak. She feels it, he thought. She feels it, too. But then she turned away and went downstairs.
‘Let’s see what we’ve got for you, old man.’ Tom lifted the orange cloth from the basket and sat on the edge of the bed to look through its contents. ‘Charcoal tablets for your shits; sulphur powder for the lesions; meths for the blisters . . .’ He turned the familiar packages over in his hands – they were German army medical supplies, he’d worked with these before, but where the hell had she got them from? ‘. . . Camphor ointment for your swollen joints, and bandages. And aspirin, too. The girl’s a bloody miracle worker.’
‘Is she?’ Gordon’s voice had an edge to it.
‘What?’
‘She’s a good-looking woman.’
‘Yes, I suppose she is.’ Tom tried to sound casual.
‘You think after all we’ve been through I don’t know you, Tom Jenkins?’
‘Don’t catch your drift, old man.’
‘We’re so close to freedom. Don’t scupper it.’
‘I don’t know what you mean.’
‘Like hell you don’t,’ Gordon said. Tom heard the sounds of vehicles passing on the main road in front of the manse, and the bell began to toll in the church. ‘You’re fannystruck,’ Gordon said, pushing himself up so that his face was closer to Tom’s. ‘But remember that she’s German and in a few days’ time the Reds will be here, and—’
‘I know. I know. Leave it, will you?’
‘I’m just saying, it’s futile as well as dangerous.’
There were footsteps on the stairs. ‘Stow it. She’s coming back.’
And there she was, with an enamel bowl of water and a clean towel. Tom bathed Gordon’s legs and feet, and dried them off. Detta sprinkled sulphur powder and dabbed meths on the blisters. Gordon winced. ‘Fuck,’ he said.
‘Well, that’s one word that doesn’t need translation,’ she said in German, making Tom smile. ‘But it’s not something the nuns would have put on our vocabulary lists if it were,’ she added, pouring more meths onto the patch of lint she held.
‘I didn’t know they taught English in German schools,’ he said.
‘They did in mine. You know, there are quite a few words that sound the same in English and German, but they mean something different. Sister Maria used to call them “false friends”. Like angst, for example. It translates as “fear” in English, but for you the word angst means something different, I think.’
‘Existential dread,’ Tom said, squeezing camphor ointment onto his forefinger and beginning to rub it into Gordon’s swollen knee joints. He caught Gordon rolling his eyes, and thought about what his skipper had just said, about it being futile and dangerous to get to know this German girl. Was she a ‘false friend’ or did his feelings translate perfectly? He’d probably never find out. After all, she was already talking of moving them on.
He picked up the bandage and began to wrap Gordon’s foot where she’d finished treating the blisters.
‘Where did you learn to do dressings like that?’ she said, watching him.
‘I was a medical orderly in the Luftwaffe hospital in Hohemark for a while. They like to put us prisoners to good use, when they can.’
‘I didn’t know that.’ She was still watching him. He cut the bandage.
‘Would you mind just . . .’ She knew what he was asking, and put her forefinger on the spot where the tail end of the bandage was, keeping it tight whilst he knotted it. Their fingers brushed against each other.
‘How long have you been a prisoner?’
‘Since 1942 – two years, eleven months and one day. How long have you been a housekeeper?’
‘I’m not. I’m a bilingual secretary. I do German to French translation for the Reichsbahn, because they have lots of French workers at the moment. Or at least, they did.’
‘Oh, I thought . . .’
‘I’m just helping Father Richter out. He’s an old family friend. I can’t go to work at the moment. They stopped the trains last week. I was on the last train to cross the Oder.’ He noticed her worrying the silver locket on the chain at her neck. ‘Everyone said I was lucky to get out when I did. But, you know, I think of my colleagues in Oppeln – I don’t know what’s happened to them. And it’s not like they were good friends or anything, but . . . I feel guilty, somehow. Sorry, I don’t know why I’m telling you this.’ She got up. The water sloshed in the enamel bowl as she picked it up. ‘I’ll make you two some lunch and then I’ll have to go home or my mother will worry. She’ll send out a search party for me, which,’ she raised an eyebrow, ‘is the last thing we need right now.’
Tom watched the way her black dress clung to her hips as she walked from the room.
‘Jesus Christ,’ said Gordon. ‘What was that all about?’
‘Shut up and take one of these,’ said Tom, tossing him the bottle of aspirin.
Detta
‘Who is it?’ Her mother’s voice was muffled behind the heavy oak door.
‘It’s me, Mother, who else would it be? And why is this door locked?’
There was a clunk-scrape as the door was unbolted inside. Her mother opened it just wide enough to let Detta in, then slammed and bolted it after her. ‘Where have you been all day? It’s almost dark.’
‘I told you I had to go to help Father Richter at the manse, and I went up to the Schloss, too, to see Frau Moll and the girls. Anyway, it’s not late – why have you locked up already? I know we’re not exactly overrun with customers these days, but even so.’ Detta took off her scarf and coat and hung them on the stand.
‘We’ve got visitors,’ Mother said, pulling her cardigan tight across her chest and folding her arms.
‘Visitors?’
Mother inclined her head in the direction of the games room that opened off the reception area. Detta took the few steps it took to cross the hallway and looked in. The fire was lit. Green-black shadows wavered in the corners of the room, and the shutters were already closed. The room smelled, as it always did, of smoke and wood polish, but now there was something else, an undercurrent of something more pungent. Detta paused, and her mother joined her in the doorway. ‘They came this afternoon,’ she said. There, on the billiard table, were the twin mounds of two grown men, stretched out underneath a travel blanket. One snored, shifted in his sleep so that the blanket fell away, revealing the grey sleeve of his uniform. Their caps lay discarded on the floor.
‘Wehrmacht?’ Detta said. Her mother nodded.
The one who’d moved had blonde hair, his curls kissed orange in the firelight. From this distance he looked like Rolf, Detta thought, and her throat constricted. But, she reminded herself, Rolf was dead: killed in Italy. His mother had had a telegram, and Father Richter had given a memorial service – they couldn’t have a proper funeral without the body. Detta had cried like a gushing tap, and then seen Rolf’s mother and felt guilty for her tears. What right had she to grieve for Rolf? They had only been seeing each other such a short time; she hadn’t really known him well at all. Her despair was tinged by self-pity, thoughts of an imagined future with Rolf that she’d never have, and she’d hated herself for that.
‘They came asking for food and drink. I let them in out of the cold, but when I came back from the kitchen I found them like this.’ Her mot
her spoke in a low voice. Detta noticed, then, the untouched dishes of lentil soup on the table by the hearth. ‘They are younger than you, Detta, just canon-fodder, poor things.’
‘You can’t let them stay. If you’re discovered harbouring deserters . . .’ Detta thought of the blood on the snow in front of the bakery last week, and of the voice of the SS officer this morning.
‘I know that.’ Her mother sighed and ran a hand over her brow.
‘This isn’t like you, Mother. You never get involved.’
‘But look at them. They are just boys.’ And Detta knew that her mother was thinking about Rolf, too, and about all the other village youths, who’d been barely big enough to come into the public bar for a beer before the war lassoed them away.
Detta’s mind whirled. Army deserters at home, escaped prisoners in the manse, and the Russians’ inexorable drive across the snowy fields towards them all. She felt as if she were tumbling through space. ‘They’ll have to go. We can’t keep them here; it’s not safe.’ The words burned her tongue. How could she protect those British men and turn these German boys out into the cold? It was treachery.
Her mother sighed again. ‘I know.’
‘How long have they slept?’
‘An hour or so.’
‘Well, it’s almost dark. They need to eat and leave. You’re not doing them any favours by keeping them here. Weren’t the SS round earlier looking for terrorfliegers?’
‘Yes, how do you know about that?’
‘They came to the manse as well. They’re bound to come back to do a thorough search, and what will you say when they find two deserters on the premises?’
‘At least they’re not the escaped prisoners.’
‘But this is just as bad. They are traitors to the Reich. You’ll get yourself shot along with them.’
‘You’re right,’ Mother said, but neither of them made a move to rouse the sleeping boy-soldiers.
‘Right. I’m going upstairs to look out some of Papa’s old clothes. We can swap their uniform jackets for something more civilian-looking and warmer. That will help them. But you need to wake them up, and they have to go, soon. Mother?’ At last her mother nodded, and Detta went upstairs.
When she came back down with the clothes, the soldiers were already scraping up the last of the thick lentil soup, and wiping the bowls with hunks of black bread spread with goose fat. Detta took their uniform jackets from them and swapped them for jumpers and thick coats that had once belonged to her father. They smelled mostly of mothballs, but still held the faint smoky bite of his cigars, which always made her want to cry. Her mother gave them each a ‘necklace’ of dried sausage to wear underneath their coat, a bottle of plum brandy for their pockets, and a handful of Reichsmark notes to help them on their way. When Mother went through to the kitchen to brew a pot of coffee to put something warm in their stomachs before they left, Detta slipped upstairs.
Her little suitcase was still packed, on her bed, ready to go. She undid the clasp and pulled out her things, put the two folded Wehrmacht jackets underneath, then put her clothes and toiletries on top and closed it again. Then she went back downstairs.
The soldier boys were in the kitchen, gulping down hot coffee. They thanked Detta and her mother again and again, and Detta felt so guilty she gave them a whole packet of cigarettes each.
Then they were gone: out of the back door, through the kitchen garden, and away down the lane, heading towards the point on the horizon where the sun had slid away, and leaving nothing behind but a curl of icy air and the faint scent of masculine sweat.
Detta washed the soup plates in cold water, listening to her mother bustling about in the games room up the corridor: folding the travel blanket; rearranging the furniture; putting the dampeners on the grate. Detta dried her greasy fingers on a tea towel, and reached for the coffee jar. As Mother said this morning, there was no point hoarding the ‘brown-gold’ any longer, and she’d need to stay awake tonight. From her bedroom window she had a clear view of traffic coming along the road from either direction, long before it could be heard. She was to keep watch. If she saw the SS coming, she was to give a three-ring warning telephone call to Father Richter. But they’d agreed to keep everything secret from her mother – the less she knew, the safer she was.
‘Coffee?’ she said now, as Mother came back into the kitchen.
‘Why not? I doubt I’ll be able to sleep tonight, anyway.’ Her mother pulled the shutters to, pausing to look into the darkness as she did so. ‘Do you think they’ll be all right, those boys?’
‘With your plum brandy inside them, they’ll be invincible,’ Detta said, wishing she believed it.
Mother smiled a sad smile and clicked the shutters closed. ‘There’s more lentil soup on the hob,’ she said.
‘I’m not hungry.’
‘No. Me neither.’ Her mother lit two cigarettes and passed one to Detta as they waited for the coffee to percolate.
That night Detta did not change into her nightclothes. She kissed Mother goodnight as usual at the top of the stairwell, but once inside her room she put her boots back on, pulled a chair across to her window, quietly opened the shutters, and waited. The skies were clear, and although there was no moon, the starlight reflecting on the snow meant she could see the road well enough. Distant artillery splashed angry flares across the horizon, the sound crashing just seconds after each flash. The road was empty of traffic, for now.
The SS would come back, she knew it. They had been lucky this morning. It seemed madness that whilst a desperate battle to save the Fatherland raged just kilometres away, they had time to organize a manhunt for a couple of unarmed, escaped prisoners. But, Dear God, that was the SS – they never gave up.
Detta waited, watched and smoked. But the road that tugged and stretched towards the eastern front remained empty, without even a stray cat to break the stillness. Her eyes ached with adjusting to the strobing skies and her ears buzzed with echoes of heavy gunfire. She had almost given up on her intuition, and was checking her watch to see how late it was – despite the coffee her lids had begun to feel heavy and ready for sleep – when she saw them: wavering headlights in the distance.
It might be an ambulance, of course it might, but she couldn’t wait to check and take the risk. She tumbled downstairs and into the lobby, and made a lunge for the telephone, lifted the receiver, fingers jabbing the dial. Her hand trembled as she listened, pushing the phone hard against her ear to hear: some clicks, a hiss, then three clear rings. She banged the receiver back in its cradle and went back upstairs.
She couldn’t resist the impulse to watch from her window. She thought nothing of it as three vehicles pulled up in the inn car park – everyone always parked on their side because there were beech trees in front of the manse. In her mind’s eye she saw the men inside the top room: one sliding into the space under the floorboards, the other crouching in the alcove behind the bookcase, and Father Richter, waiting for the knock at the door.
She’d done all she could, Detta thought, she’d bought them some time but would it be enough? She heard the cars cut their engines, saw the doors beginning to open.
She thought of the blue-eyed airman, and she held her breath.
Chapter 16
November 1989, East Berlin
Miranda
I still have the postcard in my hands as I go through to the hallway. I place it next to the old brown Bakelite phone that squats on Gwen’s telephone shelf. From the kitchen there’s a clatter of crockery as Gwen makes a start on supper. I pick up the receiver and dial, waiting as it rings.
‘Hello, Gran?’ I reach out with a fingertip and touch the torn postcard of Lossen.
‘Miranda!’ She asks how I am, how my head is. I tell her I’m fine, Gwen’s given me aspirin and weak tea, and she begins to talk about concussion, and how important it will be for me to rest well tonight.
‘Why didn’t anyone ever mention Granddad had a sister in East Germany?’ I interrupt. And I
listen as she talks about the great shame, the stigma, of any connection with Germany in the post-war years. She says Granddad was still in the RAF when Gwen defected. She says they were both pulled in for questioning by M15 when it happened, that it put an end to Granddad’s RAF career. ‘And I suppose it didn’t help that he was already married to a German?’ I say.
‘So Gwen told you about that?’ Her voice is so quiet I strain to hear. ‘A Nazi wife, a Commie sister – at least, that’s how people viewed it, back then.’ I hear her exhale – she must be smoking and in my mind’s eye I can see her, perched against the telephone table, with the receiver in one hand and one of her long, pastel-coloured cigarettes in the other. Her smoke drifts past Granddad’s painting on the hallway wall, the one of the POW camp at night: the spiky loop of barbed wire, the curl of the guard’s smoke, bristled tops of fir trees, and a bird in flight, silhouetted against the half-moon.
I hear the doorbell jangle-clang outside Gwen’s front door. ‘Why didn’t you ever say you were German? It’s not like you did anything wrong, is it?’ I say.
I sense Gwen walking behind me as my grandmother answers. ‘The same reason we never spoke about his sister: the shame. It must be hard for anyone of your generation to understand how one can be ashamed, feel complicit almost, in acts of violence committed by others.’
I lift my fingertip off the postcard and touch my forehead, the tender pulpy skin above my brow. And I think that I do understand something of what it is to feel ashamed and complicit in aggression perpetuated by another.
I turn my head to see Gwen open the front door to reveal a dumpy grey-haired woman with a purple hairband. I notice the woman in the doorway smiling and gesticulating in my direction. I see pale curls wobble as Gwen shakes her head at something the woman has said.