by Jenny Lecoat
On the tiny stove was a milk saucepan containing the last inch of the cabbage and swede soup she had cooked the day before. The smell of it hung in the air like sour washing. For a moment she debated leaving it for breakfast, but hunger, as always, beat common sense, and soon she was scooping it greedily into her mouth, swallowing faster than was good for her. She sucked hard on the tin spoon to get the last drops, licked the inside of the saucepan until she could taste nothing but metal, and slumped down onto the wooden chair at the little table, staring into the flickering flame. Then, even as she told herself it was a bad idea, she pulled open the shallow drawer tucked beneath the table and slid her hand in, feeling around till she found the small bundle of papers. Drawing the candle closer, she unfurled the thin sheets and sifted through to the last letter, dated April 1940 – exactly a year ago.
‘Our darling daughter,’ it began in her mother’s spidery hand. Several vacuous and suspiciously cheery sentences about the lovely weather and the helpful neighbours followed. And finally, the darkly coded final paragraph: ‘But there is talk of us going on a holiday.’ Hedy stared back at the flame. Not once in all their years of marriage had her parents ever discussed going on holiday. She closed her eyes and conjured up her mother, warming her hands by the old kitchen range. She thought of Roda – ebony-haired, giggling Roda, posed as she always was in Hedy’s mind in a broad sun hat and holding a long pole, tilling the soil on some Palestinian kibbutz. After a while Hedy smoothed down the sheet of paper and returned it to its bundle and its drawer, this time locking it with its small metal key. Reading these letters never brought comfort, any more than recipe books killed hunger pangs. Not for a month would she read those again.
She sat back in her seat but the image of Roda persisted. Roda who had flirted with the German guards when they were questioned that night near the Swiss border, laughing coquettishly over her shoulder to avoid showing her papers, winking at some grinning Nazi to get across the border. Hedy had brimmed over with admiration for her that night. Roda would do whatever she had to in order to survive. She was too bright, too plucky to do anything else.
Hedy, you’re my friend. I worry about you.
Very slowly, as if to pull a trick on herself, Hedy eased the copy of the Evening Post from her pocket. She opened it on the table and flicked through the pages, this time ignoring the Jewish order and speeding through to the classifieds at the back. It was there, on page seven, a box advertisement.
WANTED: translators fluent in both English and German for office work at NSKK Transportgruppe West, Staffel Vt. Excellent rates. Applications in writing by 15th May.
She read it again, then a third time. The room was perfectly silent, and the only light came from the candle flame and its yellow reflection in Hemingway’s staring, questioning eyes. The rent was due on Friday. Once paid, she would have nothing left to buy her rations. A burning pain crept across her chest as she tore around the edges of the advertisement and placed the little rectangle of paper on the table. The room was still cold, but she realised she was sweating.
‘Private? This one’s ready.’
The NCO approached with a clipboard and jotted down the registration plate of the Opel Blitz truck. He then offered the document for signature, and tore off the copy. ‘Shall I bring the next one through, Lieutenant?’
‘No, I’m going to break for lunch. Give me half an hour.’ Wiping his greasy hands on a piece of rag, Kurt Neumann stretched his aching back, slicked his hair back into place and headed for the officers’ mess. Rabbit stew on the menu today. Proper stew, with mashed potatoes! This time last year he was living on tins of Fleischkonserve (remembering it still made him belch a little) and that awful rye bread that broke your teeth. His tummy rumbled in happy anticipation.
Crossing the compound, Kurt coughed to clear the dust from his throat. The fine, pale powder of Lager Hühnlein got into everything – clothes, eyes, even socks. That was what you got for throwing up such a vast, sprawling complex in a few short weeks. The scale of the place was impressive, with rows of prefabricated administration huts, material storage units and fortified pathways for heavy vehicles to run in and out all day. From here, according to Field Command, ‘the greatest construction of fortifications the world had ever seen’ would be planned and implemented.
Privately, Kurt found the whole concept a bit daft. After all, if Churchill wanted to take back these islands by force, wouldn’t he have done it by now? Why pour so much money and energy into ruining beautiful scenery? But Kurt knew better than to voice such thoughts to fellow officers – and certainly not around fanatics like Fischer at his billet, or the employees at this place. The Organisation Todt, or ‘OT’ as the military engineering section was known, was dominated by a real bunch of reprobates – very different from the professional, disciplined guys he’d served with in France. At mealtimes they sat in tight groups, chain smoking and laughing too hard at jokes he found cruel. On one occasion he’d seen a local lad, a kid with a funny walk who was employed to clean out the latrines, kicked in the groin by an OT officer for some apparent disrespect. Kurt had felt sickened by the incident, but hadn’t reported it. He told himself there was no point, as no action would be taken. As Helmut had cautioned him all through their schooldays, better to keep your head down when there was nothing to gain. And apart from the OT thugs, he enjoyed his work here. Supervising the work of the mechanics, ticking off inspection lists, signing off the imported trucks – these were all jobs he could do in his sleep. A little fiddling with the Buick engines, a little paperwork – hardly the front line. He could almost be back at engineering college.
There was a queue at the mess hut, so he decided to have a smoke and wait it out. Leaning against the wall of a storage hut, he tapped a Gauloise, his new favourite brand, from a pack in his pocket, and was about to light it when what he saw made him stop, the flame of his lighter still flickering in the breeze. A pale, skinny girl with tawny blonde hair was standing between two of the admin blocks, looking around her in some confusion. Her hair was neatly pinned up, but despite the warmth of the day she wore a shabby wool coat and shoes that looked as if they’d seen better days. She looked anxious, and she clearly needed a good meal, but what struck him most were her eyes. They were the large, frightened eyes of a woodland creature, yet there was a hint of defiance there too. He was about to ask if she needed assistance when she spoke first.
‘Excuse me, I’m looking for OT Feldwebel Schulz in Block Seven?’
Kurt smiled, surprised. ‘You’re German?’
She shook her head. ‘From Austria. I’m here for’ – she hesitated, as if the words hurt her mouth – ‘for the translator’s job.’
He couldn’t stop staring at those eyes. They were the colour of the sea in Rozel bay. ‘Block Seven is the next hut on the left. Here, let me show you.’
‘No, thank you.’ Her voice contained the chill of compulsory courtesy. ‘I can find my own way.’ Kurt watched her walk across the uneven terrain, her figure swaying as she moved, not taking his eyes off her for a second until she turned the corner and disappeared.
An hour later, his belly now full of rabbit stew, Kurt was passing the entrance to Block Seven with a stack of signed dockets, when he saw the girl again. This time she was leaving the hut, and as she did so she shook hands with a pudgy little man with wire-rimmed glasses whom Kurt assumed to be Schulz. It was an odd, perfunctory handshake, as if neither of them wanted to partake in it, and both wanted it over as soon as possible. Kurt watched the girl as she walked down the path towards the barbed-wire boundary and the exit gate, then he called Schulz over.
‘OT Feldwebel?’ The man nodded. Kurt towered over him. ‘That young woman – she was here for the translator’s job, yes?’
‘Yes, Lieutenant.’
‘Are you taking her on?’
Schulz squirmed a little. ‘No choice I’m afraid, sir. She’s fluent in both languages. We’ve had so few applicants.’
‘I don’t understand
. Is there a problem?’
Schulz blinked very quickly as if someone had kicked sand in his face, and scratched the end of his nose. ‘Not at all, sir. I’m sure she will prove entirely acceptable.’ Kurt sensed that Schulz was holding something back, but couldn’t be bothered to pursue it. His attention was still half on the girl’s disappearing figure, so he smiled vaguely and indicated Schulz could go. Then, still holding the dockets in his hand, he felt a surge of curiosity that pressed him forward. At least, that’s what he told himself afterwards.
Checking that no one was watching, he crept down the path after the girl, taking care to keep his distance. Reaching the gate, she turned left down the narrow country lane beyond. Throwing the guards a quick salute, Kurt strolled out of the compound after her. Still keeping well back – after all, if she turned to question him what would he say? – he followed the girl to the next bend. There, what he saw made him step back and press himself into the steep grass verge for fear of intruding on this private moment.
The girl was leaning on a rusty iron gate leading to a neighbouring farm, her forearms resting on its top bar. He couldn’t see her expression, but the droop of her slender shoulders suggested intense sadness, even despair. She raised one pale, slight hand to her face and wiped her cheeks. With the other hand she pulled out the pins at the back of her neck until her hair fell in soft curls, then she threw back her head to loosen it further, carefully bunched the pins together and placed them in the pocket of her coat. Kurt watched, transfixed, scarcely breathing, afraid she might turn and see him, while at the same time wishing that she would. But the girl didn’t turn around; she continued to stand perfectly still, leaning on the gate and staring out across the field before her, as if taking in the scents and perfumes of the surrounding countryside. The breeze caught her hair and the edges of her coat, redrawing her silhouette, and Kurt fancied that she had closed her eyes. Then, as a flight of swallows moved across the sky above her, she leaned forward over the gate and vomited hard into the field below.
Town was busier than usual, perhaps due to the morning rumours of French cheeses on sale in the covered market. Hedy stood on the corner, watching housewives hurry past with half-empty shopping bags, and cyclists with rubber tubing for tyres swerving to avoid potholes. She looked about her, trying to make up her mind. Anton’s apartment was a short walk to her right, but if she turned left towards New Street she would be home in eight minutes. She had a strong urge to race back to her apartment, feel the comfort of Hemingway’s purring on her belly. But she knew this chill between her and Anton had stretched on for too long, and it was time to end it. Today, especially, she craved Anton’s easy company and optimistic reassurance. She turned to the right and felt her footsteps quicken as she neared the shop. Without knocking, she pushed open the side door to the flat and started up the stairs. But what she heard next froze her in her tracks.
‘In through the nose, out through the mouth … slowly now.’ The voice – male, filled with authority – drifted towards her on the stale air that smelled of must and flour. Hedy’s stomach tightened as she continued on tiptoe, trying to identify the speaker. It certainly wasn’t Anton, nor was it his boss Mr Reis. She tried not to make a sound, hesitating as she reached the top.
‘Anton?’ The apartment door was ajar, and she pressed on it until it swung wide enough for her to see inside. Sitting upright in the centre of the room on a wooden chair was Dorothea, her eyes closed in concentration, her breaths quick and shallow, her brunette crop sticking to her forehead. She was holding her hands together in front of her as if in prayer, and her chest jumped with a persistent cough. On her right, his hand resting reassuringly on her shoulder, was Anton, and on her left stood a short middle-aged gentleman with grey flecks around the temples and round horn-rimmed spectacles. The man turned to nod at Hedy before turning back to his charge. Hedy looked from one to the other in confusion, till she spotted the large leather bag, partly open, and the stethoscope peeping out from beneath the gentleman’s flannel jacket.
Anton’s eyes flicked towards her. ‘Dory had an asthma attack.’
A shameful burst of irritation flared immediately. What was this woman doing here, if she was ill? And why was she relying on Anton, when she surely had family of her own? But taking in her clay-coloured skin and the beads of sweat around the forehead, Hedy pushed her other feelings down. An empty stomach, Albert Einstein once advised, was not a good political adviser.
‘Fortunately,’ Anton was saying, ‘Doctor Maine was willing to come here from the hospital.’
‘Are you all right?’ Hedy asked. Dorothea opened her eyes for a moment and acknowledged Hedy’s question with a desultory waggle of her fingers. ‘What caused this?’
‘She was upset.’ Anton gave a little shake of his head, warning Hedy not to pursue it further. Hedy tentatively placed her bag down on the table, unsure if she should stay, while the doctor continued to listen to Dorothea’s lungs through his stethoscope. Finally he straightened up.
‘You must try to avoid situations that make you anxious, Miss Le Brocq. Prevention is better than cure, yes?’ His voice, which had the Jersey lilt to it, was honeyed and kind, though cracked with tiredness. The bags under his eyes reminded Hedy of her uncle Otto, and when he turned to include her in his smile she found herself smiling back. ‘Stocks of epinephrine are low, like everything else,’ he continued. ‘We may not be able to get it at all in a couple of months. There are a few home treatments that can help – mustard oil, ginger – but I doubt you’ll find those in the shops these days. Try to get her to the hospital if it happens again. House calls are becoming limited to absolute emergencies.’
‘I thought doctors were allowed private cars?’ Anton asked.
‘Yes, but our fuel allocation is less than two gallons a week. That can mean difficult choices sometimes.’ He scribbled out a bill in a chaotic hand and gave it to Anton, who looked at it with surprise. The doctor waved his hand. ‘What can money buy you now? A loaf from your delightful Austrian bakery will more than cover it. Good day to you all.’ And with that he collected his bag and slipped quietly from the room, leaving a faint smell of cigarette smoke. To her surprise, Hedy found herself a little saddened by his exit.
Anton went to the sink in the corner to get Dorothea a glass of water. Hedy followed him, speaking softly in German. ‘So what happened?’
Anton kept his eyes on the running tap, but answered in German too. ‘Her stepfather found out about me and threw her out of the house. Dory’s going to live with her grandmother for a while until things calm down.’ He caught her eye for a split second. ‘Please don’t say I told you so.’
‘Fine, I won’t say it.’
Anton shut off the tap and turned towards her. ‘I’m sorry, but I like her. And she likes me. What should I do? Dump her to please everyone else?’
Hedy reached out to touch his arm. ‘You’ve only known her a few weeks. Is it really worth this much trouble?’
‘It’s only trouble if you choose to see it that way. Her family will come around eventually. Like Dory says, if it makes us happy, it must be right.’
‘And what if the Germans force you into the army?’
‘I’m classed as a food producer, so that won’t happen. Unless the war drags on.’ He shrugged to indicate there was nothing more to say, then took the water to Dorothea and held the glass to her mouth. Dorothea sipped it slowly, keeping her hand on his. Hedy stayed by the sink, watching the two of them, listening to Dorothea’s shallow, grainy breaths. The window was open, and the grubby lace curtain blew up a little in the breeze. Somewhere outside, a mother shouted at a crying child.
Anton broke the moment, speaking deliberately in English. ‘How come you’re in your best dress?’
Hedy hesitated, reluctant to share her big news now. But Anton would find out soon enough anyway. ‘I got that translator’s job at Lager Hühnlein.’ She watched their astonished faces for a moment before adding, ‘You were right – they were despe
rate.’
Anton smiled for the first time. ‘But that’s wonderful. Dory, did you hear that?’
Dorothea nodded and took her deepest breath yet to reply. ‘That’s great news, Hedy. I knew it would work out for you.’ She smiled with real warmth, and at that moment Hedy realised that, probably thanks to Anton’s diplomacy, Dorothea had no idea of the upset she’d caused that first night.
‘If I had any other choice …’ Hedy stopped. Such rationales, even from her own lips, sounded hollow and pathetic.
‘Some acorn coffee?’ Anton gesticulated towards his little stove.
Hedy shook her head. ‘Another time maybe – you’ve got enough on your hands.’ The remark prickled with resentment, and she saw the hurt in his eyes, instantly wished she could take it back.
‘Well, I’m really pleased for you, Hedy. Come to the bakery soon and tell me all about it.’
The child outside the window was wailing now, and the room seemed stifling. Hedy felt a sudden need for fresh air. She forced herself to smile. ‘All right, I will. Bye.’
On her way down the stairs, she heard him call after her: ‘You’ve done the right thing, you know.’
But Hedy pretended not to hear.
The clock on the back wall read four: the predictable aching hour, when the strain of sitting hunched over her ancient Adler typewriter since early morning produced a shot of hot pain behind her left shoulder blade, and the pressure required to hammer down the stiff keys burned her tendons.
Hedy sat back on her rickety wooden chair and took a moment to stretch her back and massage her throbbing wrists. She wondered if the other girls in the office suffered the same way. Those big blowsy Bavarians, imported from the Fatherland to type and file all week, and screw their soldier boyfriends all weekend. If they shared her pain, they never showed it. Hedy gazed up at the narrow window of the hut, the shafts of sunlight taunting her with their promise of a glorious afternoon beyond. The room was airless, its fluorescent lights flickering pointlessly even on a bright day like this, and from her neighbour Derek, a sallow, nervous youth who was one of the only other non-Germans in her block, emanated a perpetual smell of mould. Hedy suspected it was because, like her, he had nowhere to dry wet laundry. She suspected she probably smelled the same. If so, she didn’t care. Let them smell her. Aware of the sweeping gaze of Fräulein Vogt, the block supervisor, she took another list of German building company bids and stuffed a translation form into the Adler’s roller.