The Viennese Girl

by Jenny Lecoat

  Dorothea meekly followed Hedy through the heaving streets, the collective frenzy of the day still ringing in their ears. As they forced their way against the current of revellers, Hedy watched Dorothea’s eyes constantly flick back to the lengthening line of Tommies snaking into the town centre, redrawing each face with Anton’s thick dark hair and smiling eyes. They had talked so often of this day, dreamed about it, pinned a picture of it in their minds for years. Now all Hedy could think about was returning to the peace and sanity of Dorothea’s little kitchen and keeping this feverish world at a safe, manageable distance.

  ‘Neumann, his name is Lieutenant Kurt Neumann. He’s an engineer. He’s been based at the Lager Hühnlein compound since 1941.’

  Hedy crossed her legs and deliberately added a touch of iron to her gaze. This office hadn’t changed an iota in five years. The same leather-topped desk, the same oversized chandelier, same neatly stacked files on the shelves. She remembered every detail, of both the room and the conversation, and she wanted Clifford Orange to know that she did. Given the expression on his face, she was pretty confident that he knew what she was thinking.

  She peered at him as he made his notes with agonising slowness, holding his fountain pen in red flaky fingers. He had lost weight, of course, and more of his hair. The crimson flush that once bloomed across his cheeks, presumably the result of too much drink, had now been replaced by malnourishment eczema. But the biggest difference, evident to Hedy as soon as she entered the office, was a visible loss of authority. He seemed smaller, not merely in bulk but in character, as if someone had scooped out all his arrogance with a spoon, leaving only a husk of desiccated obedience. Hedy wanted to leer, to let him know that she saw his decline and was glad. But she thought of Kurt, and kept her face expressionless.

  The news was out now. Photographs of the liberation of Bergen-Belsen, where a Jerseyman had miraculously been found alive, had been placed in the window of the town post office. News reels had been shown in the local cinema, to the audible screams and tears of the audience. No one, not even Orange, could now pretend that the consequence of classing any person a Jew was not fully understood. Hedy wondered if it was guilt that had shrunk this man so much, whether he acknowledged any aspect of his wretched role in history. But Orange gave no hint of it as he finished his notes and raised his face to her. He focused, she noted, not on her eyes but on a space a little lower, around her top lip.

  ‘Well, Miss Bercu, it seems that, thanks to your clever concealment at the home of Mrs Weber, you have had an extraordinary escape. Might I offer you my congratulations, and express relief that you have emerged from this experience no worse for wear. No harm done, it seems.’

  Hedy thought of her parents behind fences of barbed wire, being herded towards gas chambers. She wondered how many other people had sat in this chair, listening to Orange’s trite, mindless phrases, taut with perfect grammar and devoid of meaning. But the truth was, even now, the power still lay with these grey-suited men, and she was still required to beg for favours at their door.

  ‘And Lieutenant Neumann?’

  Orange replaced the cap of his pen with precision. ‘I will pass this information on to the appropriate department, of course. But in all honesty, I doubt it will make any difference.’

  Hedy shifted in her seat. ‘He saved my life. He risked his own to keep me safe and bring me food. Do you understand what the Germans would have done to him if they’d discovered he was protecting a Jew? An officer of his rank?’ She heard her volume increase and tried to rein herself back. ‘What I’m saying is, he’s not a Nazi. He hated the German authorities here as much as’ – she paused, knowing her meaning would not be missed, but no longer caring – ‘any decent person. And to my mind, that should be taken into account.’

  Orange smoothed down his spiky grey moustache with two fingers. ‘As I’ve said, Miss Bercu, the information will be forwarded. But Lieutenant Neumann was – indeed is – a serving officer of the German military and, as such, will be subject to the laws and decisions of the British legal system. I’m sorry that I can’t help you further.’

  The door swung open. Hedy looked up, surprised to see two British officers enter the room without waiting for permission. The senior of the two, a captain, jerked his head towards Orange. ‘The major would like to see you in his office, please, sir.’

  Orange’s hand went instantly to his collar, pulling it away from his throat. ‘I am, as you can see, in the middle of an interview.’

  Hedy stood up and addressed the captain directly. ‘Actually, Mr Orange has just informed me that he’s unable to help me further. So I think this interview is over.’

  ‘Thank you, ma’am’. The captain turned back to Orange. ‘After you, sir.’

  Orange rose slowly from his desk chair, hoping to give the impression of moving at his own speed, though Hedy suspected it was more that he was feeling a little faint. He walked deliberately to the door and allowed the officers to escort him out.

  Hedy picked up her bag and turned to leave the office when another Jersey official entered the room, bustling in a way that suggested frantic activity. Hedy recognised him at once. ‘Excuse me, Deputy Le Quesne?’

  The man turned to her with a weary smile. ‘May I help you?’

  ‘I just wondered …’ Hedy hesitated; this was probably a waste of time. But there was something about this tired old politician that she trusted. ‘Why do those officers want to speak to Mr Orange?’

  ‘All local representatives are being interviewed by British intelligence,’ Le Quesne replied, ‘for debriefing and assessment.’ ‘Assessment?’

  ‘To make sure that we exercised our duties correctly. It’s been asserted that certain public servants’ – he hesitated just long enough to make his inference clear to her – ‘were somewhat overzealous in the execution of German orders. Should that be proven, there will be consequences.’

  Hedy gave him the smallest smile, then nodded. ‘Thank you, Deputy. Good day to you.’

  Kurt stuffed his toothbrush into the pocket of his rucksack and buckled it up. It had taken him all of five minutes to pack. Five minutes for five years. He looked around the pretty room that had been his bedroom for so long. The little casement window, the Edwardian washstand in the corner, with its china washbowl and jug. That cream-painted plaster ceiling with the hundred little cracks he knew by heart. How many nights had he lain awake till dawn, staring at them and fretting about Hedy – if she was safe, if she had enough to eat, when he would be able to see her again. Now the tables would be turned, and it would be Hedy’s turn to lie in a comfortable bed, her mind twisting with imagined nightmares. He threw the rucksack over his shoulder and was preparing to go downstairs when he heard Hedy’s voice from the hallway.

  By the time he was halfway down, Kurt could see Hedy remonstrating with the harassed British sergeant who had been standing in the billet hallway since early that morning, ticking off names and serial numbers of German officers on his clipboard.

  ‘You don’t understand,’ Hedy was shouting. ‘I am not trying to prevent you doing anything. I just want a private moment with Lieutenant Neumann.’

  ‘I’m sorry, ma’am,’ the sergeant replied, ‘but these men are now prisoners of war. There is an armoured truck outside that needs to leave in five minutes to deliver them to their assembly point.’

  Another five minutes, Kurt thought. Years of clock-watching and waiting, and now everything is happening in five minutes.

  ‘It’s all right, Sergeant.’ Kurt used his most polished English accent for maximum impact. ‘I’m aware of your schedule and I give you my personal guarantee that all officers from this billet will be on that truck at the correct time. If you could just give me a moment?’

  The sergeant gave Kurt a doubtful look, and Hedy an even more doubtful one, then stepped out onto the porch to give them privacy. Kurt dumped his rucksack on the parquet floor and looked at her. She looked as lovely as ever, but there was a look about her th
at startled him, a determination. It was the same look he’d seen the day she’d first arrived at the compound to apply for the translator’s job. He stood before her, waiting.

  ‘I saw them lining the soldiers up on the beach. I didn’t know if you’d already been taken away.’

  ‘You heard the man. Five minutes.’

  ‘Were you not going to come and say goodbye?’

  ‘I’ve not been allowed to leave this house since yesterday. And to be honest I wasn’t sure …’ To his horror, he felt a lump in his throat and had to swallow hard. ‘I wasn’t sure either of us could stand it.’

  Hedy nodded. ‘But you’ve forgotten something.’

  ‘Have I?’

  ‘You told me you were with the Jungenschaft. You’re meant to remember your manners.’

  ‘Have I offended you?’ He sensed laughter building inside, but he couldn’t be certain it wouldn’t convert to tears on its way out, and swallowed again.

  ‘A little. I’m still waiting, you see.’

  That jutting little chin, that stubbornness. He wanted to tear her clothes from her and take her right then and there on the parquet floor. ‘Waiting for what?’

  ‘For my engagement ring.’

  A little snort escaped from his nose. ‘You’re right. Forgive me. These last few days, there hasn’t been much opportunity for shopping.’ They both giggled a little at this. Then Kurt had an idea. ‘Wait there.’

  Kurt hurried out to the porch and approached the British sergeant, who was still clutching the clipboard and glancing repeatedly at his watch as if he couldn’t make its information stick.

  ‘Excuse me, Sergeant, may I ask you one more favour? That rubber band holding together your notes – may I have it?’ The sergeant leaned back a little, anticipating some kind of trickery. ‘I need to give it to my girlfriend.’ The man looked puzzled for a moment, then seemed to understand. Without a word, he removed the thick brown band from his clipboard and gave it to Kurt, who smiled his gratitude then hurried back to the hallway.

  Taking Hedy’s left hand, he gently placed the rubber band on her third finger, doubling it over until it fitted. ‘It’s not exactly what I had in mind, but it’s something until I can get to a jeweller’s. Which might be a while,’ he added.

  Hedy splayed out her hand and touched the rubber band with affection. ‘I don’t mind waiting. This one will always be my favourite.’

  He stared at her, still clinging to the tips of her fingers. He wanted to hold her, but was frightened that if he did, he would be unable to let go. He saw himself being dragged from the room like a screaming toddler, wailing and flailing. The humiliation was almost as unbearable as the sense of loss. He groped for something to say, and opted for a lousy joke. ‘Summer or winter wedding?’

  ‘The day after you’re released.’

  ‘You know that could be years?’

  ‘Of course I know.’

  ‘There’s a public outcry over the concentration camps. People will want revenge, and the politicians may provide it.’

  ‘I know that too.’

  He continued to massage the ends of her fingers, as if trying to press all the emotions of his body into the smallest possible area. ‘What are you going to do now?’

  Hedy shrugged. ‘Stay here for a while, try to find out what happened to my parents, to Roda and my other siblings. Europe is a mess; it will probably take a while.’

  ‘How will you live?’

  ‘I’ll get another job. I hear lots of evacuees are planning to return – perhaps the Mitchells will come back.’ She smiled with sadness. ‘Of course, they might not need me any more.’

  ‘I can’t see anyone not needing you any more.’

  ‘I’ll be fine. I’m tougher than I look.’

  ‘That I know.’

  ‘I’ll be like King Canute – letting the waves roll over me, knowing there’s nothing I can do to stop them.’

  He grabbed her and kissed her, then he pulled back and threw his rucksack back over his shoulder. ‘I have to go. Don’t wait to watch the boat. Go home and see Dorothea.’

  She blinked her agreement and bit her lip.

  ‘Auf Wiedersehen.’

  She shook her head. ‘Bis bald.’

  He nodded, walked quickly out through the porch to the waiting armoured truck, and slumped down onto the bench without waiting to be asked. He knew the dam was about to burst, and that when it did, he would be out of control for some time. It was almost a relief when the door crunched shut and delivered him to the dark, chill metal interior of his future.

  She waited to watch the boat, of course. She knew that she would, even when she promised not to. Standing by the sea wall, shivering in the stiff spring breeze for two hours, even though she knew full well that even if Kurt was one of those on the beach below, she would never be able to make him out. Not among those vast snakes of tiny toy soldiers that stretched across the West Park sand, some in straight lines and some in odd curled shapes, as though the hundreds of figures down there were attempting to spell out a giant message across the shore. The men were peaceful, as far as she could make out – sitting or standing, muttering to their neighbours, smoking if they had any tobacco, or simply staring at the horizon.

  Strange, Hedy contemplated, what terror these figures had once stirred in her. Today they were nothing but numb, exhausted boys in grubby wool tunics, all longing to go home, yet knowing that that dream, too, had vanished, along with all the others. She almost felt sorry for them. There must have been others like Kurt, youngsters forced into a movement they never believed in. But perhaps there were just as many who still believed, who still held that filthy doctrine dear. Right now, she didn’t have the energy to figure it out, or even to care. An exhaustion of monstrous proportion was slowly gripping her, and had it not been for the cold and the freshness of the air, she felt she might fall asleep on her feet.

  Out in the bay, the landing craft sat waiting on the flat silver sea for their human cargo. By evening they would all be gone, and only the low silhouette of Elizabeth Castle would be left against the pearly sky. Normality was rapidly returning to the island. Trucks filled with coal rumbled through the streets, shops made window displays of goods that would be available to buy in a matter of days – shoes, children’s clothes, cooking pots. Last night’s Evening Post had announced that the postal service would be operational again from today. Tonight, Hedy and Dorothea would sit down to a delicious tuna hotpot that would swell their bellies to bursting, while Kurt would be halfway across a rolling English Channel, on a share of prisoners’ rations.

  Hedy stood watching the landing craft swallow load after load, until the wind bit through her thin coat and into her bones, and she finally accepted it was time to go. Slowly she made her way along the Esplanade through crowds of smiling locals, trying to respond to each joyful greeting with something appropriate. But as she grew closer to West Park Avenue, a sense of foreboding grew in her. She told herself it was just the misery of losing Kurt and the massive emotional adjustment of returning to a forgotten life. But by the time she reached the house she knew that something bad was going to happen. Pushing open the front door – everyone had now stopped locking their doors, as they had before the Occupation – she heard voices in the kitchen and hurried through to investigate.

  Dorothea was standing with her back to the kitchen sink. At the table sat a man of about forty, wearing a British uniform with the two white stripes of a corporal.

  Hedy stared from one to the other. ‘What’s going on?’

  Dorothea’s voice was tight and croaky. ‘This gentleman has brought a message from the German War Office. Apparently it arrived a week ago, but with all the mayhem, nothing was sent on. So the British Commander ordered it to be delivered by hand.’ She held up a small piece of creamy-brown paper. It was years since Hedy had seen one, but she instantly recognised it as a telegram, and froze. ‘Anton?’

  Dorothea nodded, and handed the paper to her. ‘It’s in German,
but the meaning’s pretty clear.’

  Hedy read the typewritten words on the white strips of paper several times before they made any sense: ‘Regret to inform you Lance Corporal Anton Weber 734659 24th Infantry Division died in service of his country 14th October, 1944.’

  Hedy rushed to Dorothea and put her arms around her, waiting for the outpouring, but nothing happened. They both just stood silently together in the kitchen for what felt like a long time, holding each other. Perhaps the probability of Anton’s death had lived with them for so long that its reality no longer shocked them. Or perhaps neither of them had any emotion left to expend. In her mind, Hedy reached out for Anton’s face: the day outside the cinema when he had first introduced to her to Dorothea; the day they had searched for limpets down at Seymour Tower. But all she felt was a hollowness. Only when the corporal awkwardly scraped his chair on the kitchen floor did she recall there was anyone else in the room.

  ‘Sorry to interrupt,’ he broke in, embarrassed, ‘but is there anything else I can do?’

  Hedy went across to shake the man’s hand. ‘No, thank you. It was good of you to come.’

  He nodded. ‘They’re never good news. I got a similar one last year – sister and her family all killed by a V2. Nothing prepares you.’

  ‘I’m so sorry.’ Hedy noticed that his eyes, which were warm and hazel, were set against a tan, leathery skin, suggesting he’d spent part of the war in North Africa. ‘The Occupation has been very hard … but at least we didn’t suffer the Blitz.’

  ‘We all fought our own war,’ the corporal replied. ‘I’m very sorry for your loss, Mrs Weber.’

  ‘Are you?’ Dorothea spat. Hedy held up her hand, indicating this was the wrong moment and target for bitterness, but Dorothea couldn’t stop herself. ‘He died fighting for Hitler. I wouldn’t want you to waste your precious sympathy.’

  The corporal turned to her. ‘I mean it. I came across a ton of different nationalities fighting on both sides. Only thing they had in common was not one bugger actually wanted to be there – pardon my French.’