by Jenny Lecoat
Dorothea’s scowl faded. ‘Thank you for saying that, sir.’
‘Please’ – he held up a palm – ‘Frank, Frank Flanagan. Sick to death of being a number, to be honest. Just want to get back to Cheshire.’
Hedy caught the affection in his voice and felt sick with envy; to have a home to return to, a community still filled with familiar faces.
Flanagan picked up his cap from the table, then turned back to Dorothea. ‘Anyway, you’ve had a shock, so I’ll leave you to it, now your friend’s here.’
He slipped quietly down the hall and let himself out, leaving Hedy still holding the telegram in her hand and Dorothea standing in the middle of the kitchen as if she had no idea what to do next.
‘Is Kurt gone?’
Hedy nodded.
‘So that’s that.’ Dorothea pushed the hair from her eyes and gave herself a tiny shake. ‘I suppose I should make dinner.’
‘Let me.’
‘No, I’d rather have something to do.’
Dorothea busied herself in the kitchen, and at six o’clock the women sat down at a kitchen table laid for two, spooning out generous portions of tuna hotpot. In the corner stood the wireless; human voices and music filled the room, connecting them to a distant, rejoicing world. While they ate, the newscaster informed them that the last unrepentant Axis forces had been beaten back in Yugoslavia by local partisans, supported by British troops, and that Nagoya had been bombed heavily, bringing victory in Japan ever closer. Then Tommy Handley evoked gales of laughter from his audience by his rendition of the Minister of Aggravation and Mysteries at the Office of Twerps. Dorothea offered Hedy another portion of hotpot, but she declined. Neither of them had yet eaten half of what was on their plate.
The delivery of the evening paper caused a brief hiatus. Hedy flicked through the proclamations of the Bailiff and notices about the restoration of sterling, until her eye was caught by a smaller headline on an inside page. The report described attempts by some senior Germans to escape capture by dressing as civilians and trying to pass as locals. British army officials, it reported, had discovered one such coward on an abandoned farm property, hiding in an outhouse. He had ‘offered no resistance’, but had wept ‘hysterically’ on his arrest. He was named as Erich Gerhard Wildgrube, formerly of the Geheime Feldpolizei.
After dinner the women washed up together, using baking soda and vinegar. From the open window, they could hear the shouting and singing of a party going on next door; children were running in and out of the garden wearing cooking pots for German helmets and firing finger guns at each other, while the adults inside were belting out rousing choruses of ‘All The Nice Girls Love A Sailor’ and ‘Bill Bailey’. As the songs came to their loud, chaotic climaxes, Hedy and Dorothea couldn’t help smiling at each other.
The plates were put away. The sun was dipping, and shafts of golden light peeped down the hallway. Dorothea switched off the radio and lit a small coal fire as the chill of the evening began to bite. They sat back down at the table; Dorothea with some mending, Hedy with a book. Over two hours, Dorothea sewed one button, while Hedy read two pages. Neither of them spoke. The party next door gradually fizzled to an end and they heard the door bang as people left. The clock ticked on the wall and the light dimmed. There were two new candles in the larder but neither of them suggested lighting one. Night fell, and Dorothea went to bed.
It was the end of the Occupation. It was over. They were both alive and free.
Hedy sat for another hour in the dark kitchen, staring at nothing. Then she, too, went to bed.
Epilogue
1946
The suitcase was simply not going to close. She tried sitting on it, bouncing her bottom on it, then leaning heavily on one end while trying to push one of the chrome hasps into its slot. Eventually Hedy gave in to the inevitable and removed one cardigan and the slippers she’d been given at Christmas. She had other woollens, she told herself, and she could buy another pair of slippers with her first wages, once her ration card had been reissued. The case instantly closed without difficulty, and satisfied that it wasn’t going to pop open again, she dragged it off the bed and down the stairs, being careful not to scratch the polished wood at the side of the runner carpet. Mrs Mitchell was extremely proud of her staircase.
She was glad that the family were all out at this hour. The thought of another goodbye was more than she could take. The farewell party they’d given her last night had been sweet and moving, with thoughtful gifts of handkerchiefs and lavender soap, and a handmade card from their daughter. She knew that she would miss them horribly, and had made them promise to write every week. All that supervised homework and the trips to the beach hadn’t felt like work at all; even the housework had been no burden, as she revelled in the scent of freshly laundered sheets and furniture polish, and she’d taken great pleasure in lining up the family’s wellies in order of size in the hall. But at other times, walking alone on her day off or lying in her solitary bed, the gap between the family’s cosiness and her personal situation tugged at her soul, and in recent weeks she’d known for certain that it was time to go.
She pulled on her thick brown winter coat and its matching hat with the pink trim; it was mid-December, and the frost was already thick on the grass. At the hall mirror she had only time to apply some lipstick and dab a little extra powder on her nose before she heard the honk of the car horn outside. Taking a last look around the elegant, gleaming hallway, she picked up her case and walked out into the winter afternoon.
Dorothea waved at her from the passenger seat of the old Austin. Frank Flanagan, after heaving himself out of the driver’s seat, helped her with the suitcase, making a joke about how light it was.
‘This all you’ve got?’
‘My worldly possessions,’ Hedy confessed with a wry smile. ‘Do you think I need to start making a trousseau?’
‘Well, Dory never had one, and I weren’t bothered. And I don’t imagine it’s your linens your fiancé will be interested in when he gets out.’
Hedy laughed and climbed into the back seat while Frank restarted the car. Soon they were heading down St Saviours Road towards the harbour. Dorothea stretched her hand over the back of her seat towards Hedy, twisted round in her seat like a schoolgirl. ‘Oh, Hedy, I’m so excited for you! What time does the boat get to Weymouth?’
‘We dock at six tomorrow morning. Then I have to catch a train – three trains actually – to get to Plumpton.’
Dorothea raised her hand to her cheek. ‘Goodness! You’ll be exhausted. I should have brought some sandwiches for you. Didn’t I say, Frank, I should have made her some sandwiches?’
‘Certainly did – woke me up to say it too.’ Frank grinned at Hedy in the mirror and gave her a wink.
‘And when will you get to see Kurt?’
‘If the paperwork comes through, next Thursday. He looks good in the photo he sent me – he’s been working outside most days since he was moved again.’
‘You’ll give him my love, won’t you? You two are going to be so happy.’ She turned to face the front, and Hedy sat back to take in her last views of the island. The roads where Kurt had walked her weak, failing body in German uniform … Mr Reis’s bakery, now owned by someone else … the jail where Kurt served his time. Memories galloped in, images forming and evaporating. By the time the car pulled up at the end of the quay, her head was spinning.
Frank went off to park the car, while Dorothea stood at Hedy’s side, looking up at the ship. The stripes of its giant funnel stood sharp against the darkening sky, and shiny blue cranes swung cargo across its bows to the hold. Far below, the water, closing in on its high-tide mark, slapped against the ancient blackened stone of the quay and hinted at the swell beyond. Hedy looked at Dorothea, remembering the last time they had both stood in this spot.
‘Anton would be happy for you, you know,’ Hedy said, reading her thoughts.
Dorothea nodded. ‘I know. Frank’s been so kind, and it’s made such a di
fference. Everyone at my new office only knows me as Mrs Flanagan. Sometimes I wish I could tell them about Anton – tell them how wonderful he was – but …’
Hedy nodded. ‘Sometimes it’s best to let things be.’
‘Anyway, we’re moving to Cheshire in the summer. Frank wants to start a new business – all his contacts are there. Be a fresh start for us both.’
‘Don’t forget to write.’
‘Silly! Why would I not write to my best friend?’
Hedy held her close for a moment, the brims of their hats rubbing against each other. Frank arrived with Hedy’s suitcase, and the three of them huddled together in the cold, speaking over each other with their wishes of good luck and promises to visit each other soon. When there was no more to say, Hedy gave them both a final kiss and made her way up the gangplank, turning twice to wave until she saw them turn and head back to their car. She walked down two enclosed staircases to her reserved seat where she stowed her case, then returned to the stern of the top deck and found a quiet section of rail to wait for departure. Soon the engines were thundering beneath her, sending vibrations pulsating up through her feet and knees. The water below fizzed white and foamy, and with creaking slowness, the ship pulled away from the quayside and headed for the harbour mouth.
For a while Hedy stood watching the departing shore, marvelling at the light reflections skipping across the blackness of the water. Then she reached into her bag and took out her most precious possession – the beribboned brown envelope containing all her recent letters. She took the one from the top, smiling at Roda’s curly, girlish hand; she thought about the day it had flopped onto the doormat of the Mitchells’ hallway and her employers’ excitement when they saw her reaction. Now her eyes, as always, jumped to her favourite section:
… and now find myself living by the sea in Hadera. So can you imagine my delight when I found out that our darling baby brother was less than fifty kilometres away in Tel Aviv? Daniel is doing so well, and writes regularly to Golda in London now the post is working again. Chana and her husband love Australia and plan to stay. We are all agreed, and very determined, that no matter how long it takes, we will find out what happened to Mama and Papa. We believe the Red Cross may be able to help.
Hedy tucked the letter back into place with a sigh. In truth, she knew there would be little to discover. Dates and precise locations wouldn’t change what they already knew. Perhaps, though, the information would bring a little closure, maybe eventually acceptance, after all the years of uncertainty. Her fingers slid back into the envelope, this time drawing out the sheet with the words HMP Ford printed at the top.
Sweetheart, I can’t believe this new job means you will be only a few miles from my new placement. I’m enjoying farm work, and there’s talk of release within the next six months. As soon as I have a date, you must choose a wedding ring, and start saving for your ticket to Germany! Being without you has been the only unbearable part of this. Can’t wait to see you. All my love, K.
She pressed the thin, translucent paper to her chest before placing it carefully back in her bag. And at the same time, she smiled at the brown rubber band on her third finger and kissed it.
The harbour began to fade, and the sea grew choppier as the ship chugged towards the open sea. It looked so small from here, this tiny prison of an island. She knew she was one of the lucky ones. So many had perished here at the invaders’ hands, so many others would never see these shores again. It was hard to think about them without a furious desire for revenge. How easy it was to access hate, Hedy pondered. How close to the surface that putrid emotion always floated, waiting for a target, biding its time to find a focus and bloom like a poisonous algae, while forgiveness lay limp and impotent at the bottom of the soul, guiltily aware that duty called, but without the energy to do its job. Would she and Kurt have the strength to resist that temptation? ‘Even if you forget the past, it will remember you,’ her mother had been fond of saying. Only in the years to come, Hedy supposed, would she discover if that were true.
The waves were fierce now, and the ship rolled back and forth as it ploughed across the southern bay of the island and prepared to round Noirmont Point. Hedy gripped hard to the rail, sensing the unseen forces that were pushing and pulling at the hull, battering it below the surface. The currents of the Channel would try to drag the ship west as it pressed on towards the English coast; only the strength of the steel pistons beneath would keep it true.
Hedy closed her eyes as the freezing wind sucked at her skin, and smiled into the dark. She and Kurt would be all right, she decided. They would find a way to discard their past, seek out different lands and create new adventures. Europe was broken, but already thousands were coming together with tools, ideas and laws with which to mend it. A hundred miles away at this very moment there were young, scrub-faced children being informed of Hedy’s imminent arrival, and a fresh bed being made up for her in a pretty country bedroom. In a few months Kurt would be a free man. And somewhere beyond that invisible horizon lay the fresh allure of Weymouth harbour, working farms and scattered villages, firm ploughed fields of winter wheat and the crisp golden light of the morning.
Acknowledgements
The idea to write this book, and much of the source material that has informed it, came from Dr Gilly Carr, Senior Lecturer at the University of Cambridge and author of numerous books, journals and papers on Occupation history. Her publications ‘The Jew and the Jerrybag: The Lives of Hedwig Bercu and Dorothea Le Brocq’ (Journal of Holocaust and Genocide Studies, vol. 33(2), 2019), and her submission to the Yad Vashem World Holocaust Remembrance Center for the acceptance of Dorothea Weber (née Le Brocq) of Righteous Among the Nations status played a crucial role in this novel’s conception. Without Dr Carr’s assistance, providing generous access to her own research, documentation and invaluable personal accounts, this project would not have been possible, and for that she has my heartfelt gratitude.
Thanks are due to Bob Le Sueur and Bruce Scott Dalgleish for sharing their personal memories; to Susannah Waters and Julie Corbin for their substantial assistance in my transition from screenwriting to prose; to Maurice Gran, Jo Briggs and Gabbie Asher for their scrutiny of Jewish issues and phrases; to the brilliant George Aboud who did more than anyone to help shape this project, all out of the kindness of her writer’s heart; to my late grandmother Grace Lecoat for passing on to me the ‘Beautiful Swedes’ song (originally from an amateur Green Room Club production of the period).
Thanks also to Sean McTernan, my book agent John Beaton for showing faith, and to my incredibly supportive editor Alison Rae.
Finally, to my fantastic husband, who dealt with my frequent tantrums and insistence that this project was impossible to complete with his usual stoicism, humour and love.