Postcards from No Man's Land (The Dance Sequence)

by Chambers, Aidan

  Far from being difficult to remember, my problem is that it is impossible to forget.

  When I heard them, I thought poor tortured Sam was uttering beautiful strange shell-shocked words. But Jacob knew they were a poem, which later he taught to me. As also one other, of which I shall tell you soon, that I have treasured throughout my life.

  In the silence after Sam had spoken we heard a dry voice rasp, ‘Hopkins.’ We all turned to see it was Jacob who had spoken, propped up on an elbow, looking at us with gaunt sunken eyes, and smiling a smile like the smile of a starved dog. He had returned to consciousness while we were laughing. He told me later he had heard us as if he were buried a long way down beneath the earth, and our laughter had dug him up. Everyone turned to look. ‘Gerard Manley Hopkins,’ Jacob said. Hugh, a soldier sitting near him, moved so that he could give him support, saying, ‘Look who’s come back to the land of the living.’ I went to him at once, and helped him drink some water and later to eat some biscuit. We had no bread by this time, and very little of anything else. The soldiers had eaten all our stored food, except some bottles of preserved fruit that Mother had kept in the cellar.

  Naturally, as soon as he could speak properly Jacob wanted to know where he was and what had happened. He was confused at first and weak from lack of food and drink besides everything else he had endured. He could not believe he had been unconscious for so long and was worried because he could remember nothing about what he had been doing when the shell-burst knocked him out. The wound in his leg was hurting. He wanted to see it. We persuaded him to wait until we dressed it again. We knew how painful that would be. I gave him a painkiller. After a while, he recovered himself and was calmer. But he kept saying, ‘They should be here by now,’ meaning the main army. ‘They’ll come,’ Hugh told him, ‘they wouldn’t let us down.’ Even at that moment their big guns were shelling the German positions not far from us, making a terrible noise and shaking the earth where we sat.

  While this was happening Jacob kept giving me intent looks, struggling, I guessed, to remember who I was. At last it dawned.

  ‘The angel of mercy!’ he suddenly said but quietly, only for me to hear.

  ‘And you are Jacob Todd,’ I replied.

  He gave a little laugh that brought the melting look back in to his eyes. ‘They call me Jacko,’ he said.

  ‘I like Jacob better,’ I said.

  ‘Me too. What’s your name?’

  I told him, he tried to say it but was no better at our Dutch pronunciation than most of his comrades, so now it was my turn to have a little laugh at him. ‘Your friends call me Gertie,’ I said.

  ‘Not me,’ he said.

  ‘No?’

  ‘It’s no name for an angel. So what shall I call you? Have you another name? One I can say.’

  ‘Yes. But I never use it.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘I don’t know. I never have.’

  ‘What is it? Come on, you have to tell me. You know you can’t refuse a wounded soldier. It isn’t allowed.’

  ‘Maria.’ (It is really Marije, but I wanted to make it easy for him.)

  ‘Maria,’ he repeated. ‘A good name for an angel. Can I call you Maria, Maria?’

  His eyes persuaded me of course. Youth is my excuse!

  I said, laughing, ‘All right. But only you. No one else.’

  The weather had become very cold and during that night regende het pijpenstelen, as we say in Dutch—which means, it was raining in sheets. I thought the sky as well as our house was falling on our heads. We were all feeling very miserable. Jacob began to shiver. During a lull in the fighting Father rescued from the wreckage upstairs a pair of his trousers and a pullover for Jacob to wear, for what was left of his army clothes was useless. ‘Better not let Jerry catch you like that,’ said Hugh, ‘or he’ll take you for a spy and shoot you.’ He meant it as a joke, I’m sure, but it sent a tremor through me. I could see it also made Jacob think for a moment, but then he picked up his plum-red paratrooper’s beret and put it on, took his paratrooper’s scarf and tied it round my neck, and said, ‘That’ll fox him!’ It was not a good joke, but we laughed anyway as we huddled against each other for warmth.

  The next day an officer brought orders for the men to leave. Only then we learned that those at the bridge in Arnhem had had to give up on Thursday. Not for forty-eight hours, as planned, but for four days they held out against tanks and guns and mortars, and greatly outnumbered by the Germans. Only when they ran out of ammunition, and were almost all captured or injured or dead, had the few remaining given in. Now, eight days after the first paratroopers landed, the British soldiers trapped in Oosterbeek were surrounded by ever stronger German forces. It could not be long, a day or two at most, before they would be overrun. The only way to save them was by withdrawing across the river, from where they could reach the main army. But to have any chance of success, this would have to be done during that Monday night, with a barrage of heavy gunfire from the main army south of the river to cover their escape, confuse the Germans and make them keep their heads down.

  Orders were given that the barrage was to begin at 8:50 p.m. that evening and the withdrawal at ten o’clock. Men defending the northern perimeter, which was furthest from the river, were to withdraw first, and so on, like an ebbing tide, down to those at the southern end on the river itself. As we were near the river end of the village, the soldiers in our house would be among the last to leave.

  In preparation, the men were ordered to blacken their faces, to muffle the sound of their boots by wrapping them in strips torn from blankets, and to make sure their weapons did not rattle when they carried them. All other equipment was to be destroyed.

  Of the wounded men, any who could walk were to leave. But those who could not or were too ill were to remain where they were, along with the medical officers and orderlies. They were to give themselves up and become prisoners of war when the Germans took over the village again.

  In all the days of the battle till these orders came, everyone had tried to be cheerful and optimistic. Now a strange mood overcame us. That Monday the fighting was fierce, the worst of any so far. What remained of our house was often hit, even was burning in the upstairs rooms at one point, but Father and some of the lightly wounded men managed to put the flames out while the uninjured men went on firing at the enemy, who had occupied houses on the other side of the street. Twice German soldiers almost reached us, but were fought off, hand-to-hand sometimes, though not without cost. Ron, who had been with us throughout that terrible week and so often helped us, died in this defence of our home. His companion, Norman, brought the news to us in the cellar. Mother and I wept for this brave and kindly man who had done so much to try and make our lives bearable during the battle, never complaining, and who we knew left behind in his own country a young wife and baby daughter, whose photos he had often shown us. Norman sat silently with us, dazed by the loss of his friend, but before he could recover he was called for from above and had to run back up to face the enemy again.

  I think this was the moment when I knew for sure that, after all, we had not been liberated but would soon once more be in the hands of the German invaders. And for the first time that week I was truly afraid. So afraid that my legs felt too weak to carry me and my hands trembled uncontrollably. I wanted to scream but could not utter a sound. My stomach tightened in a knot, yet I wanted to rush to the lavatory.

  The wounded men with us in the cellar became silent and inward. It was as if they were ashamed. They did not want to look at us—Papa, Mama and me. Some of them said they felt that leaving us behind was a kind of betrayal. And, quite naturally, they suffered a punishing sense of failure. None of our privations together was as bad as this.

  With resigned fortitude, for the rest of the day we helped them as best we could as they prepared for that night’s danger. Even poor Sam would leave. He could walk, had recovered enough composure to understand what was going on and was calm enough for one of the oth
ers to lead him to the river. Also, I’m sure the thought of being left behind to become a prisoner had filtered through his addled brain and made him determined to keep control of himself somehow. It struck me even then that his bravery in the face of his suffering was quite as great as the bravery of the men who went on battling to save us.

  So all would be evacuated from our cellar. All except Jacob. He was too weak to stand unaided, never mind walk, which his injured calf made impossible. For a while he tried to persuade the others that he could make it if two of them would give him support. But the sergeant in charge said no, he would never do it. They might get him to the river bank, but what then? What if they had to swim across? They asked me what the river was like. I told them, about two hundred metres across and, I had to admit, the current was strong, especially after heavy rain such as we were having then. And very cold. ‘It’s too risky,’ the sergeant told Jacob, ‘you’re not going.’

  But this didn’t satisfy him. When his officer visited, checking how things were going, Jacob tried to persuade him that he could go if he had help. But the officer refused and gave him a specific order to remain where he was.

  After that he brooded for a while. Then announced with cheerful bravado that if he had to stay behind he might as well make himself useful. ‘Carry me upstairs before you go,’ he said to the others, ‘and leave me with a gun and plenty of ammo. I’ll keep Jerry’s head down while you scoot out the back.’

  I could not believe it when the others agreed.

  ‘How can they let you do this?’ I said.

  He shrugged and smiled. ‘It’ll give me something to do. Take my mind off the pain in my leg.’

  ‘You aren’t strong enough,’ I said. ‘You’ll certainly be killed.’

  ‘Better than being taken prisoner,’ he said. ‘Can’t stand being cooped up. I’d rather cop it, fighting. Honest.’

  ‘No!’ I said, quite beside myself by now. ‘It’s wrong!’

  ‘Look,’ he said, trying to take my hand to hold me still but I tugged it away. ‘You don’t understand. It’ll help my pals get away safe and sound. In my place, any of the lads would do the same. We’re trained for it. Honest. Just my rotten luck. I’m the one who’s lumbered.’

  ‘Rotten luck!’ I shouted. ‘How can you say that? This is not rotten luck! This is because of fighting. Because of war. Rotten war! I hate it! I hate all of it! I hate those who have done this! How dare they! How dare they!’

  Everyone heard. Stopped what they were doing. Gave me sorrowful looks. I had not meant to make such an outburst. Fear and anger mixed with hunger and exhaustion cooked it up. And something to do with Jacob and myself of which I was still not conscious. This, I think, more than anything.

  Mother came and put her arms round me.

  ‘Remember your manners, my dear,’ she whispered as she hugged me. ‘Don’t make things worse for these poor men. Think what it must be like for them. Soon they must risk everything to escape. Some will die. They know that.’

  ‘If only we could do something to help,’ I said, when I could speak calmly again.

  Mama looked me steadily in the eyes. ‘We’ve done all we can. I don’t know what more we can do.’

  It was not long before we found out.

  POSTCARD

  How long before my death

  is the necessary question.

  John Webster

  BY THE TIME his tram arrived at the railway station the rain had started again, heavily and with no sign of slackening. For a few minutes Jacob sheltered in the crowded bustle of the station concourse but soon began to fret that Daan van Riet might tire of waiting and go out again. But he didn’t want to arrive soaking wet.

  A flower stall occupied one corner of the concourse. His grandmother had dinned in to him that it was a Dutch custom for a guest to take flowers when visiting. He fingered Alma’s guilders in his pocket. But it was not flowers he had in mind.

  ‘Hi,’ he said to the man who was serving.

  ‘Low,’ the man said, without a grin.

  He held out the coins and indicated the flowers. ‘What for four guilders?’

  The man pulled a dubious face, but smiled, surveyed his display with elaborate consideration for this big sale, and selected one modest sunflower.

  ‘And that bag,’ Jacob said, pointing to a large brown plastic bag discarded by some tubs of flowers.

  ‘There goes the profit,’ the man said, wrapping it neatly round the sunflower before handing over the singular bouquet with a mocking flourish. ‘You must really love her to spend like that. Succes ermee!’

  Outside, Jacob held the flower in his teeth by the stem while he tore the bag down one seam, then draped it over his head and shoulders like a hooded cowl. And thus protected set off at a brisk pace in the direction of the landmarks Alma had described.

  Van Riet’s address was not hard to find and looked like an old warehouse. A makeshift stoep, four steps of scuffed and weathered wood, led to an ancient heavy black-painted door. To the left of which Jacob found two insignificant bell buttons with faded nameplates. He pressed the one labelled Wesseling en Van Riet.

  While he waited he surveyed the short street, which looked as if all of it had been ancient warehouses at one time. But now on one side of Van Riet’s was a restaurant and a new-looking hotel, on the other a freshly renovated facade with big warehouse doors on each of its five floors converted into windows. Beside the narrow street ran an equally narrow murky-looking canal, out of the other side of which rose the back of the church, an oppressive bulk of dirty old red brick with arched, grimy and wire-netted windows. To the left of the church, a contrast and a challenge, was the back of a newish building with many regular modern windows: the rooms of a hotel, Jacob assumed. In the fogged greyness of the pouring rain the lowering church and the high flat-fronted buildings, narrowly separated by the sluggish canal and the cobbled street, appeared to him like a forbidden canyon. He shivered in his damp clothes, and tugged his plastic hood well over his face.

  A bolt unlatched, the heavy door swung, surprisingly, outwards, and a tall young man with a shock of black hair, handsome triangular face, pale, with sharp bright blue eyes, long straight nose, wide thin-lipped mouth, and a slim body dressed in grey sweatshirt tucked in to black jeans, bare feet in thonged sandals, said, ‘Mijn God! Titus!’

  ‘Jacob Todd.’

  ‘Sorry, hoor.’ Sounding like ‘surrey whore’, but couldn’t be. ‘Daan.’ Like darn. ‘Come in.’

  An ill-lit passage, wooden stairs painted rust red rising steeply at the end, rough bare old brick wall on one side, white-painted partition with a blue door in it on the other. Smell of damp dust and new paper.

  ‘Smart hat.’

  ‘Bit wet.’

  ‘Want to take it off?’

  ‘Thanks.’ He presented the sunflower. ‘For you.’

  ‘Stolen for me. And before we’d even met! How gallant!’

  ‘Stolen?’

  ‘The woman who called said you lost all your money.’

  ‘Oh, yes, but she gave me five guilders, just in case. I bought that for four. To be honest, what I wanted was this bag to keep the rain off and—’

  ‘So I’m only an excuse. I’m devastated already.’

  He held out a hand which Jacob shook, his own cold and rain-slicked in Daan’s warm dry grip.

  ‘Follow me. Are you used to our Dutch trap yet?’

  ‘Stairs, you mean?’

  ‘Stairs I mean and trap I mean. Your Dutch is brilliant, I see.’

  ‘And,’ said Jacob deciding he must match the challenge, ‘your English is tricksy, I see.’

  Daan let out what might have been a chuckle. ‘I live at the top.’

  The apartment was like none Jacob had ever seen before. He was all eyes. An expanse of shining exotic tiles in an intricate pattern of flower-like circles and rounded squares in olive green, pale and dark blue, triangulated on a white background, was repeated and repeated diagonally across the floor, wh
ich swept uninterrupted from front to rear and side to side of the building, until at the back a concertina Chinese screen, thin black frame and paper covering, cut off from view what could be glimpsed as a bedroom area.

  The whole floor was immense, longer, he guessed, and as a wide as a tennis court. The walls were untreated old brick, hung here and there with a picture, some old oil paintings—a portait of a man who looked like an aged Daan, a landscape of old Holland—others modernist photos and coloured drawings. The ceiling was supported by thick wooden beams like the deck ribs of a sailing ship. Towards the front end of the room, the ceiling had been partly removed so that the floor above was visible and banistered like the upper deck of a ship, which was reached by a white-painted free-standing staircase like a ship’s gangway. Looking up, he felt the floor beneath his feet swell and fall on the shift of the sea.

  In the front wall a window made from large round-topped loading doors looked out on to the back of the church. A group of potted plants was arranged on either side. In this front part there was very little furniture: a large black leather sofa, two large leather armchairs set around a heavy wooden coffee table. An antique side-table against one wall carried an expensive TV and sound system, and further along a large glass-fronted sideboard full of nicknacks and unfamiliar objects. Towards the rear of the room a kitchen occupied a recess formed by the enclosure of the main stairs and landing outside. Beyond the kitchen was the bedroom screen.