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

by Chambers, Aidan

  Occupied with myself, I did not hear him come up behind me. Only knew he was there when he put his arms round my waist and hugged me to him. I let out a little scream of surprise and dropped the sheet I was folding.

  ‘What are you doing!’ I said. ‘You shouldn’t be out here like this. It’s dangerous.’ He was kissing the back of my neck and chuckling. ‘What if Mrs Wesseling should see?’

  But it was no use. I did not even try to break away.

  ‘She won’t see,’ he said in to my ear, ‘she’s too busy looking at the music.’

  He turned me to him, his arms round my waist, his hands on my bottom, pressing me to him, my arms round his neck, my hands holding his head. I felt him growing against me.

  ‘You are insatiable!’ I said, laughing. A word he had taught me, joking at me.

  ‘Let’s do it now,’ he said, ‘in the open air, right here in the garden on your clean sheets. Wouldn’t that be just dandy?’

  ‘Wonderful,’ I said. ‘One day.’

  He said nothing for a little while. His eyes gazed at me, those dark eyes that were the first of him I ever saw and fell in love with at once. He was not laughing or joking any more.

  Then he said, ‘Let’s dance.’

  And we did. In small steps to the slow time of Mrs Wesseling’s rusty fingers. Hardly moving, in fact, our feet were so clogged in the winter earth. But the rhythm of our bodies loving each other.

  We circled on the spot like this. Slowly. So slowly! I remember the sun twice blinding his head in its halo. We had not turned full circle again when Jacob suddenly stopped and took a step back. An awful rigid robot step. This I felt. What I saw was his eyes. I had not taken mine from his since he had turned me to face him. Now, in the instant of his sudden stop, the life left them. He had gone from them. I heard myself say, ‘Jacob?’ But he gave no answer. And then he collapsed. Fell to the ground as if struck by a blow.

  I have always consoled myself with the thought that at least his death was quick, and that if he suffered at all it was for the briefest moment. I cannot wish better for anyone.

  Of myself, I can only say that part of me died that day too. My cries brought Mrs Wesseling running from the house and Mr Wesseling soon after. They tried to revive Jacob, but only because of the human instinct to keep life going at any cost and to prove to each other that we did everything we could before giving up. It was obvious at once to each of us that he was dead.

  When that was done we covered Jacob with a sheet, and carried him in to the house. Inside, we laid him on the kitchen table. To struggle up to a bedroom with him was unthinkable. We stood round the table staring at his shrouded body.

  ‘What can have happened?’ said Mrs Wesseling.

  ‘It must have been a heart attack,’ said Mr Wesseling. ‘What do we do now?’

  I could say nothing. But suddenly began to tremble as if my body was shaking itself to pieces. Mrs Wesseling took me to a chair and sat me down by the fire, then brought a shawl and draped it round me.

  ‘Hot coffee,’ she said to Mr Wesseling, ‘with plenty of honey. For the three of us.’

  When it came I could not hold the cup. Mrs Wesseling had to feed the coffee to me with a spoon.

  ‘We should fetch the doctor,’ Mr Wesseling said.

  ‘Why?’ said Mrs Wesseling. ‘What can he do?’

  ‘A priest then. To bury him.’

  ‘We don’t know his religion,’ Mrs Wesseling said. ‘And who dare we trust?’

  ‘Then what are we to do?’

  ‘Bury him. What else can we do?’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘I don’t know. A corner of the garden.’

  I heard all this, but as meaningless noise, like people talking in a foreign language. Nor was I thinking anything. My mind had shut off. I was conscious only of Jacob’s shrouded body from which I could not take my eyes.

  The Wesselings fell silent. Mrs Wesseling fed me the coffee spoonful by spoonful. I remember the tick of the staande klok, so loud it seemed to fill the room.

  After a while, when the shakes had subsided, Mrs Wesseling said to me, ‘You can’t sit here like this. It isn’t good. Come to your room. We’ll see to everything.’

  It was as if she had injected some fortifying drug, for instantly all of me seemed to come into focus, so to speak.

  ‘No, no,’ I said, straightening in the chair. ‘No. We’ve been together through everything. I’ve looked after him since they brought him in to our cellar. I must look after him now.’

  ‘But, Geertrui,’ Mr Wesseling said, ‘Jacob is dead.’ He said this as if he thought it would be news to me.

  I remember smiling at him and saying with a calmness that pleased me, ‘Yes. I know. And I know we must bury him. And I know we must do it ourselves. I’ll prepare him. Would you be kind enough to dig a grave? We should do it as soon as we can, don’t you agree?’

  When I think of it now, I’m surprised that the Wesselings accepted what this nineteen-year-old suggested without any discussion. During the next few hours Mr Wesseling made a coffin. It was no more than an oblong box, constructed of planks of wood nailed together, which he lined with tarpaulin.

  While he was busy Mrs Wesseling helped me prepare Jacob’s body. We undressed and washed him. Then dressed him again in underwear, a white shirt, black trousers and a pair of black socks, everything as new as Mrs Wesseling could find. When we had done this we tidied the room, draped the table on which he lay with red velvet, and placed six white candles in tall freshly polished brass holders, three on each side of Jacob’s body. We extinguished the other lights and stopped the staande klok precisely at midnight.

  After that I collected Jacob’s few personal belongings, along with his soldier’s identity disk, and put them in a flour tin, which we hid in the bottom of Mrs Wesseling’s linen cupboard, hoping it would survive any visits from raiding Germans so that I could send Jacob’s possessions to his family after the war. Which is what I did. For myself, I kept only the paratroopers’ insignia from his battle dress and a keepsake which I will tell about later.

  When nothing more could be done, I persuaded the Wesselings to go to bed. For the rest of the night I kept vigil at Jacob’s side. In that time I read aloud our favourite poems from Sam’s book. And wept.

  As soon as there was enough light to work by, Mr Wesseling went straight out in to the vegetable garden, where he began to dig a grave in the furthest corner. It took him three hours to dig deep enough to be safe. All the time Mrs Wesseling kept watch for anyone approaching the house.

  When the grave was ready, Mr Wesseling brought the coffin on a handcart to the door. He and I carried it in to the room and placed it on the floor by the table. Mrs Wesseling and her husband lifted my love, my lover in to the coffin. I put one of Mr Wesseling’s air-tight tobacco tins by his side. In it was a piece of card on which I had written Jacob’s name, his date of death, and a brief summary of the circumstances. A precaution, in case something should happen to the three of us before we were liberated and one day someone found the grave.

  Mr Wesseling had made sure that enough of the tarpaulin was left to cover Jacob’s body.

  Then came the most wrenching moment. Mr Wesseling closed the coffin and nailed the lid down.

  That done, we stood in silence, the others feeling, I’m sure, as I did, that there was something more we should do, something we should say. How could this bleak moment be the end? After surviving the battle and his wounds and the journey to the farm and the raids by the Germans, after working so hard to get him well again, after our loving time together, how could it end as it did? How could life be so unfair?

  ‘We must get on,’ Mr Wesseling said quietly. ‘There’s no time.’

  We carried the coffin to the handcart, Mr Wesseling at the head, his wife and I at the foot. And then a short procession from the house to the corner of the garden, Mr Wesseling pushing the bier. I did not care whether we were raided now or not. Let them come. Let them take me. Let them do
what they liked. Let them kill me. What did I care about life now that Jacob was gone. Dead. I made myself say the word to myself. Dead. As we walked to the grave I wanted to be dead with him.

  After the recent rain, the ground was waterlogged. Already the bottom of the grave was flooded. I closed my mind to it, shut out what we were doing. I do not even remember how we lowered the coffin in to the grave. Only taking the spade and insisting that I be the one to cover the coffin with soil. And I went on shovelling with greater and greater speed, with a growing anger that gave me strength, until Mr Wesseling took my arm and said, ‘Enough. Don’t exhaust yourself. I’ll finish it.’ At which the anger seemed to seep away, leaving me almost too weak to stand.

  Mrs Wesseling put her arm round my waist and together we watched as Mr Wesseling finished filling in the grave, and then scattered the remaining soil.

  ‘I’ll lay some flagstones on it later,’ Mr Wesseling said when he had finished.

  ‘God rest him,’ Mrs Wesseling said. ‘This is a sad business.’

  ‘After the liberation, we’ll see he’s properly laid to rest,’ Mr Wesseling said. ‘There’s nothing more we can do for him now. And there are the animals to see to.’

  He turned and went off with the pushcart to his work. And Mrs Wesseling led me back in to the house.

  All day it bothered me that we had said nothing over the grave. It may seem an odd small thing to be concerned about, but the mind finds many ways to protect itself in times of grief. And so at dusk I went out alone, and stood by Jacob’s grave, and recited one of his favourite poems from Sam’s book, an ode by Ben Jonson. He liked especially the last two lines, which he said summed up life better than any other words he knew.

  It is not growing like a tree

  In bulk, doth make Man better be;

  Or standing long an oak, three hundred year,

  To fall a log at last, dry, bald, and sere:

  A lily of a day

  Is fairer far in May,

  Although it fall and die that night;

  It was the plant and flower of Light.

  In small proportions we just beauties see;

  And in short measures life may perfect be.

  POSTCARD

  The great object of life is sensation –

  to feel that we exist.

  Lord Byron

  HE WOKE LATE next day, ten thirty, having slept the sleep of the dead. Only the need to pee got him up. He meant to go back to bed, but on the way to the bathroom his kiss-and-tell with Hille in the park came back to him so vividly that, by the time he had relieved himself, the remembered sensations were so current on his skin, the desire for it all again was so straining, that he couldn’t help but relieve himself of this other call of nature with a hand job that produced more satisfaction than any for a long time. Because, he told himself, it was inspired by somebody real—yes, some body, and yes, some mind too—not a fantasy, not a virtual reality he couldn’t lay his hands on (or lay in any way) but an actual reality he could actually lay his actual hands on.

  When he had done the make-do deed, he looked at his sleep-rustled frig-sweated self in the mirror, smiled, winked, and said out loud, ‘Skin, skin, I do loooove skin.’

  He felt happy for the first time since arriving in Holland. He must have been happy yesterday with Hille, but he hadn’t thought whether he was or wasn’t because happiness was happening then. Do you only know you’re happy when the happiness itself is in the past? Is the cause of happiness an active state and the knowledge of happiness a reflective state? The kind of questions Sarah would like to discuss. Would Hille? He knew with pleasure that the answer was yes. After breakfast he must write to her. Not must. Wanted to. A twinge of guilt at that thought. And to Sarah too, not so much wanting to, but must. She’d feel hurt and neglected if he didn’t send her something soon, even just a postcard. Apart from a brief phone call the day he arrived to let her know he was safe, he hadn’t been in touch. Sarah affected not to mind such things but he knew she did. And knew she preferred written messages to phone calls.

  Anyway, he repeated to himself as he happily brushed his teeth, he felt happy. He happily stood under the shower, happily washed his hair, happily soaped himself all over, happily played the detachable showerhead down and over and up and under and round himself, happily got out of the shower and happily towelled himself, happily clipped his toe- and fingernails with the dinky scissors happily included in the compact traveller’s toilet bag his mother had given him as a going-away present, happily brushed his hair, which he was happy he had had cut severely short for this trip, and happily viewed his sluiced, spruced and glowing body in the mirror.

  Mirror, mirror on the wall

  who is the fairest of us all?—

  And you’d better say me

  or I’ll smash your face in.

  For once he was moderately pleased by what he saw. Especially he was pleased with his dinger, which, now roused, was game for more attention. But he decided no, it must wait. His stomach needed attention even more. (Yesterday, when he arrived back from Oosterbeek, he had felt so shattered and had so much to brood on he had gone straight to bed without eating, as much to be on his own and not to have to talk to Daan as because he was tired. He had meant to get up later and eat but had fallen flat-out asleep almost as soon as he lay down.)

  While dressing, he went on thinking about Hille. He had not felt like this for a girl before. For some girls he’d felt randy, yes, and there were girls who were friends but who didn’t turn him on. But no girl had ever unsettled him, mind and body, the way Hille did. Not to mention make him feel as happy as he felt this morning. Scareee, he said to himself as he went down to the kitchen, and wondered how she was feeling about him today.

  In the kitchen he found a note from Daan written on a large sheet of yellow paper, which was hanging like a banner from the lampshade above the counter.

  Jacob:

  Change of plan.

  Geertrui:

  Asks you see her

  tomorrow, 11:00,

  not today.

  Me:

  Am with her.

  Back 18:00 approx.

  Then want to hear

  all about yesterday.

  You:

  Make yourself at home.

  Do as you wish.

  Need company?

  Ton would like it for sure

  that you call him.

  Be happy.

  Daan

  He said hooray, and set about making breakfast. In the fridge he found half a Galia melon wrapped in clingfilm. He ate it straight from the husk, scooping the flesh out with a spoon. A cold refreshing juicy start. Next: in Dutchland do as the Dutch do. For breakfast the Dutch do thin slices of cheese and thin slices of ham. Plenty of that in the fridge. And grainy bread in the bread bin, not quite fresh but okay to toast. Butter. And for after the cheese and ham, because there was no marmalade and anyhow he’d gone Dutch, these chocolate whatsnames, hagelslag, look like mouse droppings, which he’d seen Mrs van Riet scatter on her bread at breakfast the first morning and thought at the time how odd, associating such stuff with topping for cakes at teatime. Tea? He’d been surprised at how much tea the Dutch drank till, mentioning it yesterday, Hille made the history connection between the Dutch and their once but no longer colonies, now Indonesia was it?, where they must have picked up the char habit as the English picked it up during their (our, but he didn’t feel it had anything to do with him or that he wanted to have anything to do with it) time ruling India. But he could only find Earl Grey, which he didn’t like: too scented. Never mind. Be not daunted. Dutch coffee, why not, Douwe Egberts, in a pleasantly ominous black bag, ho ho ho and a bottle of rum. Make it in the nice dinky two-cup silver cafetière standing on the draining board. But why don’t the Dutch, or this Daan Dutchman anyway, use an electric kettle instead of always boiling water for tea the slow way on the stove? (That’s what he could give as a thank-you present when he left, Sarah having dinned into him th
at he must do such a thing as a sign of gratitude. But would it be a bit domesticky dull? More the sort of thing you’d give to someone getting married. He’d never been much good at thinking what to give people for presents. Now now, no mouse mood today: avaunt and quit my mind. Maybe Hille would help him choose something better.)

  For the attention of Ms Hille Babbe:

  In reply to your recent advertisement for the post of kissing-boyfriend, I hope my interview and test yesterday gave satisfaction. If you require a second interview and further tests of my qualifications, may I be so bold as to suggest that we arrange as early a date as possible as my stay in the Netherlands is an all-too-short one. I assure you of my eagerness to prove myself worthy of the vacant position.

  Dear Ms Babbe:

  I am pleased to inform you that you successfully completed the first test for the post we discussed yesterday and that you did so with higher marks than any other applicant has ever scored. In fact, your score was so high it is off the scale. On the basis of this achievement I would like to offer you a contract immediately. However, if you still have any reservations about taking the post, I am only too ready to cooperate in further explorations of the employment benefits I can offer. I look forward to hearing from you about another meeting as soon as is convenient to you.

  Hille:

  By the time you read this we will probably have talked on the phone. But there are things I want to say now which I can’t say on the phone because you will be at school. (It’s 11:00, and I’ve just got up.) Anyway, apart from that, there are some things I can say on the phone, some things I can’t, and some things I can only say in writing. Not that this letter is about things I can only say in writing. I’m only writing it because I can’t be with you. That is what I would like the most. Not necessarily saying anything at all. Being with you would be enough.

  Since yesterday I haven’t stopped thinking about yesterday. Well, that’s not completely true. Can’t be, can it? Was I thinking about it while I was asleep, for instance? (Don’t know, can’t remember. Do we think while we sleep? Is that what dreams are? Sleep thinking. Last night I slept like a log—did you?—and can’t remember dreaming anything. Can you, and if ‘Yes’, what?) Also, I thought about what to have for breakfast (what did you have and what’s your favourite breakfast?) and how to spend the day without you. (How was your day without me? Don’t reply if the answer is ‘Better than it would have been with you’.) But still: underneath (on top of, alongside, parallel with, whatever) those sorts of thoughts, everyday thoughts, all the time in another part of my mind I was also thinking about yesterday. No, let’s be accurate, not about yesterday. About you. I know, because ever since I woke up I’ve felt what I believe people mean by the word ‘happy’.