It hadn’t been easy, telling Papa Aunt Annelie was dead. Except at least there was someone else who minded that as much as she did.
*
Effi and Hanno hardly noticed the final ending of the war in Europe. The war had ended for them when they got out of the Elbe. There was a time for them to try and forget about what they’d been through, just to be relieved that there were no more air-raids, there was no more fighting, no more hiding from the Russians, and that they were alive. They slept a lot in comfortable beds. The sun shone every day and there was plenty to eat, water to wash with. Papa managed to find clothes for them. He gave them books to read, chewing gum and candy. And there was music, Papa had a gramophone and records, too many symphonies and operas, but there was a Louis Armstrong record. Effi and Hanno played it till Papa complained he’d never be able to write any more of his own music again, he said all he could hear was ‘Pennies from Heaven’.
Every morning Effi woke up and said to herself: ‘I’m with Papa, and Hanno’s here too.’ She didn’t really want to see anyone else. All the time Papa was working she wanted to be with Hanno. Dancing with him to the new jazz records Papa got hold of – ‘So at least,’ he said, ‘I have more than two jazz tracks in my head.’
Papa saying that, grinning, and then coming over to hug Effi. Hanno in the daytime, hanging out in the apartment with her, drawing on paper Papa got, drawing Effi – especially her feet, which made her giggle – drawing jugs, bottles, flowers, the furniture – anything he could see around him, whittling at a few bits of wood, though Papa thought most of the wood should be left behind for the people to burn. Papa listening to her sing, singing with her, telling her things. Hanno listening.
When Papa was free he’d drive them out into the countryside in the jeep. Hanno and Papa talking, talking, about Hanno’s father, about Papa’s past.
‘We Communists were partly to blame,’ he said, taking his hands off the steering wheel to wave them about and having to quickly put them back on again. ‘Would Hitler have come to power if people hadn’t been frightened of the street battles between the Nazis and the Communists? We thought the Republic was rotten, we hoped for a violent revolution as much as the Nazis did. We thought we’d break the old order and make heaven on earth. We were so keen on our own ideology, we wouldn’t co-operate with anyone else on the left, let alone the conservatives. So there was no proper opposition to Hitler. We should have made friends with the conservatives, the way people like my sister had to later on, to try and kill Hitler. Only then it was too late. It was because we wouldn’t compromise that other people ended up compromising their integrity. People like your father. There are a few people who are fanatics – like that Otto or your mad doctor – but any ordinary person can do horrible things if society demands it of them. And only a few people – like my sister – are in a position to say no, let alone having the strength to do so. It’ll be different now, anyway. Now we will make a better world.’ A glance and a smile at Effi.
‘Are you still a Communist?’ asked Hanno.
‘No. I’ve heard things about Russia. I don’t like them. But I still believe in social justice.’
Hanno, hesitantly: ‘Do you think I could really become a sculptor?’
‘Do you feel like one inside?’
Hanno understood. ‘Yes. I have the feeling inside. But I know how much I’ve got to learn. Who’s going to teach me? I don’t know any artists.’
‘You know me. And I have a friend in Frankfurt. He’s still alive, I know. He was a painter, not a sculptor. He’s had to paint secretly for years – watercolours so that when the Gestapo came to search the house they wouldn’t smell the oil paint. He kept his work in a hiding place under the floorboards. He could teach you to draw, if he likes your work. I’ll take you to see him when we go to Frankfurt. Listen, Hanno, I was just a working-class kid who loved music, and our doctor’s wife encouraged me. She was an artist, a printmaker and sculptor. You wouldn’t have heard of her, she’s been in disgrace under the Nazis too. Käthe Kollwitz. Anyway, she showed me how to get the training I needed before and after the war.’
‘Did you fight in the First World War, then?’
‘Just for a year. I was lucky. I survived.’
‘I ran away from the fighting.’
‘That was a courageous thing to do. You turned your back on the propaganda, you did what was right. You’re needed for the future, lad. And the peace will be a challenge, believe me.’
There was a German maid in the apartment – ‘chaperoning you,’ said Papa, but they didn’t really need that. They’d dance together, they’d give each other little kisses, but it was almost as if they both wanted to be much younger than they were for a while. As if now each wanted the other to protect them from any excitement, from anything else happening. Sometimes they’d just sit quiet with their arms round each other. They’d find out how many tricks Cornelius could do and try to teach him new ones.
Then the news came about Hanno’s mother and sister. They were alive, living with his aunt in the bottom floor of her house, which was all that was left standing. It was an American padre who’d found them, and he’d broken the news to Frau Frisch about Wolfgang’s death. She sent her best love to Hanno, and said she couldn’t wait to see him again.
So there he was, sitting in the jeep with Bruno and Effi, on his way back to the Germany of ruins he’d been sheltered from for – how long was it? A month? This was the real test, Bruno was right. The peace was going to be far harder than the war and there’d be no running away from it. And he’d be with Mother and Heide, but without Wolfgang or Effi. Or Bruno.
He looked out of the jeep and saw the people walking as he and Effi had walked. He saw the buildings in ruins. Little kids begging from the Ami soldier. Bruno always had a pocketful of sweets and cigarettes to throw them. All these things had been there when Bruno used to drive them out to the countryside, but Hanno hadn’t focused his eyes on them then. Not properly. And hour by hour they got closer to Frankfurt. It took them three days. They stayed in American quarters at night – he was still insulated from Germany.
He looked at Bruno, whose eyes were on the road. He was tall and blond and as honest and kind as Otto had been vicious. Effi sat beside him. On the seat behind them Cornelius sat and breathed damp warmth down the backs of their necks. It seemed unbelievable that they were going to leave him behind in Frankfurt. Of course he wanted to see Mother and Heide, but Bruno and Effi – and Cornelius – felt like his family, he wanted them too. Only he couldn’t have them. And he’d have to forget about the chewing-gum boy, the jazz-dancing boy. He’d have to be the German boy, running errands and slogging again. He’d have to help mend things and go hungry.
They got into Frankfurt, along roads cleared through the broken buildings. He’d seen this before in Leipzig but these were going to be his ruins, the ruins he’d live in. Dusty, dangerous, sprouting fireweed.
‘We’ll write,’ said Effi. ‘We’ll keep in touch.’
He saw that she was crying. He put his arm round her and comforted her, it helped him pretend he didn’t want to cry himself. And too soon they were in the street, looking at a one-storey house huddling in the ruins of a big one. And there was a girl on the street, she was Heide, and she screamed ‘Mother! Mother!’
And he was in Mother’s arms and they were both crying, and then hugging Heide, he was so glad to see them, and ashamed of himself for what he’d felt before. And Aunt Lisi was standing there, waiting to hug him too, saying ‘Thank God you were spared, thank God.’
It got bad then, because though Mother was crying and thanking Bruno for bringing her son back to her, she was talking to him as if he was a stranger – it was clear she didn’t want to invite him into the house. Hanno saw that she didn’t like Bruno being in American uniform when he was German. And when Effi spoke to her, she smiled at her, but her face said, ‘Listen to this girl talking, she’s really common.’ She looked afraid when the dog jumped down from the jeep, relieved because he w
asn’t going to stay with them. And too soon Hanno was hugging Bruno and Effi to say goodbye to them, and Mother saw Effi in tears and her whole body said, ‘What have you got to cry about?’
At least they came back the next day. They took Hanno to see Michael Hildebrand, the artist, whose house was about half an hour’s walk away. He was a shy man with dark, greying hair, and dark eyes. He showed Hanno a painting he’d started since the Americans had come. Hanno couldn’t quite understand it, but he was interested. He showed Herr Hildebrand his drawings and small carvings. The artist lingered on the knot of wood that Hanno had carved in the forest. He turned it over and over in his hands.
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I like this.’ Then he gave it back to Hanno. ‘You could come here tomorrow,’ he said, smiling carefully, as if he wasn’t sure about smiling. ‘And once a week, maybe?’
‘Yes, please,’ said Hanno.
Then Bruno drove him back towards the ruined street in the jeep but he stopped a block away and said, ‘I’m going to stand over there and turn my back on you.’
*
Hanno said: ‘I can’t believe it’s time to say goodbye.’
‘But you want to be with your mother, don’t you? And your sister?’
Effi was crying. He put his arms round her and kissed her wet face. And then he was crying, too, and he wasn’t ashamed of himself. They weren’t little-boy tears.
‘I want you too.’
‘I know. But listen, Swing Boy, we’ll write. And we’ll get together again. Maybe Papa will come back to Germany and I’ll come with him, don’t you worry. And you’ll come to America. You’ll have an exhibition or something, and I’ll be living in Hollywood.’
‘With your lion and your pink limo.’
‘The lion’s going to be so kind and friendly. Like Cornelius. He’ll rub himself against you and purr. No – lions don’t purr, do they? Anyway, you’ll be able to stroke his mane and then we’ll go out for a walk with him and the dog. And everyone will say, Who’s that stunner with Effi Mann? After the journey we’ve just done, getting to America in peacetime will be nothing. You’ve got to believe in the future, Hanno. I won’t forget you. I love you.’
He kissed her again, they held on as if they’d never let go. He was saying: ‘I love you too, I do, Effi.’
Now Bruno was coming back. He drove them round the corner. Hanno got out. He saw Effi’s hand waving goodbye out of the jeep and Cornelius peering anxiously, as if he couldn’t understand why Hanno had to stay behind.
He stood in the street with the tears running round his face, and then someone touched him on the arm. It was Heide. He stopped crying and let her take him back to Mother.
Bruno had left food for them – he’d said it was the least he could do when Hanno had taken such good care of his daughter, so Mother had accepted it. Now they were going to have tinned meat for dinner, but she sent Hanno out to look for nettles to go with them. They’d make the Ami food go a long way.
He was lucky, that first day. He found a clump of dusty nettles growing out from under a pile of rubble only a block away. It made him remember how he’d got nettles for Effi at the ruined farm. And he thought: She didn’t like me at first. Supposing she forgets about me?
But he’d never forget her. Maybe he’d go to America, as she’d said. He’d go to her dressing room after a show. He’d knock, and her dresser, or whatever you called them, would let him in. She’d turn round and look at him as if she was about to say she had a gun and would shoot him if he wasn’t careful. And then she’d recognize him. Her face would soften. They’d start getting to know each other all over again. Would she have the lion in the dressing room? And Cornelius?
A nettle stung him all over his palm, but he started to laugh.
About the Author
Leslie Wilson’s mother was German and her father was English. She has lived in England, Germany and Hong Kong and now lives in Berkshire with a husband and a dog.
She is the author of three novels for adults and two for young adults. Last Train from Kummersdorf was shortlisted for the Guardian Children’s Fiction Prize, and the Branford Boase Award. Saving Rafael was nominated for the Carnegie Medal and shortlisted for the Lancashire Children’s Book Award. It was Highly Commended (runner-up) for the Southern Schools Book Award.
Her hobbies are gardening and taijiquan, and she has five young grandchildren, two of whom are identical twins.
Last Train From Kummersdorf is partly based on family history. You can find out more about this at: www.lesliewilson.co.uk
About Faber & Faber
Copyright
First published in 2003
by Faber & Faber Limited
Bloomsbury House, 74–77 Great Russell Street
London, WC1B 3DA
This ebook edition first published in 2015
All rights reserved
Text © Leslie Wilson, 2003
Cover illustration © studiohelen.co.uk, 2015
The right of Leslie Wilson to be identified as author of this work has been asserted in accordance with Section 77 of the Copyrights, Designs and Patents Act 1988
This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights, and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly
ISBN 978–0–571–32133–9
Last Train from Kummersdorf Page 22