They waited. Finally the hatch opened again. ‘You only. Ten minutes, that is all.’
Eleanora nodded. ‘You go, Carla. I’ll stay here with Theo.’
She followed a guard through clanking doors and a maze of dank corridors smelling of sewage until she came to a windowless room with no furniture save a table and two chairs. Josef was waiting there, pale, thinner but defiant. The guard smirked, and took up station stood by the door.
‘I’m so sorry, Papa,’ she said when she’d told him. ‘He was in good spirits and suffered no pain.’
‘A great man gone.’ Josef shook his head. ‘How I will miss him. He is interred?’
‘In the cemetery beside Grandma Maria. They are both at rest now.’
‘Thank you.’ He gestured around the room. ‘It was this, you know.’
‘This?’
‘This struggle. It’s what killed him. Fought for our liberty all his life, only to be betrayed by the fat crook Mussolini. This is what will kill us all.’
At the door the guard glanced up. ‘One minute left!’
Carla shifted uneasily. ‘Papa, how is it in here? Do they feed you properly?’
‘Pig swill. But the food doesn’t matter – our spirits are strong.’ He nodded at the walls again, pointedly, holding her gaze, then down at the clenched fist of his hand. ‘What of other news from the outside?’
Carla recounted Eleanora’s story about the summons to the Bureau of Ethnicity.
‘I heard about these things already. Danger lies everywhere. For us all. Poor Ellie. She is not strong enough for this.’
‘Time!’
Josef stood suddenly and embraced his daughter. As he did so she felt crumpled paper being pressed into her hand.
‘Go!’ he hissed in Ladin. ‘You, Theo, get out before it’s too late.’
‘What? But go where, Papa?’
‘Stop talking!’ And before they could utter another word, she was pulled away by the guard and escorted from the room.
Dearest Daughter,
I have one minute! Your name is listed. Treasonable offences same as me – I have seen this. They will come for you. You must leave now. Your marriage certificate and son’s birthright will give you entry to England. Victor’s relatives and friends and his regiment must help. Separatist sympathizers, too, in government. Go and continue the fight, Carla! Tell Ellie she must go south to her brother; she will be safer in Rome. GO, dearest daughter, and remember me always,
your loving father,
Josef
CHAPTER 6
The town of Apeldoorn lies fifteen miles north of Arnhem. I arrive there that Sunday 25 September aboard a motley convoy of trucks and ambulances crammed with wounded. Theo is among them somewhere. Though short, our journey is slow, hindered first by the wreckage-strewn streets of Arnhem, blocked every few yards by fallen trees, burned-out vehicles, shell holes and mounds of rubble. Bodies too, scores of them, both ours and theirs, lie piled at the roadside. Later, as we clear Arnhem, a different human wreckage impedes our progress, as long lines of civilians retreat from their ruined city. Grinding along tree-lined roads, we force a passage through this listless horde, which parts to either side, their worldly remains loaded in carts, wheelbarrows, prams, or in bundles tied on their backs. They are mostly women, children and the elderly; I stand in the truck watching this melancholy procession unreel behind us, and can only share their mood of gloom. Some of our boys call out cheerily, and make V for Victory signs, but the Dutch don’t reciprocate; indeed, many shake their heads, a few spit and one old man brandishes his fist. His gesture says it all: we came to liberate them, and only made things worse.
Then, to add final insult to injury, we get attacked by our own air force. The refugees hear it first, scattering in panic into the ditches and fields beside the road. Then the truck lurches to a halt and our driver leaps out and sprints for cover. Next comes a thunderous roar followed by the crackle of machine-gun fire and two RAF Typhoons hurtle past, guns blazing. There’s no time to do anything, certainly not unload stretchers; all we can do is gape in indignant disbelief. Our pilots are already unpopular, having failed to stop the Luftwaffe attacking us and then dropping our much-needed supplies into the hands of the enemy. Now to top it off they’re shooting at us. As they circle round for another pass, we wearily disembark the trucks and start waving white handkerchiefs, Red Cross flags, rude gestures and anything else we can think of. Mercifully they see the signals and break off, rocking their wings sheepishly.
‘Useless fuckers,’ somebody mutters as they depart.
A while later we drive through the gates of a wire-fenced compound and pull up. Before us stand the blocks of a large modern-looking barracks. Other convoys have arrived before us, and the compound is busy with revving motors, barked orders and figures in khaki scurrying to and fro with stretchers and crates of supplies.
An RAMC captain strides up with a clipboard. ‘Who are you lot then?’
‘Oh, um, Daniel Garland, 11th Battalion.’
‘11th?’ He checks his clipboard. ‘That’s odd. I’ve seen no one from the 11th.’
‘No, well, you see, I got separated, ended up attached to the 181st Airlanding Field Ambulance.’
‘Marrable’s mob! At the Schoonoord?’
‘That’s right.’
‘Good show!’ The officer pumps my hand. ‘I’m Redman, 133rd Parachute Field Ambulance. Got captured at the bloody DZ, been in the bag ever since. Speak a bit of German too, so they’ve got me doing liaison. Come on, I’ll show you round. Got plenty of your chaps here already.’
I follow him indoors to the main assembly area, which is low and cavernous. It resembles many barracks halls, except this one is carpeted to the farthest corner with stretchers. Hundreds and hundreds of wounded lie, sit, squat or stand, occupying every available space, waiting as ever to be processed and treated. A desultory murmur of massed male voices echoes like plainsong in a monastery and the familiar tang of putrescence assaults my nostrils, while a haze of damp air and cigarette smoke hangs above the multitude like mist. It’s too much, almost Biblical, and my heart sinks at the sight, overcome suddenly with unbearable weariness and a sense of utter despair. Last night, following my insane flag-waving adventure outside the Schoonoord, I tried to rest, crammed into a corner of the storeroom with Cliff Poutney. But after a week living knee-deep in festering wounds, shattered limbs and spilled guts, the air toxic with the stench of pus and excrement, with only the crash of shells and cries of the injured to listen to, my nerves are in shreds and no sleep comes. At dawn I rise and wander aimlessly from room to room, trying to make sense of it all, and half hoping to find my Dutch nurse Anna. But Anna is long gone and there’s famously little sense to be found in the madness of war, so I give up and sit on the hotel steps waiting for the end to come.
‘You all right, old chap?’ Redman asks.
‘It’s just… I mean, how many are there?’
‘Oh, upwards of a thousand, so far. More still to come of course, from the various dressing stations. We’re sharing them out between the barrack blocks.’
‘It beggars belief.’
‘Does rather. Listen, chin up, supper’s in an hour. Grub’s not bad either. I expect you could do with it.’
I expect I could, for food, I realize then, real food in the form of a proper square meal, has not passed my lips since breakfast on the day of the drop. ‘Well, now you mention it.’
‘Splendid. Feel like helping out while we wait? It’ll help pass the time!’
So I dump my haversack, roll up my sleeves and set to work, just as before, passing among the wounded, checking pulses and temperatures, adjusting bandages, updating casualty cards. Time does pass, more stretchers arrive, and some familiar faces. I spot Jack Bowyer – we exchange a nod – and then Cliff Poutney, his arm bandaged, who manages a thumbs up; finally Colonel Marrable himself strides in, pipe in mouth, thus heralding completion of our exodus from the Schoonoord.
‘Say,
Garland?’ Redman calls. ‘Is this one of yours?’
He’s kneeling by a body on a stretcher. The victim’s entire head and torso are bound in bloody bandages, his casualty card is signed by me, and shows only the information from his identity discs: name Trickey TV, rank Private, followed by his service number and religion, which is RC. A letter in a bloodstained pocket begins ‘Dearest Theo, how I long for you…’ Common decency prevents me reading on, but at least I know his name. ‘Try and save him,’ Anna had said in our final conversation. ‘He is lucky we found him, and lucky to be alive. Perhaps he will be lucky for you.’
Redman grimaces. ‘Multiple wounds to cranium, upper body and extremities, internal bleeding, organ damage, failing life signs. Doesn’t look good, old chap.’
‘I know. We found him among the dead.’
‘Not surprised.’ He lowers his voice. ‘Extra morphia and a visit from the padre. It would be kindest. And quickest.’
‘Somebody already tried that. It didn’t work.’
‘Then it’s major surgery you’re talking. Complicated cranial stuff and still no guarantees. And there’s a hell of a queue.’
I think of Cliff Poutney, and me, working away in our blood-soaked storeroom. Cutting, chopping, sawing and stitching all week like butchers in an abattoir. Try and save him, Anna had said.
‘I’ll do it.’
*
Carla and Theo arrived at Victoria Station, London, one showery autumn day in September 1938. Theo had just turned sixteen. With their baggage strewn about them, they peered round the crowded concourse, and at the scrap of paper bearing their only contact. An hour later they were labouring up Kingston High Street in a downpour; finally they found the address and knocked.
A middle-aged woman in slippers appeared. ‘Sorry, full up.’
‘Oh, ah, Signora Pakadap-alapish, per favore?’ Carla tried.
‘What you say?’
‘Scusi… Signora Papa-daka… Oh Theo, you do it!’
Theo cleared his throat. ‘Excuse, madam. We have searching the domicile previous of Lieutenant Victor Trickey of famous East Surrey regiment. Please.’
‘Vic? Blimey, he long gone, my dears.’
‘Yes, this we know most sadly. We are searching his family.’
‘His family? What for? And who you are, heaven sake?’
‘His family.’
‘Eh?’
‘His family from Italy. This Lieutenant Trickey’s wife, Carmelina, my mother. And his son. Theodor. Me. How do you do.’
‘How do—’ The woman gaped. Rain still fell. A cat scampered in, a red London bus splashing noisily by behind. Carla rummaged through her handbag.
‘Here, signora, this you sent me since many years.’
It was the telegram, from Victor’s landlady, informing Carla of his death. As she read, the woman’s hand rose slowly to her cheek. ‘My heaven, my lor’, blimey, you mus’ come in, my dears!’
Eleni Popodopoulos, a widowed Greek emigré, ran a boarding house off Burton Road in Kingston upon Thames, not far from the barracks where the East Surreys were headquartered. Victor Trickey, she explained over tiny cups of sweet tea, or ‘Vic’ as she called him, had lodged with her for a few years following the Great War.
‘Although I never know if he in or he out or where he is half a time. Sometimes he disappear weeks on end.’
‘With the army,’ Theo said. ‘Secret missions?’
‘Army? I don’ know about that but lots of secrets yes. And alway with the skis – he love that damn snow.’
‘Olympics training. This is how Lieutenant Trickey met my mother.’
‘Oh yes?’ Eleni appraised Carla anew. ‘Yes, he have eye for handsome lady.’
‘Did you know his people?’ Carla ventured. ‘Any his relatives?’
‘Relatives, no, my dear, he never talk of this. Friends, yes, a few, you know –business types. They come and go.’
‘What happen then, with the accidente?’
‘Oh, I don’ know nothing about that. Vic go off yet again, some weeks, I know not where. Also’ – she lowered her voice – ‘also he pay no rent for quite some while. Anyway, I keep getting letters and so on, then come this telegram, you telegram from Italy.’
‘You open it?’
‘Yes, my dear, sorry, but I need find him, you know, for rent and that. Anyway, a few day after I hear knock on door and this man come who I never see before.’
‘What man?’
‘I don’ know! I just say I never see him before!’
‘Scusi, signora. Please finish.’
‘Well, like I say, he come to door, he very polite, he say he friend of Vic Trickey and bring sad news of Vic killed in accident. He give me money, not much, and ask me send telegram to lady-friend in Italy to break sad news.’
‘Lady-friend? But I am wife!’
‘Like you say, my dear. Anyway, that end of story.’
Carla sensed it wasn’t, but now wasn’t the time to press matters. She sat back, biting a nail pensively, more rain spattered the window, Eleni’s tea cup clinked, Theo stroked the cat. Three days of trams and trains, alien landscapes, unknown tongues and strange food, only to end up at a dead end in this land of featureless grey. Carla stared around. Old photographs of men in Greek costume adorned the mantelpiece; a flight of plaster ducks ascended one wall, a large Orthodox crucifix dominated another. A moment later she was sobbing into a handkerchief.
‘No blimey, my dear! What is this tears?’
‘We have nowhere to go, signora, nowhere to stay.’
‘You mus’ stay here!’
‘But you full up.’
‘Pah! I always say this first. You never know who coming at door.’
‘We have little money.’
‘Money tomorrow, no worry today. You’ll see. Now then, young man Theodoros – this is wonderful Greek name, Theodoros, you know? Theodoros, you carry you bags for Mama quick.’
And so they moved into Eleni’s boarding house, one room on the top floor with two single beds, a washstand, and a view of a scruffy back garden. Three other lodgers were in residence, all men, two travelling salesmen and a young teacher called Clive Greenhough from the nearby grammar school. Carla and Theo unpacked, spent the weekend reconnoitring their strange new neighbourhood, visited the park and river, scoured the shops for anything familiar to eat, and then on the Monday Carla descended to breakfast dressed for a mission.
‘Where is fortress East Surrey reggimento please?’
One of the salesmen looked up. ‘You mean the barracks? It’s in King’s Road, five minutes away.’
‘Why, Mama?’ Theo looked her up and down. Elegantly attired in her best cream dress, the one from Neumann’s with the buttons down the front, her raven-black hair brushed into a clasp, she had rouge on her lips, powder on her cheeks, and she smelled of scent. Her demeanour was self-conscious but determined. Around the breakfast table, the two salesmen gawped in open-mouthed awe, while Greenhough rose noisily from his chair.
‘Thank you, professore,’ she purred as he seated her. ‘May we speak later?’
‘Of course, signora.’ Greenhough blushed.
‘Why, Mama?’ Theo repeated.
‘To discuss your education, of course.’
‘No, why are you going to the barracks?’
‘I am going to speak with il colonello of East Surrey reggimento. I am widow of their officer Victor Trickey; il colonello has responsibilities: to me, to you, even a pension maybe. I am going and will not leave without satisfaction.’
Three hours later she returned, muttering angry excuses and without satisfaction, but the next morning she went again, and the next, until on the Friday she returned with something more than excuses.
‘Everything is arranged, Theodor.’
‘What is?’
‘I have a job, you have a school, we have a friend.’
‘The colonel?’
‘Not the colonel, he is arrogant. No, but his aiutante is very nice man
. Very simpatico. Captain Henry Winter-Bottom. We are dining this evening. At a pub apparently, whatever that is.’
‘What of Papa? They have information?’
‘Henry is looking into it.’
‘What is your job?’
‘Henry is arranging it.’
‘And the school?’
‘Henry is arranging it with Mister Green-Huff. You will go to his school near here.’
That evening Henry Winterbottom escorted Carla to the Rose and Crown pub for beer and haddock; the following Monday she began work in the barracks laundry and Theo started school at Kingston Grammar.
*
After a passable supper of sausage, potato, veg and fruit – all tinned – and a blessed night’s rest on a proper army cot in a room with walls and ceiling, glass in the windows and no dawn shelling, I arrive in reception next morning in rather better spirits than I departed it last night. While I slept, others have clearly been working, with the result that order is fast emerging from the ashes of chaos. Over breakfast of black bread and tea we learn that the assistant director of medical services for the entire division, Colonel Graeme Warrack, arrived here late in the evening plus a staff of assistants, orderlies, clerks, typists and all the rest. He and his team immediately set to work drawing up lists and rosters, allocating jobs, designating spaces and nailing up direction signs, with the result that the place has turned from a barracks into a hospital. It even has a name – the Airborne Military Hospital – giving it a homely official feel. Nearly all wounded have been moved into ‘wards’ in the various blocks, and treatment rooms, operating theatres, admin offices, stores, even a dental clinic have been set up, plus messing facilities for officers, NCOs and other ranks. It’s extraordinary what good military organization can achieve, and refilling my mug with tea I can only reflect rather guiltily on my defeatism of yesterday.
I’m rostered to work in C Block, which is allocated to 181st Airlanding Field Ambulance, alongside my old friend Cliff Poutney, and under the ever-fastidious Arthur Marrable, so I make sure I’m clean-shaven, with tie straight and boots polished, before reporting for duty. Standing before the mirror, I can’t help pondering the past nine days, and the changes they have wrought. I certainly feel different from the person who jumped from a Dakota so long ago, and ties to home and family seem very tenuous. On a whim I rummage through the haversack for my red beret and brush it down. Marrable’s insistence on appearance is no mere affectation, I realize, heading for the stairs, it gives you identity and purpose, it makes you feel you belong, and it bucks you up. Everywhere I look, men are walking straighter this morning, they swing their arms and puff out their chests; there’s even some saluting here and there. Far from being cowed, as you’d expect after such a thrashing, the Paras are proud of who they are. Even the Germans are impressed.
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