by Ian Porter
In due course Nash told his wife how he had come to see her in action outside the hospital, and Ruby confirmed where their lodger was sleeping.
Chapter 25
“All this madness, all this rage, all this flaming death of our civilisation and our hopes has been brought about because a set of gentlemen living luxurious lives, mostly stupid, and all without imagination, or heart, have chosen that it should occur.”
Bertrand Russell 1914
Peter made his way into the marketplace to take up his duties. A middle aged man entering the square, who looked better fed than most, spotted the uniform and made a beeline for it. The man was keen to ingratiate himself with a member of the armed forces.
“It’s good to see you soldier,” he said officiously, his neck and back straightening him to his fullest height. “The German armies have not lost the war yet. The soldiers remain in the field, valiant and in good order.”
The man then overacted for dramatic effect, looking round the marketplace, nose in the air, before he continued his diatribe.
“But the Home Front has collapsed amid a bitter harvest of subversion and agitation by pacifists, socialists, slackers and Jews. The German army has been stabbed in the back.”
If there was one type the German soldier resented almost as much as the businessman profiteering from war contracts, it was the loud, arrogant, patriot who failed to understand the experience of fighting in the trenches.
Peter was therefore not tempted to reply. His mind raced to the trenches, but for once not their associated horrors. Rather, the camaraderie, friendship and even a perverse feeling of belonging, overwhelmed him. When back there the welfare of the Home Front had been the only compelling reason to keep going once the Spring Offensive had failed, the flu had hit and exhaustion had set in. But it had become clear to him that the Home Front was lost too.
This was not the place for him to see out the war. He would report back to the trenches first thing tomorrow morning.
******
Ursula, her team and cart driver had been laid off by the Berlin authorities, who were too busy dealing with the flu and its effects, to provide funds for feeding the very poorest, least productive members of society. Her ex-employers were also fighting too many other culinary fires to worry about retrieving their now redundant cart and its soup production equipment any time soon.
But Ursula had recently received an offer of help from her friend Dorothea. Her soldier friend was apparently keen to help out while he waited to be called back to the Front.
And thanks to the blight, there were still plenty of potatoes left in stock. So Ursula concluded that it was no good crying about her sacking. With help from Peter she would take out her mobile soup kitchen as usual. The authorities had not expected her to have any takings from the past week but careful potato paring had meant she and her girls had managed to sell some soup in the past few days, albeit fairly grim fare. But the potatoes were now beyond even this usage. So with the cash, Ursula had bought some ersatz sauce, with which she had smothered any of the sweet greenish potato pulp that had not turned completely into stinking mush. The sauce was foul but it covered something worse. She had also, out of her own pocket, bought the ingredients of turnip & bones salad and turnip marmalade.
It had been arranged for Peter to meet her in the main square, where Dorothea would be selling food from her own stall. Ursula would set up next to her to begin with before she and Peter headed for Zentral Viehund Schlachthof, a particularly poor area where any food would be welcome. En-route Peter would see what he could do with her turnips and assorted other purchases to make them into something more palatable than her ersatz and pulp concoction. It wouldn’t be difficult.
As she pulled the reins to bring her vehicle to a stop, Ursula noticed quite a crowd had already gathered in the square. It was not surprising. It was lard day after all. Dorothea was already hard at work feeding people. Ursula’s chest swelled with pride. She announced her arrival, shouting out with spirit to the people queueing at the stall.
“My friend is feeding you to help the Fatherland to hold out!”
Dorothea did not share such blind faith and patriotic fervour. Ursula knew very well her friend’s stall was being run for women’s suffrage, not the Fatherland, but nonetheless she received a cheery smile and wave of acknowledgement.
Ursula was just about to call to the crowd that she too would have food for them as soon as she got set up, when a very expensive looking motor car appeared out of the street that led into the square, and rumbled over the cobbles to pull up next to her friend’s stall. A woman in trousers, presumably a chauffeuse, jumped out and went straight to the head of the queue. Whether out of deference or simply shock, Dorothea appeared to welcome the woman and gave her some lard, telling her she had better take some now, in case they ran out later. Ursula was puzzled, perplexed and most of all angry.
And if anyone required evidence as to the bitterness felt by working people for the wealthy classes who always seem to go well fed in their large houses and plush restaurants, it was about to materialise. A metamorphosis took place as hitherto law-abiding people in the queue became an angry mob within seconds. Initial shouts, oaths and swearing soon gave way to violence. The chauffeuse was set upon but with the help of Dorothea managed to extricate herself from the crowd and climb back into the driver’s seat of the car and shut the door. A couple of women then tried to get a grip of her through the open window while others had opened the back door expecting to find Lady Muck. They were disappointed. The chauffeuse was on her own. Some men started to rock the car as violently as they could from side to side in an attempt to roll it over. This at least had the effect of stopping the women who had been trying to drag the chauffeuse out of the car. A lone policeman overseeing the marketplace queues drew his sword. He had a full scale riot on his hands.
Ursula may have shared these people’s anger but this was no way to behave. She clambered on to her cart and shouted.
“Are Germans on the Home Front still the people they were at the war’s beginning or have every day concerns taken over? Do not jeopardise our great country, the lives and future of every German, with your petty discontents!”
It was far too wordy an appeal to which a mob might listen. Many continued to rock the car. A few attacked the policeman. Others were already marching on the police station to break its windows.
******
Frau Burchardt had finished her business with Fritz inside the bank a quarter of an hour ago. She had waited a discreet period after he had left the premises before she had ventured outside, by which time her chauffeuse should have already arrived. But now here she was, waiting around on a street corner like a woman of ill repute. She was furious.
Where is that blasted driver of mine! Just wait till I see that wretched girl! I made it quite clear what time she should arrive! I suppose she is having too much fun talking to every working person to whom she is selling lard, and has forgotten the time! Lard! When I am standing here!
She hailed a passing horse taxi coming from the direction in which she wished to head. She had not been in a horse drawn vehicle for years but what could one do? The petrol shortage was obviously having its effect. Thank goodness for her chap Patemann. He might be a rough diamond, but at least you could rely on him. But having a nice new deposit sitting in one’s bank account, the best flu remedy around, and a car with a full tank of petrol, was not of much use standing on a street corner if one’s driver forgets to pick one up!
The cabbie swung his horse across the road and asked his potential new fare for her intended destination. When she told him it was the marketplace, he pulled a face and immediately hit the accelerator by use of his whip and a curse. She was not sure whether the curse was aimed at her or the horse but one thing was certain, manners were yet another victim of this terrible war.
There was nothing for it, she would have to walk
. It must be at least a couple of hundred metres, crossing at least one filthy street. It would not surprise her one iota if her skirts were ruined!
Little more than five minutes later the square hove into view. There appeared to be a riot going on. People were streaming out of the marketplace and into the surrounding streets to get away from the melee. Now she understood the cabbie’s lack of enthusiasm for her requested destination. She found it difficult to make much progress up the narrow street against the tide. But she eventually reached the square, and there amidst the crowds lay her motor car. On its side.
Where is poor Aldo? She ran forward, looking round the crowd, asking them what had happened to her driver.
The mob didn’t hear the question. They only heard the cut glass accent and saw the clothing of an extremely well-heeled woman. Not something they would usually come across in this part of town. She must be the owner of the motor. An old woman rushed out of the crowd at her. She grabbed the wealthy car-owner by the hair for a moment, before Ursula pulled her off and pushed her away. Not just to be heard over the din but to emphasise the seriousness of the situation, Ursula shouted at the woman she was attempting to protect.
“If you are the owner of this motor, your driver is injured! She is being tended by a nurse! Come with me for your own safety!”
******
Ursula had run forward to try and remonstrate with the mob while they were still attempting to turn over the car, so she had been the first on the scene when they succeeded in their crime. Dorothea was there a few seconds later, having quickly told her colleagues that they should pack up the stall and get out of the square as soon as possible. She explained to Ursula that she knew the injured girl and would attend to her. It was agreed that Ursula should head off to get assistance.
Being a top of the range motor, Frau Burchardt’s car had windows. The passenger side ones had smashed against the ground when the car had been tipped over onto its nearside. Aldo had been holding on to the steering wheel for grim life during the mob’s rocking of the car, but she had lost her grip when it had been turned over, gravity plunging her towards the window glass as it shattered against the ground. Dorothea laid down on the cobbles and peered sideways into the car. Aldo was lying head down along the full width leather front seat, with one of her legs awkwardly wedged against the steering wheel. It was difficult for the nurse to see the extent of any injuries, but the peak of her cap appeared to have protected Aldo’s face to some degree, notably her eyes, from the glass. Nevertheless she had lacerations on at least one cheek, and her lips were a little bloody.
There was movement and groaning blasphemy issuing forth which made it clear the patient was conscious. Dorothea was concerned that in Aldo’s dazed state, her new patient may not remember who she was, so told her who it was speaking; the woman whom she had originally met at Frau Ute’s house, and whom she had just met again at the lard stall. Dorothea didn’t remember mentioning during their previous meetings that she was an ex-nurse, so she did so now, hoping that would give some reassurance.
She told Aldo to keep her head still before asking her if she could speak. A muffled affirmative came from the car seat, so Dorothea asked how her head and neck felt, and whether she felt pain anywhere else. It was relayed that although she had hit her head she felt all right apart from a sore mouth. And her neck was fine. To which her nurse replied with a request that Aldo wiggle her toes, which she was able to do without discomfort.
Although she was satisfied that her patient may not be too badly hurt, Dorothea decided it was best to tell her to stay still. Those responsible for the young driver’s predicament had, temporarily at least, backed off. But the promise Dorothea had made of help arriving was more assumption than fact, and the baying crowd were still having plenty of negative things to say about the woman in the car. She was probably safer inside the vehicle than out.
The height, which was now the width, of the car plus two spare wheels attached to its side, made it difficult for a petite woman to reach up and over to the door handle, so Dorothea altered her attention to the front of the car lying on its side. The front window would have been a two sectioned affair, with the top half movable by way of a hinge, but the whole thing had buckled and its glass now lay in shards on the ground. If need be Aldo could be extricated through the space.
Ursula returned and bent down to relay to Dorothea in little more than a whisper, so she could not be overheard, that her attempt at going for help had been thwarted by the need to stop and protect the owner of the car, who had just turned up in the square. The two women agreed that surely the police would arrive any moment to clear the crowds and call for an ambulance. It was decided that Dorothea would stay and look after Aldo while Ursula would escort the wealthy woman out of the area before there was any more unpleasantness.
“What the hell is going on?!”
It was a man’s voice. The two women looked around to see who owned it.
“Peter Fueschel!” shouted Dorothea in delighted surprise before recovering her poise. “I see you have arrived for work at last! Better late than…”
That was as far as she got before she was interrupted.
“There’s fuel on the ground!” shouted Peter. “Is there much in the tank?!”
Dorothea looked back at him bemused.
“Can I ask you what business it is of yours young man?”
Necks were craned to stare at the woman who had asked the question. Ute Burchardt was now the centre of attention. Peter snapped back at her.
“It will be everyone’s business if the fuel tank explodes! Which it could if it has plenty of petrol in it. The tank has been ruptured as you can see!”
“The tank is full as a matter of fact,” came the inappropriately haughty reply.
The soldier was not sure whether even the army’s tanks were able to be completely filled with fuel these days. He was about to show the woman his disgust when his eye was drawn by the other two women running towards the car.
“You will look better without eyebrows perhaps!” he shouted sarcastically after them.
Dorothea shouted over her shoulder back at him.
“There’s a woman in the car!”
Peter sprinted to join them, shouting at and waving away the crowd as he did so.
“Get back! The car is full of petrol and is leaking. It will go up like a bomb!”
For the first time that day, the mob listened. The riot was over. The crowd still lingered, but from a distance. They were now just an audience.
Dorothea pointed Peter to the front window.
“Go in through there!”
Without breaking step the soldier dived on to the side of the bonnet, which was now its top, crawled along it, and was about to throw himself into the car when he saw Aldo lying on the front seat. He wedged himself into the front window space, stooped down and pulled her up by one arm to begin with, before reaching to grab her more securely under both armpits and levering her up. She found one leg a little difficult to unfurl from the clutches of the steering wheel but eventually her rescuer was able to yank her out of the car. A moment later they slid off the side of the bonnet and on to the cobbles.
Ursula and Dorothea ran forward to help Aldo up to her feet. She was now bleeding from her hands and knees as well as her head, having landed on smithereens of glass. Dorothea asked her if she was all right and received a nod. A moment later all five cast members in the drama were running.
Chapter 26
“In war-time the word patriotism means suppression of truth.”
Siegfried Sassoon,
Memoires of an Infantry Officer
When Ruby had reported back to Leman Street police station for her next shift, she told Sergeant Granger that earlier in the day, just before the end of her previous duty, she had taken off in pursuit of a soldier who had leapt out of the back of an ambulance. She managed to grab him fo
r a moment at one point, but he had elbowed her on the jaw and made off. The bruise on her chin bore testament to this. She chased him down various courts, alleys and passages. By the time she lost him, she was somewhere in Bethnal Green. She was in pain and feeling a bit sorry for herself so made her way home, forgetting her orders to formally hand over responsibility for the ambulances to the sergeant in charge at the hospital entrance.
Granger had reprimanded her for not following correct procedure, but also somewhat grudgingly praised her for her efforts. He would pass on her report to the army. They would no doubt ascertain in due course who the missing soldier was, and might want to speak to her at some later date, but he doubted it. He had then informed her that a police strike was about to begin so she should go home.
A tram ride later, Ruby walked through her back door with a spring in her step. Nash looked up from his battered old armchair and shouted through to the kitchen.
“What you doing home? Thought you were on late turn?”
“Hello duck, this is a nice surprise,” replied Ruby, sarcastically suggesting that her husband could have shown a little more enthusiasm for his wife’s unexpected arrival. “Fancy seeing you home so early. What a treat. You’re a sight for sore eyes and make no mistake. Is everything all right? How has your day been?”
“All right, Funny Cuts, come here,” he said, beckoning for her to join him on the chair for a cuddle.
She sat on his lap, put her arms round his neck and gave him a hello peck on the lips.
“This is a nice surprise,” he confirmed, which had his wife pull a face and poke her tongue out at him.
They smooched and shared their usual array of leg-pulling, giggles and silly talk, interspersing it all with more serious chat about how their day had gone.