A Plague on Both Your Houses

by Ian Porter

  Peter’s initial reaction was to be horrified by the thought of visiting the land of the enemy. True, he shared with Dorothea the belief that the people of Germany and England had been used as mere cannon fodder by their politicians, and the two peoples themselves had nothing against each other. But nevertheless, the English had killed many of his friends and starved his nation to defeat. It was not something one could forgive or forget very easily.

  But he kept these concerns to himself. From the moment she had told him that she was having to travel to America via England he had been concerned about Dorothea’s safety, and had told her so. He had heard that during the war German shops in England had been looted; German people who had lived in England for decades, abused. Even dachshund dogs had been kicked, and Schweppes, the Swiss lemonade people had been boycotted just for having a German sounding name. She had initially waved away such stories as a mix of the inevitability of war and propaganda nonsense, and that his concerns were unwarranted in peacetime. But perhaps she had reconsidered. Or perhaps she just wanted to spend some more time with him? Perhaps she too felt time was against them? Either way, he was only too pleased to be invited to travel with her. He agreed to her request.

  And just to be on the safe side, once in England, they would be a Mr & Mrs Peter and Dorothea Fletcher, a Swiss cuckoo clock-maker and his wife.

  Chapter 39

  “It’s like trying to run a wagon without oil. It begins to creak. The German race begins to creak. As a whole, it is pale, thin and sunken-eyed. Sooner or later a crisis is inevitable…They are pale, weary and without life.”

  Madeleine Zabriskie Doty,

  American Peace Activist, Germany 1918

  As law and order had broken down towards the end of the war, Ursula had been one of the thousands involved in pitch battles on the streets of German cities. There had been demonstrations, protests and riots demanding the end of the war, the end of the monarchy, franchise reform and better food distribution, amongst other things. There were socialists, communists, anarchists, Pan-Germanists, Spartacists, radical youth, police, army, and many more groups fighting with or against one another.

  A new government, a transition from monarchy to a republic, and the armistice, had seen many of these protests dissipate.

  Ursula had won. She had been on the winning side in all but one of her internal conflicts. Only the battle for food remained.

  The fight for the vote for women in particular, had dominated her entire adult life. But what do you do when such an all-encompassing battle is finally won? You go to vote of course. In her case for the Weimar Coalition. But what then? No more plotting protests. No more shouting the odds against counter mobs demanding the authorities ‘send hysterical females to the trenches’. And no more serving on a soup kitchen for the Fatherland come to that. It was all over. Time to return to normal life. Whatever that was.

  The decision as to what to do next, had been somewhat decided for her. Which she had to admit to herself was something of a relief. The demand for better food production and distribution was not over, and an opportunity to be heavily involved in this fight landed nicely in her lap.

  The well-to-do woman with the car whom she had met during the fracas in the marketplace had been in touch to ask her to work on a farm as her representative. The idea was to produce free milk for the starving. It had been explained that Ursula did not need any farming expertise. Rather she just needed an auditor’s eye. To keep watch over the farmer to ensure things were done correctly. He was a bit of a rough diamond apparently, who may no doubt try to pull the wool over her eyes, or to be more exact produce milk behind her back. And she was to deal with all the paperwork and distribution. There were some things about the logistics of the project that were still unresolved because the man who had been the initial contact between the farmer and Frau Ute had died of the flu during the negotiations, but without hesitation Ursula had agreed to take on the task.

  ******

  The work had gone surprisingly well. The old farmer seemed to be a far more decent fellow than Ursula had been led to expect. Once they had developed some rapport, mutual respect and trust, he had confided to her that he had not behaved well during the war. And had told her some, though she suspected not all, of some of the shenanigans he had got up to. For her part, she had told him of the riots, some of them involving battles with the authorities, in which she had been involved.

  The milk they were producing was making them and their employer feel better about themselves, but they were just one farm. It was too little, too late. The Allied blockade was still continuing, and the German poor were in a worse condition than ever.

  During the war Ursula had become a good photographer, always keen to take the sort of interesting images, often of people suffering in some way, that the censors ensured did not appear in the newspapers. She had believed they would be a useful historical document after the war, when the defeated English would be held to account.

  Recently, during her milk distribution rounds in the city, she had set up her camera apparatus on a street corner in the poverty stricken East End of Berlin, and taken photographs. She suspected the images would be good ones. There would be none of the usual problem of taking blurred or ghostly pictures of moving people. Her models had been stationery. Just lying there, with no energy or motivation to move. Her usual comment on seeing photographs that had come out well, was to state that she was ‘pleased with them’. If she was right about the quality of these images, that was not a term that would be appropriate. There would be nothing pleasing about them.

  On returning to the farm she had told Klaus what she had seen and hopefully captured on film. He assumed she must be exaggerating, though he noticed how quiet and withdrawn she had become since.

  Now she had the photographs back from the printers. She invited Klaus to view her handy work. The two of them saw shocking images of starving children. While she had been on the streets, Ursula had concentrated so hard on getting good photographs that she had managed to distance herself somewhat from the horror in front of her. But now she had nowhere for her eyes to hide. There was not much that could shock an old farmer who had seen it all, but these images did the job. Human skeletons with bulging eyes and bloated bellies. On one occasion Ursula had captured a girl of about eight years of age looking directly down her lens. It was the most haunting image of them all. The child’s face was expressionless, but to Klaus it wasn’t. It was enquiring. Why have you done this to us farmer?

  “I’d put animals down in that state,” he said grimly.

  “Remember I told you how I met Frau Burchardt originally?” asked Ursula. The farmer nodded so she continued. “There was another woman there, a friend of mine called Dorothea. She is travelling to England soon. They must learn what their blockade is doing to us. To our children.”

  ******

  Despite her years of nursing in the city, during which time she had seen many a terrible sight, Dorothea had been shocked and horrified by Ursula’s photographs. It had not been that long since she had been in the Berlin East End herself, and conditions had been bad then, but at least the war effort had been helping people. Ursula’s soup kitchen for example. But now it was clear that the economic, political and social collapse of the country had left its poorest in a terrible state, with no one save a few philanthropists such as Frau Burchardt to help them. Dorothea was therefore only too pleased to do her bit to help, promising to carry the images of the starving into England when she travelled there.

  It transpired that Emmeline Pethick-Lawrence was away in Canada and would remain so for some time, so after swopping letters with Kitty, it was decided that the best course of action for Dorothea once in England was to get the images to an ex-Suffragette friend of Kitty’s, Norah Smyth. It was explained that she was the photographer who had captured so many remarkable images of the British Suffragette campaign. She would have the press contacts and financial
wherewithal to ensure the photographs would be circulated throughout England. She lived in Bow in the East End of London. It was also where another friend of Kitty’s from the Suffragette days, Ruby Nash, lived. Norah and Ruby had both worked for Sylvia Pankhurst, initially as Suffragettes and then during the war doing social work. Kitty suggested Dorothea contact Ruby. Norah was not the most streetwise of people, whereas Ruby and her husband were. It would be best for Dorothea to deliver the photographs to them, and they could also give her advice on anything she needed while in England.

  Dorothea remembered the name. Emmeline had mentioned the Nashes during a conversation years ago. Dorothea had thought at the time that they had sounded like just the sort of down-to-earth people she would enjoy meeting.

  On contacting Norah, the advice was that while she would ordinarily have been honoured to take up the cudgels on behalf of Germany’s starving children, she was alas already too busy helping Sylvia Pankhurst set up a new campaign to stop the British government starting a new war, against the Bolsheviks in Russia. Sylvia was galvanising East End dockers to get them to refuse to load armaments onto ships potentially bound for the new socialist republic. Norah did not think she could give the project the time it both deserved and needed. But she would be prepared to accept the photographs and get them passed on to a contact of hers, Sister Dorothy Buxton. Norah knew the nun was importing illicit copies of German and Austro-Hungarian newspapers into Britain, so was already aware of the deprivation of German children and was keen to do something about it. Norah had immediately swopped letters with the Sister about the photographs, and an agreement made to use the images in a campaign, using as a title the old war-time call to arms for Sylvia’s Bow nursery, ‘Save the Children’.

  Chapter 40

  “We do not like to be robbed of an enemy. We want someone to hate when we suffer… If so-and-so’s wickedness is the sole cause of our misery, let us punish so-and-so and we shall be happy. The supreme example of this kind of political thought was the Treaty of Versailles.”

  Bertrand Russell, Sceptical Essays

  The Lester Sisters were much loved East End philanthropists and social workers. They had supported Sylvia’s East London Federation of Suffragettes before the war and, like its leader, were pacifists. This had led the three women to become good friends. And this had brought the sisters in to contact with Nash.

  The straight-laced, salt-of-the-earth sisters found him quite shocking at times, and did not really appreciate having their Christian names, Muriel and Doris, shortened to Mu & Dot, but nonetheless they very much liked and respected him. And the feeling was mutual.

  Nash had been one of the local volunteers who had helped redecorate and refurbish an old chapel that the sisters had bought at the start of the war in Eagling Road, Bow. Their brother, Kingsley, had died around the same time, and as a tribute to him the old chapel was renamed Kingsley Hall. It was set up as a ‘peoples’ house’ for worship, study, fun and friendship, and included a school for adults and a nursery.

  And after her rather ill-deserved fame as an ace footballer had spread, Ruby had been roped in to organise boys’ and girls’ football at the centre. The hall had also been a twenty-four hour soup kitchen during the war, and given he was a creature of the early hours, Nash had sometimes helped out in the middle of the night, keeping air raid wardens supplied with soup or his own warming beverage of choice, a cup of alcohol-infused tea.

  Muriel and Doris had been born a year apart but they were so alike that people tended to assume they were twins. They dressed alike and had exactly the same hair-style. But all but one person in the East End could just about tell them apart. The exception to the rule was Nash, who had once made the mistake of confiding this to his wife, who had immediately informed the sisters. Like Ruby, they had been most amused by this, so to get some retribution for him always being so cheeky towards them, they resolved to play a little ongoing joke on him. Whenever they came in to contact with their friend Nashey, they passed themselves off as each other.

  Muriel had sent Nash a note to ask him to pop round to see her at Kingsley Hall. It was at the far end of Bow from where he and Ruby lived, about a twenty minute walk away. He duly made his way over there and on entering the hall, was immediately met with an apology from his host.

  “I’m so sorry Nashey, Muriel couldn’t be here after all, you’ll have to make do with me I’m afraid,” said Muriel.

  “Never mind Dot, always a pleasure to see you girl, you know that,” he said with a saucy smile on his face. “Now, what can I do for you?”

  Muriel explained that earlier in the war when Dr Alice and her local colleague Dr Barbara had discovered what the national infant mortality rate had been, they had gone to Sylvia with the information. It was decided to start a new campaign to appeal for funds. Sylvia had called it ‘Save the Children’.

  She went on to explain that the two doctors had written articles in the Woman’s Dreadnought newspaper, laying out the appalling statistics and telling people of their work in East End nurseries and clinics. They explained that they were unable to get government grants for the heaviest costing items, namely food and milk. They called on people to send funds for milk, eggs, medicines, doctors and nursing. Or if they couldn’t spare money perhaps they could send arrowroot, barley, Glaxo or Virol. The Save the Children campaign had helped keep the nursery going throughout the war.

  Muriel appeared to have forgotten that Nash was married to someone who, through most of the war, had been Sylvia’s administrator of the clinic and nursery. None of this was new to Nash. But his curiosity had certainly been aroused.

  “Yeah, Ruby’s told me as such. So come on Dot, I’m a cat what’s ready to cop it for the ninth time. Cut to the chase. What you up to girl?”

  Muriel was well aware that she had been in danger of telling her grandmother to suck eggs somewhat. But the point was that she wished to ease into the conversation gradually. She eventually wished to speak on a most delicate matter. She was about to make it clear that she knew not just one but two things about Nash which were supposed to be highly confidential. Very few people knew this information and she should certainly not be one of them.

  “Well, Nashey, will you promise me you won’t be affronted by what I am about to say? I most sincerely do not wish to raise your hackles.”

  “Hackles is it?” said Nash mock seriously, amused at the term. “Well, seeing as it’s you Dot, I’ll promise not to raise ‘em. No matter what you have to say for yourself. How’s that?”

  It was clear to Muriel that the big man was in a good mood. She considered it a good idea to come back with her own light hearted refrain. She knew how he liked such badinage. A few months earlier, just before the Germans had given up their aerial bombing campaign, an air-raid warden had popped into her all night soup kitchen and told her a joke that she thought she could now use. She didn’t think it was terribly funny, but the warden was a similar sort of rough diamond to Nashey, so perhaps it appealed to that sort of chap. And Nashey’s very own Christian name, Alexander, was mentioned in the joke.

  “Jolly good,” she said. “By the way, someone in Bow has just started a new business. He has put up a sign outside his establishment stating his name. A.Swindler. I said to him goodness me that looks mighty bad as it is. You must include your first name, Alexander or whatever it is. He said I know but I don’t exactly like to do it. I said why not? What is your first name? He said, Adam.”

  The joke teller looked at the old East Ender with an air of expectancy.

  Nash didn’t realise it was a joke for a moment and looked back at Muriel nonplussed. Why on earth was she telling him this tale? Had she asked him over to talk about a feller called Swindler? And then it dawned on him, but his expression didn’t change. Then, with a serious look on his face, he leant forward conspiratorially to whisper some advice.

  “Word to the wise Dot. Don’t work the music halls any
time soon.” He then burst out laughing, shaking his head with incredulity. “A dam swindler. Gawd help us!”

  Joke over, it was time to find out why he had been summoned.

  “So, come on, what you after Dot?” he asked.

  She couldn’t put it off any longer. Muriel took a deep breath and then let out the bombshell.

  “Well, it has come to my attention Nashey, that you have been helping conscientious objectors evade justice, and also that you have squirrelled away somewhere a young soldier who has gone on the run.”

  She saw Nash’s countenance change with scary speed. As his face darkened, she was afraid that he would not keep to his promise. She immediately felt intimidated.

  “Who’s been talking?” he asked solemnly.

  “Now, you know I cannot possibly tell you that Nashey. If I did you would no doubt chastise the poor chap most severely.”

  In her naivety she had inadvertently told Nash that the informant was male. That reduced the number of suspects. And she would have referred to Freddie as a boy rather than a chap. Nash also doubted she would have referred to any of his mostly middle class conscientious objectors as poor men. He had a prime suspect. A man whom Nash knew frequented the Lester Sisters’ hall. The poor old devil was known to go round there for a chinwag and some free coffee or soup. It was Kosher Bill.

  Nash put his theory to the test.

  “You wait till I get hold of that daft old sod. I’ll give him kosher when I see him.”

  It got the response he was looking for.

  “Now Nashey, you know poor Bill isn’t all the ticket. You can’t go…”

  “Keep your hair on,” cut in Nash to reassure her. “Bill’s all right with me. I was just getting it out of you. But I wanna know how he found out about the soldier boy. It weren’t nothing to do with him.”