The first few months of the occupation were nothing short of hell. The soldiers expected their clothes to be washed, dried and ironed for them – and there was endless cleaning to be done, the soldiers delighting in walking in muddy boots across freshly scrubbed floors. There were two sittings for every meal: the soldiers provided luxuries for themselves like meatballs and sausages, and after they’d been fed, and started drinking by the fire, the family would sit down to the sparse leftovers, padded out with potatoes from the vandalized garden, and, very occasionally, vegetables and eggs from Tante Lucy.
As a result Madeleine gradually became so tired and debilitated that she could hardly put one foot in front of the other. And one night, with Maman’s help, she managed to get to bed early. Once there, she didn’t do her usual thing, and lie awake worrying, but fell into a deep sleep.
In the depths of her dreams she became vaguely aware of a presence, and sensed movement, but her eyes were so heavy she was unable to open them. Her dreams, though, became troubled and uncomfortable. In an unconscious bid to stay asleep, she wriggled around before turning on to her stomach. But, still semi-conscious, she became increasingly uneasy. And with her eyes still tight closed, but unable to hold on to her desperately needed sleep any longer, she lifted her head to push her pillow into shape, and, to her horror, felt a hand under her body!
As she tried to leap away, and scream, the nauseating smell of alcohol filled her nostrils. A hand was clapped over her mouth, and the stale-cigarette odour that oozed from it made her retch. The soldier it belonged to tried to rip her nightdress off with his free hand, and she struggled and fought with a viciousness that she had no idea she possessed. But his strength was greater, and he managed to push her back down on the folding bed. Holding her down with both hands gave him the opportunity to straddle her, his full weight pressing down on her writhing body.
Once astride, he reached behind with one hand to lift her nightdress, while with the other he covered her mouth. Hearing the cotton fabric rip, she desperately bit into the hand covering her mouth. Salty blood filled her mouth, and the soldier snatched his hand away cursing with rage.
At that moment, her disgust far outweighed her fear. She struggled like a wild animal, biting and tearing at the soldier with her nails, and she managed to push him away, using not only her hands but her knees. Then she screeched, ‘Get off me, you bastard! You … monstre!’
And the way he laughed drunkenly at that somehow gave her the strength of another creature altogether, so that with one, final, almighty shove she pushed him on to the floor. Adrenalin took over, and, for one brief moment, as she stood over him, hands on hips, she was the one in charge. She looked down at his prone body in the darkness, and through gritted teeth said, ‘Get out!’
Her moment of triumph was over almost as soon as it began. He stood up, looming above her in the tiny darkened room, and, gripping both of her arms tightly, he said, ‘I’ll be back.’ Then, to make sure she understood, he repeated in bad French, ‘Je reviens.’
He let go of her and she stood there shaking, listening to the sound of his boots clanking across the tiles. The thought struck her that the idiot hadn’t even had the sense to remove his boots before attacking her. But what had struck her more fiercely was that he intended to come back. And there she was, in the darkness, with no idea which soldier he was. The fact that he’d have a bite on his hand wouldn’t help her identify him, either, as the German soldiers wore black leather gloves most of the time.
Terrified, and with no chance of getting back to sleep, she sat rigidly on the bed, staring at the door, as if anticipating his return. And then she suddenly stood up, shocked. Mon Dieu! she thought. Why are you sitting here like an idiot? He’s going to come back! Get out of here – quick!
Panicking, she jumped off the bed, grabbed her coat and peered through the open door, not knowing whether he’d gone back up the stairs. Feeling strangely out of control of her shaking body, she paced back and forth across the tiny room. What to do? What to do? She was too afraid to go out of the door in case he was still there, lurking in the shadows. And her parents were sleeping right at the top of the house, in the attic, so she was unable to get to them without passing the floor where the Germans were sleeping.
Why on earth hadn’t anyone – including herself – guessed that this might happen? Her annoyance at her own stupidity stirred her into action, and made her think more clearly. She moved quickly to the window, where she placed her shoes and coat on the inner sill. That done, she hoisted herself up on to her knees on the windowsill, and taking hold of the brass hooks each side of the sash frame, strained to push it up. At first there was a slight judder. Then nothing: the window wouldn’t budge.
Oh, merde alors! Madeleine’s instinct at this point told her to smash the glass and forget about the consequences. But first she gave it one more try, and in desperation shook the window, praying that somehow it would loosen up. She looked over her shoulder nervously, thinking that she must be making enough noise to bring the whole household downstairs. Scared as she was, she didn’t want to waken everyone. After all, the German soldiers wouldn’t believe her, or care, even. She’d seen how they all sniggered and joked whenever she was in the same room. They might all be aware of what this bastard had done, anyway. Perhaps they’d put him up to it. And she knew exactly how her parents and Dominic would react, and that was reason enough not to wake them. Her family would jeopardize their own safety to stand up to these monstres.
She’d just given the window another shake when she heard a creak from the bouanderie next to her room, and her heart thumped so hard that she almost fell off the sill. Determinedly, she heaved with all her might, and the window moved a little way before sticking again.
Seeing that the gap was now big enough to squeeze through, she dropped to the floor, thinking that she might be able to pull herself through head first if she lay on her back. She shuffled into position, managed to get her head out, then, holding on to the bottom of the window frame, she heaved and wriggled until she was on her knees on the outside sill, and while she was still facing that way she grabbed her coat and shoes and jumped down to the ground. By standing on her toes she could just reach the bottom of the frame of the newly loosened window, and she jiggled it back shut, covering her tracks in case the soldier came back into her room.
She wasted no time getting into her coat, and when she turned to walk into the darkness of the garden, realized she had no idea where to go. She’d thought no further than getting out of the room. She stood there for a moment, pressed to the wall, shivering until her teeth chattered. She knew she would have to get back into the house in the morning without the family knowing, but decided to worry about that later.
Dominic is going to have to swap beds with me after this, she thought tearfully, because there is no way I am sleeping in that room again. But now she had to find somewhere to hide, so, with her shoes wedged under her arm she ran towards the chicken coop. She opened the rickety wire netting door of the run, causing the chickens to cluck indignantly at the intrusion. ‘Shh, shh,’ she whispered as she fluffed up the straw in a corner of the coop before crouching down in it. And there she stayed for the remainder of the night, wedged into a corner and unable to sleep, with the family totally oblivious. And that’s how she planned to keep them, for all their sakes.
Next morning, having managed to sneak back into the house when her Papa had come out to visit the toilet, she’d been busy at the range, checking on the boiling saucepans, when she’d suddenly shuddered at the clank clank of boots approaching across the tiled floor. Her body stiffened with panic, but she purposely didn’t turn round. Instead, as the soldier’s hand slid across her bottom she lifted the heavy saucepan of boiling potatoes and turned abruptly to face him. Then she looked him straight in the eyes while holding the pan perilously close to his groin.
She knew she’d unnerved him when she saw him hesitate. He didn’t want to lose face in front of his comrades, though,
so he’d smirked openly, while she’d continued to stare straight into his eyes. No words were spoken; he just gazed unblinkingly back, and for a second the tension was all-consuming, until, with a mocking grin, he turned and walked away. The grin told her that that wasn’t going to be the end of it.
Her only consolation was that he’d now identified himself. She still had no idea what his name was, but to her, from then on, he would be ‘Hanz’, a word derived from the English for ‘hands’. Fitting for a pervert with no control over his, she thought.
Unknown to her, Dominic had witnessed part of the confrontation on his return from an errand for Papa. He was pushing his bicycle towards the shed in the back garden when he stopped to glance through the window, wanting to let Madeleine know that he was back. What he witnessed filled him with such fury that he threw the bike to the ground, and, flinging the back door open, charged into the house, where Hanz – with his sickening smirk – had just left the kitchen.
‘What was all that about?’ he asked Madeleine, trying to catch his breath.
‘All what?’ she replied calmly. She had no intention of telling him what had happened, knowing how he would risk his life rather than let anything harm her.
‘Come on, Madeleine, I saw him through the window!’
Madeleine turned to her brother. ‘Dominic,’ she said. ‘You can’t do anything about it.’
‘That’s where you are wrong,’ he’d answered, heading towards the door through which the German soldier had just left.
Madeleine rushed to restrain him, saying, ‘Look, I can manage him. You saw how I got rid of him. I think he’s as scared as we are,’ she lied. ‘But you mustn’t forget that they have the upper hand, and we just have to put up with things until the war is over.’ Hoping to pacify her brother, she added lightly, ‘Anyway, because of his wandering hands, I have named him Hanz.’ She smiled at Dominic. ‘Don’t you think that’s funny?’
Dominic looked back at her grimly. ‘He has been pestering you, then.’
‘Dominic, please,’ she pleaded. ‘We have to get through this somehow.’
‘He has no right to touch you, we could report him.’
‘Oh, Dominic, you know that would be a total waste of time. Who’d believe us, and even worse, who would care?’
Dominic stood there looking hopeless. ‘You must promise to tell me if it … when it happens again,’ he hissed. His fury scared her. She’d rarely seen him like that.
‘Yes, Dominic. I promise,’ she lied.
Chapter 8
Evenwood, England
Saturday, 1 December 1945
Tom had miraculously managed to avoid Jessie since arriving home. So far, anyway! God knows how I’ve managed that when she lives in the same village, he thought, as he glanced at himself in the only bit of mirror still unmarked by the mottled black spots gradually eating away at the whole thing.
He picked up his shaving brush from behind the cracked but spotless ceramic sink, and splashed it around in tepid water before rubbing it vigorously over the shaving soap. Then, lifting his chin, and casting his eyes down at the mirror, he briefly ran his hand over the stubble to check the whisker growth, before, with the soapy brush, making rapid circular movements. Once his chin and cheeks were white with lather, he stood with razor poised, then leaned in towards the mirror until he was close enough to see what he was doing in the dim light of the scullery, gripped his nose and pulled his head to one side. It had always been a bit dark in there, the only daylight coming through the tiny window overlooking the backyard.
While he shaved, his mind wandered back to Jessie, but he only felt the slightest tinge of guilt. He wasn’t ready to meet her yet. In fact, he wasn’t sure if he ever would be. Trouble is, he thought, I’m nothing like the same bloke who left the village all that time ago.
‘Shit!’ he suddenly exclaimed, as he nicked his chin with the razor. ‘Bloody hell!’ he cursed, grabbing the first thing he could find, which was a dish cloth. He pressed it firmly to his chin while cursing himself for not concentrating. It never ceased to amaze him how much blood leaked from such a small wound. He finished shaving quickly, then picked up the Northern Echo, and tore a small triangular piece from the bottom corner before slapping it on to the wound, trusting it would act like blotting paper on the continuous trickle running down his chin.
He pushed the kettle further into the flames of the coal fire, his mind all the while on Jessie, and he found himself becoming increasingly agitated, knowing that he was going to have to deal with her at some point.
He’d known Jessie, a friend of his sister Rene’s, since their early teens, when she’d become his girlfriend. And though she’d not been one of the brazen hussies from the bus shelter, she hadn’t exactly been an introvert, either. He must have found that appealing at one time, he supposed, and what with her being a friend of Rene’s, she was always around his house. Realizing he wasn’t being fair, he reminded himself that he had found her attractive. She was a grand-looking lass. But he knew that somehow, over time, their relationship had just become a habit.
Much to the envy of his mates, Tom had never had any trouble getting girls. Why, according to them, they fell at his feet! He grinned now at this gross exaggeration. But he was aware that if he didn’t handle the situation with Jessie right, he would end up saddled with her.
He knew it was cruel keeping her in the dark, and he’d have much preferred to do nothing and just hope the problem went away. But he also knew that it wouldn’t. He knew her well enough to realize she’d automatically assume he’d marry her now he was home – even though he’d always avoided mentioning the subject. The best he could hope for, he supposed, was that during the last few years she, too, might have changed her mind.
He’d thought about her very little while he’d been in the army, but there’d never been anything in her letters to make him think she might have cooled off. Admittedly at first he’d been only too pleased to get those letters. In the early days, when being away from home in such hostile circumstances had scared him shitless most of the time, he’d found the trivial gossip in them very comforting.
Over time, though, as he and the other squaddies in his division had become closer and more reliant on each other, he’d ceased to be interested in her ramblings. What was the point of learning who’d said what, and who wasn’t speaking to someone else in Evenwood? But then, how could she, or anybody else back home, be expected to know what it was like for him? How could they imagine the heat of the desert in Egypt, or the struggle to survive the bloody battle on Brittany’s Gold Beach? Why, I was actually in Jerusalem, and even I can’t really believe that now! He’d never forget it, though. Or Bethlehem … He shook his head, still amazed that he’d actually been there. I remember imagining how my mam would be beside herself when she got to hear about that! he thought. Not that he was particularly religious, of course. But as far as his mam was concerned, for her son to have been to Christ’s birthplace was a miracle. He knew that she’d never be able to fully grasp that her Tom had written to her from the holy places she’d listened and learned about when she was a bairn in Sunday school, and then at the Wesleyan chapel she still attended every Sunday.
He’d had a real strong sense of his mam while he’d been there, too. Being in places like that, so exotic and far from home, had felt like a fairy tale to him. He smiled now, remembering how happy he’d been on the day he’d picked wild flowers in Bethlehem. And how, when he’d got back to base, he’d been teased by his mates about it. But he’d taken it all in good part, and carefully placed the flowers between neatly torn squares of old newspaper. They only ever had out of date newspapers there. Then he’d placed the bits of newspaper containing the flowers between the pages of the small Bible that he carried around, but never read.
They’d been expecting a post run the following day, and he’d cheekily managed to cadge some brown paper to wrap the Bible in from Sergeant Jacobs, who got sent writing paper and other stationery by his family. Ev
ery now and then, the Sarge would sell a few bits and pieces to the lads for a pittance, or maybe exchange an envelope and writing paper for a couple of cigarettes, but mostly he gave it to them for nothing, as he did that day with Tom, because he knew Tom wanted to make his mother happy. Tom remembered the sigh of mock-despair that came from the Sarge as he’d handed over the paper.
He was a good lad, was the Sarge. They’d all agreed on that. Tom had said, ‘Thanks, Sarge!’ Then continued awkwardly, ‘Er, I know a letter costs a penny ha’penny to post in England, Sarge, but you wouldn’t happen to know what it’d cost to send a parcel, would you?’
The Sarge had answered absentmindedly, ‘Never mind that for now, Dawson, we’ll sort it out later.’ Then, smiling, he’d added, ‘Let’s just hope that the parcel gets to your mother before you do, eh, the way the post is over here!’
‘Yes, Sarge!’ Tom had saluted with a grin, because the cost didn’t matter a toss. Just knowing how over the moon his mam was going to be was enough to put a grin on his face for the rest of that day.
Startled by the kettle boiling frantically and spurting water from its spout into the hissing fire, Tom rushed into the living room. He stood for a second, uncertain how to tackle it, until, remembering that he’d seen Hannah put a pile of newly ironed tea towels into the sideboard the day before, he yanked the door open and grabbed one. Folding it as thickly as possible he wrapped it around the handle of the iron kettle, before running like the clappers towards the scullery with the still-boiling water spurting from the spout. He swiftly dropped it into the sink and ran cold water from the tap over the handle, then, after wrapping the tea towel around the handle again, he poured the boiling water into the sink.
‘Good heavens, what’s goin’ on, lad? There’s more steam in ’ere than on a station platform!’ Hannah, just back from shopping, had come straight into the living room, where, having dumped her basket on the dinner table, she was busily flapping a cloth around to disperse the steam.
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