by Jack Murray
Seconds later, Fred Dobbins was on him. Fred had neither height, weight nor technique. He met a similar end in record time. Just as Greg Lunn stepped forward a voice from behind called out.
‘What’s going on here?’
The boys all turned around. Four people on horseback were on the ridgeway above where the boys were wrestling. A man and a woman on large chestnut horses looked down. Beside them was a young girl. She was around seven years old and astride a grey pony. With her was a boy who was probably Danny’s age.
The man jumped off the horse and marched down to the boys. He wore a tweed jacket, breeches and leather boots. Tall, with clear blue eyes and a Roman nose, he looked like the lord of the manor which, in fact, he was. Lord Henry Cavendish stared down at the boys.
‘Three on one? A little unsporting, don’t you think?’ He didn’t seem angry, but his face was serious.
Hugh looked shamefaced and was about to speak, when Danny piped up, ‘It’s nothing sir, just messing around.’
Henry looked at the four boys for a moment, clearly sceptical. Finally, he said, ‘Really? It certainly didn’t look like it from up there.’
Nobody said anything for a moment, Danny’s intervention having averted a potential crisis for all the boys. Danny glanced up at where Lord Cavendish had just come from.
The woman on the chestnut was Lady Jane Cavendish. Danny saw her from time to time when he bothered to go to the Sunday service. She was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. Her wild red hair was messily stuffed into the riding hat. From under the brim he could see her green eyes crinkle in amusement.
Beside her was Sarah, their daughter. Unlike her mother, her hair was ash blonde. The curls were clearly visible underneath the hard riding hat. However, the green eyes were those of her mother. The little girl coolly ignored the activities below and stared stonily ahead. The boy beside her ignored them also. Hateful-looking boy thought Danny, unkindly. He’d give a sixpence for the opportunity to throw him.
After a few moments where the only sound in the forest was the gentle rustle of branches in the light breeze, Henry nodded. Scepticism remained, however, he turned back and walked towards his family.
‘I see. Well, be sure it is only messing around.’
He used a branch to help pull himself back up onto the ridgeway to re-join his family. One last glance down and then he climbed up onto his horse in one swift movement.
‘What’s your name, boy?’
‘Shaw, sir. Danny Shaw.’
‘Stan Shaw’s son?’
‘Yes, sir,’ replied Danny. His eyes never left Lord Henry Cavendish.
Henry nodded, seemingly in approval. With the slightest movement of his reins Henry’s horse moved forward and a few moments later they were all gone. The four boys watched them as they trotted off into the distance. Hugh looked up at the sky. It was clouding over again.
‘We should head back.’
They marched back to the village together in a guilty silence. However, after a minute or two they began to chat.
‘Who was the boy?’ asked Hugh. ‘Looked too old to be the son.’
‘No idea,’ replied Danny. ‘Definitely not Robert Cavendish, that’s for sure. Probably some other Lord they want to marry his daughter to.’
‘What a life,’ said Fred.
‘You’d take it,’ said Hugh, giving his friend a friendly clip on the back of the head.
‘She’ll be all right when she’s older,’ said Greg. This was more awestruck than coarse. There was no disagreement from the other boys. One by one they peeled off as they passed each house until only Hugh and Danny were left. Finally, they reached Hugh’s house. They parted with a nod.
A minute later Danny announced his arrival in the kitchen with a cheery, ‘Something smells good.’ He tapped his mother on one shoulder and then as she turned to look, Danny dodged the other side and sampled what she was cooking.
‘Actually, it is really good,’ he confirmed. Then he glanced at his father, sitting by the wireless, grim-faced. There was something about Germany on the wireless. Danny was relieved it wasn’t anything he had done. He went to the sink and washed his hands. This was something his mother insisted on before they ate. Tom was already at the table. At least he had a smile for him.
‘Lazin’ around as usual?’ asked his brother.
‘You know me,’ laughed Danny reaching to break some bread off the loaf in the middle of the table. ‘Anyways, I offered to help. You didn’t want me.’
‘Didn’t want you under my feet, you little sod. Worse than useless, you are.’
Mother gave Tom a look. His brother mumbled a sheepish apology. Bad or coarse language was not permitted in the household she reminded him. This rule was applied with rigour by their mother. Nobody, Stan included, was permitted to break the rules. Danny grinned at his brother who merely rolled his eyes.
Stan was still sat with his ear close to the wireless. The wireless announcer was still giving the news headlines. Danny heard him mention a name several times. He was going to ask his father but one look at the lines tightly etched over his cheeks and around his eyes, told him the subject was not for discussion. His mother also stopped what she was doing to listen more closely. Something about a fire in the German Parliament. She glanced at her husband. Stan shook his head and switched off the wireless. Outside they heard the rain begin to slap against the roof and the ground.
Chapter 2: Germany 1933
1
Ladenburg (nr. Heidelberg): February 1933
The leaden grey sky was heavy with cloud. Rain and who knows what else was coming. The prospect did little to improve Manfred Brehme’s mood. Normally he liked English class, and why not? He was probably the most accomplished speaker in the class apart from Diana Landau. She had the advantage of being half-English, however, so that didn’t count.
No, the problem was Erich Sammer. What had started out as a few playful punches before the class, had escalated steadily during the class. Now they carried real venom and neither boy was prepared to give way until they had struck the last blow. A glance at the clock on the wall confirmed there was another fifteen minutes of this war of attrition left to run. A few classmates were aware of the undeclared conflict and would no doubt press for a more explicit resolution to the hostilities at the next break.
This was now a problem. He and Erich were nominally friends. However, these episodes happened from time to time. Rarely did they reach a point where a fight would end the quarrel. If they stopped now, the issue could be resolved, if not amicably, then at least without bloodshed.
The two boys looked at one another. Erich was clearly angry. The look in his eyes suggested he wanted to get another blow in. Manfred widened his eyes slightly and then shifted them behind to indicate others were looking. Erich paused for a minute while he tried to assimilate the communication. A voice from the front of the class interrupted them both and caused the rest of the class to giggle.
‘Silence,’ shouted the English teacher, in German. ‘Herr Brehme, I asked you a question. Will you answer it please?’
Manfred reddened; he had absolutely no idea what had been asked such was his intense focus on ending the fighting with Erich. He had to think quickly now. Risking all, he plumped for the least embarrassing response he could think of.
‘I’m sorry, sir,’ he replied in English, ‘I didn’t hear the question.’
‘Was that because Herr Sammer was hitting you?’
‘No, sir,’ lied Manfred.
An angry glint appeared in the eye of Franz Fassbender. He was a man renowned for a very un-Teutonic lack of self-control. His nickname was Franco due to this Latin-like volatility. His skin even seemed to take on a darker sheen when he lost it. That, and a rather unattractive eye-popping anger, gave a diabolic quality to his outburst that was, by turns, frightening, violent and comical, depending on your proximity to its original cause.
‘Stand up,’ ordered Fassbender. Manfred did so. ‘Both of you,�
�� snarled the teacher.
The situation was now deteriorating, realised Manfred, and he wasn’t sure if he should blame himself or Erich. The post-mortem would identify the causes. For now they were in trouble. Serious trouble. It was a mess that would extend beyond the classroom.
Any hope that his obvious linguistic capability would stand him in good stead was swiftly put to rest, not just by the malevolent look in Fassbender’s eyes but also by the fact that he hooked his index finger and thumb around Manfred’s left ear and proceeded to drag him to the front of the class followed by a worried-looking partner in crime.
Rage mixed with humiliation for Manfred as he stood at the front of the class. He and Erich were to be made examples of. This happened very rarely for Manfred, more often for the less-academic Erich. Fassbender was notorious as a disciplinarian. The ordeal the boys were about to face was an almost daily ritual for some poor soul. The eyes of the class all looked up at the two boys. The same thought hung in the air over their heads: thank God it’s not me.
Manfred risked a glance at Diana Landau. She looked horrified. Manfred reddened a little as their eyes met and he looked away in shame. She stood out from the other girls and not just for her intelligence. Her hair was shorter, with no attempt to tie it into pig-tails or platted in the manner of the other girls. He’d never spoken to her in the two years she had been in his class. This was odd as he liked what he saw of her. Such thoughts ran through his mind as he held out his hand.
A swish in the air and a stabbing pain. Manfred grimaced but uttered no sound. He kept his hand out. Experience had taught him that, if you removed it, this merely served to invite a second helping. Fassbender was moralising as he inflicted violence on the children, but Manfred had stopped listening. He moved outside himself and observed the situation as if from a seat in a Roman amphitheatre. This crowd bayed in silence. Blood lust in the eyes of the boys. Horror in the eyes of the girls.
Erich stayed silent, too, as the cane lashed his hand. The pain was almost unbearable. The hatred kept him silent. Like Manfred, his hand remained outstretched. One question was now front and centre in both their minds. Would Fassbender make it two lashes? There was more than enough precedent to suggest he would. However, perhaps conscious of time, or maybe Manfred’s previous good behaviour, Fassbender ordered the boys back to their seats.
The class ended soon after and the two boys trooped out. Rather than renew hostilities, they called a truce and compared their injuries. Both had a vicious-red pulsing streak across their palms. Their classmates crowded around to see the damage. Whether due to the humiliation or guilt, both boys decided not to mention the event again.
When the school day ended, Manfred walked back along the village street towards his family house. He followed the same route to and from the school every day. The market Platz in the centre of town was full of children and some older boys in brown uniforms. Many were dotted around the war memorial in the middle of the square.
A few minutes later, he arrived at his house. It was large by the standards of the village. White plaster and wooden beams painted a vivid red greeted the visitor and left them in no doubt as to what country they were in. Inside, his feet clumped noisily on the wooden floorboards. The furniture was also wooden and seemed pre-war in its antiquity: Franco-Prussian War. The house had a forest of such furniture but felt empty, in Manfred’s view. The high ceilings seemed to create a sense of vastness in the smallest, most cluttered, of rooms.
His mother greeted him with hardly a smile. He walked up to her and kissed her proffered cheek. He said nothing about the events of the day for the reason that he was not asked. The housemaid smiled at him, but she tended to speak only when addressed.
‘How was your day?’ asked his mother after a few minutes of silence, more out of duty than actual interest.
‘Fine,’ said Manfred, glancing out the window, or was it an escape route. The rat, tat, tat of rain suggested any request to go outside would be denied. He looked up at his mother for inspiration. Her face was drawn. She rarely smiled these days. It had not always been so. But now her eyes looked empty, like a dry well. The chill and the grey seemed to have seeped into the house, inhabiting the foundations, the walls and the people.
Manfred left her and went to the drawing room. It was full of books with characteristic bindings. He thought about reading but realised he was in no mood. The events of earlier had left not just an impression but not just on his hand. It still throbbed. He went to the sink in the kitchen and bathed it. As he did so, his mind wandered again. He thought of Diana Landau.
She was twelve and generally considered the prettiest girl in the class. Dark haired and dark-eyed, she was exotic not just because she was half-Jewish but also because her mother was English. Lots of the boys had cast eyes in her direction once but, of late, this had ceased. Manfred knew why this was so; it was impossible to ignore and yet still a surprise. He found it difficult to imagine why politics should matter when it came to boys and girls and love.
The tap must have been running for an age when his reverie was broken by the echoing clump of footsteps outside the kitchen. In the doorway stood his father, Peter.
His father was tall and forbidding. He was a serious man doing very serious work as head of the town police force. Whether by way of conversation or, more likely, interrogation he asked, ‘What are you doing, Manfred?’ The quietness of the voice was the most unsettling part. His father rarely raised his voice. Instead, it was like a liquid whisper. The sound of it wrapped around your ear and invaded your mind, enfolding, compressing and then suffocating it until you screamed your confession.
‘I hurt my hand, Father.’
His father stepped forward and looked at his son’s hand. He could see the red welt across the palm.
‘How did this happen?’
Manfred told him. And then held his breath. He didn’t have to hold it long. His father’s eyes hardened.
‘Come with me.’
They passed Manfred’s mother on their way out from the kitchen. She sensed immediately the anger in the eyes of her husband. She did not ask any questions, however. Instead, she watched them go into her husband’s study without comment. The door closed behind them. She stood in the corridor unsure of what to do.
Then she heard the whistling sound of a cane followed by an almost inaudible groan. Another two followed. She continued to stand in the corridor, almost frozen. Following the three lashes of the cane she heard her husband’s voice, barely audible though the thick oak door. Manfred’s voice was stronger. It was an apology, but the resentment and the hatred were clear.
2
Manfred walked through the market Platz of Ladenburg the next morning. It felt like he could have been in the Middle Ages. All around were the bustle and noise and smells of farm and baking. The market was alive and had been for over an hour. Wagons pulled by carthorses mingled with stalls of vegetables and fruit. Women wearing coifed head dresses of starch and black ribbon, men stamping in buckle boots trying to keep fire and warmth in their part of the square. Preposterous outfits, outlandish claims by the stall holders and young children playing hide and seek.
As Manfred walked up to the school gates, he immediately sensed an atmosphere. The warmth and the exuberance of the square had been replaced by a chill and the pinched-pain faces of the pupils and teachers.
It was the silence, or rather the murmur, that alerted him to the possibility that something was wrong. Huddled groups of children whispered. One teacher was sitting on a bench outside the main building. He seemed to be weeping.
Herr Kahn, the physics teacher, brushed past Manfred, barely acknowledging him, a haunted look on his face. Spotting Erich, he wandered over to his often-time friend, sometime enemy, and asked, ‘Is something wrong?’
Erich looked at Manfred in surprise and said, ‘You mean you haven’t heard, Manny?’ Manfred shook his head.
‘The Reichstag was burned down last night.’
‘So?’
asked Manfred, mystified at the reaction to the news around him.
To be fair, Erich was no wiser as to what a fire in a government building signified, but it was clear something was awry. The two boys looked around for a few minutes for someone who could enlighten them. A few fellow pupils shrugged in bemusement.
‘Herr Kahn is over there with Diana Landau. He’ll know,’ said Manfred pointing to the teacher.
Erich laughed grimly, ‘Of course, the Jews, they stick together.’
Manfred glanced at Erich but said nothing. They walked over to Herr Kahn. Manfred said, ‘I apologise, Herr Kahn, if we are interrupting, but we were wondering why everyone is in despair this morning. What has this got to do with the fire?’
Diana looked at Manfred and then up at the teacher, ‘Thank you, Herr Kahn. Excuse me.’
Manfred was disappointed she’d left, a fact noticed by Herr Kahn.
‘Don’t worry, I had finished talking to Fraulein Landau anyway,’ replied Kahn although Manfred did not entirely believe him.
‘So, you want to know why there is, shall we say, an atmosphere?’ Both boys nodded. Kahn looked at them thoughtfully and continued, ‘Well, you know about the fire obviously. It seems our leader is blaming the communists for starting it. This may or may not be the case. There are certainly other possible causes.’