In Time of War (Part Six of The People of this Parish Saga)

by Nicola Thorne

  Sam was not interested in the business. He felt too restless. Having served in the army throughout the reconquest of Europe he had been one of the first to apply for demobilisation. He had had enough of war; in the process, in his disillusionment and the end of any ideals about the nobility of man, he had lost himself. He felt he’d almost lost the will to live and that it was a pity so many men with families had died, whereas, he, with no one who particularly loved him, had been spared.

  Of course he had his family. His mother, Sophie Turner, was clearly pleased to see him back. His half-sisters, Ruth and Deborah, even his half-bother, Timothy, greeted him with what seemed genuine pleasure and relief. But there was no father, no Bart and, at times Sam, who had known him so briefly, ached to see him again. He could not imagine life in Wenham without him. Surely what had started so well couldn’t just finish? The pride and joy his father had in him had given new meaning to a life of adolescent delinquency and subsequent discontent.

  For the first time he had felt that here was someone who cared for him, loved him and understood him in a way his mother or stepfather had never even tried. In the light of what he subsequently found out - that Bart and his mother had been lovers - he knew that, in her heart of hearts, and being overtly religious, she felt he was a child of sin and was ashamed of him. Most certainly she wished he had never been born, and thus she had never given him the unconditional love she gave to her other children. Although Hubert Turner had done his best, that pious churchman was as different from Bart as chalk was to cheese. Deborah had understood him and, he thought, loved him in her funny selfish way. One always had the impression that the only person Deborah really cared for was herself. She had not been a good wife to Bart.

  Deborah and Abel had been quite prepared to welcome Sam back into the business. They had gone out of their way to show him plans and projected figures with some excitement. But he wasn’t interested.

  He felt lost, strange, out of place. His only desire was to find his father, and now that Irene had so unexpectedly returned from the dead, might there not be a possibility that in some bombed-out cellar or refugee camp he might find Bart, perhaps suffering from loss of memory, with no idea of his past or who he was?

  Sam had been very anxious to talk to Irene who, after all, might have been the last one to see Bart; but he was kept away from her. She was to have no visitors other than her husband, mother-in-law and close relations, who would not ask her awkward questions or remind her of the past.

  When he had brought her home Alexander had thought he would soon be burying her beside his mother in Wenham churchyard, such was her frailty. Her memory lapsed again and she appeared to have no idea who Lally was.

  For a time she once again hovered between life and death, but now she was definitely on the mend, able to walk about her room and go downstairs if she felt like it, but still very delicate.

  “Please don’t ask her too many questions,” Alexander said to Sam as he took him up to Irene’s room, “or stay too long. You don’t mind if I stay with you?”

  “Of course not,” Sam said rather brusquely. “After all, she is your wife.”

  “Don’t misunderstand me, Sam. Irene has been very, very ill. It is doubtful if she will ever be completely well again.”

  Irene was sitting in a chair by the window as Sam and Alexander entered the room. She did not turn her head and Sam thought – rather as Alexander had when he first saw her in hospital – that he was looking at the wrong person: that shock of snowy-white hair was not what he had expected.

  However, when she turned he saw that it was Irene, who he didn’t know very well and had only met a few times at family gatherings at Forest House or Pelham’s Oak. But she’d been striking, impressive with her dark vivacious good looks, smart appearance and plenty of make-up. Someone you didn’t forget. Now he felt he was looking at a ghost.

  But the eyes still sparkled and she wore a little make-up. He saw there was a stick by her chair and her knees were covered with a rug.

  “Forgive me if I don’t get up,” she said extending a hand towards him. “Sam, it is very good to see you again.”

  “I didn’t think you’d remember me,” he said, taking her hand.

  “It was a long time ago.” She still had a silvery, mellifluous voice. Her skin was youthful. Some people did go prematurely grey and it suited them. He rather thought that, regretful though the circumstances were, it suited Irene.

  “Would you like coffee, dear?” Alexander bent solicitously over her. “Would you like me to leave you alone with Sam for a while?”

  “No,” she put up a restraining hand, “do stay. You might help me to remember. I’m sure we’d both like coffee, wouldn’t we, Sam?”

  “Please.” Sam gingerly took the chair Alexander had placed for him by Irene’s side.

  “He fusses after me such a lot.” Irene laughed as Alexander left the room. “I am spoilt rotten.”

  “I hear you had a terrible time in the war,” Sam said anxious not to upset her.

  “It was a terrible time to be trapped in a place like Berlin surrounded by enemies: the enemy within and the enemy without. We were hunted by the Nazis, Berlin was bombed to smithereens by the Allies, and then the Russians arrived.” A cloud seemed to pass across her face. “However ... it is all over. I survived. Many didn’t. And I hear you were badly wounded at Dunkirk?”

  “I survived too.” Sam no longer liked to discuss his part in the war. “And I fought right through from D-Day to VE day. I am just glad it’s all over, Irene.” Sam moved his chair closer to hers as Alexander entered carrying a tray with three cups of coffee. Giving Sam and Irene theirs, he pulled up a chair and sat between them.

  “Did you discuss anything?” he asked anxiously.

  “Only the war, which we both want to forget.”

  “Exactly!” Alexander seemed to agree.

  “But there is one thing I don’t want to forget.” Sam moved uneasily in his chair. “I don’t want to forget Bart.”

  “Of course you don’t.” Irene spoke from the heart. “I don’t want to forget him either.”

  “So you did see him?” Sam’s eyes lit up.

  “Yes I did. I think I might have unwittingly been the cause of his arrest.”

  “He was actually arrested?” Sam’s heart began to thump painfully and he moved even nearer to Irene, whose voice had sunk almost to a whisper, anxious not to miss a thing.

  “He was taken away by the Gestapo. I don’t know what happened to him after that.”

  “He was actually arrested by the Gestapo?” Sam’s voice also sank to a whisper.

  “I was in his apartment when they came. It was like this.”

  She then told him about the events of that far-off evening in Berlin when a message had brought her to Bart and the Gestapo had soon followed.

  “As I looked out of the window,” she concluded, “I saw a man watching the car with Bart and the Gestapo inside drive off. I believe that man might have been someone who Bart had mentioned to me as a colleague or business associate of his who might be able to get us out of the country. He said it was he who got Father out of the concentration camp. His name, if I recall it correctly, was Anton Lippe.”

  Sam tapped his forehead.

  “You’ve heard of him?” Irene looked puzzled.

  “The name rings a bell.” Sam shook his head. “I can’t think how. Maybe it will come to me.”

  Irene took Sam’s hand, her expression one of sadness.

  “I am so sorry Sam, but I don’t think Bart can be alive. The Gestapo gave short shrift to people who helped the Jews. Believe me, if I have been the cause of his death I can’t tell you how sorry I am. The burden will remain with me, along with many others, for the rest of my life.”

  And silently Irene began to weep.

  “I think you’d better go,” Alexander whispered to him. “She tires so easily.”

  Sam left Alexander to see to Irene and went downstairs. For a moment he stood in
the huge hall and compared it with Upper Park, the mansion where he now lived alone. It was much too big for him. Without Bart, he found it too gloomy and solitary. He was shaken by the news about Bart and as he let himself out and crossed the lawn towards his car he was wracking his brain trying to remember where he’d heard the name Anton Lippe before, because he certainly had.

  In front of him a woman was walking with a couple of dogs bounding along ahead of her. He had no idea who she was but as he approached his car she slowed down and looked behind her. She was a tall, attractive brunette wearing a loose jacket over a pullover and slacks and she smiled at him.

  “Hello,” she said.

  “Hello.” Sam stopped and held out his hand. “I’m Sam Turner.”

  “I’m Minnie Fisher.”

  “Oh!” Sam looked at her again.

  “I see you know who I am.”

  “You’re Alexander’s ...” he paused.

  “Quite.” The smile faded and her tone became brittle. “No one quite knows what to call me.”

  “I’m sorry if I offended you. I’m Sophie’s son. Bart Sadler was my father.”

  Minnie nodded as if she knew all about him. “I suppose you’ve been to see Irene. Alexander told me all about Bart, although I never met him.”

  “I knew him for such a brief time,” Sam said sadly. “I loved him so much ...”

  “Was Irene any help?” Minnie’s tone was warm, sympathetic. “Look, my cottage is just over there. Why don’t you come and have a coffee and tell me all about it?”

  “I feel embarrassed,” Sam said.

  “Don’t be. I’d like you to. I think it would help.” Minnie called to the dogs who followed them obediently as she and Sam walked round to the cottage and went inside.

  She saw Sam into the sitting room then went and got coffee. Sam was gazing out of the window when she reappeared.

  “It’s a nice place,” he said.

  “You were never here before?” Minnie carefully put down the tray and poured the coffee.

  “I’ve been at Forest House with my mother and stepfather, but my father was never very friendly with the Woodville family. I suppose you know all about that.”

  “A bit.” Minnie passed him his cup with a smile. He thought she was extraordinarily attractive.

  “Tell me what Irene said,” she suggested. “It clearly upset you.”

  “It seems that my father was arrested by the Gestapo. Irene saw it. We never knew what happened to him and now we do. It’s a link. It is very doubtful – in fact almost impossible – to believe that he survived the war.”

  “I’m so sorry.” Minnie’s beautiful eyes brimmed with sympathy and she passed him the cigarette box. Sam took a cigarette, lit hers and then his own. “The war has affected so many people.” She sounded sad too. “I lost my husband.”

  “Yes I know. I’m sorry.”

  Minnie gazed at the tip of her cigarette. “I suppose you know all about Irene?”

  “Yes.” Sam hesitated.

  “You can talk about it. I don’t mind. In fact ...” she looked round the room, “I’m thinking of moving. I don’t know if you know of anywhere that might be suitable. A house ... not too small. This is rather cramped. It was supposed to be temporary, now it seems it could last for ever.”

  Sam frowned. “I don’t really understand. I thought you and Alexander –”

  “Were going to get married? Is that what you mean? That was before we found Irene was alive. The situation is now not what it was. Irene is a very sick woman and Alexander can’t possibly leave her. I quite realise that. He is in an awful situation and I’d be a monster if I didn’t understand.”

  “But she does know about you?”

  “Oh yes, but we haven’t met. She doesn’t go out and I no longer visit the house. It has changed everything. It had to. I can’t go on living here as Alexander’s mistress. It wouldn’t be right and, besides, I don’t want to. It’s not a situation I like, or want, to continue.

  “You see Alexander is too fine a person to want that either. He is a soul in torment, poor lamb. The very best thing is for me to move away.”

  “I have a very large house,” Sam said suddenly. “I am going to go abroad to try to find my father. It might take months, even years. The house will be empty except for the servants. You are more than welcome to move in there with your children, and the nursemaid of course. You can stay there for as long as you like.”

  “Oh, I couldn’t.”

  “But why not?” Sam took another cigarette from the box. “The house was built for a family, not just one man. I shall put it on the market if I return without Father and by then your own situation might have resolved itself. I assure you you will not be compromised in the least because I shan’t be there.”

  He smiled disarmingly. “No one could possibly call it improper. It will give you time to sort yourself out and decide what to do, and you will be doing me a favour making use of the house. It has been sadly neglected during the war with only a skeleton staff.” Sam appeared like a man transformed by his suggestion and looked eagerly down at her. “Say ‘yes’?”

  “I’ll think about it,” Minnie said slowly, thoughtfully. “I will think about it very carefully indeed.”

  To everyone’s astonishment Abel had left his wife and now lived openly with Deborah in her home on the far side of Wenham. The family was shocked, the neighbourhood scandalised. In fact if it had not happened during the war no one would have talked about anything else for weeks.

  Only Ruth seemed to have taken it relatively calmly. Her husband had left her and she had resolutely got on with her good works. She had long been suspicious of his reasons and excuses for spending so much time away from home, and she entertained no illusions about her sister. Ruth and Abel had no children, and had gradually grown apart. She had a comfortable home, a good income and plenty of friends. Besides, times were changing radically. Morals were not what they were; illicit liaisons were being formed all over the place. People now tolerated things that would have shocked them to the core before the war.

  Deborah listened to Sam’s account of his visit to Irene and noticed his air of suppressed excitement, so much so that at first she thought the news about Bart must be good.

  Sam had come into the office that morning with the élan, the spring in his step of a man rejuvenated and, despite the depressing news he had to give them about Bart, Irene had given him hope.

  “You remember years ago we found the name of someone in Switzerland Bart use to do business with, Anton Lippe?” Deborah shook her head.

  “It was about forty-two or three. I was still in hospital and you told me about it.”

  “Oh, I think I do remember.” Deborah’s tone was preoccupied. She was busy looking at plans for a new housing development in the Purbecks on the table before her. Nowadays she was the complete businesswoman and seldom thought of anything else, let alone an event that had happened four or five years before. Anyway she was quite sure Bart was dead and that was that.

  “Do you think you could find that reference anywhere Deborah?”

  “Is it really necessary?”

  “Yes, it is,” Sam said firmly. “I know you don’t care about Bart any more, but I do.”

  “Of course I care about Bart.” Deborah turned to him indignantly. “I mean I care about what happens to him, but,” she gestured helplessly, “I am quite sure that, after all this time, he must be dead. Bart would always have found a way of getting out if he’d been able to. You know Bart.”

  Sam turned away, suddenly depressed again. Yes, he knew Bart who had never let anybody deflect him from his aim; who, more than most people, had an almost miraculous way of overcoming all odds. In his heart of hearts he knew Deborah was right, must be right.

  “There is a file in the office with all Bart’s old business correspondence – what there was of it,” Deborah said, her mind clearly on the extensive plan on her desk. “Cherry will get it out for you. Have a look through th
at.”

  Cherry was the highly efficient secretary who in a matter of minutes had produced the file and, for the next half hour, Sam went steadily through the contents.

  It was true that his father had been a secretive businessman, much to the detriment of the business after he had disappeared. Very little of his deals had been committed to writing. Maybe he had much to hide. The point was that by this method he had left a chaotic situation behind him, and it had taken all the ingenuity of Deborah and Abel to rebuild the business to which he had obviously thought he would return.

  But finally, just at the end of the dusty file of half completed deals, Sam found what he was looking for.

  On a piece of notepaper with a single address in Zurich and a telephone number at the head was the message:

  Dear Mr Sadler,

  Further to our recent conversation I look forward to seeing you at this address on the date suggested by you to discuss matters of mutual interest.

  I am,

  Yours sincerely,

  Anton Lippe

  There it was, as enigmatic and uninformative in his business dealings as Bart was in his. They must have suited each other. It was curious that Bart had kept this document because he had retained little else.

  The letter was dated December 1937 and Irene’s father had been released in or about the summer of 1938. Sam was disappointed to see that the letter was so old and, dejected, he took it back to the room where Deborah had now been joined by Abel.

  “I’ve found something,” he said holding out the faded piece of paper. “It’s dated 1937 but it does give an address.”

  “Sam,” Abel looked good-naturedly at the younger man, “why don’t you settle down to business with us? There is room for you. There is need of you. Your father acknowledged your ability when he made you his heir. We would like to have you working with us, and believe me, business is booming.”