by Liz Trenow
After such a dispiriting day the familiar voice was curiously welcome. When Alice had so boldly introduced herself on the deck yesterday – was it only yesterday? – and then virtually forced her to take tea in the first-class lounge, Ruby had only gone along to be polite. She’d found the American woman’s overt friendliness overwhelming; she was brash, nosy, liable to speak her mind on anything and everything, and patently so wealthy she could barely understand how others might not be so fortunate.
But now, in this foreign place, it was reassuring to know that someone was waiting for her in the dining room. At least Alice was always cheerful and upbeat, she hadn’t pressed her for further information about Bertie, and her support and companionship today had been very welcome.
As she stood to brush her hair she saw the little bunch of wild flowers wilting on the bedside table. It was comforting to have something from that cemetery, something that had grown in that sacred soil, to keep with her. She would press them tonight.
*
‘What a day. You were very kind. Thank you,’ she said, as they waited for their meal.
‘No problem,’ Alice replied. ‘You don’t have to explain. Tell me more about Bertie when you’re ready. I’m a good listener.’
‘I hope you don’t mind me asking: was it something very important, that message from the waitress in Hoppestadt?’
‘It could be,’ Alice replied. ‘It was about a reverend who ran a club for soldiers during the war.’
‘So you think this man might remember him?’ Ruby felt her heart skip. Might he remember Bertie too, perhaps?
‘Sam used to have a strong faith. He’d be drawn to a place like that. It’s a long shot, but so far that’s all I’ve got.’
‘What a shame you missed him.’
‘Well, you see, that’s the thing . . .’ Alice straightened her cutlery.
‘The thing?’
‘I thought I might go back. I’ve been to Bruges before and it’s very pretty and all that but, you know, why are we really here? Not to visit tourist sights, that’s for sure.’
‘Go back? To Hoppestadt? But how?’
‘I’ll take a cab, and probably stay over. There was a hotel on the square. Who knows? There’s bound to be somewhere.’
‘You’d go on your own?’
‘Why not? We’re in the twentieth century now, we don’t need chaperones these days. Unless you want to come with me?’
Ruby was so astonished that she missed the question. ‘I didn’t mean you needed a chaperone,’ she stumbled. ‘I meant you’re brave travelling on your own in a foreign country.’
‘And I meant it when I asked if you’d like to come with me.’
Thankfully, just then, the waiter arrived with their plates of grilled Dover sole, fussing around, briskly flapping open starched white napkins onto their laps, reverently serving the plain boiled potatoes from a silver platter as though they were precious jewels.
Would mesdames require anything further to drink?
‘Let’s have a glass of wine, shall we?’ Alice said. ‘On me.’
It would be rude to refuse.
For the next few minutes their attention was fully occupied with the delicate task of separating the delicious buttery fillets from the bones of the fish and consuming the surprisingly tasty yellow potatoes. Two glasses of dry white wine, expertly chosen by Alice, arrived and went down nicely, the perfect complement to the meal.
Alice finished first, placing her knife and fork neatly side by side on the plate.
‘So, are you coming with me?’
Ruby finished her mouthful, took a small sip of wine.
‘To Hoppestadt?’ It was a ridiculous, reckless idea.
Alice nodded.
‘I’ve got no money to pay for cabs and hotels and the rest.’
‘You don’t have to sweat about that, I’ll pay.’
‘I couldn’t possibly . . .’
‘You won’t owe me anything. Honest. It’ll be an adventure.’
‘I don’t think so, but thank you for asking.’
‘Have a think about it and let me know in the morning.’
Back in her room, Ruby arranged the wild flowers between two pieces of blotting paper from the bureau and weighed them down with the Bible she’d found in the bedside drawer. She undressed into her pyjamas, cleaned her teeth and climbed into bed. It was already late but she could not sleep, her mind whirling over Alice’s proposal.
Why would she want to return to that battered little town with the shadow of those poor executed deserters hanging over it? Did she really want to witness again the mud and devastation of the battlefields or the awful, tragic silence of those graveyards?
And yet, the more she thought about it, the idea was tempting. She could go back to Tyne Cot to look for Bertie’s grave, and this priest Alice was meeting might, just might, have known Bertie, or at least men from his regiment. The alternative of traipsing around tourist sights was not exactly appealing. Neither was the prospect of spending the next few days alone with only those grieving couples for company. Alice might not be the usual sort of person Ruby would choose to spend time with, but she was at least someone to talk to. She sat up and turned on the light, feeling suddenly very alone.
Whatever was she doing here? Bertie’s parents wanted her to provide them with some certainty about his fate. Only then would they really be able to reconcile themselves to his death, they said. She needed to bring them something more than a bunch of pressed flowers that could have come from anywhere.
Whispered questions stalked her mind, quiet at first, but increasingly imperative. What of herself? What did she really want? Until now, she’d believed that by shutting down her emotions and putting a brave face to the world, she could get through life without Bertie, albeit a life she would not, should not, enjoy.
If only she’d been able to find a grave she might have talked to him, asked his forgiveness. It might have helped release her from these overwhelming feelings of guilt and duty; allowed her, somehow, to accept that he was truly gone. Only then would she be able to look into the future without that terrible feeling of emptiness and dread. If one in four were never identified, that meant three out of four were found – the odds were in favour of Bertie having a marked grave. The only problem was that this afternoon she’d simply not had enough time.
She would not be able to forgive herself if she did not give it one more try.
Pulling on her dressing gown, she tiptoed along the corridor to Alice’s room and knocked quietly on the heavy door. After a few moments Alice answered, tousled and sleepy.
‘I’ve decided to come.’
‘To Hoppestadt?’
‘I want to go back to Passchendaele to find Bertie’s grave.’
Alice’s face, vulnerable without her usual mask of make-up, broke into the widest smile. ‘That’s great, Ruby. We’ll speak to the major first thing before breakfast.’
Ruby hadn’t considered this. He’d been so kind, she didn’t want to hurt his feelings. ‘Will he mind?’
‘He’ll understand if we explain why. Besides, it’s our trip. He has to please his customers. Don’t worry, I’ll sort it in the morning.’
‘So long as it’s fine with him. Goodnight, Alice,’ Ruby said. ‘And thank you for everything today.’
Back in her big wide bed, she tossed and turned, head spinning with excitement at the momentous decision she had made. Mr Barton would have a fit if he knew she was leaving the tour but now the idea of returning to Passchendaele, having a chance to meet this mysterious priest and learning about his haven for soldiers all made perfect sense.
What an adventure.
‘I’m coming, Bertie,’ she whispered. ‘I’m going to find you, no matter what.’
7
MARTHA
Martha and Otto were led to the small customs office into which they had originally been taken from the train the previous evening.
At the desk sat the same moustachioed officer, reg
arding them with an expression of such intense hatred that her heart faltered. Another man, taller and with an authority that made her assume that he was the more senior, paced the floor and did not even acknowledge them as they entered.
They were not invited to sit and, in the silence that followed, Martha felt her legs trembling beneath her. Why had she believed the foreign office when they told her she could travel freely into what had so recently been enemy country? And why had she brought Otto with her on this insane adventure? She was ready to give up their quest and catch the next train back to Berlin.
Then she felt his hand tightly gripping hers, and knew that this was not a moment for capitulation. She must be strong for him, reminding herself that they had a legal right to enter Belgium. They had already travelled so far. It was too late to quit now.
Moustache-man began to fire questions, going over the same ground as before: where had they travelled from, could they prove their address, what was her occupation before, during and after the war, and who could they contact to prove it? And finally, why had they come here, to Belgium, so soon after the war had ended?
She tried to answer him clearly in her best French, but it was this last question that finally cracked her composure. ‘My God, have you no pity?’ she snapped. ‘What more do you need from a grieving mother? I’ve already told you: we have come to find the grave of my elder son, the brother of my boy here, who died in the service of his country.’
‘Who died in the service of invading our country,’ the tall man hissed.
‘We are just ordinary citizens, sir, and the war is over.’
‘Espionage never sleeps,’ he replied.
‘Do we look like spies? A middle-aged woman and her twelve-year-old son?’
He walked towards her, stopping within just a couple of paces and looking her directly in the eyes. She straightened her shoulders, pulling herself up to her fullest height. His stare seemed to pierce her brain; it took every ounce of her courage to hold his gaze.
‘Spies take many disguises, madam,’ he whispered before finally turning away.
The questioning ended but their ordeal was not over. They were instructed to place their cases onto the desk and open them, watching as the men examined every personal item. Martha coloured with embarrassment as moustache-man picked out with disdainful fingers her shabby greying underwear, her few sparse pieces of clothing, pored through her washbag with its few sad bottles and ointments, opened her private wallet and counted the rapidly devaluing Deutschmarks from her father’s legacy.
Otto, his jaw clenched with grim determination, shuffled uncomfortably when they discovered the ancient and balding toy rabbit, his comforter, the last vestige of his childish self, that always accompanied him. She heard his horrified gasp as moustache-man took out a pen knife and slit the rabbit’s belly, pulling out the few sparse lumps of remaining stuffing before pushing his fat fingers upwards into its head and turning the empty sack of fabric inside out.
‘For goodness’ sake, is it really necessary to destroy a child’s toy?’ she cried in desperation.
‘Spies employ all kinds of tricks,’ the tall man said. ‘We cannot be too careful.’
Once their belongings had been roughly stuffed back into their cases they were instructed to remove all of their outer clothing and turn out every pocket. Their humiliation was complete.
Finally they were allowed to get dressed and the tall man sat at the desk to sign the papers required to enter Belgium. The next train would leave in two hours, they were told. But yesterday’s tickets were no longer valid; they would have to buy two more. They would simply have to cut back on spending when they got to Ypres.
‘Well done,’ she whispered to Otto as they waited on the platform. ‘We’re nearly there. Speak French only from now on, remember?’
He nodded in acknowledgement, studying the ground. She wanted to reach out a comforting hand but knew his self-control was so fragile that it might be shattered by the slightest gesture. She felt so proud of the mature way he had conducted himself, his stoicism even in the face of the men’s cruelty. He was fast turning into a man.
She had never envisaged that Otto would want to come with her to Flanders but when he learned what she was planning he refused point blank to countenance being left behind. A close friend had offered to look after the boy while she was away. It would have been so much easier to travel without him, and she did her best to dissuade him, but he’d been insistent.
‘I want to find Heiney just as much as you,’ he insisted. She knew it to be true. He’d worshipped his elder brother.
‘My darling, we cannot afford two fares.’
‘Didn’t Papa say we should use Grandpa’s money?’ He’d always had sharp ears, that boy.
Even though she feared what dangers might lurk beyond the border she sensed that a mother and son travelling together would be less likely to attract suspicion than a single woman travelling on her own.
There was one other problem. To deflect unnecessary questions she planned to present herself as a Swiss citizen travelling on behalf of her sister to find the grave of a nephew. She had worked as a nanny for a family in the Swiss Alps twenty-five years ago and had taught French ever since, so her language was still passable enough, she believed, to provide sufficient cover for just the few days of her stay. But Otto knew no French at all.
Finally, she relented. ‘You can come with me, but on one condition. Before we go, you will learn basic words of French. And after we enter Belgium we will speak only that language in public, or not talk at all. You understand?’
‘Why go to all that trouble?’
‘We do not want to attract attention.’
‘But you said we are free to travel now.’
‘That won’t stop the Belgians hating us. Why would they not? We invaded their country.’
‘But we did that to protect our Republic,’ he fired back. ‘That’s what they told us in school. To serve God, the Emperor and the Fatherland. They tried to starve us to death and scooped out the eyes of our captured soldiers with their special knives.’
‘And their schoolchildren were told that our soldiers killed innocent Belgian babies and spit-roasted them on their bayonets for dinner.’
‘But that’s all lies, isn’t it?’ he said, eyes darkening.
‘Wars are full of lies, mein Liebling. Who knows what is the real truth?’
She saw him blanch. Silently chastising herself for her harsh words, she put an arm around him and pulled him into her warmth. At least he would still allow that, sometimes, her bubeleh, her dearest boy.
How could she tell him that his brother died for a cause that was spurious at best or, at worst, simply immoral and rotten at the heart? That wars cause atrocities on both sides? No one won, everyone lost. Every day she felt bone-weary with the terrible tragedy of it.
‘Anyway, it doesn’t matter now. It is finished. And we have a very good reason for going there, do we not? To find Heinrich’s grave?’
He’d mumbled something unintelligible. But after that he had willingly submitted to her teaching of basic French phrases and her insistence that he learned ten new words of vocabulary each day.
*
Now at last they were into Belgium and on their way, exhausted and starving, crammed onto a hard bench in a cramped third-class railway compartment that smelled of rotting cabbage and unwashed bodies. She cast her eyes around the carriage, surreptitiously checking their fellow travellers; they all seemed to be engaged in their own worlds, reading, knitting, snoozing. As the sun rose in an immaculate blue sky the carriage became increasingly hot and stuffy, and she found her eyes closing once more.
The next thing she knew was the nudge of Otto’s elbow in her ribs. He was pointing out of the window, his eyes wide as dinner plates. She turned to look, but it took several seconds for her brain to comprehend what she saw. The scenery they’d been passing for the past hour or so, ever since the border, the patchwork of evergreen forests and pla
cid fields, the black and white cows, the long stands of poplar and the wide stripes of dykes, had disappeared.
Instead, beyond her own reflection distorted by the smeary glass, stretched an ocean of brown mud extending on either side as far as the eye could see, punctuated only by the blackened stumps of trees and water-filled shell holes. Her heart seemed to stop in her chest, her mouth dried. Here were the battlefields. This was the narrow strip of Belgium over which her country had been at war for four years, for which hundreds of thousands of German lives had been sacrificed.
Were it not for the warmth of Otto at her side and the grunts and snores of the other passengers she could easily have imagined herself dreaming once more, only this time it was ein Alptraum, a nightmare. As the reality became clear, she felt queasy all over again: somewhere out there, in that chaos of destruction, that vision of hell, was the body of her precious son.
‘How much longer?’ Otto mouthed, in German. His French did not stretch to whole sentences. ‘Are we nearly there?’
As if in answer the brakes squealed and the train slowed as the devastated landscape gave way to the broken remains of a town. She had been told that Ypres was close to Langemarck and from there she could pick up a tourist bus to the cemetery. She planned to find a small pension where they could stay for a couple of nights, but so far they’d passed barely a single intact building, let alone a hotel.
The train jolted to a halt. ‘Ypres, this is Ypres. Everyone out. Train terminates here,’ came the porter’s shout, first in Flemish and then repeated in French.
The station buildings were wrecked; it was a wonder the railway was still working. ‘I thought you said we’d be staying here,’ Otto whispered. ‘There’s nothing left.’
‘We’ll go to the town centre and ask,’ she said, trying to sound confident even as the sick chill of anxiety gripped her once again.
It was just a short walk to the main square, along a street in which most buildings had been completely destroyed and even those still with four walls had lost roofs and windows. The sight of the square, when they reached it, was even more shocking. Small mountains of rubble lay where clearly there had once been grand municipal buildings and a cathedral, the jagged remains of which still reached perilously towards the sky. Not a single building had survived.