by Liz Trenow
She ran back into the cafe. ‘I want to help. Does she know how far it is?’
‘About fifteen kilometres from here, close to a place called Poelcapelle.’
The woman’s eyes fixed on her, huge in her famished face. ‘Please can you tell her I’m going to ask Freddie? He took me to Tyne Cot yesterday and he may know of other cars. I will do what I can.’
*
Freddie was in his usual place at the hotel bar.
‘So that’s what was going on,’ he said, after Ruby explained the Swiss woman’s predicament. ‘I did wonder. She was talking to Maurice and he went off and returned with a face like a thundercloud.’
‘Can you help me help her, Freddie? Please? All she wants is to get to her nephew’s grave.’
‘Well,’ he said, grinning now. ‘Just for you, lovely Ruby, I might be able to lay my hands on a vehicle, if you ask very nicely. Where is it?’
‘Lange . . . something. Only a few miles away, she said.’
‘Langemarck?’
‘That’s the one.’
His face darkened. ‘But that’s a German cemetery.’
‘She’s Swiss. It’s her nephew’s grave.’
He frowned, scratching the day’s growth of gingery beard on his chin. ‘Let me get this straight. You want me to drive her to a Kraut grave?’
‘It’s just that she seemed so distressed. I’ll pay.’
He raised his pale eyes, and then looked away. ‘Look, Rube, I’d like to help, honest I would. ’Specially since it’s you. But frankly, I went past that place once and I had to get out and spit on the ground. A grave’s the best place for a Kraut, as we always used to say, but I don’t think I could bring myself to go there again.’
Ruby steeled herself, shocked by the intensity of his hatred. Persuading him to help was going to be harder than she thought. ‘But Martha’s done nothing wrong. You should see her, honestly. She’s desperate.’
Freddie shook his head again. ‘Can’t they get a cab from Ypres?’
‘Apparently they’re booked up days in advance. Oh please, Freddie?’ she pleaded. ‘Look at that poor laddie, come all this way for his cousin. He’s around the same age as your boy, isn’t he? You’d help if it was him, wouldn’t you?’
Freddie snorted. ‘By God, you’re determined, aren’t you? I’ll have a think.’
She leaned forward to give a quick peck on his cheek.
‘Easy, girl,’ he stuttered, colouring beneath the pale stubble. ‘You’ll go giving me ideas.’
17
MARTHA
Buoyed by the sympathy of strangers, Martha felt her courage returning.
The English chaplain didn’t spout any Christian platitudes and God wasn’t mentioned, not even once. All he did was listen quietly and offer a few words of solace in that slow, thoughtful voice of his, before seeking help from the waitress and the English girl. His words had calmed her, restored her sense of reason. She would not give up hope; there would be other ways of getting to Langemarck, she was sure.
Otto responded with disbelief when she told him the full story. ‘What? They’re afraid to let us see Germans even when they’re in the ground? What idiots!’ But even he seemed to have recovered his sense of humour. ‘We’ll take a donkey if that’s the only thing on offer, Ma,’ he said.
The sad-faced English girl had been a revelation, too. Her American friend obviously tried to warn her off, but she’d come back into the cafe offering to do what she could to help.
First things first, though: she needed to retrieve her money from Geert Peeters. The baker should surely feel some sense of responsibility for her plight and would direct her to him. It would not be a pleasant conversation, of that she felt sure, but she could not think of any other way of recovering the money she was owed.
Thanking the English priest and the ginger-haired waitress for their kindness, she and Otto set off across the square. At the southern corner, in the shade of the buildings, was a small group of food stalls where housewives gathered, clutching purses and baskets. As they passed a butcher’s table Otto halted in his tracks with mouth agape. Martha stopped beside him, equally transfixed. She had not seen such bounty for many a year. There was enough fresh meat to feed an army: enormous hunks of mutton, pork, veal and beef, its flesh gleaming freshly red and streaked with creamy yellow fat. From the awnings above, dead chickens, ducks and smaller birds she did not recognise hung by their feet. A short way beyond were stalls laden with trays of shimmering silvery fish, eels, fresh brown prawns and a large bucket of shiny blue-black mussels.
Artistic pyramids of fruit and vegetables were piled in a rainbow of colours: salads in a range of greens, brilliant orange carrots, pale chicory, dark beetroot, aromatic celery, early-season potatoes with their sweet white flesh peeking through the covering of dusty brown soil, ruby plums, russet apples. Once again they came to a standstill, captivated by the sight of so many delicacies.
Otto pulled at her sleeve. ‘Can we buy apples, Ma?’ he whispered. ‘Or plums?’
She hadn’t tasted a plum for three, perhaps even four years, and her mouth watered at the thought of sinking her teeth into the sweet, yielding flesh, the juice dripping down her chin.
Only when they joined the queue did she begin to sense the furtive glances, the whisperings behind hands. She tried to ignore them; she had just as much right to stand in this queue as anyone and only wanted a few plums, after all. Women elbowed past her and, for a while, Martha tolerated it patiently. But, after several minutes of being jostled aside, she decided to stand her ground, holding out her hand, just as the others did, to display the coins in her palm. My francs are just as good as theirs, she told herself.
Even then, the stallholder refused to catch her eye and a cold fear began to creep into her heart. Had word already spread? ‘Excuse me,’ she said loudly, in her best French. ‘May I have half a kilo of plums, please?’
Heads turned, the hum of conversation in the crowd ceased. For a long moment the stallholder hesitated, caught in the gaze of his customers, unsure how to respond. At last he moved, grabbed a handful of fruit, wrapped them in a cone of newspaper and held it out to her.
‘Twenty cents,’ he said curtly.
The crowd stood aside to allow her to pass as she nudged Otto forward, out of the queue. As they walked away she could hear the hubbub of their chatter resuming with renewed vigour. She quickened her pace, fearful of overhearing what they might be saying.
*
Now, as they approached the bakery, her stomach began to churn once more. Would they recognise her as the woman who’d come to visit a German grave? Through the window she could see a man serving other customers. She held back, pretending to study the window display, until they had left.
When they’d visited the shop before, the shelves were empty. This time she was astonished by the variety of loaves and rolls: round, rectangular, long and fat, short and narrow, white, wholemeal, pumpernickel or rye, and covered with flour, oatmeal flakes, sesame seeds or poppy seeds.
On a low marble shelf was a display of pastries even more astonishing than the bread: waffles, croissants, apple turnovers, cherry tarts, viennoises, éclairs, French horns filled with cream, colourful macaroons and every shape and size of biscuit.
‘More pastries, Mama?’ Otto pleaded. ‘Please?’
‘Wait and see,’ she whispered.
At last, when the shop emptied, she told Otto to wait outside. As she entered, the baker turned. He was so like his brother the hotelier – tall and gaunt, only with a little more hair – that she found her stomach contracting with the memory of how, just an hour or so ago, she’d fallen to her knees, weeping and begging, all dignity disappearing in her distress.
‘Good morning, how may I help you?’ he said, smiling pleasantly.
‘I would like two poppy seed rolls, please, and one of those pastries,’ she said, composing her face into a reciprocal smile.
Just as before, the rolls and pastry were carefully pac
kaged into newspaper. ‘That will be fifteen cents.’
As she handed over the coins, she steeled herself. ‘Monsieur Vermeulen?’
He nodded, looking up with a quizzical smile.
‘My name is Martha Weber,’ she said. ‘I am looking for a man called Geert Peeters. He owes me ten francs, a deposit against a visit to the cemeteries.’
The smile vanished in an instant. ‘I know nothing about this man,’ he muttered.
‘But he borrows your van, he said. You must know something.’ She was determined to have an answer.
He shook his head. ‘I have not seen him. Since three days.’
‘Then may I have his address, please? Where does he live?’
‘Sorry, I do not know his address.’
‘I believe you do, sir.’ She took a breath and tried to look him directly in the eye. He turned away, pretending to busy himself with something below the counter.
‘Monsieur Vermeulen,’ she said firmly. ‘I believe you to be an honourable man, and I know you can help me. I must get my money back before we leave the day after tomorrow.’ His jaw jutted, his expression truculent and unrelenting. She smiled as charmingly as she could. ‘By the way, your bread and pastries are so delicious, the best I have ever tasted. You know we have come from Switzerland? Our bakers are famous around the world but I declare that yours are even better.’
Perhaps it was the reassurance of the word Switzerland or the appeal to his professional vanity, but his face softened and she held her breath as he hesitated, still unsure where to place his gaze. Then, furtively glancing around to make sure he was not being observed, he took up a pencil stub, scribbled something onto a corner of newspaper, tore it off and gave it to her.
‘Tell no one I gave you this,’ he said under his breath. ‘Especially not Peeters. Now I must ask you to leave.’
*
At Otto’s insistence they returned to the hotel room and ate a delicious lunch of pastries and plums. After the nervous tension of the morning she felt exhausted, barely able to move a muscle, let alone able to summon the courage to face Monsieur Peeters.
At two o’clock they set out once more. She suggested that he should stay behind at the hotel but Otto insisted on coming and she was glad of his company as they found themselves becoming lost in the back streets of Hoppestadt. They had to ask for directions several times, and by the time they found the street Monsieur Vermeulen had written on the scrap of newspaper she was beginning to sweat uncomfortably.
It was clear that this eastern quarter had been more badly damaged by shelling than the rest of the town. Many of the houses appeared derelict and unoccupied, including the one outside which they found themselves. Fearing that the baker had fobbed them off with a false address, she knocked, politely at first, and then more loudly and insistently.
This raised a holler from inside the house, a woman’s voice shouting something unintelligible and certainly ill-tempered. Soon enough, they heard bolts being drawn and the door was flung open to reveal a dumpy, red-faced woman in an overall, frowning and wiping her hands on a grubby dishrag. She looked extremely displeased.
‘What is it?’ She spoke Flemish but Martha could understand the gist well enough.
‘I am looking for your husband, Monsieur Geert Peeters.’
The woman shook her head, scowling even more. ‘He’s not here.’
Otto nudged his mother in the ribs. ‘He is, Ma. He’s up there,’ he whispered, pointing to an upper window. ‘I just saw a face.’
Martha looked up just in time to see the shutters being jammed shut, and heard the clatter of the lock. ‘I believe that your husband is at home, Madame Peeters,’ she said. ‘We have just seen him.’
The woman shook her head, fiercely repeating her denial, and was about to close the door when, from the corridor behind her, they heard a harsh cough and the burly figure of Geert Peeters appeared. He shouldered his wife aside and stepped out onto the street, swaying slightly on splayed legs.
‘What you want?’ he slurred. Even from two metres away Martha could smell the sour combination of alcohol and stale sweat.
‘You promised to take me to Langemarck and took my ten francs as a deposit, monsieur.’ She pulled from her pocket the scruffy leaflet he had given her. ‘You did not come to my hotel at eleven o’clock as you promised. So I would like my money back, please.’
Geert took the paper and squinted at it, swaying slightly on his feet. ‘I not give you this.’
‘You did, sir. When you took my money. Ten-franc deposit, ten more after the tour, that’s what we agreed.’
He looked up, attempting to focus. ‘Not me, madame.’
‘It was you – look.’ She pointed at the leaflet. ‘Geert Peeters?’
‘I not Geert.’
‘Sir, you are lying,’ she cried, exasperated. ‘I know your face. You are the man who approached me in the street, offered to take me to the cemetery and took my ten francs as a deposit. If you do not return it to me, I will go to the police.’
At this, the door behind him reopened and the wife stepped out, her face puce and distorted. The overall had gone, and a battered felt hat was plonked firmly onto her head. She shouted something that sounded obscene, slapped his cheek and pushed him to one side before striding towards Martha.
‘Go away,’ she spat. ‘Kraut murderer!’
Martha gasped and felt Otto tensing beside her.
‘I am not German, I am Swiss,’ she said, standing her ground, trying to keep her voice calm even though her legs were trembling.
‘You visit Kraut grave so you Kraut. Go home or we kill you. Like you kill our son.’
Out of the corner of her eye, Martha saw Otto stepping forward with his fists raised and she leapt sideways to reach him before he could take action. Then horror struck: at that very moment she glimpsed the terrifying glint of steel in the woman’s hand.
‘No! Stay back, Otto. She’s got a knife,’ she shouted as the woman lurched towards them once more. Otto tried to stand his ground but she managed to grab his arm more firmly, and summoned all her strength to drag him out of harm’s way to the other side of the street.
‘Go away and no come back,’ the woman jeered, hauling her husband to the doorway. She pushed him inside and followed, slamming the door with such ferocity that the house seemed to rock. A broken tile slipped from the roof and shattered onto the street in front of them.
Now that the immediate threat had been removed, Martha’s legs began to shake uncontrollably, until they could no longer support her. She sank to the ground against a wall, careless of the dust and rubble beneath her, folded her face into her arms and began to weep. Otto crouched by her side, putting his arm around her shoulders.
‘It’s all right, Ma.’ His voice cracked and she heard for the first time the deep bass tones of an adult man. ‘They’re crazy people. Let’s just leave it. It’s only ten francs; not worth getting into a fight for. I don’t mind if we haven’t enough money for food tomorrow. We’re used to it, aren’t we? We’ll be okay.’ He rested his head on hers. ‘Please stop crying, Ma. We need to get out of here.’
18
ALICE
Alice was still fuming.
She was so naive, that girl, poking her nose into other people’s business without any notion of the trouble it could create. She’d seemed such a timid little thing, no trouble to anyone, but now she was becoming a liability. Trying to help someone visit a German grave, for Pete’s sake! And she’d had the cheek to go all preachy about human kindness.
To calm her jangling nerves, Alice decided to take a stroll, but it wasn’t long before she began to regret it. Walking on cobbles was tiresome; the streets were hot and dusty, and the sweat soon began to break out on her forehead, prickling her scalp. Beyond the square there was little of interest; just a few months ago the town must have been buzzing with activity but now the army had gone, everything seemed abandoned and the place was deserted.
The only sign of life she enco
untered was a group of three elderly women, all dressed in black, sitting on stools in doorways at the side of the street, heads bent over small cushions on which were pinned white threads held by a dozen brightly coloured sticks, which they flicked with such speed that their fingers became a blur.
The sight was a welcome distraction. ‘Bonjour,’ she said. ‘Your lace is very beautiful.’
Three gnarled faces looked up, their fingers momentarily stilled, their expressions confused and guarded. Much as she longed to ask about the lace making, perhaps even to enquire whether it was for sale, she knew that there was little point in trying to hold such a complicated conversation with Flemish speakers in French. Alice watched for a while longer, then smiled sweetly and went on her way.
Further along the street she found a small shop doorway. In the window was a dusty display of what she took to be Belgian delicacies: tins of goose pâté, bottles of beer in a presentation case, packets of waffles in cellophane tied with a red ribbon, and a small bottle of brandy. She was reminded of her promise to take presents back to Julia’s family in London as thanks for their hospitality.
As she entered the dark interior a hunched old lady took to her feet. ‘Madame?’ Alice purchased a tin of pâté, a packet of waffles and, as a final thought, a bottle of brandy.
At the end of the street she found a small park beside a stream, the grass parched and neglected, the flower beds overgrown, the spars of the single bench long since stolen, probably for firewood. But it was shady here, under a willow tree. She took off her jacket and sat down to rest her aching feet. Before long, her head began to feel heavy – the hangover catching up with her. She stretched out on the grass and closed her eyes.
She must have dozed, because when she checked her watch again an hour had passed. Scrambling to her feet, she began trying to retrace her steps back to the square. But she must have taken a wrong turn because she found herself in a completely unfamiliar area, a run-down part of the town she’d not seen before, where many of the houses were shell-shattered and derelict. She couldn’t even see the spire of the church any more, nor the tower of the town hall.