by Liz Trenow
29
MARTHA
Martha had been prepared to spend the night in the church. Although it was chilly and rather musty-smelling, it was at least dry and out of the rain. But never, in her wildest imaginings, her darkest nightmares, could she have dreamed that she would find herself preparing to sleep in a British army ambulance in a tin garage hidden away in the town’s deserted back streets.
Yet, as Freddie secured the doors she felt relieved, safe again. At least if Monsieur Vermeulen had called the police or should any crazy citizens take it on themselves to go spy-hunting, they would never think to look here. By the light of the torch Freddie had miraculously produced she was cheered to discover that the rear of the ambulance was surprisingly spacious, furnished with three tiers of khaki canvas stretchers on either side of a central gangway. A woollen blanket, folded with military precision, lay on each bunk.
Freddie unhooked the two sets of upper bunks, leaving just a single tier on either side. ‘You won’t be needing these,’ he said, rolling them up and standing them in the corner of the garage. He folded two blankets lengthways and laid them out on each stretcher to make a kind of mattress, placing the spares at the head ends.
Martha clambered up the steps. She sniffed suspiciously, fearing she might smell blood or worse but, apart from being a little musty, the cabin appeared to be dry and, as far as she could tell, surprisingly clean.
Otto leapt onto a bunk and lay down immediately, apparently enchanted. ‘It’s like camping. Just wait till I tell them at school.’
*
After Freddie left they bolted the garage doors from the inside, just as he instructed. On a wide wooden shelf just behind the cab, probably once intended for dressings and medicines, she placed the votive candles he had brought from the church and lit them with the matches he’d also provided. They would save the torch for emergencies.
‘Come, Otto,’ she said. ‘Let us give our thanks for saving your brother, and say Kaddish for your father.’ Together they murmured, ‘May His great name grow exalted and sanctified . . . in the world that He created as He willed . . .’ The words were so familiar that their meaning became subsumed into the rhythm, the pitch rising and falling like a chant, calming and comforting, like a warm blanket wrapping itself around them.
*
A loud hammering on the garage doors made them both jump. Dread lurched in her stomach once more. Who had betrayed them? Surely not Freddie or Ruby? But who else knew they were here? Not that sweet girl Ginger?
The knocking came again.
‘Who is it?’ she shouted, deepening her voice to sound gruff and manly.
The familiar voice was reassuring. ‘It’s me, Freddie. Back again. Bad penny and all that.’
She reached for the torch and slipped down to open the door.
The rain had ceased now and he stood there holding out a jug wrapped in a towel, and two enamel cups. ‘Hot chocolate,’ he said, his cheeks colouring. From under his jacket he produced a loaf of bread and a large chunk of cheese wrapped in greaseproof paper. Handing these over, he turned and picked up a bucket of water, steaming in the misty air. ‘For washing,’ he explained, pulling from his pocket a small bar of soap.
After saying Kaddish, inviting him in as a guest was the perfectly natural thing to do. ‘Come,’ she said, beckoning him in.
He shook his head. ‘No, I don’t think so.’
‘Come,’ she insisted until, reluctantly, he followed her.
She relit the candles and they sat opposite each other in their gentle light as she poured the creamy, delicious-smelling drink from the jug and handed a cup to Freddie. When he hesitated, she indicated that she and Otto would share.
‘Prost!’ she replied, chinking hers against his and taking a sip. ‘Is good.’
‘You have hot chocolate in Germany?’
‘No in war.’
For a few uncomfortable moments all they could do was smile shyly at each other.
She tried again. ‘You have child?’
‘Two. The boy’s a bit younger than Otto, about seven I should think.’ He held up his five fingers outstretched, then closed them and held out two more. ‘Jack, we call him. The girl, Elsie, is . . .’
He frowned at his hand, holding out five fingers, then three more, then added one. Nine. Hearing the tenderness in his voice, she wondered why he was still here in Belgium, months after the end of the war, but she hoped that he could return home to his family soon. He deserved them, they deserved him. But this was all far too complicated for her limited English vocabulary, so she contented herself with silently willing him good fortune.
Freddie drained his cup and seemed about to leave. But then, almost as an afterthought, he reached into his inside pocket and pulled out something small and silver. Martha flinched, thinking for a fleeting, terrifying moment that it was a pistol.
He put the harmonica – for that is what it was – to his mouth and began to play a hauntingly familiar tune. A German tune: ‘Lieb Vaterland’. Tears sprang to her eyes. How hollow it sounded now, that marching song once so full of hope and enthusiasm for the future of their new, prosperous and powerful Fatherland. These days, in the cafes of Berlin, this same tune would be sung as an ironic refrain, a mournful requiem for their lost youth and derelict country.
‘Nein, nein,’ she said, stopping him with an upheld hand. ‘Play English.’
He began another tune, stamping out the jaunty rhythm with his foot onto the wooden floor. It was almost impossible to resist; she and Otto joined in, tapping their feet along with him. Freddie took the harmonica from his lips and sang: ‘Pack up your troubles in an old kit bag and smile, smile, smile. While you’ve a lucifer to light your fag, smile, boys, that’s the style.’
He resumed the tune on the harmonica and, when it ended, held it out to Otto. ‘Want to give it a go, laddie? It’s easy. You suck in like this.’ He demonstrated. ‘And then you blow out.’ He moved his lips along the holes, producing a scale of notes, and then jumped between them, making a tune. ‘You can play soft,’ he said, with a gentle breath. ‘Or hard.’ He blasted into the holes, producing a harsh chord almost as loud as a church organ on full stops. He wiped the mouthpiece and held it out once more.
Otto shook his head, reddening to the tips of his ears.
‘Go on, boy,’ his mother whispered. Slowly, cautiously, he took the little instrument in his hand, studied it for a moment and showed it to her.
‘Look, Ma.’ On it was engraved the familiar logo Hohner, the most famous of German instrument makers.
‘Give it a go then, Otto. There’s a good man,’ Freddie said.
Otto put the harmonica to his lips and blew a swooping scale. He tried playing separate notes by pursing his lips, as Freddie had done, blowing into individual holes. After a few stumbling attempts, he managed to produce a vague tune. Flushing as they applauded his newfound prowess, he went to hand the harmonica back.
Freddie shook his head. ‘You keep it, boy,’ he said.
‘Nein, nein,’ Martha said, holding out her hand.
But Otto smiled, whispering simply, ‘Vielen Dank.’
‘You are very welcome. And now I must be off,’ Freddie said. ‘Eight o’clock tomorrow morning.’ He drew a clock face on his knee.
Martha shook his hand. ‘You good man, Monsieur Freddie,’ she said. ‘We thank you. Many, many.’
*
After he’d gone they finished the hot chocolate, wiping their mugs and even the inside of the jug with bread, so as not to waste the last remaining delicious drips. They washed their faces and hands in the still-warm water and dried themselves on a spare blanket before settling onto their bunks. Martha leaned across to kiss Otto’s cheek.
‘Sleep now, son,’ she said. ‘We have an early start to catch the train tomorrow.’
After a few moments he piped up, ‘D’you know, I think I like Mr Freddie after all, Ma. He’s different from what I expected an Englishman to be.’
‘I agree,�
�� she said. ‘He is a kind man, a true Mensch. The English are not all monsters. Let’s try to look forward to the future, shall we? We will find your brother and make him well; in time our country will be healed as well.’
‘No more wars?’
‘No more wars.’
‘You promise?’
‘I promise. Now go to sleep.’
She blew out the candles and lay back on the bunk. As her eyes became accustomed to the half-light she could make out the metal arches holding up the battered green canvas roof. She thought of the hundreds, perhaps thousands, of gravely wounded and dying men who must have looked up at the same view, glad to be out of the fray but also probably in pain, wondering whether they would survive the injuries they’d sustained.
She tried not to think of the many desperate Allied soldiers, wounded and dying, who must have travelled in this ambulance, or the corpses laid out on their way to the cemeteries, or of the German shells, bullets and gas that would have put them here in the first place. Were their souls still lurking here? She cursed the Kaiser and his politicians: how could they have been so blind as to believe that a few thousand square kilometres of territory was worth such losses, such inhumanity to man?
Seeing the trenches today had brought it home to her, especially when Freddie had pointed out the German lines just a few hundred yards away. She had never imagined that Heinrich’s life and that of his pals might have been so mundane, struggling under such harsh conditions with so few creature comforts. And all the while within hearing distance of men on the enemy side enduring equally difficult times, trying to exist from day to day, eating, sleeping, keeping themselves clean as best they could and yet in constant fear of shellfire and snipers’ bullets. No wonder so many had lost their minds.
The face of the hotelier, distorted and red with rage, loomed before her eyes. She did not blame him; any English, French, Belgian or American would have been treated the same way in Berlin. She felt no bitterness; the wounds were still so raw. Their country, until then perfectly peaceable, had been invaded and destroyed by her countrymen. They had lost so many of their loved ones. It was hardly surprising that they hated the Germans. Discovering her lie must have sharpened their resentment and suspicions, leading them to wild, unlikely assumptions.
Before the war, anyone could travel widely throughout Europe, welcome in any country. Now, as a result of her country’s misplaced national pride, all that was lost and in its place had been left death, devastation and a legacy of mutual hatred. What she felt, mostly, was a deep, dark sense of shame that made her skin flush beneath the prickly blanket.
Then she remembered: what did anything else matter, now that Heiney was alive? After all these years of grieving they would be back in Berlin tomorrow, and could begin their search for him. As she drifted off to sleep, she allowed herself to imagine the moment of their first meeting, their first embrace, his arrival home, their little family reunited at last and able to look forward to a future of peace and prosperity.
30
RUBY
Alice was nowhere to be found, but she couldn’t wait any longer; Cécile would stop serving dinner soon.
On her way downstairs she heard English voices.
Edith was the first to spot her. ‘Hello again,’ she said sweetly. ‘What a charming place. They’ve got two rooms for us and we couldn’t be more delighted.’ Beside her stood Jimmy supporting himself on two walking sticks, his face still as pale as paper, eyes anxious and forehead furrowed with worry lines. But the disturbing twitches and tics that had plagued him earlier still seemed to have abated, at least for the moment. ‘We’re going home tomorrow, my darling, aren’t we?’
Joseph, who had been at the desk with Monsieur Vermeulen, now recognised her, his face lighting up with that crooked smile. ‘Ah, Miss Barton. We didn’t have a chance to thank you properly.’
‘He looks better.’
‘Can we buy you a drink later? Seems the least we can do.’
‘I’m going for dinner right now. But perhaps afterwards?’
She went to the dining room and sat in the usual place but Martha and Otto’s empty table made her wonder how they were faring. At least they were safe, and it was only for one night. Had Freddie managed to overcome his hatred of Germans and taken the things she’d asked him to? She felt sure that he would have done – she’d already seen him softening towards the boy. Tomorrow the couple would be on their way home – perhaps to a joyful reunion with her elder son.
A figure appeared at the table, breaking her reverie. ‘May I join you?’ It was Joseph Catchpole.
‘Please. Are you on your own?’
‘We thought it better to be discreet,’ he said quietly. ‘We don’t want to draw attention to him, and Edith didn’t want to leave him alone, so they’ve ordered room service. I felt it was important to give them some time together, so here I am.’
Cécile came to take his order, and he studied the wine list.
‘Aren’t you drinking?’ She gestured to her water glass. ‘Do you like red?’ The wine arrived and she watched, impressed, as he sniffed and tasted it carefully before approving it, like an expert.
‘Thank you again,’ he said, raising his glass to hers. ‘For the best gift in the world, bringing my brother back to us.’
‘I did nothing, honestly. It was Tubby Clayton. You should write to him when you get home. I’ve got his address.’
The scar on Joseph’s cheek lent him an endearingly jaunty expression. When he smiled, his single eye twinkled brightly enough for two. She’d seen quite a few returning soldiers with terrible facial injuries and imagined it might sometimes be worse than losing a leg or an arm. But Joseph behaved as though the scar and eye patch simply weren’t there and, after a while, she stopped noticing too.
‘Tell me . . .’ They both spoke at the same moment, and then stopped, awkwardly.
‘Ladies first,’ he said, laughing.
‘I hardly know where to start,’ she said. ‘What have you been doing since we saw you in Ostend?’
‘Major Wilson told us the next day that you and Miss Palmer had returned to Ypres and, after a day in Bruges, we realised that’s exactly what we ought to do too. Visiting tourist sights wasn’t going to help us find Jimmy. The only thing we knew was that he’d gone missing in November last year at Passchendaele and Edie insisted that we come back to Tyne Cot to have another look. We took a car and spent the whole day there. It’s depressing, isn’t it, knowing that for every grave that’s marked there are hundreds still hidden in the mud?’
‘I went back there, too,’ Ruby said. ‘To look for my husband’s grave. But I couldn’t find anything. Not a sign.’
His easy manner faltered. ‘I’m so sorry. I noticed the wedding ring, but didn’t like to ask.’
‘Finish your story first.’
‘Well, the whole thing was just too much for Edie – she was devastated by not being able to find his grave. She couldn’t stop weeping and wouldn’t get out of bed the next day, while I hung around the hotel feeling guilty and fretting about whether we should ever have come here in the first place. It was that evening we got the telegram.’
‘You must have been so excited.’
‘To be honest, I couldn’t get my head round it. I didn’t tell Edie at first – I was concerned for her state of mind, and if it was some kind of sick joke, it might just push her over the edge. But then I read it again and realised the original telegram to my family had been sent by the Reverend Clayton, so it must have some credibility. So I ordered a car for the morning, and told Edie at breakfast. And just a few hours later, there he was. Extraordinary.’ He shook his head, as though still trying to believe it.
‘It is a kind of miracle, isn’t it?’ she said.
‘I still have to pinch myself.’ He lowered his voice. ‘There is a problem, though, of course.’
‘A problem?’
He straightened his cutlery on the white linen tablecloth. ‘The truth is that he’s alive
because he was too afraid to carry on.’
‘You know that’s not true,’ she said, wishing she could still those uneasy fingers. ‘The fighting injured his brain. He’s ill, that’s perfectly obvious and, just like any physical injury, he’ll take a long time to recover.’
Joseph’s voice cracked. ‘I know these things, of course I do. But I still haven’t worked out how to explain it to our parents. They’ll be devastated when they learn he’s a deserter.’
‘Do you have to tell them? Won’t they be so thrilled to have him back that it won’t cross their minds to ask?’
His face darkened. ‘We could lie, of course. It might be the kindest way.’
The arrival of food interrupted their conversation. For some minutes neither spoke save for murmurs of appreciation.
‘Delicious,’ he said, refilling their glasses. ‘Now it’s your turn, if you want to tell me.’
‘Not much to tell, I’m afraid,’ Ruby said. ‘My husband went missing in action at Passchendaele. I’ve searched Tyne Cot, twice, and there’s no sign. He may be buried somewhere else but you could spend a lifetime looking. I have to accept that I may never have a grave to visit.’
‘I am so sorry.’ So often this simple phrase came across as empty words. But his tone of voice, balancing sympathy and acceptance, made her believe that he properly, deeply understood what she was feeling.
‘I wouldn’t even have dreamed of coming but it was his parents – my parents-in-law – who insisted and paid for the trip. I’ve got nothing to take home to them except some dried flowers from the roadside. But I’m glad I came, all the same. I’ve got a sense of the place where he spent some time when not at the front. I’ve even discovered that I remember him better, being here. And at least I tried my best.’
The dining room was clearing, the waiters pulling off tablecloths and starting to stack chairs. ‘Shall we finish the bottle in the bar?’ he suggested.
She gladly agreed. She was enjoying their conversation, the way he spoke with such refreshing honesty, and the fact that he listened, properly listened, and made the right responses. The bar was deserted and it seemed odd, without Freddie. They took his usual table in the corner.