Put Out the Fires

by Maureen Lee

  Eileen laughed. “I hate to say it, Dad, but you actually sound snobbish, as if Alice Scully’s not good enough for our Sean.”

  He flushed again, deeper this time. “It’s not like that at all. But everyone likes the best for their children. They want them to be happy most of all, and I can’t see our Sean being happy living in Miller’s Bridge with Alice Scully and her family.”

  “Well, there’s nowt you can do about it,” Eileen chided.

  “I hope you haven’t said anything about this to Sean. It’ll only make him stubborn if you do. Anyroad, does it look as if it’s likely to be permanent?”

  “According to Alice, she’s already had two letters, which is two more .than he ever wrote his dad,’Jack said sourly. ‘But, still, you can never tell with our Sean. He’s a flighty bugger, allus has been. It might just be a flash in the pan. In a few weeks’ time he’ll have taken up with someone else.”

  Eileen folded her hands over her stomach. “I suppose I’ll be meeting this Alice pretty soon, and I can make me mind up for meself Jack Doyle, only too glad to change the subject, noticed the protective gesture with her hands. It was something his late wife, Mollie, had done when she was expecting, long before her body showed any sign. “What does Nick think about the baby?” he asked.

  “He doesn’t know,” Eileen said airily. She’d written to Sheila and her dad as soon as she’d found out she was pregnant, finding it easier to tell him, at least, in a letter. “I think me and Nick had already reached the end of the road long before I found out I was having a baby.”

  “You were never any good at lying.”

  Eileen tossed her head, irritated. “If you’re not prepared to accept a lie, I’m not prepared to tell the truth. Anyroad, it’s none of your business.”

  “Suit yourself,” he shrugged. “Though I can’t keep up with you the last year or so. One minute it’s Francis, next minute it’s Nick, then it isn’t Nick, and . . . I don’t know, it’s like the bloody Hokey-Kokey. It seems to me you’re making a right ould mess of your life.”

  “It wasn’t me that dropped the bomb that killed our Tony!”

  He stared at her, wishing he could disappear through the floor. Christ Almighty! What a terrible, tactless thing for him to say! Her eyes were bright with anger, yet at the same time, she looked unbearably sad. She was a fine looking woman altogether, his Eileen, and she appeared ten times better than when she’d gone away so wan and pale. Although she’d lost some weight she looked healthy and there was a good colour to her creamy cheeks.

  “I’m sorry, luv,” he said gruffly. He seemed to be making a right ould mess of things today. Perhaps it was time to change the subject yet again. He began to talk about something safe, his favourite topic, the war.

  “I thought it was going to be all over by June,” Eileen said, after listening to a long tirade of complaints.

  Apparently, Hitler seemed unable to put a foot wrong, whereas we couldn’t put one right. “Not that I haven’t heard that before. But people were putting money on it, if I recall.”

  “Well, if they did, they wasted it,” Jack said bluntly.

  “General Wavell made mincemeat out of the Italians in North Africa, but now the Germans have decided to put in an appearance, we’ve lost nearly everything we gained.

  They’ve got a new man, the Jerries, a General Rommell, and although I hate to admit it, he’s a brilliant tactician.

  That’s what the British need,” he finished in disgust. “A few German generals.”

  “Oh, Dad!”

  She settled down, ready for an argument, feeling at last that she was really home. This was one of the things she’d missed when she was away, a goodnatured discussion with her dad about the war, and she sensed he felt the same. But before they’d got much further, there was the sound of the key being drawn through the letter box, and Sheila Reilly came in carrying the most beautiful baby Eileen had ever seen.

  “This is Micky Singerman,” Sheila said as proudly as if the baby were her own. “I already told you, I look after him during the afternoons when Ruth’s at work.”

  “He’s lovely!” breathed Eileen, holding out her arms.

  “And so big! How old is he now?” The baby stared at her fixedly with his dark blue eyes and began to wave his arms and legs with vigour.

  “He’s only two months, but acts likes six. He’s never still a minute. None of mine were so active at that age.”

  “Nor was Tony.”

  Sheila glanced quickly at her sister, but Eileen was still smiling at the baby.

  “Well, I’ll be off,” said Jack Doyle. He had no intention of listening to two women drooling over a baby.

  “He’s not a bit like Dilys,” Eileen said after Jack had gone. “Has anyone heard from her, by the way?”

  “Not a word. But he must have been a looker, the feller who . . . you know. According to Mr Singerman,” Sheila giggled, “he’s the image of Ruth when she was a baby. He even got a photo out once to prove it. He’s getting a bit muddled in his old age.”

  “ I must pop over to see him later on.” Eileen chucked the baby under the chin. “Has Ruth done anything more about adopting him?”

  Sheila shook her head. “No, she’s terrified of him being taken off her if she contacts anyone ‘in authority’, as she calls it.”

  “I don’t know why she’s so bothered. If Dilys wanted her to have the baby, that’s all there is to it.”

  “That’s what I keep telling her, but she won’t take any notice. She wants it all done properly, so he’s hers ‘on paper’, I think she said. Dai Evans, being Micky’s grandad, went with Ruth to have him registered, else she wouldn’t have been able to get a ration book without a birth certificate.”

  “I’m surprised Ellis would let Dai do such a thing.”

  “Ellis doesn’t know. Dai often pops in for a little visit on the quiet. It’s beginning to get Ruth down. She’s in ever such a funny mood lately, really happy because she’s got Michael, but at the same time, she’s an absolute bag of nerves.” Sheila stood up. “Well, I’d better get home and make the tea. I just took all the kids for a long walk around North Park, then I dumped my lot at home. I just thought you’d like a peek at Micky Singerman.”

  “I’ll look after him for a little while, if you like, Sheil,”

  Eileen offered. “Then you can get the tea ready in peace.”

  “Peace! With six hungry children under me feet.”

  “You know what I mean. Anyroad, I’d just like to cuddle him for a bit longer. Get a bit of practice in.” She felt reluctant to hand the baby back.

  “If you like, luv. Bring him over in about half an hour and have your tea with us. I don’t expect you’ve had time to get any rations in yet.”

  Eileen had completely forgotten about food. “I haven’t, which reminds me, I didn’t offer our dad a cup of tea, not ‘that I had any to offer if I’d thought about it.’

  “I’ll lend you enough food to see you over the weekend, then you can get your own stuff in on Monday.

  Well, tara, Sis. I’ll see you later. Oh, by the way,” Sheila called from the hallway, “have you got your special ration book yet? Expectant mothers have a green one, which entitles them to all sorts of extras, including milk.”

  “I need a doctor’s certificate, and the only person I’ve seen so far is a vet! I’ll sort it out next week.”

  Sheila departed, and Eileen was left with Micky Singerman all to herself. His tiny fingers fascinated her, so perfectly formed, with little wrinkles around the knuckles, just like an adult’s. She kissed his downy golden head. “In six months’ time, I’m going to have a little baby,” she told him, “except mine will be a girl. You never know, the two of you might get married when you grow up.”

  The tea dance in Reece’s on Easter Saturday was particularly crowded. Ruth Singerman, seated at the piano, always found herself amused by the women who wore hats. There seemed to be more hats than usual today, and it was funny to see them bobbi
ng around the floor, particularly the ones with feathers. Sometimes, in the middle of a complicated step, a hat would fall off and be kicked across the floor. All the women were smartly dressed, hat or no hat. Ruth had begun to feel rather drab lately, wearing only dresses that were over twenty years old, the rest brought up to date by a dressmaker she’d found in Marsh Lane. Perhaps it was time she bought one or two new outfits for work. She felt a little ashamed, turning up in the same old things month after month. On the other hand, she had less money in her pocket now there was another mouth to feed, and it was a while since she’d put anything in her bank account for America. If only Brenda Mahon would start dressmaking again, she thought wistfully, and would knock her up a few frocks really cheap.

  A man dancing past winked at Ruth over the head of his partner, and she winked back. They were a married couple who came regularly and only danced with each other, so he wouldn’t read anything into the gesture. It was only right and proper that the pianist should look happy and be friendly, but until recently, her attempts to appear sociable had been mechanical and forced. Since Michael had appeared on the scene, however, her responses had been genuine; she was happy, more happy than she’d ever believed possible considering what had happened over the last few years. At the same time, there was the worry that he might not stay hers.

  When the interval arrived, Ruth finished Two Sleepy People with a flourish. She stayed where she was, and as people began to disperse to their tables or disappear to buy refreshments, she started to play Liszt’s Liebestraume, one of her favourites. As the beautiful music began to flow through her fingers, Ruth forgot where she was for the moment, as she so often did during the interval. The people eating, talking and smoking in the background, seemed to fade into a grey mist, and she was in the sitting room in Ganz. The piano was situated close to the french windows, which were open, and the curtains were being lifted by a slight breeze. The scent of flowers wafted into the large, high-ceilinged room. A man was speaking to her. Benjy must be home . . .

  “I said ‘hallo’.”

  Ruth came down to earth, rather exasperated, and ready to dismiss whoever it was as tactfully as she could. Men frequently approached her during the break or after the dance was over to start a conversation which often ended with them asking if they could take her out.

  There was something familiar about the tall, blond man who had spoken. Despite the fact the piano was on a dais, he was still tall enough to look down on her. It didn’t take her long to recognise who it was. Matt Smith. No, Matthew Schmidt, she reminded herself. Matthew Schmidt, the German!

  “Hallo,” she said curtly.

  “I’m pleased to see you, too.” There was sarcasm in the deep voice, which held no trace of a foreign accent.

  Ruth felt too angry to answer. She missed a note and took her fingers off the keys. Not sure what to do with her hands, she put them on her lap, and stared at the music on the stand in front of her. She rarely used music, knowing everything she usually played by heart, but today was the first time she’d played A Nightingale Sang in Berkeley Square.

  “I wanted to talk to you,” Matt Smith said.

  “Go ahead.” She hadn’t much choice but to listen, she supposed, unless she was prepared to get up and walk away.

  “Not here. Somewhere more private. Can I meet you afterwards?”

  “I’d sooner not,” Ruth said coldly. “I can’t for the life of me imagine finding anything you have to say of interest.”

  “You’re very rude!” He actually had the nerve to sound quite hurt.

  She glared at him. How dare he? He looked as angry as she felt as he glared back. She noticed two women sitting nearby were nudging each other as they eyed him up and down with obvious approval, and she wondered if they realised he was Adolf Hitler’s notion of a perfect specimen of German manhood. Ruth shrugged carelessly, “So, I’m rude!”

  Matt Smith turned to leave. There was a look of disgust on his almost perfect bronzed face. “I thought we two might have something in common,” he said disdainfully.

  “That’s why I wanted to meet you before.”

  Ruth knew she’d gone too far. She remembered the words of Jack Doyle on New Year’s Eve, “It’s nowt but prejudice to damn the whole German race. Isn’t that what we accuse them of when it comes to the Jews?”

  Matt was already halfway across the floor. “What is it we might have in common?” she called.

  He stopped and merely turned his head. “We’ve both lost everything,” he said.

  Ruth sighed. “All right. I’ll meet you in the cafe downstairs as soon as the dance is over. But I can’t stay long. I have to be home quickly for my little boy.”

  He nodded. “I’ll be there.”

  Ruth had never used the ground-floor restaurant at Reece’s, though she had to walk through it to reach the stairs to the dancehall. It was big and lofty and painted cream. It had, she always thought, a slightly continental air.

  Matthew Schmidt was sitting at a table in the furthest corner which was slightly shielded by a large potted plant.

  When Ruth approached, he stood up and courteously held her chair. “Would you like tea or coffee?”

  “Tea, please.”

  He waved to the waitress, who came over and took the order. The girl quite unconsciously fluttered her eyelashes when he spoke. Ruth hadn’t noticed before, but he was dressed well, in a grey suit and a blue and white striped shirt.

  Whilst they waited for the tea to arrive, they chatted about the weather. It seemed quite warm for Easter, but then Easter was late this year. After all, it was almost the middle of April.

  It was all terribly civilised, thought Ruth. It didn’t seem possible that she was sitting in Reece’s restaurant taking afternoon tea with a German).

  The tea came and Ruth poured. “Do you take sugar?”

  “No, thanks, and no milk, either. I prefer lemon, but nobody, in Liverpool, at least, seems to have heard of tea with lemon before.”

  He began to stir his tea, though there was nothing in it that needed stirring, and Ruth realised he was actually quite nervous. When he picked up the white cup, it looked ridiculously small and delicate in his large hands.

  “I know you’re in a hurry, and I’ll be as quick as I can, but there are a few things I’d like to explain.”

  “Go ahead,” Ruth said flippantly.

  He put the cup down with a bang, and his blue eyes flashed. “This is not going to be the least bit funny, I can assure you.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “I want to be truthful, so there’s one thing I must tell you first. I was once a member of the Hitler Youth.”

  Ruth recoiled. “What!” She pushed her cup away and would have got up and left, there and then, in utter disgust, if he hadn’t reached across and held her arm to prevent her going.

  “It was 1930 and I was only eighteen,” he said quickly. “I wasn’t in for long. The blinkers soon dropped from my eyes, and the minute I realised what was actually going on, I left.”

  “What did you join then, the SS?” She relaxed in her seat, but couldn’t resist the barb, though instead of looking hurt, he smiled.

  “No,” he said. “I went to university and quietly studied languages, English and French, for four years. Afterwards, I joined the Communist Party, not so much out of ideology, but because they seemed to provide the main opposition to the Nazis, fighting pitched battles with the storm troopers on the streets. My parents were horrified.

  They both looked upon Hitler as some sort of god.”

  The idea of Hitler being regarded as a god by anyone sane was so ludicrous that Ruth looked at him uncomprehendingly.

  He made a funny little movement with his mouth. “I know it sounds crazy, but you don’t know what Germany was like for many years after the First World War.

  Unemployment was rife, our currency worthless—there were literally trillions of marks to the dollar and people were pushing their wages home in wheelbarrows. Living conditions w
ere appalling and there was crime everywhere - no-one was safe on the streets. Adolf Hitler put everything right. He appeared to many as a saviour; someone who would make our country great again.”

  “But not to you?” Ruth asked suspiciously.

  “Not to me, not to a lot of people. But even those who could see what he was doing, they said and did nothing.

  They kept their heads down, closed their eyes and let him carry on. It was safer that way. As long as they had a job and a roof over their heads, they didn’t care what horrors were being perpetrated in their name.” He laughed sardonically. “In the 1933 election, ninety-two per cent of the electorate voted for the Nazi list for the Reichstag.

  Even in Dachau concentration camp, most of the inmates voted for the party that had put them there.”

  “Dachau! You mean there were concentration camps so long ago?”

  “There were at least fifty, all run by the Totenkopfverbaende, the Death’s-Head units, sadists and brutal murders one and all. Dachau is where my wife died in 1937,” he said in a thin, expressionless voice. “Maria was whipped to death.”

  “I’m so sorry,” she whispered. Jack Doyle had already told her some of this, but she’d closed her ears, just as the people of Germany had closed their eyes. She didn’t want to hear because he was a German, and no excuses could be made on their behalf. “What had she done, your wife?”

  “She was a Communist and a teacher, like me. Though, like me, she kept her affiliation secret. It was insanity to do otherwise. We worked underground, arranged for speakers for other like-minded groups, produced a little anti Nazi newspaper which we distributed on the streets, helped smuggle people the Nazis were after out of the country . . . ”

  “What sort of people?” Ruth asked.

  “People like us, the ones who had been found out: agitators, trade unionists, pastors and priests who refused to swear an oath of allegiance to almighty Hitler. And, of course, Jews.”

  But only the sensible Jews, Ruth thought bleakly, the ones who’d seen the bloody writing on the wall and taken notice. The rest, like her and Benjy, and millions of others, refused to believe the evidence of their eyes and escape to safety. What did it matter if you had to start again in another country with nothing? At least you were alive and living in dignity. Though it was easy to take this view with hindsight, Ruth thought ruefully.