The Silent Christmas

by M J Lee

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  Monday, December 24, 1923 – Christmas Eve

  22 Elgin Street, Stalybridge

  They waited quietly for him. Norah was fussing in the kitchen, checking the goose in the oven. Hetty was helping her with the vegetables. John was reading a book, as he always did, whilst Alice was doing her needlework beneath the old lamp, unperturbed by the tension in the house.

  Tom was standing alone in the front parlour, leaning on the fire surround and smoking his pipe, the fingers of his left hand tapping irritably on the seam of his trousers. The clock on the mantelpiece next to his head ticked on loudly.

  He had received the letter a week ago and responded immediately:

  I would be happy to meet again. Perhaps you would care to come to our humble home for supper on Christmas Eve? Later we could go to Midnight Mass if you are not feeling exhausted.

  He wondered how Harald had obtained his address. Then he remembered writing it on the Christmas-tree label. Harald must have kept that old paper all these years.

  Tom glanced at the clock. Was that the right time? He had pawned his watch the week before to ensure the children had something for Christmas. One day he would get it back, when he found work again.

  The year had been difficult. His arm had been giving him gyp for a long time and the army had finally released him, saying he was medically unfit to be a soldier. He had been fit enough to charge across no-man’s-land against the Siegfried Line in 1918, but now the war was over, the army didn’t want him any more.

  Bastards.

  The dole was a pittance, barely enough to feed a mouse. ‘A home fit for heroes’? More like a country fit for tramps. At the election two weeks ago, he had voted for Labour and Ramsay MacDonald for the first time. Change was needed, the quicker the better.

  He walked over to the curtains and checked outside. The streets were already dark and the lighterman hadn’t arrived yet to light the gas lamps. He hoped the visitor could find their home on his own.

  As well as the watch, they had sold a few pieces of furniture from upstairs to make sure they had one good Christmas. Tom had his pride, what man didn’t? He was going to make sure his family, and his visitor, had a decent Christmas Eve.

  And besides, he had a job interview at the Post Office next week. Good job, a postman. Letters were always going to be sent. His arm may be kiboshed but his legs were as strong as ever.

  The squeal of brakes outside the house. Norah ran into the parlour, followed by Hetty. He crossed back to the curtains and peered through them.

  A dark figure, looking large in his thick woollen overcoat, was getting out of an enormous car, stopping to help a woman descend. The door of the car was being held open by a chauffeur dressed in a grey uniform.

  ‘That’s a Rolls-Royce, that is. Seen pictures of them.’ John was beside him, peeping round the edge of the curtain.

  A sharp rap on the door.

  Tom froze.

  It was Norah who spoke. ‘Shouldn’t we open it?’

  He stood still for a moment, before clamping his pipe between his teeth, hoisting up his braces and marching out of the parlour to the front door.

  Through the small window he could see a shape distorted by the glass.

  Another rap on the door, this time louder.

  Tom took a deep breath and opened it.

  Harald Kanz stood on the doorstep.

  ‘My old friend Tom, it is so good to see you again.’

  Before Tom could react, the man had folded him in his arms, hugged into the embrace of the warm overcoat.

  He held him tight for twenty seconds before stepping back. ‘You haven’t changed, but you see I have put on a few pounds since our last meeting.’ He patted his large stomach.

  Harald still had his accent; that strange mix of Manchester English and German that Tom remembered so well.

  ‘Where are my manners? Please, let me introduce my wife, Rose.’

  She held out her hand. ‘I received the letter from Harald you sent all those years ago, Mr Wright. As you can see, we managed to stay in touch despite the war.’

  ‘I was the happiest man in the world when Rose agreed to become my wife three years ago.’

  ‘Tom, what are you doing? Please invite Mr Kanz into our home,’ Norah called from the parlour door.

  ‘Call me Harald, please, gnädige Frau.’

  ‘And I’m Rose,’ added his wife.

  Tom stepped aside. ‘Please come in. It’s not much but it’s our home.’

  ‘You do me a great honour, inviting me.’ Harald stepped across the threshold, greeting the children lined up beside the door of the front parlour. ‘And who are these beautiful children?’

  ‘This is Hetty, my eldest; John, who is twelve; and Alice, the youngest.’

  Harald shook each of the children’s hands in turn before he was shown into the parlour. ‘A lovely family room, Tom.’

  He headed straight for the picture of the family above the mantelpiece, staring at it for a long time before saying, ‘And a beautiful family. You are a lucky man.’

  ‘Would you like something to eat?’ said Norah. ‘It’s not much but it’s what we have for Christmas. Goose, carrots, roast potatoes and gravy.’

  ‘And there’s Christmas pudding and custard for afters. I made it six weeks ago,’ said Hetty. ‘With Mother’s help, of course,’ she added, her face reddening.

  ‘That sound wonderful. And to help it down, I have brought some wine, beer and schnapps from Germany.’

  There was a knock on the parlour door. John opened it to find the chauffeur standing in the entrance, carrying parcels and bottles.

  ‘Let us eat your wife’s wonderful supper first, then we will open our presents. Yes?’ said Harald.

  The chauffeur placed his gifts carefully in the corner and left.

  Tom looked around the crowded parlour. The arrival of Harald had been like a whirlwind in the house. A pleasant whirlwind. bringing with him all the joy of Christmas.

  Norah came in with the goose and all the trimmings and laid them on the parlour table. ‘Please, help yourself, Rose.’

  ‘It looks wonderful. A proper Christmas feast.’

  They all tucked in to the food, the children waiting respectfully, if hungrily, for the guests and their parents to eat first. Tom carved the goose, of course, ensuring Harald and Rose received the best bits of the breast and the thigh.

  Afterwards, both guests were stretched out on the sofa.

  Harald patted his stomach. ‘What a wonderful supper. That is the best food I have eaten all year.’

  ‘Some more Christmas pudding, Rose?’

  She smiled and puffed out her cheeks. ‘I couldn’t eat another morsel.’

  ‘Another glass of wine, Harald? Takes me back to France, does drinking wine.’

  Tom topped up both their glasses. Neither Norah nor Rose were drinking.

  ‘And now it is time to open the presents, yes?’ Harald hauled himself off the couch and limped over to the gifts stacked in the corner, selecting one after reading the label. ‘This is for young Alice.’ He handed over the gift.

  ‘What do you say, Alice?’

  ‘Thank you, Mr Kanz.’ She stood there, holding it in her arms.

  ‘Don’t be shy. Please open it.’

  The young girl carefully undid the gold ribbon and the wrapping paper. Inside was a straw basket filled to the brim with different coloured cottons, needles, frames and wools, all perfect for needlework and crochet.

  ‘How did you know?’ gasped Norah.

  Harald touched his nose. ‘I have my secret knowledge, yes? And now for John.’

  The boy didn’t wait, but stood in front of Harald with his arms out.

  ‘My little bird tell me you like cars, John, is that true?’

  The boy nodded.

  ‘Here is my favourite car for you.’

  John ripped open the present to reveal a model of a Rolls-Royce Silver Ghost Tourer.

  The bo
y’s eyes lit up. ’It’s great, thank you, Mr Kanz.’

  ‘This was given to me by Sir Henry Royce himself.’

  The boy took his new car out into the corridor.

  ‘And now we have Hetty, and Tom’s beautiful wife, Norah.’ He passed across two presents.

  ‘I picked out these two silk shawls myself from Afflecks. We can always change them if they are not to your taste.’

  ‘Oh no,’ said Norah, staring at her shawl, ‘it’s beautiful.’ Hetty had already run off to look at hers in the hall mirror, tripping over John, who was racing his car.

  ‘What’s this, Father?’ Alice was holding up a crisp new five-pound note.

  ‘I took the liberty of adding a little something for each child. I hope you don’t mind, Tom. It’s for their education.’

  ‘I couldn’t possibly accept, Harald, the ch—’

  ‘Tom,’ Harald interrupted, ‘I will only waste the money and children should receive a proper education, don’t you think?’

  ‘Yes, but...’

  ‘Good, that’s settled,’ said Rose. ‘Can I help you with the washing up, Norah?’

  ‘I couldn’t possibly...’

  ‘I spent half my life as a housemaid. It’s the one thing I do well.’ She tilted her head to indicate they should leave the parlour.

  Norah understood immediately. ‘Children, go to your rooms and play with your gifts.’

  ‘But, Mother!’

  ‘Up you go.’

  In a minute the men were alone in the parlour, sipping their schnapps and staring into the red embers of the fire.

  ‘You’ve been too kind, Harald,’ Tom finally said.

  ‘No, it was you who was kind that night before Christmas.’

  Tom smiled. ’You would have done the same.’

  ‘I still remember that day out in no-man’s-land. Perhaps the best day of my war.’

  ‘The best day of anybody’s war.’

  ‘I was badly wounded the following year at Ypres. My officer, Captain von Kutzow, was killed in the same action.’ He took a swallow of schnapps. ‘Myself and Rose can’t have children, but she married me anyway.’

  ‘Sorry to hear it, Harald.’

  A moment’s silence between them.

  ‘But we enjoy our life. And, in many ways, being invalided out of the army was the best thing that ever happened to me. I opened a garage in Dresden and now have over a hundred workers. We also have the licence to sell Rolls-Royces in Germany. Mister Benz is not happy. It’s why I am visiting Manchester and Crewe. What about you, Tom?’

  Tom shrugged his shoulders. ‘Wounded twice, but managed to get through. It’s not been easy, Harald, but we survived. We survived.’

  He swirled the clear liquid around his glass. On the mantelpiece, the clock ticked remorselessly on.

  ‘Remember Harry?’ Tom eventually said.

  ‘The footballer?’

  ‘Lost his left leg on the Somme, they amputated it. He never recovered, took to drink. I heard he killed himself two years ago.’ Tom was silent for a moment.

  ‘And Bert,’ he continued. ‘He died with Captain Lawson in March 1915. Funny thing is, Bert was carrying his officer’s body back to our lines when he was hit. Beneath all the show and bluster he was a brave man, a true soldier.’

  ‘Too many good men died.’

  Tom raised his glass. ‘To the soldiers.’

  Harald raised his glass to and drank, finishing his schnapps. ‘And I didn’t forget you, Tom, I have a present for you too.’ He handed over the last parcel.

  Tom put his glass down and took the square parcel, staring at it in his hands.

  ‘Please open it, Tom.’

  Slowly, carefully, Tom removed the ribbon and the wrapping, pulling out a leather football with a Christmas-tree label attached to the lacing.

  There, in that small front parlour, with its ticking clock and dying fire, Tom finally started to sob for all those who would never return and the innocence of the Christmas Truce that was lost for ever.

  His friend, once his enemy, put his arm around his shoulders and held him close.

  On the mantelpiece, the clock ticked on.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  Sunday, December 24, 2017 – Christmas Eve

  Cheshire Military Museum, Chester

  Jayne peered into the file. Inside was a letter addressed to the curator and postmarked April 4, 1967.

  ‘Apparently, this was sent to us not long after Mrs Lawson donated her husband’s diary,’ said Reg.

  Jayne pulled out a single sheet of paper from the envelope. The handwriting was weak and fragile, the letters of each sentence shaky and cramped on the page. She began to read out loud.

  Dear Sir,

  Further to the donation of my husband’s diaries to the museum, I am reminded of a quite peculiar occurrence that happened in the days before Christmas 1923.

  I received a visit from a small, rotund man with a peculiar accent - a mixture of Manchester slang spoken with a pronounced German twang. His name, as I remember it, was Harald Kanz. A strange fellow he was too.

  He sat in my living room and talked of my husband. Well, you can imagine my surprise at a German saying he knew my husband. I have never forgiven them for his death, and the death of my brother at Passchendaele in 1917. My first instincts were to ask him to leave, but he was a persistent fellow and gradually told me his story.

  He was one of the German soldiers who took part in the Christmas Truce that my husband mentions in his diary. I’m sure you have read the page. Apparently, my husband and his officer, a Captain von Kutzow, became friends on that day. His officer died in April 1915, not long after the truce. He told me his officer’s dying words were to return something to my husband. The something turned out to be my husband’s Lancashire County Cricket membership card.

  I don’t know if you are aware, but my husband and I both loved cricket. Many a happy day was spent in the Ladies’ stand at Old Trafford, watching them play. I haven’t been back there since the end of the war, it brings back too many sad memories.

  Harold Kanz said he was also going to visit another friend he had met that day. Private Tom Wright. I must admit that all this talk of friendship between the opposite sides unnerved me. But I suppose a strange bond existed between the men in those early days of the war.

  He told me he wanted to return some personal effects to the man. I found out that these effects were a football and a Christmas-tree label. They seemed inconsequential to me, but the man said they were as important to him as the membership card was to my husband.

  For the next fifteen years, I would receive a Christmas card every year from him, always arriving on December 23. After 1938, though, the Christmas cards stopped. I don’t know whether it was because he had died or he had suffered under Mr Hitler’s regime. Whichever it was, I never heard from him again.

  I have enclosed the membership card in the envelope. I don’t think it is interesting enough to go on display, but I find the story of how it was returned to my family fascinating.

  Thank you for your kind words on my donation to the Cheshire Military Museum. My husband loved the Regiment and I see it as only fitting that his wartime effects should find a home there.

  I remain, etc,

  Joy Lawson

  Jayne upended the envelope. From it fell a small square red book, about two inches by two inches. Printed on the cover in gold letters was ‘Lancashire County Cricket Club Member 1914’.

  She opened it. Inside were the usual rules and regulations for membership, plus a fixture list for the 1914 season. The back page had a light brown stain. Blood, perhaps.

  ‘So it was one of the Germans who returned the football and the label, that’s how my great-grandfather had them,’ shouted David.

  ‘And they remained carefully stored away in a box in the attic until you found them a week ago,’ said Jayne

  ‘Wait till I tell Chris, he’ll be so happy.’

  ‘It can be your present to
him tomorrow on Christmas Day,’ said David.

  ‘Right, Dad, brilliant.’

  Reg coughed. ‘What are you going to do with the objects? You know they are quite valuable, not mentioning the importance they have as historical artefacts.’

  Jayne glanced across to David.

  The man scratched his head. ‘I don’t know. We’ve only just found out what they are.’

  ‘Let’s talk to Chris tomorrow, Dad. Let him decide.’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  Monday, December 25, 2017 – Christmas Day

  Christies Hospital, Manchester

  Chris was already sitting up in bed waiting for them. Around him the ward had been decorated with all the trimmings of Christmas; red glitter balls, a silver Christmas tree, dashing Santas with laden sleighs, two elves naughtily playing and a rainbow of streamers, balloons and shining stars.

  The young man’s chemo had been postponed until after Christmas so he could enjoy the holiday with his family and friends before he went into isolation.

  ‘Merry Christmas, Chris,’ his father shouted from the door, carrying the presents on to the ward.

  Martin rushed in to to hug his brother. ‘Chris, we’ve been investigating, like real detectives. Tom Wright fought in the war.’

  ‘Which one?’

  ‘The First World War. He was wounded twice.’

  ‘Calm down, Martin, don’t get Chris too excited,’ cautioned his father. ‘Let’s give him the Christmas presents first.’

  ‘Is it about the things we found in the attic? Are they valuable?’ asked Chris.

  ‘They are, but the value is more in what they tell us about one of your ancestors.’ Jayne sat on the end of the bed.

  ‘Chris, this is Jayne Sinclair, she’s the genealogist who’s been performing all the research for us.’

  Chris’s eyes lit up. ’Wow. You’ve found out all about the silver button?’

  ‘We think so. Of course, we can’t be absolutely certain, the events were over a hundred years ago, but we’re pretty sure what happened. I’ll tell you all about it after you open your presents.’