Women at War

by Jan Casey

  As she went about her daily chores, she felt growing resentment as endless questions crowded her mind. How would the childhood rapport between her and Walther have developed if it had been allowed to evolve seamlessly? If the war and the mistrust that was part of it had not happened? She daydreamed about living, in due course, in the doctor’s house here in Ulm with Walther; about him working alongside his Vater until the practice became his to run; about taking it in turns with Fred and Viola to visit each other in their chosen countries. She imagined them, as a couple, eating together, sleeping together, making children together, creating a garden together. But most often, and this made her want to sit and cry, she pictured them laughing together. That was how their lives could have been. That was how they would have faced everything and anything together. Hitler had so much to be ashamed of and robbing people of their laughter was not the least of his guilty actions.

  *

  It was late and Annie had no idea where Fred was or when he would return. She was fuming and frantic. They had an agreement, they had discussed it, drawn it up and promised each other they would abide by it. She had kept her side of it, but was convinced Fred was hiding something from her.

  Three weeks ago, Fred had told her he was finding it difficult without the direction of a job or studies to attend to. Also, he said, people were beginning to question why he hadn’t joined the army. Two members of the SS had stopped him near the rail station and asked him why he was not in uniform. Fred told her that he began to sweat like a pig; he was sure the officers could smell his fear. Whilst it might excuse him to say he was half-British, that would only have made matters worse. So he told them he had been unwell and was waiting for permission from the doctor to be able to join up. He said that in his alarm he forced himself to cough and rubbed his knee with vigour at the same time. That sounded hilarious, and she hoped that one day Fred would mime the incident to her and Viola to make them rock with laughter, but in this time and place it was not funny at all and she had been unnerved by it.

  They let him go without asking for his address or proof of his temporary dispensation, but who knew about the next time.

  After that, he said he’d been thinking for some time of trying to get work at the university in Munich. He wasn’t sure if there would be anything available for him there that might render him exempt from fighting, but he was going to try. He came home on time after his first visit, sounding heartened and looking more galvanised than he had since the war started. The rest of that week followed the same pattern, although his reports became more and more vague. The second week he said he had made good contacts and thought there was something for him in the pipeline. This week, his movements had been worryingly erratic and underhand. If he came home tonight, and how could she be sure he would, she determined to confront him until he told her what was going on. It would be most unfair of him not to do so.

  It was 1.30 a.m. by the time Fred tiptoed into the house and made straight for the stairs and the sanctuary of his bedroom. He must have thought she was tucked up and oblivious to his recklessness. When she flung open the living room door he looked as though he was being faced by a harridan – she was wearing a nightdress with one of Oma’s shawls over her shoulders; her hair was unpinned and she was shaking with anger and worry. They stood and stared at each other for a minute until Annie put her finger on her lips and pointed upstairs, then beckoned him to follow her to the living room.

  She closed the door behind them, stood in front of it and faced Fred with her arms crossed over her chest. Fred fiddled with the buttons on his jacket, smoothed his beard, looked towards the kitchen and then at the curtains. It became apparent to Annie that she would have to start the conversation, but try as she might, she couldn’t hold her nerve and started to cry instead. Fred took a step towards her, his arms wide but she couldn’t bear it and batted him away. He closed his eyes and when he opened them he looked helpless.

  ‘Fred,’ she said at last. ‘Why are you doing this? After all our plans to keep safe.’

  He stood mute in front of her.

  ‘Fred,’ she pleaded with him. ‘Please try to think how I feel. Sitting here night after night, wondering and worrying. You must tell me what’s going on.’

  He fidgeted a bit more then asked if they could sit. Annie was too exhausted to do anything else, so flopped onto the couch, pulling a blanket over her legs. Fred sat opposite in Oma’s overstuffed chair. He took a deep breath then said he was ashamed of breaking his side of their agreement but had done so to protect her.

  ‘From what?’

  By way of a reply, he looked away and shook his head. ‘I am sorry for upsetting you so much, dear Annie,’ he said. ‘But I cannot tell you what is afoot. I will not implicate you.’

  Her feelings of frustration increased until she could feel them boiling over. ‘I am implicated regardless,’ she exploded. ‘As you are in everything I say and that’s why we agreed to keep each other informed of our whereabouts. Remember,’ she shouted, ‘we said that we would stand together and if it came to it, go down together.’ Besides, she thought, not knowing was so much worse. The anxiety, the vivid imaginings, the restlessness, the panic that froze her to the spot.

  Fred did not rise to her anger, which only served to inflame her. His hands were folded in his lap; his legs were crossed at the knees. Again he shook his head. They sat in silence for a few minutes, then he leaned towards her and said he understood her grievance and that yes, if circumstances were the other way around, he would be deeply offended. So he would compromise.

  ‘I do not want a compromise,’ she huffed.

  ‘It is the best I can do. At this point.’ he said. ‘And keep your voice down, I implore you.’

  He explained that from now on he would tell her where he was going and what time he would be back, but would not always be able to tell her who he was with. ‘I am sorry, Annie, but for your safety I cannot disclose more.’

  ‘But you expect me, I suppose, to stick to all our rules like a little servant girl?’ she spat out.

  ‘Yes, I do. And one day you will understand,’ he said, standing to bring the argument to a close.

  But she had to ask him one more thing. She had to know if who he was seeing and what he was doing involved the Edelweiss Pirates.

  ‘Similar,’ was his simple reply.

  She wasn’t sure if this information made her feel better or worse. But the knowledge ignited a tiny shard of pride in her chest.

  Probably hoping to muster some solidarity after their battle, they went together to tend to Oma before they went to their beds. The minute Annie saw her, she knew something was very wrong and rushed to her side. ‘Oma, Oma!’ Annie flung herself at her grandmother, terrified to feel her sweating and to hear her mumbling and calling out the names of her husband and children, the clatter in her chest worsening with every breath she fought for.

  Fred ran for Herr Doctor and Annie held tight to Oma’s dear parchment-thin hands, listening as her out-breaths became more and more shallow and her in-breaths like pebbles being slung around in a bag. She told herself she must remain calm and controlled and help Oma to feel safe and comfortable as she slipped from this world to the next – as Oma had helped her so many times in the past.

  In Oma’s last moment she opened her eyes, looked at Annie with recognition and affection and smiled. She would hold on to that forever.

  *

  The funeral was arranged. All the family attended, most of her cousins in some kind of repulsive Nazi uniform, goose-stepping behind the coffin and giving each other the hideous Heil Hitler salute. Annie and Fred never initiated the ridiculous one-armed address, but they had to return it many times over the course of the day. Whenever Annie was backed into that corner, as she thought of it, she inwardly counteracted the salute with a rebellious action – an imaginary raspberry, a two-fingered wave, a cross of the eyes, a swear word. She knew it had no effect whatsoever, but it made her feel better.

  In a blur, fami
ly, friends and neighbours filled Oma’s house for food and drink, provided by the regime, after the ceremony. Annie was so distraught that she went through the motions of being hostess as if in a fevered dream. Whilst wiping her nose with one hand and clearing away plates with the other, she became aware of Horst touching everything once again, opening and closing cabinet drawers and cupboard doors. He sidled up to her and asked what she and Fred planned to do now. Annie couldn’t think what he meant; all she could think about was how she was going to miss Oma, and said so.

  ‘Will you stay here?’ Horst asked. ‘Or can the house be put to better use?’

  Fred must have overheard because he came to stand beside her. Horst repeated his question.

  ‘Do you mean Oma and Opa’s house should be handed over to the Party?’ Fred asked.

  ‘Perhaps,’ Horst said, his hands behind his back. ‘It would make a wonderful billet. And…’ He looked from them to Herr Doctor and Frau Wilhelm with an almost imperceptible narrowing of his eyes. ‘You could live elsewhere.’

  Annie opened her mouth to ask what he was alluding to, when she felt Fred’s elbow brush hers. ‘Well,’ Fred said, ‘if that is what the entire family agrees, then of course it must be so. Shall we start by asking your father’s opinion?’

  Horst reddened and his nostrils flared. For a beat he was silent, then he acquiesced with a slight nod. ‘It was merely an idea, my dear Frederick. Of course the house is yours to live in until…’ He waved his hand aimlessly, turned on his heel and made for the buffet table. Annie was beginning to see that perhaps Horst was full of bluff – all mouth and no trousers. At least until such time as he became so confident that he followed through on his threats.

  The reception finished and everyone went home. Annie and Fred sat and stared at each other, their eyes red and handkerchiefs soggy. Annie knew the flowers would wilt very soon. The neighbours would stop bringing them meals to heat on the stove. Oma’s bed would be changed and remade for visitors. Fred would resume his daily journey to Munich and Annie’s grieving would begin.

  *

  At last Fred took Annie into his confidence. Late one evening he took a wad of well-thumbed papers from his inside pocket, unfolded them and without a word, placed them in front of her. She looked at him for explanation, but he left her alone with the typewritten pages. Reading through the top sheet, she gasped aloud and clutched the essays to her chest. Her heart was pounding and she felt both terror-stricken and overjoyed at the same time.

  Three powerful sermons written and delivered by a Catholic bishop were in her hands. She read one after the other, then started the first again. She could not believe it; someone in authority was protesting about Gestapo terror, condemning euthanasia, forced sterilisation and the concentration camps; attacking the regime for their part in the disappearances of countless people without trial, and the trepidation the Party had instilled in everyone. Most of all, he vilified the Third Reich for reducing decent and loyal citizens to inertia for fear of ending up in a prison cell or concentration camp and thus undermining belief in justice and reducing the German people to cowardice.

  This wonderful man, who she hoped in time would be honoured as a saint, went so far as to write that the German people were not being destroyed by Allied bombing but by negative forces from within their own government.

  In her reverie, she did not hear Fred come to stand behind her, until his hand on her shoulder made her jump. When they looked at each other, she could see the tears in his eyes that mirrored hers. ‘Fred,’ she whispered. ‘How did you get these documents?’

  He sat next to her. ‘They are being copied and circulated widely.’

  ‘Legally? Surely not.’

  He shook his head. ‘No, they are being moved secretly from one underground group to another.’ He lowered his voice. ‘I even heard that the Allies got hold of some copies and have dropped them amongst German troops, but I don’t know if that’s possible.’ He shrugged his shoulders.

  ‘Has this hero been arrested? Or executed?’

  Fred rubbed his hands together and smiled. ‘No, and that’s the most marvellous thing. The regime dare not as it would completely alienate the Catholic population and they do not want to risk that. But he is under what can only be called house arrest.’

  Annie flipped the pages over again and reread parts of the sermons; every sentiment in each sentence was inspiring. Fred watched her in silence. Then he coughed and said, ‘That is why we must do all we can to spread and expand upon what he has started.’

  Annie’s head jolted up as if pulled from behind; she could feel her eyes bulge. ‘We?’

  ‘Are you in?’ her brother asked.

  Images of Oma and Opa went through her mind, followed by pictures of Walther and Horst, Nazi salutes, salt in milk bottles, the Edelweiss Pirates, Viola, the Allies, bombers, her secret journal and the brave Catholic bishop. But they were mere flashes and Fred would have only been aware of her immediate nod of absolute and complete conviction.

  7

  February 1942

  Viola stubbed out her cigarette with force until she was satisfied that it was beyond revival. She sat and watched it smoulder and took a deep breath past the heaviness in her chest that she’d felt since seeing Mum off at the train station. She had always hated saying goodbye to anyone she loved, but it had become much harder since Fred left and the war began. Now she had to work hard to keep her emotions in check.

  Dad had not wanted Mum to spend a long weekend in London. He said it was ridiculous enough that Viola was living in the capital when she could have remained relatively safe in Cambridge, or moved back home to Cirencester, let alone having to worry about Mum becoming an easy target for Jerry bombs as well. But Mum had insisted, in her quiet manner, that she wanted to visit her daughter and Dad had given up and acceded. The weekend was arranged and what a marvellous time it had been.

  Mum had not been the least bit anxious or daunted, certainly not that she’d let on. Carrying herself with calm dignity, she stepped around bomb debris and burst water mains, sheltered in doorways during air raids, showed an interested sympathy for the grotesque damage to buildings and people, paled a bit when a hit was taken close to the Savoy where they were having a lovely high tea and concentrated on Viola and their time together. Viola aspired to be the image of her mother in those respects.

  Most of the artwork and exhibits had been evacuated to places of safety, but they visited what was left to browse in the British Museum and the V&A and Viola was most surprised when Mum said she was interested in seeing a small exhibition at the Tate: Paintings, Drawings and Sculptures of Nudes by Contemporary Artists. When they began, arm in arm, to make their way around the gallery, Viola could feel a flush blossoming under her collar. She and her mum had never discussed the differences between the male and female anatomy, or what happened between men and women, or how babies were conceived and born or any of the intimacies of life. But she appraised the artwork with cool objectivity in contrast to the heat Viola was sure her mother could feel rising from her cheeks and under her arms. She stood in front of one exhibit for what felt like ages, taking in a pen and ink of a young man lying on his back, his hands under his head and his knees splayed in a devil may care attitude; despite the cool, preserving temperature in the gallery, Viola had to remove her coat and gloves and surreptitiously wipe the glow from her face.

  During all that, Mum kept up a commentary about the artwork, as was her habit when visiting museums, but Viola could not manage to join in with her usual studied remarks, as was hers. Instead, she hummed and hawed in what she hoped were the right places and felt like an absolute fool. But that particular drawing received no judgement or dictum from Mum until she peered closer, then without taking her eyes from the sketch, said, ‘Well, you’d need Dad’s magnifying glass to see that young fellow’s manhood, wouldn’t you?’

  Viola couldn’t quite believe she’d heard correctly and stood stock-still, as if in shock until Mum turned to her wit
h a huge, brazen grin on her face and said, ‘Don’t you think so, Vi?’

  After another minute of inertia, Viola began to giggle. Mum joined in and they had to leave the museum before their shrieks of laughter got them thrown out. Viola had thought the subject matter might re-emerge in a more serious manner, but the incident was never mentioned again. What a wonderful moment it had been and things between them seemed to shift slightly after that. Viola couldn’t quite pinpoint the difference, but decided it was something to do with Mum perceiving her as a woman in her own right, not merely as her daughter.

  Viola was pleased that they chose the Wigmore for a concert rather than the RAH as Fred had been given the second name of Albert after Queen Victoria’s consort and that raw reminder would have put a damper on the evening for her. She would have been unable to think of anything except the fact that Victoria got to have her husband, so why couldn’t she?

  They walked in Hyde Park, bought a few little things in Selfridges and Harrod’s, slept together in Viola’s single bed, talked about books and the boys and Fred. Once, Mum asked about her job, but Viola had to remind her, with a fingertip on her closed lips, that she had signed the Official Secrets Act.

  And then the weekend was over. Neither of them would allow themselves to cry or be sentimental when they said goodbye at Paddington, most certainly not when the station was packed with mothers leaving their tots to be evacuated to the safety of the country. But they hugged each other for longer than usual and pressed each other’s hands through the train window until the last possible moment.

  And now Viola was alone in the flat, lighting another Player’s Navy Cut to help take away the pain of missing Mum – and Fred.