by Jan Casey
The tallest of the pair, who wore a beautiful, low-cut, shimmering burgundy dress that drew attention to her plump cleavage, extended her hand and said, ‘Yes, it was. Pity it had to finish. Ann by the way.’
‘Carol.’ The other girl nodded to Viola.
‘New?’ Viola said. ‘Our paths haven’t crossed yet.’
They both nodded. ‘Russian,’ Carol said.
‘And I’m German,’ Ann said. ‘Well, not German, thank God. But that’s the language I deal with.’
Before she thought better of it, Viola answered, ‘Oh, me too. I suppose our shifts haven’t coincided yet, but they will do, believe me.’ She smiled. ‘I’m Viola,’ she said.
They both visibly bristled; Viola would swear later to Lillian that she could see the hairs on their arms stand on end. The girls stumbled over their greetings, mumbling something about how pleased they were to meet her when probably they were merely glad to have their curiosity sated about the woman among their ranks who was fretting and worrying about the boyfriend who was living with the enemy.
Still, as the year rolled into spring, Viola did become more accepting of the situation. She practised being decorous and gracious, like Mum, but also aloof towards those who rebuffed her. There was nothing she could do about it, so good luck to them. On the other hand, she took a leaf out of Lillian, June and Harriet’s book and tried to enjoy life with what was left at her bestowal.
Living by that premise, Viola made more of an effort with her appearance, as she had done when Fred was with her. As she had proved to herself, months before, that discipline paid off in terms of her self-confidence. Now, she rarely turned down an invitation either, having determined that almost whatever she did in the company of others passed the time in a pleasant and agreeable manner. She danced whenever asked, but followed her own rule not to accept more than two requests from the same man during the same evening.
On some occasions she found she quite enjoyed herself, whether in a handhold with a young man or with one of her friends. It was fun and as she suspected, provided her with a few hours here and there when she wasn’t dwelling on circumstances she had no control over. On others, when she left the club on Lillian’s arm, loneliness engulfed her and her glow from the lively evening vanished as quickly as a ration of tea.
Lillian looked confused when Viola sat on the arm of a chair late one night and wept. ‘Whatever is the matter, Vi?’ she asked. ‘I thought we’d had a lovely evening.’
Viola accepted the arm around her shoulders and snubbed her nose with the heel of her hand. ‘We did. Really.’
‘Well, what’s brought this on?’
‘Everything and nothing, I suppose.’ She sighed. ‘The contrasts, I think.’ It was music followed by air raid sirens. Or silence. Light then darkness. Heads held high and bright smiles that made way for looking down at feet with concentration. Pretty dresses on show that were then hidden away beneath shabby, grey coats. The perfectly acceptable men. None of whom were the perfect Fred.
Lillian rubbed her friend’s arm. ‘Yes, the contradictions are too stark,’ she agreed.
*
Eisenhower took command of the US military operations from London and in celebration, numerous clubs decked out their shadowy premises with red, white and blue and invited the American GIs to mingle with the locals, as if they hadn’t been doing so freely all along. Below stairs in Fitzrovia, Viola found herself enjoying a second dance with a tall, sandy-haired American staff sergeant to a jazz rendition of ‘I’ll Never Smile Again’. She was wearing her favourite navy-blue dress – pinched in at the waist with pintucks at the neckline – newish faux pearl ear clips, black heels and stockings on which anyone would have been hard-pressed to see the mends. Her hair had recently had that long-awaited perm and she felt good about herself.
‘My name’s Mike,’ the staff sergeant said when the number finished. ‘Where are you sitting?’
Viola pointed to a pile of coats, bags, drinks and ashtrays under which there was a table requisitioned by her and her friends. Mike went to the bar to get her a Dubonnet cocktail and when he was walking back towards her, he passed under a sidelight and with a sharp intake of breath, she realised that his hair was made up of the same brindle streaks as Fred’s. It was uncanny – she had never encountered anyone else with that colouring.
Taking a sip of her drink, she was mesmerised by his hair and couldn’t stop herself from staring at it through the corner of her eye. He asked her about her job and she drew her finger across her mouth. Then for good measure she said, ‘And I have a fiancé. Or an almost-fiancé.’
‘I thought there might be something like that going on,’ he said, nodding towards the ring that had somehow worked its way to the outside of her dress where it sparkled and danced in the light.
Fiddling with the necklace, she repositioned it back into its accustomed place. ‘So,’ she continued, ‘I never dance with the same man more than twice in one evening.’
‘Then I’ve had it,’ he replied, drumming his fingers on the table in a rather arrogant glib manner. Soft tufts of hair sprouted along his fingers and they, too, were the same mixture of red, blond and brown as Fred’s.
He produced a packet of Lucky Strikes and holding them towards her asked, ‘Well, are you game for one of these?’
She nodded her agreement and when she leaned towards the match he offered, she realised that her head came to the exact spot on his chest where it had rested so many times on Fred. He smelled like Fred, too. Her heart felt it would stop and she didn’t so much rise to the thrill of it as sink deep into the comfort.
8
July 1942
When their grief allowed them to feel able, Annie and Fred cleaned every surface and corner and cubbyhole of the house. And the things they found were in turn heart-wrenching, baffling and amusing. An encyclopaedia with a single white rose squashed between two stained pages. An old no-longer-necessary dog food bowl right at the back of a kitchen cupboard. A painting of Neuschwanstein Castle that used to hang, lopsided, at the top of the landing. But still Oma’s presence remained – a whiff of her talcum powder, a scrap of her handwriting, a sweater at the back of a cupboard, an echo of her giggle or her last jarring breaths. When they came across a box of letters they had written over the years from England, they read all of them aloud to each other, sitting on the floor, doubling over with laughter which turned, on a childish phrase or misspelling or pencil drawing to tears. Not being able to bring themselves to throw them away, they replaced the envelopes in the order they found them and lifted them into the attic. ‘We’ll forget about them there,’ Annie said. ‘And when we next come across them we’ll probably feel able to put them on the fire.’
‘Yes, good idea,’ Fred said.
But Annie doubted that would ever be the case.
Then Fred resumed his daily trips into Munich and Annie waited with impatience to join the group he’d promised to involve her in. She was desperate to know what he did and that urgency made her daily tasks seem more banal. Pushing herself up from kneeling, she mentally ticked off dusting from the list of chores she had to get through every day. She tidied, hung washing on the line, scoured the sink and tackled the shopping that she detested so much, brought it back and tried to turn it into something edible. All of it was undertaken within the dark enveloping cloud of grief.
So Annie pleaded with Fred to allow her to accompany him, but all he said was, ‘Yes, yes, yes, Annie,’ in a sing-song voice. ‘You will be summonsed, but in good time. When I deem it safe.’
‘Oh,’ she said aloud, washing the frame of the back door. ‘The wait is driving me mad.’
She was beginning to feel so irked, that in a moment of bravado she thought she would disclose her writing to Fred, thinking that he might consider her brave and oblivious to danger and would, therefore, beg her to join whatever it was he was doing in Munich.
But thank goodness she gave herself time to think before she acted, as she came to the conclusion
that he would take one look at her beloved journal, tear it from her grip and rip it apart with his hands or dash it to the fire. So she would continue to let him think she kept a simple diary and that the entries contained nothing more explosive than the weather, flowers and kittens she might see on her walks into Ulm, recipes and her burgeoning love for Walther.
8 July 1942
We have not seen hide nor hair of the gloating Horst and I hope that means he has had all leave cancelled for the foreseeable future.
But it also means that Walther is away for interminable periods of time. Before he was sent with numerous other medics to the Eastern Front, he called on me a number of times, either to take me to a café or for a walk. We chatted for hours and I felt so proud and important when he took my arm and threaded it through his. Twice he asked me to have a meal with his Mutter and Vater and once he stayed to eat with me and Fred. I can feel him drawing nearer and nearer to me and I can sense he hopes his feelings are reciprocated. Well, they most certainly are. When he turns up on my doorstep, my stomach flips of its own accord and when his gaze meets mine during a conversation round the dinner table, we smile at each other as if there is no one else present.
When Walther received his posting papers, he brought them for me to read. I have never seen him so forlorn, the dimple in his cheek all but flattened against his drooping face, and I thought it might be an opportunity for me to pry around the idea of where his heart lies in terms of the Nazi regime. I feigned surprise at his reaction to the notification he held in his hand and asked him if he were not proud to be doing his duty for the Fuhrer.
He answered my question by asking if it were not for Oma, would I be here in Germany? I felt the blood rush to my face and tried to give him a sensible reply, but was unable to get past my stuttering and muttering.
He bobbed down so he could look into my face, a gesture I love, and held my hand. He told not to be afraid as mine and Fred’s behaviour and demeanour have made it common knowledge that as we happen to find ourselves here, we have become loyal to the Axis. Then he smiled at me and said we may have fooled everyone else, but he didn’t believe that to be the case.
I tried to remain composed, my eyes on my lap, but I felt sure he could see my heart thumping against my thin, summer blouse. Other than this journal, which I have faith will stay well hidden, there was not one bit of evidence to condemn me or Fred.
We sat inert for what felt like minutes. I didn’t know what to say, so said nothing. Walther watched me, then leaned towards me and pulled me into the deep recesses of his chest, where I am compelled to say I fit perfectly.
He repeated that I should not be afraid and then said he could see into my heart. His heart, he assured me, bears the same witness as mine. He kissed me goodbye, curled his lip in disdain when he looked down at his uniform and left for his posting.
Walther had asked Annie to call on his Mutter and Vater from time to time so she decided, after he’d been gone for a week, to knock on their door and have coffee and a chat with Frau Wilhelm. The older woman looked taken aback to see Annie on her doorstep, but when they got over the preliminaries of whether or not Annie was unwell and needed her husband, she invited Annie into the immaculate house.
‘Herr Doctor is in his examining room.’ Frau Wilhelm nodded towards the part of the house that served as a surgery, which Annie knew well from childhood sore throats and tummy upsets.
Leading the way, Frau Wilhelm took them past the cuckoo clock and the stairs and into the sitting room – all familiar to Annie, but she felt shy without Walther by her side. ‘I hope you don’t mind,’ she said. ‘But Walther asked me to pay you a visit or two whilst he’s away.’
‘Oh, he didn’t say,’ Frau Wilhelm said. ‘But isn’t he a wonderful son? And of course, you are always welcome. Shall we take coffee in the garden?’ she asked.
‘That would be lovely,’ Annie said.
The garden was as neat and tidy as the house, clearly organised and tended by this woman who was as dedicated to being the local doctor’s wife as her husband was to being the doctor. Whilst she waited for Frau Wilhelm to bring out the tray, Annie became engrossed in what she would change inside and out if she were to inherit her title. It made her feel naughty, but the daydream was very enticing and entertaining.
The curtains would have to go, beautiful and plush as they were. They must have been expensive when first made, but now they looked much too heavily brocaded and rather dated. She wondered if Frau Wilhelm had thought of changing them for something lighter, but perhaps that wouldn’t be wise when they had to black out every night anyway. The carpet was of the same ilk. Swirls of muddy greens and browns and burgundy in a pattern that was difficult to discern. In the kitchen she would have the tinted glass in the cupboard doors replaced with solid wood so that no one could see into the shelving that would no doubt become untidy under her command.
She shielded her face from the strong mid-morning sun with her hand. Frau Wilhelm had given over most of her flowers for vegetables, as had all of them. Hers were weedless and marked with handwritten sticks to delineate one germinating edible from another. If the garden were hers to landscape, she would find room for a willow like the one in Viola’s family home; it was the epitome of grace and calm. Other than that, she thought she would be happy to live here and organise the house and Walther’s life. The door behind her rattled open and she gave herself an inward slap on the hand. There was so much more to be thinking about than her and Walther – the war, rationing, Fred. But, she reasoned, there was no harm in sometimes giving in to daydreams, too.
‘Your hair suits you,’ Frau Wilhelm said. ‘Walther told me you had it cut.’
She was pleased that Walther was mentioning her to his mother. Her hand wandered to the ends of her hair. A couple of weeks ago she’d taken a pair of scissors to it and watched as each buttery-coloured strand fell to the floor. She was still getting used to nothing hanging below her ears, but she did feel lighter and liked the natural wave that had appeared. Fred said the change made her look more mature and modern and she could see that for herself, too.
They talked about things that women occupy themselves with. Important things that amount to the very essence of life. But how many times could they discuss what to do with rations, how to ensure water is used wisely so that it lasts, ways to tie a scarf to make a jacket look different, the best technique for darning stockings, how to stop germs from spreading after being in public places. She was not getting any sense of Frau Wilhelm’s political views, until a Focke-Wulf buzzed through the stark, cobalt sky. They stopped their chitchat and craned their necks to take in the sight. Following the course of the silver fuselage until it became a pinprick, their attention was drawn to another two, flying in tandem behind the first.
When Annie looked down, spots of dark appeared before her eyes each time she blinked and a mechanical rattle lingered in her ears.
Frau Wilhelm tutted. ‘The brazenness of them,’ she said.
‘Do you mean…’ Annie pretended not to understand the word that had been used. ‘Their bravery?’
Frau Wilhelm turned on her, her usual poised mien replaced by a look of effrontery. ‘No, Fraulein. I mean brazenness.’ Then immediately her polished veil of tact and diplomacy slipped into place again. ‘Pay no attention to me, please, I beg you,’ she said. ‘Herr Doctor and I are still jaded from the last war. And of course, we are getting old and set in our ways. We had come to enjoy sitting in our garden without crude interruptions.’
‘Of course,’ Annie said, realising that Fred had been correct in his assertion that everyone was wary of everyone else. No, not merely frightened or scared but terrified, as the Catholic bishop sermonised, that by passing the mildest of comments any one of them could end up betrayed and rotting in a prison cell or concentration camp. So much for justice.
‘However,’ Frau Wilhelm was saying, ‘the garden isn’t as pleasant to sit in as it used to be.’ She pointed towards the left, where tomatoes
were ripening. ‘White, pink, red and yellow roses used to grow against that whole wall. The white ones had the most exquisite perfume. They were beautiful and filled the air with the most marvellous scent. Perhaps you remember?’
Annie thought back to one summer when she sat feeling sorry for herself in the surgery whilst Herr Doctor treated her for a blister that had gone septic. The windows of the surgery were open and the smells of summer had wafted in; dry earth, heat on paving slabs, ripening strawberries, wheat and the roses. Oma had been sitting in the chair next to her as Herr Doctor covered her heel with thick ointment and a dressing, Walther was bouncing a ball against a wall, waiting for her to be sent out. Somewhere in the distance a tractor purred and children laughed. She’d felt safe and sleepy. ‘Yes, now you mention it, I do.’
‘But one must count one’s blessings,’ Frau Wilhelm said. ‘Always. We seem to have gotten off lightly in comparison to Hamburg or Kassel. Have you read about what is happening in our beloved Berlin?’
‘Munich, too,’ Annie offered, ‘is in a terrible state. So Fred tells me.’
‘Well, I suppose it’s all a matter of comparison,’ Walther’s mother said. ‘I have been to both cities to meet family members and Munich is nothing like the wreck that remains of Berlin.’ She drummed her fingers on the arm of her chair and looked into the distance. ‘Yes, we are lucky here, so far. Believe me.’
She went on to tell Annie that when Herr Doctor had been studying in Berlin, she often went to visit him for the weekend. ‘What a city,’ she said. ‘I am sorry for you and Walther and other young people who have never had the chance to see it in its prime. The clubs and music and dancing. Lights everywhere. Beautiful clothes worn by beautiful people. More than plenty of everything. Alcohol, cigarettes, food, passion.’ She patted Annie’s hand. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I am sorry for your generation on that account. And many others.’
