Women at War

by Jan Casey

  I request that you come home so I can talk to you about my decision for your future.

  Your father.

  Viola had never felt so terrified. Her legs were stiff with fear and she had to fight for every breath, but she couldn’t seem to force air past the top of her chest. If Dad disowned her she would be tossed aside and left to negotiate her way through this terrible trauma on her own. But Mum wouldn’t let that happen – or would she have a choice? There would only be Lillian left for help and advice, and perhaps George, but they were as ill prepared, with no finances behind them, as was she.

  After reading the letter twice, Viola tore it up into tiny pieces and tossed it on the fire. On the same day, she also received a letter from Mum, explaining in more detail what Dad’s reaction had been and preparing her for his questions and lectures when she arrived home. The most painful of his decrees being that the boys must not learn of their sister’s disgrace.

  Robert had acted in the precise way Viola had predicted. He had signed up for an engineering degree at Oxford, allowed himself to be taken there and settled into his rooms, then joined the RAF the following day. Mum’s letter said that Dad felt as if, one by one, his children were betraying him. Therefore, she wrote, the hurtful things he said in his letter to Viola also pertained, in his mind, to Robert.

  So that weekend she had to go home and face the music. But there would definitely not be any dancing to go with it.

  First there was to be a week of lasts for Viola, which she didn’t realise would be as difficult as they had been.

  She handed in a week’s notice at work, saying that her mother was in need of her at home. What she hadn’t been prepared for was the number of people who stopped by her desk and told her, with genuine sincerity, that they were very sad and disappointed that she had to leave. She loved the job and knew that it was of great service to the war effort, but she was humbled when one junior minister said, ‘You are, by far, our most outstanding German translator.’ Another civil servant shook his head and asked her if she would please reconsider. The next asked if there was a possibility she would return after the crisis at home was resolved.

  ‘Thank you,’ she answered, her voice thin and feeble. ‘But I think it will be a rather long-term situation.’

  A few of the girls clubbed together and bought her two new books, which they signed with messages of good luck. She read them within the first few weeks of being in the home and often took them down from the shelf and looked at them, a reminder of how stunned she’d been to understand that she had been liked, by some of her colleagues at any rate.

  And then the most remarkable thing had occurred. To this day and after all that had happened to her, she still could not believe the coincidence or the good fortune or happenstance or fate or destiny or miracle of the chain of events. She had no idea how to categorise the set of circumstances that fell into her lap and the deep meaning of their outcome for her.

  Late in the afternoon of her penultimate day at work, a civil servant – or some such person – had rushed into the office with a couple of leaflets in his hand. He stood at the door looking frantic; he was jacketless, his tie unknotted, hair falling over his forehead. ‘Miss Baxter?’ His clear, booming voice belied his frenetic façade. ‘I’ve been told to ask for Miss Baxter.’

  Feeling a mixture of pride and agitation, Viola put up her hand and said, ‘I am she.’

  ‘Ah, Miss Baxter.’ The young man made his way to her desk. ‘I have been told that these must be translated immediately by you and only you and that they must take priority and precedence over all other documents.’ He paused to take a breath. ‘I am to give you one hour to type up the transcripts and then take them back personally to the PM. Understood?’

  Viola took the papers from the man’s outstretched hand and nodded. ‘How many copies of each?’ she asked.

  ‘Three, if you please. I’ll wait outside.’

  Viola watched him leave the office with purpose and close the door behind him.

  She opened the leaflets and propped them against her book rest, threaded a fresh sheet of paper into one of her typewriters, set the margins and poised her hands over the keys ready to begin. With the outline of a flower in the top left-hand corner of every page, she had never seen anything like these leaflets before. Reaching for them, she decided that initially she would read them from cover to cover to get the gist of what was written before beginning her translation. They were stained with tea or coffee cup rings and on one there was the imprint of what looked like the sole of a boot. A smear of dried mud swept from edge to edge of the first document and on the inside cover of the other, there were faint pencil doodles. Viola turned them over and over. Whatever were these? She wondered how they had come into Allied hands.

  Then she started to read the mimeographed pages of the document entitled ‘Leaflet V’ and her heart gave a thump. It was resistance material of the most fervent, encouraging and intellectual kind. And the turn of phrase in the opening paragraph was so idiosyncratic that it could not be an accident or chance, no two people could write with such an unusual and distinctive style. There was only one explanation: Fred was the author of this leaflet. Her Fred.

  All colour must have drained from her face because Lillian was by her side, asking her if she was quite well. She dared not tell even her closest friend about this so hastily folded the leaflet again, drew her finger across her mouth and said, ‘I’m fine, thank you, Lil. Just got a rush job on.’

  Lillian nodded and hurried back to her side of the room.

  Unfurling the battered, dirty page she willed that the remainder of the document bear evidence of Fred’s mark. Each and every line, sentence, paragraph, statement, sentiment screamed to her that he was alive. Not only alive, but alive and well enough to be writing with such intensity against the Nazi regime and for the freedom of all. She longed to bundle the leaflet into her clothing next to the ring, but placed it with deference back on the book rest and read through Leaflet VI; there was no sign of Fred in the writing there, but she refused to give in to the fleeting notion that he hadn’t written the sixth because something atrocious had happened to him after the publication of the fifth. She preferred to convince herself that the members of this group took it in turns to author their defiant literature so it would be less likely for them to be caught by the authorities.

  Remaining calm and professional, she began to translate first Fred’s leaflet and then the other. When she finished, she made four copies of each so that she could take one set home and compare the writing in Leaflet V with Fred’s unfinished thesis that she had found in his college rooms. If caught smuggling them out of the building, she knew she would be prosecuted, but it was worth the risk to have that little of bit of Fred with her.

  Before she let the junior minister take the three remaining copies from her hand, she held on to the pages with a fierce grip. ‘These,’ she said, holding his piercing gaze, ‘are incredibly important and must be circulated widely amongst the German people.’

  ‘How can you discern that, Miss Baxter?’ the man said, pulling on the papers, trying to release them from Viola’s hold.

  She hesitated, wondering how much she could get away with without causing suspicion. Then, in an instant, she knew she had no choice. ‘Tell everyone who needs to know, that I have been around German speakers and authors and scholars for a good deal of my life and I am assured that these have been written by resistance workers in Germany who are risking their lives to produce and distribute them. We must help them by any means we can.’

  The man nodded and glanced at his watch, his spectacles creeping down his sweaty nose. ‘Thank you, Miss Baxter, I’ll pass on your message.’

  ‘It’s not a message,’ she said. ‘Look at me, please. It’s a matter of life and death. Victory or defeat.’

  The man narrowed his eyes, as if a sceptical thought had dawned on him. ‘I should, perhaps, question you in greater depth,’ he said. If he got it into his head to drag her
in front of the higher-ups and question her about her formidable bank of knowledge, her story might lead to accusations of disloyalty or espionage. She might be sent to an internment camp, like Matteo, or be tried for treason.

  Viola shoved the papers into his hand and said in a precise, firm voice, ‘There’s no time for that. Go now and relay my information.’

  For a beat, the young man considered his course of action, then turned and raced towards his destination. Viola stood and watched him disappear, her legs too weak for her to do otherwise.

  *

  Now, Viola piled up the toast-speckled crockery ready to return to the kitchen then put her ear to the door and listened for the soft sounds of the nuns’ cushioned footsteps. There were no locks on any of the doors and it was difficult to ascertain whether one of the wardens, as she called them, was creeping along the corridor, ready to burst in on her at any moment. When she was as satisfied as she could be that she wouldn’t be disturbed, she pulled down Fred’s thesis that she’d wrapped in plain brown paper, opened it and took out her copy of Leaflet V. Closing her eyes, she skimmed the tips of her fingers over the pamphlet, then read through every line for what must be the three hundredth time. Nothing anyone said to her gave her consolation like this one sheet of paper.

  Then there was the last night in the flat she shared with Lillian and as a consequence, the last time she would be living independently for some time, if ever. Whilst she packed her belongings, Lillian had cooked them some sort of stew with their rations. It was richer and tastier than anything she’d had for a while and she realised that dear Lillian had used a good month’s worth of shin beef, gravy browning and flour for the dumplings on this one meal. She had never been particularly fond of their accommodation, but now that she was leaving, every nook and cranny, dusty shelf, dripping tap, fraying rug and cold square of linoleum became a source of nostalgia. She tossed and turned that night, worried sick about the meeting with her father and the ramifications for her and her unborn baby. In the morning, Lillian went with her to the station and they said goodbye to each other and their life together as flatmates. Now June lived in Viola’s old room and Lillian said it was, ‘Alright, but only that.’

  Mum had wanted to sit in on Dad’s talk with Viola, but Dad would not allow that to happen. He said that Mum knew his decision and he needed to speak to his daughter alone. He wasn’t cruel. Nor could he be called cordial or gracious. But he was benevolent. Although he asked Viola many questions, he stopped her from answering them by raising his palm in front of her whenever she went to speak. It became plain quite quickly that he wanted to talk to her, not with her. ‘There is nothing you can ever say that will help me to understand how and why you have allowed this to happen,’ he said.

  Viola hung her head.

  ‘Your wonderful mother and I have brought you up to comport yourself to a much higher standard than this. We have demanded that of you, have we not?’

  ‘Yes, Dad.’

  ‘Do not let me see those foolish tears. It’s much too late for that. You have been reckless and immature and allowed London to turn your head, haven’t you?’

  Viola bit on her lip to quell her crying, but let her fingers stray to the contours of the ring beneath her dress. ‘Yes, Dad,’ she said.

  ‘Stop fiddling. And that girl, Lillian, who we have welcomed many times as one of the family. Does she behave in the same decadent manner?’

  ‘Dad, Lillian never—’

  ‘Enough! Hold your counsel.’

  ‘And now you come to me for financial aid. And what am I to do? Turn you away?’

  ‘I beg you, Dad, please—’

  ‘Quiet.’ Dad’s voice softened at last. ‘I will pay whatever is necessary. Mum will sort out the arrangements. Now go.’

  Tears of frustration and remorse clouded Viola’s eyes. ‘Dad,’ she pleaded. ‘Can we not be as we—’

  ‘Go, Viola. Now. And I’m sure Mum has told you but I reiterate. Your brothers must never know about this.’

  Viola took one more look at Dad before she closed the door of his study. His shoulders were slumped and his hair was thin, dry and grey. He looked like a man in mourning.

  She and Mum took their meals together in the dining room and Dad ate alone in his study, so that meeting with him had been another last for Viola. When Mum travelled to London to vet confinement homes, Viola was not allowed to accompany her. She had to stay hidden at home and there, hidden from Dad’s view. The following week, she packed a very small bag and Mum delivered her to this whitewashed, black-souled holding pen.

  The most pitiful consequence was the letters from David that Mum brought with her when she visited once a month or so. They were full of what he was doing at school and how he wanted to follow in Robert’s footsteps by joining the RAF; Viola had no doubt he would do so the minute he could. There was always a PS at the end of his letters asking when they could please arrange his visit to London. She had to reply as if she was still working, still seeing her friends, still sharing the little flat with Lillian and that his visit would be organised for some time in the vague future.

  Every time Mum stepped through the door into the visitors’ lounge, she broke down in tears. She wasn’t the only one. All the visiting mothers seemed to spend their time in the same state of emotional collapse. Because of that, Viola tried to counteract Mum’s overwrought reaction by pretending that her mother had chosen wisely and she could not be more content and calm and settled. When Mum’s tears subsided and she could talk logically again, they discussed what was going to happen next. As Mum reminded her each visit, the baby would inevitably be born and then what? Adoption? Mum tentatively raised the idea. ‘There is,’ Mum said softly, ‘no way you could ever go back into society if you keep the baby.’

  But the more she thought about it, the more deeply Viola realised that back in society was the last place she wanted to be. During the scheduled periods of reflection and when performing tedious chores, Viola tried to imagine life on her own with her newborn. In her mind, she didn’t see them in London; it was too built-up and crowded and dangerous. And she couldn’t contemplate Cambridge; to live there without being a part of the academia would be impossible. Cirencester was definitely not a proposition, unless she wanted to give Mrs Bishop a heyday and Mum and Dad more grief than they were carrying around as it was. None of those places would be an option for her as a fallen woman. Her parents had all but forsaken her and Fred would do the same when he returned so what chance would she stand amongst ex-colleagues and acquaintances?

  Money was, of course, the biggest stumbling block. She had none of her own and no access to anyone else’s. Mum had implied that, although it hadn’t been discussed in detail, Dad would not subsidise her if she kept the baby. It felt as if she was being hounded into submission, trapped into a corner like a cowering animal. That’s what it felt like, when a wave of panic overcame her during a period of reflection or in the middle of the night – like she was recoiling from injury into the dark recesses of a cage, waiting for a cup of water or a morsel of food to be thrown to her. Other times, she felt stronger and determined to think until she came up with some kind of resolution. And when she did, she would fight doggedly, like a Spitfire pilot, to ensure her solution came to fruition.

  It was nine o’clock, laundry time. With one hand she grabbed her bag of washing and in the other, she balanced her tray. Making her way down the cool, silent staircase, there was no relief from the alabaster surfaces. She washed her dishes in the sink, dried them and stacked them away, then she followed the sounds of hushed voices to the laundry room.

  The rest of the day passed and then Lillian was there, like a faithful puppy, bringing news of the outside world. She looked beautiful in a pale green belted dress with a toffee-coloured collar and jacket. Her dark, shiny hair was pulled back off her face, her complexion clear and her grey eyes bright. ‘You look fabulous, Lil,’ said Viola, trying to keep an edge of envy out of her voice. Sitting opposite her friend ma
de her cringe with the lack of grace she felt about her bump and ill-fitting clothes. ‘Surely you haven’t worn such a lovely ensemble just to visit me.’

  Lillian couldn’t stop a smile from taking over her face and crinkling her nose. ‘Good old George is on leave and he’s taking me to dinner,’ she said.

  ‘Oh, lovely,’ said Viola. And she imagined the restaurant where they might meet; the food they might eat; the cocktails they might drink; the things they might talk about. ‘Well at least it won’t be somewhere as ghastly as The Whim, I hope?’

  Lillian laughed. ‘No fear,’ she said. ‘Not dressed like this.’

  ‘Does George know?’ Viola looked down at her bulge.

  Lillian nodded. ‘I told him in a letter.’

  Viola blushed at the thought.

  ‘He’s been most sympathetic and non-judgemental.’

  ‘As is his wonderful, time-proven manner. Lil, listen to me.’ Viola took Lillian’s hands in hers. ‘Do not get yourself into this situation. It’s horrendous. Please, promise me.’

  ‘Oh, Vi,’ Lillian said. ‘I promise I’ll be careful. And besides, I keep telling you there’s nothing like that between me and George.’

  Viola laughed. ‘I think it’s yourself you need to keep telling,’ she said. ‘I already know there is. Now, tell me all the news.’

  Lillian told her about scooting behind some dilapidated buildings to avoid the crowds along Oxford Street and finding herself walking behind a beautifully dressed young woman. All of a sudden, from the hem of the girl’s coat, a pair of knickers appeared. Lillian could see that the elastic waistband was torn and frayed, but the woman didn’t bat an eyelid, she leaned against a post, slipped off the knickers and stuffed them in her elegant handbag. No one would be the wiser by looking at her. ‘She was the epitome of that saying, “Fur coat, no drawers”.’