Women at War

by Jan Casey

  Horst had kicked back his chair and stood, giving the impression that the conversation was finished. As he sauntered to the front door, he’d opened as many cupboards and drawers as he could and rummaged in bowls and behind books. She had not stood to see him out, but when he’d reached the front door, he’d turned and said, ‘By the way, I am on leave for ten days only. Be sure to remind Fred.’

  Annie had sat where she was for a long time after he left, playing the conversation over and over in her mind and worrying about how she could possibly have ensured that the outcome was different. If only she hadn’t tried to outsmart him. But what else could she have done? She felt as though she’d had to stick to their story about her and Walther and their marriage. Her coffee grew cold. Shadows fell across the kitchen. She hadn’t thought about dinner or dusting or washing or sewing. She’d been too stunned to move an inch.

  When he came home at last in the early hours, Fred found her asleep on the floor. He put his arms around her and tried to lift her to a chair but she woke with a start. ‘Annie,’ he said. ‘You should be fast asleep in bed.’

  ‘Fred,’ she sobbed. ‘Never mind me. Horst has been here.’

  ‘Shh, Annie. Take a deep breath,’ Fred said.

  She took several and he went into the kitchen, returning with a glass of water for her.

  ‘He has been to see me, too,’ Fred said. ‘This morning.’

  ‘He told me,’ Annie said.

  ‘Yes, he rounded me up with a few colleagues and told us the inevitable.’ The anger and resentment that would once have been in his voice was replaced with a monotone of surrender. ‘I… We have been ordered to join the Wehrmacht.’ He looked up and his eyes were sad and defeated. ‘Within ten days.’

  ‘I know, but Fred…’ she spluttered. ‘Can he do that?’

  ‘He and his bullies can do whatever they like.’ He shrugged.

  They sat in silence for a few minutes. Then she asked Fred what he was going to do about this latest crisis. How did he intend to fight the order? Could he put his case to someone higher up than Horst?

  He put his hand on her arm. Shaking his head, he said there was nothing he could do. He must go. They must follow the initial plan they’d decided on four years ago and do whatever they needed to pretend that they agreed with the regime. That was the only way they could stop suspicion from falling upon them and hope to get out of this mess with their lives.

  ‘No, no, no,’ Annie shouted, beating a cushion with her fists. ‘I will not allow this. If you cannot stay here and fight against this, then you must run. Run away.’

  ‘Where to?’ Fred asked.

  ‘I don’t know. Switzerland. Or yes, I do know. I have it. You can hide in the attic. I will say you have run away. I will swear to it and I will say I am ashamed of your cowardice. That will convince them. Then I can take food and books and schnapps up you. When the Allies come to liberate us you can come down and you will be a hero of resistance.’

  Fred started to laugh, but Annie did not join in. ‘Too implausible,’ he said.

  ‘But so was your idea about falsifying my marriage and look,’ she said, hoping her fervour would be catching. ‘It worked perfectly. So will my plan for you and—’

  He cut her short with a wave of his hand. ‘Annie,’ he said. ‘Stop. The time has come. I must go. We have been lucky it has not come to this much sooner. Now, go to bed. You need to rest.’

  She turned and marched up the stairs, unable to comprehend his complete and utter capitulation. Again, she lay in bed and listened to him pace the floor downstairs and knew that she would miss everything about his presence, even that.

  They were able to talk more logically the following morning about what was going to happen next. Fred reassured her many times that Herr Doctor and Frau Wilhelm would look after her and that caused her to become exasperated. Yes, of course she was worried for herself without him, but she was also distressed and would be, every day he was gone, for his safety both physically and mentally. How, she wondered, would he be able to keep up the pretence of being in agreement with the Nazis when there was no respite from them? Could he possibly find like-minded men amongst his battalion or would it be too much of a risk to try to lure each other out of hiding; what kind of a fool would dare do that?

  They discussed the possibility of him requesting a certain role in the Wehrmacht. Perhaps some kind of teacher, Annie suggested. ‘Ha!’ was his response. ‘Education is the last thing any of those swaggering tyrants are interested in. The term all brawn and no brain was written for them. And any type of instruction from someone half-British would go down like a cache of bombs.’

  She proposed he file conscientious objection, but he said he should have done so at the beginning of the war, not on the cusp of his recruitment. If only they had thought of that then. Or could he use her as an excuse? Say she would be left alone and vulnerable without him? ‘If that were a good enough reason,’ he answered, ‘there would be no men at all in the Wehrmacht.’

  At last they had exhausted every alternative and with much sorrow she, like Fred, resigned herself to the situation and decided to make the most of the time she had left with him as a civilian. How she loathed the thought of seeing him in that brown uniform and she knew that every second he had to wear it his skin would crawl with revulsion.

  Frau Wilhelm invited them to dinner with her and Herr Doctor and she had been more creative than usual with the rations. They had a spread of pork knuckle, potato pancakes and sauerkraut followed by apple cake. Annie knew some ingredients had been replaced or stretched as not all of it tasted quite right, but it was laid out beautifully, like a condemned man’s final meal.

  Herr Doctor and Frau Wilhelm said they thought it would be best for her to stay with them, but she and Fred were anxious about leaving Oma’s house untended and Horst laying claim to it. ‘Then I,’ Frau Wilhelm said, ‘will come and stay with you. You must not be alone. Don’t you agree, Erich?’ She turned to her husband.

  Herr Doctor nodded. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘From whenever Fred has to… When Fred is made to…’ He cleared his throat. ‘Leave. Temporarily.’

  ‘You have done so much for us already,’ Fred said. ‘But I would be most grateful. Annie?’

  ‘Thank you,’ she said. And she meant it. Her gratitude to them came from the very bottom of her heart.

  *

  Annie watched Fred walk away towards the railway station in his stiff black boots and belt, a hard helmet pulled down over his freshly shorn head. On his back he was carrying a regulation knapsack that had in it a regulation flask, metal dish and cutlery, a shaving kit, his ID card with her details on the NOK form and a change of regulation undergarments. She knew it would upset him if she asked, so she didn’t, but she presumed he would get his regulation gun when he turned up at his barracks.

  His walking posture was one of a soldier, which she supposed was the essential effect of the uniform. Besides, he wouldn’t want to draw attention to himself by walking with his shoulders drooping or his eyes on his obnoxious boots. ‘Do not,’ she warned him, ‘say or do anything to make them think you are not happy to be doing your bit for the Fatherland.’

  He laughed at that and said she should take her own advice as she was forever up to something questionable. ‘Yes, but I am not under the scrutiny of the Nazis every hour of every day, as you will be.’

  ‘Don’t remind me,’ he said. ‘My English accent is going to be enough to make me stand out like a sore thumb.’

  She turned her nose up when he put the helmet on his head and adjusted the chinstrap. He knocked on it twice and reminded her that the piece of moulded metal could save his life. She kissed her palms then and rubbed them all over the cold headpiece. Then there was nothing left to say except goodbye and Godspeed. Annie bit her lip and checked her tears as she didn’t think it would be fair for his last image of home to be her, weeping. But at the last moment, she saw a puddle form and settle in his lids and she could not help herself – t
he crying started. Fred had to prise her hands from his arms finger by finger. He kissed each one, turned and did not look back. It took all her fortitude and the baby growing inside her to stop herself from running after him.

  Alone in the house, Annie struggled to breathe and it wasn’t because the baby was pushing up against her ribs. Her already splintered heart was crushed. She couldn’t stop sobbing – loud, long, snivelling blubs that racked her from head to foot. She couldn’t see or hear or feel anything other than the pain inside her. This was what it felt like to be broken-hearted not once, not twice but over and over again.

  Fred – her protector, the older brother she put through so much, scholar, philosopher, gentleman, loyal friend, fiancé-to-be, honourable and ethical resistance fighter – had joined the Wehrmacht.

  *

  Later that evening, after Frau Wilhelm moved in, there was a heavy-handed rap on the door. Annie shuddered; she knew it was Horst again. She got up to answer the knock, but Frau Wilhelm stopped her with a hand on her shoulder. Straightening her skirt, she marched to the door. Annie leaned towards the hall and listened. ‘Yes?’ Frau Wilhelm said and Annie imagined her talking through a crack.

  ‘Ah, Frau Wilhelm.’ Horst’s voice sounded less commanding when faced with the doctor’s wife. ‘It’s me. Annie’s cousin. Horst.’

  ‘I remember,’ she said without a trace of fondness. ‘Herr Doctor treated you for hornets’ stings one summer. Let me think. You were about seven at the time. Oh you did cry. Not a brave little boy at all.’

  Annie had to hold one hand over her mouth, the other on her stomach to contain her laughter.

  There followed indistinct mumbling from Horst.

  ‘No, I’m afraid Annie is resting.’

  ‘And Fred?’ Horst asked.

  ‘Do not pretend you are unaware of his whereabouts.’

  Again Annie could not hear Horst’s response, his usual booming voice reduced to a murmur by a middle-aged woman.

  ‘Well, I am sure you’re pleased your leave is over. Good evening to you.’ The door was closed and locked behind him. So, Annie thought, that was the way to deal with the odious Horst from now on.

  When Frau Wilhelm came back into the living room, they laughed and retold the conversation many times that evening. Looking over at her mother in law, a wave of recently silvered hair falling over one eye, Annie thought about the meaning of bravery. Of course, nothing could ever take away from the courage of her compatriots in the resistance movement, but what about Frau Wilhelm and others of her ilk, taking every opportunity to be courageous and defiant whilst going about their everyday business. Nothing loud or big or showy or memorable, but a symbolic kick here, a metaphoric slap there, a challenging word, a token refusal to comply. After everything she had lost and stood to lose, she was willing to quietly let it be known that she was standing up to the aggressor. Annie put Frau Wilhelm on a par with Ilse and hoped that together with other quietly daring people, they could claim victory.

  20 July 1943

  I have no one to talk to so must get this down on paper. Ernst and Otto have been executed. I will never see their dear faces again and the world has been denied their wisdom and talent. Helmuth has been spared but remains incarcerated. I dread to think what the Nazis have in mind for him. He must feel so alone and frightened, locked up in a cell and wondering what his destiny will be. This might sound cruel, but if he is to follow the others in being executed, I hope it will be soon as waiting must be agonising. Helmuth – such a kind, thoughtful, gentle man. I believe he was planning to marry. All our hopes, dreams, ambitions, lives have been snatched from us.

  Fred, oh Fred. Wherever you are – Italy, Yugoslavia, Georgia – I hope this news does not reach you. It would bring you to your knees.

  13

  August 1943

  Viola made sure all her belongings were in order, settled Freddie in her arms, touched the ring around her own neck, felt in the suitcase for Lillian’s old brown cardigan, Fred’s thesis, the German resistance material, the letters from Mum, and then checked her paperwork again. The funny hat she’d been given and told to wear made her scalp itch and she probed under the rim to ease the prickling. There was no point to it, she thought, except to tick a box to state she had been given a new set of clothes to see her on her way. Well, they were new to her but not brand new. She dreaded to think how many women had worn the old-fashioned, brown tam and tartan jacket before her. Both carefully chosen, she supposed, because she was going to Scotland. At last.

  She had hoped they would have been there for a month by this stage and settling into life north of the border. ‘But nothing seems to go to plan in my life, does it, little one?’ she murmured, moving the blanket down from the baby’s chin and absorbing every bit of the tiny creature her senses could handle – the sweet, warm, lacteal aroma of milk; the silky strands of dark hair that fashioned themselves into a quiff; the dark green eyes that, although they didn’t focus on very much, seemed knowing in their depth; the impossibly tiny, shaped fingernails; the little marks on her translucent eyelids the nurses called angels’ kisses; the steady breathing of innocence-induced sleep.

  The day after Freddie was born, Viola had sent a telegram to Mum and one to Lillian. Both had replied, Lillian with a ‘Congratulations!’ followed by a visit; Mum asking if both were well. Hoping to entice Mum to come to hospital to see her and meet Freddie, Viola had written back: I AM RECOVERING STOP BABY PERFECT STOP. She certainly was perfect – and always would be. But Mum did not appear, thwarted Viola felt sure by Dad refusing to give his approval. Viola kissed Freddie’s tiny nose and brushed the velvet fuzz on her earlobes.

  She could not stop gazing at her, breathing her in, committing to memory all the little details that made her unique and yet familiar. This, she thought, was how Mum and Dad must have felt when she was born, at least she hoped they had. Then how could they bear to give her up? Viola looked at her armful of perfection and knew there was nothing Freddie could do to make her turn her back on her. She wondered if perhaps men felt parenthood through a different set of emotional channels from women that made their expectations for their children harsher. That, of course, would mean that Mum’s suffering at having to follow Dad’s lead in this would be cutting like a knife. Would Fred have presented with the same kind of behaviour towards any children they might have had if those children got themselves into a similar sort of mess? She refused to let herself imagine it and clung fast to the impression of the kind, magnanimous, loving Fred that she knew.

  But she would never have the indulgence of knowing what Fred’s view on wayward children would be; how he would grow old; whether he would be a stern or lenient father. The thought of what she’d had with Fred and allowed so easily to be lost, made tears fill her eyes again. The baby blues, the nurses called it, but she knew that her tears were for reasons that were a deeper shade of that colour than the act of giving birth.

  Sitting up straight, she wiped her tears on a hanky. Now, were their IDs in the front pocket of her bag? She rummaged through to reassure herself. The ring nestled in its usual place? Freddie’s birth certificate, the leaflet, the half-completed PhD. And their gas masks? How terrifying it had been learning how to place the horrible piece of kit over the tiny face and tie it under the little legs like a second napkin, but she had steadied herself, as she did with everything unnerving she had to get on with and thought of how she wished to mirror Mum’s calm, steady countenance.

  She leaned back against the chair and closed her eyes, but refused to allow herself to nap. After a two-month wait, she didn’t want to miss the porter’s call for her departure.

  First, a minute piece of placenta had been left behind and by the time it was removed, she had become very poorly. She remembered nurses swimming in and out of her vision, offering her soup and soggy pieces of bread, bringing Freddie to her to be fed then taking her away to be topped up with formula and changed, doctors giving her injections and taking phials of blood to test. She
winced, the pain still too raw to file away in a corner of her mind and forget. Worse than the pain was the dread of what would happen to Freddie if something happened to her. Despite the fact that the thought alone was difficult to form, when the crisis passed, she had talked to one of the nurses about provision should the worst occur.

  The nurse’s face had been soft with sympathy. ‘I’m afraid that you need to specify a next of kin. If you don’t, the baby will have to go into a home.’

  In the back of her mind, Viola had thought that someone official asking her parents to have the baby would go down better than approaching them herself. ‘But wouldn’t the authorities try to trace someone in my family who would have her?’ she’d asked in a weak, raspy voice.

  ‘Yes, of course,’ the nurse said. ‘But it helps enormously if you’ve given them some kind of clue who to contact and if you have paved the way by asking that person to become the little one’s guardian.’

  As it stood, she hadn’t petitioned anyone. Mum would but Dad wouldn’t entertain the idea. Lillian’s heart would tell her to agree, but it would not be practical and would be most unfair to expect Lillian to put the rest of her life on hold for Viola’s mistake. When that word mistake came to mind, Viola clamped her hands over the baby’s ears, as if Freddie could hear her unspoken thoughts. Viola put her face close to the baby’s and brushed their noses back and forth. ‘Never will you be made to feel that you were unwanted,’ she said. ‘I promise you.’

  Then, when she was getting back on her feet, she had been told that it was proving difficult to find a place for her in Scotland. Apparently, most women in her position wanted to stay as close to home as possible in case their parents decided to change their minds and offer help. Wouldn’t she prefer Northfleet or Cleethorpes? She’d shaken her head. Great Yarmouth or Hornchurch? ‘No, thank you,’ she’d said. ‘Scotland, please. The Highlands, if possible. Perhaps the Orkneys. Or Shetland.’

  Those two islands had turned out to be dangerous places. Their close geographical proximity to Norway ensured that the sea around them was potentially teeming with enemy ships and submarines and the whole place was crawling with military. German planes used the sky above as their training ground. So, they could not accept evacuees as their own children were being evacuated. Other places in Scotland were reserved for babies, nursing mothers and children from the islands, Edinburgh, Aberdeen and Glasgow.