‘I’m not sure we can park here,’ said Rene, anxious that some authority – suspecting them to be vagrants with no purpose in life – would arrive and move them on.
‘We’ll be gone by daybreak,’ Hugo assured her. Hanne would sleep in the van while Marco slept between his parents in the tent.
The oddness begins at sea
For Hugo, if there were any problems behind them at home, Wally would phone the port or ferry company and get the message through. Now was the time to receive any such messages as, once they landed on the Continent, there would be no such opportunity.
He searched the faces of the crew busy marshalling the boarding motorists. Nobody had said anything when the van was checked prior to boarding. Surely somebody would spot his Cornish registration and approach him with the news that they would have to turn back as there had been a disaster at home.
Nobody did.
Even at sea he expected an officer to dash down the steps leading from the bridge with the awful news that they would have to go about and return to port because Mr Mauer would have to get back to his business as the farm could not cope without him.
Initially, that was what was in the head of Hugo Mauer. He even rehearsed an apology in his head. He knew Hanne would be particularly disappointed and even quite bitter in her response. He would say something along the lines of: ‘I am very sorry, but we are needed at home and we have had a holiday in the van. You enjoyed your stay on the New Forest, nah?’
Hanne would protest, of course; so his reply would be like this: ‘We will try again later. I want you to meet your cousins. For me it is very important that you begin a friendship with them that will last always. When you are friends, you will be friends forever. Blood ties you to them more than you can know. Now we have to return.’
The rehearsal was not needed. The call to return to Cornwall never came. Something else happened though and it’s worth mentioning.
As the ferry steamed out of Dover, Hugo made his excuses and separated himself from the family. ‘I need to take some air,’ was all he said.
‘Can we come with you?’
‘No. It’s cold out there. You stay here in the café where it’s warm.’
He left Rene with some change for tea and cakes and was gone in a second, swiftly stepping out of sight as if he’d forgotten something most vital.
Seasickness and he doesn’t want to admit it!
Rene knew her husband well enough to know that the sea was not in his blood and he’d avoid boat rides like the ones at St Ives where boatmen sped you around the bay, performing tight circles for a shilling. She was sure now that this was the reason behind his disappearance; it made sense.
Hanne, occupied with staring at lorry drivers eating pies and chips, not content with the café, pestered to explore. ‘We’ll all go,’ said Rene.
‘What if Dad comes back looking for us?’
‘We won’t go far. I need a walk. How about you, Marco? Stretch our legs?’
Marco was unsure as to whether to burst into tears or go with the family, but if Hanne was going, then of course everyone must go.
For the next half hour they searched the ship inside and out. Fruitless. They even asked the AA man sitting at his desk handing out leaflets and warning people that they must remember to drive on the right-hand side when leaving the ferry.
‘Sorry, madam? Tall, dark gentleman with a heavy accent and a tweed jacket? No, no one fitting that description has come my way. Do tell him though when you find him to make sure that he—’
‘Drives on the right – yes, he’s… he was born on the Continent, so I think that will come naturally to him – thank you. And, if for any reason you do see him, please tell him his family are looking for him, would you?’
‘Yes of course, madam. We’ll be docking soon, don’t forget. Short trip this one!’
Rene immediately regretted not having referred to her husband as “German”, but she feared that an AA officer just might scowl at the mention of the word. All civilian men who wore uniforms were ex-military because they liked the order and the discipline. Stands to reason.
Grocers might not wear uniforms, but they were particularly bad. She had been ordered out of a veg shop once when she innocently enquired about a particular type of apple that her “German” husband liked and from which a fracas ensued. She told the indignant grocer what to do with his fruit using a very East End London manner of vocabulary, which made her feel considerably better, but in pre-supermarket days her rebellion simply left her with a longer walk to the other side of town for fruit and veg.
The AA man was right in respect of the fact that they would be docking soon. They needed to find Hugo and find him quickly.
The majority of passengers were on deck, loving the occasional burst of sun and the race of the ship through the waves, all watching intently as the horizon dipped and rose again with the Continent looming closer and closer. D-Day all over again.
‘Look! I can see Calais,’ exclaimed one cockney voice.
‘I can see the French tricolour flying from the town hall,’ said another.
‘I can see Dad!’ shouted Hanne. ‘Look, down there.’
Sure enough, there was Hugo, sitting not on a bench but on the bare steel-plated deck with a ventilation shaft almost completely obscuring him. He looked tired and dejected, not sick. What was strangest was the fact that he appeared to be talking to himself – mouthing and gesticulating as if someone else were there, listening and exchanging words with him; but clearly there was no one else.
Hanne didn’t notice this oddness – dad was dad as always – and she called out to him. It was Rene who noticed – and wondered.
Behind them the waves
The ferry crossing had enforced a period of rest for a couple of hours. Now, on the other side of the water, the marathon was on again. Sandwiches were made with salami and rolls bought on the ferry and eaten while on the move. Only when it got dark did Hugo find a place to pull over and erect the tent for the first time on the Continental mainland. Camping: putting up a tent in the dark – a skill that the Luftwaffe had taught him and one that he could put to good use. He and Rene would share the tent with Marco while Hanne slept in the van.
What the Luftwaffe had not taught him was to erect a tent on a municipal tipping site during the hours of darkness: an easy mistake after nightfall, but a shock upon awakening for their first morning on the Continent.
Holland did not disappoint the family, particularly Hanne – her expectations were precisely as she’d hoped. There were windmills in the very places she had expected them to be, people were riding bicycles and some were even dressed in traditional costume.
The books in school were spot on! The canals went on forever and ever and ran in parallel to the road. Even the trees were actually in neat lines and not higgledy-piggledy as they were at home. Uniform height, uniform distance apart, as if each tree commemorated the life of a soldier who might have marched along these roads in Napoleonic times and later in WW2. Holland in the flesh was like a premonition that had been proved correct. Providing dad didn’t knock a cyclist into a dyke then this would be the most marvellous part of the journey so far. What’s more, the milometer was on course for her predicted mileage of 34030.
The road less travelled
Rene was a very capable navigator who could balance the needs of a two-year-old whilst reading a map; but they reached a point where Hugo was confident he knew the neighbourhood so the map wasn’t needed. He clearly had a plan but he wasn’t about to explain what that plan was. They needed a cuppa and a break for a while where they could picnic and let the little engine cool. Hugo knew just the place – if it was still there.
Left here, follow the lane, then right and left again. No signs of a café; no café signs. They were leaving the beaten track now, leaving tarmac and civilisation behind and nosing further down a tra
ck that posed more questions than it could possibly answer. Dad was clearly confident, and the whole thing was thoroughly exciting if you were aged nearly ten or thereabouts.
Hugo was not a sentimental man; at least, not that anyone could tell. The idea of setting off down “memory lane” to revisit old haunts did not interest him at all – he would tell you. Yet here he was back at a place that he knew only too well – like a burglar revisiting the scene of a crime.
After what was probably a good five minutes of bumping down a track, fearing he’d break a spring or shock absorber, he stopped the van within walking distance of a pleasant but unremarkable farm, quite isolated and obscure in its situation.
The engine cooled for a while, but the van’s occupants had grown lazily used to its space capsule-like interior. It was cosy; no one wanted to get out. Besides, Oma’s must surely be just around the corner from Holland.
‘Where is this?’ asked Hanne, looking out at a wide expanse of flat, cropped meadow.
‘It’s just a farm,’ Hugo replied calmly. ‘I will get some fresh milk for our tea. They have very green grass so I am sure they will have some fresh milk, nah?’
‘I’m sure they will,’ agreed Rene, only too happy for the rest from map-reading.
Hugo stretched out of the van and stood for a few moments, propping himself against the roof of the cab, patiently waiting for the spasm in his lower back to subside. Unbeknown to him, he was being watched from a nearby hedge. He had come under the scrutiny of two boys armed with toy rifles, dressed in denim jeans and wearing, as headgear, olive-green plastic helmets US Army style. From this secret observation post they were watching his every move and preparing to fire off their caps.
Hugo couldn’t see the boys who lay as quiet as church mice observing a cat, but he could see something far more disturbing as he made his approach to the farmhouse door. He could see the past, and he could see it vividly.
Stepping back to… 1944
Karl and Thomaz urge their friend and comrade to make his move.
‘Go on, Hugo! This is a recce, after all. You go and knock on the door.’
‘And what if the Americans are in there?’
‘If the Americans are in there, you surrender. They’ll have you on board a ship for New York before you know it and you’ll be in the lap of luxury, you lucky devil! Better than dying of hunger, Hugo.’
‘And if they shoot me?’
‘They won’t shoot an unarmed man! Give me your rifle; we’ll cover your back. If the coast is clear, signal with your raised hand. Remember, we need what’s in that farm. Now, go on!’
Reluctant, ever cautious, Hugo makes his way across the yard to the farmhouse and knocks at the door. He fears what may be on the other side of the door – Dutch resistance, Americans, British, or just an angry farmer armed with a shotgun.
For what seems an eternity, he waits for an answer. The farm appears to be deserted, the barn door banging on its latch in the breeze as if some furious poltergeist were wrestling to open it from inside. Hugo is about to signal an all clear when the door opens, cautiously.
As if resigned to her fate, the farmer’s wife holds the door open for him to enter. She neither invites nor beckons nor makes him welcome in any respect. He turns and waves for his hidden comrades to join him – the drawbridge is down; the castle is open without a shot being fired.
There in the kitchen, as if expecting their arrival, is the farmer sitting at the table, lean, muscular arms folded tightly as if annoyed that his tea has been interrupted. The table laid with Delft china plates and bone-handled cutlery; a loaf fresh out of the oven, sliced and steaming; cheese and hard-boiled eggs ready for consumption.
Jan Rensburg had been working in a field when he caught sight of the indiscreet little recce party long before they’d happened upon the farm. He’d returned to the house in the hope that they might wander past and leave it all alone – leave it for the Allies to arrive.
Had the three youngsters not been so starved, they would most definitely have left it alone. It wasn’t just them, it was their entire platoon. Everyone was out on the lookout for food; little groups all split up that day and with one task in hand – to survive.
The Führer wasn’t supporting them anymore; they had to find their own way. That’s what Oberfeldwebel Gondorf had told them.
In four long years of occupation, Rensburg had succeeded in keeping a low profile with his German occupiers. They’d bought bits and pieces from him, vegetables and milk mostly. Faces had come and gone, but largely they’d been mature faces; war-weary, middle-aged conscripts. The Nazis and the Gestapo were principally occupied with the towns and cities, which they controlled with iron pragmatism. There had been incidents though: Rensburg’s farm had been searched twice – once by soldiers looking for Allied aircrews – a bomber had crashed nearby. The local gossip was that it was an RAF Wellington, but that had been contradicted by someone else claiming it was an American Liberator that had been carrying a VIP. Whatever, the soldiers came and went with no damage done and that was all that mattered – the farm left alone for a while.
The second visit was rather more sinister and nasty and involved the combined forces of the local constabulary led by officers of the SS. They were looking for Jews in hiding. Rensburg had never met a Jew in his life, didn’t know what one was or even what they looked like, but that didn’t stop the intrusion or prevent the house and farm being turned over without apology. Floorboards were pulled up, doors busted with axes and hammers, pictures pulled off walls, windows broken.
It wasn’t the raid that disturbed them so much, despite its violent impact; it was the thought that someone in the community just might have pointed a finger at the Rensburgs. Long after the Nazis had fled – in fact as long as the Rensburgs lived – they suspected that someone, somewhere close by, had suggested to the Nazis that they be paid a visit.
Jan Rensburg had never considered his own part in the war. A simple man for whom farming was all he’d ever wanted, he was forty-nine at the outbreak when Holland had been quickly overrun. This was his childhood home and he loved the isolation. It was only when the war finally came to him that he decided to take a more positive role. Only in those past few months, now that the Allies were so near, had he started to open his door at night at the sound of approaching Allied bombers coming in low and fast across Holland. Like a lighthouse or beacon, the Rensburgs, along with hundreds, maybe thousands, of other householders were using their doors and drapes in open defiance of the Nazis to flash a message of goodwill and support to the bomber crews who briefly glimpsed their welcome as they thundered overhead.
The three young men who now occupied their kitchen were as frightening as any Gestapo officer on the lookout for escaping airmen or Jews. To Jan Rensburg, the boys were thin, dishevelled, clearly starving and quite likely unbalanced. Without a senior officer in their midst, there was no saying what they might do. He’d heard of the most appalling horror stories from all across Europe of how soldiers when retreating and without leadership turned to the most inhumane savagery.
He stood up and appealed to them in the only language he knew – his native Dutch: ‘You can eat what we have, but then you must go. The Americans will be here soon.’
‘What’s he saying?’ demanded Karl, who was a bundle of nerves and probably more on edge than the Rensburgs.
‘I don’t know!’ replied Thomaz.
Only Hugo seemed to grasp the farmer’s request. ‘He wants us to leave.’
‘Oh! You speak Dutch?’ spat Karl with incredulity.
‘No, but that’s what he wants.’ Hugo was determined to remain calm – keep a cool head.
‘We’ll go when we’ve had our fill,’ said Thomaz, eyeing up the meagre feast before them.
‘Eat up, my friends, and enjoy! We’ve come a long way.’
The Rensburgs stood aside as the young Luftwaffe sold
iers took their chairs and grabbed at the food with such desperation that Hilda Rensburg considered them savages.
The recce party had been trained well enough to make sure that their rifles remained strapped on their shoulders, even when sitting. Jan Rensburg considered the possibility that if he could get hold of just one rifle he could use it like a club to break at least two heads before turning the barrel on the third; but there was no way of knowing just who was out there. To murder a German soldier now at this late hour would be to sign their death warrants. At the very least they’d be hanged from the nearest branch, and their only daughter – working away in Nijmegen – would be sent to a concentration camp.
Besides, Rensburg couldn’t even kill an animal let alone the boys gorging at his table. He was known far and wide as the dairy farmer with a heart – a man who loved his animals.
‘Do you think the farmer has a daughter?’ asked Karl of his comrades, his mouth full of bread spitting crumbs onto the table. Rensburg understood enough of his German and glanced nervously at Hilda. Thank God Sonje left for the city a year ago.
‘Why?’ asked Hugo.
‘So that we could take her hostage for when we leave. She would be ours for bargaining should we run into Americans or British. We don’t want these people raising the alarm when we leave.’
‘It is better to shoot them!’ said Thomaz with all the assurance of a boy who’d never killed anyone in his life.
‘No! We are not murderers!’ snapped Hugo.
‘Thomaz is right. We don’t want them to raise the alarm. The Americans could be very close.’
It looked as if Hugo might be outvoted. ‘We don’t have to shoot them!’
‘You have a better idea?’
The Reunion Page 3
