The Forgotten

by Mary Chamberlain

  ‘Not now, Bette,’ she said. ‘You can’t play with Greta now.’ She looked behind her. ‘Greta’s vati has come back.’

  Greta never talked about her father.

  ‘Oh,’ she said, not sure what to say. ‘When can she play?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ Frau Weber shut the door with force and Bette wondered what she had said that was so wrong or rude.

  Bette climbed back up the stairs to their apartment, and into Mutti’s room. The soft ghost of her mother was there, breathing in the silk coverlet on her bed, smiling at the colours on the wall, lounging on her bedroom chair. Her perfumes were lined in order of size on one side of her dressing table, her vanity set on the other. Bette had taken her mother’s brush, so the mirror and comb were all that was left. She liked Mutti’s bedroom, its calm and comfort. It had been a haven when the Ivans hung around, their unwashed stink and foul smoke clinging to the walls in the rest of the apartment and woven into the fabrics. She sat on the stool. The dressing table was dusty, needed a wipe. She wrote Mutti in the motes, rubbed her sleeve across the top, wiped it away.

  They’d taken off her wedding ring when she died, and rolled it in a handkerchief. Bette slipped it onto her finger. It fitted, more or less. Mutti had always been petite. Lieselotte took after her. Bette had her father’s build, big bones, Mutti used to say, palm against palm. We’re the same size now. She opened the drawer. Nail polish. Lipsticks. Mutti’s embroidered handkerchiefs, her suspender belts, an unopened pair of silk stockings. She reached further back, pulled out a small brown casket with Mensinga Membran written on the top. It must, she thought, be something secret for Mutti to hide it so far back, something forbidden. There was a small rush of excitement as she opened it, stared at the round rubber cap, at the sprays next to it. A flush crept up her neck, burning her cheeks. She had no idea what this was but knew it was private, womanly. Mutti would be angry. She shut the box, pushed it back, picked up a lipstick. It was almost finished, but she dabbed some on her lips, smacked them together as she’d seen Mutti do, sat back to look at herself, smelling its faint perfume.

  Her hair was growing but it was still boyish. She went into her bedroom and took out a summer dress, pulling off Otto’s trousers and shirt, tugging the dress over her. Her breasts had grown even in the last few weeks, and she was taller than last summer. She tried to tug the bodice down but the seam tore. Even if she wanted to wear girls’ clothes, she had none. They were all too small. She ripped it off and flung it on the bed, opened Lieselotte’s side of the cupboard where her clothes hung on their hangers. She had been raiding Mutti’s wardrobe, not just her tortoiseshell hair combs, but her summer blouses and dresses.

  Well.

  Bette walked back to her mother’s bedroom. If Lieselotte could do this, so could she. The wardrobe smelled of Mutti, of her skin and perfume and the musty odour of worn, unaired clothes. At the far end were her evening outfits, ball gowns and cocktail dresses. Where had she gone in them? She sifted through the hangers, lifted down a midnight-blue frock, chiffon silk with a satin lining. Bette could remember her mother wearing it. Where had she been going? Somewhere grand. Bette had made her a necklace from buttons, which she gave her mother before she left. She’d draped it round her neck, thanked Bette, said it was the most beautiful jewellery she’d ever owned and swept out of the door, trailing her fox fur stole, Vati by her side in a dicky bow and dinner suit. Had they met the Führer that night? Had he admired it? She couldn’t remember, and Mutti had never said. The necklace was laid out on the dressing table the next morning.

  She held the gown against her, then slipped it on. It fitted, once she had hooked it up, though it was a little long. She rummaged in the back of the wardrobe, pulling out a pair of high heels and slipping them on her bare feet. She lifted the dress up above her ankles, balanced her way towards Mutti’s cheval mirror, and let go of the folds so the dress flowed to the floor. It had a halter neck, but no back. She turned sideways. The dress draped so she could see the dents on her bottom. Lieselotte said they were called the dimples of Venus, and Bette liked the name. Still, she wasn’t sure they should be on show, but if she didn’t turn, the dress was perfect. She bowed towards her reflection, smiled, threw her head back, laughing at an imaginary companion, holding a pretend cigarette, taking a drag. She could wear this if they started a dancing school, or when she met her husband.

  Nail polish. She teetered towards the dressing table, fished out a crimson varnish. The top was stuck tight, and she didn’t have the grip to open it. She tried the others. All the same. Ah well. She could pretend. She dabbed at the lipstick again, tucked her hair behind her ear, imagined when it would be long, when she would be a grown-up, go to a ball. She would insist to Lieselotte that this dress was hers. Lieselotte could have the everyday outfits. Bette the dreamtime ones.

  She opened the wardrobe again, fingering through the rest of the evening clothes, a short black dress, a long red frock with a fantail, an emerald-green silk suit. Mutti hadn’t worn them in the last few years, not since Vati had left to join the war. If Greta’s father was home, Vati could not be far away.

  Unless Lieselotte was right and he was a prisoner somewhere. What if they had shot him? What if he had died in the last battles of the war and nobody had been left to count the bodies? Mutti kept a picture of their wedding day in a silver frame by her bed. She’d hidden it when the Russians came but Lieselotte had put it back in place, now that it was safe.

  The photo had been coloured. Her mother’s dress was cream and she carried a posy full of pansies, deep purple flowers that tumbled from her hands. Her father wore a suit and bow tie, had a clipped moustache and hair slicked to his temples. He wore it with a side parting. Herr Hitler had the same. It had been fashionable then, as she remembered. She’d recognise him, she was sure, even though she hadn’t seen him for years. People didn’t forget their parents. Did parents forget their children? She’d grown since he last saw her, her face had lost its chubbiness, her body had changed. Her hair was cut like a boy’s. What if he didn’t recognise her? What if she met him again and he said no, she wasn’t his daughter? She hadn’t thought about that. She squeezed her eyes shut. He’d never taken much notice of her, even before the war. Vati worked hard, that’s what Mutti always said. He came home for dinner and wouldn’t let them chatter at the table. She had been afraid of him. You mustn’t disturb him, Mutti said, all the time. Bette, don’t pester your father. He’s a busy man. What if he said Get out of my home? You’re not mine.

  She’d ask Lieselotte when she came home.

  She took off Mutti’s gown and hung it back in the wardrobe, putting on her trousers and shirt. They had placed their favourite clock on one of the tables in the sitting room. Lieselotte had been gone for two hours. She’d said to eat the soup. Nettles and dandelions. The gas had come back on so Bette warmed it up, sat at the kitchen table, spooning it in, mopping her plate with a roll. There was one left. She should save it for breakfast. Perhaps the baker would have delivered fresh supplies by morning. Perhaps Lieselotte wouldn’t notice. She’d have a little bit, that was all. She grabbed the second roll, tore it apart, soaked a quarter in the remains of the soup and gobbled it down. She eyed another quarter. She was too hungry to care. She wiped it round her plate, savoured the last of the moisture. There was only a half left and that would be stale by morning. It was wrong to waste it. Lieselotte shouldn’t have gone out, shouldn’t have left her. The bowl was dry now so she ate the bread as it was, savouring the rye, holding it in her mouth until it was soft and mushy.

  She took her bowl and spoon over to the sink, turned on the tap, waiting while it spat and lurched before enough of a stream of water flowed and she could rinse the dishes from lunch and supper, put them to drain.

  It was still light. Bette looked out of the window in the sitting room. Perhaps Lieselotte was coming round the corner. Now. She counted. In ten, she would come. In forty, watch, she’ll arrive. Once more. In fifty. She shut her eyes, counti
ng, achtundvierzig, neunundvierzig, fünfzig. The game didn’t work. She sauntered over to the gramophone, took a record from its sleeve and placed it on the turntable. Tchaikovsky. Swan Lake. She pranced around the sitting room. It wasn’t fair that Lieselotte was the only one they said could dance. She could, if she wanted. She flapped her arms, pirouetted to the window. No sign of her sister.

  The music finished. She pulled out The Nutcracker. Mutti had danced them all, though she’d never become the principal ballerina.

  ‘I married your father,’ she’d said once. ‘And that was that. You couldn’t dance if you were married.’

  ‘Did you miss it?’

  Mutti had tilted her head to one side, fixed her eyes in the distance.

  ‘Oh yes, Bette,’ she said. ‘I missed it all the time.’

  Bette took the photograph albums from the bookcase and pored over them, turning each leaf and the delicate tissue paper that protected the pictures, staring at her mother as a young woman, so like Lieselotte it could have been her. Her beautiful, glamorous mother. Was Lieselotte as glamorous? Bette could only see her sister. How could she see her as others did?

  She looked out of the window again. The light was fading, the long, slow sleep of the sun. It would be curfew soon. Lieselotte would be back by then. Perhaps she should go to Frau Weber before night fell. Tell her Lieselotte hadn’t come home and could she please stay. Greta’s father wouldn’t mind, surely?

  Frau Weber had been unfriendly this morning, and it was already gloomy in the stairwell, with no natural light coming in. What if she turned her away again? She couldn’t be sure, but she thought Frau Weber had been drinking alcohol. People did funny things then.

  It was hard to make out anything in the dark. Movements were silent shadows, no clacking heels, no rattling bicycles, no talking. She stood by the open window. Ivans were singing in the far distance, their voices waxing and waning in the summer breeze. Were those footsteps too? She leaned out, watched as a blurred figure turned the corner and walked towards their building. The candlelight from the Müllers’ old apartment flickered on his face as he walked past.

  Lieselotte would be home by morning. She’d promised. Bette changed into her nightgown, crawled into bed, picked up Emil and the Detectives. She’d read the story so many times, but its certainty was a comfort now. She snuggled down on her stomach, pulled the eiderdown over her, lit the candle, and began.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Berlin: July 1945

  It had taken a pounding, John could see, become a furnace hot enough to melt the iron and twist it. The trusses of the bridge lay mangled, sharp diagonals gnarled and bent. The floor had collapsed, the base posts deformed.

  ‘I don’t like it,’ Arthur said. ‘It’s too lonely. Why did she suggest you meet here?’

  Some of the razor wire along the banks had been removed. Lieselotte was right. It might be possible to walk along parts of the canal. A single willow had survived the bombing. Its singed branches hung over the canal in a graceful arc, their tips stroking the surface of the water, new pale green fronds rustling in the summer breeze.

  ‘To saunter, sergeant.’

  ‘I suggest we leave, now.’

  John checked his watch. Six o’clock. On time. She had been punctual last week. She was probably that kind of a person, thought it selfish to keep people waiting. He had thought about little else but her for a week, talking to her in his head, walking with her in his dreams, kissing her in the dark recesses of his sleep. It wasn’t unusual, he reasoned, for a pupil to have a crush on their teacher. Fall in love.

  The workers in the Tiergarten had gone home, leaving their plots and crops. He wasn’t sure which direction to look for her, down Lichtensteinallee or Tiergartenstrasse. Both were empty. Arthur raised an eyebrow. He was wrong to make Arthur hang around with him. He was pulling rank and he knew it, and that was unfair.

  ‘How long will you give her, sir?’

  ‘What time is it now?’

  ‘Ten past.’

  He’d wait here all night if necessary, but Arthur would never put up with that.

  ‘Till half past,’ he said. He crossed his fingers, willing her to come. She must live at home. He wondered what she told her parents. Perhaps they didn’t care, so long as the money came in. He didn’t understand why Arthur was suspicious, although he could understand his fear now. The place was deserted. The war was over, but soldiers were sitting ducks for the trigger-happy in an occupied country.

  Lieselotte. Cradling her blue enamel jug as if it was as precious as her clock, dancing, prancing around him, peek-a-boo in the dusty shrubs. Singing in her clear, soft voice. In all the destruction of this city, she was life. She was the single, singed salix along the bank, the baby blackbird in the bush. Perhaps, when he had time, he’d write her a poem in German, give it to her so she would remember him. Perhaps, when this was over, he’d come back to see her. Would it be the same?

  Arthur was wandering close to the bridge.

  ‘Be careful,’ John said. ‘There could still be mines.’

  Arthur turned, walked back to John. ‘She’s not coming, sir.’

  ‘Give her a few more minutes.’

  Twenty past. He swallowed. He had no way of knowing where she lived, of contacting her. He’d had a German penfriend when he was at school, before the war. Her name was Gisela and she lived in Mannheim. They wrote stiff, stilted letters to each other, exchanged photos, had nothing in common. Lieselotte would be different. He’d take her address this time. She was passionate, he could see. She loved to dance, to sing. Did she love music? Art, literature? She was cultured, not rough and ready like some of the women he saw on the Kurfürstendamm or loitering by the barrack gates. Their letters would be full of life and joy.

  Two soldiers were walking towards them along the Tiergartenufer. He recognised the uniforms and caps of the Soviet army. They looked different from the Red Army guards around the Brandenburg Gate. Officers, most likely. One was a squat man with a rolling gait, the other taller and more slender. The Russians stayed for the most part in their sector now the Allies had arrived. John wondered what they were doing this side of the Tiergarten. They drew close. Arthur had his hand on his pistol, but they seemed harmless, talking. As they passed, the squat one stepped forward.

  ‘Guten Abend,’ he said, removing his cap, nodding politely.

  ‘Guten Abend,’ John said. ‘Es ist ein schöner Abend, nicht wahr?’

  ‘Ja, ja.’

  ‘Genießen Sie Ihren Spaziergang? Are you enjoying your walk?’ the squat Russian asked. His German was thickly accented but plain enough. He smiled, added, ‘Or are you waiting for someone?’

  The question was direct and John jolted. He tasted metal, began to sweat. Two British soldiers, alone by the empty canal. They should leave, not wait for Lieselotte. Arthur was right. The Russian raised an eyebrow.

  ‘Perhaps we can help?’ he said. ‘And take you to the young lady?’

  John’s breath was shallow, perspiration on his lip. ‘What do you mean? How did you know?’ He wanted to drag the words back. He’d fallen for the oldest trick in the book. They had their confirmation.

  ‘Follow me,’ the Russian said.

  John looked back at Arthur. ‘Keep your distance,’ he said. ‘But cover me.’

  ‘Where are you going?’

  ‘The Russian wants me to follow him.’

  ‘It’s a trap, sir.’

  ‘It’s about Lieselotte,’ John said.

  ‘Don’t go.’ Arthur stepped in front of him, added, ‘Sir.’

  Arthur was right, but Lieselotte was drawing him like a magnet.

  ‘Move aside, sergeant.’

  Arthur stepped back, hand still on his pistol. John nodded at the Russian who, he now saw, wore the insignia of a major, and walked after him towards the ruins of the bridge. The other Russian had disappeared. The officer stopped, beckoned John closer, pointing beneath the bridge and the contorted posts that had once supported it. J
ohn stood on the shore and peered into the hollowed space beyond.

  Lieselotte.

  Knees twisted to one side, torso to the other. Her skirt was ruched around her thighs and there was blood on her legs. Her hair was fanned around her, a rich, dark halo against the thin ivory of her skin. He rushed to her, knelt down, cradling her bloodless face, wiping ash and leaf mould from her cheek. There was bruising on her throat, scratches on her arms. He ran his fingers down her neck, feeling for her pulse. Her dead pulse. Her blouse was torn and a shoe was missing.

  ‘Who did this to you?’ he said, his words thick with grief. ‘Who did it, Lieselotte?’

  A clock tolled the half hour, deep, solemn, dong, dong. John saw it a few feet away, lying in its walnut case in Lieselotte’s string bag, cast away in the frenzy of her life.

  ‘Who did this?’ He tried to lift her, cradle her.

  ‘You did.’ The words were sharp in his ear. He turned. The officer’s dusty boots were close to his chest. John hadn’t heard him approach.

  He laid her head back gently and stood up. The other soldier was walking towards him. He was thin, young, gangly, his skin punctured with weeping spots. John saw the chevrons on his sleeve, the stripes on his collar. He, too, had the ranking of an officer, a lieutenant perhaps, like himself. He stopped close to John. The two Russians, crowding either side of him. He wanted to stretch his arms, push them back.

  ‘You murdered her,’ the major said.

  John looked from one to the other. His stomach lurched, his throat choked. He vomited into the charred earth, his frame heaving. He wiped his mouth on his sleeve.

  ‘That’s nonsense,’ he said. His voice quavered but he willed it firm. He stood straight, jutted his chin, added, ‘And you know it.’ He leaned forward as another wave of nausea swelled inside.

  The major smirked. The younger officer was nodding. The Russians stood their ground, John caught between them. Lobster claws, large and small, lethal. John wiped his forehead. He was sweating hard, his knees trembling as if detaching from his legs. He was dizzy.