War's Last Dance

by Julia Underwood

  ‘I’m in Heaven’…

  ‘I could climb the highest mountain,

  And reach the highest peak,

  I wouldn’t like it half as much,

  As dancing cheek to cheek.’

  ‘Enough! I’ve been dancing all evening!’ protested Isabel.

  ‘But not with me,’ grinned Bill and twirled her around the floor again. He really seemed to be relaxed and enjoying himself now.

  ‘You’re a very good dancer! I’m impressed,’ said Isabel.

  ‘Boarding school. Saturday mornings; mandatory ballroom dancing classes. Very hot on the social skills, my school!’

  Public school, Isabel guessed. His manner and bearing proved it. She gave herself up to the pleasure of being whisked around the dance floor by a handsome man who could dance well.

  Eventually Bill allowed her to sit and rest her aching feet. She wished she could take her shoes off; the soles burned as if she had thrust them into a fire.

  ‘Tell me all about yourself. I want to know what you do when you’re not at the theatre. Where do you live? Where did you go to school? Everything,’ Bill said, leaning towards her with an engrossed expression. He topped up her wine glass and took a sip from his own.

  ‘Oh, Bill. It’s not very interesting. I’m just an ordinary girl. I live with my Mum and Dad and younger sister in a house in Wembley. I have another sister who’s married and has a baby. She lives nearby. Nothing unusual about us.’

  ‘What does Dad do?’

  ‘He’s a Guard.’

  ‘Scots or Grenadiers?’

  ‘No, silly, on the railway. He’s the one that waves the green flag to say it’s safe for the train to move off.’

  Bill laughed, but not sneeringly, just at his mistake. ‘Sorry, I must have sounded a terrible snob.’

  ‘Not at all. You’re nearly right. He was in the Scots Guards in the War; a Sergeant Major. Everyone calls him Jock, he really is Scottish. But he was invalided out in 1917. Gassed in the trenches.’

  ‘Horrible. How is he now?’

  ‘Not good. He still coughs a lot.’ Even twenty years later Isabel’s Dad suffered from the damage done in that terrible war.

  'Poor man. A friend of my father's was gassed too - lungs practically destroyed.' Bill’s tone clearly expressed his regret.

  Sadly, Isabel pictured her father choking on his ruined lungs each morning as he struggled to get to work. But he claimed he was lucky to be alive at all.

  ‘At least Dad’s mostly in the open air with his job; that helps. He shouldn’t have to work at all but we can’t manage on his War Pension. Grace and I do what we can.’

  ‘And your mother?’

  ‘Mum doesn’t work anymore. She looks after us all. She used to be…’ Isabel paused shyly, she wasn’t sure that she wanted to impart this information, but Bill seemed so sympathetic. ‘Well, she used to be in service. She worked in the house of one of Queen Mary’s Ladies in Waiting. We thought that was very grand.’ She laughed to cover her embarrassment.

  ‘My word, moving in exalted circles!’ he exclaimed.

  Isabel couldn’t detect any irony in his voice. He really seemed genuinely interested. She couldn’t quite make out what he did for a living; some sort of work in the City, it seemed, in the same company as Jamie. But she didn’t like to question him. They chatted for a while and then Bill excused himself to dance with Aggie. Isabel watched as they sailed around the floor. Aggie seemed to still have plenty of bubbly energy. Bill made her giggle and Isabel felt a pang of jealousy. How silly, she thought, I’ve only just met the man. I’m nothing special to him; he’s obviously attentive and charming to all the girls. But she couldn’t deny that she found Bill incredibly attractive.

  The tender way he showed Agnes to her seat impressed Isabel. He pulled the chair out for her and saw her comfortably settled before he sat down himself. He has beautiful manners, Isabel thought as she watched him listening with apparent fascination to Aggie’s prattling. He looks as if he’s really interested in her. I suppose that’s how it was with me, just good manners. She jumped at the touch of Jamie’s hand on her shoulder, startled out of her reverie.

  ‘Would you care to dance?’ he asked mock-formally, bowing low. ‘Trip the light fantastic? Fandango across the floor?’ He wriggled his eyebrows at her in a way that reminded her of the Marx brothers.

  Isabel laughed. ‘How could I refuse, kind sir? But please, Jamie, just one, I’m exhausted and my feet have had it.’

  The evening drifted away like a puff of lazy smoke. The band began to pack up their instruments. The restaurant had almost emptied and the lights dimmed still lower. The little group had drunk their fill of champagne and at three o’clock in the morning they emerged into Piccadilly, tired, slightly tight and happy. Jamie hailed a taxi for the girls and whilst he gave directions and handed over money to the driver, Bill said goodnight. He held Isabel's hand in both of his and gazed directly into her eyes, his voice quiet and serious.

  ‘I’ve had a wonderful evening, Isabel. I hope we can do it again soon. Just the two of us next time, eh?’

  ‘That would be lovely,’ she breathed, meeting his gaze evenly. As he bent close to her a lock of brown hair fell over his forehead and Isabel only just managed to stop herself from tenderly stroking it back into place.

  The girls hopped into the cab and settled in the back seat. As the taxi moved away Isabel peeped out of the back. If they turn away immediately I’ll know they aren’t really interested, she thought. Why would someone like that care about a girl like me? What have I got to offer? Bill must know lots of elegant, classy girls, debs probably. Those privileged few who were presented to the King each year and then had a London ‘Season’ to find themselves suitable husbands.

  She kept her head turned to the little oval window in the back of the cab. She had to rub some greasy dust off the glass with her hanky to see out. Jamie was striding towards the Haymarket, but Bill had paused and gazed after the taxi, a strangely rapt expression on his face. As Isabel sank down into the seat pulling her fur collar round her burning face she realised that something momentous had happened.

  Chapter Six

  Holland, 1946

  The monotonous rhythm of the train changed. With a great screeching of brakes and carriages juddering backwards and forwards, it ground to a noisy halt. Isabel could hear shouting close by; the slamming of doors up and down the train. She sat up and looked out of the dark window, her face pressed against the glass. They seemed to have stopped in the middle of nowhere. From her side she could see only featureless countryside and some industrial-looking buildings. Penny whimpered on the seat beside her as Isabel shifted round to look the other way.

  She still couldn’t see much. She got up carefully so as not to disturb the child and slid out of the compartment into the corridor. The air struck mercifully fresher here as the upper parts of the windows had been opened. At each end of the corridor stood a soldier with a gun, blocking the way. The uniform resembled that of the American they had met at the Hook. Isabel leaned against the brass rail, set at shoulder height, and peered through the grimy glass. She could see a makeshift station. More soldiers marched up and down the wooden platform waving their arms or rifles, shouting at anyone trying to get off.

  ‘Stay on the train! No disembarking here. Wait for border control. Have your passports and papers ready.’

  Grenze – a notice said in gothic script. Written below, in large red-painted letters, appeared the word BORDER. The German border, she surmised; the beginning of the American Zone. At last we’re making some progress. Before leaving home she’d perused the old atlas at Mum’s and despaired at the length of the journey across Holland and Germany. They were only about halfway to Berlin.

  ‘Out the way, lady.’ A soldier pushed her roughly. ‘Sit down in your seat till we complete border formalities.’

  His uncouthness made Isabel’s hackles rise; he wasn’t nearly as polite as the American who’d helped them at the Hook
. She shrugged off his hand and returned to the compartment where the other occupants stirred at the sounds of activity. Wearily they searched for passports and other travel papers. Penny woke, rubbing her eyes and stretching her arms.

  ‘Where are we, Mummy?’

  ‘At the border with Germany, darling. We’ll be moving again soon.’

  This, unfortunately, proved a vain promise. Two weary hours later the train wheezed and rattled into life. Meanwhile the soldiers and border guards patrolled the corridors, minutely inspecting papers and questioning travellers. Isabel’s case was straightforward and they spent only a short time with her.

  ‘I'm travelling to Berlin with my daughter to join my husband, who’s working with the Allied Control Commission.’ She thought it sounded quite impressive but the soldier’s eyes showed no interest and he simply handed back her documents without comment before moving on to the next person.

  The soldiers forcibly ejected some passengers from the train with rough handling and harsh words. Wrong travel papers I suppose, thought Isabel. Why anyone would want to travel illegally to Berlin I can’t imagine. Conditions there were supposed to be appalling. Starvation and disease prowled amongst the ruins; violent crime and black marketeering were rife. Who’d want to go there unless they had to? Or really wanted to and had a good reason to go - like me?

  The released brakes sighed and the doors slammed closed behind the American border guards. The remaining passengers echoed the sound, sighing with relief when the carriages finally shunted off. At least if you travelled along you felt as if you were getting somewhere. The passengers took a while to settle down and most gave up the struggle to sleep. A trio of men started a card game, which appeared to be a sort of Rummy, and played quietly in the corner opposite Isabel, using the little shelf table under the window for their cards.

  ‘Join us,’ they suggested.

  ‘No, thanks, I’m hopeless at cards. Don’t worry about me; I’m not going to sleep again now.’

  The train accelerated, like a horse that senses it is nearing its destination, eager to arrive. Several hours had to pass before they approached their goal, but it seemed no more than a couple of hours later that the train once again slowed to a cacophonous halt, grinding wheels sending up sparks along the track.

  The soldiers that boarded the train this time were even less gentle than the Americans. This was the beginning of the Russian zone. So these patched, sullen bullies were examples of the Great Russian Army. Dirty, scruffy and surly, they pushed and shoved up and down the corridors yelling at the passengers, using words no one understood and delivered in the crudest way possible.

  ‘All stand up! Stand up now! Aufstanden!’ Someone managed a few words in something other than Russian.

  A female soldier, whose foul breath in Isabel’s face made her turn her head, roughly pulled her to her feet. The woman grabbed her chin and stared at Isabel’s face. With a contemptuous guffaw she made some ribald comment to her male companion. They sniggered lewdly. As they grabbed her passport Isabel suppressed a smile when she noticed that they held it upside down and didn’t realise until they came to her photograph, which they scrutinised with unnecessary pantomime, comparing it to her face and laughing. Satisfied at last, they moved on.

  The border formalities took even longer this time. More passengers were summarily expelled onto the line with their few possessions. They gesticulated at the oblivious Russians, begging to be allowed to stay on the train. The Russians, when they became bored with the remonstrations, brutally pushed the people aside with rifle butts, sometimes striking someone. Where on earth could those poor people go? They were in the middle of nowhere. Was there another train that could return them to Holland? Could they stay in the American Zone? Isabel felt shocked at the callousness. She did not realise then that as time went on she would become immune to the sight of the human flotsam of war that washed at the shores of what civilisation remained in post-war Europe and the thoughtless brutality directed towards them. Millions of displaced persons strove to reach some sort of haven, forming a seething population of the dispossessed moving in any direction that seemed to promise new hope.

  Abruptly the train jerked and, stumbling, Isabel brought her head in from the window where she had been hanging out to observe the activity outside. She returned to her seat and hugged Penny to her side. The child’s eyes drooped, still groggy with sleep, but she snuggled warm and pliant against her. The train trundled on through the countryside of Russian-occupied Germany, towards Berlin, a city ruled by four conquering powers, marooned in the centre of this alien hinterland.

  ‘We’re nearly in Berlin, Pen! Only a very short while now and we’ll be seeing Daddy!’

  She began to fuss with their belongings, collecting their luggage together, her heart pounding. How could she bear the excitement? She would burst with it before they even got there. Calm down, she told herself, or you won’t be able to speak when we arrive. She glanced out of the window. With brutal shock she registered that the tottering canyons of ruined buildings beside the track were the beginnings of the devastation that was Berlin.

  Chapter Seven

  Berlin, 1946

  The unforgiving concrete of the platform began to register on Bill's feet; they burned and pulsed within the expensive leather. He felt as if he had been pacing back and forth for hours. Trying to contain his nervousness, he tapped his glossy swagger stick against the seam of his khaki uniform trousers. In common with many other officers, he had found a tailor near the Ku'damm who had remodelled the tunic to fit his muscular frame more closely. He held his cap slotted under his arm. His batman, Charlie, had polished his few surviving brass badges and buttons to a regulation sparkle. The rest were replaced with wartime black plastic. CCG, read the shoulder flashes, Control Commission in Germany, the military arm of the Allied Control Council, the government in effect, set to replace post-war chaos with some sort of order.

  He turned to his friend, brought along for moral support and in the hope that his cheerful banter would cover any awkwardness in his reunion with Isabel.

  'For God's sake, John, where's this bloody train?'

  Captain John Marriott, slouched on a Bahnhof bench smoking one of his interminable cigarettes, had projected his feet far out on to the platform due to the length of his legs. He puffed and relaxed into the seat.

  'Be here soon, old boy. Got to be patient. No Fascists around to make them run on time any more. You seem nervous.'

  'Nervous? No. Apprehensive - maybe.'

  'Don't split hairs. The memsahib will be thrilled to bits to see you; you can bet on it.'

  'This may not be quite the welcome she was expecting. The flat's still a mess.'

  'She'll hardly notice. Believe me, Bill; unless she's the house-proud type, she's not going to mind a few bullet holes in the plasterwork. From what you've told me she won't give a hoot.'

  'You may be right. I still wish she could have waited a bit longer - till I could get it properly done up; slapped on a bit of paint. We only got running water last week.'

  He slumped down beside John and picked up the silver cigarette case lying there.

  'Why do you smoke these things? I thought you were hard up. You can buy anything with them. I bought that huge double bed with a couple of hundred cigarettes the other day.'

  'Got to get your priorities right, Bill. Me, I’ve got no little wife to keep warm at night - I may as well smoke the things.'

  Bill grinned, spotting an inaccuracy in this statement. 'That's not what I heard.'

  'OK. I'm getting my share, but not with the kind of girl you could take home to mother,' John winked.

  Certainly not my mother Bill thought, she didn’t even approve of Isabel. He grunted and tried to relax on the hard wooden seat, some of whose slats were missing. He had tried to persuade Isabel to delay her arrival. Their letters had become argumentative and their occasional telephone calls, anticipated with great longing, difficult. He was ambivalent – he looked forward t
o see Isabel again, and Penny, funny little thing with her plain face and straight, fine hair. She wasn’t a bit like her mother, maybe she would blossom when she was older. But he didn’t like the way things were in Berlin. It was ugly. The defeated Germans’ attitude was, not surprisingly, morose often to the point of violence. On top of that Bill’s living quarters were far from ideal. Windows cracked, taps corroded and leaking and yes, bullet holes in the plaster.

  ‘Can't you leave it for a few months, darling, until I have a home ready for you? This place is still a mess.’

  ‘Bill,’ she'd replied firmly. ‘We've been apart for five years. Now the Army is at last letting us wives join our husbands there is nothing on earth that will keep me from you for a moment longer than necessary. Penny needs a father - she hardly knows you. She never will if you don't spend some time together. Besides, it doesn't matter what the flat is like, this place is hardly a palace. I can't wait to get away from it.’

  Bill remembered with a shudder the paltry little house in Wembley, but he had looked around the sparsely furnished apartment, until recently occupied by several young officers, and despaired. He tried another tack.

  ‘You know how much you'll miss your family. And Penny will miss the boys, won't she? I work very long hours you know. I won't be home much. You'll be lonely.’

  ‘Oh Bill! It sounds as if you don't want me to come. Of course I'll stay here if you really don't want me.’

  He could picture her sad, troubled face and knew he was lost.