War's Last Dance

by Julia Underwood

  ‘I love you; I long to have you here all the time. I don't think this is the best time, that’s all. But if you're determined, you must come. Don't say I didn't warn you - conditions are awful.’

  Now Isabel was on her way with the mutely sullen daughter he hardly knew. Penny had certainly made her antagonism felt when he'd seen her on that last leave. Bill remembered her tight, stubborn face. Peculiar little mite, she must have been jealous. She’d had her mother to herself all those years; his presence must have seemed an intolerable intrusion.

  At least conditions here were better than they had been. The remembered horror of his first arrival in Berlin nearly a year ago still stirred him. The Russians had arrived in the defeated city ahead of the other armies, taking it for their own. In spite of the agreements beaten out at the post-war conference at Yalta, they showed reluctance to give any part of the city over to the other Allies. For months the Allied Control Council argued over the division of Germany in general and Berlin in particular.

  When the British and Americans finally arrived it would have been hard to imagine that things could have been worse. Apart from the more obvious visual evidence of corruption the most noticeable thing on landing in Berlin, at Templehof Airport, was the smell, the heavy sweet smell of decay. The stench of putrefying flesh, toppled buildings and recent fires. Many dead bodies still lay beneath the rubble. Stretching away into the hazy distance they could see the ruins of the city laid out in a panorama of destruction. A fog of residual smoke from extinguished flames hung in the air. Once in their transport they weaved through the barely cleared streets between cliffs of ruined buildings, their empty facades holding nothing behind them. Bill was wryly reminded of the faces of debutantes he had known.

  'God, it's worse than I imagined. How can they repair this?'

  Those words, a mantra repeated over and over again in stunned whispers, echoed as they slowly advanced through the chaos. Dead bodies littered the streets, a danger to everyone, spreading disease and encouraging vermin. The Russians just left the bodies where they fell and the civilians could summon neither the energy nor the will to bury them.

  Bill had seen the results of bombing in the East End of London and around Wembley. Terrible indeed, but not as bad as this. Here devastation was more complete than in any other city in Europe as Berlin spread so widely and had been subjected to bombardment from the air, by artillery attack and then to intense street fighting when the unrelenting Russians arrived. Berlin was seen as the root of evil, the seat of Nazism, and was to be utterly destroyed. Hitler refused to surrender, so the fighting continued for much longer than necessary.

  ‘Berlin will fight to the last man,’ the Nazi leader insisted. So the defeated Berliners endured months of unnecessary suffering and death. Those who wanted to surrender and put out white flags were summarily executed by the SS and their bodies displayed outside their homes; hung from the lampposts as traitors. The Nazis finally turned on their own people.

  The ruins seemed to stretch forever in dunes and mountains of rubble between towers eviscerated by fire. The borders of the cleared main roads had been crudely embanked with walls of salvaged bricks holding at bay the once grand facades of buildings. An occasional mass of girders like a parody of warped climbing frames in a children's playground pointed starkly into the sky.

  The young British officers watched dusty lines of pale, thin and poorly dressed women, passing broken bricks hand to hand - those hands encased in rags or cardboard to protect them - they tapped off the broken mortar as best they could and stacked the intact masonry into embankments that held back the piles of rubble. These less damaged bricks would be used again when reconstruction began.

  Bill couldn’t help feeling sympathy for these poor women, known as the trümmerfrauen, who were paid a pittance, but could not get a ration card unless they did it.

  ‘They shouldn’t have to do that. Aren’t there any men to do it?’ he asked. But there weren’t. The only males in the city were too old, too young or too sick or wounded or even war-shocked for manual work.

  ‘Don’t feel too sorry for them, old boy,’ John had said, rolling a cigarette from a tin of Old Holborn, part of a consignment newly arrived from England. ‘They’re probably the wives and girl friends of Gauleiters and Gestapo murderers and torturers – they may have taken a hand themselves. Don’t waste your pity on them. They didn’t have to follow Hitler.’

  But all the same they struck Bill’s heart with sorrow. He thought of what it would have been like if the British had been similarly brought low and Isabel had been forced to wear out her hands on such tasks.

  Thousands of shambling refugees, displaced persons - or DPs as they were known - their few possessions carried however they could, had started to arrive from the Eastern provinces now occupied by the Russians. They arrived on impossibly overcrowded trains, dead or dying from starvation, many of them orphaned children.

  Their influx began as soon as the Western zones were opened. Some of the luckier ones had handcarts and old prams to carry their goods. Others had their backs bent beneath their burdens, heads down like scavengers vainly searching for treasures at their feet. Propaganda told them that Berlin was barely touched by War. They were deeply shocked when they arrived to see the grim reality and cried bitter tears. This was the ultimate symbol of the end of the Third Reich. Where was the glory now?

  'What on earth are we going to do with all the D.Ps?' Was the question asked by everyone– at least two million had arrived and there were not sufficient facilities to deal with them. Not enough shelter and certainly not enough food. The question was partly answered when the extent of Nazi atrocities was unearthed. Eighty one Belsen-type camps were found in the British zone alone. Many DPs were housed in these ex-slave-labour camps, concentration camps and empty barracks, as well as in bombed-out schools and hospitals. They found shelter in those cellars and attics not already occupied by Berlin residents and fashioned makeshift caves in the mountains of rubble with whatever materials they could find. But conditions were terrible and many starved or died of disease.

  Bill and a party of other young officers were sent to find themselves billets.

  'Things are better in the suburbs, go and look there,’ the Quartermaster said.

  In a borrowed jeep a party drove to the wooded outskirts with less marked devastation. They selected a villa in an area known as the Grunewald.

  'Take any one you want,' their commander said. ‘If there are Germans still in it, turf them out. Don't forget who's in charge now. There’s no need to be polite about it. If they make a fuss, tell them you’ll shoot them.'

  Bill discovered later that the more wealthy Berliners and Nazi party dignitaries had decamped when the Russians were pounding at the gates of the city from the East and the other Allies, the Americans and British, had halted at the Elbe, waiting for the Russians to take the city. They piled their valuables, their children and their luggage into the last functioning private cars in Berlin and, whilst at the same time urging Berliners to fight to their last breath, fled to Switzerland or Austria, not realising that the latter would fall to the Allies in short order.

  The building the officers selected was empty; much to their relief, as threatening residents at gunpoint had little appeal. The villa’s generous proportions spoke of prosperity and opulence. Unfortunately, earlier occupation by Russian soldiers had rendered the interior extremely unpleasant. The squatters did not seem to have understood the function of the toilet facilities, possibly because there had been no mains water for a long time. They had used any convenient corner they could find for their natural functions.

  Much of the ostentatious furniture had survived, though often damaged with gouges carved out of the wood or glass doors smashed, perhaps because it was too heavy to move. The glass was still intact in most of the window frames, but many of the walls seemed to have been used for target practice. A crude drawing of Hitler, etched in charcoal on a wall in the hallway, was covered and surrounded
by violently excised pockmarks. It appeared that they weren’t very good shots.

  'There's a pile of logs out the back,’ John noticed, 'I'll start a fire. It'll get rid of some of the damp smell.'

  ‘But will it help with the stink of shit?’ someone yelled. ‘Filthy buggers, those Russkies.’

  They lit a fire in the handsome tiled stove that stood in the corner of the hall, towering to about eight feet, almost to ceiling height. Even in its neglected state the brownish tiles gleamed and the chimney seemed clear enough to light a fire. Once the smoke died away it warmed the house from top to bottom.

  What must have once been a beautiful garden was now tangled with overgrown bramble and weeds. Some of the larger trees had been felled for firewood and the remnants left littering the shaggy lawns. The greatest shock came when they found two bloated corpses floating in the fountain. As both were naked it had not been possible to identify their nationality.

  'The fat bastard must be Russian,' someone hazarded. 'No German could look like that after what Berlin's been through.'

  'Come on! Get the corporal to arrange a grave-digging party. We can't leave them there.' Bill turned away in disgust, hoping he didn't look as sick as he felt. He went inside and chose a bedroom from the eight in the house. It was bigger than any room he’d occupied in his life. The camp bed and single chair looked pathetically inadequate on its wide wooden floor. All he had to add was his trunk of kit. He’d have to find more furniture to make it seem more like a home from home.

  'There's a whole stash of wine in the cellar,' John called in to tell him. ‘Come on, we might as well get plastered.'

  'We'd better not drink it all. With no water we'll probably be cleaning our teeth in it. I'm surprised the Russians haven't had it all.'

  'Mostly hock, old boy. Not the Russian's tipple, they prefer vodka.'

  Before long a REME unit drove a water tanker into the street every day to supply the requisitioned houses. Eventually some kind of mains water was restored, although at first it was only from a standpipe in the street. They still had to boil every drop, for disease was sweeping the city. Typhus, typhoid, diphtheria and dysentery were rife. Happily the hock was only called on to wash down their rations, when they got around to cooking any.

  Now, nearly a year later, the house had been roughly divided into two apartments. The other original occupants had moved away, some awaiting their wives and some secretly living with friendly fräuleins. And some had been posted to other cities, Hamlin, Hanover and Luneburg. Bill occupied the ground floor, using some of the reception rooms as bedrooms, and a colleague from the Control Commission, a civilian conscript, Dennis Masters, lived upstairs. They shared the hallway and Bill used the bathroom just at the top of the stairs. It wasn't a bad arrangement. As they waited for their families to join them they rattled around in the huge house.

  'Quite a nice little nest we've got here, Bill,’ Dennis said, 'almost as good as Cheltenham. I just wish someone would open a decent golf course.'

  Bill looked at his apartment doubtfully. Though partly furnished in fine Teutonic style, anything of real value had gone and the walls and floors were vast bare acres. Naked light bulbs hung from the ceilings and where ornate sconces had once adorned the walls. Since bulbs were scarce and unreliable, the flat was often pitched in gloom. Bill scrounged as many candles as he could so that at least he could try to make the rooms more cheerful for Isabel. It might even look romantic, he hoped optimistically.

  The glass in the double doors between the rooms, engraved with graceful Art Nouveau motifs, had been broken or cracked. Bill regretfully and carefully removed the remaining shards, mindful of Isabel and Penny's safety.

  'When your family arrives you can get yourself a maid,' Bill was told. Until then Bill had relied on his batman, Corporal Charlie Pierce, to look after his needs. A batman was to look after an officer or group of officers during battle, to see that their designated officers’ kit and uniform were in order and that they got food and sleep as well. They sometimes acted as waiters in the Mess and some could even turn their hand to minor repairs of kit and vehicles. Charlie was certainly one of these. He had been a car mechanic in civvy Street and, after following Bill around Europe, was his staunch ally. But now, as his family was coming, Bill was entitled to a maid and Charlie, to his disgust, was relegated to more work at the Mess. He still took care of Bill’s uniform, polishing the brass and making sure all was in good trim.

  Bill needed to find a maid. By asking amongst other officers, relatively old hands at living in Berlin, Bill found Irma. She arrived on the doorstep one morning as he was towelling the remnants of shaving soap from his chin.

  The girl standing on the doorstep seemed impossibly young and thin, so thin. He had been told she was eighteen, but she looked younger. Her emaciated face peeped out between blonde plaits neatly coiled around her ears.

  'Entshuldigen, Herr Kapitän, ich bin Irma.' She informed him with a little bob.

  'Ah, Irma, please come in.' Bill said in his perfect German. He had difficulty in persuading her to sit down whilst he interviewed her. Even then she perched uneasily on the edge of the armchair. She eyes stared wide in her gaunt young face as she scanned the living room. The festoons of cobwebs weighed down with dust in great swags, the heaps of rubble, the piles of loose plaster inexpertly gathered by Bill and his friends were all rapidly taken in by her domestic glance.

  'Yes, Herr Barton I can do this. It will take time, but I can make it nice for your wife. Do not worry.'

  Bill stood up, extending his hand to help her up; relief written on his face. How fragile she is, he thought with a tremor of pity.

  'Bless you Irma, you're hired. There are cleaning materials in the kitchen. If you need anything else I'll see what I can do - I think they've got mops and things down at the NAAFI, just let me know.'

  In the few weeks since he'd hired her, Irma had wrought miracles. For one so slight and undernourished she appeared to have boundless energy. She lived in, sleeping in a bare little room next to the kitchen, but she seemed happy with the arrangement and was already putting on weight and looking healthier. Bill had been afraid that she would not be strong enough for the work, but she seemed to thrive on it.

  After a few days he could hear her singing in the kitchen as she prepared his breakfast, meagre though it was. She brought it to him in the dining room where he sat in solitary splendour at the magnificent dining table, which had survived the Russians’ occupation with only one deep scar.

  'Thank you, Irma. It's lovely to hear you singing – I hope you're happy here.'

  'Danke sehr, I am happy to work with you.' She bobbed with downcast eyes.

  'You don't have to curtsey, Irma.'

  'I think I should, sir,' she stammered, ‘you are my master.'

  'No, really, there's no need.'

  'I fetch more toast.' She scurried away, blushing fiercely.

  A few days later he told her the news received the day before in an air letter from home.

  'My wife and daughter will be arriving next week, Irma. Try and make the place as cheerful as possible. We'll have a decent dinner when they get here. I'll see what I can get at the NAAFI - I've got hold of some extra ration points. I couldn't bear to give her rissoles.'

  These hard grey little meatballs made from minced meat of dubious origin became a staple part of their diet as the meat in their rations was hardly fit for any other purpose. Pissoles, John called them.

  'Frau Barton and the little one!' Thrilled, Irma bustled around tidying and polishing with new energy. She made the beds with blankets and linen supplied by the Army. Some of the blankets were so thickly felted and heavy that they would hardly bend over a bed. One was spread on the floor of Irma’s room to act as a carpet. But Isabel would be sending some of their own things from England, good sheets, soft wool blankets, towels and feather pillows, all of which were a welcome gift from Bill’s mother; purchased, naturally at her favourite emporium, Harrods. They would arrive in a
week or two; Carter Paterson arranged this transport for the Forces.

  From somewhere in the neglected garden Irma gleaned an armful of flowers and leaves, some dusted with bright coloured berries, which she arranged in mugs and jam jars around the flat.

  'Well done, Irma! It looks almost like home. Mrs. Barton will be pleased.' Bill surveyed the flat, already transformed into a passable imitation of a home.

  Now here he stood, at the Bahnhof, chilled, bored and kicking his heels alongside other husbands waiting for their families. He was glad John had joined him. They had met in the early days of the War at a training course at Bletchley Park and become good friends.

  'Delighted to come along, old chap,’ said John. ‘You've told me such a lot about the lovely Mrs. Barton. Wild horses couldn't keep me away!'

  Finally, two hours late, the sinister gunmetal grey engine's blunt nose slowly steamed between the platforms. Crashes resonated through the station as doors were flung open before the train ultimately came to a dignified halt. Heads hung from the open windows, people pushed frantically up and down the corridors. Weary passengers, stretching their legs after the long journey, began to climb down onto the platform. Bill’s heart started to beat faster and foolish tears started to his eyes, reminding him how much he had been looking forward to this day.

  Bill recognised the hat immediately, even before he saw Isabel’s face. The red feather rippled playfully in the draught. He stepped forward and called.

  'Isabel!' Involuntarily he stretched out his arms, his swagger stick and cap forgotten on the bench as he stumbled towards her.

  A blast of steam was released from under the train and Isabel disappeared into the mist.

  John had caught his first glimpse of her though.

  'By George, Bill,' he breathed, ‘you’re quite right, she's a corker!'

  Chapter Eight

  Berlin, 1946

  Bill clasped Isabel and Penny together in a hug, his arms wide to encircle them both, murmuring words of welcome. Finally he released Penny; put her onto the ground and drew Isabel close into his arms. After a few moments of watching their passionate embraces, kisses that tilted Isabel’s hat and ruffled her hair, John intervened.