‘I expect there’ll be a party soon. They’re always arranging something, a dance or a cocktail bash. Any excuse will do,’ said John. ‘We invite officers from the other zones so it gives you a chance to meet the French and Americans, and occasionally some Russians. At least it breaks the monotony.’
Isabel shuddered – Russians! She had heard some terrible stories about the behaviour of the Russians in defeated Berlin. Poor Irma, still heart-broken since a Russian soldier had shot her adored Alsatian. But stories of rapes and thieving abounded. Irma and her mother knew many women who had been violated. They were lucky to escape them, hiding in their ruined eyrie. The Germans Bill and Isabel encountered hated all Russians with a passion.
‘Gott zei dank we ended up in the British zone,’ they’d say.
‘I’m not sure I want to meet any Russians,’ Isabel said to John.
‘Don’t worry, darling, some of them are quite civilised,’ he reassured her.
Sometimes Isabel wondered if John’s casual affection was a little too demonstrative. He flirted with too much enthusiasm, like someone courting a new lover. Should she keep him at a distance? But she soon realised that his breezy camaraderie and genial affection were part of his natural charm and did not mask any deeper feeling. He really seemed to enjoy her company. She certainly looked forward to seeing him, her only friend in this alien city now that Bill practically ignored her.
‘Can’t see you tomorrow, darling. I’ve got to take out the girlfriend. She’s getting a bit restive.’
Isabel hadn’t met John’s girl, but had heard about her from Bill. He was vague about her origins.
‘She’s a lovely girl, very lively. French, I think, or Russian. She doesn’t actually tell you much. But she’s very pretty and seems to be devoted to John. Hope he’s good to her.’
Isabel hoped so too. John deserved someone to make him happy.
Chapter Ten
Berlin, Autumn 1946
She had been living in Berlin for three weeks when Isabel received an invitation. It came from the colonel’s wife, Mrs Stewart-Jones. Obviously a summons and delivered in the form of a proper stiff printed card, it spoke of tea, at her residence. ‘Bring your children,’ it demanded.
The feel of the card in her hand alone filled Isabel with apprehension. So far she had managed to avoid meeting the wives of senior officers, but knew she must eventually. The hierarchy of class imposed on British officers meant that the wives took on the rank of their husbands and were treated accordingly. But it also meant that she could not make friends among the wives of the so-called Other Ranks, who would be her natural choice. To appear in the Sergeant’s Mess on a social evening would have been unthinkable and anyway, Bill would never dream of going. But she longed for a good old knees-up or sing-song round a piano, surrounded by people with whom she could have a laugh.
The usual mode of transport for army wives and families on semi-official business, or into the NAAFI or to take the children to the Forces’ school, was an army vehicle. A jeep or a five-ton truck would collect them from their homes. The trucks also moved goods and chattels around when officers and their families were posted to another city; a crude removal van.
On the day of the tea party Isabel’s nerves made her more and more strung up. She waited to leave, all brushed and made-up, primped and pretty, pacing the floor like a caged leopardess. She wore the blue suit bought at Barkers; the smartest thing she owned. Underneath was a pretty silk blouse with a floppy bow at the neck and pin-tucks and embroidery down the front; one of the things made from parachute silk by the Italian nuns. Inspecting herself in the long mirror on the back of the wardrobe door she felt more confident. Pretty classy, she thought. Penny wore one of the gauzy Italian frocks, an ice-cream pink confection with white smocking and a full skirt. One of Grace’s hand-knitted cardigans completed the ensemble.
‘You look as sweet as a fairy,’ Isabel said as Penny twirled the fabric around her sturdy legs. ‘Such a pretty girl!’
‘Pretty girl, pretty girl,’ Penny copied her mother and danced in front of the wardrobe mirror with the hem of her skirt held up between her fingers like a tiny soubrette. Her feet, in Clark’s sandals and white socks, whirled her across the floor in one of her excited dances.
Downstairs, as ready as they would ever be, they waited for the truck on the edge of the sofa, anxious not become crumpled. Soon they heard the jangle of the bell and went to the door. A smiling Corporal guided them to the kerb. They joined several other wives in the truck, seated on each side on hard wooden benches under the canvas top, after an undignified leap up from the street with a helping hand from the Corporal at Isabel’s elbow.
‘Steady, ducks.’
He grasped Penny around the waist and handed her to her mother. She was wriggling like a tadpole.
‘You’re tiggling me!’ she giggled.
The Corporal grinned and tickled her again and Penny collapsed on to the bench, still laughing.
There were no other children in the truck and Penny sat close to Isabel during the short journey, her thumb in her mouth until Isabel gently pulled it out. The women appraised each other covertly, only exchanging a few remarks about the weather and the common grumble about the quality of the rations. They were probably also apprehensive about the coming ordeal, Isabel thought. The warm afternoon drugged her senses and Isabel was glad to be the last to be collected and sitting near the canvas opening at the back where a cool breeze stirred the stuffy air.
They arrived at the Colonel’s house, which stood in a wide avenue of healthy trees in another part of the Grunewald, back from the road with a drive and a substantial front garden full of mature shrubs. The elegant mansion was even bigger than Bill and Isabel’s and seemed to have sustained less damage. The beautiful windows were intact, or had been repaired, and Isabel could see no evidence of artillery fire in the stucco. The Russians hadn’t wrought their destruction on this place – a Soviet General had probably lived here for a while until forced out when the boundaries of the zones were settled and he found himself billeted in the British Zone.
A stern-faced maid in a pristine uniform greeted them and led the group of women into the drawing room. The floral chintzes and cretonnes that furnished the spacious room made it appear as if it had been transported in one piece from the Home Counties apart from the occasional item of heavy Bavarian furniture and the ubiquitous German feature of a massive tiled stove in one corner towering almost to the ceiling. Isabel noticed that these tiles were decorated in a pretty pattern of blue flowers painted on a white background, in the Dutch Delft style, unlike the one in their flat whose tiles were a sombre and menacing dark brown. No heat came from it today as there was no need for a fire on this warm September afternoon. Vases of flowers arranged in the formal English country house style sent fragrance into the air.
Isabel felt the same fear that she had felt on being summoned to the headmistress’s office. A hollow feeling at the pit of her stomach told her that she had done something wrong, even though she knew that she hadn’t.
Their hostess sailed towards the latest arrivals. A large woman with a firmly permanently-waved head of brown hair and a hard face, she bore down on them with hidden menace. Well-corseted, an imposing battle cruiser, her silk dress swished around her nylon-sheathed legs expensively. A hand outstretched to no-one in particular pointed in the direction of the group of new arrivals.
‘Welcome,’ she boomed in Kensington tones, ‘How nice to see you all.’ The warmth of her smile evaded her eyes. When Mrs Stewart-Jones came to briefly shake her hand Isabel flinched involuntarily and her smile wavered. She felt herself being appraised; the shrewd fierce eyes swept up and down, evidently taking in every detail. Impossible to gauge the verdict of this scrutiny.
‘Mrs Barton? You’re our newest recruit. Let me introduce you to the other ladies.’
Her hostess turned abruptly and Isabel realised she was expected to follow in her wake. Limp hands were thrust out towards her fo
r shaking and she was bombarded with so many names that she realised she could not remember one of them. They seemed amiable enough, but no more interested in her than she was in them. But she smiled brightly and murmured greetings to them all. She was glad to sit down at last and accept the delicate Crown Derby cup and saucer handed to her by a maid. At least it’s proper tea, she thought, not that awful perfumed stuff or the phoney tea the Germans have to drink.
Penny had been whisked away as soon as they arrived.
‘She’ll be fine upstairs with the others.’ Mrs Stewart-Jones predicted with a dismissive wave of her hand, ‘Gerde’s in the nursery with them. I’m sure they’ll manage to amuse themselves.’
Isabel hoped Penny would be all right as her timidity sometimes overwhelmed her and she was not used to the company of crowds of boisterous children. The teacher at the army school had noticed this when she started at the kindergarten last week and was doing her best to help Penny overcome her shyness. At least she hadn’t cried and clung to Isabel’s hand, as she had feared she would. But just now she had climbed the Colonel’s stairs with the air of someone on their way to the scaffold.
The introductions over, Isabel felt free to look around and take in her surroundings. She realised with horror that everyone else wore a silk dress in a summery print, or even a proper full length tea-gown in the case of some of the older ladies; some looking a little like Queen Mary at her most imperious. Isabel peered at her suit, which a short while ago had seemed incredibly stylish and now appeared totally inappropriate. She tried to sink lower into the armchair; perhaps she could become invisible. She felt hot colour rise in her cheeks.
‘It’s amazing, isn’t it?’
The voice came from somewhere above Isabel’s head.
‘I’m sorry?’ whispered Isabel, looking up to where the voice came from.
‘Amazing – you could be right there, in England, in Weybridge or somewhere in Wiltshire.’ The voice pronounced the last word with a long ‘i’. An American, thought Isabel.
The voice sounded nearer now as the owner bent down closer to Isabel. She saw a pencil-thin, incredibly chic girl dressed entirely in black, outlined by the light from the window. As she came nearer Isabel saw how very young and pretty she was and the brilliant smile on her face. Those amazingly white teeth again.
‘Hi! I’m Zelda. Zelda Hoffstetter. Yes, I know, don’t groan. My parents had a thing about F. Scott Fitzgerald.’
Zelda perched on a footstool near Isabel’s chair. With a deft hand she stroked back a single stray hair on her otherwise impeccably coiffed head.
‘Isabel Barton, isn’t it? I thought you might be here – in the Dragon’s Lair. I’ve heard a lot about you.’
‘You haven’t!’ Isabel said, horrified. ‘What have you heard?’
‘Oh, nothing bad. Don’t look so alarmed. Just what a good-looking couple you are an’ all. Chuck admires your husband a lot.’
‘I’m sorry, Bill hasn’t mentioned…’
‘That’s OK. I know - you hardly ever see him. They’re very busy.’ Zelda waved a slim hand towards the room. ‘Have you met the rest of the hausfraus?’
Isabel giggled, ‘Yes, most of them. But I can’t remember any of their names.’
‘Dreadful, aren’t they? But don’t worry; in no time at all you’ll be all too familiar with them. This is it, honey, your social life for the duration. Don’t forget the wives take on the rank of their husbands so remember to keep in your place and you’ll be all right. I think you British are even worse than us Yanks in that respect – hierarchy and all.’
Isabel surveyed the room full of superior-looking women, of different ages but all so snooty that they made Isabel feel hopelessly declassée. She was glad that Bill had been promoted to Major. At least she wouldn’t be too far down the pecking order. Oh dear, she thought with an audible sigh.
‘I’ll look after you, honey. I’m so glad I’ve met you at last. We’ll have some fun.’ Zelda promised from her perch.
Isabel couldn’t fail to warm to her new American acquaintance. She seemed charming and God knows, she could do with a friend. She smiled back brightly.
‘I’m dressed all wrong. But I didn’t have anything suitable. This is the only thing I’ve got that’s even remotely smart.’ Isabel indicated the blue suit.
‘It’s a great costume, but there seems to be a uniform for these get-togethers. Silk tea dresses, cocktail frocks, evening gowns; everything suitable for the occasion. And so it goes on. Ridiculous when there are such shortages.’
‘I haven’t got anything like that!’ Isabel felt panicky.
‘Look, I’ve got a wonderful dressmaker. She can copy anything. We’ll get her to make you some things.’
‘I’m sorry,’ Isabel said, embarrassed. ‘I couldn’t possibly afford that.’
‘Oh God, I know! You British are so badly paid.’ Zelda, whose diamonds at ear lobe and finger indicated considerable affluence, spoke completely without guile or the British embarrassment at the mention of money. ‘You don’t need cash. You can get anything in Berlin for food or ciggies. Or soap, they’re desperate for soap.’
‘Oh yes, I know,’ Isabel said, thinking of John. ‘But we’ve only got our ration and…’
‘Really, it won’t be much. I’ll talk to her and we’ll see what we can do.’
Isabel chatted to Zelda and did her duty in stilted conversation with other guests before the Colonel’s wife made it clear that the afternoon was at an end, clapping her hands like a schoolmistress to get their attention.
Her, ‘It was delightful to see you, ladies. Thank you so much for coming,’ obviously served as their dismissal.
She hustled her guests out of the house towards their waiting transport. Penny came down the broad stairs smoothing down the pretty frock with worried hands, a frown between her brows.
‘There was a boy there, Mummy. He was rough. I didn’t like him.’
‘Oh, you’re so cute!’ said Zelda, stroking Penny’s silky hair gently. ‘Rough boys. Gee, we don’t like them, do we? You come and visit me; I don’t have any rough boys.’
Isabel arranged to call on Zelda as soon as she could; already looking forward to it. Perhaps she’d found a friend at last.
‘I don’t bring my kids to these things,’ Zelda said. ‘The maid looks after them, she’s a treasure. I’ve got twins, boys, but only 18 months old, so not rough yet!’ She patted Penny’s head. ‘See you soon, baby. You too, Isabel Barton!’ And then she was gone in a rush of displaced air, in the back of an American Army jeep with a uniformed driver. She smiled broadly and waved over her shoulder as they drove away down the centre of the street.
Chapter Eleven
Berlin, Autumn 1946
A heavy burden of loneliness weighed on Isabel. The long hours alone in the flat were submerged in aching boredom, with a valve radio that worked only intermittently and was dependent on the vagaries of the electricity supply and a very old gramophone with a horn, which had to be wound up by hand. Anyway, the selection of records was pathetic; some classical and some German folk songs, many of them scratched, causing the needle to catch at regular intervals. She had read everything she could lay her hands on, from a tattered copy of Jane Eyre to a very racy novel by someone she’d never heard of. An airmail copy of the Daily Telegraph appeared every now and then, bringing news of home. This was soon read from cover to cover.
On some empty afternoons the silence became so oppressive that she wanted to scream. She tried to read, curled up on the old velvet sofa, but the sound of the ticking grandfather clock in the hall disturbed her concentration. She watched the slender beam of light penetrating from the garden and wished she should get out, anywhere, away from here.
She wrote long letters home, but there was little news to tell and she didn’t want to worry her family with her loneliness and boredom. She certainly couldn’t divulge that her relationship with Bill was not all it should be; that he didn’t seem to want to talk to her most of
the time and when he did it seemed to deteriorate into an argument. They weren’t pleased with her being here anyway and would try to get her to go home if they thought she was unhappy. So she tried to sound cheerful; to emphasise the droll and interesting. She described her meeting with Zelda and the tea-party with the Colonel’s wife, hoping it would amuse them.
‘What a dragon!’ she wrote ‘Even worse than our headmistress at school – you remember, the Battleaxe.’
Finally she had found a companion to spend some of those long hours with. Whenever they had time to spare, Zelda and Isabel met. On sunny days, with Penny at school, they walked in the park near Isabel’s house. Here the trees had survived the war almost intact, though now some were being felled for firewood. Even in the centre of Berlin most of those trees damaged by conflict had struggled into life in the spring. Now the foliage had turned to burnished gold and red as autumn approached. The leaves began to fall in a glory of russet rain and formed a carpet that whispered as they walked. Someone was always trying to make a bonfire and scented fumes filled the chilling air. The long solitary hours were mitigated by Zelda’s visits and Isabel relished her cheerful companionship.
Bill had some idea of how she felt and, probably with the best of intentions, he made a suggestion for her amusement.
‘You should try to make friends with Emma Masters,’ he said. ‘She’ll be good company for you.’
Isabel quailed at the thought of Dennis’s home-counties wife, all twin-sets and pearls, teamed with good-quality tweeds. Her interests seemed to consist solely of sporting pursuits, golf, riding and tennis. Isabel could sense the woman’s disapproval; the questions in her eyes, the imperceptible tilt of her nose accompanied by a barely audible sniff. What a snob, was Isabel’s first thought and later encounters had not led her to feel any differently.
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