Emma was a younger, taller version of Bill’s formidable mother, with a congenital conviction that her class was the only one worth belonging to and that there was only one way of conducting your life according to rigid and arbitrary rules of behaviour. But Isabel was less daunted by these attitudes now she lived with Bill, who had no interest in or understanding of such distinctions. Her confidence seemed to have grown. Even the terrifying colonel’s wife, Mrs Stewart-Jones, no longer had the power to make her quake in her shoes. She was just a woman like any other trying to make the most of life in a ruined foreign land.
‘Shall I ask Dennis and Emma to eat with us?’ Isabel asked Bill, regretting the words before they had left her mouth.
‘That’s a good idea,’ he replied. ‘A dinner party. Yes, lay that on, darling. Better give me a bit of notice to make sure I’m here.’
‘You’d better be,’ she warned, ‘I couldn’t possibly cope with them on my own.’
He kissed her on the cheek as he left. ‘Don’t worry, darling, I’ll be there.’
What had she done? Isabel did not care for the couple upstairs and now she had suggested inviting them to dinner; what had she been thinking? What on earth could they eat? She supposed they should have at least three courses, would that be enough? But there was no chance of a fish course; they were too far from the sea. The nearest thing they saw to a fish nowadays was a tin of sardines and the occasional delicacy that could possibly be a kipper.
‘
Irma suggested a first course of soup; ingredients could always be found for soup.
‘I could make Wiener Schnitzel, if you can get some veal,’ she said. ‘And I’ve got an idea for dessert.’
John managed the veal, from one of his mysterious contacts and the menu was set. Thank goodness for Irma, thought Isabel, what a treasure she is.
The evening began smoothly. Once the table was properly laid, in the way Isabel was sure Emma would expect, and Penny was in bed, Isabel was more relaxed.
Emma and Dennis came down and chatted with rare good humour. Emma was hopelessly overdressed, Isabel thought, in a red silk cocktail dress and, apparently, all the jewellery she possessed. But she smiled.
‘How kind of you to ask us, Isabel.’ she cooed, with barely a trace of condescension.
They each consumed a strong gin and tonic before dinner.
‘This rubbish gin can only be tasted in large helpings,’ Bill claimed. ‘No point in drinking it if it tastes of nothing.’
By the time Irma announced dinner they were becoming quite jolly and Isabel’s nervousness evaporated.
Bill had managed to buy a good bottle of red wine from a French acquaintance. The French zone was awash with everything necessary to make the French occupiers feel at home and anything they didn’t import they purloined from the Germans; getting their own back on their erstwhile occupiers.
Irma served a tureen of steaming onion soup with generous sprinklings of croutons. Irma’s delectably tender Wiener Schnitzels followed, fried in what Isabel feared was most of their butter ration. Mashed potatoes and cabbage (of course), laced with caraway seeds in the German fashion, accompanied the meat.
‘This is delicious, Isabel,’ said Emma. ‘Your maid’s a very good cook.’
‘I know. She’s marvellous, isn’t she?’
Finally Irma brought in the dessert. Four goblet glasses filled with a concoction of artificial cream whipped with tiny rubies of wild strawberries.
‘Oh my goodness, this is wonderful! Where did you find the strawberries?’
‘Somebody brought them in from the country. They grow wild in the woods in autumn. Only ten cigarettes,’ said Isabel.
Everyone laughed, all accustomed to this bizarre currency.
‘But the cream, it’s just like the real thing.’
‘Irma has a magic machine that whips up egg yolks and milk and by some amazing alchemy, this is the result.’
‘It’s incredible!’
They enjoyed the food, Isabel thought with satisfaction but conversation had become stilted. Isabel found she had so little in common with Emma. She didn’t want to keep talking about Penny to a woman with no children. Emma was at least 15 years older than her; what could they possibly talk about?
‘Do you like Berlin?’ asked Isabel in desperation.
‘Not terribly,’ said Emma. ‘Apart from anything else, there’s nothing to do.’
‘Have you met any of the other wives?’
‘A few. I didn’t like them much.’
I’m sure of that, thought Isabel.
‘Some of the Americans are nice,’ said Isabel, thinking of Zelda.
Emma recoiled. ‘Americans? I can’t bear them; such brash vulgar people.’
Isabel couldn’t reply to that, so she fell silent. Perhaps the men were talking about something interesting, or was it just the usual stuff?
Indeed, the men talked shop, discussing the hopelessness of processing everyone who passed through their centre.
‘We’ll never be able to root out all the Nazis,’ said Bill.
‘They can’t do much harm now,’ said Dennis.
‘But they should be punished, surely?’ said Emma. ‘They did such terrible things.’
‘The War Crimes Trials at Nuremberg will see to that. I think that in the end only the ringleaders will be tried. Some of them will be executed, but we can’t hang thousands of people.’
‘I don’t see why not,’ said Emma. ‘They were evil.’
‘It’s all a matter of degree,’ said Bill. ‘They were often forced to join the party to survive.’
Emma shook her head. She’d like to string up everyone who doesn’t come from the South of England, thought Isabel.
Later, over coffee, Emma dropped her bombshell.
‘Actually,’ she said, ‘I’m thinking of going back to England.’
Shocked, Dennis turned towards her. ‘What? You’ve only just got here.’
‘I know. Nonetheless, I intend to go.’
‘It’s the first I’ve heard of it,’ Dennis said.
‘I’ve only just decided. You don’t need me here. I’ll go and look after Mother.’
Dennis didn’t protest about this sudden decision. Isabel thought she detected a furtive look of relief. I wonder what he’s up to, she thought. He doesn’t really want her here and she knows it. Why? He doesn’t look like the type to have an affair. Isabel couldn’t see him taking up with one of the needy German fräuleins desperate for a meal-ticket. It must be something else. What a strange, secretive bloke he was.
‘We’ll talk about this later.’ Denis said, standing abruptly. ‘I think we should be going now. Thank you for your hospitality. We enjoyed it.’ The words were stilted and unconvincing. Isabel almost felt sorry for him.
The dinner broke up with the couple climbing to their flat; Emma ahead of Dennis, in complete silence. Isabel was certain the silence would be broken by angry words once their stout bedroom door closed.
One day soon after the dinner party, Zelda arrived with a length of pretty flower-sprigged silk, tiny blossoms in bright colours on a white background; the epitome of spring. Isabel let the fabric flow through her hands like a rippling stream.
‘Oh, Zelda, it’s beautiful! I love it.’ Isabel held it up against her body. How she needed something gorgeous to wear!
‘I bought far too much. Anyway, it’s too cutesy for me! I prefer to wear plain colours; usually black. It’ll be wonderful on you, with your English Rose look.’
‘But I’m as dark-haired as you,’ Isabel protested.
‘Never mind that,’ Zelda ordered at her most domineering. ‘You have it. Do.’
‘OK. I give in. How can I resist? What do I owe you?’ Isabel laughed.
‘Don’t be silly. It’s a gift. I insist.’
The two spent a happy, productive afternoon scanning magazines from the NAAFI, for a suitable style to copy. A not too out-of-date Vogue was full of photographs of the latest Paris fashions. I
t seemed that this year longer skirts were de rigueur. The dressmaker Zelda recommended was a marvel and could mimic a dress from a photograph or drawing for a tin of cocoa or a couple of bars of soap.
Later they went for a walk until the time that Penny came home from school. She was beginning to settle in, to Isabel’s relief. The little girl now waited eagerly for the school truck to arrive in the morning, chattering of friends she had made and things she had learned. She seemed to adore her teacher, Miss Graves.
The autumn air already carried the chill edge of winter. Isabel worried about her wardrobe, lacking in anything much suitable for really cold weather. Grace had knitted her a warm jumper and some amazingly thick socks, but she’d need a good coat. The one she’d had in London was threadbare and shabby and certainly not warm enough for the freezing conditions predicted in Berlin.
‘I was here last winter,’ Zelda said, ‘and although it was supposed to be dreadful it wasn’t too bad. But winter’s coming again soon and everyone says it’s going to be real bad this time. We’ll need to be prepared.’
Bill confirmed Zelda’s words.
‘You’ll have to get Penny and you warm clothes as well as that fancy party stuff, you know.’ He scanned her new finery critically where it was spread out on the bed. Isabel was at a loss to know where he thought she was going to get more clothes, warm or otherwise. There were no more clothing ration coupons and certainly no money for them.
One day he came home with a fur coat bundled in his arms. He helped her into it; holding the weight in his hands. Its thick bulk dwarfed Isabel’s slight frame and the weight when Bill released it made her shoulders buckle. The fur was dense and dark brown; the hem almost touched the floor. Isabel felt stifled by the garment as if a great woolly body were holding her in its arms. It was certainly warm and no cold wind was going to penetrate the thick folds.
‘It’s beaver,’ Bill said. ‘One of the warmest furs around. It’s a bit long, but you’ll be glad of it later. It’ll keep your ankles warm.’
‘Where on earth did you get it?’ Isabel staggered around the room, trying to become accustomed to the weight.
‘One of my “clients” gave it to me. He didn’t want it any more. It belonged to his wife, but she died at the end of the War. Now it’s too heavy for him to carry around and he can’t bear to wear it. Maybe he thought it would be easier to get his persilschein, but he would have got one anyway.’ Bill seemed embarrassed by this revelation, as if he had done something wrong in accepting the coat.
‘Well, thank you, darling, and if it gets really cold we can all live in it!’ She teased as she struggled to twirl. She finally removed it and hung it in the wardrobe, where it threatened to bend the pole.
The same week Bill came home with a less welcome gift. He placed it in her hand.
‘This is for you.’
The thing lay in her palm. Isabel looked at it with horror. She thrust it back at him.
‘No! I don’t want it.’
‘You have to, darling. It’s for your protection. You heard about Mrs Henderson, stabbed in the chest and no-one there to help her as she bled to death. People out there are bitter – the Germans, the DPs too – they resent us. Remember, we’re an occupying army. Living conditions are very difficult. There were five murders every day this summer. Yes, I know they’ve been spread in all the zones, but it’s dangerous out there. You must keep it. All the wives are getting them. I can’t be here all the time. Stash it under your pillow or something.’ He pushed it back into her reluctant hand and it lay there, mute, cold and menacing.
It was nothing like any gun she had seen before. A mile away from the familiar weapons used by cowboys in the movies - Colt 45s weren’t they? They had round chambers, which held the bullets. They killed people. That was the extent of Isabel’s knowledge of guns.
But this gun was different. It was tiny and compact and barely filled the palm of her hand - a flat, square-edged piece of molten grey steel, lethal and uncompromising.
‘It’s a Mauser automatic,’ Bill told her. ‘This is the safety catch here...’ he showed Isabel how to put it off and on, ‘...and these are the bullets.’ He handed her a box no more than two inches square with German gothic script on the sides. It held twenty tiny slugs tightly packed together, each in its own little compartment with no space between them, like the cells in a honeycomb, each bullet capable of killing someone if you were close enough and lucky enough to get a shot at them before they hurt you.
‘I’m not going to load it,’ Isabel assured him, her voice filled with repugnance.
‘You must. There’s no point in having a gun that’s not loaded, Isabel. It could save your life. We’ll go into the country one weekend and practice shooting.’
‘I couldn’t shoot anyone.’
‘Look, keep it close. Then if anyone in an ugly mood turns up when I’m not here at least you’ve got some protection. I worry about you, darling. It will keep you safe.’
How was that going to happen? She silently turned the gun over in her hand and shuddered. It didn’t make her feel safe; it made her feel more frightened and vulnerable.
‘I thought the war was over. I didn’t think I might have to kill someone.’
Bill’s voice became steely. ‘There are thousands of starving and angry people roaming the streets. They have nothing. No homes, no food, no jobs and no rights and very little hope. Most of them are totally desperate and dangerous. Think of how I’d feel if anything happened to you. Think of Penny.’
That concluded the argument. Of course, if it was for Penny…
Dutifully she put it under her pillow. At first she felt as if she could discern its malign presence through the pillows. The square hardness, she was certain, would forge a mark on her cheek. Once, when she felt for her handkerchief, her fingers brushed it and she recoiled in shock.
Isabel vowed that she’d never use the thing. But she kept it under the pillow to keep Bill quiet. One day she’d get rid of it somehow; throw it into the river or something. She would certainly never take it out of the flat for any other reason.
Chapter Twelve
Berlin, 1946 – Dennis
Dennis scratched his chin for the thousandth time. God, this beard is driving me mad, he thought. He’d grown it in a spirit of rebellion and self-importance, hoping it would look distinguished, like the neat beards of George Vth and the late Tsar, but it had turned out to be a spindly, haphazard affair, grey in places and ginger in others; not at all what he had in mind. Rules prohibited army personnel from growing beards, but he, as a civilian, could do as he pleased. No stupid strictures could be imposed on him. He’d been conscripted post-war; a civilian sent here to Berlin when the War had been over for more than a year. He was too old for the fighting war, much to his relief, but then they’d come and buggered it up.
Dennis’s thinning ginger hair flopped over his eyes. Another rebellion, he didn’t have to conform to regulation military hair length either. The ginger, he preferred to call it auburn, was fading to a mottled greyish brown, like an old fox. He remembered the torment he had endured from bullies in his childhood.
‘Garn’ Ginger, Ginger!’ they’d taunted as he made his way home from the grammar school. ‘Gingers Nuts!’
He would never forget his cringing humiliation at their hands. But he had ridden above it all; good School Certificates, university and on to be a respected accountant working in Cheltenham for nearly 20 years and about to be made partner. Then this had happened. What a bloody cock-up! Just when things were going well he’d been ordered by the War Office to come to Germany to help with administration in the denazification programme. Because one of his Higher certificates had been German; he wasn’t even fluent in the language. It seemed the useless Army couldn’t manage on their own. Anyway, after five years abroad most of them itched to go home. So now they were short-staffed and found help from wherever they could.
The massive deluge of people and paperwork threatened to submerge the Alli
ed Control Council; a bureaucratic nightmare. Amazingly, in 1945 they had found the records of every party member, kept meticulously by the Nazis, waiting to be pulped in a paper mill near Munich. The Army people were incapable of sorting it out, more suited to running around with guns and killing people, Dennis supposed. They’d not been trained in proper business method.
So here he was, nearly 50, with a boss almost 20 years younger. This stuck-up public schoolboy upstart, Major Bill Barton, telling him what to do in his ‘oh so polite’ plummy voice. But fair do’s, the man was an incredibly good interrogator, with plenty of practice during the War. He could teach the police back home a thing or two about extracting information and without the use of thumbscrews. He managed to get to the nub of a person’s background in no time. Not that there was much time, what with the numbers that they had to process. The rapid turnaround made his head swim. But Barton knew how to sort out the wheat from the chaff.
Dennis’s deep resentment had etched lines of discontent on his already striated features. Always lugubrious and humourless, his present circumstances had rendered him positively morose. I don’t see why I should make an effort to be pleasant to people; not to the Army and certainly not to the Germans. I didn’t ask to be here.
What am I going to do now? He thought. His wonderful job back in England had been kyboshed, that’s for sure. A couple of years in Germany and he could be certain that the offer of a partnership would have vanished. They’d probably give it to that stupid pipsqueak Andrews.
However, after a few weeks at the Berlin job, a way out had presented itself. Well, if not exactly a way out yet, at least a sop; something to ease the awfulness of the situation. Observation had taught Dennis something interesting and he had an inkling of what he could do to save himself. He realised that here in Berlin there pertained the perfect way of making a lot of money to fund his future life in England.
War's Last Dance Page 9
