‘More, more,’ encouraged Oleg. ‘No, nothing with it. I like my liquor strong and pure, like my women.’ He guffawed obscenely and took the opportunity to slap Isabel’s bottom. She grimaced and moved away to talk to their other guests.
John and Dennis discreetly halted their conversation as she approached. Dennis moved away and sat on the sofa as if he didn’t want to talk to Isabel.
‘How I loathe that man Oleg,’ she murmured.
‘Yes, I know, darling,’ said John. ‘But we have to put up with him. He’s our best link to the Russians. Luckily he’s got a big mouth, so we learn a lot about what they’re up to.’
‘Why, is something going on?’
‘Well, for a start, they’re not happy about us joining our two zones together. You know - the Bizonia plan. Taking it as a personal slight. They say it looks as if we don’t trust them and we’re ganging up against them.’ John chuckled ironically. ‘But it makes sense for the Yanks and makes administration simpler. After all, we are co-operating with each other already. We can solve the problems of where to put the DPs more easily if we combine facilities. Anyway, the Americans have better chow.’
‘Chow?’ queried Isabel.
‘Yeah, you know - rations. They get steaks and oranges flown over from the States. We might see a share of it ourselves.’
Isabel had found this out for herself only recently when Zelda had brought these delicacies on her visits.
‘We’ve got far too much, darling.’ she’d said. ‘We’re out most of the time anyway, what with Chuck’s diplomatic work and all; those amazing meals at the French Chief’s house. Don’t even think of refusing, honey. The oranges will be so good for you and Penny.’
Bill had certainly not complained when he had a juicy steak for dinner.
People in England seemed to think that the occupiers of Germany were living in luxury. But it was a struggle to produce reasonable meals from their rations even when augmented by food obtained by John on the black market. The French lived well and expected the Germans to supply them with the best produce from the countryside in their zone. They were extremely unforgiving as their country had been brutally occupied for years.
‘It will be a good idea to merge the zones,’ Isabel agreed vaguely. ‘Maybe it’ll mean Bill won’t have to work so hard.’
‘I’m not sure I can promise that, Isabel. There’s a mountain of work to do,’ said John.
Bill came over to them. ‘I think I need you now, John. This Russian chap’s getting heated and I don’t know what he’s on about. Something about reparations.’
‘Sorry, Isabel,’ John touched her arm as he moved away and she tended the fire. Luckily this chimney drew well and a good blaze was possible. You felt that the fire was doing something against the chill.
Bill drew John into the group near the windows overlooking the garden.
‘I’m sorry, Oleg, can you get Pyotr to explain that again? My Russian’s not up to it.’
The younger Russian must have understood Bill. He gabbled off a string of words, clearly annoyed.
‘He’s not happy,’ John commented. ‘What have you said to upset him?’
‘I’m trying to get them to understand that they can’t just strip out everything that moves from their zone and send it to Russia. How can we ever get German recovery if the entire infrastructure has gone? Factories have been stripped bare in the East. They have taken out half the pumps from the pumping stations, for God’s sake, and either broken them up or sent them God knows where. What’s going next? The electricity generators?’ Bill frowned and made an Italianate gesture of despair. ‘Someone’s got to replace it all and you can bet it will fall to us and the Americans. And what about the food supplies they are supposed to be sending for the Germans? We should have grain by now, what’s happened to that?’
Oleg, who had been trying to follow Bill, screwed up his forehead, causing his eyebrows to bristle.
‘Who care about the infernal Germans’ recovery? They brought it on themselves; don’t deserve our sympathy. Let them go hungry. They should return to the land; become honest peasants,’ he said.
‘It makes no sense, Oleg. There will always be chaos if we can’t restore the infrastructure of the country. We can’t let them all starve or freeze to death; quite apart from all the diseases going round. There’s enough crime and suffering as it is; we shouldn’t be making it worse. We made that mistake after the first World War.’
Pyotr snarled something that sounded like a question.
‘He wants to know what we’re talking about,’ said John. ‘They don’t get it. They just want to punish and inflict as much pain as possible.’
‘Like a lot of bullies,’ said Bill.
Pyotr turned to Oleg and barked an order. He seemed to have lost his patience.
‘I think they’re going,’ said John.
‘Already? We haven’t discussed anything yet. Are they giving up?’ said Bill.
Oleg looked apologetic, certainly regretful at having to leave half a bottle of vodka virtually untouched. He swigged down the last of the spirit in his glass and turned to Bill.
‘We leave now,’ he said stiffly. ‘I warn you, Major Barton, it does not - how do you say? – “go down well” if you interfere in the businesses of the Soviet Union. Already there are difficulties. We will administer our zone as we see fit, especially when it comes to people of traitorous inclinations.’
Bill shook his head, baffled by these remarks. Were they a threat? Was he referring to the so-called White Russians as traitors? Bill thought that the ones that the Soviets wanted had been deported to Russia. At least the Americans had saved some of the White Russians from death or incarceration in the gulags.
‘I’m sorry to see you go so early, Oleg – Pyotr. I’ll get your coats.’
Pyotr spoke again, in English, much to John and Bill’s surprise.
‘Much trouble, Major Barton, for you and so comfortable family,’ he waved his hand around the room. ‘Do not put nose in Russian business or much trouble for you.’
That definitely sounds like a threat, thought Bill, bristling beneath his diplomatic smile. He gave a brisk bow of dismissal and walked from the room.
The Russians took their greatcoats and returned their absurdly large uniform caps to their heads and, barely acknowledging Isabel, strode to the front door, their boots echoing on the floor. One by one they left the house, leaving an atmosphere heavy with questions and something close to fear.
‘Das vadanya,’ Oleg turned and waved farewell as the door slammed.
Moments later they heard the roar of a car’s engine as the Russians sped away.
Bill turned away from the door.
‘Well! What was that all about? They’ve changed their tune, haven’t they? What happened to mutual co-operation? I thought they were supposed to be our allies.’
John looked thoughtful. ‘I’d keep your eyes peeled for trouble, Bill. Something’s got them angry; they mean business.’
‘I’m not afraid of a few drunken Russians.’
‘That Pyotr isn’t a drunk. He’s a dangerous bastard; I’ve come across people like him before. Don’t cross him.’
Dennis and John lingered for more drinks. Dennis sat on the sofa in deep thought, the usual depressed scowl on his face. He might be missing his wife, thought Isabel, but he was such a miserable bastard and taciturn at best. She watched him. What was he thinking? He doesn’t look so much depressed as angry, as if resentment had creased his features, and he was impotently enduring his fate. Then she remembered his stash of treasures upstairs. He was probably worrying about how to get it out and reap the rewards. She must tell Bill about it soon. But now was not the moment, Bill was obviously going to be up for a while, mulling over the evening’s events with John. Perhaps Dennis’s cache wasn’t important, everyone was stocking up for the future one way or another.
Dennis glanced up and must have seen the expression on her face. His eyes narrowed, but he did not smi
le or acknowledge her. She thought it was time to make a diplomatic retreat and leave the men to talk.
Chapter Twenty-One
Berlin, December 1946
Eddies of snow were making circular patterns on the pavements; miniature white whirlpools. Chubby flakes drifted down from the heavy grey sky. Prince amused himself by trying to catch them and lick them off the end of his nose. Isabel’s hand lay loosely on his collar. She wore the beaver coat over her dancing clothes, grateful for its embracing warmth.
She was on the front steps of the house shepherding her pupils into the waiting truck. The corporal stood by to help them up. The children wearily dragged the cloth bags holding their dancing shoes and their feet, clad in Wellingtons or snow boots, scuffed the new snow. The excitement usually brought on by snow was absent; their exuberance quelled by weariness. Well wrapped-up in coats, hats and scarves, they resembled a troupe of gnomes on their way home from a tough day’s work. Hey-ho, hey-ho.
‘Come on, sweeties, time to go home. Buck up, Helena, the truck won’t wait forever,’
They had had a longer lesson today, concentrating on the steps for a little show for parents and friends at Christmas. With only a few weeks to go there was much work to be done. Some were catching on like little troopers, but others lagged behind, unable to remember the step sequences and stumbling over their own feet; moving without rhythm or grace. They had to repeat everything over and over and Isabel’s patience had begun to fray. By the end of the afternoon she had snapped in exasperation. God, she felt tired. She couldn’t wait to sit down.
Andrew rushed into the house to collect the shoe-bag he had forgotten.
‘Hurry up, Andrew; or the truck will leave without you,’ Isabel called back to him.
Penny stood beside Isabel. She had insisted on coming out to watch everyone leave.
‘Put on your coat and hat and gloves, or you’ll catch your death. It’s freezing out here.’
Penny wrapped up cosily and had added a bright blue scarf of her mother’s to the ensemble, the fringes trailing in the snow. She waved to her friends. The army driver stamped his feet on the compacted snow on the pavement in an attempt to keep warm and remove excess snow from his boots. Other people who lived in the street were trudging home from work or from shopping, after patiently queuing for food from their ration allowance. It reminded Isabel of the hours of queuing outside Sainsbury’s or the butchers during the War; would it never end? Some of them greeted Isabel as they passed.
‘Guten Tag, Frau Barton,’ they called and she waved.
‘Get a move on, Andrew, we’re waiting!’ Isabel yelled into the apartment, turning her back on Prince and Penny for a moment and peering into the gloomy hallway. Distracted, she let go of the dog’s collar and moved slightly into the house.
‘Where have you got to? Andrew!’
At that moment another truck rumbled into the street. The ration wagon. The drivers were always in a hurry; they had many homes to get round, depositing a box of rations on each doorstep. They drove fast and pulled up behind the children’s vehicle with a squeal of brakes and a slight skid in the snow.
‘Give us a hand with the box, mate,’ the soldier in the back yelled to his colleague on the pavement. The children’s driver took the box from him and put it on the steps.
‘Ta, mate!’ The man gave a whistle as he retreated into the back of the truck to grab the box for their next stop and the ration wagon started to move away. Prince chose this moment to cross the road. He may have spotted a cat or someone he knew and he shot across the road at great speed into the path of the oncoming vehicle. The driver did not see him from high above street level.
Isabel, as she turned from the front door pushing the tardy Andrew before her, had the horrible sight of Prince turning over and over in a grotesque somersault under the body of the truck as it accelerated away.
Isabel’s hands flew up to her mouth. ‘Oh no!’ she screamed. ‘Prince!’
The dog did not hear her but, as the truck passed over him, the wheels missing by inches, with a great howling cry of pain he galloped off along the road apparently unharmed but frightened out of his wits. He disappeared between two houses on the other side of the street.
‘Oh God! Poor Prince. I hope he’s all right. He can’t have been hurt too badly if he ran off like that.’
She helped Andrew into the truck, turning from the house. She steadied herself against the vehicle’s frame as the ground was unexpectedly slippery even though most of the snow was loose. The corporal held her arm for a moment. Her feet began to chill in her thin shoes; the toes numbing with cold. I should be wearing my fur boots, she thought.
‘Bye, bye, everyone. I’ll see you next week.’
She waved from the kerb and watched as they waved back and the truck disappeared around the corner. Isabel turned towards the front door and climbed the steps. Penny must have gone in. She would be upset to see Prince run over like that. She probably thinks he’s been killed.
‘Penny,’ she called, closing the door behind her. ‘It’s all right, darling, Prince is fine. He ran off, shocked, I suppose. He wasn’t hurt badly. He’ll be back later. Don’t worry, darling.’
She looked into the drawing room and Penny’s bedroom.
‘Where are you, Penny? Are you hiding? Prince is fine.’ Isabel tried to sound reassuring.
She walked towards the kitchen. Penny would have gone to talk to Irma. She seemed to go to Irma for comfort more often than to her recently. Isabel was wrapped up in her own troubles she admitted. How selfish of her; Penny needed her Mummy.
Irma had washed her hair and was arranging it in a chignon. So much more flattering than the thick plaits wound around her ears. Her best dress lay on the bed; a demure blue with white lace collar and cuffs.
‘Irma, have you seen Penny? Poor Prince was nearly run over; I think he’s OK. The truck went over him, but he wasn’t hit by the wheels. He ran off. Now I can’t find Penny. Is she here?’
‘No, Frau Barton, I have not seen her since the lesson. I was getting ready to go out. I have a date with Hank tonight; a dance at the Sergeants’ Mess.’
‘How lovely, it’ll be fun for you. But I must find Penny. She will be hiding somewhere. Could you give me a hand finding her, Irma? It won’t take long.’
‘Of course,’ said Irma.
They searched the flat from back to front. Although the rooms were large the furniture was sparse and left few nooks and crannies where a small child could hide. They looked under beds and even searched inside the huge wardrobe in Isabel’s room and in the chilly larder. The door to the back garden was locked and the key hidden in the desk, so she couldn’t have got out there.
‘I can’t find her, Frau Barton.’
‘No, Irma, I can’t either. I don’t think she’s here!’ A horrible thought assailed her and a note of panic entered her voice. ‘That means she must be out in the street. She may have run after Prince. I didn’t see her. Oh, God…!’ She hurried across the empty hall to the patched front door and flung it open.
The snowfall had gathered pace and the sky had darkened in the half hour they had spent searching the flat. The flakes now resembled small lumps of cotton wool flung carelessly from a lady’s dressing table. It was hard to see across the street.
‘Penneee!’ Isabel yelled, her breath fogging the air. The snow deadened all sound and there was no echoing reply. ‘Are you there? Don’t hide, darling, it’s time to come in.’
‘Perhaps she went after Prince,’ suggested Irma, echoing Isabel’s thought.
‘I don’t think so. He was moving very fast. You can’t run, it’s very slippery. I would have seen her.’ She called out as loudly as she could. ‘Penneeee…’
They set off in opposite directions along the road, hugging their coats close around them. Isabel had grabbed the heavy beaver coat and heaved it on to her shoulders. Her fur-lined boots were now on her feet with Grace’s thick socks inside.
‘Penny, Penny. Where a
re you? Don’t hide, darling, it’s too cold. Come inside and we’ll have cocoa.’
She reached the corner and squinted up her eyes to stare vainly in each direction through the cloud of snow. Up and down; straining her eyes and ears. But she could see no movement except for the falling flakes and could hear nothing at all. Every sound was muffled by the snowfall; a reminder of the thick fogs in London. Surely Penny would call out, Isabel thought, if she was hurt, or lost. Surely I would be able to feel her presence nearby or hear her smallest cry.
Isabel ran back towards the house, frantic with worry, sometimes stumbling on the slippery paving stones. She had to do something. There must be someone who could help however bad the weather. Irma was approaching from the other direction, beginning to shiver in her thin coat.
‘She’s not there, Frau Barton. Oh - die kleine. Wo ist sie?’ She blinked away tears of distress starting in her eyes.
‘No, she’s not here. I must call someone for help. Penny wouldn’t have gone off alone. Someone must have taken her. I ought to call the Polizei.’
Irma looked doubtful and followed Isabel inside.
‘But she would have cried out if someone took her, wouldn’t she, Frau Barton? She would not go quietly with someone she didn’t know.’
‘I know, but I might not have heard her. Prince was making an awful noise and the two trucks were moving off. You know how much racket they make and the children were shouting goodbye. I didn’t hear a thing. Why would she go with anyone; why then?’
Isabel fumbled off her gloves and gripped the telephone receiver with fingers clenched in a frozen spasm. Panic was building. Agitated, she jiggled the cradle up and down for a line. Nothing but a useless buzzing answered her.
‘There’s no line. Bloody phone, why does it never work when you need it? What if I can’t speak to the police? I’ll get hold of John; he’ll know what to do.’
She thought of how Bill had told her that when they first arrived in Berlin, the only thing that worked was the telephone system. That had obviously gone for a Burton, she thought.
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