War's Last Dance

by Julia Underwood

  With Bill away at an Intelligence Conference in Hanover Isabel felt anchorless and irrationally angry.

  ‘Bloody Bill. Why is he never here in a crisis? Typical!’ She swore under her breath, still jiggling the phone. ‘Oh, it’s hopeless. It must be the weather.’

  She replaced the lifeless receiver and paced up and down the hall.

  ‘Oh, Penny, where are you? What can I do? If I had a car I could go and find someone, but I can’t walk anywhere in this.’

  Irma stood mute and helpless a few feet away. They jumped convulsively as the door bell jangled. Someone’s brought her home, Isabel thought, thank God!

  With a wave of relief nearly overwhelming her, Isabel dashed to the door. ‘Penny! Darling! She’s come back!’ She grabbed the handle and swung the door open. A tall male figure stood on the step.

  ‘Oh, Hank, it’s you.’ Disappointment patent in every muscle, she turned from the door. Silently, tears began to pour down her face. The beaver coat hung from her shoulders, dwarfing her, emphasising her helplessness.

  Hank, paralysed by the obvious distress his arrival had caused, stared at her uncomprehendingly. He mutely questioned Irma over Isabel’s shoulder.

  ‘Come in, come in. I’m sorry. I’m so glad you’re here.’ Isabel took his hand and dragged him over the threshold, dashing tears from her cheeks. ‘How did you get here?’

  ‘Marty dropped me off in the jeep,’ he replied.

  ‘A Jeep? Oh, good! Is he still here?’

  ‘No, he’s gone to get Janine. But he’s coming back for us. There’s a dance…’

  ‘Yes, I know, Irma told me. Never mind that. Penny’s disappeared. We can’t find her. I can’t make the phone work and it’s snowing and I don’t know what’s happened and Prince was run over and I don’t know what to do.’ The stream of words pouring from Isabel’s mouth ended in such a wail of fear and sorrow that Hank was prompted to put an arm round her shoulders. He steered her into the warm drawing room where she collapsed onto the sofa and began to cry despairingly.

  Irma and Hank stood over her like a pair of guardians, perplexed as to how to proceed. What on earth could they do?

  Isabel sniffed and wiped her nose on the beaver sleeve.

  ‘Do not worry, Frau Barton, we will find her. Hank will know what to do.’ She gazed at him with hopeful adoration.

  Hank shook his head, obviously alarmed. ‘No,’ he muttered. ‘I don’t. We’ll have to think about it.’ He paused. ‘Well, ma-am, I could go and look around the streets again.’ His lack of enthusiasm for this course of action was apparent.

  ‘I know you’re trying to be helpful, Hank, but I don’t think we can. You can’t see a thing now it’s dark and what with the snow and everything… Oh, my poor baby!’ Isabel disintegrated into tears again. Uncontrollable shaking took over her body and she turned her head from side to side. ‘No! No – no,’ she cried, the tears running in channels down her cheeks, taking with them trails of mascara.

  Hank whispered to Irma, ‘Perhaps you should make a cup of tea or something, honey.’

  Irma dashed to the kitchen and soon returned with a tray. By the time it was on the table and Irma had poured it into cups, Isabel’s tears had slowed.

  ‘Ugh, it’s sweet.’ She shuddered as she sipped the brew lavishly laced with sugar.

  ‘Sweet tea’s good for shock. Drink it up and you’ll feel stronger.’ Hank assured her.

  Isabel’s shaking gradually subsided. The strong tea helped her to think straight again.

  ‘We’ve got to get help. Hank, how long do you think Marty will be?’

  ‘Well, ma-am, he’s picking up his girl, and then he’s coming back here. About half an hour.’

  ‘That’s not too long. He can take us to John’s; he’ll know what to do.’

  ‘Captain Marriott’s not at the conference?’

  ‘No – just Major Barton. Some kind of high level thing.’

  Isabel leant back and tried to relax. Not long now. They had to find Penny. Out there somewhere in this dreadful cold. Maybe all alone. Where on earth could she be?

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  The apartment block where John lived bore none of the splendour of the Barton’s house with its vestiges of Art Nouveau grandeur. These flats had been built more recently, in the 1930s, of strictly utilitarian concrete along the brutal lines of gun emplacements or bunkers, in keeping with the Nazi ethos.

  Inside, John had managed to instil some semblance of comfort with things he had picked up around Berlin. The market outside the ruined Reichstag proved an excellent place to buy household goods. Every day desperate crowds of Berliners sold their possessions in exchange for food and medicines. John had procured a magnificent pair of red velvet curtains, which, though overlong for these slight windows, gave his living room an air of luxurious comfort.

  One day John found a beautiful Art Nouveau table lamp for Isabel, using some of his precious coffee allowance in payment. It was Bill and Isabel’s anniversary, their ninth and only the third that they had spent together. John was delighted she appreciated its opulent artistry.

  ‘Oh, it’s lovely, John,’ she exclaimed, caressing its smooth asymmetric lines and ornate glass shade, intact in a miracle of survival. ‘Thank you so much.’ She hugged him and gave him a big sloppy kiss.

  Isabel. Ah, what a lovely girl. How easily he could fall in love with her; perhaps he was already on the brink. He treasured her dark beauty and grace and her gentle kindness more than he liked to admit even to himself. If it weren’t for Bill… but after all, if it weren’t for Bill she wouldn’t be here in Berlin and he wouldn’t be able to admire her, even from a distance.

  His mind had wandered. He dragged his attention back to the here and now.

  He was lying on his bed, decidedly ‘out of uniform’, and Anya was performing a slow striptease at his feet. She was down to her creamy silk underwear, bra and panties, a lacy suspender belt and the pair of black silk stockings that he had found for her. She stooped to nonchalantly unhook a suspender.

  ‘Come on, darling,’ he growled, holding out his arms to her. ‘I can’t take much more of this. Get a move on.’

  Anya grinned, wagged a finger and produced one of her gurgling giggles.

  ‘Don’t be in such a hurry, liebling. We’ve got all night.’

  She must have thought better of keeping him waiting any longer, removed the rest of her clothes and in a swift, agile movement she was straddling him and tenderly stroking his chest whilst he drew her body closer to his.

  God, he thought, what luck I found Anya. A beautiful girl and great in bed. She might not have Isabel’s class, but hell, who needs it when you’ve got an enthusiastic young body like this on top of you? He pulled her down until she lay flat against his stomach. He buried his nose in the Russian girl’s neck and nuzzled her gently.

  ‘Mmm. You smell nice.’

  ‘Chanel, darlink, you got it for me, remember?’

  ‘Mmm,’ John mumbled as Anya’s practised caresses stirred his senses and he stroked her into purring submission. From then on his brain and body took him into another world and little conscious thought crossed his mind.

  Their lovemaking was progressing very satisfactorily when John heard an alien, strident sound that should not have intruded on them. He ignored it, but moments later, he heard it again. Persistent. Urgent. The front door bell.

  ‘Christ!’ He sat up abruptly, almost striking Anya with his arm. ‘Sorry, darling. There’s someone at the door. I’ll have to go. It had better be something important.’

  ‘Who can it be at this time of night?’ Anya sat up in the bed, drawing the sheet around her breasts.

  ‘It’s not that late. Only about nine.’ John glanced at his watch on the side table. ‘Yes, 8.45. I’ll see who it is. Probably just one of the neighbours wanting to borrow some butter.’

  ‘They’ll be lucky. We haven’t seen butter for a month.’

  John slipped on a pair of trousers and walked t
o the door in bare feet. Opening it he saw a broad and lanky young American soldier shuffling his boots on the concrete floor of the hallway.

  John scrutinised him. ‘Who are you and what the hell do you want, Corporal?’

  ‘Mrs Barton…’ the American lad managed to articulate. ‘Outside. In the jeep. She needs your help.’

  John’s attitude changed abruptly. ‘Isabel? Well, bring her in, man. What’s up? Is she hurt? I’ll just go and put some more clothes on.’

  Leaving the door ajar he retreated to the bedroom.

  ‘Sorry, darling,’ he said to Anya. ‘Better get dressed. Isabel Barton’s here. She’s in some kind of trouble. I’ve got to help her.’

  He was getting into a shirt and a khaki sweater. Anya hid a frown of annoyance and slipped off the bed and began to dress with considerably more speed than she had undressed. She tried not to look sulky, but her disappointment prevailed; it was so rarely that they managed to spend time together. She had hoped to stay all night, which meant the possibility of some real talking and exchange of confidences and hopefully some useful information that she could profit out of.

  ‘Poor Isabel! What can have happened?’ She managed to produce a voice full of concern.

  ‘We’ll find out in a moment. Be a good girl. Go and put some coffee on. There’s some of the real stuff in the red tin. I expect she’ll need it, it’s freezing out there.’

  By the time he had dressed and Anya was in the little kitchen, Isabel arrived at the flat with the American and Irma inexplicably hovering behind them. Isabel had been crying copiously. She paused in the doorway, a briefly framed portrait of anguish.

  ‘Come in, Isabel,’ he guided her tenderly towards a chair. ‘Now, what on earth’s the matter? What can I do to help?’

  ‘Oh, John!’ Isabel launched herself into his arms and began to sob on his shoulder. As she was usually so reserved, John was amazed by this display of emotion.

  ‘It’s Penny; she’s missing. We can’t find her anywhere. I think she’s been kidnapped!’ Her voice was muffled by the huge fur coat, but he could just make out what she was saying.

  At this moment Anya appeared in the doorway carrying a tray with coffee and cups. She gasped and swayed perilously, choking back words. No! She thought, aghast. They wouldn’t have. She must have articulated her thought because the others turned to look at her.

  ‘Coffee, everyone?’ she asked as if nothing had happened. She put the tray down on the table and sneaked out of the room into the bedroom, leaving the door ajar so that she could hear everything that was going on.

  ‘Come, Isabel, sit down and tell me about it,’ John repeated and settled her in the chair. ‘And for goodness sake, take off that bear coat. You’ll be cold outside if you don’t.’

  Isabel did as she was told and let the coat fall in a heap beside her.

  ‘Hello, Irma,’ said John, turning to the others. ‘Take a seat and introduce me to your friend.’

  ‘This is Hank, my boyfriend,’ Irma replied. ‘He has a jeep to drive us here. The telephone wasn’t working, Kapitän Marriott, we didn’t know what to do.’

  John sensed an onslaught of tears was imminent. ‘Pour out the coffee for us, Irma, whilst I talk to Frau Barton.’

  He turned to Isabel, collapsed in and dwarfed by the big leather armchair. He noticed how haunted her eyes were; huge in a very white face. He took her hands in his.

  ‘Try not to worry, darling. We’ll find her. I’ll see if my phone’s working and we’ll get the MPs round and send them to search. I don’t think we should involve the Polizei at this stage. Tell me exactly what happened.’

  Isabel related all that she knew. She was vague about when exactly she had last seen Penny.

  ‘She was standing beside me on the steps. Then Prince dashed out and was run over, and I was looking at him and the other children and the ration man and I didn’t notice – I didn’t notice where she went. And when I was paying attention again she wasn’t there, she just wasn’t there!’ Her voice rose into a wail of fear.

  ‘Where was Irma when all this was happening?’ John glanced at the girl.

  ‘I was in my room, Herr Marriott. I was getting ready to go out - with Hank.’ Irma blushed and the American drew closer to her, a protective barrier at her side.

  ‘There’s a dance at the non-Com’s Mess, sir. We were going there.’

  Isabel looked up at him, stricken, and spoke through a haze of tears. ‘Oh, I’m so sorry; you’re missing your dance!’

  ‘That’s of no mind, ma-am,’ said Hank. ‘with the little one missing an’ all.’

  John nodded at the young man approvingly. He could see that his calm, competent manner soothed the women, staving off hysteria.

  ‘That’s right, soldier. Now we must do what we can to find her.’

  Inwardly John was doubtful. That sweet little girl; out in the cold and dangerous city with who knows whom. He had heard ghastly rumours – he tried to put this thought to the back of his mind, but it forced its way forward. There had been rumours that, because of the lack of fresh meat, people, including children, had been disappearing and cannibalism was practised. Completely barbaric. Surely not; not a child, it was unthinkable.

  John strode to the phone and tapped for a line. A few seconds later he gave the thumbs-up sign to his assembled guests; it was working.

  ‘Hello. Yes please. Get me the Military Police... Marriott, Captain Marriott. 21 Messerplatz, second floor. I need an officer here. Pronto. I must stress that it’s very urgent. It concerns a missing child. Yes, please. As quickly as you can.’

  Once he had exchanged all the relevant details he hung up and sat down next to Isabel.

  ‘They’re on their way. They’ll know what to do.’ He turned to Hank and Irma. ‘You two could go off now. I’ll look after Mrs Barton and see she gets home. I’ve got the car. You needn’t miss the entire hop.’

  ‘Are you sure, sir? We don’t mind staying.’

  ‘To be honest, Hank, there’s nothing more you can do here and when the MPs arrive the flat will seem a bit crowded.’ He indicated the extent of the already cramped room. ‘Go on. Be off with you, and try and have a good time. Thank you for bringing Mrs Barton.’

  ‘Thank you, sir. Marty and Janine will be glad. They’ve been waiting in the jeep for us.’

  ‘Good God! They’ll be freezing by now. Go and rescue them. There’s nothing more you can do. There’ll be no more news for a while.’

  He realised the dire truth of what he was saying. It was pitch black outside and the snow was still falling and likely to do so all night. By morning there’d be inches of the stuff. What on earth could the police do at this time of night? They probably wouldn’t set up a search until the morning; he wouldn’t tell Isabel that.

  ‘You’ve done very well so far, Corporal, getting Mrs Barton here. Now go and enjoy yourselves.’

  He ushered the young people to the door. Irma left reluctantly, turning back before walking out. ‘All will be well, Frau Barton,’ she said. ‘You must be hopeful.’

  These words brought fresh tears to Isabel’s eyes. Hopeful, how could she be hopeful; where was her baby?

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  The Military Police, when they arrived half an hour later, were embodied by a Major and a Sergeant, introducing themselves brusquely – Major Goddard and Sergeant Cox. The Major marched stiffly into the room holding his tall frame to rigid attention. The Sam Browne belt across the chest of his immaculate uniform tunic and the pistol holster at his hip were polished to a wonderful sheen. He represented the picture of discipline and rigid self-control. The Sergeant was similarly burnished and unsmiling, the webbing on his gaiters sparkling white with well-applied Blanco. A white armband had the letters MP written on it in large black letters.

  John and Major Goddard faced each other like gladiatorial combatants and saluted. Isabel had the feeling that John wouldn’t have bothered with this formality had not the other officer done so first. Sergeant
Cox joined in the formal greeting and then stood, apparently on guard, in the centre of the room. Isabel suppressed a surge of impatience. Enough of the military nonsense, she thought, get on with it, my little girl is missing.

  ‘Well, what seems to be the trouble?’ the Major asked.

  Isabel almost laughed. These were exactly the words that the family doctor used when they went to consult him. She usually felt that he had absolutely no interest in her answer. It seemed strange to hear the words coming out of the mouth of a policeman, as if a spoon of medicine would solve their dilemma.

  ‘Mrs. Barton’s five year old daughter has disappeared. She may have been kidnapped,’ John explained.

  Isabel watched a frown cross the major’s face. He wouldn’t have much to do with children or families and possibly deplored the presence of so many officers’ families in Berlin. More for him to worry about, as if all the usual mess wasn’t enough. His duties would normally involve chasing up Other Ranks that had gone AWOL, or committed other misdemeanours. He wouldn’t like the idea of looking for a child.

  ‘Why did you call us in?’ he asked John, studiously ignoring Isabel. ‘Wouldn’t it have been better to speak to the civilian police, the Polizei?’

  ‘There wasn’t the opportunity. The phone’s are down in Mrs Barton’s residence. In any case, I thought that as this is the child of a serving officer and as a gesture of courtesy, it would be more appropriate to call you first.’

  ‘Hmm…’ the Major looked doubtful. ‘Nonetheless…’

  ‘If I may say so,’ John interrupted him, ‘I hardly think we should be arguing protocol at this stage. There’s a child missing. What are you going to do about it?’

  The officer drew himself up and bristled. His mouth tightened into a thin line under his even thinner moustache and he looked as if he might be about to protest. After all, he did outrank this Captain Marriott. But glancing at Isabel huddled miserably in the chair, he evidently thought better of it.

  ‘I might as well find out what’s happened. I’ll question the mother,’ he announced.