The Foreigner

by P. G. Glynn

  “I’ve just come off-duty, madam.”

  “So you’re still at Claridge’s?”

  “I am.”

  “And now you’re going home?”

  “Yes, madam – to Camden Town.”

  “Good heavens! That’s where I’m headed too. Let’s travel together and catch up on our news.”

  This they did, sitting on the upper deck of the red bus and marvelling over the coincidence of having the same destination. Marie drew from him bit by bit the fact that he had lost his wife in the Blitz. There were tears in his eyes as he described returning home from his shift to find her buried beneath the pile of rubble that, just hours previously, had been the house they had lived in since marrying. “Pearl believed in Fate, you see,” Herbert ended sadly. “She said shelters were useless because if a bomb had your name on it you were a goner wherever you were. The trouble is, I can’t help thinking about our neighbours who did go into the shelter … and lived to tell the tale.”

  “Thoughts can be troublesome,” Marie said sympathetically. “We’re best off trying not to dwell on those that give us disquiet. Though I’m a fine one to talk. Just before we met I’d been upsetting myself by thinking ahead to events that haven’t even happened yet and might never happen!”

  “Tell me what has been happening to you,” he said. “What brought you to Camden?”

  “It’s a long story, as stories always seem to be with me. Suffice to say that my son and I moved to Monmouthshire before the war. After his marriage I came to London to visit an old friend and just stayed on. Nell is far too polite to tell me that I’ve outstayed my welcome, so I’m still here.”

  “Are you back in the theatre?”

  “No, I’m not. I thought the film-industry was the place to be but have changed my mind recently.” She smiled but he saw that her smile did not light her eyes. “A camera, I find, doesn’t have the warmth of an audience.”

  “I’m sure that’s true,” Herbert said, appalled that audiences had been deprived of her dazzling talent. He then observed: “You mentioned your son but not your beautiful daughter, whom I last saw at the age of about two. I suppose she’s married now, too?”

  “How I wish that were true! Carla died soon after you saw her. Had she lived she would now be twenty-five.” Marie raced on before he could offer sympathy: “Happily, I have an adorable small granddaughter coming up to her second birthday.”

  “That must be some consolation.”

  “It is … and Suzy is an angel.”

  “If she takes after you, I’m sure she is. How about your husband? Is he … ?”

  “I haven’t seen Otto for seven years,” she butted in quickly, “but received a letter from him recently, so know that he’s still alive – or was, when he wrote it! There are so many uncertainties, aren’t there, in war?”

  “Indeed there are,” he agreed. “One certainty is that, but for the war, I’d be out of a job. It’s only because of the current dearth of younger men that Claridge’s have kept me on. They’re excellent employers but at my great age I’d ordinarily have been pensioned off. I’m over seventy, you know.”

  “Giddy godfathers! I’ve never have guessed. Do you ever wonder where the time went?”

  “Often,” he said. “Time’s a bit of a mystery, isn’t it? One minute we think we have plenty left and the next … ”

  “ … we know we have more behind us than in front,” Marie finished for him. She then queried: “So Claridge’s treat their staff well, do they?”

  Reckoning that she probably wouldn’t be travelling by bus if she could afford a taxi and having noted that she was not dressed as fashionably as she had once been, Herbert was quick to catch on. He responded: “Yes – and I’ve heard it said that there are certain similarities between working in an Hotel and acting on a stage. That is to say, activity behind the scenes is very different from what the public sees.”

  She had asked her question on a whim, or so it had seemed. Now, driven both by curiosity and by economic need, Marie said pensively: “I wonder what the chances would be of them employing me.”

  “High, I should think, madam – if they have a vacancy of the right calibre.”

  “Right or wrong,” she told him, “I’d be glad of a job.”

  +++++

  The job was not what she would have chosen but, for someone with no qualifications, was the only opening available – and it would bring in regular income. Oh the irony, though, of working in Claridge’s Linen Room!

  Now, instead of living in style thanks to the family’s linen empire, she was sorting sheets, pillowcases, tablecloths and napkins for those who could still afford the luxuries that money bought. War, Marie thought as she sorted, was a great leveller. Being in the basement differed quite a bit from being upstairs. She didn’t go up there in the course of her work but well remembered how it felt to be a pampered guest and found it amusing in a sense to be temporarily at the other end of the spectrum.

  On the plus side, as well as having an income she could rely on, clocking on at seven and clocking off at three meant that she had more time to spend with Charles than when working in films. He, bless him, had been shocked at her decision to accept such a menial position but was now coming round to her way of thinking. Being together was the all-important thing. She was simply facilitating their togetherness and didn’t much care how she did it – though selling her body hadn’t come into consideration!

  While working Marie saw herself as an observer. She no more belonged in the Linen Room than she had belonged in the Hotel proper. She just had a new part in Life’s drama and was playing it much as she had played all her other parts. In the process it was fascinating to watch the inter-action between the other players on this particular stage. Herbert had been so right in saying there were similarities between here and the theatre. There was the physical sameness of the maze of cold corridors beneath the ‘stage’ and then there was the bustling atmosphere, with everybody pulling together to provide the very best in entertainment. Staff who in the course of their work dealt with guests had one persona down here and another as they became waiters, receptionists, chamber-maids or filled any of the other posts essential to the ‘show’. As for the Linen Room ladies – well, Marie had decided to write her memoirs some day, making special mention of Mrs Jukes, Mrs Potter, Miss Greenaway and Mrs Figtree!

  She knew them solely by their surnames because that was how they wanted it – and they knew Herbert as Mr Jennings. When, in the staff canteen on her first day, Marie called him Herbert and he addressed her in his usual way, Mrs Figtree – sitting at a neighbouring table - was quick to notice and to share this information with the other ladies.

  They had collectively quizzed Marie later. Mrs Jukes, who was white-haired and as starchy as the linen that went upstairs, was first to speak: “We couldn’t help seeing, Mrs Berger, that you were very friendly with Mr Jennings.”

  “Yes, Herbert and I are old friends.”

  Choosing her words carefully when Marie wasn’t more forthcoming, plump and homely Mrs Potter said: “Yet he called you ‘madam’.”

  “So he did.”

  Little Mrs Figtree, her dark eyes boring into Marie, queried: “Why would that be?”

  “I can’t seem to convince him that I’m now one of us, not one of them.”

  A lengthy silence ensued as Mrs Jukes trundled a big laundry basket in and the ladies wrestled with their personal interpretations. Then dainty Miss Greenaway, who reminded Marie of a frightened bird, fluttered her hands and chirped: “‘Them’ being … ?”

  “Guests.”

  It was Mrs Jukes’ turn again: “You obviously don’t mean … a guest in this Hotel.”

  “I don’t?”

  Right on cue Mrs Potter said: “Well, do you?”

  “I most certainly do! My husband and I have been guests here often.”

  “Then, if it isn’t a rude question,” said Mrs Jukes, “why are you …?” She soon formed her own conclusion: “Oh d
ear – poor Mr Berger is obviously a war casualty! He left you high and dry, did he?”

  “On the contrary!”

  “So he isn’t dead?” asked Mrs Figtree.

  “Not as far as I know.”

  Mrs Potter said into the subsequent watchful silence: “Then with the war on its last legs you’ll be anxious to see him again.”

  “The Germans are certainly in retreat,” Marie agreed, having read in her newspaper that very morning that the Wehrmacht as an army had collapsed and that Hitler’s nerve was being tested to the ultimate extreme, while masses of allied Second Army tanks had crossed the Rhine and were streaming east. “And I’m anxious to see Otto … but not for the usual reasons.”

  “Really?” prompted Miss Greenaway.

  “Yes, really.”

  As Marie returned her attention to the folding and loading of linen, the other women eyed each other in an attempt to phrase their next question. Eventually Mrs Jukes said: “Is your husband British?”

  “No – he’s Bohemian.”

  A pregnant silence now, broken by a pensive Mrs Jukes who stated self-righteously: “My husband’s in the Home Guard and so is Mrs Potter’s, while Mrs Figtree’s has been invalided out of the army. Your husband is fighting on our side, isn’t he?”

  “Very definitely! Otto has always been very anti-Nazi and pro-British. He’d have killed Hitler personally if he could have got his hands on him.”

  That satisfied them on one point, while leaving another obscure. “So your reasons for wanting to see him again,” Mrs Figtree prompted, “are … unusual, you said?”

  “Yes. My life is quite complex. I won’t bore you with its complexities. But when the war ends and I see Otto again I intend to start simplifying things. You’ll be among the first to know when I’ve done so because although my name will still begin with a ‘B’ it will change to make an honest woman of me!”

  +++++

  Over breakfast on Saturday, 7 April, Hugo read aloud to Helena from the DAILY MAIL: “Vienna radio came on the air late last night to broadcast the sound of the city’s last stand against the advancing Russians. Guns rumbled and shells cracked. An announcer called on citizens and garrison to fight to the last. ‘For hours the city has been under shellfire,’ he said. ‘House-to-house fighting is in progress on the edge of the city’s centre.’ His use of the phrase ‘edge of the city’s centre’ suggests that the Red Army has broken deep into the city which SS General Sepp Dietrich declared four days ago would be made a bastion of the Reich.”

  Looking up from the newspaper, Hugo said: “Poor Vienna! It’s hard to equate this report with the place where I had such happy times with Mama and Papa.”

  “Nama?” queried Suzy from her high chair.

  “There’s clever you are!” said Helena, smiling fondly at her little daughter. “Yes, Daddy’s Mama is your Nama, who I’m sure will visit us again soon.”

  “Is nobody listening to me?” Hugo asked irritably. “Aren’t you interested in Vienna’s plight?”

  “Yes, in the sense that it’s terrible to think of such a beautiful-sounding city suffering so, but Vienna isn’t real to us in the way Mama is.”

  “It will be, once you’ve seen it for yourself – which could well be sooner rather than later. It says here that history is going at a gallop now, in Germany. In the past twenty-four hours scores of towns have been captured, bridges seized, rivers crossed and a vast acreage of German land has been occupied. We’re still not meeting any resistance that can be called organised or serious. Our spearheads are spreading boldly and swiftly ahead in an easterly and north-easterly direction. Even the Weser – which is the last river barrier before Berlin except the Elbe – has been reached by the British Sixth Airborne Division and crossed. Oh, and look – here are the first pictures of the V2 terror bombs!”

  He passed the paper to Helena, who looked with some distaste at the deadly device that had snatched so many lives. The bigger picture depicted the bomb that had been captured intact by the U.S. First Army on a train at Bromskirchen, while the smaller one showed what the paper described as the big Nazi hate-tin analysed. The weapon that Hitler had promised would win the war was seven feet in diameter and a massive forty-five feet long. On the cross-section was shown a master radio, fuel control mechanism and generators, power units plus fuel intake and compressed air cylinders. Helena said dismissively: “Hateful things!” Then she asked Hugo: “Do you miss Bohemia very much?”

  He shrugged. “Not consciously. Now that I have you and Suzy I’m too happy to miss anything or anyone. But I worry about whether Tante Anna and Onkel Rudolf have survived. It’s so long since I had news of them that I tend to fear the worst. Then there’s the future of Schloss Berger and the family business interests to consider. I see these as my responsibility so I shall have to go back and establish what has happened and what needs to be done once the Nazis have been banished. Does that make sense?”

  “Yes. It’s just that I get scared about living over there, when all I’ve ever known is life here in Monmouthshire.”

  He smiled at her. “Widening one’s horizons can be frightening, but needn’t be if we think about it differently. In my thinking, as long as we’re together it doesn’t much matter where we are geographically. Do you agree?”

  How could she disagree with such a sentiment? Buoyed in spirit Helena smiled back and said: “Actually, this cottage is a bit cramped – or soon will be. We could do with an extra room or three!”

  Hugo stared at her. “We’re never expecting another baby?”

  “We seem to be.”

  Rising to take her in his arms he said: “Oh, my sweetheart, that’s the best news we’ve had since Suzy’s advent!”

  Banging her spoon, Suzy said: “Bestest news.”

  +++++

  At 10.25 pm on Tuesday 1st May, German radio proclaimed: “It is reported from the Fuehrer’s headquarters that our Fuehrer, Adolf Hitler, has fallen this afternoon in his command post in the Reich Chancellery, fighting to his last breath against Bolshevism. On 30th April the Fuehrer appointed Grand Admiral Doenitz as his successor. The Grand Admiral will now speak to the German people.”

  Marie read Doenitz’s words in her newspaper the following morning on her way to work:

  “German men and women, soldiers of the German Army, our Fuehrer, Adolf Hitler, has fallen. The German people are bowed in sorrow and reverence. Our Fuehrer had recognised very early the grim danger of Bolshevism and consecrated his life to the struggle against it. At the end of his struggle he met a hero’s death in the capital of the German Reich. The Fuehrer’s life was given entirely to the service of Germany. His struggle against the storm-floods of Bolshevism was made not only for the sake of Europe but also for the whole civilised world. The Fuehrer appointed me to be his successor. Fully conscious of the responsibility, I take over the leadership of the German people in this fateful hour. My first task will be to save the German people from the advance of the Bolshevist enemy. For this aim, only, the military struggle continues. For just as long, and as far, as the reaching of our aim is impeded by the Anglo-Americans we shall continue to defend ourselves against them. The continuation of the war by the Anglo-Americans cannot benefit their own people, but can only serve to spread Bolshevism in Europe. Give me your confidence, because your road is my road. Keep order and discipline in town and country. Let everyone do his duty at his post. Only thus shall we be able to mitigate the suffering which the coming times will bring to us. Only thus shall we be able to avoid collapse. If we do what is in our power, the Almighty will not abandon us after we have suffered so much and made so many sacrifices.”

  Marie noticed that Doenitz made no mention of Himmler, who had already offered unconditional surrender to Britain and the United States and was expected to comply with the Allied demand that capitulation must be made also to Russia. Nor had Goebbels, Goering or Ribbentrop, or indeed any of Nazism’s big names, been called to the microphone to give force to an Order of the Day by Do
enitz calling for the army to fight on. With the battle of Berlin still continuing, Admiral Doenitz was not considered by the DAILY MAIL’s Diplomatic Correspondent to be a man who could command generals to defend their last bastion against hopeless odds.

  No, Marie thought, Doenitz was not up to the job. It was all over, for sure, now that Hitler was gone.

  Was he with Ludwig now, in Hell? Marie found herself hoping that that was where Ludwig was … and that he was not back, in a new body. Horrific to think of him and Hitler ever returning in different skins.

  To ease her mind she turned her attention to an item at the foot of the page headed WAGNERIAN CONCERT OF DEATH. It seemed that the ninety minutes preceding the announcement of Hitler’s death had been the most dramatic of the war for German radio. Stand-by warnings were repeated continuously while Wagner’s music rolled out from the last stations of the Reich. And the ‘Achtung’ interruptions came with fanfares and the roll of drums. From Bremen, in English, listeners were told that an announcement by the German Government would be broadcast at 9 pm. Not since Hitler came to power had that term ‘German Government’ been used over the radio. All major announcements were made ‘by the Fuehrer’. TWILIGHT OF THE GODS was playing when, at 9.43, an announcer came to the microphone shouting “Achtung! Achtung! The German broadcasting system is going to give an important German Government announcement to the German people.” More music had followed, first from Wagner’s RHEINGOLD and then the slow movement of Brueckner’s Seventh Symphony commemorating the death of Wagner. Abruptly at 10.25 the music had stopped. There had come three rolls of the drums, a moment’s silence and then the news of Adolf Hitler’s death, after which listeners heard the German national anthem and more drum-rolls, ending with a three-minute silence.

  Folding the paper on her lap, Marie’s thoughts strayed back to when Hitler annexed Austria and old Baron Hammerstein-Equord shouted into the microphone at the end of Kurt von Schuschnigg’s Anschluss announcement: ‘Long live Austria! Today I am ashamed to be a German.’ His voice, back then, was extinguished by the strains of the national anthem … and now Germany was having a taste of her own medicine! She, the huntress, was now the hunted and it was utterly wrong that Hitler – who had shown himself to be far more deadly than any Bolshevik – had left others to pay the price of his sins.