The Foreigner

by P. G. Glynn

  Still, Marie said to herself as her bus reached New Bond Street, he would not escape justice. He had yet to meet his Maker and face eternal damnation …

  +++++

  Events moved with astonishing speed from then on. The ‘Battle of Denmark’ began and ended within one day as Montgomery swept through the northern province of Schleswig Holstein, freeing Jutland of German forces. It was reported that a delegation of German and Czech industrialists had left Prague to meet Allied representatives and hand over the territories of Bohemia and Moravia. Negotiations were said to be progressing in Norway for the German garrisons to lay down their arms at the Swedish frontier to escape Norwegian reprisals, while in Italy Marshal Graziani and Lieutenant-General Pemsel, German Chief of Staff of the Italian Fascist Ligurian Army, had announced surrender.

  At last, on Monday 7th May, the world heard in an unofficial broadcast that Germany had surrendered. After vainly waiting all afternoon for official word from Mr Churchill, Britain celebrated anyway. The last bomb had been dropped on London and after five years and eight months of bitter conflict the lights could come on again. Germany’s might had been conquered!

  People thronged the streets. A tangible sense of relief rose in great waves over the whole country, touching everybody and lifting spirits to a degree that spilled over into scenes of mass ecstasy.

  Finding traffic at a standstill as crowds marched through Oxford Street waving flags and embracing strangers, Marie rang Charles to tell him she would probably not be home for ages. “Can you hear the hubbub?” she asked. “There’s a man up a lamppost near me, yelling his head off and waving a flag for victory. People are making cymbals from dustbin lids and doing the craziest things.”

  “Like at Mafeking, from the sound of it.”

  “I’ll have to take your word for that. Oh, my darling, I wish we were together for this! It’s the making of history.”

  “We are together, in spirit! Just come home to me safely, my Marie, eventually.”

  London quickly filled with song. Both in harmony and in discord jubilant Londoners sang Roll Out The Barrel, Bless ‘em All, Pack Up Your Troubles and songs from a century ago as well as from this century’s wars. It was now known that the Prime Minister would formally announce Victory at three o’clock tomorrow. The cry went ‘That may be VE-Day but the war is over today!’ and bonfires blazed from Piccadilly to Wapping as the city virtually exploded with gaiety. Strangers linked arms as they marched through the streets – marching and counter-marching to avoid leaving the hub of things – and each car or taxi-cab that challenged the throngs was quickly submerged as revellers climbed on to the running-boards, the bonnet, the roof. Soon after midnight, over a London lit like a giant fairground, a violent thunderstorm broke. There had been a similar storm to herald the declaration of war and now there was this one to mark its end. God had granted deliverance.

  VE-Day was made a general holiday and, from the balcony of the Ministry of Health, the Prime Minister led the massed thousands packing Whitehall in the singing of ‘Land of Hope and Glory’ before telling them: “This is your victory. It is no victory of a party or of any class. It is a victory of the great British nation as a whole. We were alone for a whole year. Did anyone want to give in?” After the crowd had roared “No!” he asked: “Were we downhearted?” After another loud “No!” he said: “The lights went out and the bombs came down. But every man, woman and child in this country had no thought of quitting the struggle. In our long history we have never seen a greater day than this.”

  The battle had yet, of course, to be won in Japan and it was also important to remember those who would not come back. We would have failed and our loved ones have died in vain if this victory did not lead to a lasting peace founded on goodwill. Mr Churchill conceded in his several messages to the people that a brief period of rejoicing was permissible. The war, he said, would officially end at one minute past midnight.

  +++++

  Nell had thrown a party to celebrate – and how they had all celebrated, breaking off at eight to listen to the King asking his subjects to join with him in an act of thanksgiving. Maggie had even made a startling stuffed dummy of Hitler to burn on a bonfire in the back garden. She had read in the newspaper that there were effigies of Hitler being prepared for burning all over London and had been determined to do her bit for victory. Mrs Phanter had had an attack of the giggles as the bonfire was lit.

  It seemed strange, returning to work and to normality after so much celebrating, both at home and out in the streets. Not that anybody knew what ‘normality’ was after a war that had been waged for so long. And aboard her bus to Claridge’s, Marie was reminded that there was still much to be resolved. She read that the bodies of Goebbels, the German Propaganda Minister, his wife and five children had been found in an air-raid shelter near the Reichstag and that it had been established they had all died of poisoning. Crown Prince Olav of Norway had proclaimed the capitulation of Germans in his country, saying that this did not end the state of war and that he had placed all the Norwegian forces at the disposal of the Supreme Allied Command so that, with Allied forces, they could engage in the task of disarming the Germans. There was no rejoicing in Prague and no cause for it, since the uprising in the streets that began on fifth May was continuing with scenes of barbarity not seen in six years of fighting. Street barricades had been erected as residents sought to take back their city. Prague had scented freedom but many citizens would still have to die, it seemed, before the Nazis were finally subdued in Czechoslovakia.

  Marie wondered about Marinka. Did she still live in her home on the Vltava or had she and it had been war-victims ... and how many of the Berger family were left, altogether?

  Her thoughts turned inevitably to Otto and were still with him when Herbert met her off her bus, as he occasionally did if they hadn’t travelled together, walking the last little stretch with her. She hoped he was not falling in love.

  “I suppose,” he said, once they had exchanged greetings and VE-Day experiences, “that your husband will soon be on his way to claim you. Does he know where you are?”

  “No, he doesn’t,” she answered him, “but I bet that although he probably thinks I’m in Monmouthshire he’ll head straight for Claridge’s!”

  54

  By the time that he hitched a lift aboard a military transport plane bound for Biggin Hill Otto had celebrated well – and at length. In Paris with his fellow resistants he had been hailed as a hero – and nobody knew better how to reward their heroes than French women. His celebrations had in fact started before he reached the boulevards, where he lustily joined in with the singing of Tipperary and the Marseillaise as the city went crazy on VE-Day. Since the D-Day Landings on the Normandy beaches last June he had been part of the Allied advance, helping to liberate France. How exhilarating it had been, seeing the Nazis in retreat … how appropriate it had seemed, to indulge the whims of grateful mesdemoiselles and Mesdames! He had not forgotten Fabienne, or the debt he owed her, but with a war on one could neither live in the past or the future. The now was all that counted and Otto had perfected the art of living in the moment. He had even taken francs when these were offered since it would be rude to refuse … and since the taking had enabled him to stay at the Dauphin. Where else would one stay, when in Paris?

  Now the Allies had won, with Admiral Doenitz ordering the Wehrmacht’s High Command on sixth May to arrange for the unconditional surrender of all German fighting troops in all theatres of war. It had amused Otto to hear him say on the radio “The Nazi Party has disappeared. There is no longer unity between State and Party. The foundations on which the German Reich was built have gone.” Otto had drunk to that and to the fact that Hitler had joined Ludwig in the hereafter. No body had been found yet, but troops had penetrated deep into an underground fortress in the basement of Hitler’s Chancellery and found smoke pouring from an unexplored depth. So he had probably burned on his way to Hell.

  How very apt … and oh, the ma
dness of the man! It was already apparent that his murder-machine had sent millions of innocents to their deaths. The stories emerging – especially since the Russian army had liberated Auschwitz in January – about the atrocities perpetrated in those monstrous concentration camps defied belief and yet Otto could believe them. Ludwig, like his puppet-master, had proved his capacity for evil. There had even been pleasure for them in torture and mass-extermination. Yes, Ludwig and Adolf both had power-complexes that had sent them right over the edge. Could the world ever revert to how it was before their advent?

  As if to rid it of such morbid thoughts, Otto shook his head. Best just to think of victory and of the spirit that had enabled the forces of light to combat the forces of darkness and win. What a spirit had been shown by those with right on their side during those terrible times! Otto knew from a fellow resistant that during the Blitz an audience trapped by an air raid in Limehouse’s Troxy cinema were singing There’ll Always Be An England when a bomb fell nearby and someone shouted “I’m not so sure of that!” After much laughter, the singsong had continued until after midnight. As for London’s Windmill, which by all accounts could still boast that it never closed – why, their show kept going even when the audience consisted of a solitary soldier!

  Otto smiled to himself as he saw the English coast ahead. There was something about the British: something fine and resilient. They had stood alone for a year at the start of hostilities and yet the Americans he had met in Paris spoke as if Eisenhower had masterminded victory from the beginning. Still, he as Supreme Commander of the Allied Expeditionary Forces had certainly done his bit, perhaps especially when he launched the D-Day Invasion – and New Yorkers had gone potty, apparently, when word reached them from Rheims that Germany had surrendered unconditionally to Britain, the United States and Russia. Well, America deserved to celebrate for the war would not have been won without her. What a pity that Roosevelt had died just too soon to see victory! Harry Truman, President less than a month, would be receiving plaudits that were rightly his predecessor’s. No matter. All that mattered was that the war against tyranny and oppression was won.

  The plane was now above Kent, having passed over the white cliffs Vera Lynn had made her own. Otto allowed his thoughts to turn at last to Marie. Where was she?

  For all he knew, she and Hugo were still in Czechoslovakia. As he had often done, he quickly dismissed this idea. Knowing Marie as he did, he could not credit that she would still be over there. She would surely have lost no time, after the Ludwig debacle, in distancing herself from the castle – despite Carla. Acknowledging a debt to the living rather than the dead, she would have protected herself and her son by leaving Bohemia long before Hitler’s arrival. Otto had sent his letter to Monmouthshire feeling confident that that was where they would have gone. They would have been relatively safe in Wales, the only drawback being the dreadful Janet – if she was still going strong. Even Janet was preferable to being bombed, which reassured him that Marie would not have settled in London and risked the Blitz. Then again, with Marie one could never tell what to expect. She had always been a law unto herself.

  He refused to entertain the notion that either she or Hugo was dead. Such a thing was unthinkable so he wouldn’t think it. Wherever she was, he would find her and reclaim her as his wife.

  There might have been years in between but they had met frequently in his dreams. These had sustained him on many occasions, not least in Prinz Albrechtstrasse and at Stalingrad. Although often in a dream Marie hovered just out of reach, he felt better for seeing her and for knowing she was his.

  Had she been faithful to him? The question had at times tormented Otto though he knew that theoretically it should not do. If the gander could stray, why not the goose? Theory was one thing – practice another. A gander’s anatomy was such that his equipment needed to be kept in working condition. Marie wouldn’t thank him for living like a priest if this resulted in his becoming obsolete as a husband. Yes, he had done as he had done for Marie … and trusted that she would be appreciative!

  First, he must find her – after getting some sleep at Claridge’s.

  +++++

  The call came through at noon. After answering the internal telephone, Mrs Jukes offered the receiver to Marie saying disapprovingly: “Mr Jennings for you.”

  Expecting Herbert to be suggesting that they lunch together, Marie was surprised when he said: “There’s been a bit of a development.”

  “There has?”

  “Yes. Do you remember our conversation just after VE-Day – the one when you mentioned your husband?” Without waiting for a response he went on: “Well, he has done just as you said.”

  Marie caught her breath. “Are you telling me that he’s here, at Claridge’s?”

  “I am, madam. Mr Berger registered not five minutes since.”

  “Giddy godfathers!” She could hardly think. It seemed impossible that Otto was in this building. “Where is he now?”

  “He has just gone up to his usual suite.”

  “You didn’t mention me?”

  “No. I thought that would be … inappropriate”

  “Yes, best for me to surprise him personally. How did he seem?”

  “He looked as if he had … suffered, but was otherwise in good spirits.”

  “Thank you, Herbert, for putting me on the alert.”

  “You’ll tell me if I can be of any further help?”

  “I will.”

  +++++

  By the time she knocked on Otto’s door Marie had had time to collect herself and remove the white overall that she wore to sort linen. Having tidied her hair in its chignon, refreshed her make-up and applied lily of the valley perfume to her pulse spots, she knew that she passed muster as a guest – especially as she was wearing her favourite forget-me-not blue dress. Not that she was concerned, today, with staff regulations. Her sole concern was seeing Otto and getting this meeting over.

  The door opened. She saw that he looked much older. From the front his head appeared completely bald but for tufts of white hair visible behind either ear. He had lost weight and gained etchings of hardship on his face. She had been unprepared for his air of vulnerability.

  “Marie?” he queried in disbelief. “It can’t be!”

  “It not only can be, but is,” she told him crisply. “Can I come in?”

  He stepped aside to let her enter. “I must still be dreaming,” he said, dazedly shutting the door.

  “Still?”

  “Yes. We’ve met often recently, in my dreams.”

  “Indeed?” she said, unmoved. “When we met, were you alone in bed?”

  “Now I know it’s you!” he grinned. “Only you could have asked such a question within moments of meeting again.”

  “And the answer?”

  “First things first,” Otto responded, making as if to take her in his arms.

  Marie took the initiative, giving him a quick kiss on the cheek before walking further into the salon and sitting down on a Directoire chair by the big window. “So,” she said as he seated himself opposite her, “here we are, back where we were but for all the water under our respective bridges.”

  “How on earth did you find me?” he asked. “There was hardly time after my arrival to blink before you walked in.”

  “I work here.”

  “You do?” he felt stunned, incapable of logical thought or conversation. “Since when?”

  “Since the need arose to earn an income on which to live.” Marie glanced around the room at the luxurious trappings he was surrounded with. “Obviously you have no such needs as yet. How come?”

  Otto shrugged. “We were treated as heroes when we liberated France,” he answered, feeling slightly uncomfortable, “and showered with hospitality as well as francs. It wouldn’t be characteristic of me to refuse such largesse, would it?” All too conscious of the enlightenment in her eyes, he moved swiftly on: “My God, Marie, you haven’t lost your knack of surprising a man! And you’
ve barely changed since I saw you last, except that perhaps you’re even more beautiful now than you were. How have you managed that?”

  She smiled enigmatically and said: “Another knack! So, how did you go from Nazi to hero?”

  “Tell me first about Hugo. Is he here in London too?”

  “No, he’s in Wales … with his wife, Helena, and little daughter Suzy.”

  “He’s married?” Otto leant back in his chair before adding: “Not that, after so long, that should come as any surprise to me. Is he happy?”

  “He seems to be … and he and Helena, who’s perfectly sweet, are expecting their second baby.”

  “It’s hard to take everything in. Imagine that I’m a grandpa and didn’t know it!” He laughed. “And you’re a grandmamma!” This seemed particularly to amuse him. “Lieber Gott, no-one looking at you would ever guess! Is Helena Welsh?”

  “She is.”

  “So my son is following in my footsteps! If Helena is half the girl you are, Marie, Hugo has done well for himself.” He looked reflective. “Did you ever receive my letter?”

  “Yes. I was staying with Hugo when it arrived at Beulah. We concluded – correctly from the sound of things - that it must have been sent from France.”

  “It was.” Otto grimaced. “After extricating myself from my dear brother’s clutches I joined the Resistance. My letter reached you via the Special Operations Executive in Baker Street.”