Beneath a Frosty Moon

by Rita Bradshaw

  When Cora didn’t respond, Maria said apologetically, ‘I feel the same as you, lass, and I’m worried what Da would do if she went off again, but, well, it’s up to them, isn’t it?’

  Cora stared at her sister and then sighed. They were right, of course they were right, she just didn’t want to hear it. And for her mam to be able to simply swan back and take up where she had left off with everyone’s blessing seemed so unfair. Her da had always been putty in her mam’s hands, that was the trouble. She had thought that was quite sweet at one time but she didn’t any more. But if her mam was really going to stay put, and if she’d settle into being a mam to Horace and the little ones and Maria, and if she made their da happy, then she could see that her coming home would be for the best for everyone. But that was a lot of ‘if’s in her opinion.

  She squeezed Maria’s hand before standing up. ‘All right, I’ll write back and say we’re all over the moon and jumping for joy,’ she said, tongue in cheek, before managing a wry smile. ‘And I’ll be positive about it with Horace and Anna and Susan, I promise. Come on, we’d better get back to cleaning out the cowshed.’ The POWs were out in the fields with the horses doing the ploughing, turning the ground over so that in the spring the furrows could be cultivated and the crops sown. January had been a bitterly cold month with snow and ice but now, in the middle of February, the snow had cleared to a large extent and sleet and slush were the order of the day. Cora was longing for the spring when they could let the cows out to pasture and the animals could forage for themselves; the herd took up a great deal of her time in the winter months.

  As they walked to the cowshed, Maria said, ‘I wonder when Mam came back. He didn’t say, did he?’

  ‘He didn’t say much at all.’

  ‘No, but then Da has never been one for writing letters, has he? Mam neither, come to it.’ Maria stopped at the door to the shippon. ‘I feel unsettled,’ she said suddenly, ‘and a bit scared at the thought of the war ending and going home. I hated it here when we first came but now it’s different. Do you know what I mean?’

  Yes, she knew what Maria meant, and if Jed had still been alive and their plans for the future were in place Appletree Farm would have become her home. She might even have been married by now, certainly engaged and looking forward to a blissful life as a farmer’s wife. Wild horses wouldn’t have been able to drag her back to Sunderland, whereas now, now she wouldn’t be sorry to leave, much as she liked Rachel and working on the farm. Perhaps in Sunderland the ever constant thoughts of Jed, the painful ache in her heart and the knowledge that she had sent the man she loved to his death would ease. She hoped so. Oh, she did so hope so because there were times when the future appeared like a big black hole with nothing but emptiness and loneliness in front of her.

  One thing was for sure: the war was definitely drawing to a close. It seemed as though every day there were more reports of the Allies taking ground, and even in their little backwater here the talk was of nothing else. The latest was that in a couple of days of relentless bombardment the RAF and the US Air Force had reduced Dresden to a smoking ruin with tens of thousands of people reported to have lost their lives. They had been taught a little about Dresden at school in geography by Mr Travis who had apparently visited the city on his honeymoon years before and didn’t let anyone forget the fact that he had travelled. He had told them Dresden was famed for its seventeenth-and eighteenth-century baroque and rococo art and architecture, and Dutch and Flemish paintings, and was comparable to Florence. The city had looked beautiful from the pictures he had shown them, but then, Cora reflected, so had Coventry before the Germans had turned it into an inferno. Could two wrongs make a right? It was a question she had asked herself more than once as the war had progressed and she was no nearer an answer. One thing she did know was that Hitler had had to be stopped, and the occasional doubt she’d had in the past about whether it had been right for Britain to oppose him had been put to rest when the horrors of the Nazi death camps had begun to be exposed.

  As she and Maria entered the cowshed which was a few degrees warmer than the cold and overcast day outside, a few of the cows gave a soft bellow of welcome, hoping that the girls’ appearance meant they were going to be fed. As ever, the big, gentle animals worked their magic on Cora, and she said hello to a couple of her favourites, scratching their great heads as she passed.

  This was real life, she thought to herself as she and Maria began to muck out with shovel and brush, and this was how things were meant to be. And most folk were content with ordinary, even humdrum, lives, weren’t they? So how come the Nazis had got so twisted and evil as to set about a cold-blooded and systematic attempt to destroy an entire section of the human race? Of course there had been talk about the existence of the concentration camps for years, but no one could have guessed at the truth of what had gone on. She still found it hard to believe. The newspapers had reported that the Allies were experiencing a glimpse of hell as the Nazi death camps fell, hardened soldiers weeping at what they had discovered.

  The reports that Cora and the others had read about lately, like them finding lampshades made from tattooed human skin and even shrunken heads, had made her physically sick. She and Rachel had made the decision that any newspapers and magazines should be kept away from Anna and Susan. Undoubtedly they’d hear talk at school from their friends, but it wasn’t the same as reading it in black and white. And she didn’t want their heads filled with such terrible things, not at their age. Wilfred had said the same about Horace but unfortunately her brother, macabre little wretch that he was, had managed to ferret out every gruesome detail that had been reported thus far, but Wilfred had warned him not to say a word to the girls, threatening him with dire consequences if he disobeyed. Dear Wilfred . . .

  As she fetched the cows’ fresh bedding of wheat straw, which they invariably ate given half a chance, she thought again of what Wilfred had told her a few days ago. It had been a day of icy rain and sleet showers, cold and miserable and bone-chilling, and when he had turned up at the farm after the day’s work was done she had been surprised to see him on such a night. When Jed had gone off to war his parents had extended an open invitation for her to come for Sunday tea as had been the pattern when their son was at home, but she hadn’t taken them up on it. After a month or two they had sent a specific invitation through Wilfred which he had persuaded her to accept, and since then she had gone for Sunday tea every so often, not so much because she wanted to – it was too painful to be pleasurable – but because she knew it pleased Jed’s parents. That night she and Wilfred had sat in the kitchen, the rest of the household being in the parlour in front of a roaring fire, as had become the norm since Farmer Burns’s death.

  ‘I’ve some news.’ Wilfred had been excited, she could tell, and for a blindingly hopeful moment she had thought that Mr and Mrs Croft had had news about Jed. ‘The Crofts want me to stay on at the farm when the war finishes and begin to learn more about the financial side of running the farm as well as the physical work. Mr Croft wants me to start going into town with him, to the markets and all that, to see how things are done there, as well as accompanying him to the bank. He said he’d like me to become familiar with the accounts, with everything connected with the farm really. You know what this means, don’t you?’

  She stared at him. Her disappointment that this wasn’t about Jed was so acute she couldn’t speak.

  ‘They’re looking to me to take over eventually, now that—’ He stopped abruptly.

  ‘Now that Jed’s dead,’ she finished flatly.

  ‘Well, aye, yes.’ Wilfred had the grace to look slightly awkward. ‘With all three sons gone, there’s no heir, is there, but they both said they look on me more and more as family. They know what things are like back in Sunderland with my mam an’ da.’

  ‘Do they?’ This surprised her. Wilfred never talked about his home situation to anyone but her, and for a brief moment she had the unworthy thought that there had been an element of
manipulation in him speaking out to Jed’s parents, but immediately dismissed it. Wilfred wasn’t like that, and it was his business after all.

  ‘So they know I’ve got nothing to hold me in Sunderland. And you like it here, don’t you? You could see yourself staying on? Living in these parts permanently, I mean?’

  ‘No, not really.’ She got up and busied herself making a pot of tea, her back to him. ‘Wilfred, I’m glad for you, I really am, and of course you should stay – it’s a wonderful opportunity. But when the war ends I shall go home. There’s too many memories here for me.’

  ‘Of him, you mean.’

  She had turned round then; there had been something in his voice that had disturbed her, but his face was expressionless. ‘Of Jed, yes.’ She finished making the tea and brought the teapot to the table with the milk jug; they’d used up their sugar ration. ‘I can’t help it but I could never settle here now, not and be happy, but I meant what I said. You should stay.’

  ‘I wouldn’t stay without you, there’s no point.’

  ‘Of course there is.’ It flashed across her mind that Wilfred was seriously considering stepping into a dead man’s shoes but that was his concern. ‘You’ve got friends here and now this chance to make a new life. It’s – it’s great,’ she finished lamely.

  He took the mug of tea she poured him and she knew he was upset at her response. For a moment she felt guilty, but then she asked herself what he had expected? He knew full well how she had felt about Jed so why on earth would he think she would be prepared to stay in the district where everything, every single thing, reminded her of what she had lost? If he wanted to take on the role Jed would have performed that was up to him, but she couldn’t be party to it.

  And then Wilfred himself answered the question when he said, ‘I thought you were getting over him – Jed, I mean. It’s been months.’

  Oh, she knew how long it had been, to the day, the hour. Warning herself not to snap at him because he couldn’t understand – he had never fallen in love with a lass, after all – she said quietly, ‘I don’t wear my heart on my sleeve, if that’s what you mean. It doesn’t help anyone.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘But you must do what’s right for you, Wilfred.’

  ‘I thought you liked Mr and Mrs Croft.’

  ‘I do, very much, but that’s got nothing to do with it.’

  They had finished their tea in silence and Wilfred had gone shortly afterwards, but before leaving he had said flatly, ‘I’ll put off saying anything to Mr and Mrs Croft for a while in case you reconsider staying around, but otherwise I shall come back to Sunderland with you and the others. You’re all my family and you don’t know what you’re going to find back home what with your da being poorly and all this with your mam. I’d – I’d worry about you.’

  ‘Oh, Wilfred.’ She had hugged him. ‘You don’t have to concern yourself about that.’

  ‘Of course I do. I know Horace likes it here and isn’t looking forward to going home, and Maria too to some extent, so I thought if you stayed it would probably just be Anna and Susan who’d choose to go back. Appletree Farm would be big enough for all of you and the Crofts wouldn’t mind.’

  Her brow wrinkled. ‘But if I stayed, Maria and I would be here, with Mrs Burns.’

  He didn’t say anything for a moment, then opened his mouth to speak, stared at her for a few seconds, and shut it again, before nodding and turning away. She watched him on the kitchen doorstep as he walked off, only to come to a halt after a few steps and turn.

  ‘I want the best for you, Cora. I always have. You know that, don’t you? I don’t want to sound hard but Jed’s gone and life has to go on.’

  ‘I know that, Wilfred.’

  ‘Just keep an open mind about what I’ve said, that’s all I ask. Horace loves it here and if you stayed I’m sure your mam an’ da would agree to him and Maria staying too. But I’ll do whatever you want.’

  ‘This isn’t about me.’

  The night was pitch black and it was sleeting again and she couldn’t see him clearly, but she heard the sigh he gave.

  ‘Goodnight, lass.’

  There had been something in his voice she couldn’t pin down, she thought now, as she finished sorting the cows’ fresh bedding and lifted the handles of the wheelbarrow to cart the old manured straw to the midden. Something more than disappointment that she hadn’t seen things the way he had. But bless him, she didn’t want Wilfred feeling responsible for them all. It was wonderful having him as a support but perhaps it wasn’t fair to him? Not if this sense of duty he had towards them kept him from taking up the Crofts’ offer? Somehow – and she knew she would have to pick her words so she didn’t offend or hurt him, which was the last thing she wanted – somehow she would have to make it clear that it wasn’t his role in life to look after Horace or her or any of them. She would face what she found at home in Sunderland when the time came and deal with it. She wasn’t a bairn any more.

  Of a sudden she felt weary, though the weariness was not a physical thing but more a state of mind. She missed Jed more than she could ever have expressed to a living soul, and if she allowed herself to think of how she felt, it frightened her, because it wasn’t getting any better as time went on. And then bizarrely, and as clearly as if she was standing right in front of her, she heard her mother say, ‘So don’t think of it then, lass, all right? Get on with what needs to be done and keep your mind from wandering.’

  Cora stood stock-still, and so real had the voice been that she found herself glancing round before she told herself not to be so daft. Her mam was miles away in Sunderland and furthermore she was the last person in the world she would unburden herself to or take advice from.

  Nevertheless, and in spite of the very real anger and resentment she felt towards her mother, her back straightened and her head lifted. She gave a little ‘huh’ to herself, at the same time as thinking she would end up in the loony bin if this carried on; but the strange episode had been oddly comforting, much as she didn’t want to admit it.

  Chapter Eighteen

  ‘This is it, lads. The Russians are closing in.’ Jed glanced round the construction site where they had all just assembled, expecting to work as usual. Instead the site was eerily quiet, not one striped figure to be seen. They had been hearing gunfire and artillery in the distance for days and knew that the camp’s days were numbered. None of them knew whether that meant slaughter at the hands of the Germans before they could be liberated, or whether they were going to be marched further into German-held territory. They had passed the Jews’ camp, a few hundred yards down the track from their own, on their way to the site but it had been empty. Someone had heard a rumour that the Jews had been marched at gunpoint out of the camp early that morning, but rumours had been flying about for days and no one knew what was what. They did know, because they could see and smell it for themselves, that the brutal extermination camps to the west of the complex, Auschwitz I and Auschwitz-Birkenau, had been working full-time burning bodies in their crematoria, the sickly stench of the smoke permeating every nook and cranny.

  ‘Getting rid of the evidence,’ Jock had said grimly a few days earlier. It had been then, in their hut, that Jed and the others had made a pact that if any of them survived they would make sure that the world knew what had gone on in Auschwitz.

  It had snowed during the night, the fresh snow falling on frozen ground and ice and deep ridges, so that wherever they walked on the site they were in danger of falling over or breaking a limb. It had been a common sight to see the Jews fall, either tripping or collapsing and dying of exhaustion and starvation. They weren’t being fed enough to survive. When the Nazis had extracted the last ounce of labour from each dying prisoner they were sent to the gas chambers. Now the hundreds of striped walking skeletons who had swarmed over the site like ants on an anthill were gone but over to the west of them the chimneys were still belching their foul smoke as much as ever.

  Jed and the others set
about their work as instructed but it was clear the guards were on edge, and although their brutality was normally reserved for the Jews the POWs were careful not to upset them. Not now, when it looked as though liberation might be within reach. There was no doubt the Russians were advancing.

  Later that day they were marched back to their barracks and fed the stinking liquid that went under the name of cabbage soup. It had made Jed gag when he had first arrived at Auschwitz but since then he had learned that you could get used to anything if it was the difference between life and death, and compared to the filth the Jews were given it was the finest cuisine.

  There had been several Russian air raids in the last days, but Jed and the others had no sooner settled in their bunks than the mother of all raids began. Every last man fled the huts for the field behind them that was full of small humps and depressions, most of the men, including Jed, swearing at their ‘liberators’.

  ‘Funny way to rescue us,’ Neville said in his broad Welsh accent, calling the Russians every name under the sun a moment later as a bomb fell so close that he was covered in dirt and stones and grime. ‘There won’t be any beggar left to liberate the way they’re carrying on. I’m all for knocking ten bells out of the Germans but what about us?’

  ‘They’re not bothered about us, matey,’ Jock yelled from his dent in the ground. ‘Haven’t you cottoned on to that yet? All that matters is moving forward and taking ground from the Germans. If we get in the way of that, that’s our funeral.’

  ‘There won’t be enough left of us to give a funeral to,’ Neville yelled back. ‘The mad blighters. And where’s the damn Luftwaffe when you want them?’

  It would be just their luck to be killed by the Russians on the eve of the war ending, Jed thought to himself in his shallow hollow in the ground, keeping his head down and wincing every time a shell came close. Irony didn’t even begin to cover it. But then this just about summed up what war was about – madness and mayhem. There was no sense to it, no reason, just blind slaughter and annihilation. He felt Jock, lying to the side of him, dig him in the ribs, and as he said, ‘What?’ the older man shouted above the noise of the bombing, ‘Just checking you’re still in the land of the living, laddie. You’ve gone a bit quiet.’