String of Pearls

by Madge Swindells

  The driver got back into the jeep and drove to the entrance of the camp. The bar lifted and the jeep drove into the parking zone, but Daisy was still outside. Miro raced downstairs and went out, shutting the door quietly behind him. Daisy, a mess of wet cheeks and swollen eyes, was standing under the trees. He would kill that guy when he found out who he was, Miro promised himself.

  ‘What’s going on?’ he whispered. ‘What the hell have you been doing?’

  ‘Nothing is going on. I hitched a lift home, but really, Miro, it has nothing to do with you.’ Daisy made for the door, but Miro caught hold of her arm.

  ‘Ow! That hurts. Let go of me.’ She looked angry and this upset him.

  ‘Mum’s been worried all day and Gramps has been on the phone to the police.’

  ‘Oh, heavens. I left a note.’ As she spoke a strong smell of wine enveloped him.

  ‘You’ve been drinking. You stink of wine.’

  ‘We stopped for dinner on the way back.’

  ‘Gramps will have something to say about that. Better look out. There are some peppermints in the top drawer of my desk. Clean your teeth.’ They went inside and shut the door. Miro pulled the blackout curtain across the doorway and switched on the light. ‘Look at the bruises on your wrist. He hurt you.’

  ‘Oh nonsense. That’s from hockey practice.’

  ‘You’re lying.’

  The conversation terminated as Daisy fled upstairs.

  At that moment, Helen opened the living-room door.

  ‘Daisy’s back. She’s fine.’ Miro gave her his very best smile.

  ‘Oh, thank heavens, but where is she?’

  ‘In the bathroom.’

  Helen sank on to the monk’s bench. ‘Is she all right? Are you sure?’ She looked distraught. Helen’s love was sometimes hard to cope with.

  ‘She’s fine, Mum. You can stop worrying. She hitched home.’

  ‘Thank heavens she’s all right. Come in the lounge, Miro. It’s so cold here. I have to talk to you both.’

  Five minutes later, Daisy walked in, safe in her aura of toothpaste, peppermint and Eau de Cologne. As usual, she was playing the injured party, her shoulders squared and her bruised arm hidden by a cardigan.

  ‘How could you, Daisy? How could you worry us so? To go off like that without telling anyone.’ Mum was close to tears.

  ‘What about my feelings?’ Daisy countered. Her eyes narrowed and her hand went on her hips – a familiar pose when Daisy was on the defensive. ‘You know how much I miss my father. He should have come to see us. I’m sure he would have if you two hadn’t fought so much. We don’t know where he is. That’s all right for you maybe, you can marry again, but I’ll never have another dad.’

  Helen gasped and looked hurt.

  ‘So I went up to Gran’s . . .’ Now she faltered. ‘Oh Mum. It’s terrible. Half of London is blitzed and around Gran’s home just about every second house has been destroyed. Her house is boarded up, the windows smashed, tiles knocked off the roof . . .’ She went on at length and Miro could not help admiring her strategy.

  ‘But what did you do when you found that Gran had left? Why didn’t you call us? Surely you realized how worried we would be.’

  ‘I ran out of cash because the taxi cost far more than I’d expected, so I decided to hitch back. The taxi driver gave me a free lift to a cafe by the main road to the south-west, but I waited for hours. Then I walked up to the main road and a young GI brought me back here. He’s stationed at the camp next door.’

  Daisy sneezed and that seemed to shake her poise. Suddenly she was crying. Mum caught hold of her and hugged her.

  John was looking cross. ‘Tell them now,’ he insisted. He walked out, closing the door behind him.

  Helen looked uncertain. She gazed from one to the other as if waiting for someone to prompt her. ‘It’s time I told you both the truth. I didn’t want to hurt you. Especially you, Daisy. I know how much you love your father and how close you both are . . . were. I don’t know where to start.’ She forced a smile which didn’t work. ‘When Eric left hospital and came here, he was depressed and difficult. I’m sure you both noticed that he wasn’t himself. Eventually he told me why. He’d fallen in love with his secretary.’

  ‘What?’ Daisy exploded. ‘That simpering, insipid, absurd woman? How could he?’

  ‘He explained that his chances of reaching the war’s end were slim, so whatever time he had left he wanted to spend with her. He said he owed it to her, since she’d stood by him. He didn’t seem to think he owed us anything. He wanted a divorce so he could marry her.’ A pent-up sob emerged like a hiccup. ‘He said she’s pregnant and that she makes him feel young.’

  Mum’s voice had risen an octave, so Miro sat on the other side and held her hand. ‘Eric said he didn’t want to waste any more time. That was what hurt the most.’

  ‘Sh!’ Miro said. ‘We get the picture. You don’t have to spell out every word. Would you like some coffee? I’ll make some.’

  ‘Yes,’ she said forlornly. ‘I would. Thank you, Miro. Worst still was losing you two because you blamed me.’

  ‘You never lost us, Mum,’ Miro said. ‘No matter what happens . . . even when I find my parents. I’ll always love you. Daisy was just upset at not seeing her father, which is understandable. She’ll always love you, too.’

  ‘Of course I will, Mum. I didn’t understand. I’m so sorry. How could Dad do this to us?’ Daisy was trying to be brave. ‘“A waste of time . . .” he said that? Another child! Well, fuck him!’

  ‘Daisy!’ Despite her sadness, Helen was shocked. ‘Don’t ever . . .’

  Miro paused in the doorway and looked back at the two women he loved so, clasped in each other’s arms. Daisy hadn’t told the truth about stopping for dinner on the way home. Helen had been sidetracked, as usual. Besides, she judged the world by herself and since she was entirely trustworthy and kind everyone else must be, too. He’d like to kill Eric, but he guessed that he was ancient history. They’d never liked each other. Eric was an arrogant, self-assured, selfish bastard. Gramps, on the other hand, was a regular guy. Miro could hear him in the hall sounding thoroughly exasperated as he tried to get through to the police to tell them Daisy was back.

  ‘Coffee, Gramps?’ Miro asked as he passed.

  ‘No, not for me, thank you.’

  ‘Real GI coffee with real sugar.’

  ‘Where did that come from?’

  ‘A sergeant brought a box around this morning. He said it was a neighbourly gift from their captain.’

  ‘Good God! Oh yes, I’ll have a cup, my boy. Many thanks.’

  Gramps was looking happier. Daisy was back and they had real coffee in the house.

  There are too many secrets in this family, Miro thought as he spooned the coffee into the percolator. Even Gramps had a secret, although Miro didn’t know what it was, only that he went out alone some nights and stayed out until just before dawn.

  Miro had known about Eric’s girlfriend. By chance he’d stumbled across them together in the village. She was very young and very pretty and Eric was a fool to meet her in Mowbray, but no one else had seen them. Now Daisy had a secret, but his own secret was the worst of all.

  Once there was a young Jewish boy called Miroslav Levy. He had a father, Irwin Levy, who played the violin in Prague’s state orchestra and composed great works, destined never to be heard. Miro’s face twisted in anguish as he remembered Papa’s efforts to get his compositions played. Father wasn’t a strong man, being subject to every virus that passed their way, but he was handsome, according to Mama, with his large brown eyes and curly brown hair. He was tall, but thin and rather stooped. Mama was always nagging him to stand up straight. But all that was in the past.

  ‘I’m not your son, Papa,’ he murmured. ‘I’m someone else . . . a Nazi spy.’

  ‘Miro, where’s the coffee?’ Gramps called.

  ‘Coming.’ He put some of the GI’s biscuits on a plate and carried in the tray.


  Miro is late. John has left the house. Helen and Daisy took forever to go to bed. It is warm, but overcast, there is no moon as Miro pedals behind a slit of golden light from his headlight. He has a comforting feeling of being completely alone. A soft wind brings the scent of grass and damp earth and something quite fragrant although he can’t think what it is. He can smell smoke, too, and a drift of ozone. He brakes, puts his feet down and leans forward to flick off his lamp, enjoying the peace and security of the darkness. He can hear shouts and laughter from the GI camp and he envies them all. He longs to be free of his burden of guilt. He has only to turn back. No one can force him to do what is so abhorrent to him. He has learned to love this comfortable country and the kindly people. They don’t say much, but they mean what they say. They seem slow and old-fashioned at times, but you can depend upon the strong streak of morality that runs through the core of the people. So why help their enemies? He turns and crosses the narrow road, about to head for home. ‘I can’t do it. How can anyone expect me to,’ he mutters.

  A high-pitched scream came from behind the hedge, troubling in its intensity. A rabbit has been caught by a fox, perhaps, or in a trap. He feels the pain, remembering. ‘No . . .’ He pushes the hated memory away, but it never goes far. It’s always hanging around in the back of his mind. His parents are locked in that hell. There is no escape for them. He turns again and pedals fearfully towards his destination.

  Six

  There were plenty of pillboxes scattered along the beaches around Mowbray: ugly squat structures, tall enough for a man to stand upright in, with low slits running parallel to the ground for half a dozen rifles to protrude. Last year, at the first sign of danger, they would have been manned within minutes by the members of Home Guard who were always on hand. Now that the threat of invasion was over, they were lying idle: ugly monuments to the dogged perseverance of the retired locals, who had been prepared to halt the enemy advance for as long as they lived.

  Miro knew this place well. Hotels and shops stood opposite, but it was too dark to see them. He flicked his torch on to find the way down to the beach. The wooden steps were slippery and he was glad to reach the sand. Shouldering his bicycle, so as not to leave tracks, he made his way to where he thought the pillbox stood. At first he could see nothing at all. As his eyes adjusted, the ugly concrete structure was silhouetted against the glittering sea. His shoes became wet, the damp air sank into his skin. His hands felt sticky and he was trembling. He stopped to wipe his sleeve over his forehead. Reaching the blockhouse, he leaned the bike against it so softly that he made no sound at all – but someone heard.

  ‘Put it inside, boyo, and sit here beside me.’

  An Irish accent, a light tenor voice, a man in his thirties, he deduced, knowing that he would remember that voice for the rest of his life. Lifting the bike into the entrance, he recoiled with disgust. Someone, kids perhaps, had been using it as a lavatory, there was a stench of urine and excrement mingled with the sea mist. It was as dark as pitch in there. He felt disorientated and bumped into the wall grazing his hand as he stumbled to find fresh air.

  ‘Get a move on, Levy.’ The voice, so soft and intrusive, gave him the shivers, with its soft, lilting cadence, the rounded vowels, the slight trill of the ‘r’s. Not just Irish, but something else, something closer to home. German parents, perhaps. He stowed this into the back of his mind. The stench of decayed seaweed and wet cement stayed with him as he trudged around the corner to the sea side of the structure. A glow of a cigarette led him to a figure crouched on the sand.

  ‘Sit down, boyo.’

  Now they were sitting side by side on the sea-drenched sand. The wetness penetrated his pants and brought on a fit of shivering. Or was it fright? His backside began to itch with the sticky dampness. The stench of rotten seaweed and ozone made him feel sick, but at least it was better than inside the pillbox.

  ‘Next time, padlock your bike to the rails along the pavement. Right now you’ve left tyre tracks in the sand. You must think, boyo. Think of your own safety. It’s all right once, although someone might see them in the morning.’

  Miro didn’t bother to answer.

  ‘Now what have you got for me?’

  ‘Nothing . . . that is, I don’t know what you want.’

  ‘What do you think I want? Troop movements, numbers of vehicles, just how many Americans are housed in the camp next door to you. Pick on a GI near your age, make friends, find out what they know. When and where. You grasp my meaning. They might have some ideas. Do you have anyone billeted on you?’

  ‘We were told that we would, but no one has come.’

  ‘They will. Reckon your home is officer status. You fell with your arse in the butter, but don’t forget who sent you. You might have been shut up in that camp, but you volunteered to work for the Third Reich to support your parents.’

  ‘I’m still at school. I work to a timetable. Even at night I have sport and homework. How do you expect me to find out anything useful?’

  ‘I don’t suppose you know what’s useful and what’s not useful, but I’ll help you.’

  The man drew a small photograph from his pocket. He flashed a torch on to it for Miro’s inspection. He saw a soft-eyed woman in her forties. She looked sadder than he remembered and much thinner. New lines had appeared on his mother’s face and she had lost that soft, friendly expression. She looked fierce. Miro was glad. Her innate strength would help her to survive. Miro struggled not to cry out as he reached for the picture, but the man withdrew his hand.

  ‘Yes,’ Miro said.

  ‘Yes what?’

  ‘Yes, that is my mother, but how is my father? Give me the picture.’

  ‘Not so fast. We work quid pro quo. You’ve heard of that, I expect. You give me what I need and I tell you what you want to know. I might even give you the picture. It’s a workable system.’

  Miro wanted nothing more than to grasp him round the neck and squeeze the life out of him, but that would cause reprisals too horrible to think about. Besides, he could sense his bulk. He was taller and stronger and probably a trained fighter, but he was in training, too, Miro reminded himself. One day!

  ‘What do I call you?’ he asked.

  ‘I’m surprised you ask such a stupid question. I was told you’d been picked for your intelligence. You don’t need to call me anything.’

  Then ‘Paddy’ will do, Miro thought to himself.

  ‘You don’t want to know me. If you did it might prove dangerous for you, if you get my meaning.’

  ‘Of course.’ He cursed himself for his stupidity.

  ‘We have a job to do . . . it’s called Counter Intelligence. We sow the seeds of discontent between the Allies. Have any of your foster family had any contact with the camp?’

  Miro tried to work out the implications of his words. The man was tiptoeing around his brief, but it didn’t take long to get his meaning.

  ‘So think, Miro,’ he was saying. ‘If I send back a blank report on your behalf your mum will be starved, or beaten, until you bring us some news.’

  A surge of fury almost sent him groping for the man’s throat, but Paddy was only a messenger, the SS would still have his parents. ‘I don’t understand,’ he said, playing for time while he tried to make up something.

  ‘We want to set the locals against the Yanks. See what I mean?’

  Thoughts were buzzing through his head. What possible harm could it do to Daisy? Or to anyone? Perhaps her boyfriend might be sent to another camp. If so, that would be the end of the romance. He guessed that she had been necking with the Yank. Perhaps the guy had tried to go all the way. Daisy could look eighteen when she tried.

  ‘My foster sister went up to London today, but she was short of cash so she hitched back, which was crazy. She was picked up by a GI, but when he dropped her at the gate, she looked upset. She’d been crying and I noticed her wrist was bruised. She’s only sixteen.’

  ‘So she had to fight him off.’

&nb
sp; ‘Perhaps.’

  ‘Where’s he staying?’

  ‘At one of the local camps. That’s all I know.’

  ‘Did you see him? Could you recognize him?’

  ‘No. It was dark.’

  ‘Wait a minute! Are you making this up?’

  ‘No, I’m not.’

  ‘So how did you come to see the jeep?’

  ‘I was looking out of the window.’

  ‘Sweet on her, are you? What does she look like?’

  ‘Blonde, tall for her age. She looks older than she is. She’s beautiful,’ he added and then wished he hadn’t.

  ‘Well that will do for starters. Keep going like this and your parents will see the war’s end.’

  Bastard! I’ll get you one day.

  When Paddy stood up Miro became aware of the sheer bulk of the man, six foot and squarish, he reckoned. A real bruiser. Trembling with fear, he said, ‘If you want me to work for you, bring pictures of both of them regularly.’

  ‘Whose side are you on, Miro? You swore to help the Third Reich, but maybe you didn’t mean what you said. Maybe you just pretended to get out of the camp. They are tough on Jews. I sympathize, but you have to work to keep your parents alive. You’re in no position to lay down terms.’

  ‘But I have to know that they are alive.’

  ‘You’ve got a nerve, I’ll say that for you.’

  Miro shivered and stared out across the Channel. Out there, not far away, the Nazis were strutting around, doing their best to convince themselves and others of their superiority. He wasn’t the only victim. He tried to turn his mind away from thoughts of rebellion. He had a mission and he wasn’t aiming to abandon his parents. Not ever. He shuddered.

  ‘I didn’t come empty-handed either, Miro. Your parents have been moved to Terezin, it’s the old fortress of Theresienstadt which has been converted to a concentration camp.’ Miro had heard the rumours. It was supposed to be a model ghetto for Red Cross inspectors to examine. ‘They tell me your father plays the violin. He’s been invited to join the camp orchestra. A cushy job if ever there was one.’