String of Pearls

by Madge Swindells

  Fumbling for his wife’s hand, he rested his head on her stomach. He could sense a movement. Entranced, he felt a strong thrust against his face. Their baby was kicking him. There it was again, an aimed kick, bang in the middle of his cheek. He wants me off there. The little bastard wants his mother to himself. Perhaps he’d been squashing him. He lifted himself off her stomach, but placed his hand there instead and waited. There it came again. A strong, well-aimed kick.

  Mike felt humble and deeply moved. Intuitively he knew that he was no longer captain of his ship. It was as if his son’s lunge at life had thrust deep into his soul and he was contaminated with caring, an incurable disease, he sensed. Daisy’s as yet, unnamed child, had kicked his way into his heart. He stroked her swollen belly and whispered, ‘I’ll try to get back to you, kid. We’re gonna need each other. There’s a hell of a lot I’ll have to teach you. You’ll be the best rancher in Texas. Just you wait!’ he murmured.

  Thirty-Seven

  Mowbray, June 4, 1944.

  Midnight was almost upon them. To Simon it spelled his coming doom. They had made love and it was unsatisfactory. They both knew this, but neither of them cared to comment. Helen blamed it on the tension that hung around them like a London smog. She could not remember any time since they’d met when they had nothing to say to each other. She knew that Simon blamed her for not marrying him.

  Why is she so difficult? Simon was thinking. She should realize that he needed more reassurance. A long separation faced both of them. He watched her lying on the bed in her silk nightgown made from a discarded parachute. She had a flare for designing clothes and this was one of her best. She had drunk some wine and so had he. She looked dreamy and highly desirable and he wished that his libido would return, but he knew that it would not.

  ‘Why are you sitting over there?’ She propped herself up on one elbow. ‘Why do I have the feeling that you have already left?’

  ‘Don’t ask.’ He got up and sat on the side of the bed and reached for her hand.

  ‘You’ve changed, Simon. You never forgave me, did you?’

  Simon stared at her without answering and for a while they sat without speaking.

  ‘No answer?’ she persisted. ‘Is it over?’

  ‘Is it? You tell me.’

  ‘I said “no” to your proposal because of family commitments. You can’t weigh love against responsibility.’

  ‘I don’t seem to figure in your scheme of things at all.’

  ‘Yet here we are in bed together. Doesn’t that tell you something? Would I go to bed with someone I didn’t love? Nothing has changed. I will be here when you return . . . waiting for you. I promise.’ She sat up and put her arms around his waist and tried to pull him back into bed, but he resisted.

  ‘I wish you had said that long ago.’

  ‘I did. So why do you look so gloomy?’

  How could he tell her what he was thinking: that he and Mike and all the rest of the 29th who had shared the camp next door were to be the first ashore on Omaha beach. God knows if any of them would survive. The odds were against it. These were the thoughts that soldiers anguished over, but never talked about. Thank God the men didn’t know, but the sergeants knew . . . Mike knew.

  ‘You are so capable of sealing yourself off from the rest of us,’ she said sullenly.

  ‘Us?’

  ‘I know so little about you, but you know all there is to know about us . . . that is the family.’

  ‘What can I tell you? My education is typically middle-class, American style. You wouldn’t understand much about my work. It would bore you. I volunteered to join a fighting unit and I was disappointed, but now that I know I’ll be landing with the rest of the guys, I feel uneasy. In other words I’m all talk.’

  ‘On the contrary. You never talk about yourself.’

  ‘My ex-wife used to say that I erect invisible barriers.’

  ‘I can’t get the hang of you ever having been married. It’s seems strange, such a large area of your life that I know nothing about. You have this ability to switch off. One minute you are my Simon, someone I love and trust, someone I know so well I can read your thoughts. Then you become someone else. Someone who keeps secrets.’

  ‘It’s a protective mechanism. Nothing more than that.’

  ‘What do you have to protect yourself from, Simon?’

  ‘Reality, perhaps. The reality of being me, Simon Johnson, heir to the Johnson fortune. I don’t like to talk about that. It’s dogged me since my earliest days. Housemaids who were kinder to me than to my cousin who lived with us, teachers who never punished the son of their main benefactor, and so on. As soon as I qualified I got out on my own, but the reality of being a Johnson, dogged my marriage, too. My ex-wife’s name is Gloria and she is an actress, or was. I thought I loved her, but now I know that it wasn’t love, only lust. I didn’t know what love was. You taught me that . . . watching you, feeling for you, sharing your problems and finally loving you.’

  Helen smiled enigmatically, not wanting to interrupt him.

  ‘We were both whoring. She wanted to share my family’s wealth and I wanted to show off her beauty. The marriage didn’t work out. To me she seemed vain, self-obsessed and an opportunist. She said I was tight-fisted and insular. End of story.’

  ‘There’s something I need to say, too, Simon. I want you to know that you and yours brought hope and fun along with your parachutes, coffee and extra rations. We’ve all caught some of your get-up-and-go attitude. I’m not just talking about our family, but all of England. I had lost the ability to feel joy. I felt that there was nothing left for me. Now I know there’s a whole new life waiting. I never thought I’d love again, but I fell in love with you. Dearest Simon. I can’t wait for you to come back when the war ends. Then I will marry you, if you still want me.’

  Suddenly everything was all right again. ‘Come,’ she said pulling him down on to the bed. Desire surged through his blood, his fears fled and he succumbed to passion.

  Time was running short. He got up and showered and dressed and sat on the bed beside Helen. ‘I can’t wait to get back to you. I might get leave, but when the war ends I’ll be retained longer than most. I’m bound to get involved in searching for Nazi criminals. They’ll go to ground all over Europe.’

  ‘You are an intelligence agent, aren’t you?’

  He watched her without answering but his eyes glowed with compassion.

  ‘You can’t tell me, I understand, but I know that you are.’

  ‘Miro’s very late,’ Simon said, glancing at his watch and frowning. ‘He’s usually back much earlier.’

  ‘He came back early. He said he had some work to do. He must have gone to sleep.’

  ‘Without supper?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘l feel like an omelette. Would you like one?

  ‘No thanks, but I’ll make it.’

  ‘Let me. I need something to do.’

  So Simon busied himself in the kitchen. He made toast and beat half a dozen eggs and then he went upstairs to wake Miro. ‘Get dressed, Miro. It’s time,’ he said quietly. ‘Be sure to take your duffel coat and a change of underwear. You’ll probably need a book to read. You have a long train journey ahead. I’m making an omelette and toast. Don’t be long. There isn’t much time left for eating.’

  At exactly half past two a convoy of three cars arrived at the front door. The first one was a police car, followed by military police and some plain clothes civilians. They knocked loudly. Helen grabbed her dressing gown and hurried to answer the door.

  ‘I’m sorry to disturb you, madam, we’re here to see Miroslav Levy.’

  ‘I’m here,’ she heard him call from behind her.

  A police officer stepped forward. He said, ‘Miroslav Levy? You are suspected of passing information to enemies of the state. I’m arresting you under Defence Regulation 18b of the Emergency Powers Act, of 1939. You will be detained by the police for the foreseeable future.’

  Hel
en gave a sudden high-pitched cry. ‘No. You can’t.’ She grabbed Miro and hung on to him. ‘He’s not a spy. He’s just a schoolboy. He’s my son. What has he to do with spying? You’ve got the wrong person.’

  Miro hugged her. ‘Sh! I’ll be all right,’ he whispered.

  Helen turned and saw John. She shook his arm. ‘Stop them. He’s not a spy. Do something, Dad. Say something.’ Tears were running down her cheeks. She saw Simon behind her. ‘Tell them . . . it’s a mistake,’ she begged. Why was he keeping so quiet?

  The police hustled Miro out of the door and into the car as press photographers leaped from another car. By now, reporters were running up the driveway. Their flash guns lit the scene as the police car sped past them and turned the corner. It was over so quickly.

  Simon stepped forward and spoke to the press. ‘We’ve suspected Miroslav Levy for some time. Several other Nazi spies have been arrested in the past few hours. This arrest finalizes a year-long investigation into a dangerous spy network.’

  The press yelled questions at Simon, but he declined to answer them and eventually they drove away.

  A hush fell over the porch. Simon saw Helen standing in the hall as if unable to take a step forward.

  ‘Listen to me, Helen,’ he said urgently ‘You can’t know what’s going on. How could you? Trust me, Helen . . . Things are not as they seem. I wish I could tell you more.’

  His voice went on and on while Helen listened to his excuses, but she was more attuned to the sounds of the camp breaking up, canvas flapping in the wind like sails unfurling, whistles, curses, hammering, wood splintering, lorries starting up and stopping, the occasional motorbike racing in and then out.

  How pleasant it would be to allow herself to believe that everything was going to be as Simon said. Time would turn backwards and Miro would reappear, with the apologetic police officer trying to explain his mistake. Did Simon say that? Maybe not, but that was the general drift of his conversation. She dragged herself back to face reality.

  ‘You are a liar and a cheat, Simon. You pretended to love me, but you came here to trap my son.’

  ‘I can’t explain. There’s no time and anyway it’s classified, Helen, but everything’s going to be all right.’

  That old cliché again. He was waiting for her reply, but she felt so unreal, quite unable to get to grips with the here and now.

  Simon had packed earlier and he was ready to go. He picked up his gear and paused at the front door.

  ‘I have to leave now, Helen. For God’s sake . . . if you love me, trust me. Miro is going to be fine. For the last time I beg you to believe in me. I love you and that goes for your family. I would never harm any one of you.’

  ‘But Miro is my family.’ She walked inside and slammed the door. Her courage gone, she flopped on to the bench and buried her face in her hands.

  ‘Are you sure, Helen?’ John asked, watching his daughter fight for her composure.

  ‘Dad! What are we going to do?’

  ‘We’ll get Miro back. He’s only a boy and I still have a lot of friends up in London. We’ll petition Parliament, go to the press, raise such a stink they’ll be glad to let him go.’

  ‘Do you really believe that?’

  ‘Of course. I know how much you love Simon, Helen. Go and tell him so. Don’t throw your future happiness away.’

  She shook her head. ‘I’ll get over Simon just as I got over Eric. I can never forgive him and I could never trust him. Never again. It’s over.’

  Sleep evaded Helen as she sat in the lounge staring at the wall, but seeing Simon in her mind’s eye. Every sweet memory she had treasured made Simon’s betrayal more hurtful. She dragged them out, one by one: Simon galloping Daunty along the beach, racing her to the wharf, sponging her back in the shower, bringing her breakfast in bed when she had the flu, teaching Daisy to jive; there were so many precious memories to be consigned to the rubbish bin, or trash can, as he would correct her. Oh God! She would have no more of him.

  Eventually she tried to work out her best tactics to free Miro. She would get a top lawyer, petition Parliament, visit old friends in influential positions, but she had difficulty concentrating. There was so much rumbling going on: heavy lorries were trundling over the grass and out of the gates. Even the walls were vibrating, but Helen would not think about this.

  She turned her mind to remembering Miro when he first arrived: scared, but trying to hide this, proud, determined to hang on to his dignity, trying not to accept the new clothes she bought him when his own trousers were at half-mast. He’d insisted on working to pay for his keep, so they taught him to groom the horses and bath the dog, and John taught him to catch fish for the table. Gradually he’d relaxed and became one of the family. How pleased he was when he finally mastered English and rocketed to the top of his class. She had taught him to ride, to jump and to school his horse. He was a willing pupil and he did everything so well.

  And now this! Damn Simon! If he were spying, it could only be to help his parents in that awful camp, and what could a mere schoolboy know? He’d done no harm. She stood up and paced the lounge as her fury boiled and bubbled over. Finally she heard John coming downstairs. He must have slept for a while.

  ‘Are you all right?’ he wanted to know. He opened the curtains and pulled up the blinds.

  ‘Good God! It’s morning.’

  ‘And you have sat here all night.’

  She shrugged. ‘What was left of it.’

  ‘Let’s look on the bright side,’ John said. ‘The horses have their fields back.’

  ‘But will we get our garden back in shape?’

  ‘Come on, Helen. Don’t be like that. It will be fun. Where’s your famous optimism?’ John pressed his fingers into her shoulder before leaving the room. She heard the front door open and his footsteps on the gravel. ‘Will you take a look at this,’ she heard Dad calling. Helen followed him, wishing he’d leave her alone.

  ‘There’s absolutely nothing left. No rubbish, no discarded equipment. Our fields are quite empty. Unbelievable organization!’ John was fingering the fence, looking for snags or holes, but there were none. He put his arm around his daughter in a rare moment of physical affection; they were not a tactile family. ‘He’ll be back,’ John whispered so softly Helen wasn’t sure that he had said it. ‘I’ll make coffee.’ Leaving her there, he walked back to the house.

  ‘There must be something left,’ she wailed to the silent field. ‘An empty bottle, a pencil stub. Good God, they might never have been here.’ Ashen-faced, she walked the full length of the fence looking for something . . . anything. She heard John calling from the kitchen. He emerged from the scullery door waving an envelope.

  ‘Look here! Miro left you a letter.’

  She took hold of the envelope, but her hands were shaking so much she had trouble opening it.

  ‘Give it here.’ John slid open the top with his penknife and handed it back

  ‘Read and burn’ was written across the top of the page.

  ‘Oh Miro . . . Miro!’ Now she was laughing and crying at the same time.

  My dearest foster Mum

  Thank you for five years of happiness I never deserved. No one is allowed to tell you what is happening for many reasons: one is national security, another – the vital one for me – is to safeguard my parents, but I know that if I don’t tell you a little you’ll be up in London causing a stink. You’ll also be sad. So please be assured that by the time you make the coffee, I shall be training for the US army. Miro Levy is no more, for the time being. He is supposedly languishing in prison. I have a new identity now. My story is not a very honourable one. When my parents and I were taken to Dachau Camp, I was told that I could save their lives by spying for the SS. I had two choices, but I wanted them to stay alive so I made the selfish choice. Soon afterwards I was put on a train and you know the rest. I thought that I would have to live with my guilt and shame until the war ended, but then Simon came and it didn’t take long for him to wo
rk out my situation. Do you remember the night I stole your gun? I realized that Simon was on to me and I decided to kill my controller before killing myself. Simon came after me and offered me a third choice, one that enabled me to keep my parents alive, to work for the Allies and to be proud of myself, too. I jumped at the chance and became an agent for British Intelligence, passing on disinformation to my controller. I am to be arrested tomorrow morning. It is important that my arrest is authentic, in case there are any spies still at large, but by noon I shall be just another GI in training. I hope to join Simon’s outfit later. People in high places have bent the rules for me and the deal was conditional on Simon’s silence – even to you. Hence this letter.

  Until my parents are released I cannot come home, but I think of you as my mother and I know you think of me as your son. I pray that my parents have survived and that they will be able to lead normal lives after their ordeal.

  With all my love and all my thanks. Miro. P.S. Burn this now.

  Helen burned the letter in the stove. ‘He’s all right,’ was all she would say to John.

  ‘We’ll get a good deal of flak from the villagers and possibly our friends, so be prepared,’ John told her.

  Helen wasn’t listening as realization hit home. ‘Oh my God . . . Dad . . . help me. What have I done? I must find Simon. Give me your car keys. Be quick, Dad.’ How could she have been so wrong? She should have trusted the man she loved and she intended to tell him so.

  Thirty-Eight

  With her foot flat down on the accelerator, Helen raced to the main road and skidded to a halt as she nearly collided with the troop carriers that were entirely blocking the road.

  An MP standing by the roadside, walked towards her. ‘Steady on, ma’am. This road is closed to civilians. Only army vehicles allowed. Sorry.’

  ‘So how can I reach the main road to Southampton?’

  ‘You can’t. Only army personnel today and maybe tomorrow. Sorry, ma’am.’

  ‘Please . . .’ she said. She had never begged before. ‘I have to see Captain Johnson. Reconnaissance, 29th Infantry Division. It’s vital. He left about two a.m.’