by Liz Trenow
Only half an hour left. Ruby began to walk more quickly, scanning the names without stopping. If only they could check every one, however briefly, she could be satisfied that she had done all she could to find him. But the time slipped by and she seemed to have read every name under the sun, except for Private Albert Barton. They met at the middle of the final section. ‘Nothing?’ he asked gently.
‘Nothing.’
‘I’m sorry, love, but I reckon we’ve covered everything now. You do know that he’s probably here, even so?’
Dozens, no, hundreds, were simply marked Known only unto God. One of these could easily be him, but how would she ever know? She nodded, not trusting herself to speak, as he led the way back towards the van.
Just as they reached it, their attention was diverted by a lorry pulling up on the road close by. Around twenty men jumped down from the rear with spades and canvas bags slung over their shoulders and gathered in a group, awaiting orders. They looked Chinese, and she wondered what could have brought them to the battlefields of Europe.
A taller man in a captain’s uniform appeared, shouting in English: ‘Now, lads, you know what to do? We only have five hours of daylight left, so get to work. Stay within your marked area and dig very, very carefully. Take every scrap you find, and put it into your bag. Any bodies or body parts, call me at once.’
Now she understood that the pegs and string she’d noticed earlier demarcated a search zone just beyond the perimeter of the cemetery, and found her eyes drawn unwillingly to the men as they fanned out and began to dig in the mud. A small breeze brought to her nostrils the stench of sour earth, of decay. The smell of the aftermath.
‘C’mon, Ruby, this ain’t a good idea,’ Freddie urged, taking her arm, but she held her ground.
‘No, I have to,’ she said, resisting his pressure. It could be Bertie.
Almost immediately, after just a few jabs with his spade, a man called out and the captain went over. He took the spade himself and dug a little more, carefully turning each clod of soil over to inspect before discarding it. Even from this distance she could see what they were uncovering: a body.
But not a body. She found herself mesmerised, unable to look away. Finally, they revealed what was clearly just a head and torso, still in uniform but with arms and legs missing. Torn between the desire to close her eyes and the need to continue watching, to bear witness, she found her feet fixed to the spot, her eyes unable to cease their seeing. She felt her legs go weak and begin to tremble. With the utmost tenderness three men lifted the remains and placed them gently, almost reverently, onto a white sheet laid on the ground. A shroud.
This mess of bloody, muddy, foul-smelling remains had once been a living, breathing, loving and much-loved man, a father, husband, son or brother.
It was then that she fully understood the sheer desolate hopelessness of her search. Bodies were everywhere. They were not confined to cemeteries or marked graves. This whole field, or fields, perhaps the whole area, was itself a graveyard. Wherever men had fought, there would be bodies. One of them might be Bertie. There were probably French, Belgian and even German bodies too.
In her mind’s eye she could see layers and layers of them, laid end to end, some complete, and some just lumps of unidentifiable flesh, lying close beneath the ground, close beneath her own feet, right here, and reaching away as far as you could see.
The world tilted, there was a roaring sound in her ears and a dark gauze seemed to fall over her eyes before the world went black.
*
She felt arms around her, raising her from the ground, and heard Freddie’s calm voice. ‘Don’t you worry, darlin’. Reckon you’ve had a bit of a turn. We’ll get you back to the van and you’ll soon feel better.’
She found herself shivering uncontrollably. He wrapped his jacket around her shoulders and handed her a less-than-clean white handkerchief. ‘Come on now, let’s get you up.’ She tried, but even with his help she could not stand. Her legs felt like India rubber.
‘I’m so sorry to have caused any trouble,’ Ruby whispered. ‘It was . . .’
‘Nothing to be sorry for,’ Freddie said. ‘It’s a shocking sight all right. Never get used to it meself. That’s why I didn’t want you to see it. Makes you realise how many they’ve yet to dig up. At least we know they are doing all they can to find people and give them a decent burial.’
At last, after several sips of brandy from his hip flask, she managed to summon the strength to stand and then, supported by Freddie, to walk unsteadily back to the van.
*
Max dropped them back at the hotel. ‘Care to join me for a drink?’
‘I’d better go and find my friend,’ she said. ‘Thank you for all your help this afternoon.’
‘I’m sorry we didn’t find your lad,’ he said.
‘You did your best. It was just that . . .’
‘I’m sorry you had to see those Chinese fellas, too. Bit of a shocker, that one.’
How could she explain the darkness in her heart? Earlier this afternoon, she’d felt close to finding him, but now all she was left with was that grim vision of decomposing body parts being pulled from the ground. Any one of them could have been him.
‘How do they identify them?’
‘Identity discs, cap badges, pocket books. Lots of ways,’ he said. ‘They’re finding people all the time.’
‘Will they let the families know?’
‘I expect so,’ he said. ‘Although I’m guessing it will take years to find everyone.’ He looked up at her. ‘Don’t give up hope, Ruby.’
‘I’ll try not to,’ she said.
*
Alice was not in her room, and Monsieur Vermeulen had not seen her, but Freddie was still in the bar. ‘I hope it’s not too late to take up your offer of a drink.’
‘Nothing would please me more,’ he said cheerfully, pulling her a small glass of what he said was the local brew. ‘This’ll put hair on your chest.’
She took a tentative sip.
‘Good?’ he asked.
‘Delicious.’ Though light in colour, the beer was surprisingly deep in flavour, sweet and bitter all at the same time, and cold enough to make the outside of the glass sweat. From the first sip she could tell that it was much more alcoholic than the beers at home.
‘Let me buy,’ she said, opening her handbag.
‘Nah. You owe me nothing, love. Maurice is happy for me to have a few glasses in return for the little jobs I do for him.’ They were the only customers and he chose a table beside the doorway leading to the square. ‘I like it here,’ he said, settling into a chair. ‘It gets a good breeze and you can watch who’s going by.’
They sat in silence for a moment, watching the passers-by: men on their way from work, women carrying shopping or laundry, or hand in hand with small children, older children freed from school and out to play. Ordinary lives. People just carrying on, making the best of it, even with so many horrors lived through, and still being experienced right on their doorsteps.
‘Your friend not back?’
‘I’m sure she’ll be here soon.’
‘Bit of a one, isn’t she, if you don’t mind me saying?’
‘She’s American.’
‘Explains a lot.’ He grinned over his glass, eyes teasing behind the blond eyelashes.
‘But she’s very generous. We met on the ship coming over.’
‘Where’s she been today, then?’
‘To be honest, I’m not entirely sure. We said we’d meet for tea.’ She glanced up at the clock above the bar and shrugged.
He scoffed. ‘Those Yanks think they can get away with anything after they won the war for us. Who’s she looking for?’
‘Her brother. He joined up to fight with the Canadians under a false name, she thinks.’
‘Good lad. I take it he didn’t come home?’
‘It’s been nearly nine months since the peace, and no news. She seems convinced that this army chaplain, a man c
alled Clayton, can help her find him.’
Freddie’s face lit up. ‘Old Tubby? I knew him well. Good man, even if he is a God-botherer. I thought he’d gone home.’
‘Apparently he’s coming back here tomorrow. According to Ginger.’ She took another sip, beginning to enjoy the taste.
‘Sorry old business, ain’t it?’ he sighed, tracing a pattern in the condensation on the side of his glass. ‘Sometimes I envy the ones who’ve gone. It’s harder being left behind, knowing you’ll live your life, even grow old, perhaps. And their lives are over, almost before they had a chance to begin.’
‘How can you bear it, going back to those graveyards?’
‘It’s not easy to explain to anyone who wasn’t there. Of course the war was effing awful, ’scuse my French: the mud, the lice, the rats, terrible rations, the stupid, pointless orders, living in utter bloody fear that every shell coming over is likely to blow you to kingdom come and every breath you take could be your last.’
He took a long swig, nearly emptying the glass. ‘But what keeps you going, day in day out, is your mates. You trust ’em with your life, they trust you with theirs. You would die for them – many did. I dunno . . .’ His voice cracked and he swallowed hard. She feared that he might be about to cry, but he carried on, the words tumbling from his mouth now.
‘It’s just that . . . I bloody loved those men, you know. More than I loved anyone, even me old lady, God rest her soul, though that’s a different kind of love, I grant you. That friendship with your mates, when you’re facing the enemy together, it’s just . . . I don’t have the words for it, I’m not an educated bloke. You feel alive like you’ve never felt before. It’s a privilege to have known it. For all the grief and misery we went through, I wouldn’t have missed it for the world.’
His cheeks flushed, discomfited at having expressed such strong emotions. She smiled back, reassuring, finding his words unexpectedly comforting. This must have been what Bertie had also experienced: that powerful bond of comradeship, that fierce love that sustained you, that made you feel brilliantly alive even in the face of death and destruction.
They sat in silence for a few seconds. ‘Did they survive, your mates?’ she asked gently.
‘Some of ’em,’ he said. ‘We had a couple of get-togethers, once we got home, you know. But it was never the same. That’s why I’m here. There’s nothing left for me back there and life seems so drab now, after the war.’
‘Do you have any family?’
He gave a long, weary sigh. ‘The wife died of the cancer just a few months after I got back. I couldn’t get no work and was drinking that much her sister claimed I wasn’t fit to bring up the kids. She was probably right, at the time, though I’ve mended my ways a bit since coming over here. At least she’s giving them a proper family life. More than I could, anyway.’
‘That’s a sad story, Freddie. I’m so sorry.’
‘Nah, girl, don’t you worry about me.’ The grin returned to his face. ‘I’m a survivor. Nine lives and all that.’ He stubbed out his cigarette and pushed his chair back. ‘It’s been a pleasure, but I’d better be on my way.’
‘Thank you again for this afternoon,’ she said. ‘And for the beer. I’m quite taken with it.’
‘The pleasure’s been all mine, madame,’ he said, with a mock-formal bow.
*
Dear Bertie, she wrote. I may not be able to find your grave, but that doesn’t seem to matter so much, now. That piece of land, the place where you gave your life with so many others, doing what you believed was right, will forever be in my heart. There is a kind man here called Freddie, who told me a bit about how it was, fighting with his mates, how they depended on each other, even loved each other. It gives me comfort to believe that this is what you experienced too.
She would ask for his forgiveness another day.
10
MARTHA
By the time they reached Hoppestadt, the town seemed to be slumbering in the midday sun.
Martha hoped that now they had survived the journey and the border interrogation the worst would be over but she found herself once more wracked with nerves as Monsieur Martens pulled to a halt outside the Hotel de la Paix. It looked distinctly unpromising, with its shuttered windows and neglected paintwork.
‘Are you sure it is open?’ she asked.
‘Oh yes. It’s just they haven’t had time to smarten it up, after the war, you know,’ he said airily. ‘It is very pretty inside.’
She thanked him, offered him a few notes which he refused and waved him goodbye. Then, taking a breath, she steeled herself, calling once more on dwindling reserves of courage, and pushed open the front door of the hotel. Immediately, they were assailed by the most glorious smells of frying butter and garlic.
‘Yum,’ Otto murmured, following her over the threshold into the gloom of the hallway.
A wide, wood-panelled corridor lay ahead of them, furnished with cheerful woven rugs. It felt homely enough, just as Monsieur Martens had promised, but the place appeared deserted. She rang the brass bell at the reception desk but when no one appeared they moved cautiously along the corridor and opened a door labelled Cafe/Bar. Its only occupant was a young blond-haired man who appeared to be enjoying a liquid lunch.
‘Good afternoon,’ she said. ‘Do you know the whereabouts of Monsieur Vermeulen, please? I wish to take a room.’
‘Parlay no Frenchie,’ was his reply, which she did not understand. Was it Flemish? Or perhaps her accent had confused him?
She tried again. ‘Monsieur Vermeulen? I wish to take a room.’
The man peeled himself off the stool and shouted through a door at the back of the bar to someone called Maurice. It was then she realised that he was speaking English, which unsettled her even more. Of all their country’s enemies, the English were the worst.
To her relief, Monsieur Vermeulen soon appeared. He seemed friendly enough, understood her French and displayed no tendency to windmill his arms, but the room rates he quoted were well out of her range. After some discussion he seemed to take pity on them, offering a price she could afford for what he called his ‘budget’ accommodation.
‘It is nothing grand,’ he said, leading them up the wide wooden staircase to another, narrower stairway twisting upwards into an attic. The room was small and dark, with sloping ceilings and just one double bed, but this didn’t matter in the slightest: Otto often crept into hers at home, for warmth and comfort. Monsieur Vermeulen showed them the bathroom and toilet at the end of the corridor, and explained that as the only other bedroom on this floor was unoccupied these facilities would be for their sole use.
‘This will do very nicely, thank you,’ she said. ‘May we take it for three nights, please?’
As she heard his footsteps descending the stairs she gave a deep sigh. At last she could relax. They were safe, away from prying ears, and could talk in German without fear of detection. Otto went to the dormer window and she moved behind him, resting her arms around his shoulders. Even in the two days since they left home he seemed to have grown taller; she had to peer around his head to see the view – a tangle of neglected gardens and derelict buildings at the rear of the hotel.
‘Heinrich is out there somewhere,’ he said quietly. ‘Is it far away?’
‘To Langemarck? I am not sure exactly. Perhaps half an hour?’
‘When are we going to see him?’
‘Tomorrow, I hope. When we can find someone to take us.’
They stood in silence for a few moments.
‘I was so proud of you today, Otto,’ she said gently. ‘At the border.’
‘They were just stupid, horrible people but we won, didn’t we? We’re here now.’
‘I’ll mend Rabbit when we get home. He’ll be good as new.’
‘It’s okay, Ma, he doesn’t really matter anymore. Can we go shopping now? I’m starving.’
‘Half an hour. Then we’ll go, promise.’
Martha opened her case, took out
her washbag and went along to the bathroom. The fittings were clean and modern, the water gushed from the tap luxuriously hot. Later, she promised herself, she would take a long, deep bath, but for now she contented herself with a wash, cleaning her teeth and brushing her hair. Instructing Otto to follow suit, she unpacked and carefully refolded their few items of crumpled clothing into an enormous wardrobe that seemed to take up a full quarter of the room. Then she kicked off her shoes and fell onto the soft white bed, closing her eyes. She didn’t even hear him return from the bathroom.
She was jolted awake when he bounced onto the bed beside her.
‘Can we go before I die of starvation?’ he grumbled.
Poor boy, not for five years had he seen a shop offering anything other than empty display tins and packets, faded and dusty reminders of past riches. Out of school hours, much of his time had been spent standing in queues for bread, sausage, potatoes, eggs, everything almost. While Martha could endure the constant ache in her own shrinking stomach, she could not bear to see her son hungry and would always give him the lion’s share of any food they could find. She would gladly have starved herself had she believed it would relieve the boy’s suffering. But since Karl died she’d discovered a renewed determination to maintain her own health and strength. She was all the family Otto had, after all; she must live for him.
Much as she was enjoying the comfort of this bed and the safety of this little room, she could resist his pleadings no longer.
*
The square was busier now, the cafe terraces filled with men and women eating bread and sausage washed down with amber-coloured beer.
‘This is what it used to be like in our city,’ she whispered to Otto. ‘You won’t remember. But one day it will be like this again.’ Perhaps, she added to herself. It saddened her to recall how Berlin was before the war, when she and Karl would meet after work and sit in a cafe, joined by friends and colleagues, and how they would drink and laugh and gossip, discussing the latest radical ideas and putting the world to rights long into the evening.
What heady days. The old order was on its way out and a bright future lay ahead for the country, they believed; a future which would see an end to rural poverty, would provide education for all, including women, and the vote for everyone over twenty-one, regardless of their income or gender.
