In Love and War

by Liz Trenow

  How wrong they’d been. All they’d got was a crippling, devastating war.

  Martha and Otto walked on, politely returning any greetings that came their way, trying to avoid eye contact and the curious glances. Much as she would have loved to have taken a seat in a cafe, to have tasted a beer, she feared being drawn into conversation. Their treatment at the hands of the border guards had been a harsh reminder: they might be protected by international peacetime law but how individual citizens would react should it be discovered that she and Otto were German, even just an ordinary mother travelling with her son, was anyone’s guess.

  She became uncomfortably aware of how unusual they must look: a tall middle-aged woman with a famished, war-weary face, and a gangly adolescent boy in his slightly too small sailor shirt, shorts and cap. She had unearthed from the recesses of the wardrobe her best serge jacket, a long skirt and hat – usually saved for interviews, or special days at the college where she taught. They were too warm for the time of year, but the moth holes were mostly well concealed and, besides, they were all she had. In Germany, no one had been able to buy new clothing since the start of the war. It was hardly surprising that they attracted a few stares.

  They left the square and took the street they recognised from their journey into the town. Otto was the first to spot the bakery. ‘Look,’ he whispered. ‘Just down there.’ Even though the shelves were largely empty, this being mid-afternoon, an irresistible aroma of fresh-baked bread, sweet vanilla and warm sugar seemed to reach them even before they drew near.

  They went into the shop and were greeted by a dumpy, dour-faced woman. ‘Can I help you?’

  ‘May I have some bread, please, and pastries?’

  ‘I’ll see what I’ve got left.’ The woman disappeared through a door and returned with a basket of assorted bread rolls, a small tray of cakes and a box of round biscuits covered with sliced almonds. Martha chose four white bread rolls, two small gateaux topped with strawberries, and two squares of a yellow cake decorated with slices of crystallised lemon. Together they watched every move as the woman rolled up the bread in a page of newspaper, deftly folding a second page into a box for the cakes. Taking up a stub of pencil, she wrote the cost on the box.

  Martha felt like laughing out loud: the transaction had been so straightforward. She could barely remember what it was like to buy food so easily. Yes, the woman had been a little surly at first but acknowledged her payment without a single suspicious glance and even, as they bid her farewell, with the hint of a smile. They hadn’t had to queue for hours, to jostle with others or fight their way to the front only to have the vendor shout at them, grab the cash and then almost throw the unwrapped goods at them without a single courtesy.

  With the packet of rolls under her arm, and Otto carrying the paper box of pastries like a precious sacrament, Martha finally felt her mood lightening, the anxiety lifting. They hurried back to the hotel and into the sanctuary of their little attic room, unwrapping the spoils of their excursion with the same joy and sense of anticipation as if they were Christmas gifts.

  ‘Don’t eat too much. You’ll ruin your appetite.’

  ‘If that’s supposed to be a joke, it’s not even slightly funny,’ he retorted. The only times she’d ever seen Otto lose his appetite were after they’d told him of Heinrich’s death and then, later, when his father had finally passed away.

  Sometimes, they’d been grateful even if a meal consisted of bread alone. Occasionally they would visit Karl’s brother in the countryside where his wife grew vegetables and kept secret supplies of eggs, meat and corn hidden away from the sequestering eyes of visiting officials keen to lay their hands on anything they could to feed the troops.

  But as starvation became more widespread, their relationship had soured. She and Karl had never expected handouts and had always paid a fair rate for the food but now her in-laws became greedy, fleecing them just as they did the other city folk on ‘hamster tours’ – so-called because they returned with sacks bulging after bartering what they could for eggs, butter or even a scraggy chicken.

  A beautiful carriage clock, inherited from her mother, had gone that way, as had the rather fine Persian carpet from the Wohnzimmer. For a week or so after each trip they had eaten well, even though their apartment felt increasingly bare. The visits ended abruptly after the wife had called them ‘city scroungers’ and refused to exchange a box of eggs for a brass lampshade worth many times more.

  It saddened Martha to remember the good times they’d had with Karl’s brother and his wife. The boys had loved their visits to the farm, had named all the cows, and the pigs, even the chickens. The last time they met was at Karl’s funeral. Their murmurings of condolence, although perfectly polite, had been mechanical, even frosty, as though they held her responsible, in some way, for his death. She doubted she would see them again.

  *

  Otto had already wolfed down a bread roll before she could stop him, his eyes widening with delight at each mouthful. ‘The crust, it’s so delicious. Imagine how it would be with butter?’

  ‘We shall have butter this evening, I am sure.’

  ‘Can I have a pastry now?’

  ‘It will be dinner in an hour or so. We’ll share one and have the rest for dessert afterwards.’

  He took a bite, rolling his eyes in ecstasy. ‘It’s got custard inside, Mama. Vanilla. Mmm. Food of the gods.’

  ‘Whatever’s made you come over so poetic all of a sudden?’

  ‘Custard is my muse. I shall become famous for my poetry in praise of pastries.’

  ‘Your books will sell like hot cakes.’

  ‘I’ll mix with the cream of society.’

  ‘The girls will flock to you like bees around a honey pot.’

  ‘Jam side up. That’s me.’

  They fell onto the bed giggling helplessly, intoxicated by sugar. The sound of his laughter, so rare these days, filled her heart. She pulled him into her arms. ‘I love you, son,’ she said, kissing his forehead.

  ‘Don’t be so soppy, Ma,’ he grunted, pulling away.

  *

  Encouraged by the success of their shopping trip, Martha suggested they venture out once more to find a taxi company or tourist agent who might arrange transport to Langemarck.

  ‘Can’t we find one tomorrow?’

  ‘It’s better if we can book something now, ready for tomorrow. Anyway, it’s such a beautiful afternoon, too lovely to stay indoors.’

  ‘You go. I want to stay here and read my book,’ he said, snuggling into the bed.

  She relented. He’d never been a studious boy but this particular novel, a translation of Robinson Crusoe, seemed to have gripped his attention and she was delighted to see him reading more.

  ‘Very well then. Don’t talk to anyone, and don’t eat any more pastries.’

  *

  She made her way down the stairs and walked across the square. The sun was cooler now, slipping below the rooftops, which was something of a relief. She was just entering a side street down which she could see what looked like more shops when she was approached by a small grizzled man in a jaunty beret.

  ‘Good afternoon, madame.’ He addressed her in heavily accented French. ‘You visitor?’

  She nodded cautiously and he moved closer, a little too close for comfort. She could smell the beer on his breath.

  ‘You want battlefield tour? You take my leaflet.’ He handed her a handwritten, well-thumbed piece of paper that scarcely merited the description.

  ‘What transport do you have?’ she asked.

  ‘Motor car or coach for groups more than two persons. Where you want to go?’

  ‘Just me and my son, twelve years old. We wish to visit Langemarck.’

  Bloodshot eyes held hers with a stare. ‘Langemarck? That is a German graveyard, madame.’

  She could feel the sweat breaking out at the nape of her neck, but she must keep calm. She had practised the story many times.

  ‘We are Swiss, but
my sister’s son was unfortunately conscripted in Germany,’ she said. ‘It is regrettable, of course, but since she is unable to travel she begged me to visit his grave. I am sure you must understand. I cannot deny her.’

  His eyes glinted. ‘Forty francs.’

  ‘That is too much for me, sir.’

  ‘To Langemarck. German graveyard. Forty,’ he said again.

  He was blackmailing her. ‘I cannot afford forty francs,’ she said more firmly, and went to leave, but the man followed her. ‘Thirty, madame?’

  She shook her head again and continued walking. Surely there must be someone who would offer her a better deal?

  He followed her, and she quickened her pace. ‘Twenty?’

  She considered a moment. Ten francs each, that was reasonable. She turned to him. ‘We can go tomorrow morning?’

  The man nodded. ‘Certainly. Eleven o’clock.’

  It was too good to resist. ‘That would suit us, thank you.’

  She held her breath as he muttered to himself for a second and then held out his hand. ‘I must rent car. You pay ten now, ten tomorrow.’ She pulled out a note from her bag and handed it to him before he could change his mind. He stashed it in the inside pocket of his grubby jacket. ‘Where you stay?’

  ‘The Hotel de la Paix.’

  ‘See you tomorrow, madame. I come eleven.’ He tipped his cap and was gone.

  It was only after the man had disappeared that Martha realised he hadn’t given her a receipt. She studied the piece of paper once more. Scruffy as it was, it did at least carry a name: Monsieur G. Peeters.

  She could hardly wait to tell Otto the good news. At last, after all their saving and planning, after the long journey and terrifying ordeal at the border, they were on their way to Langemarck.

  Not long to wait now, my darling Heiney. See you tomorrow.

  11

  ALICE

  Alice tried to ignore the knowing glances of the stiffly polite receptionist at The Grand Hotel. Monsieur Martens had not yet returned. Would madame care to wait in the lounge and take a coffee, or a drink?

  The place was certainly grand in that old-fashioned French way, but she was glad they’d chosen not to stay here. After the rustic charm of the Hotel de la Paix the place felt uncomfortably formal with its faux pillars, fancy plasterwork, highly patterned wallpaper, heavy curtains and ornate chairs. The major said that during the war it had been commandeered as an officers’ mess and she could almost smell the sense of privilege, the cigars and whisky that they must have enjoyed while their men were sleeping in dormitories, or worse. Alone in the stuffy lounge, Alice found herself sympathising with the potted palms wilting in the heat, the tips of their leaves curling brown.

  Her nerves were strung as tight as piano wire by the time Daniel rushed in, flustered and a full half hour late, with some story about a Swiss woman and her silent son whom he’d rescued in the square at Ypres. Standing to greet him, she found herself suddenly tongue-tied. He hadn’t changed much in six years; though not overly tall, he was still an imposing figure, a man likely to attract attention in a crowd. A little thicker around the waist and jawline perhaps, but the hair was just as dark and unruly, and he still had that humorous glint lurking in his eyes when he smiled, that smile that made you feel as though you were the only person in the room.

  He took both hands and kissed her cheeks three times. Then he stood back at arm’s length, appraising her. Those eyes, the colour and grain of polished oak, were just as deep and unfathomable as ever.

  ‘Mon Dieu! Always so beautiful, Aleese.’ His pronunciation instantly transported her back to the day they first met. She’d been mesmerised as, with hands full of Gallic gesture, he’d talked about books and ideas, about the importance of good design in everything from chairs to cars, and how buildings affect people around them and who inhabit them. She’d thought him the most entrancing man in the world.

  He summoned the waiter who’d been hovering in the doorway.

  ‘What will you take? Tea? Or perhaps a citron pressé?’

  She recalled the delicious sweet-sour drink, so refreshing on those sweltering days in Paris, long ago. ‘That would be perfect.’

  His gaze turned back to her face, fixing her eyes with his. ‘It is true, the years have not passed for you.’

  It was a lie, of course. She was under no illusion that the years had taken their toll, both physically and psychologically. She was already twenty-four and perfectly aware that the youthful bloom had started to fade from her cheeks, and that the tiny lines around her eyes and mouth resisted disguise. Her hair, once so long and lush, now rested in an ultra-fashionable bob just above her shoulders. That blithe, carefree spirit he’d first encountered, that girl with a childlike trust of strangers and an almost insatiable curiosity about the world, had been tempered and hardened by life and loss. She was now more sceptical and guarded, wiser and more composed.

  The last time she’d seen him there had been tearful farewells and promises to meet again soon, perhaps the following summer. Their romance had been short but intense – the physical attraction was almost irresistible and on that last evening in Paris she’d come closer than ever before to intimacy.

  They’d been with the crowd all evening, drinking carafe after carafe of cool rosé, until the group had dwindled. Julia claimed she was tired, and Daniel had promised to walk Alice back to their lodgings.

  They’d talked and laughed until the last carafe was finished, and left the cafe to walk home along the River Seine, glistening like a million diamonds in the light of the street lamps. Paris on a warm spring evening was so intoxicatingly beautiful that she almost forgot to breathe. The intensity of extreme happiness was dizzying, dreamlike. Just before they reached the lodging house Daniel turned to her, cupping her cheeks as though she were something infinitely precious, and kissed her intensely and intimately.

  ‘Chez moi?’ he murmured, as though there’d been some earlier, unspoken agreement. Desire made her carefree and rebellious, the blood coursing through her body like the current of the sparkling river.

  But just as he went to take her hand and walk onwards, the small voice in the back of her head became more persistent: Well-brought-up girls save themselves for a future husband. Even through the rosy mist of infatuation she knew he would never be husband material; they were too young, being in Paris was too romantic, he flirted with all the girls. And what if she got pregnant? Her reputation would be ruined, marriage prospects damaged forever. Feeling wrong-footed and childish, she pulled away. ‘Julia is waiting up for me.’

  Once back in America she found herself physically yearning for him, regretting that she had not allowed herself to be fully loved by him. Just the once. She’d imagined it so many times. And now here he was in front of her once more, and she found herself without words.

  Their drinks arrived, misty white juice diluted with water and clinking with ice, a slice of lemon wedged onto the edge of the glass. With them was an elegant silver bowl of finest white caster sugar and two long-handled spoons.

  As the waiter left the room they both broke the silence, speaking at the same time. ‘So, what have you been doing . . . ?’ She laughed to cover her embarrassment.

  ‘Ladies first,’ he said. She had forgotten how fluent his English was.

  Sipping her drink, Alice recounted how discontented she’d become at home after those carefree few months in Paris, how she’d rebelled against the innate conservatism of Washington society, the stultifying social round and the constraints of being a politician’s daughter, of having to ensure that there was nothing, literally nothing, in your past that might sully his reputation in future.

  ‘It’s like living in a straitjacket.’

  His lips pursed into a small moue of sympathy and the new lines at the corners of his eyes made the smile even more beguiling than ever before. She felt herself becoming seduced all over again.

  ‘It is so wonderful to see you again, my dearest Aleese,’ he breathed. ‘B
ut I sense that my good fortune is the result of a loss – that is what usually brings people here.’

  She told him about her brother’s disappearance, how she assumed that he must have signed up under a false name, and how she had defied her parents’ wishes to come to the place where he’d last been heard of. She mentioned Tubby Clayton and how she hoped he might remember Sam at Talbot House.

  ‘I was wondering if you know of anyone else I might ask?’ she said.

  ‘Ask?’

  ‘About where I might look for Sam, to find out what happened to him, if he is alive or dead. There must be other people of all nationalities looking for their loved ones and I kind of hoped there might be local organisations helping them.’

  He shrugged, his expression sceptical. ‘So many have gone missing. So many are searching. But I can certainly try to find out for you.’

  ‘If only I could find just a little clue, something to follow up, it would help the misery of not knowing . . .’ She stopped herself. She knew nothing of what Daniel may have suffered. ‘Of course, it is not the same as having your country invaded and shattered.’

  ‘Losing a loved one is always terrible, wherever you are, whoever.’

  There was a brief silence, filled with unsaid things.

  ‘And what about you? I was so happy to get your reply to my letter. I thought you might have gone to fight and, of course, imagined the worst. I am so glad you . . .’

  He sighed, a shadow crossing his face.

  ‘If you’d rather not . . .’

  ‘It is only that I feel a little ashamed,’ he said quietly, ‘because I did not have to fight. I enlisted, of course, but they sent me instead to the headquarters in Paris to help manage infrastructure and supplies. I suppose they thought that because I was training as an architect I’d know about building things.’ He gave a harsh, scoffing laugh. ‘Ordering thousands of concrete blocks, sandbags, that sort of thing. Hardly what I’d spent three years studying for.’