by Liz Trenow
He added a precise, slightly heaped spoonful of sugar to his drink and stirred it until the grains dissolved. She recalled that gesture so well, sitting in the cafe in the Rue des Livres close to the college where they were studying; how she would find herself holding her breath through those enigmatic pauses, wondering what he would say next.
‘I was angry, not being allowed to fight,’ he went on. ‘It made me feel like half a man. I begged them to let me go. Then my brother died, and my two cousins. Just about all the boys my age went the same way, either killed or coming back broken men, without limbs or with horrible scars. Of course, I was fortunate, but I felt so guilty.’ He punched himself in the chest with a clenched fist, over the heart. ‘My parents depended on me to stay alive. But that didn’t stop me feeling as though I’d taken the cowards’ way out.’
‘You’re no coward, Daniel. I’m sure of it. And I am so sorry about your brother.’
‘I don’t think my parents will ever recover, not properly.’
‘I feel the same. It makes you feel so inadequate, being the last one left and not being able to make it better.’
He nodded, pensive again. After a few seconds he straightened up, took a breath and looked Alice directly in the eye. ‘I have never forgotten our time in Paris, you know.’
She felt suddenly light-headed, as though the intensity of his gaze had sucked all the air from her lungs. ‘Me neither.’
‘You are still so beautiful.’ As he leaned across and took her hand she felt the heat of it passing up her arm, drawing her towards him just as it used to do. She checked herself; this was moving too fast. Withdrawing her hand, she leaned back in her chair.
‘There’s something I need to tell you.’
‘Go on.’ The eyebrows quizzical, one side raised. She’d forgotten how much she loved the expressiveness of his face.
‘I am engaged to be married.’
‘Ah.’ A pause, and then, ‘Do you want to tell me about him?’
‘Not really. What about you? Are you married?’
‘I have a girlfriend. I’ve set up my own practice in Lille, did I tell you? I expect we’ll marry once I get more established.’
In a way it was a relief, but that didn’t stop her feeling just a little deflated somehow. All she knew was that she couldn’t bear for this to be the last time they met. The church bell chimed.
‘Five o’clock already? I must get back.’
‘Why don’t you join me for dinner tonight? The chef is already busy – can you smell it?’
She could and it was making her mouth water, but she couldn’t abandon Ruby. ‘My friend will be wondering where I’ve got to, and she’ll be expecting me.’
‘Your friend?’
‘She’s British, I met her on the ferry – she’s looking for her husband’s grave. Why don’t you come for a drink at the Hotel de la Paix after dinner. You can meet her?’
She imagined introducing them. They would have a pleasant evening enjoying each other’s company. He was just an old friend; there was nothing clandestine about their meeting, it was all perfectly normal. Whatever could be wrong with that?
He caught her eye with another questioning glance.
‘Eight-ish?’
‘Okay, okay, my American beaudy,’ he said, mimicking. He took her hand and kissed it. ‘See ya layder.’
12
MARTHA
At the first sound of the dinner gong Otto leapt up from his chair, flinging the book to the floor. ‘Dinner. Hurray. Let’s go, Mama.’
Mouth-watering smells had been wafting through the hotel since late afternoon, seeping up the stairs and between the gaps in the floorboards: frying garlic and onions, meat being seared, pastry rising in the oven. All reminded Martha of home, before the war, when there was plentiful meat and butter, and real flour for baking.
Before leaving Berlin she’d visited the city library and taken out a guide to Belgium, dated 1910. Whether in Wallonia, Flanders or Brussels you will always be able to enjoy a wide array of regional specialties, typical dishes or world-class gastronomy, it said.
Yet now her appetite seemed to vanish. She felt the fears rising again, of being drawn into conversation, of being detected. The memory of their ordeal at the hands of the border guards – was it really only this morning? – was too fresh. Belgians, French, English and whoever knew what other nationalities would also be dining. Had she been travelling alone she might have asked for room service, but she knew how much Otto had been looking forward to eating in a proper restaurant with white linen and silver cutlery.
She went over the rules once more. ‘No talking in German, not a word, not even a whisper. And your best table manners, please. We don’t want to attract attention.’
‘Yeah, yeah,’ he muttered, his hand already on the door handle. ‘Let’s go.’
‘Listen to me, Otto.’ She grabbed his shoulder. ‘It’s important. Tell me why it is important, please?’
‘’Cos we don’t want them to know we’re Germans, ’cos they hate us.’ He scowled, adding, ‘Well, I hate them too.’
‘If anyone asks you a question, smile pleasantly and turn to me. I will answer. Do you understand?’
‘Yes, Mama.’ He faked a smile. ‘Now can we eat? I’m ravenous.’
*
She was relieved to discover that they were the first to arrive in the dining room. Here, it seemed, punctuality was not so highly valued, and she tried to reassure herself that they might manage to avoid having to talk to anyone. She requested a table in the corner.
When the waitress brought the bread, Otto lunged at it like a starved animal, almost before she had left the table.
‘Manners, boy,’ she hissed.
‘Look, butter,’ he whispered, his eyes round as cartwheels. ‘Do they eat it every day?’
‘I expect so, nowadays. In the war they knew hunger like us. It’s just that they’ve had help from their friends the Americans,’ she replied.
‘They’re all murdering pigs,’ he muttered with his mouth full. ‘But their butter is so good.’
‘Shh, no more talking. French only, please. Remember what you promised.’
The meal arrived, generous portions of meatballs in a dark beer sauce served with delicious waxy yellow potatoes. She watched her son wolfing it down and envied his simple needs. Her own stomach, shrivelled through years of starvation, could not cope with the mound of rich food so soon after their pastry feast just a few hours ago. Discreetly, she exchanged her half-eaten plateful for the one that Otto had scraped clean. It too was soon empty.
The dining room filled with couples and small groups lively with conversation about the adventures of their day. They exchanged friendly greetings with Martha and, to her relief, did not engage her in conversation. But for all their friendliness, as Martha observed her fellow diners ordering food and tasting their wine, she began to experience a sense of growing resentment, even bitterness. They were so carefree, so at ease with their surroundings, chattering in a polyglot of languages: French, English, Flemish and other tongues she did not recognise.
They did not gobble their meals as Germans did, fearful they might never eat again, but lowered their faces to their plates to smell their food before tasting it in small experimental mouthfuls, exclaiming and discussing with each other the quality of the cuisine.
When the wine arrived, poured with great ceremony by Monsieur Vermeulen himself with a white napkin over his right arm and the other held behind his back, they would hold their glasses to the light, remarking on its colour before swirling it around the glass and taking tiny sips to savour it before approving with a polite nod of the head. What connoisseurs they were, so sophisticated, with such elegant manners.
Just one table remained unoccupied, the one closest to Martha and Otto. She prayed that it might remain so but before long a couple of young women entered the dining room. Sisters? But no, surely impossible. The one leading the way was tall and sharply dressed in a smart tailored red j
acket with matching scarlet lipstick, her hair in a stylish bob like a star from the silent movies. The other, trailing a few steps behind, looked younger, probably young enough to be Martha’s daughter. Shorter than her companion, she was really rather plain, her hair pulled back into an inexpert bun, her clothes ill-cut and unflattering.
The tall one spoke first. ‘Good evening,’ she said. ‘How’re you doing?’
‘Excusez-moi. Je ne parle pas Anglais,’ Martha replied. In fact, she did speak a few words of English, but she did not want to encourage conversation. The woman spoke again, this time in French with a sophisticated Parisian accent: ‘I’m Alice Palmer, come all the way from America. Pleased to make your acquaintance. This is my friend Ruby Barton. She’s English.’ The other girl acknowledged her with a shy nod.
She did not want to appear impolite after this friendly overture. ‘Good evening. I am Martha Weber.’
‘And who is this handsome young man?’
‘My son Otto. Say hello, Otto.’
‘Bonsoir, mesdames,’ he muttered awkwardly, the acne rash on his cheeks burning scarlet.
‘And good evening to you, young sir,’ the lipstick woman said to him, before turning once again to Martha. ‘Tell me, Madame Weber, what did you eat tonight? Would you recommend it?’
‘The meatballs. They were very good,’ she replied, trying to calculate how soon they could leave the table without appearing rude.
‘Meatballs, that’s a good choice. Thanks for the recommendation. And what did you drink? Beer or wine?’
‘Just water this evening,’ Martha replied. ‘After our long journey.’
‘Just water. Have you travelled far?’
‘From Switzerland.’
‘Switzerland. How wonderful. I went there once. I just love your mountains. The Alps. Do you live in the mountains?’
‘Not far away, in Geneva.’
‘Geneva? Great lake you have there.’ What a strange habit the woman had, of repeating everything she said. Perhaps it was an American thing? It felt more like an interrogation.
‘Excuse me, I trust that you enjoyed your meal?’ Madame Vermeulen, arriving at the table, nodded approvingly at the plates Otto had wiped clean and the empty bread basket.
‘Very good, thank you,’ Martha said. ‘Delicious.’
The woman smiled with pride. ‘The gravy is made from the beer we produce here in Hoppestadt,’ she said. ‘We are famous for it. Can I entice you to take dessert?’
It was the perfect excuse. ‘Thank you, but we are so weary from our journey. I think we will take a coffee and a hot chocolate in our room.’
‘Of course, madame.’
She felt Otto tugging at her sleeve.
‘We still have those pastries to finish,’ she said, ruffling his hair, a gesture he was powerless to resist in company. She pushed back her chair and rose to her feet. ‘Come, Otto. Good evening to you, ladies,’ she said. ‘Please enjoy your meal.’
‘Good to meet you. Catch you tomorrow perhaps?’ the American said.
I sincerely hope not, Martha thought to herself, forcing herself to return the smiles of other diners as they made their way to the door. What a curiously mismatched pair they seemed. The American woman was far too cheerful, chatty and nosy, the English girl so quiet and withdrawn, her skin sallow with grey thumbprints beneath her eyes, a face etched with a sadness that reminded Martha uncomfortably of her own loss.
*
As the day of departure had drawn closer she had begun, despite her fears, to long for the moment of finding Heinrich’s grave and leaving the letter and his great-grandfather’s medal, of fulfilling her final promise to Karl. At least she would know where her son was buried, and would be able to say a proper goodbye. But now, as she lay in the dark between the white sheets of the bed with Otto snoring quietly beside her, the prospect felt frightening, even overwhelming.
She had no idea what to expect. From the chaos and devastation they had observed from the train it was impossible to imagine a cemetery such as they had at home, with close-mown grass paths and carefully tended flower beds between rows of crosses set in military precision. No, she must lower her expectations, steel herself for what would surely be a very different and probably rather terrifying place.
What would the grave look like? How would his name appear? She shivered involuntarily, causing Otto to stir slightly, as she imagined the lettering carved into wood or stone: Kdt Heinrich Weber 1897 – 1915. How could any mother respond, finding herself at the very place where her beloved son lay beneath the earth, the boy of her own flesh whose needs, both physical and emotional, she had tended for eighteen years, the bright, handsome young man for whom they had held such great hopes? She prayed she would be able to maintain her dignity, to stay brave for Otto when the moment came.
But then what if, after so many hopes and expectations, after this difficult and expensive journey, they weren’t even able to find his grave? They’d still received no official confirmation, only the say-so of the families of Heinrich’s friends and regimental colleagues to go on. Would she have to return to Germany with his great-grandfather’s medal still in her bag? The prospect was too dismal to contemplate.
She sighed and turned onto her side, wrapping her arms around her sleeping son. His heavy warmth wove its usual magic: within minutes she was asleep.
13
RUBY
‘What a strange pair,’ Alice whispered across the table.
Ruby hadn’t thought them particularly strange; she felt sorry for them, shocked by their hollowed cheeks and famished faces. The woman, her dark hair streaked with grey and pulled back into an unflattering bun, seemed to hold a sort of dullness, a layer of grief as fine as ash, just beneath the surface of her skin. She recognised it from her own mother’s face, after her father had died.
The boy had barely uttered a single word, staring down at the tablecloth most of the time, and responding with a mumble only when his mother instructed him. He was around ten or eleven years old, she guessed, with eyes too large for his head, his face spotted with acne and his hair cut painfully short, exposing the vulnerable skull beneath. The woman was wearing a tweed jacket more suitable for winter, and his clothes seemed a couple of sizes too small: narrow wrists protruded from the sleeves of a quaint sailor-style smock.
‘Did I hear her say she was from Geneva?’
‘They’re Swiss. I suppose that’s why her accent’s a bit odd,’ Alice replied. ‘I wonder what brings them here? It’s not like Switzerland was in the war.’
Ruby busied herself with buttering her bread as Alice chattered on. ‘I’m not sure I’d bring a kid here, would you? Don’t you think it might be a bit traumatic, at that age?’
‘Maybe there’s no one at home to look after him.’
‘Did you see what she was wearing? Like something out of the last century. Wool serge in July! And putting him in that sailor suit. Poor kid.’
Ruby felt uncomfortable speculating about the woman and her son. ‘So where did you get to this afternoon? I called for you at three, but you weren’t there.’
‘Sorry,’ Alice said airily. ‘I went to see a friend and it took longer than I’d planned.’
‘A friend?’ How could Alice have a friend, here in Hoppestadt?
‘Someone I knew, long ago. It’s a long story.’
‘But I thought you’d come here to find your brother?’
‘Of course I have. That’s why I got in touch with this friend, because he lives in Lille and I thought he might know local people or organisations who could help.’
‘And does he?’
‘He’s going to find out for me.’ Ruby noticed for the first time a chink in the American girl’s confidence. The lipstick had worn off, the loose hair was slightly awry, and there was a tiny tea stain on the front of her pretty white blouse.
‘Is there something you’re not telling me, Alice?’
‘It’s not what you think. I knew Daniel was in this area and I just
thought that . . .’
Daniel? It was the fondness with which she spoke the name, like a verbal caress. There was obviously more to this ‘friend’ than Alice would admit. The wine arrived, dark red, aromatic and delicious.
Alice took a sip and put down her glass. ‘Anyway, enough about me. What have you been up to?’
‘I went to Tyne Cot.’
‘Oh my goodness. Tyne Cot? However did you get there?’
‘With Freddie. Mr Smith.’
‘The Englishman? But how did he drive with only one arm?’
‘A man called Max drove us in his baker’s van. Freddie helped me and we searched and searched for an hour and a half, but didn’t find any sign of Bertie, and then we saw a whole bunch of Chinese men digging up dead bodies from the mud.’ She grimaced.
‘How horrible. You should have waited for me to go with you. You’re so brave, doing all that on your own.’
‘It was a waste of time, I couldn’t find him. But Freddie was very kind. Despite appearances he’s a real gentleman, you know.’
‘Poor you. Would it help if we went back again?’
Ruby shook her head, sighing. ‘We looked pretty thoroughly. I just have to get used to the idea that there is no grave. Or he’s buried somewhere else, heaven knows where.’
‘Or perhaps he’s alive?’ Alice said.
‘I’d love to believe that, but I have to be realistic. Where would he have been, all these months?’
‘Anywhere, hiding out. Survivors are being found all the time.’
‘Do you really believe your brother might . . . ?’
Alice sighed. ‘He has to be. I couldn’t bear it if he was dead. So he must be alive, and I’m going to find him.’
*
‘It’s been quite a day. I think we deserve a nightcap,’ Alice said when they’d finished their meal. ‘Daniel is going to drop by to meet you.’
Ruby’s heart sank. She’d had visions of curling up on that big bed and perhaps writing in her diary before turning in for an early night, but she could hardly do so now without appearing rude. They sat by the open doors looking out at the square, busy with people strolling, conversing, enjoying beers in the cafe over the road. Swallows squealed in a sky still tinged pink and purple from the setting sun. It was hard to believe that only eight months ago the place had been the epicentre of Allied army activities, just a few miles back from the front. A place where Bertie would have sat and enjoyed a few beers himself, before being sent back to the mud and mayhem of the trenches, completely unaware of what his treacherous wife had been up to at home.
