In Love and War

by Liz Trenow

  He took another long pull on the cigarette. It flared slightly and a small pile of ash scattered onto the papers in front of him. He appeared not to notice, or to care.

  ‘Do you not appreciate, madame, that this plan of yours could cause offence in our country? Your nephew was fighting for the enemy, who invaded our land and who were responsible for the deaths of many thousands of our citizens.’

  Martha took a breath, raising herself to her fullest height, pulling back her shoulders and lifting her chin, meeting his gaze just as she’d learned to do when, so many times, she’d had to face military guards or the Polizei.

  ‘I am sure you will appreciate, monsieur, that this poor young man, my nephew, was not personally responsible for all those deaths. He was doing his duty like all soldiers, like the Belgian, French and English boys. And he died doing it. My sister’s only desire, and it is surely a modest enough request, is for me to place a gift and a stone at his grave, as she is unable to travel here for herself. Is that such a wrong thing to ask?’

  ‘You are right, madame, war makes all men guilty. It is most surely true that we should honour the dead for their sacrifice, whatever side they were on.’ Monsieur Vermeulen sighed heavily and rubbed his thinning hair. ‘But such high-mindedness will not help to solve today’s problem. Max cannot allow Geert to use his van not because he has any personal objection – he understands just as I do – but because he is afraid his customers will notice and take their trade elsewhere. His name is written on the outside of the van for all to see. What if it should be observed at a German graveyard?’

  ‘Then it can be explained, as I have done for you. I am a visitor from a neutral country and have a perfectly logical reason for visiting Langemarck. Surely no one could find that offensive?’

  Monsieur Vermeulen cleared his throat and lowered his voice. ‘What you seem not to understand is the terrible fear in our community, even now we are at peace, of German infiltrators. To put it plainly, of spies.’ He spat out the word with a venomous hiss. ‘Those fears turn into whispers, whispers soon become rumours, rumours fuel suspicions, suspicions lead to official accusations.’

  The smoke-filled air in the little room hung close and heavy.

  Martha took a breath and tried once more. ‘I have come all the way from my home in Switzerland, monsieur, to carry out my sister’s wishes,’ she said, trying to summon a voice as deep and authoritative as she could muster. ‘Your countryman Monsieur Peeters agreed to the deal and has taken ten francs of my money as a deposit. If your brother feels unable to lend his van, then surely it is Monsieur Peeters’ responsibility to arrange alternative transport or to refund my money?’

  The discussion had reached neutral ground, and the hotelier seemed to relax now that the responsibility had shifted. ‘You are right, of course. But my brother tells me Geert stormed out of the bakery after they rowed over the matter, and he has not been seen since.’

  ‘Do you have an address for him? I will seek him out myself.’

  His face twisted into a wry smile. ‘On your behalf I visited his house en route from the bakery. However, Madame Peeters informed me that her husband has not been home all morning. She was – how shall I say? – in an ill temper. Indeed she gave me an earful about his misdoings. She is a formidable woman. I would not recommend that you visit her, not today.’

  She would not be defeated. ‘Then what am I to do? I would welcome your advice, Monsieur Vermeulen. At the very least I must retrieve my deposit from this man. And I would appreciate it if you could direct me to someone else who is prepared to transport me.’

  He shrugged. ‘I regret I cannot assist you further with your plan to go to Langemarck. It is a problem for which I am unable to suggest a solution. But I will do my best to trace old Peeters. I am sure he will return in a day or so.’

  A day or so! The old hatred rose up, burning her throat like the bitter bile unleashed by hunger. She tried to speak calmly but could hear the anger in her voice anyway. ‘That will not do, sir. I must retrieve my deposit so that I can secure another guide so that I can make this visit today, or tomorrow at the latest, as our return train is booked for Friday.’

  Monsieur Vermeulen sighed, crushing the remains of his cigarette onto a small plate already overflowing with butts. ‘I have done what I can. I am sure you will appreciate that. I am sorry for this inconvenience.’

  He stood, holding out his hand towards the door. She felt her eyes welling as the hopelessness of her situation began to dawn. Surely she could not have travelled all this way only to fail at the last few kilometres?

  ‘Please, you must help me, sir,’ she began and then, to her utter dismay, found herself falling to her knees before him, her palms outstretched in supplication. ‘Surely it is not too great a thing to ask? I have barely any money left and I must find this grave; I have promised my sister.’

  The hotelier stared for a moment, embarrassed and uncertain, before putting a hand to her elbow and helping her to her feet. ‘Madame, please get up. You must pull yourself together. There is nothing more I can do for the moment.’ He waited while she gathered herself, sought a handkerchief from her bag, wiped her eyes and blew her nose.

  ‘Now I must return to the kitchen to help my wife,’ he said. ‘Or she will accuse me of shirking. Will you be taking lunch?’

  ‘I think not, in the circumstances, Monsieur Vermeulen.’

  He opened the door and, holding her head high, she moved past him into the corridor. Then she walked, placing one foot consciously and carefully in front of the other, back to Otto. She had not a single thought in her head except the desire to get out of this hotel, to find a quiet place where she could recover her dignity. Without a word, and ignoring the boy’s puzzled expression, she took his hand and led him out of the hotel into the burning sunlight.

  ‘You’re hurting me, Mama,’ he whispered, trying to wriggle his hand free from her grip. ‘What’s happened? I thought we were waiting for the man to take us—’

  ‘Shush,’ she interrupted fiercely. ‘We are going to the cafe for coffee and then we shall go to the baker and ask where we can find the man who has promised to take us to Langemarck. As he has not seen fit to come to us, we shall go to him.’

  16

  RUBY

  Such a weight of sorrow seemed freighted between the scuffed and torn pages of the Talbot House visitors’ books: the script of shaky hands, the smudges of ink, mud stains and smells of wood smoke, sweat and old tea leaves. What had happened to all these young men? Had any of them survived and, if so, were they injured, struggling to make sense of life after war? Where were they now?

  After Alice left for the post office Ruby turned back to scan, without any particular expectation, the columns of names, dates, ranks and regiments. She studied especially the half dozen names she found from Bertie’s regiment. None were familiar, but might they have known him? Were they perhaps together at Talbot House with him? Did they witness his final hours?

  What saddened her most were the comments of strained jollity, belying the terror the men must surely have felt at the prospect of returning to those terrifying battlefields. Back to beat up the Boche once again, one wrote. May he go to hell in a hand cart. Some made her smile: This farce promises to be a great success and a long run is expected. Others made her want to cry: While I have the strength I will fight to save my country, or: If I go to heaven, let it be like Talbot House.

  She reached the final page of the final book and the last entry dated 11th November 1918 in the chaplain’s bold, open-looped hand: It is over at last. Pray God we never forget all those who suffered and died. P. Clayton.

  As she closed the book she felt his eyes on her. ‘No sign of your Bertie?’

  She shook her head, too choked to speak.

  ‘My dear, I understand how hard this must be.’

  Tubby took out a large white handkerchief and gave it to her. Somehow just being in his presence was comforting, and his calm, patient listening seemed to unlo
ck something; the words began to tumble out in a stream.

  ‘People talk about heroes’ deaths, of their souls still being with us, or being in some place called heaven, but it doesn’t mean anything to me. I just can’t get out of my head the fact that he may have died alone and probably in dreadful pain, among all that terrible destruction.’ A sob escaped. ‘Oh God, I don’t think I can face this any more . . . The mud and the mess and the thousands of crosses at the cemetery. I’ve seen them pulling bits of men from the mud, but we’ll never have a body to mourn.’ She sniffed and wiped her eyes. ‘I need to talk to him, Tubby. I need his forgiveness. Otherwise I’ll never be able to get on with my own life. I might just as well be dead.’

  She stopped, embarrassed, fearing that she’d said too much. Any moment now he would ask her what there was to forgive, and she would have to confess her shameful secret. But all he did was take her hand and sit quietly beside her, waiting for the storm to pass.

  ‘My dear, I have few words of consolation, I’m afraid,’ he said at last. ‘We are all sinners, and being able to forgive ourselves is the hardest lesson we face in life. But as for your Bertie, what I know from my own encounters with so many brave men over the past few years is that even in the most extreme circumstances, in conditions that no human, not even any animal, should be expected to bear, they took comfort from two important things.’

  She looked up into his face, hungry for the balm of his words.

  ‘The first was comradeship. Men learned to depend on each other in ways those of us who have never experienced front line combat will never understand. Those friendships were powerful and profound. To experience that real camaraderie, that absolute trust of knowing that someone would give their life for you, or you for them, is a rare and precious thing. I observed it at the House and when I went to give Sunday services in the trenches, and even envied them for it.’

  ‘That’s what Freddie talked about, the comradeship,’ she said, eager to understand more. ‘About how the war was hell, but he wouldn’t have missed it for the world because of that experience. He called it love.’

  Tubby nodded, smiling. ‘I have also heard it called that before, many times. But that was not the only thing that kept them going. For the fortunate ones, like your Bertie, the most important thing was knowing that they were also loved, deeply loved, by those at home. They knew that they were playing their part, however small and ineffectual it might have seemed at the time, to protect those who loved them, and whom they loved.’

  As her tears began afresh, he sat beside her, quietly waiting. Eventually, she gathered herself, clearing her throat enough to speak. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘I wish I had more to offer.’

  She sighed, glancing around the cafe as it filled up with lunchtime customers. Somehow, the world carried on, but she felt altered: reassured and calmed. The importance of loving and being loved.

  ‘I hope your friend reached the post office before they closed for lunch,’ he said. ‘Talking of which, I’m feeling a tad peckish, are you?’

  ‘A little,’ she admitted.

  ‘Shall we get sandwiches? And some lemonade – I love it with fresh lemon juice. I can’t be long, mind, because I have to get off to the hospital shortly. They’ve asked me to visit an English patient who’s arrived there without papers.’

  An English patient? Ruby’s heart seemed to leap into her throat. ‘A Tommie?’

  He nodded. ‘I believe so. Apparently he’s confused and doesn’t even know his own name – or at least he’s not telling.’

  ‘When you find out, you will let me know, won’t you?’ She heard her own voice, thin and pleading.

  ‘Dear heart,’ he placed his hand on hers. ‘Of course I will.’

  As Tubby went to the bar to order their food, she struggled to stifle the thoughts in her head: what if the English patient really was, by some blessed miracle, Bertie? After all, it was here in Hoppestadt that she’d felt his presence for the first time in months, even years. What could account for that? Silently, she chided herself; it was absurd even to imagine, the chance so slim. But Tubby’s casual remark had rekindled a flame that refused to be extinguished by reasoning. Then she remembered what Auntie Flo had said when she came back from the séance. The medium told her that Bertie was recovering in hospital.

  An English patient, in a hospital in Hoppestadt? She was about to ask Tubby to take her to him right now, when she was distracted by the arrival of the Swiss woman, dragging her son by the hand. Her eyes unfocused, her face pale and distorted with strain, greying hair awry, she appeared not to see Ruby, or at least chose not to acknowledge her. Ginger tried to offer a table by the window but she moved purposefully into the shadows at the rear of the cafe.

  Ruby stole a glance. They sat, heads bent together. The woman muttered something inaudible, the boy answered back and then she turned her mouth to his ear, apparently whispering a longer explanation. He began to speak again but she put a finger to her lips, peering around as though fearful of being overheard. But what struck Ruby, even more than this curious behaviour, was the look on the woman’s face: it was the expression of a hunted animal.

  The next time she managed to catch a glimpse, she was sitting stiff-backed, staring at the wall, a single tear glinting on her cheek that she made no move to wipe away. Such silent suffering was almost unbearable to witness.

  ‘My dear, is something troubling you?’ Tubby asked, arriving back at the table.

  She gave a single nod. ‘There’s a woman behind you, with her young son. They’re Swiss; we met her last night at the hotel. But she seems so dreadfully distressed. I’m not sure what to do.’

  He tugged at his dog collar and peered over his shoulder. After a few seconds he looked again. Then he stood, pushing back his chair. ‘Give me a moment.’

  She heard him address the woman in English, and then in French; saw him offer his hand. The woman shook her head and turned her face away. But he stayed at her side and said a few more words until she made a slight, reluctant nod, and he took a seat at her table. After her initial sense of alarm at his bold intervention Ruby began to understand: this is what chaplains do. The white collar gives them licence; they are trained in offering solace.

  Alice’s shout startled her. ‘Hi there! How’s it going? Any luck?’ she asked, gesturing towards the Talbot House books, now piled neatly at the side.

  Ruby shook her head. ‘Not a sign.’

  ‘Tubby made a new friend?’ Alice tipped her head towards the interior of the cafe.

  Ruby put a finger to her lips. ‘They’re in some kind of trouble and he’s trying to help her,’ she whispered. ‘I thought it best to keep out of it. Did you manage to send your telegram?’

  ‘Yup, in the end. But what a kerfuffle. I had to fill in forms and have the right coins, all the rest. But it’s gone off now and we just have to hope that Pa manages to get some sense out of the Canucks.’

  Tubby returned to the table and beckoned to Ginger. ‘I think we might need your help, my dear,’ he said in a low voice. ‘I have just been speaking to Mrs Weber, over there. As far as I can tell, with my terrible French, she wishes to visit the grave of her nephew. She booked a guide, a man called Geert Peeters, but the van he was going to use is apparently not available any more. It seems the person who owns it – the baker – is not willing to lend it for visiting a German graveyard. Now this Mr Peeters has disappeared with her deposit, and she is desperate to find another way of getting there. She has to leave on the train the day after tomorrow, back home to Switzerland. Do you or your father know anyone who could help?’

  ‘She wants to visit a German graveyard?’

  ‘I believe so,’ Tubby said.

  Ginger frowned. ‘This is problem.’

  ‘She has come all this way. We really must try to help her.’ Tubby scratched his head. ‘Anyone got any ideas?’

  ‘Could we call a taxi, from Ypres?’ Ruby asked.

  ‘They are usually booked up days in adv
ance,’ Tubby said. ‘But she mentioned a kind man who brought her from Ypres. A Monsieur Martens. Do you know of him?’

  Ruby nudged Alice. ‘Isn’t that . . . ?’

  Alice frowned, shaking her head. ‘For Christ’s sake,’ she hissed. ‘Don’t interfere.’

  ‘But why not? Surely he—’ Ruby felt her arm gripped like a vice. Before she knew it, she’d been pulled from the chair, steered away from the table and out of the cafe into the open air.

  ‘You’re hurting me,’ she gasped, pulling her arm free. ‘Whatever is the matter?’

  ‘Don’t get involved, Ruby.’

  ‘Whyever not? She needs help, poor woman.’

  ‘You don’t get it, do you?’ Alice hissed. ‘She wants to visit a German grave, for heaven’s sake. In a German graveyard. Of course no one wants to help her. And if you think I’m going to ask Daniel . . .’ She shook her head, pivoted on her heel and marched off towards the hotel.

  Ruby took a few breaths of fresh air, trying to order her thoughts. Glancing towards the cafe, she saw Ginger placing a cup of coffee and a glass of lemonade in front of Mrs Weber, and Tubby reaching into his pocket for some coins. He said something to the boy, who responded with a weak smile. What a good Samaritan. This was nothing to do with war, or who was right or wrong, or even about Christian forgiveness. It was a matter of being human, of being kind to other humans; it was that love Tubby spoke about, that she and Bertie felt for each other, that he must have experienced with his fellow soldiers.

  Ruby wasn’t sure where this new sense of strength came from but it fizzed powerfully in her head – exhilarating and liberating all at once. So what if the woman’s nephew was German? She’s lost someone she loved, just like I’ve lost my husband, and Alice has lost her brother. It’s not our fault that our countries decided to go to war, not the fault of those boys who were only doing their duty. It’s the Kaiser we should blame for their deaths, not ordinary women like her. To hell with what anyone thinks, to hell with Alice. Aren’t Christians supposed to forgive?