In Love and War

by Liz Trenow

  ‘Is that what those men told you?’ Ruby asked, astonished. ‘He is alive?’

  ‘We hope.’

  ‘Goodness. Why didn’t they tell your sister?’

  Martha shrugged.

  Freddie walked away to the back of the ambulance and Ruby joined him. ‘Doesn’t that just take the effing biscuit?’ he cursed. ‘We bust a gut to get them here and now we find the bastard is still alive somewhere, when frankly he doesn’t deserve to be. I’d rather he was in the ruddy ground, Rube. That’s where the buggers belong, ’scuse my French.’

  She couldn’t help being glad for the Swiss pair but this didn’t prevent the queasy sensation in her stomach, a feeling she recognised from yesterday when Jimmy’s family turned up: that almost visceral envy that wouldn’t be quashed.

  ‘There’s no rhyme or reason, no justice,’ she said, taking a breath. ‘Life just isn’t fair. You know that better than anyone, Fred. You just have to get on with what it gives you – or takes away.’ She shivered. ‘Come on, let’s get going.’

  *

  The journey home was much smoother. Ruby was by now so practised that she could predict from the sound of the engine when it would be necessary to change gear, even before Freddie needed to ask.

  As he steered around the potholes, he described the battles that had raged over each of the places they passed. They were returning a slightly different route, she noticed; the landscape was unfamiliar. He slowed and pulled up the ambulance on a high verge.

  ‘Is there a problem?’

  ‘I just thought you might like to see where I was stationed, those last few weeks.’

  She followed his finger towards a network of trenches zigzagging into the distance: a web of deep ditches lined with rough wooden planks and sandbags in an ocean of mud and barbed wire.

  Somehow, she’d imagined that trenches would be the width of a man’s shoulders a few feet deep and just a few yards long at the most, like the holes they dug in the road to lay water mains. But these were wide enough for three men to pass, and deep enough for a man to stand upright and still not be visible, with duckboard walkways and steps at various intervals. She had no idea they would be so extensive, like the streets of a small town dug deep into the mud.

  She gazed and gazed, trying to make sense of it all, trying to imagine how men had managed to survive here, under the constant barrage of shells and with the fear and stench of death all around them.

  ‘It wasn’t so bad, you know,’ Freddie said. ‘At least we was always with our mates and you knew they’d look out for you. You trusted them with your life, and they trusted you too. We lived together, slept in each other’s arms for warmth.’

  He paused a moment. ‘Never known anything like that outside the army. It just ain’t the same in ordinary life. We got so’s we’d know the sound of a shell and whether it was coming our way and we’d know from the wind direction whether they were likely to try and gas us so we was already prepared. We even got used to the sound of shells. The only thing we never got used to was the lice and the rats.’

  In his letters, Bertie had never described his living conditions, and now she knew why. Somehow she’d imagined that they would go out each day to fight and then come back to a barracks, or at least tents, where they could wash and eat at mess tables, just as he’d described his first training camp. But not here, on the battlefield. Here, they ate, slept and survived in these muddy trenches with little cover from the elements – or from enemy shells, gas and the like – going forward each day for their shift in the front-line trenches. It was almost unimaginable. How had Bertie, who loved his creature comforts and always needed an extra blanket on his bed, endured this terrible place?

  Freddie pointed to a row of trees about three hundred yards away. ‘That’s the German line. On a quiet night we could hear them talking, just like we was neighbours in the street. Singing, sometimes, or playing harmonicas. Fritz sang all the time, just like we did. Trying to keep our spirits up, I suppose. We even used to shout at each other across no-man’s land – sleep well, give us a fag, all that. But then come daylight we’d be shelling the hell out of each other. Like everything else, you got used to it.’

  Ruby had imagined a more heroic picture, men charging with their bayonets fixed, and the terrified enemy running for their lives. Or perhaps that was just what the Illustrated London News wanted you to believe. ‘And all for a few miles of Belgian farmland,’ she whispered.

  ‘Less than that, sometimes,’ Freddie said. ‘We’d push forward and take their trenches and then get shoved back and back till we’d find ourselves where we’d first started three weeks before.’

  ‘It must be hard, seeing this place again.’

  He sighed, straightening his shoulders. ‘I just wanted to remember the men what didn’t get the chance to come home. They’ll bulldoze this place before long, turn it back into farmland, and everyone will forget.’

  It was then they heard the first rumble of thunder; above the German line to the east was an ominous purple-black cloud with shards of rain already slanting to the ground.

  ‘Let’s get going before these roads turn to mud,’ Freddie said, starting up the engine.

  Brilliant flashes of lightning illuminated the terrible scene they were leaving behind. Wet mud glimmered eerily against the darkened sky; broken trees and coils of barbed wire were reduced to black outlines set against a horizon where, already, the storm clouds had parted to reveal an unlikely stripe of brilliant blue.

  By the time they reached Hoppestadt the rain was falling steadily and heavily, filling the gutters and puddling into lakes in the square. After dropping Martha and Otto outside the hotel, they drove on to the garage. ‘I shall be sorry to say goodbye to this old thing,’ Freddie said as he killed the engine. ‘It’s one of these and her crew I have to thank for my life.’

  ‘Your arm . . . ?’

  ‘Uh-huh.’

  ‘Tell me, Freddie. Tell me what happened.’

  There was a long pause. ‘Don’t worry, if you don’t want to . . .’

  He sighed. ‘It was like this. The pair of us was trapped by enemy fire in a shell hole – enormous it was, deep with steep muddy sides and a ruddy great pond full of stinking bodies – sorry to say it like that, but that’s how it was.’

  She steeled herself. ‘Go on.’

  ‘Christ, it’d rained, like this, every day. Day after day after bloody day, filling the trenches and turning the mud into glue. My mate Charlie got it in the leg and me in the arm but we reckoned we’d a good chance of making it back to our line when the firing stopped. We was even beginning to celebrate ’cos we’d both caught a Blighty one, and as we waited we’d tell each other what we’d do when we got home – how much we’d drink and eat, where we’d go. You know, soldiers’ talk.

  ‘So we waited and waited, hanging on with our fingers and trying not to slip down the sides into the mud. Every time we stuck our heads over the top they fired – we must have been pretty close to enemy lines ’cos they was flipping accurate and it really wasn’t worth risking. The night passed, and another day. More bloody rain, more shelling. Our water bottles were empty and we took to lying with our mouths open to catch the rainwater. By the second night Charlie was moaning and starting to talk rubbish. I had to put my hand over his mouth ’cos they’d have heard us and given us hell. But by the morning he’d stopped moaning.’

  ‘He was dead?’

  ‘He was one of the best, Rube. We’d been together all the way through, nearly three years, and got convinced that if we could stick with each other, neither of us would cop it. Turns out we was wrong.’

  ‘What happened to you?’

  ‘I sort of gave up. I’m ashamed to admit it now, but that’s how I felt. What was the bloody use, shells flying all round and the rats and the stinking filth? I reckoned it’d be better to die alongside Charlie. And then, the third night came on and the shelling stopped. When I heard a noise I pulled out my gun – if it was a Kraut, at least I
was going to take him with me. But then he whispered in English, telling me not to fire. He was going to get me back.

  ‘I told him to eff off, that I was quite happy here, thank you, but he insisted, reaching down into that ruddy hole and pulling me up by my jacket. It was all I could do not to cry out, I tell you. I didn’t care about my life but he was the one out in the open, who’d have copped it if I’d made any noise. So eventually he dragged me back to the line and they bundled me off to the field hospital, in one of these.’ He thumped the steering wheel.

  ‘I was back in Blighty six weeks later, just in time to hear that the Krauts had surrendered, but by then I’d got the gangrene and they had to cut my arm off.’

  ‘Did you ever find out who he was, the man who rescued you?’

  ‘Nah, I was pretty much out of it by the time he got me back and then I was on the stretcher. Never thought to ask. But it was the thought of him what got me through the next few months, and all that time in hospital. He’d risked his life for me so I reckoned I owed it to him to make the best of the life he’d saved.’

  He relit his cigarette and took a deep draw of smoke. ‘So here I am.’

  ‘And I’m glad of it,’ she said. ‘And I’m glad I met you.’

  ‘Me too. I needed a right kick up the backside, and you gave me it.’ He thumped the wheel again. ‘Me and this old girl are off back to Blighty, just as soon as we can get some more fuel.’

  ‘Will you go to see your children?’

  Freddie jumped out of the cab, burying his head beneath the engine cover.

  ‘Freddie?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I asked if you would go to see your children.’

  ‘Yup, ’spect so.’ His face popped up from under the bonnet, grinning. ‘Not so sure about me sister-in-law.’

  ‘She’ll come round,’ she said. ‘Surely she’ll see that they need their dad?’

  ‘Perhaps if you come and help me persuade her?’

  ‘It’s a deal, Fred. The least I can do.’

  26

  MARTHA

  ‘Now you can tell me why you ran back to those men,’ she said, kicking off her shoes and lying back on the bed. ‘And why you’ve been grinning like a monkey all the way home.’

  Otto’s laugh, a deep bass note followed by a series of boyish squeaks, sounded to her fond ears like a peal of bells. His brown eyes were shining. ‘Heiney is alive!’

  ‘It is wonderful news, my dearest. But we don’t know that for certain. We still have to find him.’

  ‘I know where he is!’ he persisted.

  She shook her head. ‘How can you know this, my darling? We cannot find out until we get home. Now go and wash your face.’

  ‘I do, Ma. Really. Remember what the man told us about the chess player?’

  ‘What about it? Everyone plays chess. You too.’

  ‘They said there were lots of sanatoriums, didn’t they?’

  She nodded, puzzled.

  ‘Then why did they give us only the address of one in Berlin?’

  ‘I don’t know, for heaven’s sake. Perhaps because his regiment came from Berlin?’

  ‘’Cos the chess player came from Berlin.’

  She sat up, taking Otto’s hand. ‘You don’t know that, my darling,’ she said gently.

  ‘But I do know it.’ Otto stood up and began to pace the small space between the bed and the door. ‘I ran back to ask how they knew he came from Berlin, if he couldn’t talk. The man told me he had a tattoo on his arm with a heart and the word Berlin written on it. So it was Heiney, don’t you see?’

  The boy seemed to be slipping into a fantasy world. ‘Heiney didn’t have a tattoo.’

  Otto stopped. ‘But he did, Ma,’ he shouted, before remembering to lower his voice. ‘I saw it when he was washing, the morning he left. He shouted at me for barging in. And he made me swear not to tell you or Papa about it, because you’d be so angry.’

  Martha gasped. ‘You mean . . .’

  ‘Don’t you get it? That man was playing chess with Heiney.’

  ‘No, that is too much of a coincidence.’ She shook her head and rubbed her eyes, trying to make sense of it all. ‘Anyway, why didn’t they tell us?’

  ‘He couldn’t even remember his own name, remember? How could they have known who he was?’

  All of a sudden, his reasoning made sense. ‘Great God.’ She took his hands and held them, looking up into his face. ‘You might be right.’

  ‘Of course I’m right,’ he sighed, exasperated. ‘Who else could it be?’

  The information was dizzying.

  ‘You won’t be cross with him about the tattoo, will you? He got it with his mates when they were away on training.’

  It was only then that she allowed herself to imagine the moment of recognition, their first embrace, and her chest seemed to burst with utter joy. Laughing almost uncontrollably, she pulled Otto onto the bed and wrapped her arms around him. ‘My darling boy, I love you so much. You and your sharp eyes! Of course I don’t care about the wretched tattoo. I don’t care about anything so long as your brother is alive.’

  How could she have imagined, setting off in the ambulance just a few hours ago, that they would be giggling on the bed together, talking about what they would do when they found him? How they would bring him home and cook meals of the freshest, most nutritious foods they could find to help his poor body and mind to recover. Otto would play chess with him, take him to the football ground for a kick-around when he was ready. They would hire the best doctors to treat him, to restore his mind to its old self, whatever it took, no matter the cost. Tonight she would spend a little of the money Alice had given her on a carafe of wine with their last dinner in Belgium, Martha promised, and yes, Otto could have a small glass too. What she’d expected to be a solemn wake would be an opportunity to celebrate.

  *

  A sharp rap on the door made them both jump.

  ‘Madame Weber?’

  She knew the voice: the hotelier, Monsieur Vermeulen. Perhaps he had recovered the money Geert Peeters owed her – she felt so euphoric right now that she barely cared. But as she opened the door she knew it was not good news. His face was even grimmer than usual, heavy eyebrows knitted in a scowl.

  ‘I must speak with you, madame,’ he said.

  She would not let him spoil this moment of pure happiness. ‘We have been out all afternoon and we need to change in time for dinner, Monsieur Vermeulen. May we come in ten minutes?’

  He shook his head. ‘No. Leave the boy. I wish to speak to you alone. Now.’

  Irritated at his insistence, she turned to Otto: ‘Have a wash and change your clothes for dinner. I’ll be with you in a few moments.’

  Monsieur Vermeulen led her down the stairs and into his study, just as before. As before, he did not invite her to sit. From the untidy desk, he picked up a book that she immediately recognised as Otto’s – the German translation of Robinson Crusoe. The boy had loved this story, asking more than once whether they could go to a deserted island just to find out whether it would be possible to survive. She’d read it too, loved the way it transported her to a place where no one else could trouble you; where you could be entirely self-reliant, not dependent on food tickets, or queues, or men who wanted to wage war or foment rebellions.

  ‘The chambermaid found this in your room, Madame Weber. Can you confirm that it belongs to your son?’ She nodded and smiled. What on earth could be wrong with that?

  He opened it at the inside front page and held it out to her. Written in Otto’s teenage hand were the words:

  This book belongs to Otto Karl Weber

  Apt 25, Mittenstrasse 324

  Berlin

  Republic of Germany

  The World

  The Universe

  SPACE

  Even now, Martha refused to be cowed. So what if her subterfuge had been uncovered? It hardly mattered any more. She had just received news that she could never have dreamed of. Heiney was
alive.

  ‘Monsieur, you are right. Please forgive me for the mistruth I felt compelled to tell to protect myself and my son. We are indeed originally from Berlin, but we are only human beings like you, and we come in peace. Our only wish in coming here, like your other visitors, was to honour our dead with a small act of remembrance.’

  ‘And the grave you were seeking?’ he asked. ‘Not your nephew but in fact your own son, I assume?’ The scowl had not eased a jot.

  ‘I was carrying out my husband’s dying wish, Monsieur Vermeulen. When he lay on his deathbed he made me promise that, as soon as it was possible, I would take his grandfather’s bravery medal and lay it on our son’s grave. That is why we came here.’

  The hotelier took out a cigarette and lit it, as before, with a match scratched into flame on the underside of his desk. He sighed out the first breath of smoke, and took another drag. ‘Madame Weber, I am afraid I have no choice. I cannot allow you to stay in my hotel.’

  ‘That is no problem,’ she replied. ‘We are leaving tomorrow morning anyway. In fact, I was going to ask you to book a taxi for seven o’clock, please.’

  ‘You misunderstand me.’ He fixed her with a steely glare. ‘You must leave immediately.’

  She struggled to understand. ‘What do you mean, immediately?’

  ‘I mean now. Otherwise I will be obliged to call the police.’

  ‘The police?’ She could hardly believe her ears. ‘But we have done nothing wrong. We are here perfectly legally, and have all the correct papers.’

  ‘You have lied to us about your nationality and we are obliged to inform the police if there is any suspicion of spying.’

  She gasped. ‘Surely you are not serious? This is outrageous. I have a right—’

  ‘You must leave tonight,’ he was saying. ‘Tonight. Do you understand me?’

  ‘Surely . . . just one more night? Please, Monsieur Vermeulen, it is pouring with rain. I have the boy with me. We will take dinner in our room so we don’t trouble your other guests.’

  ‘I cannot allow it. I am sorry . . . my wife, Cécile’ – he waved his hands vaguely in the direction of the dining room – ‘it was she who found the book and she will not allow Germans in our hotel, any Germans, on principle. You see . . .’ He struggled some more, trying to form the words, his voice breaking. ‘Our sons, they both died. Pieter and Jan. Good boys too. You understand?’