A Girl Called Flotsam

by John Tagholm

  It was not a question that he wanted an answer to and he returned to staring at the garden again. ‘This is why our family trees are so important. It’s an attempt to piece it all together again. This structure doesn’t show the wars, just the family, the people.’ He stopped and rubbed his forehead.

  ‘This is the history I’m interested in,’ Beatrice said. ‘The personal history that takes place despite the wars and the great events.’

  ‘Sebastian’s things were returned to his father. He could not bear to keep them, this reminder of the way things used to be. He gave them to the Bundesarchiv, the military archive here in Freiburg. You may find what you want there. But I warn you,’ he said, once again turning to face her, ‘to tread carefully. You are not just dealing with the cold facts of history, but the people who made them and suffered because of them.’

  Beatrice felt she was being addressed by a conservative historian in an old fashioned public school and chose to ignore his patronising warning. ‘Surely you’ve seen what your uncle deposited in the archive?’

  He gave her another wintry look, bowed and showed her to the door.

  Both glasses of wine remained untouched.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR

  It is her birthday and she lies across her mother’s lap and as she strokes her head is telling her about this very day in the south and the storm that had accompanied her birth. She listens, storing the facts for later telling, to pass on to her own children as the record of her arrival in this world. Her mother’s fingers trace the outline of her head and she thinks of the child that had been taken from her mother’s friend, the boy she might have been playing with now. Life was not fair, but she knows this by now and her mother has helped her understand the process of loss and recovery. Her mother has made a simple ring as a birthday present, twisted gold with a small garnet mounted also in gold and she wears it as they climb the low rise to the great church on the brow of the hill overlooking the river. It is newly built of stone and timber and the ringed hand holds her mother’s as they enter the gloom of the interior. They are here, her mother tells her, to give thanks for her life, to remember the dangers of her birth and to ask for protection for the future. The great walls hold the outside at bay, the accumulated dangers and her mother pulls her towards her and she feels the warmth of her body.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE

  It was her birthday and one that Beatrice would never forget. Chance and persistence had given her the present that was now in front of her, another stage of the journey that she could never have predicted and whose destination was still uncertain.

  From the fifth floor of the Bundesarchiv-Militärachivs it was possible to see the dark green forest spreading over the hills like pubic hair, here and there perfectly trimmed to fit around a field or a farmhouse. The building was modern, made of concrete and glass and rose, ghostly white against a dark grey sky. Her surroundings were proof that you could create order out of chaos and give sense to events that at the time seemed random and pointless. In here a war was sanitised and made neat as if somehow its progress had been logical and not forged by chance. Beatrice was hesitating before reading what was on the screen in front of her, on old fashioned microfilm. To the archive, Odile Leval’s letter to Sebastian Traugott was no more than social colour and whatever element of love it contained was useful merely to show how people addressed each other during those difficult days. Beatrice knew that she could not treat this document as anything but a letter laden with emotion and even before she began reading, held back by fear of what it might reveal, she pictured Odile alone in Paris as her child played at her feet. What was waiting for her on the impersonal screen was part of a leather wallet of possessions that had been found on Sebastian Traugott’s body after his death in 1940. He was lucky, the archivist told her, that anyone should have retrieved the body for many lay undiscovered in the woods to decompose. He allowed her to hold his dog tag, a shiny oval with details of his rank and army number on one side and blood group on the other. She weighed it in her hand and even through her sadness wondered if his son had inherited the same blood.

  The impending war had taken Sebastian Traugott away from Odile and the letter she was about to read was postmarked August 1939, just before the invasion of Poland. Did his one time diplomatic status enable him to receive and send letters in a way that might have been denied others? Whatever, the letter she was about to read had to be written with tact, bounded by obvious limitations, for it carried the threat of a hand-grenade liable to explode in both their lives. The letter was not addressed, merely dated and in the comfort of an air-conditioned office Beatrice began reading words that had been written on a summer’s day in the strange months before the invasion of France over seventy years earlier.

  Dear Sebastian,

  Nothing changes, nothing at all. Our project, the one we worked so hard to achieve, continues to flourish without you and I wish you were here to help build what you started. There is talk of war and I cannot believe it has come to this, that we should be divided by our nations. But what are kilometres? Nothing. There is no distance between us.

  My neighbour has a child who plays in the park opposite. His father is away in the army and I think of how sad he must be and I sympathise with him and his mother. But the child is often smiling and he is much loved by his mother. He runs and runs and is full of life and never complains. Everyday I think of you and try to imagine what you are doing and when we will meet again. Here in the streets of Paris there is not so much fear but apprehension about what will happen. These are strange times and I cannot see the future, except to know that it will always be with you.

  I can hear the neighbour’s child now. He is calling. I think he is asking for his father. I’m sure he will return soon.

  As you will.

  My love, as always.

  Odile.

  A film would begin with this letter, Beatrice thought, twenty-five lines in which were contained the events of the last part of the twentieth century in miniature, the impending war which would change the world seen through the prism of the forbidden relationship between two people, a Jew and a German and their inadmissible child. She continued staring at the letter, conscious of the hum of the machine that displayed it and the ring of distant telephones. Beatrice had seen both sides now and knew that however intractable their situation, there was real love between Odile and Sebastian, one which continued after their separation. And in the middle, Joseph Leval, Levy, Traugott now Troumeg a child forbidden on so many levels that his survival must have always been in doubt, a pressure that Odile must have lived with throughout the war. What had happened? How did the boy and his mother get through those terrible years? The film maker in Beatrice could see it clearly, a story of abuse and innocence, ordered and contained in a documentary, the emotions heightened by music, the confusion of those years given focus and resonance, just as the state archive around her had done with the countless documents that lay in the vaults and drawers all around her. But it seemed to Beatrice that each answer produced a series of further questions, that the search for the exact truth was like catching mercury in your palm and that history was continually slipping through your fingers, elusive and always distant, a carrot on a stick. She thought of Lothar Traugott and the defence of his family, no different in a way from Joseph Troumeg’s creation of his own history. Each left out some facts, reinforced others which were neatened and straightened for comprehension and comfort. She could reflect this inevitable conflict in her film, reject the sure judgement that television usually offered and suggest the facts were more ambiguous and open to interpretation.

  She felt sure of one thing, though and called Lothar Traugott as soon as she left the building.

  ‘What did you make of the letter?’ she asked without preamble. She could picture him deciding how to respond, his well ordered life all around him.

  ‘I saw it as a wartime affair, before the war started, if you see what I mean. Even before the war started, there were te
nsions and in this heightened state relationships begin which might not, in normal circumstances, have ever started. I’m sure you understand what I am saying?’

  ‘Just a fling?’

  ‘Precisely the word. Perhaps it meant more to her than him.’

  And so history was made palatable for Lothar Traugott and the aberration of a relative smoothed over and reshaped to fit into his view of the past and the present. Beatrice realised that even if he was aware that the ‘fling’ produced a child, which she didn’t, then it would have been written out of history.

  ‘I see,’ she said. ‘Thank you for your help. You’ve made things much clearer.’

  ‘It has been my pleasure, Frau Palmenter. And will you continue with your film?’

  ‘I’m not certain,’ Beatrice said, but this had nothing at all to do with Lothar Traugott.

  ‘History would not choose to record such a small event,’ he said with finality. ‘Goodbye.’

  It was too late to return to London, so Beatrice took the long train ride to Paris to stay at her now familiar hotel just off the canal. Somewhere in the low rolling plains to the east of Paris, where the vines that provide champagne for the world climb the long slopes and tall spires mark the isolated towns, a thought occurred to Beatrice which she felt compelled to share with Harry. It was based on conjecture and the sort of leap of faith that they had found themselves discussing on their very first meeting on the shores of the Thames. As well as facts, there have to be instincts she remembered him saying and as the train thundered past Épernay he had encouraged her thoughts.

  ‘It would make sense,’ he had said, and she knew in her mind it did and would explain so much. But would she be able to substantiate her hunch and realise the piece of the jigsaw that would give more logic to her pursuit of Joseph Troumeg? ‘It will be a difficult interview,’ he had concluded.

  ‘And talking of difficult interviews,’ she had said as darkness fell on the rushing train, ‘I never did ask you if you had a partner, or were involved with anyone?’

  ‘Do you think I am?’

  ‘To tell you the truth, no, but then that’s the impression a lot of men give, especially when they’re married. But I asked you the question.’

  ‘No, then.’

  ‘Why the “then”?’

  ‘Would it make a difference if I was?’

  She thought about this for a moment, her body swaying with the train. ‘Yes and no,’ she said. ‘I would be disappointed because my instincts would have been wrong and since we’re talking about instincts, I’d like them to be right.’

  ‘And you?’

  ‘You keep asking me questions back. And you know the answer to this one. No, and no to the point of wondering if I’d ever have another relationship with a man.’

  ‘And part of you still feels this.’

  ‘It does. Part of me.’

  ‘And what about the other part?’

  ‘It isn’t sure.’

  ‘What will convince it?’

  ‘What, indeed, Dr Wesley.’

  ‘I was married, but my wife left me about five years ago. I’ve been meaning to tell you, but funnily enough your reluctance made me think that it would appear like overplaying my hand. So instead of telling you face to face I’m having to do so on a crackling line with the noise of the train in the background.’

  ‘Why? Why did she leave you?’

  ‘She was having an affair which I found out about.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Beatrice said, although part of her was relieved.

  ‘Yes, I was. Looking back on it now, I can see that it was inevitable, but that’s what hindsight brings.’

  ‘You’ll have to tell me more.’

  ‘I was hoping I would. Does it change the way you think?’

  ‘And what way is that?’

  ‘I’m really not sure, but it’s quite an important fact to take on board,’ he said.

  ‘I suppose it is, but I have yet to absorb it. I need some more details.’ This was true, although Beatrice was conscious that the news didn’t really change the way she thought about Harry, although she still had to define quite what that was.

  ‘Are you still there?’ he said.

  ‘I am. I was thinking, does my past bother you?’

  ‘I don’t know much about it.’

  It was black outside, no moon and the countryside without sign of habitation. The train continued its headlong dash westwards and she knew at that moment that she would probably tell him everything, that she would swap her background and trade it for his own, a barter that she saw as clear as her own reflection in the window.

  ‘You’ve gone again.’

  ‘No I’m here, very much here.’

  ‘Good, because I miss you.’

  ‘By the way, it’s my birthday.’

  ‘You didn’t say. Happy birthday. I wish I could celebrate with you.’

  ‘Me, too.’

  ‘You’re almost there. I hope it goes well.’

  And with that he was gone but thoughts of Harry Wesley and a child called Joseph Traugott remained with her until the train snaked into Paris and she made the now familiar walk beyond the Gare de l’Est to the canal and finally to her hotel.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX

  The woman who had lost her son sometimes appears at the ruined house, or she glimpses her among the crowd on the quayside and occasionally she finds her suddenly alongside her by the river, as though she had materialised from the very mud around them. She is a ghostly figure and sometimes the girl feels that if she stretches out to touch her and finds nothing, she would not be surprised. Although she knows that the woman is the same age as her mother, she sees her as much older, the lines on her face appearing to force down the corners of her mouth, her hair dirty and falling limply across her forehead. She remembers her mother’s words, though, and speaks kindly to her, but in return the old woman is often silent and after a while she begins to dread seeing her, not knowing quite how to be with her and fearing her company. Occasionally she is followed and she can sense the old woman behind her, making no attempt to conceal herself, watching her with those eyes that continue to wake her at night, begging a question that she cannot answer.

  It is late in the day, when the sun has softened the town and the wood of the bridge is warm to touch, and she crosses the river to the market on the south side. She likes to make this short journey, to be, her mother had told her, as she’d been as a child, a free spirit on the waterfront. She enjoys this special inheritance. The land is low and marshy and she watches the traders at a point where the brick columns supporting the railway will one day be built to carry trains that would rumble over and drown out the shouts of future stall holders working through the night to feed the city. Now, on the very spot where the next London Bridge would end and the glass-clad Shard would rise to dwarf the whole landscape, she wanders through the crowd. She sees the old woman in the distance and knows that she is not following her but going about her own business. She watches her pull her old cloak over her shoulders and across her mouth and begin to walk slowly away from the market, through the poorer dwellings which spread out from the bridge. Now she is the follower, unused to the role but compelled by reasons she does not question, curious to discover what the woman is doing. Just beyond, on a small track, she sees her stop. Ahead of the woman, on a triangle of land, open then as it is now, a body is being carried from a cart, loosely covered in dirty sack cloth. She sees the flimsy shroud slip to the floor to reveal the naked body of a young woman, her long hair hanging down from her lifeless head. A rough rectangle of ground has been prepared for her and she covers her mouth as the body is lowered out of sight. She has been told about this place, on the unloved side of the river, where the women were buried, without ceremony, because of what they had done. The woman who had lost her son is rocking to and fro, with her arms clasped around her and it appears that she is crying. Finally, when the earth has been shovelled back in to the ground and the body covered, the wo
man turns and walks away, passing close by but without seeing her, her head down, in the direction of the bridge. She walks closer to the plot, a rough patch of land, uncared for and isolated and sees that the earth has been broken in several places. She thinks of the women beneath and what had brought them to this lonely spot. Her fierce brown eyes scan the ground which for centuries afterwards will be the final resting place for women whose lives have been reduced to selling their bodies. Somehow she understands not only their pain but the unfairness of a life that ends here, under the thin soil, unloved. A thousand years later, by some strange chance, this forlorn place will become special and strangers will arrive to place flowers on the railings in celebration of the lives of these forgotten women and sing songs in their memory. She understands this too and sits by the river, not far from the improvised graveyard and watches the cold river flow by, as it still does to this day.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN

  History is never perfect, never settled. It is constantly revisited as new facts are discovered and perceptions realigned. This room with its narrow view of the canal had seen the story of Joseph Troumeg develop like wet clay on a potter’s wheel, misshapen at first, but gradually gaining form. It would never be complete, because history never is, always waiting to be further explored, a continuing mystery. She had spent barely eight hours in the hotel, but she was checking out again, leaving her bags at reception and calling Marguerite from the café where she almost expected Joseph to be sitting in his usual seat with a spill of croissant flakes over his trousers. Beatrice told her that there had been some exciting developments which she would like to share with her and they arranged to meet at her apartment at eleven. Inside her, Beatrice knew a decision had been made, although it had yet to be accounted for and given substance. She had the conclusion but the reasoning that had brought her there still demanded substantiation, an instinct in search of proof.