Touching the Wire

by Rebecca Bryn

  Recent events lead me to believe that interest in these crimes, and the whereabouts of these documents, may be stirring. My nightmares have become unbearable and I fear their consequences. I have to leave to keep you safe and I don’t want to live without you. I should have told you the truth at the beginning, but I was afraid I would lose you. It was selfish and cowardly of me, and I beg your forgiveness.

  The entries in this book were written between spring 1944 and January 1945. It explains much. Please keep it safe. It is a testament to the courage and suffering of Miriam Hofmann, and millions like her. I have failed in my promise to tell her story, and the story of the children, for fear of drawing attention to myself, and therefore to you and our precious family. I leave this now in your safe hands. Whatever you think of me, know that I have always acted out of love.

  Your loving husband, Walt

  Children? Whose children? She put the letter down and opened the book. Walt’s copperplate handwriting strode across the page. Trains arrive several times a day with their cargo of starving, parched souls. Poland has been all but cleared of Jews. Now, it is the turn of the Jews from Hungary. The chimneys have belched flame and poured black smoke for days.

  Jews… Poland… She read on.

  It is supposed to be a secret that this is an extermination camp, that Hitler plans to cleanse Europe of every Jew, but rumour spreads through the camp. The truth is so hideous that the Jews don’t believe it, but I watch the old, the women and little children, knowing they are being led to the gas chambers and it breaks my heart. The SS lay on ambulances and a brass band… they promise medical help, food and showers, and the innocents walk willingly to their deaths.

  I save those I can. If I can make them understand they must pass for at least sixteen and less than forty-five. If they will say they are well and not pregnant, and if I can persuade them to leave their babies, some will not be selected to die. If I do more to resist the Nazi officers, I risk execution and who then would try to save these innocents? Language is a constant problem. I communicate the best I can for they are beaten if they don’t understand.

  Dear God. Walt had survived a Nazi extermination camp. She turned the page, dread tightening her grip, but the dates and numbers on it meant nothing to her. She flicked through several similar pages before the writing resumed.

  Today I tricked a young Jewish mother into leaving her baby with her grandmother. Her name was Miriam. Will she thank me for saving her life when her child and grandmother will die? I have no right to play God.

  No wonder Walt had nightmares. No wonder he retreated into long silences.

  Miriam knelt all night in the mud. I kept watch over her.

  She bit her bottom lip and read the next entry.

  Miriam has agreed to become a nurse in the infirmary. This way I can try to keep her safe and she will have better rations, since there are always some who will not live to need theirs. She is desperately weak, having been given nothing to eat or drink for three days, but so courageous. I could not bear it if she died.

  Jane dabbed her eyes with a hankie, understanding at last the agony and loss in Walt’s voice when he’d called out another woman’s name. She closed the book, unable to read more.

  ***

  The day of Walt’s funeral arrived with rain and wind, cold for late June. The hearse arrived on the dot of ten. Jane wore black, as befitted a grieving widow. She opened the door and stepped into a street dotted with friends and neighbours, bareheaded in the rain, paying their last respects to a man who’d been well liked and had died a hero, saving Ted. She nodded her gratitude. Whoever Walt was, she’d loved him and he’d loved her. Whatever his past, it had broken his heart and she knew how that felt: she couldn’t be jealous of his love for Miriam.

  The hearse moved away and their car followed at a respectful distance. Jennie reached across the twins to put a hand on hers. She glanced at Charlotte and Lucy, who sat dry-eyed but pale, holding hands. She sent up grateful thanks to the God Walt didn’t believe in; they would have each other, no matter what happened to the men they fell in love with. Behind them a queue of cars formed as they drove, first, to the chapel and then, after a brief service, to the cemetery where the body was to be interred.

  Rain speckled the windows forming tributaries of liquid light as the car passed through the cemetery gates. A short drive, between stones that bore mute testimony to lost loves, brought them to a new grave marked by a pile of earth fresh with grief. Ted held open the car door: if it made him feel better… He accompanied her to the graveside and stood a little to one side while the reverend spoke kindly about the man none of them had really known. Eric’s family were there, too. She looked away. Jennie and the twins were her priority now, and they could say a final farewell to the father and grandfather they’d adored.

  The coffin was lowered… ashes to ashes… Walt hadn’t wanted to be cremated. Walt had been Walt, hadn’t he? Just her Walt. He had his reasons, though it would always hurt that he didn’t confide in her. She forgave him. She would have forgiven him anything.

  ‘Mrs Blundell?’ The reverend passed her a box of fine dry earth.

  She cast her eyes to a weeping sky. ‘Goodbye, love.’ She threw a single rose from their garden onto the oak coffin, following it with a sprinkle of earth, and let her tears fall. He was with Miriam now.

  PART TWO

  Though the Heavens should Fall

  Chapter Fourteen

  Charlotte straightened from arranging flowers and ran her fingers across the carved words.

  William Walter Blundell

  October 4th 1913 – February 1st 1985

  Loving Husband, Father and

  Grandfather.

  Deeply missed.

  It had been almost a year since she’d visited Grandpa’s grave. She tidied flower stalks and paper, and sat on the marble edging that surrounded the grave, a gift from Ted and his grateful family.

  She brushed back her hair. ‘Sorry I haven’t been for a while, Grandpa. A lot’s happened. Gran and Mum are moving to a bungalow tomorrow. Gran can’t manage the stairs, anymore. I’ll bring her when she’s recovered from the chaos.’

  She could almost hear Grandpa’s voice in her head. It was a happy house but life moves on.

  ‘Lucy and Grant had another little boy. They’ve called him Duncan. Work’s hectic. Robin… I told you about the new job and meeting Robin, the boss’s son… he asked me to marry him. We’ve been married ten months. You should see our house, Grandpa. I never dreamt of living in such a place. And you’d love the garden.’

  But?

  She adjusted a rosebud. ‘I…’ She didn’t want to admit it, even to herself. ‘Our backgrounds are so different. I think he’s beginning to regret marrying me.’

  He’s a fool, then, sweetheart. It was the sort of thing Grandpa would have said.

  ‘He wants children, we both do, but it isn’t happening. I’m nearly forty. What if I can’t give him a family?’

  If he loves you, not having children won’t matter.

  ‘I know he blames me. A child might save our marriage, but is that a good reason to bring new life into the world?’

  No.

  She faced the truth that worried her. ‘I had Chlamydia, at uni… suppose it’s made me infertile. He’d never forgive me.’

  He will if he loves you.

  ‘That’s the trouble. I think he’s having an affair with Nadia Hodge, a girl at work.’

  Do you love him?

  Finally to the heart of the matter. ‘I think so.’

  If you truly love him, you’ll fight for him. But life’s too short to waste on someone you only think you love.

  ‘He’s changed, Grandpa. His dad, Roy, said it was coming up for the thirtieth anniversary of his mum’s death. Maybe that’s why he’s so moody. She was killed in a car crash, apparently. He says I look like her. I can’t help thinking that’s what attracted Robin.’

  And why did you marry him, if you only think you love h
im? Confiding in Grandpa always made her ask herself hard questions.

  ‘He’s nothing like you really, Grandpa, but there’s something… I know Roy thinks he’s spoiled him, trying to be a mother and father to him, but I can’t help thinking there’s more to it. I’ve always wanted to try to heal wounds, and I think Robin needs healing. The people at work think I married him for his money. I suppose, if I’m honest, I saw him as my last chance to have a family. Robin agreed to go to a fertility clinic with me. We’re waiting for the results.’

  Are you sure a child with Robin is what you want?

  She tried to ignore the question. She couldn’t voice her other worry: Robin’s moods had been getting more violent and yesterday’s row had ended with him hitting her. He’d been mortified, and she’d forgiven him, but they couldn’t go on like that. She got to her feet. ‘Thanks for listening, Grandpa. Things always seem clearer after a chat.’

  Didn’t have much choice, did I? She could almost see his wry smile.

  ‘I wish you could have talked to me… I mean properly, when I was a child. I hated it when you were quiet and sad. I wanted to make you smile. I know there was something you wanted to tell me, Grandpa. What was it?’

  The voice in her head stayed silent. She patted the top of the stone. ‘Talk to you soon, Grandpa. Love you.’

  ***

  The brick floor of the workshop was swept clean. A dark stain, where coal had heaped against the corner, was like long-dried blood: the coal-hammer lay on the floor, the weapon of death. Not needed now: Gran and Mum’s new bungalow had gas fires. On the walls only the nails remained, once hung with tools, overalls, a tin bath. This was where Charlotte belonged, where she’d always felt comfortable, accepted, but her future lay elsewhere. She turned on her heel. Grandpa was never coming back. Alone in the house where she’d grown up, she wandered from room to room.

  This was where Grandpa’s chair stood. Here they’d played games and hunted for treasure on wet afternoons. The larder still smelled of fresh bread, and the hearth in the back room of cold ash, as the other rooms smelled of childhood. She unplugged the vacuum and stood it by the front door. For this house life had ceased.

  She jotted the meter readings on the back of her hand. A box hid behind cobwebs on the shelf next to the electricity meter. She eased it forward with one hand, sneezing from the dust of years, and caught the box as it fell. It bore an address label though she couldn’t read it. Gran would know what it was. She put it in the car with the cleaning materials and closed the front door with a soft click of finality.

  The removal lorry was still outside the bungalow when she arrived. She found Mum in the kitchen filling a row of mugs. She held out her hand. ‘Meter readings.’

  ‘Thanks, love.’ Mum poured her a mug of tea. ‘The removal men are on the last boxes now. Grant and Robin have worked liked slaves.’

  ‘Where is Robin?’

  ‘Fetching fish and chips.’

  Gran held out her arms for Lucy’s baby. ‘It doesn’t seem five minutes since you were both Duncan’s age. Walt was never happier than when he was playing with you two.’

  ‘I still miss him, Gran.’ She plumped a cushion.

  Gran’s dimples deepened. She patted a book that had escaped being packed with the others. ‘I found this old library book…’

  She picked it up. Out of Chaos: A Classical Treatise. The date on the library flyleaf was January 1985… just before Grandpa’s death. ‘They won’t still be adding to the fines on this. I’ll post it back to them if you like, but I expect they’ll only sell it as obsolete.’

  ‘You’re probably right.’

  She put the package on the sofa beside Gran. ‘This was by the electricity meter.’

  Gran frowned. ‘What is it?’

  ‘I thought you’d know.’

  ‘See what’s inside.’

  She rubbed a finger over the broken wax seal. ‘WWB… Grandpa’s mark, like the one on Dobbin. The post-office franking stamp is 1978.’ Opened and officially resealed… She slit the post-office tape with a fingernail and pulled out something wrapped in yellowed newspaper. It was a carving. It defied all the normal principles of design with its oddly geometric base and writhing flames. Weird, confusing. She handed it to Gran. ‘It’s… beautiful.’

  Gran turned it in her hands. ‘Walt must have made it. It’s stood on that shelf for over thirty years.’ She smiled. ‘Says something about my housework. Someone would have commissioned him to carve it…’ She paused and her expression became thoughtful. ‘Or maybe it was something he had to express… something he needed to get out. The war…’

  Mum fidgeted. ‘The blitz… memories of a fire? It looks like the flames of hell.’

  'Lucy took it from Gran’s outstretched hand. ‘It gives me the creeps.’

  Gran’s thin lips made a line, as if dredging long-forgotten memories. ‘He had burn scars on his arms when I first met him. They faded, but the nightmares didn’t.’

  Mum glanced at Gran but didn’t comment. She held up a slip of paper. ‘This note was in the box. It says the carving is on loan for ninety-nine years, to honour the memory of the victims of war. It’s to be returned to Harris, Harris and Mason in Northampton then, or before that if they aren’t able to display it.’

  Gran frowned. ‘Never heard of them. Does it say where it was supposed to be displayed?’

  Lucy brushed dust from the label. ‘The writing’s illegible.’

  ‘Would one of you girls like to have it?’

  It was a link to Grandpa. ‘I’ll take it if Lucy doesn’t want it.’

  Lucy handed it to her. ‘You’re welcome to it.’

  ‘You must write it into your will, Charlotte,’ Gran said. ‘I wouldn’t like it to go to strangers.’

  ‘Yes, of course.’ She placed it back in its box; Mum had described it perfectly… The Flames of Hell.

  ***

  Charlotte stared at the blank screen. She’d lost the lot… hours of work. ‘Damn, bugger, f…’

  ‘Isn’t it time you went home, Charlotte?’ Roy’s hand on her shoulder prevented her from further obscenities. ‘Is this new software still giving you trouble?’

  ‘No… I’m getting the hang of it.’

  He frowned. ‘You’re pushing yourself too hard. Robin’s right. This account is too much for you.’

  ‘I’m tired, that’s all. It was a hectic weekend. I can do this…’

  Roy tapped his fingers on the desk. ‘So convince me.’

  ‘I can see the potential of this software. Matthew Peters wants basic graphics for his starter homes, but I have my eyes on his proposed executive development. I can give him 3D interiors with rotatable views and walk-throughs, programme in a choice of garden plans, room lay-outs, flooring options, designer kitchens and bathrooms, colour schemes… all for people to customise on-line with a few clicks of the mouse.’

  ‘They can turn a house into a home…’

  ‘I can even park a virtual Porsche in every driveway, put a cot in the nursery, and drape a blazer bearing the badge of the best school over the back of a dining chair.’

  ‘Selling the dream always was your forte.’ Roy laughed. ‘Okay, give it a go. Now get off home to your husband and don’t come in too early in the morning.’

  She smiled at his wink. ‘I know… there are more important things than Peters and Partners. So Robin keeps telling me.’

  ‘See you tomorrow.’

  ‘See you, Roy.’ Working all hours and worrying about test results from the clinic had taken its toll. Her head thumped. She stopped to pick up a takeaway: Robin would have to make do with fish and chips for once.

  His car straddled the drive. She could hear the row before it started. How much longer is this contract going to take? It isn’t men who run out of time… Tonight, she was too tired to care. The house was silent. ‘Robin?’ No answer.

  She poured a vodka and tonic. Judging by the half-empty bottle of red wine on the counter, Robin was celebrating a succ
essful meeting with his afternoon client: hopefully, he’d be in a good mood.

  She took her drink into the lounge. Robin’s lanky frame slumped on the sofa, his dark hair ruffled, tie askew, and a half-empty whisky bottle on the table beside him. She plucked his suit jacket from the floor and sat beside him. This was more than the result of a bad meeting.

  She pushed aside her own exhaustion. ‘Do you want to talk about her?’

  He avoided eye contact.

  ‘Roy told me it was this time of year.’

  ‘Leave it.’

  She reached for his hand. ‘Thirty years is a long time, but I understand about your mum. I still miss Grandpa. They’d want us to be happy, Robin. Maybe we should both learn to let go.’

  His dark eyes burned. ‘Let go? It was my fault. Don’t you understand that? I killed her and Simon.’

  ‘Simon?’

  ‘My baby brother ‘

  ‘I didn’t know you had a brother. I’m sorry.’

  ‘Dad doesn’t talk about them.’

  ‘He said it was a car accident. Accidents happen. You can’t blame yourself.’

  He poured another drink and downed it in one.

  ‘Drinking won’t make it go away, Robin. Talk to me... please.’

  ‘Why? Can you make me nine again so I can put things right?’ He got up from the sofa and steadied himself with a hand on the mantelpiece. ‘Did Dad tell you he doesn’t blame me? Of course he blames me. I see it every time he looks at me.’

  ‘He didn’t say. You need to speak to him about this. He needs to talk too.’ She stood in front of him, trying to tread on eggshells… wearing hobnail boots. ‘You have to look to the future. Think about the son we might have, or a daughter, maybe both.’

  He gripped her wrist and thrust her away, making her fall against the sofa. He glared down at her. ‘I went to see Dr Rogers for the test results. We can’t have children, Charlotte.’

  She barely noticed she was on the carpet. ‘You did what? You went without me?’ The words sank in with unsheathed claws. ‘We can’t… It’s definite? Why? What did he say?’