We waited. He regarded us, unseeing, as he talked into the phone, and I avoided his eyes, taking in his office, with its filing cabinets, table lamp, typewriter, coats and hats on pegs, so many ordinary things in this unnatural world, until the door opened again and the lazy-eyed guard returned with a young British soldier, presumably Sergeant Maddox.
Maddox’s worried expression had carved a prematurely deep furrow into his forehead, and his metal-rimmed spectacles were held together with tape. He was probably only our age, but the glasses and the worry line made him look older.
The fat sergeant ended the vegetable conversation with a “Heil Hitler” and waved to Bill to indicate he should speak to the British sergeant.
Bill pointed at me. “It’s a rum do. He can hear but doesn’t speak. I think it’s some sort of shell shock. I found him on the road. He’ll have to write his details.”
Maddox flicked back a flop of brown hair and translated, in correct schoolboy German, pushing his glasses up onto his nose. The sergeant stood up slowly from behind his desk and walked toward me. I kept my eyes fixed on the wall behind his shoulder, trying to read the smallest words on a notice. He bent in very close so I could smell his breath and almost feel his stomach pressing against me. I stared straight ahead, past his ear, at the clock on the wall. I thought he must be able to hear the ticktock of my heart.
Finally he pulled back and called over his shoulder to the young soldier, “Beardless boy. Mad, silent, beardless boy. This is our fearsome enemy. The British are as desperate as the Russians. They know we will win.”
He indicated the form on the desk and gave me a well-sharpened pencil.
“Write,” he said in English.
I wrote my invented details. Where the form asked for my mother’s name, I wrote Flora’s name and her address in London. Bill had told me that when the Red Cross sent her a card to report me as her captured “son,” she would recognize my name as invented by Bill and would know not to give us away. On the line for “occupation,” I wrote “ostler” as we’d decided. I tried to make my letters in the English way, but my hand was shaking badly.
The lazy-eyed soldier took the form and typed all my details, then unlocked a drawer and reverentially removed a camera to photograph Bill and me. For the first time in my life, I tried to look ugly for the camera, allowed my face to go slack and sullen, as if I were fifteen and furious with my mother.
He wound the form out of the typewriter and pulled a small ink pad from a drawer. Holding my hand too tightly and pressing on the bruise that was forming, he forced my thumb down onto the pad before rolling it into a premarked section of the form. I wanted to tell him I could do it perfectly well on my own, in fact better, but I bit my lips together. Once he’d finished with me, he did the same for Bill. A machine pressed out dog tags with our newly issued details, and the young guard handed them to us. We both passed the chains over our heads. We were labeled. I was Private Cousins.
The phone began to ring again, and the sergeant picked it up and put his hand over the mouthpiece. Maddox met my glance and smiled encouragingly. He had a small, neat mouth, and soft hazel eyes behind his glasses. We could hear shouting from the other end of the phone line, and the sergeant looked flustered. He obviously wanted us out of the way.
“I can get them deloused,” offered Maddox in German.
The sergeant waved at me and covered the mouthpiece. “Confiscate those clothes, and get the boy a haircut. He looks like a queer.”
Maddox repeated, “Haircut,” and I wondered how much uglier I’d look when they’d finished with me.
The sergeant nodded, indicating for us to go with Maddox, and spoke respectfully into the phone. We were dismissed.
Hail Mary, I said inside my head. Hail Mary, I’m alive, hail Mary, hail Mary.
PART TWO
LAMSDORF PRISONER OF WAR CAMP, POLAND
October 1944
Eleven
Bill’s stomach churns with dread and misery; Lamsdorf is the last place in the world he wants to be with Izzy. His eyes dart about. He feels men watching them from every side as they follow Sergeant Maddox between the long rows of huge wooden huts.
It’s so much worse than the first time he was brought here, with Harry. Then, after their days of travel, crammed into stinking, dark cattle-truck trains, it was almost a relief to be back behind wire and under watchtowers. But this time his precious girl is right in the hands of the Nazis. He doesn’t let himself think about what they’ll do when they discover her, as he’s certain they will. It’s only a matter of time. Being discovered in Lamsdorf could be even more dangerous for Izzy than having been left at home for the Russians, and he’s filled with anguish.
He glances at her as they walk. Her head is down, eyes on the compacted dirt beneath their feet. Her hands are clenched into fists, her slim body held tight to run or fight, and he knows without any doubt that he would die to save her.
His eyes flick round again, taking in the familiar blocks of huts with their window shutters. He remembers how astonished he and Harry were at the size of this camp, how many thousands of young men must be processed through this place and out into the labor camps.
As they walk, they pass khaki-clad prisoners lounging or walking in twos and threes who stare at them, knowing by their farm clothes that they’ve recently been captured.
“Hard luck, mate,” one calls, and Bill nods. Izzy doesn’t raise her head.
Two rats shoot across the path in front of them and under one of the huts. Maddox kicks dust ineffectually in their direction. There have been rats in every camp where Bill has been imprisoned. He can never understand how they look so sleek, when all the human inmates are starving. What he hates most about them is that they are free to come and go, tunneling back and forth under the barbed wire fences.
“Filthy things,” Maddox says. “The shipment of rat poison is overdue. We’ll put it under the huts when it arrives.”
Bill notices he says “huts” like a northerner, and Maddox continues his official introduction. “The camp can take up to thirteen thousand British prisoners, but this is a transit camp really. There’s another twelve thousand of us out at the work camps. And God knows how many other nationalities: the Americans, the Aussies, the French . . .”
Bill nods toward Izzy. “I’ve been here before, but he hasn’t.”
“As you know, then, escapees are normally sent to the cooler,” Maddox continues, “but they brought in a gang of RAF boys two days ago so there’s a bit of a waiting list. They’ll put you on extra-dirty work instead, so be prepared.”
This is a small relief to Bill. At least Izzy won’t have to face solitary confinement, and they won’t be separated—yet. He closes his mind to the voice that says, “But for how long?”
“You missed the Red Cross parcels,” Maddox goes on. “We had them yesterday I’m afraid, but I’ll see what I can find. Need to get those clothes confiscated first.”
He leads them inside a hut with a counter. Behind it, a British soldier stands up to meet them, saying, “Hard luck,” to Bill and Izzy as he looks them up and down. Bill sees Izzy is staring straight ahead, not making eye contact, and his heart thumps as he waits for the soldier to notice she’s a girl, but he just calls back to someone out of sight, “One about five foot ten and skinny. The other better be the smallest you’ve got—five five, maybe. Short arse. No offense, mate.”
The soldier leans over the counter to look at their feet, and asks Maddox, “Do you think they’ll do? Boots are in awfully short supply.”
“I think so,” says Maddox. “They aren’t army issue, but they aren’t shoes.”
“Underwear? We haven’t got any socks.”
Bill tries to keep his breathing steady. The conversation about clothes seems unreal, given the danger Izzy is in. He forces himself to speak, to get her away from here as quickly as possible, away from these
appraising eyes. “I think we’re both all right for underwear,” he says.
“I haven’t got any greatcoats either,” says the soldier. “You’ll have to persuade the goons to let them keep those. We might have some Belgian ones in next week.”
Bill struggles to remove his waxed cape and hood. “My coat’s army issue,” he says. “I just added these extras.”
Maddox and the soldier scrutinize Izzy’s old brown coat, and she pulls it around her defensively. They decide it will do, for now.
A private appears with a neat pile of supplies: British army trousers, battle dress top, shirt, a mess tin, spoon and fork for each of them.
Walking away, they thread their way between groups of men who stand around with nothing else to do but stare at them. Stationed at intervals in the compound and in the towers, the armed guards are watching, watching, watching. Bill is a jangle of nerves. A very tall guard looks them up and down carefully, and Bill’s stomach freezes.
As they move away, he mutters to Izzy, “He was here before. Sharp-eyed bastard.”
They follow Maddox to another building. Bill can feel the eyes of the tall guard on their backs and thinks how much the guard would like to use that rifle. Maddox opens the door with an ironic flourish. “Welcome to the Ritz. Latrines and washhouse for our compound. Forty holer. You can change your clothes here, and I’ll take the others for confiscation.”
Even though they have to walk through a washroom to the latrines themselves, the smell hits them as soon as the door is opened. In the latrines, long planks with holes in them run down each wall, where men sit opposite each other in open rows to do their business. Bill doesn’t dare to look at Izzy, all too aware of the disgust she must be feeling. Two men are enthroned and raise their heads uninterestedly.
Maddox says, “There’s an apple tub in the hut for nighttime. Rota for cleaning that out.” He pauses and indicates the plank. “Do you need . . . ?”
Izzy glances helplessly at Bill and starts to move toward the bench. Maddox digs in a pocket and hands her one square of shiny toilet paper.
“Be prepared,” he says kindly, and she looks blank. “Not a Boy Scout, then?”
Bill forces himself to laugh and Izzy stretches her face to a smile as if she understands.
Bill marches toward a hole in a bench and begins to unbutton his trouser fly. Izzy lifts her brother’s heavy coat but keeps it draped to the front of her as she wiggles down her trousers and underwear to pee into the stinking hole.
Maddox is waiting for them in the washroom, beside a row of low metal sinks. Taps jut out of a copper pipe above them. The taps are splashy, and the water’s freezing. Bill washes his hands next to Izzy, and fresh alarm surges through him. How can Izzy ever wash herself without everyone seeing what she is? How can he possibly protect her on his own? He tries to concentrate on what Maddox is saying.
“Have you got lice? There’s a delousing station.”
Bill shakes his head. “Been on a farm, very clean.”
“Lucky you,” says Maddox. “Can you change now?”
Bill undresses quickly, watching out of the corner of his eye as Izzy removes her boots to pull down her brother’s trousers under the cover of her long coat. She steps into the army trousers, rolls up the bottoms and takes the old belt from her brother’s trousers. She shoots Bill an anguished glance as she begins to unbutton her coat. His insides lurch with fear and pity.
Maddox offers to hold their coats, as there’s nowhere clean and dry to lay them down. He smiles encouragingly, and Bill thinks there’s something trustworthy in his bespectacled eyes. Bill yanks his jumper over his head, and in the second of blackness as he shoves his arms into the holes, he realizes the total impossibility of watching out for Izzy every moment.
“You can have your jumpers back,” says Maddox. “It’s just the trousers I have to confiscate. Civilian shirts are allowed as long as they haven’t got collars.”
When she’s dressed, Bill meets Izzy’s eyes again, and he nods slightly to tell her she looks like a British soldier now and won’t attract so much attention. Her fingers run around the itchy neck of the battle dress jacket, and her face is white and pinched. She’s biting the inside of her lip.
He looks over to Maddox, patiently waiting for them, cleaning his glasses on his sleeve, and he makes a decision. He has to tell Maddox. He can’t protect Izzy on his own.
Outside the washroom, as soon as they are out of earshot of anyone, Bill looks up and down the rows of huts and touches Maddox’s sleeve. “Excuse me,” he says.
“Oh, sorry. I’m Sergeant Maddox, Ralph Maddox. Call me Ralph.” He holds out a hand to Bill and then to Izzy.
They shake hands as Bill says, “I’m Bill. He’s Cousins. But before we go any further, I need to tell you something.”
Izzy shakes her head violently, but it’s no good. Bill needs help, and it’s now or never. Ralph Maddox realizes that the something is serious. He also glances up and down the rows before nodding for Bill to continue. They walk more slowly, with Bill between Ralph and Izzy. Bill indicates Izzy, and she stares at the ground.
“This bloke here, Private Cousins. I’m sorry if this causes trouble for you, but he ain’t a soldier. The truth of the matter is, well . . . he’s a she, and she’s my wife.”
Ralph’s eyebrows shoot up into his flopping hair as he squints at Izzy, but he doesn’t lose a stride. “Bloody chuffing hell. Well, I’m . . . jiggered.” Bill knows he’s trying not to swear in front of a lady. “If that doesn’t take the biscuit. What to do, what to do.”
They take another few paces, and Izzy raises her head. Bill can see misery and terror written all over her face and prays Ralph can read it too.
They stroll a few steps farther toward the hut they must be heading for, with three men outside smoking.
Bill and Izzy wait for Ralph to say something, and he stops to look her full in the face, pushing up his glasses onto his nose and narrowing his eyes. The furrow between his brows deepens as seconds pass. Trouble ferments in his face. And then he slowly relaxes.
“You could be one of my sisters,” he says simply, and Izzy’s eyes fill with tears. Bill is flooded with relief. With another man to share the burden, he might just be able to protect her.
* * *
They reach the entrance to hut seventeen, with its number over the door. It’s right under a watchtower. A guard on the tower platform idly surveys them, but his gun is trained on the wire fence.
“Let’s just take another turn,” says Ralph, and they set off around the exterior of the hut, close to the fence. “I need to think.”
They walk on in silence beside the long block of three huts joined together, each with a door and two windows. Bill glances in the windows and thinks each hut is full of strangers who might be more observant than Ralph Maddox.
“I’m going to have to tell them,” says Ralph decisively.
Horror rushes through Bill, and he can see the consternation in Izzy’s expression. “Really?” he says. “Couldn’t it just be our secret?”
They might be able to trust this gentle-looking man who has sisters, but how could they trust the strangers in a whole hut? There might be a hundred of them, and any one of them might betray Izzy.
“It’s the only way,” says Ralph. “You and me can’t be on guard all the time. We’ll need help.” He consults his watch. “We’ve just got time now. The main working parties won’t be back for another half hour. Now there’ll just be twenty or so in the hut. Trusted men.”
They turn back down the long side of the adjacent block, and Bill feels he has no choice. It’s as though all ability to control his life has been taken away from him.
“Whatever you think,” he says unhappily.
Izzy’s eyes are blazing with fury, and Bill has to look away.
* * *
Ralph Maddox opens the door to hu
t seventeen and ushers them inside ahead of him. Bill sees Izzy quickly taking in her surroundings—a huge square room, with a walkway between the rows of bunk beds. Two windows and a door behind them and the same at the other end of the gangway. There’s a buzz of chatter that stills momentarily when they enter. The air is smoky and smells of bodies, as if a window hasn’t been opened for a long time. The bunks are three high, end on along both sides of the walkway. To their left is one row of about ten bunks, with just enough space between them for a man to climb into bed. It looks the same to their right until their eyes adjust to the semidark, and they see there are two sets of bunks there, backing onto each other. Between the rows nearest them, men are sitting facing one another on the lower bunks, playing cards.
“Like sardines,” Bill apologizes to Izzy, as if it’s somehow his fault that beds for ninety men are crammed into this small space.
In the center of the walkway is an iron stove, but it’s chilly in the room, and Bill knows the stove won’t be lit till the weather is much colder. On either side of the stove are tables with benches, and a couple of khaki-clad men sit there. A few others are lying on their bunks, sleeping or reading or just staring ahead into darkness.
Ralph Maddox asks a man on his right, “Is B company here?”
The man nods. “All present and correct.”
“And nobody else?”
“Not yet.”
“Post a lookout. I’ve got something to tell everyone.”
At the suggestion of news, people look up. Nobody wants to be the lookout who’ll miss the news, but Ralph points to two men and promises to tell them later.
He gives them each a cigarette, and they pull on coats to step outside. One exits out of the door behind them, and the other at the far end of the room, while the rest of the men obey Ralph’s call to “gather round.”
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