The Prisoner's Wife

by Maggie Brookes

  Berta can’t be spared from her own house to cook the carp, but tries to instruct Scotty, giving detailed instructions in Czech and miming the frying of the fish and chopping of the potatoes for the salad. She sees me listening and cocks her head to me, inviting me to translate. I look away. When the mime descends into a hilarious stalemate, she brings in Rosa, who gives the instructions to Scotty.

  “Fish for a Christmas dinner?” the men exclaim in astonishment. “And potato salad?” Some of the men say they don’t like fish—or not without something called batter, and Scotty asks if any eggs could be spared.

  “I could try to make the potatoes into chips,” says Scotty, “though I don’t know how they’ll fry without lard.”

  “Fish and chips!” The men declare themselves highly delighted with this travesty of a Christmas meal. I’m disgusted at their lack of willingness to experiment and very glad Berta won’t be here to see what they make of her carp. She hurries away to her own family, and no doubt imagines that the British prisoners will have a proper Christmas feast.

  When we return to our room, Scotty begins to throw everything off his bed and the bunk below.

  “I cannae understand it. I know it was here. Some bugger’s stolen it!”

  “What’s the matter?” asks Bill, and we all crowd around, prepared to help look.

  “My chess set. I finished it yesterday. Every piece finished. And now it’s gone. Some bastard’s made off with it.”

  Ralph calls an immediate meeting with the unofficial leaders of each of the bedrooms, but an hour later, the chess set has not reappeared, and Scotty is yelling profanities and cursing the man who has been low enough to take two months’ work.

  His shouts bring Kurt into the house. “Ah, yes,” he says, “I have taken that. It is the property of the Reich.”

  Ralph doesn’t need to translate. Scotty lets out a howl of fury and launches himself at Kurt, whose hand drops to the pistol in his belt.

  Bill and Ralph grab Scotty and pull him away from Kurt.

  “You fuckin’ bastard son of a whore,” shouts Scotty, flailing to release himself from his friends’ grip. I drop down and wrap my arms around his knees.

  Kurt waves his pistol at all of us, but hastily retreats back to the door to the offices and locks it loudly from the other side.

  Scotty struggles free from us and we stand back as he throws his tin mug and plate across the room and kicks the bunk bed, continuing to scream his rage.

  “I’ll get that fuckin’ bastard if it’s the last thing I do.”

  It takes us almost half an hour to calm him, and I gather up the things he’s thrown about the room. Bill folds the clothes and returns them quietly to his bunk, before surreptitiously checking his own kit bag full of knitted items, in case those have been stolen too. His silence tells me everything is still there.

  Eventually Scotty takes himself back to the kitchen to prepare the “fish and chip supper.” Every time he remembers his chess set, his anger erupts afresh, but the act of skinning and filleting the carp gives him something new to focus on. I take a scale from the carp and put it in my pocket and another for Bill and each of my friends. I don’t tell them. This is my present to them—enough money for the following year. I always believed completely in this superstition till now, and though my conviction falters under the weight of irrefutable evidence about our situation, old habits are hard to break.

  We all crowd into the kitchen in our pajama bottoms, battle dress tops and stocking feet for the Christmas Eve meal of fish and chips. Each of us receives a small portion of fish, horribly coated in a soggy yellow batter, which adheres in some places and not in others. We also have four or five fingers of potatoes, which have been fried. I think the stove hasn’t been hot enough—it’s hard to control a wood-burning range unless you have years of practice—and they have absorbed more fat than Scotty probably intended. Alongside these two yellow offerings is a small teaspoonful of bright green squashed peas for each of us. I think it’s a shame to make delicious peas into a mash, but it seems to be the finishing touch all the men wanted, as one after another they exclaim, “Fish and chips and mushy peas!” and clap Scotty on the back until I think he almost believes he has made something delicious. The lovely fresh carp is subjected to a heavy dose of salt, and then vinegar, left over from pickling, is poured over it. I can’t see the point of pickling something and then eating it immediately, and I find that the batter and vinegar together have completely stolen the fresh flavor of my Christmas carp. I have to work hard at being Cousins and pretending to smack my lips. Nobody else wants to try the black kuba, so I pick the carp out of the batter and eat it with that.

  After supper everyone stays in the kitchen, and Bill plays his harmonica for longer than I would have thought possible, as they sing music hall tunes, Hollywood musical numbers, folk songs, rugby club and barrack room ballads, which I know to be rude because of the anxious glances my friends throw at me. Luckily the increasingly tuneless quality of the singing renders the words almost impossible to make out.

  Eventually everyone tires, and Bill says, “It’s almost midnight. Shall we finish with a carol?”

  Everyone waits, and he plays the first notes of “Stille Nacht! Heilige Nacht!” and the hair rises up on the back of my neck. I think how strange it is that both sides in this terrible war will be singing the same carol about peace on this same night. All the men except Max begin to sing, and it’s more tuneful and harmonious than all the previous songs. In this quieter choir, one voice rises above the rest, clear and true, and I see that it’s Scotty’s. His voice reminds me so much of my father’s that tears well into my eyes and begin to fall down my cheeks, and I don’t bother to hide them or wipe them away because one by one the other men stop singing as they too are overcome by emotion. In the end it’s only Scotty’s true tenor and Bill’s new harmonica.

  Sleep in heavenly peace

  Sleep in heavenly peace.

  And as the notes fade away, we all sit still—they have joined me in silence, and we are all united in identical longing. Then faces are wiped on the backs of sleeves, and someone starts to applaud Scotty. Everyone joins in, and people are exclaiming, “You dark horse!” and “Didn’t know you could sing like that!”

  I think they should be thanking Bill too, and sure enough Ralph says, “Three cheers for the singing chef and for the musical accompaniment! Hip, hip . . .”

  “Hooray!” choruses everyone.

  They begin to clap one another on the back and wish a “silent night” all around. My back is stung with many hearty blows, and I make sure Cousins reciprocates.

  I want to tell Bill how proud I am of him. All his practicing with the new harmonica has been worth it. I feel sure that after the war he will be able to get training and become a real musician in a famous orchestra.

  We all climb into our beds, and Bill whispers, “Sleep well, and happy Christmas.”

  I allow myself two squares of chocolate as I lie thinking about my mother and Marek. I can almost feel my mother lying awake in her bed, wondering where I am and if I’m all right. I try to send her a dream of me, happy and well, so she’ll know I’m still alive.

  On Christmas morning, there’s no wake-up call, so we sleep until the watery sun is as bright as it ever will be.

  All my bunkmates wish each other a merry Christmas, and I mouth the words too, not sure if anyone will be passing our door. Bill delightedly dives into his kit bag and presents us each with something he’s knitted. Max has a hat with flaps that come down over his ears, and the boys agree he makes a perfect Sherlock Holmes. They have to explain to me who he is. Ralph has thick socks that he says will be a tonic for his poor feet, Scotty has a pair of mittens and I have a scarf so long, I can wrap it round my neck twice, and a matching hat with a fluff on top like a rabbit’s tail, which Bill calls a bobble. I’m very curious about how he made this bobbl
e, but most important, the hat and scarf are very warm.

  I’m deeply moved as Scotty, Max and Ralph each bring me a Christmas gift. Ralph gives me a new notebook and pencil. Scotty brings me chocolate, and Max gives me half a pack of precious coffee. I cast about wildly in my mind, mentally listing the contents of my kit bag, but I know I have nothing to give them in return.

  My expression must clearly convey my consternation, because Ralph says gently, “You have no idea what you’ve given to us, do you? You’ve given us all hope that even in this hell there can still be love and courage.”

  “Aye,” agrees Scotty, “you gee us something to work for, to fight for.”

  Max nods. “It’s even more than that for me. I think I owe you my life. Half a coffee ration isn’t much in return for that.”

  “Enough of all this,” says Bill. “Cousins will have his head turned! And we’ve got a feast to make.”

  * * *

  We have agreed to take shifts in the kitchen of two hours for each bedroom, pooling all our saved Red Cross rations to make a feast, and trying overly hard to be cheerful. When the five of us have our turn in the kitchen, we open the “hooch,” which Scotty has lovingly fermented. It tastes terrible, but everyone slugs it back and immediately I feel quite light-headed. Within a few minutes the dizziness becomes overwhelming desire for Bill. I can hardly look at him, longing to somehow signal to him to sneak back into our room. I imagine he might grip my shoulders and press my back against the door to stop anyone coming in and he might start kissing me and I would be panting and he would put his hand over my mouth to stop me crying out with joy as he pushes himself inside me and thrusts until we are both trembling and satisfied. I keep my head down so the others can’t read my shameful thoughts, and when the hooch bottle comes round again, I shake my head.

  “What’s the matter, Cousins?” laughs Max. “Can’t take your drink?”

  I mime a wobbliness to my head, and their laughter eggs me on to stagger about the room until they are laughing so hard, they’re wiping tears from their eyes.

  “Better than Charlie Chaplin!” gasps Bill.

  There’s a knock at the door, and Berta comes into the kitchen, looking at our feast laid out on the table. We have tinned fish and beef, most of a loaf each, a big plate of saved-up biscuits and a strange sconelike pudding made from flour, sugar, margarine and jam. We didn’t expect to see Berta today. She should be with her family and must have come straight from church. She’s carrying a plate, covered with a bowl, which she places on our feast table. “I saved a little of our Christmas Eve dinner for you,” she says in Czech, as if to nobody in particular.

  Ralph lifts the bowl on a small portion of carp prepared properly and potato salad and more black kuba. Everyone thanks her politely and she wishes us, “Veselé Vánoce,” and hurries away. I begin to wonder if it would be safer for my friends if I just slipped away with Berta when the time comes for us to leave. I don’t think the Nazis would bother searching for me. Not with the whole Red Army bearing down on them. I think perhaps that leaving Bill is the act of ultimate bravery this war demands of me. My ultimate act of resistance. I shake my head. I’ll think about this when Christmas is over.

  As soon as the door closes, we fall on the feast, like the starving men we are. I pull Berta’s delicious dinner to me and don’t offer it to anybody else. This is all mine. We eat fast, trying to make up for so many months of hunger.

  Conversation is all about Christmases past—anecdotes about uncles who fell asleep after lunch and had tricks played on them, Christmas when it snowed and Christmas when it didn’t. I’m amazed that there could be Christmas without snow. Ralph says, “So, what was everyone’s best Christmas ever and best Christmas present? Scotty, you first.”

  He thinks for a moment and then says, “I was seven, and me mam and dad were still speaking to each other, an’ I had a pair of roller skates, which was just what I’d asked for, so I truly believed that Father Christmas had brought them to me. My dad drove me into Edinburgh to the roller-skating rink. It was the only time I ever went there, but it seemed such a magical place, where people could do things which I kenned were impossible—even turnin’ roond and skating backward.”

  “I never tried roller skates, but I went to Central Park to ice-skate once or twice when I was a kid,” says Max. He takes over. “My family couldn’t celebrate Christmas, of course, but didn’t celebrate Hanukkah either. Atheists. I always felt as if I was missing out—half my friends had Christian holidays and half had Jewish holidays, and I didn’t have either. All we had was ‘The Internationale’! But I do remember one Christmas, because we looked in a Brooklyn toy store window. There was a big whispered debate, and in the end they took me in and bought me a model airplane. It came all the way to London with me, even though we had to leave the States in a hurry after some strike my dad organized, and it’s still in my room at home. At least, I think it is.” There’s a moment’s silence, and I guess we are all thinking of the last time we saw our homes, wondering if they are still standing.

  Then Ralph takes up the thread. “We had lovely Christmases as children. My sisters all used to dress up, and we’d play charades, and there would be delicious food, but I think my best one was going home the year after I’d changed from medicine to classics. It was a joy to know that I’d be going back to a world I finally fitted in.”

  “Best present?” prompts Bill.

  Ralph thinks hard. “Maybe a train I had when I was a boy. I loved that train. What about you, Bill?”

  I think he’ll say something about the pub and Flora and a whole world I’ve never been part of, and I’m prepared to be jealous, but he looks steadily and seriously at me and says, “This is my best-ever Christmas, and my best-ever present is sitting next to me.”

  I see Ralph’s eyes are bright with tears as he raises his tin mug. “A toast.”

  We raise our mugs as Ralph makes a toast. “To those who’ve found happiness, that they keep it forever, and those who are still looking for it, that they find it in equal measure.”

  We bang our mugs and say, “To happiness.”

  Bill adds, “And to friends,” and they drink again.

  Scotty says, “And to the end of this effing war.”

  Bill stands up and raises his cup, and solemnly echoes, “The end of the war.”

  Twenty-one

  With January comes more snow than Bill has ever seen, and the work in the quarry slows as the marble is buried under drifts. Some days it’s a light enough snowfall for the prisoners to sweep away, but the marble has become slippery, and work soon has to be abandoned. It’s colder than Bill’s ever known it to be. Herr Rauchbach tells Ralph it’s minus 20 centigrade at night, and Ralph says that’s minus 4 Fahrenheit. Bill thinks that’s a long, long way below the freezing point. For days together the men are unable to leave their quarters, and everyone gets on one another’s nerves.

  On one never-ending day, Ralph, Bill, Max and Izzy are sitting in their room. Bill has started knitting a new scarf, with a complicated pattern. Ralph asks him the name of the pattern, saying it’s like a cricket sweater, and Bill says, “Cable stitch.”

  “Like Cable Street,” says Max. He turns to Izzy. “The most marvelous battle against Mosley’s fascists,” he says. “Nineteen thirty-six. We nearly had a Hitler ourselves, you know.”

  Bill puts his head down and concentrates hard on the knitting.

  Max is enthusiastic. “They were all marching, the Blackshirts, and tried to get into the East End. They were anti-Semites like the Nazis, you see, and us Jews all lived in the East End. But we rose up—they say there were twenty thousand of us, Jews, communists, anarchists! We built a barricade, at the Christian Street end—you know it, Bill . . . ?” His eyes glitter.

  Bill pretends to be focused on his knitting, knowing what’s coming but with no idea how to avoid it. He’d like to jump up and hurry from the
room, but that might look worse.

  “The police were trying to let the bastards through, and we were fighting the police with chair legs, broom handles, anything we could find. The women in the houses were emptying piss pots down on the police, and kids were chucking marbles under the hooves of the police horses. Mosley backed down and they left, and we carried on fighting with the police, because they were on the side of the fascists against us. And I was arrested and nearly had my arm twisted off, but it was worth it.”

  Ralph asks how long he was in prison, but Max doesn’t answer. He’s looking oddly at Bill. “Were you there, Bill?”

  Bill lifts his head from his knitting and gazes long and slow at Max. His heart is thumping, and he knows there’s going to be trouble.

  “I was there,” he says in a neutral voice.

  Max scratches his head. “You weren’t . . . you weren’t one of the Blackshirts?”

  “No, no, I wasn’t.”

  “But not fighting them either?”

  “No. Not fighting. Just interested.”

  “Interested in fascism?”

  Izzy gasps and clamps her hand over her mouth.

  “Interested in Mosley?” Max’s voice is low and dangerous.

  Bill carefully lays down his knitting and looks from Izzy to Max. “Look. You’ve gotta understand. Mosley was a great speaker. We used to listen to him out of my friend’s window. When he spoke you could feel yourself being swept up, and thinking he must be right. He seemed to be able to explain everything.”

  “Yeah, like Hitler and Franco and Mussolini and Stalin can explain everything.”

  Max and Bill are both sitting very upright, as if squaring up to each other for a fight. Izzy’s face is a picture of horror at what she’s hearing.