War Bonds: A Novel of World War Two, page 10
“Do you know what happened to them?” Gordon asked.
“Sobibór,” she said. “Because of their false testimony, we were protected, assigned to stay and run this house, the Germans believing that here were two Poles who held proper loyalties. We have been paid fairly well and live under less scrutiny than some of our neighbors because of what the Strońskis led the Germans to believe.” She paused and her eyes swept over the terrace, the garden, the guest house, the large main house. “I feel guilty for this every day, that my burden in this war is not heavier.”
“And is there something you wish from me?”
“The truth,” she said simply, looking around again, then pulling from her deep apron pocket portions of a radio transistor. “Dr. Stroński left this for us, but it is far too dangerous for us to use. We would be killed if they found it. So please, take it. Use what you can of it. There are more pieces, but this is all I can give you now.”
Gordon’s heart thumped as he scrambled to hide the components, first under his shirt, then in the burlap bag meant to transport his leftovers. Clara hurried off, hoping her presence had not been missed in the kitchen. Her actions placed her at substantial risk and that inclined Gordon to trust her, at least for now.
When the driver questioned what Gordon was carrying as he left the house that afternoon, Annalise had sharply replied that the sack carried drawings she wished the prisoner to study before he returned the next time—a statement clearly false, given the lumps plainly visible in the sack and the lingering aroma from the bread it exuded.
“Further, there is no need for you to concern yourself over things I, myself, am overseeing. Friedrich is also here, as you know, and my husband would not appreciate your overstepping. Verstehen Sie?”
The driver nodded, pulling himself up straight, clicking his boot heels together. He had no choice at this point but to believe her—the commandant’s wife—and be quiet. He could decide later whether to pursue the truth some other way.
Gordon observed Frau Schröder to be more forthright out of her husband’s presence. She knew her mind, challenging Gordon to arrive at design solutions that satisfied her down to the smallest details—no different from his clients back in London. Occasionally, she would suggest something outlandish—“I’d like a stone pediment seven meters wide at the top wherein you can carve figures representing the leaders of the Reich”—laughing coyly at Gordon’s confused reaction before he caught her joke. She joked often, her posture relaxed unless Friedrich or the staff were about. On the odd mornings when the commandant was slow to depart for the camp or when he worked at home, she seemed a different person. She became more puerile, magnifying trivial things. She followed her husband out to the staff car, pressing him on which would more perfectly complement the Zwiebelkuchen they would share that evening—a sweet white wine or dry—like it was an issue of great consequence, nodding with rapt attention to his wise response. Even her voice changed, its pitch slightly higher, the inflection more child-like, an apparent stratagem to ensure the commandant believed himself firmly in charge of her.
The driver took Friedrich and Gordon to the house two or three times a week, depending on the Frau’s schedule and whether there were any pressing issues to decide about the project. Concurrently, Clara continued to funnel vital resources his way, streamlining the procedure by baking wire and other small pieces of the radio inside the bread, hoping they survived the oven heat.
Gordon wondered at what point his foot-dragging on the arbor work would become too obvious for the Frau to ignore. But for this, she was partly to blame, sitting down at her piano, the doors to the Terrasse open to Gordon as he sat sketching at the table—playing waltzes and scherzos and nocturnes that she knew arrested his attention entirely. She told him she had studied briefly at the Conservatoire de Paris before her marriage but was not among the most gifted students and, at eighteen, could not summon the drive to become one. She was home on holiday in Berlin when she met her husband. The proposal of marriage from an officer whose fortunes appeared on the rise provided a timely exit from school that mollified her parents. The children had arrived quickly thereafter and as she had occupied herself with their raising, Reinhard charted his course in the emerging Reich, learning, unfortunately, that his blunt and straightforward analyses of the geopolitical landscape were not always welcome.
When the staff car returned to camp late or amid a hard rain, the duty guard would simply wave it through, failing to ask for the return of the gate pass, unwittingly providing additional canvasses on which the camp’s captive forgers could practice their craft. The men in Gordon’s barracks, especially those attached to real work details, teased him about babysitting a Nazi while they were exhausting themselves harvesting potatoes, tilling fields, shoveling trucks out of the mud. Several lamented not having chosen to attend architecture school themselves. Gordon’s commanding officer warned him to keep his eyes open and not assume he was safe outside the camp. The Gestapo shot first and asked questions later, most certainly if they came upon an apparent escaped POW in a private home. The SS wasn’t much better, often spicing up sudden executions with a bit of torture beforehand. Lieutenant Colonel Leonard had made these concerns known to the commandant who had assured him the armed guard posted at the house would intervene and handle any questions regarding Gordon, should those separate agencies come across the unusual arrangement. While Leonard was pleased with this unexpected source of radio components, he urged Gordon to remain cautious with Clara because, if discovered, the Germans could pressure her in ways both irresistible and lethal.
The weather turned for good by late October and Gordon’s lunch breaks became less pleasant, but still far superior to any day spent wholly in the camp. With the colder weather, Friedrich had taken to staying in the kitchen with Clara and Helene. Gordon found them to be talented actresses, attentive to Friedrich’s needs, responsive to his jokes in ways that relaxed him and lowered his guard. He kept the Lugar holstered nearly all the time now, except when visitors came to the house and he wished to convey his tireless vigilance guarding the POW. Then, he would stand off from the terrace, pacing with the gun in his hand. At intervals he would stop, plant his feet wide, extend his arms and point the gun at Gordon as he worked. Once the premises were clear of visitors, Friedrich would return to the kitchen and resume his visits with the staff, sipping coffee, enjoying a smoke. For Friedrich, wartime service had much to recommend it.
As sleet fell one November afternoon, Gordon sat hunched under the canopy of linden trees, breaking off pieces of bread from a loaf he had tucked into the neck of his uniform shirt—a feeble attempt to keep it dry. The loaf felt too light to contain any contraband: he would take the bulk of it back to camp this afternoon. While the POWs exchanged most commodities through a complex bartering system, Lieutenant Colonel Leonard had adjudged that Gordon’s contributions of food—because of their provenance—would be reserved for men in the worst shape, those fighting off infections for whom some additional calories and nutrients could be life-saving. As he felt the icy splinters hit his face and slide down his neck, his hands turning red from the cold, it seemed impossible to imagine that there were people right now, in this moment, in some parts of the world who lived under no threat, with loved ones in warm homes, enjoying laughter and cups of hot tea. He wondered if they even recognized and appreciated their good fortune. Pray God, Colin and Beryl were among them. While Colin was not in the company of own family, his father hoped he was well-fed and safe, with people who loved him and cared for him in Gordon’s stead.
“Lieutenant!” Frau Schröder called from the Terrasse, scarf on her head, umbrella raised. “Lieutenant, please come here! Bring your things.”
Gordon quickly made his way to the French doors at the back of the house.
“This weather is unbearable. I have told Clara to make a place for you in the kitchen.” She pointed toward the back door that led to the kitchen. “But first,” she paused, looking apologetic. “I can no longer tolerate your smell. You reek of sweat and…frankly … excrement.”
And whose fault is that? Gordon wanted to ask. The entire camp smelled this way and would only worsen with the frozen rain now falling. He was a bit surprised her husband didn’t smell this way.
“My apologies, Frau Schröder, but there is not much I can do to fix that. Thank you for the invitation, but I am happy to stay out here to finish my meal. It is delicious and again, I am truly grateful to you for everything. I will return to work in just a few minutes. My apologies for subjecting you to my… my unpleasant situation.”
“I’m more than aware, Lieutenant, that you cannot fix it, but I can. Please use the bath in the guest house. I have called Reinhard and apprised him of my concerns, and he understands it is necessary for our continued work together. Clara will launder your uniform and return it to you when it’s dry. In the meantime, you will find old garments of my husband’s in the guest house that you may wear. Friedrich will show you where to go.” And with that, she turned and entered the doors to the music room, leaving him shivering and astonished.
. . .
Gordon ran the water hot—the hottest he could get it. The bathroom filled luxuriantly with steam, bringing to mind the soupy mists of his home, of London and life with Beryl, which seemed ever more remote, a fantasy world to which he longed to return. He closed his eyes and saw the old claw-footed bathtub in their flat, roomy enough for the three of them, baby Colin slippery as a seal, chest to chest with Gordon, Beryl soaping them both with slow, massaging circles, the water fragranced with drops of lavender oil.
And what to make of this intimate gift Annalise had proffered? Kindness only? Or did he truly smell so foul she could no longer tolerate it? With no way to know, he resolved that his safest course was to continue observing the defined formality of their working relationship, to assume no deepening connection.
Gordon emptied and refilled the bathtub a second time so he could rinse with reasonably clean water. Skin warm and reddened by the hot water and abrasive soap, he climbed out of the tub, dried himself quickly, and dressed in the breeches and tunic he found on the dresser. The sensation of clean clothes on clean skin, no grainy dirt chafing at the bend of his knee or elbow, no silt dropping on his shoulders as he finger-combed his wet hair, made him feel civilized in a vaguely familiar way—the way of life before the war.
He crossed the yard from the guest house and made his way in the kitchen door where she waited at the servant’s table, armed with her file of recent notes about the arbor. Clara and Helene were not present; Friedrich paced in the hallway that led from the kitchen to the front of the house. Annalise looked up and read Gordon’s grin as he entered the room.
“Ah, then that was acceptable to you, I see,” she smiled, happy. “You did not take my request as an insult. You look refreshed. A new man.”
“I am, most certainly, Frau Schröder. Thank you.”
“And this will inspire enormous design creativity,” she needled.
“I can’t promise that,” said Gordon, “but at the very least, I won’t disgust you.”
“Oh, now, you do not disgust me. Not in the least.” She ran her eyes over his frame. “Reinhard’s old clothes look well on you. Very acceptable. They would not fit over his middle these days. It’s… broadened just a bit over the years and at that, I’m being kind.” She paused, as if waiting for him to agree with her.
“Friedrich,” Annalise called. “Your ceaseless pacing annoys me. Is there not something better you can do with your time? Please join Clara and Helene in the dining room. I am fine here. We have work to do and I do not wish to be distracted.”
“Jawol, mein Frau,” he responded, turning on his heel.
“The commandant seems to be in top shape for a man his age,” said Gordon, picking up the thread of their conversation, approaching the table. “Very vigorous and energetic, it seems to me.”
“He commands your prison camp, not a front-line unit. He has a desk job, Lieutenant, anathema to a career army officer. He is not yet old, perhaps ten years older than you, and his superiors found him wanting.”
“These things are hard to figure, ma’am,” Gordon offered. “I would not pretend to understand how officers are evaluated for promotion in the Wehrmacht.” He hoped asserting his lack of context would persuade her to move their conversation to safer territory. It did not.
“They are capricious, you must know, and they insist on loyalty. Devotion bordering on mindless subservience. That was Reinhard’s obstacle, but between us, I can’t say I would have preferred he act differently. He is his own man, which is a dangerous position in the current climate, so he keeps his views to himself. But thankfully, he is also a man confident enough in his powers to allow me a certain latitude. To have you here to beautify my home and even,” here she stood and reached out to smooth the collar of his tunic, “to dress you up to look just like a German ready to enjoy an evening in Berlin’s most raucous Biergarten. I only wish it were possible to do exactly that, but it seems that opportunity will not be afforded us.”
Then she placed both hands on his chest and looked up at him, tilting her head, pursing her lips. “Yes,” she repeated, “an entirely new man.”
It was the first time she had touched him and the coy, playful expression on her face did little to mask a surge of heat within her. “Out of that dirty uniform, you hardly seem like the enemy.”
. . .
Over the course of a few weeks, it became their habit that Gordon would bathe most mornings after he arrived, Friedrich stationed at the door, Reinhard essentially apologizing to Gordon for insisting that he abide this request, what he termed his wife’s unreasonable petulance. Clara washed and hung his threadbare uniform in front of the kitchen fireplace to ensure it was clean and dry before he had to return to camp, slipping items in the pockets that she thought could be useful to the POWs like socks and string, pencils and pens, even a map of Sagan. Gordon and Frau Schröder now met at the servant’s table in the kitchen to discuss the progress of the arbor—the wood inlays he considered incorporating which would take additional time—but more and more often, she turned their talks to other things. Of her parents in Berlin, where she wished she had stayed, and of her children in school in Geneva. More typically, she explained, officers with an eye toward advancement sent their children to Nazi schools, where they could be more completely immersed in the culture and mission of the Reich. Indoctrinated, he wanted to interject, but did not. Annalise had not wanted a political education only: she wanted her son and daughter to receive a classical education as she had, replete with music and foreign language instruction and access to the broader European culture. Finer things, she believed, that would matter again when the war concluded.
“Reinhard was not happy with my decision, but in marriage, one must give and take. And I have done most of the giving, as women do, as he has plotted his career and future. He is a decent man but not the—how shall I say this?—the romantic hero I once thought him to be when I was younger. I had expected his promotions would open the world to me but now I find myself alone here in this house in the middle of nowhere with all my friends back in Berlin enjoying their glittering lives. And you, Lieutenant? What of your life in England?”
And about this, he lied, spinning a story as he spoke, of an intense but failed love affair made all the more disappointing because he wished to father children and now, most likely would not.
“Children. They are wonderful, of course, but a demand. A mixed blessing. Don’t misunderstand: I love my darlings totally and I miss them. But once children arrive in a marriage, their needs tend to come first and one’s self comes second. My capacity to collaborate with you on this project, for example, would be far more limited were they here.” She meant privacy, he knew. With children about, she could not linger over tea with an English prisoner, could not reach to brush off a stubborn speck of lint only she spotted on his tunic, or stand so close as he worked that he felt her breath.
At the end of their conversations, Gordon poised to leave, the staff car idling outside with the driver at the wheel, Annalise developed a habit of introducing a new topic or posing an urgent question about architecture or art or his creative process that she insisted he fully explain in this moment. It happened so often that Friedrich knew not to intrude to hurry Gordon along, but to wait outside the door until Annalise dispatched Gordon from the kitchen. She would make her inquiry, invite Gordon to re-seat himself, then elbow on the table, chin in her hand, she would listen to him, looking for a split-second too long in his eyes as he spoke, so intimate and unblinking a gesture that Gordon felt his pulse quicken. He returned her penetrating gaze, silently beseeching her to understand fully what she was doing here, the danger inherent in what she proposed.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
There is a destiny that makes us brothers,
No one goes his way alone;
All that we send into the lives of others,
Comes back into our own.
–Edwin Markham
East Anglia, 1943-44
After four years together, Hugo and Colin were more brothers than friends. Rarely was one seen without the other, pedaling around Elsworth on their various missions and adventures. Hugo-and-Colin, people said, as if it were one word. When Ivy prevailed on one to bring in some wood for the fire, they both did it. When she needed something from the greengrocer, they both went, summoning the proprietor if they could not find the exact item Ivy requested. When the twins turned eight, the boys planned a series of lessons to teach them to ride the bicycles the vicar had brought, believing that simultaneous instruction might foster healthy competition. And indeed, Margaret’s desire to assert (she was nine minutes older than Patsy, after all) dovetailed nicely with Patsy’s wish to not, for once, be second, so both girls picked up the whole exercise rather quickly.
