War Bonds: A Novel of World War Two, page 20
“When the timing is right, then,” said the vicar. “We stand ready.”
A rap on the door broke the stillness that had settled in and, at first, they looked helplessly at one another wondering how to respond. Hugo, finally, hopped to his feet and opened the door, finding a courier from the telegraph office. He accepted the folded message and turned to his mother, who rose to her feet, hands pressed to her mouth.
“Shall I read it, Mum?” he asked, hands shaking, knowing rare is the telegram that contains happy news.
“Yes. Do.” Ivy responded, eyes bright, hopeful.
Hugo scanned it, then read it again, more carefully, before erupting into tears.
“It’s from Dad. He’s in France. And he’s headed home.”
And despite his own anguish, the shock of the news he himself had just received, Colin swept Hugo up in his arms, the two of them jumping in circles, knocking into an armchair, a floor lamp, driving the cat up the stairs. The others asked to know details—how could this be? He’d been missing for four years. Ivy shared what she knew, explaining to all of them how Oliver had brought the wedding ring, how Wills had helped him get to freedom. The children were stunned.
“Well, I’m absolutely gobsmacked!” declared the vicar. “You’re saying our very own butcher helped bring my grandson home?”
“He did, Reverend Dowd, he did. And you understand, Hugo, why I couldn’t tell you this, right? Your father was still at grave risk. But I suppose now that Paris is liberated, he’s able to find his way home.”
“So, Dad was a spy, Mum, is that it? Did you hear that, Colin? Me own father, a spy for the Resistance! I’m not surprised a bit. That’s Dad. More than meets the eye. And he’s coming home.” He turned to his best friend, who stood with his arms crossed, clutching his upper arms, eyes red-rimmed, attempting a smile.
“Oh blast, Colin. I’m so sorry, mate,” said Hugo, “I am so very sorry. Unfair for me to be celebrating when…”
“Hugo,” interrupted Colin. “I can be happy for you. I can. And I can be sad for me at the same time. This is the very best possible news we could have received today of all days. Half of us gets a dad back,” he said, voice breaking. “I can’t wait to meet him.”
Talk turned to the homecoming, speculation on how soon it might be, each of them eager to share in Ivy and Hugo’s joy and relief, so long in coming. As the others laid plans, Colin walked his mother into the small kitchen and asked if he could go with her, back to London, to his old life. She wished he could, she said, but she insisted he stay in Elsworth. London was not safe with the indiscriminate buzz bombs falling in all parts of the city. Surely he could understand that she could not bear to lose him, too.
Jack drove her back home that night, the two of them pondering the day’s good news layered over the sadness they’d carried these many months. Beryl felt deep relief that she was no longer keeping the truth from Colin and she was elated—truly—that Ivy’s husband would return to her, that their family would be restored. The day’s developments produced in her a sudden resolve to lay down the burden of her own losses in favor of cherishing what she still had. Colin, specifically. And Jack. Jack, who risked death with every mission he flew and still retained his humanity—patiently, gently, lovingly attending to her needs again and again. It was not the life she expected, but she wished now to live the life before her.
They arrived at her flat, Jack escorting her to the door as he usually did. But this time, instead of the chaste kiss she usually offered, Beryl took his hand and led him through the door, into her bedroom. As she worked the buttons on his uniform shirt, he looked at her questioningly, to confirm that she wanted him, wanted this.
“It’s time,” she said simply.
. . .
Over the next number of months, Colin adjusted to two piercing changes: the permanent loss of his father and the emerging closeness between his mother and Jack. He read it on Jack’s face when the boys went to Kimbolton and her name came up. Colin knew his mother and Jack were spending time together in London, but he didn’t investigate specifics like where Jack stayed on his three-day passes. He was unsure how he felt about all this, these two people whom he loved and had introduced to one another who now had a relationship apart from him. Should he want his mother to be lonely? That seemed small, mean. But maybe she could have waited a bit, long enough for Colin to get used to their changed circumstance before beginning whatever this was.
Over the next few months, Colin spent many after-school hours in the vicar’s study, sometimes posing theological questions as he struggled to work out how his father could perish this way—why God could let it happen. Sometimes they chewed over the latest news of the war, what Oliver had to say about it and what the vicar thought. Sometimes he simply sat in the older man’s presence as they both read or wrote. And just once, he brought up his mother and Jack.
“Your mother’s been through a terrible shock, Colin, as have you. It’s made worse by your not being together. It would soothe you both, I think, to be a family again, and have time to remember your father and what you both loved about him.”
“Yes,” nodded Colin wistfully. “I miss her. I miss our life before the war. And I thought once Dad was taken prisoner, he would be safe, at least, that he would make it home.”
“As did we all, son. And when horrific things happen—things that can’t be reversed or made right—we’re left to do the next right thing, the thing that allows us to take a tiny step forward, one at a time, to heal and get going again. Your mother loves you with her whole heart, but adults need other adults to listen to them, to reassure them, to provide friendship. Surely you would not begrudge her this friendship, as unexpected as it is.”
“I’ll try not to,” said the boy, returning to his mathematics but unable to work a single equation on the page. They sat in silence until Dorothy came along, offering shortbread biscuits, followed by Hugo, summoning Colin home as the hour had grown late. Watching through the window as the boys walked the short distance home, the vicar’s wife said she wished she could have met Lieutenant Clarke, to know the man who had helped give this boy such a deep well of reflectiveness and calm, qualities that would stand him in good stead whatever the chaos around him.
. . .
At last, the summer warmth gave way to the first chill nights of autumn. So strange, thought Beryl, the determined way the world kept spinning, the seasons marching ahead as if life had not been upended. She pushed the War Office again to solve the mystery of Gordon’s things and told Jack she had the strange sense that a new records clerk to whom she’d been referred knew more than he was saying. He had paused before answering her questions, as if working out a specific response, rather than simply putting her off as the other clerks had done for months. They set the memorial service for right before the New Year. She would take a week’s leave from the hospital and Colin would be on holiday from school. They would have time to properly celebrate all Gordon had given to this world and then to mourn together, finally, without the press of having to return to school and work immediately. The vicar reminded her that the sanctuary would still be dressed for Christmas, with evergreens and candles. Beryl rather liked that, deciding it would help remind those who attended the service that Gordon’s life had indeed been a gift.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
There is only one kind of love, but there are a thousand imitations.
–Ibid
Inside the Reich, 1944
One late November morning, a light snow falling, Gordon arrived at the house in the back of the Mercedes as he customarily did. The driver and Friedrich took their time exiting the car, their lethargy convenient for Gordon, who ignored the tussle behind him and headed toward the guesthouse, before circling back to the manor house front door which had been left unlocked for him. He climbed the stairs two at a time to the second floor and entered Annalise’s room, finding her packing the last of her jewelry in a small valise. A second suitcase, far larger, waited at the door and contained clothing and documents that would be vital to their escape. Annalise had been quite busy in the few minutes since her husband had departed for the camp.
“My love,” she said, looking his way, a worried smile on her face. “Help me with this, please.”
He helped her close the over-packed valise and they stood face to face, she giving a long exhale to steel herself for what was next.
“Did they see you come up here?” she asked.
“They saw me head toward the guest house. They’re hardly interested now, Annalise, with the overall situation deteriorating. I am not the biggest threat they face these days.” He picked up the suitcase and nodded at her. “Ready for this?” he asked.
She stepped toward him, reaching up to pull his face to hers. Her kiss was urgent, searching. Gordon pulled back, impatient to get started with the task ahead. “We must go, Annalise. If I’m to neutralize Friedrich and the driver, we have little time.”
She followed him down the steps, chattering nervously that she had ordered Clara and Helene to walk to the market and that both had responded with obvious chagrin, given the foul weather. The nerve! She laughed. And here she was, giving them the rest of the day to themselves! At the base of the staircase, her eyes took in the grand hall, the fine chandeliers, the deep pile carpets and she felt a pang that she could not take it all with her. She thought about how her addition of the arbor had completed this house, making it a more handsome show piece than she could have hoped. And the piano. She might never own such a beautifully crafted instrument like this again. That she did not own the piano, nor much of anything in the house, no longer occurred to her.
As she entered the sitting room, she came face to face with her household staff, Clara holding Friedrich’s Lugar while he sat, handcuffed and gagged, against the wall. Stunned, Annalise dropped the valise, which sprang open on the floor.
“What is happening here? What is the meaning of this? I told you to get to the market,” she said, as if that were the thing out of place.
“The driver?” Gordon asked the women.
“Your men have contained him. He is secured in the guest house,” responded Helene. “Friedrich will go next.”
“What is the meaning of this?” repeated Annalise, alarm growing in her eyes. “What men?”
Gordon turned to her, speaking in a voice she didn’t recognize. Not that of her lover, nor that of a cowed prisoner intent to preserve his life. “Change of plans, Annalise.”
“You’ve brought others, Gordon?” she said, crouching to gather her things back in the valise. “And did not apprise me? But we must go. The staff can make up a story about what happened here—but we must go to the car and leave now.”
She fled through the house, out the French doors to the Terrasse, running under her precious arbor, snowflakes drifting over her lifeless garden, covering the bare limbs that she would never again see in full flower. She rattled the lock at the garden gate and flung it wide. There stood four men—villagers, apparently—one holding a gun pointed in her direction.
“Whoa, ma’am, slow down there,” said the one with the gun. Not Polish. American.
“What are you doing?” she shrieked. “You are not to be here without guards. I shall call my husband this moment…”
“Ma’am, we’re not interested in hurting you, but you’re not calling anybody. Not at this point, anyway.”
Gordon emerged through the gate carrying Annalise’s suitcase, followed by Clara and Helene. Helene placed three sacks laden with bread, jam, boiled eggs, apples, and salted ham inside the car. Clara carried a scarf and a length of heavy rope. Two of the men went back in the house to retrieve Friedrich, who, far too late, had decided he wished to reverse his stated position on the nature of the Frau’s relationship with the Kriegie.
“What is happening, Gordon? What have you done?” Annalise asked, bewildered.
What he had done, he had not done alone. Clara had secured the paper and the exact color of ink the camp forgers had needed to create the gate passes the men used to get out of the camp that morning. The guard who had waved Gordon through over many months had not questioned that this time, the commandant dispatched an entire work detail to his house. After all, here were the pristine gate passes that authorized it. Beneath their tattered combat uniforms, the men wore the tunics and breeches of peasants, created from scraps of fabric Clara had painstakingly collected. Tucked in the bags of food was a box with a needle and thread, along with a fine assortment of German army buttons, insignias, and uniform ribbons carefully collected over the preceding months.
“What is happening, Frau Schröder,” Gordon said, “is that we are leaving. We’re just not going where you had planned.” Clara approached with the rope, one of the POWs coming alongside her.
“Do not touch me, you dirty Pole,” Annalise spat. “You filthy, treasonous… how could you betray me like this?”
“Betray you, ma’am?” asked Clara quietly, daring to look her mistress directly in the eye as Helene pried the valise handle from Annalise’s fingers. “You invaded my country. You stole this house and used the items you found here as if they were your own. The betrayal began with you, with Germany, and I pray God you live long enough to see the consequences yourself.”
Clara and the POW bound Annalise’s arms in front of her, then wrapped the scarf around her mouth to silence her. Annalise watched as Helene knelt and opened the valise, combing through the jewelry, removing several broaches and a pair of necklaces and tucking them in her apron pocket.
“I shall hold these for Mrs. Stroński, as they are hers, are they not, Frau Schröder? It is my prayer—mine and Clara’s—that she and her husband will return here someday. If they do not, these will go to their children—provided they survive the war. But don’t worry, I shall place your case and your jewels in the car with you. Because that is the fair thing to do, isn’t it, Frau Schröder? And we Poles are fair people.”
Annalise looked at Gordon, both grief and anger in her eyes as the POWs put her in the car. Gordon turned to Clara and Helene, gripping their hands, unable to speak for a moment.
“What you’ve done…” he began, “risking yourselves… your families. How can I thank you?”
“We could not have done anything but what we did,” said Clara, tears welling in her eyes. “It is a small thing, while your troops are giving their lives to restore our homeland to freedom. Until we meet again, Lieutenant.” They embraced. “Gentlemen. God go with you.”
The six of them packed into the Mercedes, Gordon at the wheel, steering them out of town. He turned the car toward the southwest, towards Czechoslovakia not Switzerland, just over 660 kilometers to cover.
. . .
The camp commandant returned home that evening with a different driver, as the usual man had not yet returned to camp. This had happened a time or two, when Annalise needed something from the market late in the day, and sent the driver with her list, not wishing the staff to leave the tasks she had assigned them. With worsening shortages of meat and produce, stocking the kitchen took hours longer than it once did. On that particular night, Annalise did not greet him at the front door with a glass of wine, as had become their custom, and he detected no aroma of dinner being prepared. With some irritation, he called out for his wife, then strode into the kitchen where he found a note from Clara, saying she and Helene had enjoyed their work immensely and regretted that the Frau had seen fit to discharge them. Discharge? Annalise must have finally had enough of Clara’s mediocre meals and taken her anger out on Helene as well. Surveying the pantry, the vegetable bins, Reinhard saw several bottles of wine, but little in the way of provisions. In fact, the kitchen looked cleaned out. So, Annalise must be at the market gathering items to prepare dinner herself. He would be relieved when she returned: the snow was falling thick and fast. In the interim, he would enjoy a bottle of Bordeaux—the last of the assortment the Reichsführer had brought the night of their party last spring. It would do quite nicely. Unable to locate the corkscrew, he thrashed about the kitchen, slamming drawers and cabinet doors, developing some sympathy then for what Annalise must have suffered daily with the dimwits on the household staff. Eventually, he pulled the cork out with his pocket knife, dropping granules into the bottle. Irritated, he poured a generous glass and at last settled into his chair, watching through the window as the snowflakes floated silently down, expecting the staff car to appear any minute. He closed his eyes and played out the argument that would soon commence, seeing the tears that would spring to Annalise’s eyes when he scolded her for firing the staff so impetuously, for the inconvenience it had created now, of all times. Would she beg his forgiveness, eyes glistening, as she had so often in their early years together? She would, he decided, picturing it. It would be a loud and fractious fight, as there was no one else in the house to curb the dramatics. He would enjoy it. Reinhard would make her cry; her lip would tremble piteously. Perhaps he would move to strike her, a sudden thrust of his arm. He would not land a blow, but she would be frightened in that way that always reassured him, gratified him, restored his sense of himself. She would speak in that somewhat contrived, whispery voice she used when she apologized. And then he would hold her, soothe her, own her, all passion spent. Almost all. And perhaps then she would turn to preparing his belated dinner.
