War Bonds: A Novel of World War Two, page 25
“Any German male who can walk is being sent to the front,” said Piotr, “so they are pulling staff out every day and rounding up grandfathers, ten-year-olds to deploy. They are evacuating POWs and consolidating them at camps in Germany, probably thinking fewer guards will be required to supervise them.” He smiled. “Yet another sign the Reich is nearing collapse. Pray God their overwhelm will distract them as you continue to your destination.”
The men shared what they had seen in the journey from Sagan, the deadly evacuation of the ill and malnourished POWs. Piotr nodded solemnly and summoned the young man who’d handled the car drop into the kitchen. He asked the escapees to repeat all they’d reported.
“Make sure command learns this, yes? We must ensure the allied bombers do not mistake their compatriots for retreating German soldiers. There will be dozens of camps evacuating. Get the word to them now.” The young man slipped out, his orders clear.
Gordon’s eyes were drawn to the faded wallpaper on the kitchen walls, a pattern of tiny yellow flowers encircled by busy scrollwork in a faded blue. Weathered and worn, it seemed to contain irregularities one would only notice by doing this—sitting hours over tea and conversation, staring off, unconsciously gazing at the design while one’s mind sorted it out. Gordon rose and walked over to the portion of the wall where the phone hung to have a closer look.
“Yes, young man. You’ve found it,” said Piotr. “Our story of the war.”
On very close inspection, Gordon saw numbers, some in ink, some in pencil, drawn in the style of the blue curlicues of the wallpaper, hundreds of them, grouped in random clusters, close to the baseboard and up to the ceiling, balanced across the wall to retain symmetry in the design.
“Would you believe the Gestapo has searched our home many times and has yet to do what you have just now done? Their urgency and immature impatience work against them because they believe physical power is all that is needed to overcome their adversaries. Hitler believes this too. But had they done what you have, sir, they would have closed down our part of the operation many years ago.”
On the wall, in a tiny script, engrafted into the broader pattern of the design and camouflaged by kitchen grease and gravy spatters and water spots and pipe smoke, were phone numbers, latitudes and longitudes, dates—vital intelligence that helped the family in this home safely shepherd endangered persons through the lines to safety.
“What do you know?” said Floyd.
“Bloody brilliant,” agreed Graham.
“The information about your arrival is written there,” said Piotr, puffing contentedly on his pipe, “but I shan’t tell you where because the less each of us knows, the better. My dear wife has already told me that when this is over, she would like me to put up fresh wallpaper. But I’ve come to love this particular pattern. So, perhaps, I might… resist.” They laughed at his use of the word.
This was not the only wonder of this old, unassuming house. Small, hollowed out spaces had been constructed high in the walls, adjacent the dormer windows, and in the alcove below the stairs for stashing people, weapons, and forged documents. The men’s mock uniforms would be hidden in these cavities until they could be safely removed. Four of the men would lodge in a back room, but Piotr insisted Annalise stay in the space beneath the steps, a false panel wall covered by a faded tapestry, and that one of the men stay with her. After a hot, healing bath, Gordon stepped into the carved-out niche where Annalise waited, her hair smoothed, her body clean, the satin nightgown incongruous in the tight space. Inside were blankets and pillows, a chamber pot. They sat quietly in their first moments alone since they’d left the manor house, a flickering candle their only light. He did not relish the conversation sure to come.
“How long were you planning this, Lieutenant?” she began. It was back to lieutenant now, was it?
“I have wanted to escape since the day I was captured, Annalise,” he said wearily. “So, let’s say May 25, 1940. I’ve wanted to escape since then. It has nothing to do with you. I want my life back.”
“We were planning a life—or so you led me to believe. A life that would have given you so much more, would have made you infinitely happier than your banal life in England with your common little wife. Beryl, is it?”
His stomach turned. He had never spoken her name to Annalise and it stung him to hear her say it. “How did you learn her name?”
She paused, pursing her lips, enjoying the power she wielded in this moment, the pain she could inflict on him. “I have my methods, Gordon, and by now, I would imagine that Beryl has probably found another man because many, many months ago she learned that typhus killed you. Prepare yourself, dearest: you may not have a wife to return to at all.”
Gordon interrupted. “She knows I survived. I have written her letters since. She knows I recovered.”
“She does not, Gordon, because the Red Cross reported you deceased. Just a tiny clerical error, but it happens. See? I was clearing the way months ago for your new life with me, so the British army didn’t come looking for you. Why is it, do you suppose, that she hasn’t written you in, what is it, half a year?”
He moved to speak, considering whether the scenario Annalise painted could possibly be true. It had been months, he now realized, since he had received a letter. His practice of reading and re-reading her letters had masked this. He’d been so consumed with keeping up appearances with Annalise, covering his tracks at the manor house, planning the escape, gathering the resources required, even as he dreamed of life again with his wife and son, that he had not realized Beryl had not written since springtime. “I assumed it was the slow mail, with the Germans in retreat. Many of us have not received letters in months.”
She gave a convulsive laugh. “It could be that, but there were men in the camp whose mail continued to arrive, yes? And you chose not to notice this. But Beryl received no mail from you, so she did not respond—on account of your death.” She said the word slowly, overly articulated. “And perhaps by now, her interest lies elsewhere—another man closer at hand. But I have enjoyed your odd little letters to her, your mentions of me and the work on the arbor. I saw no passion in what you wrote her, Gordon, not really. She cannot hold your heart in the way I do. She cannot.”
“What do you mean? Why has she not received my letters?”
“Because they are in my drawer, at the manor house.”
The horror written on Gordon’s face pleased Annalise, restored a bit of order to her shaken universe. “You stole them?” he asked.
“Absolutely not. The driver brought them to me and I reviewed them. As I explained to him, I was obliged to censor anything you might disclose about your work on my property. He followed my directive discreetly, and I rewarded him for it. And then, I kept them because, as you explained to me, this was just a wartime marriage—no children—expendable. Better to cut it off sooner rather than later.”
So, Beryl believed him dead for what, ten months, almost a year now? He hung his head in his hands. “You had no right.”
She erupted, swinging the back of her hand at his face. He caught and held it, repressing his desire to squeeze the life out of her for what she’d done. “I had no right? I, who saved you from that deplorable camp, who broke every rule for you! I risked everything—EVERYTHING—for you!”
Her voice cracked, imperiousness giving way to self-pity, the dissimulation second nature, a tactical shift because this man was not responding the way men reliably did to her. She could not read him. Since her earliest years, her acuity at detecting the emotional milieu then applying her subtle, skilled dramatics had helped her overcome obstacles to getting what she desired, win her most crucial battles. With her father, her abjectly despairing sobs, an entreating look, had secured her separation from the Conservatoire—despite her mother’s objections. Reinhard did her bidding when she assured him of his power, his importance, leading him to trust their cooperative symbiosis. But it was not cooperative: he rarely held sway. This had happened when she made the case for the children to attend school in Geneva. His objections evaporated as she described (eyes moist, hand outstretched) her desire to be absolutely available to him—however he needed her—as he became camp commandant in Sagan. It was the same when she wanted to construct the arbor and expand the garden, insisted that the piano tuner be brought in from Berlin to restring the Steinway, that Gordon be treated for his typhus, that they host the glorious party. But how to win Gordon in this moment? He no longer needed her to safeguard his life. Surely their relationship—the potent chemistry that brought them together, then compelled them to share a bed (or a Persian carpet or a table or a staircase) again and again—surely that was real. So strong was her belief in herself that she could not entertain the notion he could abandon that.
“I love you, Gordon. Still. After all you’ve put me through. The lies. This betrayal. I realize your desire to be a free man again was paramount and forced you to do what you did—to bring others into our escape. To kill as you did in Legnica. I still want to go with you—wherever that is. I will cooperate. Do you understand? I still trust you after all this. I will wait while you properly conclude your marriage. I have to end my own. I believe we can still share all we had hoped—lives enriched by art and music, with beauty and the passion we have discovered together. We cannot forsake what we have shared.”
They were face to face now, Annalise pressing her forehead to his, moving her head around to kiss him, her chapped lips grazing his cheek, his mouth. He was still, eyes closed, his lips receiving her familiar, careful caresses, her gentle, teasing movements inviting him to respond. He marveled at her protean practicality, trying any number of approaches with him until she hit on the one that would work. She had caused immeasurable pain to his wife in multiple ways and yet still believed they had a basis for a life together. He could take her another time and perhaps gain release from the bloody images that played nonstop in his head, the horror of the past few days. Gordon wrapped an arm around her and pulled her to the blanket, closing his eyes as she sighed and settled into him, telling her he was too weary to discuss it further tonight. She took as a hopeful sign that he didn’t reject out of hand the picture she painted of the life they could share, that he hadn’t removed himself from her when he learned what she’d done with his letters. They could discuss it tomorrow, or the next day. Gordon blew out the candle, knowing he no longer needed to stay alert to watch her; she wished only to lie with him, to press her body into his. Just before he slipped into unconsciousness, her hand went to his chest, then lingered on his stomach, caressing. But as she attempted to reach lower, he moved her hand away, whispering that the house was too small. They needed to be quiet. At this she rejoiced, thinking he had not rejected her, but was only protecting her privacy, her honor.
. . .
When she awoke, she was alone. She gave a few knocks on the wall and Piotr’s daughter came to slide back the panel and help her climb out. The house was quiet, the curtains drawn against the sunlight.
“Where is the lieutenant?” she asked. The girl just shook her head and pointed to her father, seated in the kitchen.
“Good morning,” said Piotr. “Your quarters must have suited you. It’s nearly noon. Did you rest well?”
“Where is the lieutenant—the British lieutenant?” she asked.
“The tea is steaming and I even have an egg for you, if you like, and a bit of bread…”
“Where is he?” she repeated.
“Nearly to Kalinov by now, I would expect,” he said, placing the tea cup just so before her.
“What? What do you mean? I am supposed to be with them. They have left? All of them?”
He sat and smiled at her. “They have, Frau, and I do not think you are supposed to be with them. They are escapees from the German Reich. You, on the other hand, are a citizen of the German Reich.”
She did not appreciate his playing with her like this, the direct way he spoke to her, his amusement at her plight. Infuriated, she slammed her hand on the old wooden table, formulating a threat. “Find me a way to catch up to them. I demand it. Or I shall let the German High Command know all about you and what you’re doing here. All of you, including your little girl, will be executed if you don’t do as I say.”
Piotr sighed, chin in his hand, leaning on the table, impressed by her fortitude. He was armed, after all, and she knew it.
“To visit Headquarters, you will need papers. Do you have those?”
“Yes. Perhaps. Somewhere. It doesn’t matter: I will tell them who I am,” she said.
“Because you cannot do anything here without your Ausweis. You know that, don’t you? They do not take anyone’s word for anything.”
“Do not concern yourself about that, old man. That is hardly your problem. But you’ll soon have a host of things to worry about.”
“Will I now?” he asked. Piotr took a small sip of tea, then patted the pocket of his vest. “Ah, yes. Now I remember. I have your papers here. The men left them. Is this what you are needing?”
She seized the documents from his hand and unfolded them. There was her photograph, her age, her address at the manor house in Sagan. But what was this? These papers listed Stroński as her surname and indicated she was Polish. A Polish Jew.
“What in God’s name is this?” she screamed, prompting Piotr’s wife to rush into the kitchen and beseech her husband to contain this woman, tie her up if needed, but at the very least, to keep her quiet.
“Silence yourself and I will explain,” he said, waiting until she stilled.
“As I see it, you have several options. You may take these papers to the German High Command here in Kraków, where I suspect you will be taken into custody and placed on a train bound for the camps. Auschwitz is but a brief ride from here. Be my guest. Bon voyage.”
She gave a hysterical little laugh. “That is preposterous. Who would believe I’m a Jew? Me?”
“You must not know, Frau, that the leaders of this regime stopped thinking, stopped being reasonable, a long time ago. They will not even notice your fair skin or fair hair. The Führer is dark-haired, after all, so the determinant of such things is your identification papers, not your appearance. Your papers say you’re Jewish, so you are and there is but one outcome when that is the case. You will not be able to talk your way out of it.”
Annalise trembled in anger. “What are my other choices?”
“You may stay here for the next day or so—until the men you traveled with have made it to freedom.” He pulled the keys to the staff car from his pocket. “Then we will retrieve the car from the carpark at German headquarters and you may take yourself home—or wherever you’d like to go, avoiding the Allies, of course, who seem to be advancing from every direction. The POW camps are being evacuated and Sagan will soon be occupied by the Russians, so you would be unwise to drive there. Or,” Piotr took a slow, conspicuous sip of his tea, “we can pass you through our network if you wish to continue south. If that is your preference, I can equip you with a different set of papers. Which will it be?”
Annalise’s eyes flashed. “And what’s to stop me from waiting a few days, then taking the other papers, the real Ausweis, and informing the High Command all about you?”
“Oh, you are welcome to try that, if you wish. But you’ll find the market for informants is just not what it once was, what with the Germans trying to get their own asses out of town before the Soviets arrive. They still care about exterminating the Jews, mind you, but investigating claims that could help destroy the partisan network? It’s just too late for that. They don’t give a damn about that anymore. When you’re running for your life, you lose interest in such things. More tea?”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Be still, my soul: The Lord is on thy side;
With patience bear thy cross of grief or pain.
Leave to thy God to order and provide;
In ev’ry change he faithful will remain.
Be still, my soul: Thy best, thy heav’nly Friend
Thru thorny ways leads to a joyful end.
–Katharina von Schlegel
London and Elsworth, 1944
On Friday, December twenty-ninth, Beryl rose early to greet a day she had anticipated with both dread and an odd kind of hope. In the same, sad way she felt a rush of relief after telling Colin, finally, of Gordon’s death, she expected the ritual of the memorial service to close a door that she’d been unable to shut, to allow her to lay down at least a portion of this burden even though she believed elements of grief would persist all her life. Neither her parents nor Gordon’s would attend today and for that, she was both relieved and resigned. His father was aged and infirm, his grief masquerading as anger that he assuaged with copious amounts of brandy. “Why hold a memorial service in the name of a Creator,” he had furiously asked his daughter-in-law, “when God has betrayed me so completely?” Her own mother became tremulous over the notion of traveling to a service in Elsworth, proposing instead they hold a small memorial on the grounds of the family estate. She did not consider what her presence in Elsworth, among the people who loved Colin best, might mean for her grandson. Where wartime deprivation had made so many more resilient or generous, such was not the case with Beryl’s mother. But it was all to the good, Beryl decided, as her relationship with Jack was not something she was ready to reveal to her in-laws or her parents, and he would be at her side throughout this emotionally fraught day.
She stepped reluctantly from her bath, wrapped herself in her robe, and returned to her bedroom where Jack lay asleep, having arrived the previous night to escort her back to Elsworth for the service. Days earlier, they’d shared a humble Christmas at Ivy’s, meeting Wills for the first time and finding him Ivy’s perfect, if somewhat surprising, complement. Ivy quietly confessed to Beryl that he was not exactly the same man she had known, the near-flawless French he now spoke a testament to how his world had widened while hers had remained focused as it always had on child-rearing and housekeeping and more recently, volunteering in support of the war effort. She harbored a twinge of fear that Wills would find this life too provincial and unsatisfying, that he might not be able to wean himself from the adrenaline that had propelled him through his purposeful work with the French Resistance. The enthusiastic delight with which he served their Christmas dinner—goose and Yorkshire pudding and roasted potatoes with crispy, caramelized edges—persuaded Beryl that Ivy was utterly wrong. Here was a man entirely absorbed in the present moment, his eyes scanning from his wife to his son and back again, his head occasionally giving a small shake as if he were taking in the wonder, the gift of his return home all over again. “There will be adjustments, certainly,” Beryl told Ivy, “but his devotion to you and Hugo is beautifully obvious to all of us. He adores you. This life here? Seems to me it’s exactly where he wants to be. And you? You’re enough. Exactly as you are.” Ivy reached for Beryl’s hand and squeezed, reassured.
