Bombers' Moon (34 page)

‘Oh Meryl, of course Michael loves you.’ And yet the few words her sister had just said about Michael heartened her, perhaps he still loved her, still wanted her, still cared. She looked down at the sleeping face of the baby and knew her hopes were selfish and vain.

As they stood there, the noise of banging and loud orders from the prison caught Hari’s attention. She drew a sharp breath. The prisoners were being lined up, the British guards were shouting orders. A German officer, clearly high-ranking, was drawing a cart with his possessions packed.

‘He’s being sent to another prison, or else sent back to Germany, if he’s lucky.’ Meryl had dried her tears and was looking anxiously at the other Germans in the group.

‘Why send him away at all?’ Hari asked, ‘I thought the men would be kept here long after the war.’

‘Some will.’ Meryl sounded tired, worldly-wise. ‘Von Rundstedt has committed no war crimes; he’ll go to Nuremberg and then go home. Less important prisoners, like Michael, will be sent back to Germany.’

She stared Hari in the face. ‘Then neither of us will have him. He might choose to live out his life in Hamburg.’

‘What are you saying?’

‘I’m saying we might never see him again – don’t act duller than you are, Hari.’

‘But of course he’ll come back, he’ll want to see Jessie. Surely he’ll come home for her and his son, and you, of course.’ The words stuck in Hari’s throat, but the prospect of never seeing Michael again was too awful to contemplate.

‘Perhaps you’re right. Come on, take me back to Swansea to see the family and then I’m going back to the farmhouse.’

‘You’ll be alone.’

Meryl stared at her meaningfully. ‘I haven’t seen any of you come rushing to Carmarthen to see me or the baby.’ She sounded hurt. ‘Thank God for Vi and George.’

Meryl laughed suddenly, tearfully. ‘Poor George, seeing my private parts when he was bringing baby Michael into the world. You should have seen his face; he was redder than me and I was doing the pushing.’

Hari hugged her. ‘Come on then little sis –’ she gulped back the sob in her throat – ‘let’s take you home.’

Together both girls walked away from the prison camp, unaware of a pair of anguished eyes staring after their receding figures.

Seventy-Six

I stood outside the church and watched as Father and Jessie came out into the sunshine, she looking like a young, beautiful girl in love. She clung to Father’s arm and her homely, weathered face was radiant as are the faces of all brides I suppose.

Even I, with Herr Euler standing over me and the official – cold, hurried, anxious to get back to the safety of his office – thrusting a page at Michael and me to sign, even I, when I had the gold ring on my finger and I was Michael’s wife, even I had had a glow in my eyes and I knew it.

Perhaps it was the pink flowers Jessie held in her hand, or the soft pink dress she was wearing or it could have been the sheer happiness in her eyes, but she looked wonderful. Like a radiant young girl.

From my experiences in Germany and now, the vulnerability of my motherhood, I realized fifty wasn’t very old these days. Women of near that age had been killed as spies, proper spies, not amateur bunglers like me.

They were going on honeymoon but only to the farm in Carmarthen, so for the time being I was to stay in the Swansea house with my sister Hari. I was apprehensive; what if Hari was hostile to my baby? I needn’t have worried. When we got home Hari smiled and took the baby from me and kissed his fuzzy head.

‘Thank goodness you’re here,’ she said. ‘They’ve all gone: Georgie and Vi, Father and Jessie; from a full house I find an empty one.’

‘Hari,’ I began. She waved her hand.

‘Don’t talk about it, it won’t help,’ she said gently.

‘But you loved Michael and I . . .’ I stopped, prevented by the turn of her shoulders that begged me to say no more.

‘“
Love
” Michael, present tense,’ she said, almost in a whisper. ‘I will always love Michael.’ She visibly pulled herself together.

‘Want something to eat, gannet?’

‘What have we got?’

‘Eggs, some cheese, a tiny bit of butter. It’s still rationing in town, you know, we’re not overflowing with milk and honey like the country.’

I stopped myself saying the ‘milk and honey’ had to be worked for, the chickens fed on bran and mash and potato peelings, the butter endlessly churned until my arms nearly fell out of the sockets.

‘I have to keep up a good supply of milk for baby gannet,’ I said, pointing at little Harry, ‘so I’ll have eggs on buttered toast and hope it doesn’t give the baby too much wind.’

We talked after the meal and as I fed the baby, hoping he wouldn’t clamp too hard on my poor nipples, Hari went to wash up, singing as she swished the dishes through the water, hoping, I think, to drown out the sound of my baby, Michael’s baby, suckling at my breast.

And then, for the rest of the evening, we talked about anything but Michael and we drank a little home-made wine, and we avoided each other’s eyes. I was glad to go to bed in my old childhood room, staring at the pictures of fairies on the walls, at the cut-outs of Rupert Bear, Bill the elephant and Podgy, who still reminded me of George Dixon – George, who had changed now into a good man and who had brought my son safely into the world; and then I was lonely for Michael and began to cry.

Hari left for work early the next morning. I heard her creep downstairs. I changed the baby’s sodden napkin, washed my hands and took him back to bed. I snuggled him into the warmth of the pillows and gave him the comfort of my milk. We both fell asleep.

The sun was shining when I woke again and I felt well and happy even though the word ‘repatriation’ was being talked about at the prison camp; this repatriation of the German soldiers would take months yet, there was plenty of time to act.

I would go and see Michael, I would give him Fritz’s name and what I remembered of his contact code. I felt confident that the resistance movement would get Michael back to Wales even if Fritz had to get Michael forged papers.

The train was full and stuffy with body smells. Harry didn’t like the journey; he wriggled and moaned. The woman sitting next to me in the small carriage tutted her disapproval.

I turned and smiled falsely at her. ‘Do you serve in the forces?’

‘No,’ she said shortly.

‘The munitions?’ I persisted.

‘Well, no.’ Her arrogance was fading.

‘Too old, I expect,’ I said in mock sympathy. She looked abashed and stared out of the window. ‘Excuse me.’ I brushed past her and held my baby fast as I climbed from the carriage, ashamed of my burst of spite.

When I arrived at Bridgend, to my shock and anger, my sister Hari was standing outside the barbed wire fence of Island Farm Prison Camp talking to one of the soldiers. Hari was plainly dressed and carried a clipboard as if she were in a position of authority.

Always the actress, I went close to the soldier and looked up at him with limpid eyes. ‘Excuse me, officer –’ I knew very well he was no such thing – ‘you’ve seen me before I’m sure. I’ve got a baby by one of the prisoners. Please let me see the father for just one minute, would you? Please, sir.’

He stared at me in disgust. ‘Yes, I’ve seen you and heard you talking to him in German, you traitor. Us British aren’t good enough for you, eh?’

‘I fell in love; I’m just seventeen.’ I said. ‘Please, sir, the German should take some responsibility for his baby, shouldn’t he?’

He caught my chin and turned my face up to his. ‘When did all this happen?’

‘Please, officer, it was when the prisoners were allowed out in town for church or something.’

He shook his head. ‘I don’t know what young girls are coming to these days. In my time they . . .’

‘It’s the war, sir, tomorrow we could all be dead,’ I murmured. ‘Please, sir, let me see him. I’m afraid he’ll be sent back to Germany soon.’

‘Aye, and then you’ll never see hide nor hair of him again my girl. Saddled with a bastard kid you’ll be for the rest of your life.’

‘I expect you’re right sir,’ I said meekly.

‘What’s his name?’ he asked at last.

Michael was fetched and came to the fence watched by the other German soldiers laughing and jeering, saying vulgar things in German all of which I understood all too clearly.

‘You don’t look well,’ I said in concern. He was pale, sweating, he’d lost weight. ‘Hold my hands,’ I ordered Michael, resenting his quick look in Hari’s direction. He did as he was told.

‘It’s a contact for one of the Belgian resistance people,’ I said in hurried, whispered German – in case you’re sent back.’

I showed him his son and simpered, aware of the soldier watching us. Michael looked at his small image amazed, properly aware now that his son was beginning to look like him.

‘My code name is Anwn, remember that.’ I stared at him as he leaned against the fence. I glanced up at the barbed wire lacing the top of the fence and knew there would be no escape that way. In any case, Michael would be tracked down and fetched back to prison again.

‘See you soon,
Liebling
,’ he said in mock, halting English.

I turned away then as the soldier hauled an unresisting Michael back to the huts.

‘You deserve a good kicking for despoiling one of our young girls,’ he said fiercely.

I didn’t speak to my sister. I don’t know why – ashamed or choked with tears I suppose. I made my way back to Swansea with tears in my eyes but there was a glimmer of hope in my heart.

Seventy-Seven

It was three weeks since Hari had last seen Michael and then Meryl had been there, her son cradled in her arms, whispering sweet nothings through the fence to Michael. Well, she would see him now, alone; well, as alone as they could be with a fence between them. She would confront him about his feelings for her and for Meryl.

Had his marriage to her little sister been one of expediency, what the Victorians would have called a marriage of convenience? Of course it must have been, it was a cover so they would both be safe. But the baby, how could she explain the baby, even to herself? There must be an explanation, there had to be; had Meryl seduced him, had he given in to her in a moment of weakness?

Hari made her way from the munitions to the camp and waited for about an hour, hanging about among the trees until she saw James come out of one of the huts. ‘Evening, James.’

‘Hello there,
cariad
, you’re looking very pretty today if I may say so.’ James smiled, obviously happy to see her again. ‘Where on earth have you been, I thought you were supposed to make regular checks up here?’

‘My job is nearly over now,’ Hari said, ‘in any case I had to go away for a few days.’

‘Well, I must say you look well for it, girl, red suits you.’

Hari looked down at her new coat, red, like poppies, like blood, like dear dead Kate’s shoes.

‘Thank you, James. What are you going to do now that the war is over?’

‘I’ll have to stay here; important officers are being shifted into Island Farm, Hari, men like Field Marshal Von Rundstedt. He’s a real gent, not a war criminal, but he has to go to Nuremburg in Germany as a witness. In the meantime I’ll be guarding him and the other high-up officers.’

‘And what will happen to the ordinary officers?’

‘They are being shipped back to where they belong,’ James said fiercely.

Hari’s heart sank. How would Michael manage in the chaos there must be in Germany, right now? The Russians and the Allies were occupying the place and Hitler was alleged to be dead, but no one knew the truth of that. It would not be safe for any German returning to the Fatherland. In any case, Michael belonged here, in Wales.

‘And what about that girl who was here a few weeks ago, a silly girl with a baby – will her chap be sent back to Germany?’

‘Haven’t seen the poor creature at all, though the other guards say she hangs around like a stray cat, but she’s wasting her time.’

‘What do you mean?’ Hari asked.

‘That fellow, the German she was daft enough to . . . well you know, he’s already gone.’ He nodded in satisfaction at a job well done.

‘Gone where?’

‘He was sent back to Germany quick, sharp. Fell sick, see, and we got enough problems without keeping sick enemies here.’

Hari hid her feelings of shock. She wondered if Meryl knew. She would have to make the journey down to the farm, see her sister and find out what was happening. It was a bitter taste in her mouth that she had to ask Meryl anything about Michael. He was
hers,
she’d seen him first, lain with him, lost her virginity with him.

‘And are you staying at the munitions place, Hari?’ James’s tone was anxious.

‘Oh, yes, it will take years to sort everything out and at least I’ve got a job to keep home and hearth together, for now.’ Her tone was wry.

Hari didn’t want James to ask any more questions. ‘I’ve got to get back home.’ She blew him a kiss. ‘See you soon, James.’

She had a car now, an old clapped-out van someone had fitted windows in. She drove home to Swansea trying to wipe away the mist in her eyes. The streets were empty; the shelters still looked the same; the home guard roamed the streets; the blackout curtains were still in place; it was as if no one believed yet the war was over.

Later, the dark crept in and even the electric lighting didn’t dispel Hari’s gloom. What was she going to do with her life when she eventually left Bridgend? She might get a job as a telephonist or a typist even or perhaps work in Marks and Spencer’s. Yet none of those jobs appealed.

She might meet a man, as Violet had pointed out. Another man she could love as she loved Michael? She didn’t think so. She indulged herself, remembering their love-making, the one and only time they’d been intimate together. She had melted into Michael, her love obscuring every other emotion. They had become one being together forever, at least that’s what she believed then. Would she ever trust another man?

She sat alone in her bedroom, the bedroom of her own house, her empty house, and knew she felt bitter and sorry for herself. She’d taken them all in: Jessie, Father, George and Violet, and even allowed Meryl to stay with her child. And now they had left and she was alone. She sat before the fire, her toes pointed close to the flames, and though she was grieving, her eyes for once were dry as if all her tears were gone.