The Separation (51 page)

‘We British are slow to anger, quick to forgive. We are cheerful, optimistic and generous, we love our homes and our families, we cherish our countryside. We are sometimes puzzling to our friends, eccentric even to each other. We are an island race who have taken our culture out to the world. But as Herr Hitler and his friends have discovered, we are also tough, brave and resourceful. We do not yield to threats. We do not panic. We do not give up. We cannot be bullied into submission. When knocked to the floor we spring back at once to our feet, our defiance redoubled, our anger the more keen, our determination to fight for what we believe in more deadly than before.

‘A year ago I promised you that if we should come through this struggle, the life of the world would move into broad, sunlit uplands. That prospect is before us at last.

‘We did not seek or want this war. We had nothing to gain for ourselves by fighting it. We had no territorial gains in mind. We did not even have a quarrel with the ordinary German people. We fought only for the principle of freedom. We were not prepared to be pushed around by the Nazis, and did not see why anyone else should be. So the moment did arise and we therefore braced ourselves to the necessary duty. We dared to resist, we dared to stand firm, we dared to fight to whatever end it would take. The sacrifice has been made and now it is at an end. We have come through the darkest hours this country has ever known, and we are the greater for it.

‘I said as I began that there could be no better news than the news of peace. I have, though, one extra tiding for you, that I believe you will consider to be an improvement even on peace itself. Just before I went into the House this afternoon word came to me that there have been great and important and permanent changes inside Germany. In a sudden access of good sense, the German people have removed Adolf Hitler from office, and not a moment too soon. We do not yet know the fate of Herr Hitler, nor are we going to expend any energy in trying to find out. Good riddance, I say, and here I know I speak for us all. The man who has replaced him as German Chancellor, Rudolf Hess, is the co-signatory to the cease-fire we have arranged. We may safely assume that our peace accord remains in place. Herr Hess, in my experience, will not be any easier to deal with than his predecessor, but at least we shall not have to fight him.

‘We therefore have a rare opportunity to celebrate our country’s glory and for that reason I have declared tomorrow a public holiday. Tomorrow, celebrate with deserved and unashamed joy, in reward for what you have earned. Tonight, though, as a preliminary, we can turn our backs on the recent past with a simple gesture of freedom. Celebrate tonight by switching on the lights in your house and opening your curtains, throwing wide your windows. All danger is past. Let the world find out where we live, see us again for what we are.

‘Long live the cause of freedom. Advance, Britannia! God save the King!’

24

Holograph notebooks of J. L. Sawyer

xxviii

Our negotiating team flew back to England the day after Churchill departed. After a long run across the lake, the great white seaplane lifted away from the smooth waters of Stora Varten. It climbed slowly in a wide, shallow turn above the trees of the countryside and the steep roofs of Stockholm. The mood of everyone in the cabin of the aircraft was one of great elation. None of us stayed in our seats for long during the flight, but for most of the time we clustered excitedly in the narrow spaces and aisle, talking eagerly about what we had achieved, how we had done it, what our hopes were for the bright future that we had helped create.

When the pilot announced some three hours later that the plane was flying along the British coast I moved to one of the seats next to a window, staring out with feelings of rejoicing at the green countryside, the line of white breakers, the smooth blue sea. We were somewhere above the Channel, following the English south coast, not high above the waves nor far from the land. I could see small seaside resorts, tall white cliffs, distant downs. On this day of bright sunshine the country looked remarkably whole from the plane, undamaged by the war. I knew that close up the reality was different, but from this passing eminence it was possible to glimpse England as she had been, as she would be again.

When we were not far from Southampton a flight of RAF Spitfires appeared from high in the blue, streaking down past us, cavorting and rolling, repeatedly circling us as we growled slowly along above the waves. They stayed with us all the way to the Solent, a joyful escort. As we were preparing to make our landing they moved away, formated in the distance into the shape of a long vee, then made one last pass above us, the roar of their engines clearly audible inside our cabin. Then they disappeared towards the land and our slow, cumbersome flying-boat made its crashing, bouncing arrival on the choppy surface of Southampton Water.

Half an hour later, as we stepped ashore from a naval launch, a small crowd applauded us politely. We went through the formalities of arrival in a slight daze, hardly daring to believe that the radical lifting of the mood of the country which we could already sense was real, permanent. I craved to go home, to see Birgit, to be there with her in the last days before our baby was born, but the problems of travelling around in wartime Britain were not yet a thing of the past. The government had at short notice declared the day a public holiday - PE Day, Peace in Europe Day - and there were no trains, buses, or indeed any easy or affordable way of leaving Southampton until the next morning. So there was one more night I had to spend away. The Red Cross found us rooms in a small hotel away from the town centre. The dock area and much of the business quarter of the city had been destroyed during the Blitz and choices were few. I decided to make the best of it. As soon as I had put my bag in my bedroom I went to find the others downstairs.

At the bottom of the main staircase I saw a tall figure standing by the window, staring out. He was in military uniform and was holding his cap beneath his left elbow. When he heard my footsteps on the stairs, he turned to look at me and quietly intercepted me as I made to pass him. He said, ‘Are you Mr Joseph Sawyer?’

‘I am.’ I felt the first tremor of concern.

‘I’m Group Captain Piggott, sir, attached to 1 Group, Royal Air Force, in Lincolnshire. I’d like to speak to you privately. I hope it won’t take more than a few moments.’

‘It’s Jack, isn’t it?’ I said at once, responding to the man’s grave tone of voice. ‘You’ve brought bad news about my brother.’

The officer indicated a door leading to a small lounge at one side. He held it open, so that I could walk through ahead of him. He closed the door behind us. Everything about his manner indicated that the news about to be broken to me was the worst.

‘I’m afraid it is about your brother, sir.’

‘Has he been killed?’

‘No, I’m relieved to tell you that he has not. But he has been badly wounded.’

‘How serious is it?’

‘His wounds are extensive but his life is not thought to be in danger. I haven’t seen him myself, but I was able to speak to the doctor in charge before I came here to contact you. Your brother is in hospital and he’s under sedation. He’s young and strong and they believe that in time he will make a full recovery.’

‘Can you tell me how bad his injuries are?’

‘I don’t know the full details, Mr Sawyer, but I was told that among other injuries he has a fractured leg, cracked ribs, a blow to the skull, many cuts and bruises. He was injured when his plane was shot down. He spent about eighteen hours in an emergency dinghy before he was rescued. This is often the fate of our airmen. If we could only find them and transfer them to hospital before they are exposed to the elements for too long, they would be able to recover more quickly However, we do what we can.’

‘When did it happen?’

‘His plane was shot down on Saturday night, early Sunday morning. Your brother had taken part in a successful raid against Hamburg when his Wellington was hit by flak. There was only one other survivor from his plane. The navigator, I believe.’

We stood there in silence for a little while, the air force man standing courteously beside me while I tried to take in the import of his news.

The last raid of the war, Churchill had told me. The last we will be flying, he had said.
xxix

From the time of my accident during the London Blitz, six months earlier, I had not touched a drop of alcohol. There was a deliberate reason for it: I had no idea what triggered my lucid imaginings but they often occurred when I was drowsy or when my attention wandered. Some instinct told me that drinking might increase the likelihood of an attack. It had been reasonably easy to stay away from alcohol since then. At certain times -such as in Stockholm, when many toasts to the peace treaty had been drunk in champagne - it had been possible for me to find a non-alcoholic alternative without making a fuss about it.

But that first night of peace was a special one for everyone: Peace in Europe Day, a time to let your hair down if ever there was one.

After Group Captain Piggott had taken his leave, I tried to decide whether I should make a telephone call to my parents (who had no idea where I was or what I had been doing for the last week) or give up my plans for the evening and find some way to travel across the country to see JL in hospital. I saw a public telephone booth in the lobby of the hotel, so I dialled my parents’ number. There was no answer. I assumed they must have gone to visit Jack in hospital. I was lurking indecisively in the hallway next to the reception area, wondering what to do next, when Mike Brennan, the Quaker adviser from Pittsburgh, saw me. After that, there was no more doubt and no more argument.

In the company of five other members of the Stockholm team, Mike and I set out for a long evening’s celebration on the town. We started in the pub next to the hotel, then followed huge crowds of people as they began to converge on the bomb-damaged city-centre. The whole population, it seemed, was out on a night of revelry like no other they had known for months or years. At midnight we were in East Street, outside the looming, dark shape of the art gallery pressed in a shouting, waving, dancing, sweating crowd. A church clock somewhere struck the hour; we cheered and yelled as lights blazed from every building, the defensive searchlights came on for the last time, criss-crossing the sky above us, and a final defiant cannonade of anti-aircraft shells exploded in the air.

xxx

The next morning was predictably run through with remorse, a groaning discomfort and a renewed determination to get back on the wagon again. Rather to my amazement, I woke up in my own bed in the hotel, having found my way back to it somehow, or having been taken to it. I leaned over the tiny hand-basin set against one wall to rinse my hair with clean water, then towelled it dry. I washed my face and arms, dried myself briskly. I put on my clothes slowly and carefully. By mid-morning I was aboard a train heading north out of Southampton, fragile but recovering. I was feeling mildly nauseated all morning, but by midday I was a little better. It was a long time since I had experienced a hangover. I felt detached from reality, wrapped in a shroud of numbed feelings. When I looked at some of the other passengers in the compartment with me, I knew I was not the only one. It had been a memorable evening, what I could remember of it.

The train arrived in Manchester in the late afternoon. I walked across the concourse of London Road Station to where the suburban trains terminated. I was extremely hungry, having skipped breakfast at the hotel and discovered that there was no food available on the train. The snack bar was closed. It was warm in the huge station concourse, the air rich with the steam and coal smell of trains. I had time to step outside to the station approach for a few minutes, breathing the cleaner air, but looking out across the desolate landscape of ruined and burned-out buildings.

Eventually, I caught a local train to Macclesfield.

xxxi

Now comes the final part of my story, almost impossible to write down. I was in an unsteady emotional state, because of the heavy drinking of the night before, because of the long train journey, because of the lack of food, because of general exhaustion. Perhaps, most of all, because of the stupendous peace treaty that had been attained and the fact that I had played a part in it. I was not ready for what was to happen.

At first, however, I was reassured. Macclesfield’s appearance remained much as I remembered it when I last saw it: no more bomb damage had occurred in the final few days of the war. A place of large factories and silk mills, overlooked by the wild hills of the Pennines, Macclesfield possessed that unique northern English feeling of industry and moorland, a town with a wide bright sky and narrow dark streets. Familiarity wrapped itself around me comfortingly.

I left the station, walked through the foot tunnel where I had been jostled one night, long ago, and emerged into the Silk Road. Immediately opposite was the long straight hill of Moor Road, climbing up towards Rainow.

I walked briskly up the slope, enjoying the sensation of putting my muscles to use once again. I began to make small plans for the future. I saw everything in positive terms of healing and recovery. My cares, my fear and hatred of the war, had slipped away with the coming of peace. The baby would be born soon, with all the unpredictable changes that he or she would bring to our daily lives. Birgit and I could have more children, move to a larger house. Jack would recover from his injuries, after which there was the hope of an eventual reconciliation with him. With the war out of the way I could seek a real job, perhaps even accept the proposition from Churchill for a government job in Berlin. Anything was possible again. I came to the place in the road where I had a choice of ways. I could continue along the main road, climbing the hill, then turn off after about a quarter of a mile into the country road that led to the lane past our house or I could cut across a couple of fields, saving a few minutes and part of the long climb. I remembered the last time I had walked across the fields: it was in one of my lucid imaginings, the first of them in fact. I paused there at the iron gate. The associations were still so strong. I dreaded repeating what had happened before. I went on up the road, seeking normality. This was the way I had always ridden my bicycle, during the time when I was working in Manchester. It was a stiff climb, but after the smoke-filled rooms and forced inactivity of the last few days, as well as the night of heavy drinking, I was sucking in the fresh air as if it was an elixir. I could feel my blood pumping through me, my senses opening out.