Write me a Love Story Ch 7

Write me a Love Story Ch 7

CHAPTER 7

By Janet Baldey

I spent a few days mulling things over but when I thought the time was right, I asked Georg to stop what he was doing and come with me.

Sensing his mystification, I led the way past the farm and up the track. At last, we arrived and I turned to look at him.

‘Do you know anything about heavy horses?’

It was near the end of the day and we were standing at the edge of my five acre top field. The last of the potatoes had been lifted weeks ago and it was now ready for ploughing. For weeks I’d been trying to push it to the back of my mind but now time was running out.

Georg didn’t answer for a long time and when he did, something in his voice made me look at him.

He was staring into the field and I was suddenly conscious of how neglected it looked. The soil lay in ruins, dried remnants of potato plants straggling across the ruts.

‘Mein vater…uh! Sorry,’ He started again. ‘My father was a horse keeper in the last war and horses were always his great love. After the war he returned to the farm where I’d been born and from being a very young boy it was always my job to help look after the horses. I have wonderful memories of that time; rising at dawn, when the day was just a promise, the feel of the mountain air on my face and the smell of  the pines drifting on the wind…’  He shook his head.‘It is something I’ll never forget.’

He stopped talking, His eyes were locked on the horizon and I knew that the present no longer existed for him. Then he came back to me.

‘So. Yes, I do know about cart horses.’

I felt my face muscles relax as a feeling of relief flooded through me.   

I can’t explain why his answer meant so much to me and I didn’t know why the thought of Joe helping me plough the field was so terrifying. It wasn’t the horse, I knew that. Prince was a gentle giant with not a mean bone in his body. It was more to do with the look on Sarah’s face when she had told me to be careful, the gleam in Becca’s eyes and the thought of being alone up here with Joe. I just didn’t trust the man. Shuddering, I remembered the rancid smell of his body.

        

         Georg’s hand brushed my shoulder and I started. 

        

         ‘What?’

        

         ‘I said, why do you ask?’

        

         There was a puzzled look on his face and I realised that I’d been far away with the angels, as the nuns would have put it when I daydreamed in class all those years ago.

        

         I hesitated, searching for the right words.

         ‘It’s just that my husband had arranged for a man to come and plough this field but I was hoping that maybe you could do it instead,’ my voice trailed away. 

        

         ‘Does this man know about me?’

        

         I shook my head.

        

         ‘Is he a friend of yours?’

        

         ‘No.’ The word shot out with more force than I intended; flustered, I avoided his eyes.

        

         There was a long silence. At last, he spoke.

        

         ‘There is no need to worry. I will be around to do whatever you want. It will be good. I will enjoy working with a horse again.’

        

         My vision blurred and I turned my head away, wiping my eyes with the back of my hand. These days it seemed my emotions were always so close to the surface, I couldn’t always control them.

‘Thank you.’

He nodded and although I could see questions lurking in his eyes he said nothing. Instead, we stood, side by side, staring into the field, watching the shadows lengthen and creep towards us.

        

         At first, I barely noticed it. Then the sound grew louder, like the distant droning of a billion bees. We were standing on top of a hill with a clear view of the open sky. There was a dark smudge on the horizon: frowning, I watched it grow larger until my veins ran with iced water. A metal blizzard was sweeping across the sky and as it grew nearer its thunder filled my ears. Horrified I watched as wave upon wave of heavy planes lumbered overhead, making for the heart of England.

        

         ‘What are they?’

        

         ‘Bombers.’ 

 Just the one word but it filled me with horror.

        

          I stood unable to move. Vivid images of millions hearing that sound for the first time flashed into my mind. Mothers would scream as they searched for their children, there would be the sound of running feet as panicked men threw down their tools and rushed homewards. I imagined dread darkening their eyes as bombs plummeted to the ground, crushing buildings and lives before exploding into nightmarish flowers of fire.

        

         ‘We’re doomed’ I thought, with dull resignation. ‘England can’t survive this.’

The unspoken words welled up inside me until I thought I’d choke.

        

         After what seemed like an age, the skies grew quiet but still I stared into the spurious calm of the September sky. At last, I remembered the man by my side but I couldn’t bear to look at him; dreading the expression on his face. Minutes passed and at last, I glanced towards him.

        

         He was standing quite still, his profile carved against the sky, then he turned his head and the only emotion I saw on his face was sorrow.

        

         ‘War ruins lives; people always forget that.’

He looked at me, his eyes grave. ‘I expect you think that pleases me.’ His head jerked upwards.

He let my silence stretch and then spoke again. 

‘Not so. And I will tell you why. Do you remember what I said about my father?  And how he had served in the last war?

I nodded.

‘When it was over, he came back to the farm. But, he was not the same man.   He just could not forget the horrors he’d been through. They haunted him. He’d awake screaming, night after night. In the end, it got so bad he barely slept at all. He became a wrecked man. Young as I was, that was why I had to look after the horses, and do most of the work. In the end, we found him hanging in the barn where we children used to play.’

        

         Appalled, I stared at him. His words had brought back memories of my own ruined childhood. 

        

         But then, I frowned.

        

         ‘But if you realised that, why did you join the Luftwaffe?’

        

         He lifted his shoulders, a gesture of helplessness that I was to recall many years later.

        

         ‘My hand was forced.’ He hesitated and then went on. ‘Perhaps if you lived in my country you would understand. I had no real choice. It was either that or watch my children starve. When my father died we had to leave the land and then the economy collapsed. I couldn’t find work. I was desperate. Then the Fuhrer came along with his rallies, with all the flags and the speeches. He gave us hope. People got carried along and if you had doubts, you thought of your children. It seemed the only way to give them a better life. But we were deluded. War is not the answer. I have thought a lot since being in the camp and I can see no good coming of it.’

        

         ‘You have children?’

        

         ‘Two. Gerda and Hans. I think about them all the time.’

        

         I’d never seen a man cry before. But as the tears slipped down his cheeks, he didn’t seem ashamed. Without thinking, I reached out towards him but at the last minute pulled back. At last, he raised his hand and wiped it across his face.

‘I am sorry,’ he said.

        

         Just at that moment we heard the impatient blare of a horn in the yard and   Georg looked at the sun, now slipping towards the horizon.

        

         ‘The sergeant is late today. I think he has been watching the show.’ He shook his head. ‘He will not be in a good mood’.

***

I lay staring into the darkness. I couldn’t sleep. What was it that Georg had said?  War ruins lives? My eyes filled. It had certainly ruined mine. Tears trickled down my cheeks, wetting my pillow as my head tossed from side to side. At last, I gave up and threw back the covers. The bare linoleum chilled my feet as I crossed the room to turn up the lamp. As I looked around, its dim yellow light seemed to accentuate the shadows filling the room. Under the window was the bed with its tumbled covers. Opposite was my writing desk, rarely used these days and tucked underneath, was a tin trunk. Stooping, I reached out a hand, running it over its cool surface. It was years since it had been opened although it held my most treasured possessions. They were few enough; some tattered letters, a medal with a faded ribbon, a photograph of two people, smiling into each others eyes. Each year the figures grew more insubstantial, merging into the sepia background like the ghosts they were.

        

         I remember almost nothing of my parents. A thick curtain had been drawn over my early life but occasionally the dark folds parted and a sliver of memory surfaced; the whisper of a lullaby, the gleam of a smile and sometimes, the harsh sound of screaming that gave me nightmares, although I didn’t know why. Apart from these tantalising glimpses of another life, my childhood began and ended in the orphanage where my days were shared by dozens of others all competing for few favours. I remembered most of the nuns as grim faced and ancient, far too fond of pinching and slapping. But there were exceptions, and Sister Marie-Claire was one.   At the time, I thought she was an angel and adored her with a devotion that was almost painful. In the evenings she’d gather all the children around her and read them a story before shooing us off to bed. She would  kiss us all goodnight and that one small show of affection was more precious than food to little ones starved of love.

        

         Pulling out the trunk, I opened the lid and stared at the bundle of letters. Until I was fifteen, I’d believed both my parents were dead but when it was time for me to leave the orphanage, Mother Superior called me into her office.

        

         ‘Sit down child.’ I sat on the wooden chair, amazement in my eyes; never before had I been invited to sit in Mother’s presence. As I watched the woman’s stiff figure planted bolt upright in her chair, my amazement grew as I realised the old nun was nervous. Her body was tense and the harsh planes of her face were moulded into a mask.

        

         ‘Now it is time for you to leave us, it is my duty to tell you what little I know of your background…..’  The clipped words were enunciated with a clarity that held no hint of warmth.

        

         I sat listening to the dry voice not taking my eyes away from the woman’s unsmiling face, watching her lips as every one of my beliefs was shattered. Despite what I’d always believed, my mother wasn’t dead and all throughout my childhood had been living separated from me by just a few miles.

        

         ‘Unfortunately, after your father was killed, your mother couldn’t cope….she had a breakdown from which she has never recovered.’ Mother Superior shot a glance at me and seemed to flinch at what she saw. 

 ‘Don’t look at me like that child.  We acted in your own interests; it would have done no good to have told you before. Here take this.’

        

         She pushed a small parcel towards me with an abrupt gesture as if it was contaminated.

        

         Inside the parcel was what I now held in my hands.  

        

         Just before I left the orphanage I visited my mother in the asylum. Although I was used to institutions, I felt my heart sink as I walked along grimy corridors that echoed with the sound of my footsteps. They seemed to stretch for miles and I sensed that misery as well as dirt was ingrained in their flaking plaster. As I overtook shuffling figures clinging like drab moths to the corridors’ edges, my depression grew. Nor did it lift when I eventually saw my mother.  I was told it was one of her ‘bad’ days and try as I might I couldn’t relate to the haggard figure, with its face half hidden behind a greasy curtain of hair. I watched the woman who had given birth to me sit rocking in the corner and feelings of guilt mixed with shame flooded through me as I realised the only emotion I felt was pity, tinged with horror.

        

         I never went back and a few years later I received an official letter from the medical superintendent of the asylum.  When I slit it open, the black type swam in front of me and at last I wept as the terse words spelled out the fact of my mother’s death.

Copyright Janet Baldey