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
