Somewhere Over England (15 page)

He did not tell her that he had been punched in the stomach as he left the dining-hall that morning and warned to keep away from his
Moishe
friends but that he had caught his assailant across his cheek as he turned to leave.

The next day was 21 December and the Nazis held a festival, for it was the day the Teutonic pagans celebrated the solstice. Timber was set ablaze for this occasion with the Commandant’s permission, but Heine wondered whether the
man ever saw the Nazis’ salute raised in the light from the bonfire.

On Christmas Eve Willi sang ‘Silent Night’ and Heine remembered Helen’s voice soaring as they listened to her in the candlelight of his parents’ home and that night he wept but so did many others.

In January the snow was heavy and it was cold, so cold, and Heine stood with Willi and watched the Nazis build snow swastikas and Herr Thiene said that when the thaw came they would melt as, in time, the Third Reich would.

‘But when will that be?’ Willi asked and no one answered.

The Camp Committee was set up in January under the direction of the Camp Leader and it was in charge of the food distribution as arranged. There seemed never to be enough for the non-Nazis. Heine lodged a complaint with the Camp Leader. It was ignored. He lodged a complaint for the Camp Commandant through the Camp Leader. It was not passed on.

He stopped the Camp Commandant one day and told him and knew that Nazi eyes were watching. The next day the food improved but he was beaten in the latrines. After that the non-Nazis stayed together, close together, and Heine’s eyes and lips healed but they had kicked his leg and that still did not mend.

In late January he received his first letter from Helen.

My darling,

At last I know where you are. Your letter only arrived in the second week of January. We are well. Christoph continues to go to Dr Schultz and so far there has been no bombing.

I know it was my mother who caused all this. I cannot speak to her now, or see her. I am happier this way but miss you so much and long for you to be at home with us. How is your appeal going? Please write and tell me.

It is a relief to know that you are safe, away from the hostility which you would otherwise face. That comforts me each night.

I will write again soon, my love.

Helen.

In March Heine received leave to attend the Advisory Committee. Herr Thiene had already been released and Heine missed him and Wilhelm too. He stood at the window looking out at the snow as he pulled on gloves that Willi lent him and hugged the boy to him before he left. He had taught him English and mathematics and anything else that he could because he needed to feel useful as much as the boy needed the attention. But could he really be called a boy? Willi had seen too much to ever be young again.

The guards were knocking on the door now and Heine walked down the snow-cleared path, dirty with ash and sand and laughed at the shoes and slippers that were thrown at him by his friends for good luck. It was like being in Germany again, the Germany of his youth. He did not look at the huts where the Nazis lived and from which came the sound of jeers. He knew they were at the windows and he would not look at their faces.

He travelled by train under guard, and then by Underground to Piccadilly Circus and wanted to run to Helen, he was so close. They walked through to Burlington Street and his breath was visible in the cold. People passed them, hurrying, busy, free. There were posters on the newspaper stall and he saw the headlines: ‘US peace mission fails.’

He wanted to stop and buy one, to see newspaper ink on his fingers again because they were not allowed the sight of one in the camp and lived on rumours. He looked again at the headlines. Britain would need the United States in order to survive. Would they ever join in?

As he sat before the panel of ten his feet and hands hurt with the warmth and he held Willi’s gloves and told them where and when he was born. What his business had been, his present address.

‘How often have you been abroad?’ they asked and he replied with the truth.

‘When was your last visit?’

Again he replied with the truth.

Here they stopped and the Chairman looked at the others, slowly. Again and again they took him back over that journey.

‘Why did you go?’

‘To see my parents.’

‘Yes, but why then? War was so close. Wasn’t it strange?’

Again and again they asked and he held the gloves tighter each time because he could not tell them why. To do so might injure his father. Word might get back. Oh God, Helen, he thought as he looked at the dark panelling, at the Chairman’s face, so set, so dark. Oh God, I’m not going to come home now. I know I’m not. He pushed down the panic. Could he tell them of the camera? His knuckles were white as they held the gloves. He knew he couldn’t. ‘But you see, it was because war was so close that I went. I needed to see them again. Surely you can understand that?’ He watched their faces. Would it be enough?

It was dark when they left and the guard held a torch whose slit of light barely picked out the path shovelled through the snow and Heine looked at him and wondered how far he would get if he pushed him to the ground and ran. But he didn’t because it would be pointless. He would not be able to go home, for that is where they would look for him.

At the station the guard bought him tea and the steam rose into his face, blurring his eyes, warming his skin. He pushed his gloves into his pockets and held his hands more tightly round the cup. He sipped, knowing that Helen was not far away, that his son was there too. Knowing that his appeal would be rejected because he must not betray his father. They left to board the train but it was late into the station and the guard looked around. He was young and looked kind and Heine had told him about Germany, about Munich, about Helen.

‘There’s a phone over there, mate,’ the soldier said. ‘Give your wife a ring. I won’t listen.’ He handed money to Heine and walked behind him to the booth.

Heine lifted the receiver, dropped in the money, pushed the button and heard her voice and for seconds he could not speak. Then he said, ‘Helen, it’s me. I’m just about to get on the train. I’ve had my appeal hearing. I’m going back but it’s breaking my heart, my darling.’ He didn’t know where the sobs were coming from in a grown man.

‘Heine, I’ll come. I can come. They’ve told me I can come and see you. Don’t cry, darling. Don’t cry. It will be all right.’

But on the train with its meshed windows, its black out blinds, the dim lights, he knew that it would not be all right because he had set himself up in opposition and now he was not going to escape the Nazis. Would he ever get home again?

Helen sat on the wooden seat. The brass plaque which had been screwed into the wood was dull. What would Sir Reginald Potter think of that, she wondered, as she watched Chris swing high into the air, lifting her face to the spring sunshine of 1940, and who was he anyway to warrant a park bench as a memorial? It was Sunday, her day off, and there were other children here after a winter bare of young voices. The children were trickling back from the countryside because no bombs had fallen. Nothing seemed to be happening and people were kinder to her now that Heine had gone and no invasion had occurred.

Chris laughed at the boy on the swing next to him. He had grown since Christmas, he was tall for seven and mature and he smiled more now that the schools had opened in the mornings and the boys no longer had time to lie in wait for him en route to Dr Schultz. He was happy there, secure, and Dr Schultz had said that it would not be a good idea to move him back to the old school where hate might still lash out at him in snarls and punches.

Helen fingered the letter which had arrived from Heine yesterday telling her that visits could be made twice a week for two hours. He knew she could not come so frequently but if she obtained permission it would lighten his days and his nights.

She looked up at the sky again, where white clouds drifted against the blue, where no aeroplanes had yet roared, bucking and firing; bombing. Yes, she had obtained permission and would go soon to see him and the thought filled her with joy.

Shading her eyes, she watched the barrage balloon which was anchored by wires in a corner of the park. The airmen who were always there now, guarding, winding, checking, sat outside their metal hut smoking, occasionally talking,
sometimes laughing with the children who hovered near. Perhaps they were reminded of their own families, thought Helen. Did Heine ever speak to children?

The balloon’s elastic sides heaved in the slight breeze; its floppy ears trembled. It was never still, always fighting to escape, to climb higher still. In February one had broken loose, its wires snapping as the wind had torn and snatched at the air-filled hulk above. It had floated off, its wires breaking tiles and chimney pots but it had not escaped. It had been shot, sinking airless and powerless to the ground, covering the road and the gardens. You should know you can’t escape the war, Helen had said, and knew that she had spoken aloud because a man who was walking his dog paused and laughed.

Would these lumbering balloons really force aeroplanes up into the sky so that accurate bombing was impossible, so that strafing of civilians would be impracticable? ‘We shall see,’ Helen murmured, beckoning now to Chris because she felt sure the bombers would come. But when?

‘Time for lunch.’ She smiled as he shook his head. ‘Come along, no arguments.’

He came then and they walked home past the Wardens’ post where they too sat outside in the sun, their overalls unbuttoned at the neck, ARW embroidered in yellow. Mr Simkins from the flat next door was there, his tin helmet resting on one of the sandbags which lined the walls. There were more bags on the roof and a post with the number ‘51’ stuck out from them. Mrs Simkins, who looked after Chris until Helen returned from work, said that a bit of power had turned her old man into a right little ’itler.

Helen nodded and waved and Ed Simkins smiled, flicking the ash from his cigarette on to the ground before throwing her a half salute. They had always been kind and helpful, and other neighbours were too now that Heine had gone. Helen lay awake at night and felt guilty at the relief his absence brought. She lay awake too because of the pain that absence also brought and could make no sense of anything any more.

Chris did not hold her hand now as they walked. He was too big, he had said, and Helen had been pleased at his confidence. They passed posters stuck on the wall showing them how to remove distributor heads and leads, how to empty petrol tanks or remove carburettors in the event of an invasion. They were
torn now and discoloured, one hung by a corner only and folded over on itself. Chris swung his gas mask at the sandbags which were heaped at the foot of the lamppost outside their house.

‘Careful, Chris. You might need that.’

He just grinned. ‘It’s good for putting my lead cowboys in, Mum. They fit in beside the mask. There hasn’t been any gas, has there? No bombs either. Nothing’s happening, is it?’

Helen turned the key in the lock. No, nothing was happening.

They sat quietly in the evening, either side of the small fire because, though the days were warm and blossom hung from the trees in the park, the heat vanished with the sun. Helen could smell the smoke which hung above the coal which she had wrapped individually in damp newspaper to make it last longer. Smoke drifted out into the room but she could not open the window wider because the blackout would be broken.

She knitted, her hands sore from digging up the lawn for vegetables as everyone else was doing. More things would be rationed soon and she would grow potatoes and cabbages.

Chris was making a balsa wood aeroplane and the sharp, clean smell of glue cut through the bitterness of the smoke. His lips were set together, a frown dug down between his eyebrows. He was eating well, though meals were dull and repetitive with only half the usual food being imported. At least now everyone had two ounces of butter, and in the grocer’s yesterday afternoon one woman had said that she had never tasted it before in her life and that if this was what war did to you, it was a bloody good thing. She had laughed then, showing blackened teeth and gaps where there were none and Helen had smiled but felt angry that so many people who lived in this part of London were tasting butter for the first time and that it took a war to distribute food fairly.

She watched now as Chris took out the Oxo tin which he kept in the cupboard under the wireless. There was a concert playing quietly and he should really go to bed but it was good to have someone else in the room.

He took a cotton reel from the tin and cut notches in its high rims.

‘What on earth are you doing?’ she said, setting down her knitting, pushing back her hair. ‘Be careful.’

Chris did not look up but said, ‘I’m making a tank.’

Helen did not want him to be taken over by the war. ‘What about your cowboys and Indians, the lead ones? A head came off, didn’t it? Have you repaired it?’

‘Of course, Mum, like you showed me. I stuck that match you gave me into its head and pushed it down into the body.’ Helen poked at the fire and flame flickered up, clearing the smoke, giving off heat. She looked at her son kneeling on the floor, his socks down by his ankles, his shoes off and under the table. She wished she had her camera but they had all been confiscated.

‘But why a tank?’

‘Because the other boys are making them, that’s why.’

He was poking a hole in a stub of candle now, then making a slight groove along the top side. He pushed an elastic band through the hole and tried to keep it in place with a matchstick which lay in the groove. It would not stay and so Helen came and settled on to her knees too, holding it for him, hearing his breath as he concentrated. He threaded the band down through the reel, keeping the candle stub on the top, and pinned it fast to the bottom with a drawing pin.

She watched as he wound up the elastic band and laid the reel on its edge with the matchstick touching the small table. The frown was still there and so was the heavy breathing but slowly the tank began to move, unevenly but inexorably, and now he looked up at her and smiled. ‘That’s good, isn’t it?’