The White Guns (1989) (43 page)

Fairfax did not hear the rest.
He was finished.

As he walked towards the privacy of his quarters he thought of Cuff, and the man found dead in the dockyard. He had failed to report that, and now all he could think of was the woman lying in the snow, her eyes wide with disbelief and shock.

J
didn't mean to kill her.
The echo came back like the crash of the firing-squad.
But you did!

Kiel's central mainline station,
Hauptbahnhof,
was not so busy as usual, and, compared with the weeks and months after VE-Day, it was barely moving. Marriott stood beneath a little stone archway and turned up the collar of his greatcoat as more snow filtered down from the dome-like shell of the station's roof, which because of other priorities was still open to the sky.

He had left Heinz in the adjoining square and found himself wondering why he had come. If Meikle's brief message was true he would feel left out, an intruder again. If it proved to be false, he would have to be witness to their despair.

For the hundredth time he glanced at his watch. He had been here for three hours. How much worse it must be for Ursula and Leisl. If he leaned forward just a bit he could see them by a barrier on the far side of the concourse, the child Bernadette shifting between them.

He looked at the tall hoardings which lined the exits; they had become as much a part of the once-thriving station as the people who ran it. Hundreds and hundreds of old photographs. Faces of husbands, sons and lovers. But even they lacked the urgency they had once had. Some were curled by the weather and damp air; a few had fallen unheeded on the splinter-chipped stones, as if all hope had gone, or confirmation had been received that those countless portraits would no longer be needed.

Marriott could remember his first visit here. The way the women had pushed against the barriers and the lines of military police who met every train, especially those bringing released prisoners from Russia.

'My son! Have you seen my boy?' Or frantic eyes seeking out a familiar uniform or regiment. 'My husband was with you! Have you seen this man?'

The soldiers had for the most part shrugged them off, pushed past, eyes straight ahead as if they feared that, by stopping, their new freedom would vanish.

Today, there was just a handful of women. Watching the closed gates and the station clock which miraculously had survived the bombs. Staring at the gleaming tracks as if they could see or hear an incoming train.

He watched Ursula stamping her booted feet on the wet stones, her hands in her coat pockets. He realised that he had never seen her with her hair down before. When she turned, it swung across her shoulders, shining despite the grey light.

For her brother perhaps? He felt the same ache, the longing to cross the concourse and join her, to share either her joy or her grief. But if Lothar did come back today he would be like all those others he had seen. Startled by the sight of so many British uniforms, the navy, the army provost men; even the RAF police were here. Before, the only foreign uniforms they would have seen would have been Russian. It would be like suffering defeat for a second time. The last thing Ursula's brother would want was to see a British officer in the welcome-home party.

He wondered how Meikle had done it; if indeed the Russians could be trusted. After Swinemünde, Marriott was more than doubtful. He had heard that Meikle had exchanged a wanted prisoner, and with full approval from the Military Government.

It might even have been Helmut Maybach, although he could not fathom out the connection.

He thought too of Fairfax. Always so buoyant and trusting, and never without courage when it had been needed in those terrible nights in the Channel and North Sea.

Marriott had taken Ursula to a local theatre, the small Schloss Theatre and Casino in Eutin. It had been crowded with servicemen, officers and other ranks as well. He had guessed that she had never been to the place before even though it was in her own town. He had recalled Meikle describing her as a good girl. Innocent, he had really meant.

There had been a scantily clad girl in a spangled jacket and tiny pants, wearing a stetson while she rode a white horse around the dance-floor, her gestures with a cowboy pistol leaving little to the imagination. The servicemen had cheered and waved their beer mugs, and at least one officer had slipped away soon afterwards to the dressing-rooms. There had been a singer too, a fair girl not much older than Ursula. She had wandered among the tables singing some of the old melodies which the Germans had enjoyed before their fortunes had changed. A spotlight had followed her through the smoke-filled room, making her face shine, adding to the atmosphere of memory and loss.

It was when she had begun to sing 'Lili Marlene', the song beloved by both the Afrika Korps and Montgomery's Eighth Army in the desert, and now every one's favourite, that Marriott had seen Fairfax.

He had been sitting alone at a small table, his chin resting on one hand, a half-empty bottle of gin or schnapps by his elbow.

The girl had seemed to sense something, to pull herself from the thoughts and dreams she could share with no one. She had wanted only to sing, and was able to ignore the whistles and the cheers; but Fairfax, as completely alone as herself, had penetrated her solitude.

She had taken his hand and pressed it to her waist. Ursula had gripped Marriott's arm until he could feel her fingers biting into it.

Fairfax had looked up as if seeing her for the first time. Had held out his arm so that she could sit on his lap, her heavily powdered face just inches from his.

Marriott had expected her voice to be drowned by the noisy audience. But in the large, smoke-filled room, apart from the piano and her lilting, haunting voice, you could have heard a pin drop.

When they had left the casino and walked through the slush in the darkened streets towards the
Gasthaus,
Ursula had whispered, 'I will not forget that. It was the saddest thing – and yet so perfect!'

Marriott looked at his watch once more. He thought he could hear bells ringing and knew it could only add to the poignancy of their vigil. Christmas Eve. A family's time to be together. He had already checked with the R.T.O. There were just two more trains. After that –

The child was playing up, bewildered by the unexplained waiting, and probably cold in spite of the coat and woolly hat which would cover the scar on her forehead. How
could
she understand?

Her mother Leisl was crouching down to placate her. How did she feel? Was she still full of hope, or would she be dreading the questions? How had she lived and behaved in his absence? It was never easy.

He felt Heinz slip into the archway beside him.

Heinz glanced over at the small, isolated group. He had witnessed it all before, and thanked God he had been in Kiel with his family when their world had collapsed.

'Not here yet, Herr Leutnant?'

'No. There's still time.'

Heinz shrugged. 'They will miss the lights.'

The lights.
The F.O.I.C. had ordered all ships in Kiel to turn on their searchlights, and sound their sirens. There might be fireworks too. A night to remember, to cling to.

Marriott looked at them. Ursula had lifted the child and was speaking quietly, rocking her back and forth.

There was not much anticipation now. Despondent, resigned, and not knowing what to do about it.

Heinz said, 'I will be with the car, Herr Leutnant.' He tried to manœuvre his words into order. 'You were – most kind to us.'

Marriott thought of his face when he had given him a parcel for his own family Christmas. Mostly food, but some toys too from the White Knight shop in Flensburg.

'We remember you afterwards –' He could not go on, but thrust a small package into Marriott's gloved hands and hurried away.

Somewhere a bell jangled noisily, and around the concourse the remaining figures seemed to come alive again.

Like a scene from an opera, Marriott thought. The mourners and the ghosts. The drifting snow filtering through the overhead lights like in some ancient cathedral.

He watched Leisl straighten her coat and fluff out a bright neck-scarf to lessen the drabness of her clothing. She had been very pretty once.

Marriott had seen her go through the same motions so many times today.

Ursula had put down the little girl and was gripping her hand while she stood close to the barrier. She tossed her head, and Marriott felt his heart jump as the long hair drifted over her shoulders.

An old woman who had been here all day was gripping her two photographs. Enlargements of her husband and son, but now dog-eared and grubby with constant handling.

The MPs in their red-topped caps, some yawning, the naval patrol in white belts and gaiters, and the usual collection of officials gathered. Marriott could hear the train now, saw its light cutting over the gates, the screech of the big wheels as it slowed down for the final approach.
The end of the line.

He saw Leisl dabbing her eyes with a handkerchief, shaking her head hopelessly while Ursula spoke to her, as if offering some encouragement.

The inspectors manned the gates, the police moved closer, and then the train was suddenly here, the doors opening along the side like scales, pouring out men on to the platform in a living tide.

It was exactly the same train as all the others, Marriott thought. Field-grey, threadbare uniforms, some with parcels or kitbags, others walking as if on a last parade, eyes lifted, trying to escape.

Marriott saw the child holding the little teddy-bear which Ursula had been taking out of the dockyard when he had guided her past the place where they had been searching the women. The child was never without it. Even in the hospital.

The old woman was through the barrier with her pictures, holding them up, asking the hurrying spectres if they had seen them.

Marriott heard an MP say to his mate, 'She can't keep it up for ever, Tom. They're both dead and she knows it. She just keeps coming, poor old cow.'

Marriott stared, then looked away. Another side to the war which he had just discovered.

When he looked again the platform was almost empty, and Ursula was bent over the child, wrapping her up carefully for the return journey to Eutin. Then Marriott saw Leisl take a few faltering steps towards the gate, watched as she lifted both arms, unable to speak or move.

The soldier was tall and thin, and from this distance bore no resemblance to his sister. He was almost the last, and was limping badly, and one hand, probably maimed by frostbite, was poked into the front of his ragged greatcoat.

Marriott blinked, and then they were all together, hugging and kissing, the child somehow wedged amongst them. Leisl was laughing and crying all at once, and for these wonderful moments she was the same pretty girl the soldier had married, and left behind.

They turned away, but the child had dropped the teddy-bear, for once without noticing.

Ursula stooped to recover it, looked up, and saw Marriott in the archway. She ran across the snowy concourse, and pressed against him while he held her with both arms.

'You
came!
You are here all the while!'

He felt her hair against his mouth, could smell the perfume he had given her.

'Always when I need, you are here!' She leaned back in his arms, her eyes bright with tears, but laughing. She half-turned to look after the others and said, 'They do not miss me. Time to talk – to say things – to give thanks is all they want.'

With his arm round her shoulders they walked out into the snow and down the steps to the square.