I was lonely. I leaned my head against the side of the window frame and looked out on the foreign landscape. Germany! When my husband’s regiment had received its posting here it was expected that I, as an officer’s wife, would join him; but I did not want to go to the land which, until a few months ago, had been our enemy.
“Can’t I stay behind?” I asked.
“C’mon Molly,” Tom had said, “It won’t be that bad.”
He was wrong. I knew no one apart from the other wives and they all looked down on me; they sneered at my north country accent and low level of education. Neither did I know any German, even if I should want to speak to the locals. Mind you, I thought, they probably would not want to speak to me either. The level of poverty and deprivation caused by the war far exceeded anything I had seen before. People were desperately hungry and little children looked old before their time.
Idly, I watched an old man shuffling up the line of bins, foraging as he went: one of our regular beggars. A thatch of white hair stuck out crazily from below his peaked cap, a faded greatcoat hanging loosely from his frame was tied at the waist with a piece of frayed rope and his feet were bound in a wad of grimy rags. I felt so sorry for him. Every now and again he came up with a prized morsel and popped it into his mouth. I wrinkled my nose in distaste, but I sympathized. I knew what it was like to be hungry. I had grown up in the Depression: work was scarce and money in short supply. My sisters and I often went to bed hungry. That was why I now disregarded the official injunction not to feed any beggars. I knew that when he arrived at my bin this man would find a parcel of food, simple though it was, carefully wrapped up in greaseproof paper and placed just under the lid. Tom, I knew, would be annoyed if he found out. There would be trouble, so it seemed best not to say anything. After all, as the saying goes, “What he doesn’t know, won’t harm him”.
My husband had changed since he came home from the war; his time on the battlefront had left a mental scar. He was no longer the chirpy man with the infectious laugh who had captured my heart as he whirled me round the dance floor.
‘Molly, you’re the girl for me,” he had declared.
We were married just before he was posted overseas, and I spent four anxious years awaiting his return. When he finally came back, though, his exuberance had disappeared, and he rarely laughed these days.
With a start I realized that the beggar was now bending over my bin, retrieving the package of food. To save him any embarrassment, I stepped swiftly backward. Too late! The movement caught his attention. A pair of piercing blue eyes looked out at me from his gaunt face. Then, slowly, he straightened his back, moved his heels together, and dipped his head in a salute. Then he moved on to the neighbor’s bin. That dignified movement from such a pathetic-looking person brought tears to my eyes. Here was not ‘the enemy’ as some of my compatriots thought, but a fellow human being.
A sharp cry interrupted my thoughts. I turned and gathered my daughter, Sarah, into my arms and kissed her soft cheeks. A few hours later, I headed along the road, my breath billowing in clouds before me as I pushed the stout pram up a steep hill. I was heading for my favourite place, far away from the prying eyes and vicious gossip of the other wives. I strolled along the ridge, past woods not yet green, and along the track to the dilapidated bench nestling against the stone walls of a castle ruin. There, I took my usual seat, looking out across the town. It was a sorry sight: a proud university town that had been razed to the ground by wartime bombing. It was, in many ways, a mirror image of my hometown. I took a deep breath of the sharp, winter air and shook my head to try and dispel the sense of gloom that had enveloped me. I yearned for ‘home’, for my own family, friends, and familiar landmarks, not the barren landscape of this alien land.
Slowly, I stood up and started pushing Sarah back towards what now passed as home: the married quarters on the edge of town. Just as I was passing the woods, I had to pull up sharply. The jolt woke Sarah, and she began to cry. Angrily, I turned on the cause of this hiatus: the man who had suddenly stepped out from the bush immediately in front of us.
“Oy! Why don’t you look where you’re going?”
He turned and looked at me. I gasped with astonishment. I knew him! It was the man with the white hair.
“I am so sorry,” he said in heavily accented English, “I was deep in thought. I did not mean to startle you.”
I must have looked a comical sight as my mouth dropped open with astonishment.
“You speak English! But you’re German!”
He gave a wry smile. “Guilty as charged.” He continued, “Before the war, I studied at Cambridge University; I had many English friends there.”
“How could you fight us then? You were our enemy”
A great sadness clouded his features.
“Sometimes, life leaves you little choice. You have to do your duty whether or not you believe in the cause.”
With a jolt of fear, I realized that I was alone in a deserted place with a total stranger. I leaned into the pram handle and began to push forward.
“I must go.”
His hand shot out and grabbed my arm. I was surprised by his strength. Clearly, he was not as old nor as weak as I had thought. I struggled frantically to get free. His voice, though, was gentle.
“Wait! You are, I think, the lady at the window - the kind one who puts out food for me?”
I nodded.
“I know what it is to be hungry.”
“Thank you. Such kindness means a lot to me.”
The next moment he was gone.
I walked home slowly, reflecting on what had just happened. Fancy meeting the object of my charity! Then a further thought occurred to me. I couldn’t discuss this with anyone, not even Tom. It would mean telling him about my breach of the official order not to feed anyone. That could bring trouble. No! Best not to say anything.
I never saw ‘my’ German again that week but, on bin day, I kept vigil at the window. ‘Would he come as usual?’ I wondered. I soon had my answer. There he came, working his way up the line of bins. He reached mine, found the food package, and then lifted his head. This time I was ready. Our eyes locked and I smiled at him. He simply nodded before moving on up the road.
That afternoon, before setting out with Sarah I made sure my hair was freshly brushed and loosely tied back from my face. At the last moment, I put a dab of lipstick on my lips. I smiled at the result. I looked more alive than usual. We set off briskly in the spring sunshine, heading for the ruined castle. Without asking myself ‘why?’ I was keeping a sharp lookout for the German. A surprising spasm of pleasure shot through me when I saw him ahead of me on the path. ‘Has he been waiting for me?’ I wondered.
“Please. Let me introduce myself. My name is Gerhardt.”
“And I am Molly.”
“May I?” He indicated the pram. I paused, considering this request for a moment before nodding. He carefully leaned towards the sleeping child.
“She is beautiful.”
I beamed proudly.
“What is her name, please?”
“Sarah. After my grandmother”.
“A good name, a biblical one. May she know much laughter and always bring joy to you’”
The words were said so warmly that it felt like a blessing. Any lingering fears fell away. Once again, he turned to leave.
I found myself calling after him, the words unbidden.
‘I come this way every day.”
The man looked back and smiled at me. Years seemed to fall away from him, and I realized that he wasn’t old at all.
The next day he was there again. This time he had a cracked, faded photograph in his hand. He held it out to me as I reached him, simply saying without any preamble,
“My baby.”
I looked closely at the image. A baby girl in a christening gown lay on a white shawl, a perfect image of tranquillity.
‘She’s lovely. What’s her name?’
“Gerda. I loved her so much.”
“Loved?’” I queried the past tense. A dark shadow settled over his features.
“She was killed with her mother, my wife, in a bombing raid.”
My hand flew to my mouth in horror and my eyes misted over with unshed tears.
“I am so very, very sorry,” I whispered as I looked fully into his face. He nodded. At that moment Sarah began to whimper. I reached into the pram and gently lifted her into my arms.
“There, there,’” I crooned softly. I looked over the baby’s head at the man standing before me; there was great sadness on his face. He tried to speak but words would not come; his shoulders heaved with suppressed emotion. He swiftly turned back into the woods.
I heard him sob: “Gerda, mein Liebling.”
That evening, as I sat with Tom, I chewed my lower lip worrying about what he would say if he knew of my meetings with this man. I had never had any real secrets from him before, but somehow it was difficult to tell him about these walks.
“Everything all right, my dear?” his voice cut into my thoughts. “You’re quiet this evening.”
“Yes, fine, thanks. I’ve just got a bit of a headache that’s all.”
He put his arm around me, and I relaxed against his shoulder. Life felt normal again.
Over the following days, I often met up with Gerhardt. An unlikely friendship developed. He would walk slowly alongside the pram, talking to me about his time in Cambridge and of his early life in a rural village, high in the hills. I learned that he was a doctor’s son, raised in a tiny village and that his white hair was a hereditary quirk. In return, I would chatter of my early life in a mining town and my work as a shop assistant before I married Tom. When I reached my favorite bench, he took to sitting alongside me as we talked. It was so nice to have a friend at last, though sometimes my conscience troubled me. ‘What would Tom think if he saw me now?’ I tried to reassure myself. ‘I’m not doing anything wrong, just walking and talking. Anyway, I love Tom.’ I realized that it was too late now to say anything without causing a major upset. My meetings with Gerhardt would have to remain a secret.
I still put food out in the bin, rather than hand it over to him direct. After all, I could never be sure of when I would next see him. Those feet of his troubled me, until one day I remembered that Tom had a pair of brand-new shoes that he never wore: too tight for him. The following bin day, I wrapped those in some brown paper and watched secretly as they were discovered. The look of delight on Gerhardt’s face warmed me through and through.
The next day he was wearing them happily.
“Thank you so much,” he said, “they fit perfectly.”
I beamed with happiness. We walked along to the bench and, as we sat there, I lifted Sarah out of her pram and onto my knee. He smiled tenderly at her, with a look of longing. On an impulse, I passed her over to him. As I did so, our fingers brushed together, and I was surprised by the thrill of excitement that went through my body. Sarah settled happily on his knee, smiling, and babbling her baby talk. I relaxed into the weak sunshine.
The next moment, however, my secret world was shattered.
“Good afternoon, Mrs. Jones,” a voice said icily.
My blood ran cold. Gladys Ponsoby-Smythe! The Commanding Officer’s wife paused, looking carefully at each of us before sweeping on down the path.
I snatched Sarah back and bundled her swiftly in her pram and set off at a fast pace.
“Now I’m in for it! The gossips will have a great time with this.”
Gerhardt stood up and followed at a slower pace.
“Maybe it will not be as bad as you think.”
‘Huh! What did he know of the viciousness of idle tongues! Worse still, Tom would discover that I had been having secret meetings with another man: a German at that!’ I was sobbing as I raced home.
That evening, Tom arrived home, quieter even than usual. I prepared the evening meal and put Sarah to bed, my heart pounding all the time. Surely the storm would break any moment now! Still silence. I picked up the baby cardigan I was knitting and poured all my concentration into that. Every time I looked up, I discovered Tom was watching me intently. Yet he said nothing. That night, though, he made love with a strange intensity.
I determined not to see Gerhardt anymore and avoided my usual route for the afternoon walks. But I missed his companionship. Eventually, after several days, I could stand it no longer. Swallowing hard, I headed up to the ruined castle. There was no sign of him. Sadly, I retraced my steps until I reached the path into the woods. On an impulse, I wheeled the pram round and down the uneven path. Sarah slept on. Just as I had given up hope, I saw him. Gerhardt was coming out of a tumbledown hut. I stopped, not sure what to say or do.
“Hello,” he said, as if it was the most natural thing in the world and, taking it from me, he pushed the pram up to the door. There he took my hand and silently led me inside. The only furnishings were an old mattress on the floor and two wooden crates, pressed into service as table and chair. I chewed my lip, suddenly aware of strange intimacy.
“I must go… now.” I moved awkwardly. He came and stood in front of me, his head questioningly to one side.
“Must you?”
Slowly, he lifted a finger and touched my face, turning it back towards him. His eyes looked searchingly into mine. He put his hands on my arms and gently drew me towards him. I was powerless; a strange fascination had taken hold of me, fixing me where I was. His head tilted down towards me. I tipped my head back to receive his gentle kiss. He stepped back, looking ashamed.
“I am sorry, I should not have done that.”
I made an involuntary movement and then we were locked in a fierce embrace. I knew I should go; but I stayed. His hands roved eagerly over my body, and I felt myself responding. Just then a baby’s cry, loud and insistent, shattered the moment. Sarah! His arms dropped to his side, and I broke free.
I rushed over to the pram and picked up my child, Tom’s child, into my arms. I turned and faced Gerhardt, shame sweeping through my body.
“I really must go.” He looked at me and nodded knowingly.
“You are a good woman, Molly. You’ve helped me more than you will ever know.” He lifted my hand to his lips and kissed it formally. I knew then that would be the last time I would ever see him; our paths lay in different directions now. Sadness enveloped me.
That evening, I was aware of Tom watching me closely. He leant forward.
“You know, Molly, I saw a really strange sight today. A man heading out of town with a rucksack on his back. He had the craziest white hair sticking out from under his cap and a tattered greatcoat tied at the waist with rope. The strange thing is,” he paused and looked at me keenly. “He was wearing a really smart pair of brown shoes - just like that pair I have at the back of the wardrobe. Fancy that!”
I tried to smile, but a tear fell instead.
He gently pulled me to my feet and slid his hands around me, holding me tightly.
“Come on, my love. You’ve had a hard time. Let’s go to bed.”
I buried my face into his shoulder, breathing deeply of his familiar body scent. This was where I belonged. I made a silent vow: no more secrets!
Bio.
Emmie Blake, B.A, had a peripatetic childhood, growing up in post-war Germany. On her return to England, she found herself an ‘outsider.’ That experience strongly influenced her life and led to her working with people on the fringes of society: people with addictions, ex-offenders, and disadvantaged communities. She has been writing for many years but only started writing short stories on her retirement from her full-time work as an ordained minister. She has won several regional competitions and has had stories published in an anthology as well as in ‘AWS e-zine, Issue I’. She currently lives in rural Wales with her husband where, alongside her recreational activities, she is involved in voluntary work in the local community and is Chair of the local Refugee Support Group.