Travelling back to Schwerin one misty afternoon in September 1917 with a package of envelopes, Irene was startled to see the hands of two people who normally never wrote.
Mark wrote that he would be visiting Copenhagen in October, on business, and wanted to see her, it had been so long. Could she visit Copenhagen for two or three days?
She was delighted, though she worried a little when she thought about the arrangements; it had never occurred to her that she could escape Germany. She must speak to Thomas. Or perhaps it would be better if she did not speak to Thomas. In the end she merely told him that she would be away for two nights.
She was not pleased to recognise the handwriting on the other letter. How on earth had Julian found out how to write to her? She pushed the letter into a drawer. The next day she took it out, intending to tear it up. But, she reflected, that would be cruel: she could guess his emotions when he was writing the letter. Dodo fell over and wailed and she put the letter away.
Three days later she peered at the envelope to see if he’d added any of his comic squiggles. In a corner she made out a tiny snake, with a doleful face. Smiling reluctantly, she hid it again.
The following morning she opened the letter.
Dear Irene,
I wanted to let you know that I am still alive, but wounded, just a bit. I joined the Artists’ Rifles and have been on active service in France. They gave me a commission, God knows why. Personally I would discharge myself for incompetence.
It was unspeakable in France. Fortunately I got a bit of a wound in my right leg, and was sent home, which is why I’m writing from hospital. I may get better quite soon and have to go back. I wish I were brave enough to be a conchie.
I did a few drawings in the trenches, but it seemed perverted, drawing disembodied limbs sticking out of the mud. But now I’m planning a grand series of pictures about peace, and love, and Resurrection. I think I may become a Christian, that must surprise you.
I heard from a friend who heard from a friend who heard from your good mother (she would not like to know I’m writing to you) that you are a mother. What a lucky baby, I’d love to wake up to see you bending over my cot. She must be a very special baby. Is she going to be an English person, or a full-blooded Hun?
(Sorry, break here while I drink immensely strong cup of tea provided by blushing female orderly.)
Reading that last bit, I’ve crossed it out. It was meant to be a joke, but it’s not funny. I should write this page again but to tell you the truth writing is a strain. They give me some potion which slows me down. By the way, there was no amputation, I am still the fine figure of a man you remember, with all my fingers, though rather grey in the face.
One day the war will be over, and perhaps we’ll meet again as friends, if the Germans haven’t finished me off.
The awful thing is I love you as much as ever. I know it will only put you in a rage if I say that, but I can’t help it. I won’t ever not love you.
Always, dearest Irene, very much love, J
She folded the letter, wondered whether to tear it up, put it in her writing box. She would never write back. But she might send a brief message. She was glad he was alive, but she wished he would meet another woman. As she’d told him, it was pointless for him to go on loving her.
She fixed her eyes on the photograph of Thomas beside her desk. ‘Thank God I’m married to him,’ she said aloud.
She shook herself and went to the kitchen where Gretchen was playing with Dodo. Dodo chortled and waved her arms and was reluctantly surrendered.
Private domestic virtue, Irene said to herself, perhaps that was one answer to this hideous world, however modest it sounded. For a woman trapped like her in an alien place, love and loyalty to the husband, rearing children, maintaining a happy home – those were the things to value, weren’t they?
‘Do I believe that, Dodo? Do I? What do you think, my little treasure?’ Dodo gurgled and waved her hands.
Irene gave her a kiss and forgot about the letter from Julian. Dodo had most sensible ideas, even though she could not yet express them. Above all, Dodo embodied, in her tiny cheerful form, hope for the future.
At least out of this horror something positive might grow. And her mind moved back to her drawings.