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Aalsuppe
Matjes – Marinierter Hering –
Pickled Herrings
Schwarzbrot
Smoked Eel – Räucheraal
Kartoffelsalat – Potato Salad
Holsten Beer
Ice-cold Schnapps Berentzen Doornkaat
Very much a Baltic menu, eel, herring in various guises, washed down with schnapps and beer. My male dining companions stuck to the herring and schnapps. One because eels aren’t kosher, the other because the skin is black.
Edith would ask Roz to check Beckenbauer’s fragebogen. There’d been something unsavoury about him and it wasn’t just his peculiar recipe.
‘What’s going to happen to the two girls when they get out of there?’ Jack asked. ‘DP camp?’
‘Not if I can help it.’ Harry stared back at the hospital as they drove away. ‘They’ve had enough of that.’
‘I’ll find them somewhere,’ Edith said. ‘Don’t worry.’
She and Roz had been talking about moving out of their respective billets, Roz declaring that she couldn’t bear sharing a bathroom for another minute. Edith knew the feeling. She was tired of communal living and her room had been searched again, despite her warning. Fresh scratch marks on the brass plate of her writing slope, as though someone had been at the lock with a hairpin. Once she and Roz had their own place, the girls could stay with them, for a while at least, but what about the longer term?
‘What do they want, do you think?’ Edith asked. ‘We’re always deciding things for people but what do they want to do?’
‘They want to go back to Czechoslovakia,’ Harry answered.
‘That’s natural, I suppose,’ Edith said. Even after everything that’s happened, perhaps especially after everything that’s happened, they would want to go back to what they knew. To the world they remembered. A world that wasn’t there any more. ‘The trouble is, it won’t be like that, will it?’
‘No. It won’t.’ Harry stared out of the window. ‘It’s common. We come across it frequently. They know it’s all gone but a part of them secretly believes that it’s still there somewhere, waiting. They’re worried no one will know where they are if they don’t go back and they want to find what’s left of their family. It sounds brutal but there really is no point. In all likelihood, there is no family. They’ll find nothing. All they’ll encounter is hostility. Their homes will have been taken over. If they ask for news of their family, their old neighbours will just laugh and point up at the sky. That’s the best that can happen. I’ve heard reports of new pogroms: Jews, survivors, going home and being attacked, murdered, beaten to death.’
‘So? What’s to be done with them?’ Jack asked.
Harry did not respond. Edith knew what he was thinking: Tilhas Tizig Gesheften. Up your arse business. The girls would be taken care of.
They were nearing Blankense. Edith suggested Jack went to get Kay. They could have dinner together.
‘What happened back there?’ Harry asked as the waiter brought schnapps.
‘What do you mean?’
‘At the clinic.’ He twidded a toothpick between his fingers. ‘Why were you haring after that chap?’
‘I thought I recognized him. He looked a bit like someone I knew before the war.’
‘The chap you knew was a doctor?
Edith nodded. ‘His name is Kurt von Stavenow.’
Harry looked at her closely. ‘Was that a coincidence or are you looking for him?’
‘The latter.’
‘Is he wanted, this von Stavenow?’
Edith nodded again. She’d wanted to talk to Harry about him, about what she’d been tasked to do, but there had never been the right time, the right occasion.
‘Nazi doctors did some very bad things …’ he said, the disgust on his face belying his understatement.
‘Didn’t they?’ Edith sighed. For no clear reason, she had tears in her eyes. ‘Didn’t they just.’
A slight frown, a quirking between his brows, a quizzical look in his dark eyes. He knew there was more. She didn’t want to tell him about Kurt. About any of it. Not yet. Not now. Edith drank her schnapps in one. The cold, clear liquid shuddered through her, tasting like surgical spirit but giving her the lift she needed. She looked up, relieved to see Jack and Kay coming through the door.
Kay looked different out of uniform. Much younger and very attractive. She was wearing lipstick and her short nails were painted red. With her high colour, good cheekbones, full mouth and dark wavy hair there was a little of the Joan Crawford about her. No wonder Jack was smitten.
‘Jack says you went to the sanatorium to see Anna and Seraphina,’ she said. ‘I’ve been up there once or twice, keeping an eye on them.’
‘The doctor in charge is a bit of an odd character,’ Edith smiled. ‘He was explaining his hair diet to me.’
‘Did you try it?’
Edith shook her head, grimacing.
‘I did,’ Kay laughed. ‘Looks like Gentleman’s Relish. Tastes similar. I hope it works, for his sake. He’s been in hot water has Dr Beckenbauer. He has to mind his ps and qs.’
‘Why is that?’ Edith asked, wanting to know if her instinctive dislike for him was confirmed.
‘Did you notice a building? On its own in the grounds?’
‘Boarded up?’
‘That’s the one. On one of my visits, Seraphina told me there are patients in there. She called them muselmann.’
‘What’s that mean?’ Jack frowned, puzzled. It was a word he hadn’t heard before.
‘It means extreme emaciation,’ Harry supplied. ‘It’s a term they used in the camps.’
Kay nodded her confirmation. ‘So, I go to Dr Beckenbauer, demand to see inside. He’s happy to show me. Seraphina was right. These patients exhibit signs of advanced malnutrition. They are the mental patients, he explains, they don’t receive the same rations as those in the main hospital. When I ask, why not? All patients should receive the same ration, he’s shocked. He didn’t think the directive applied to them.’
‘What happened?’
‘I reported it. He got a rocket. Patients transferred. Facility closed down. Trouble is, we have the same problem with Jerry doctors and nurses as you do with teachers. To practise under the Nazis, you had to belong to the Party.’
‘It’s happening all the time now.’ Harry frowned. ‘They’re letting them blend back in. Take their places again.’
‘There simply aren’t enough doctors,’ Kay replied. ‘Mil. Gov. has to keep the death rate down among the German population, so they can’t be too particular. German doctors are appointed by a German committee. My guess is most of them are ex-Nazis but what can you do?’
‘Where’s the food?’ Jack looked round. ‘I’m starving.’
Harry refused his soup and lit a cigarette.
‘What’s this?’ Jack fished out a piece of black skin. ‘Looks like inner tube. Bet it tastes like it, too. I’m not eating that.’
‘It’s good, Jack,’ Kay tasted hers. ‘You should try new things.’
‘I’ll leave that to you.’ Jack pushed his plate away. ‘He isn’t eating it, either.’
‘I don’t eat eel.’
Not kosher, Edith remembered from some lost Religious Knowledge lesson. Eels have no fins.
The two men drank schnapps and ate herring.
‘What will you do when you get out?’ Harry asked.
‘Dunno,’ Jack laughed. ‘Haven’t thought that far ahead.’
‘What about you, Kay? Nursing?’
‘No. I’ve had enough of that. I was at Art school before I volunteered. I’m going to apply to the Royal College. Pick up my life where I left it.’ Kay touched her lips with her napkin. ‘Every now and then, I just take off with a haversack, pack of sandwiches, Thermos of tea, change of undies, bottle of whisky and my sketchbook. I’ve visited galleries and museums in Holland, Belgium and here in Germany. I’m hoping to get to Paris. I don’t advertise my interest. I don’t tell many that I want to be an artist. They’d tell me to stick to nursing. You know how people are.’
‘I really like Kay,’ Edith said when she and Jack were on their way back to Lübeck. ‘I hope you’re treating her properly.’
‘I thought you two’d hit it off.’
‘So she’s going to study art.’
‘Unh, hnh.’ Jack peered into the darkness ahead of him. They’d stayed longer than they should. There was black ice about.
‘What are you going to do, Jack? You didn’t say.’
‘I’m going to marry her. Ain’t popped the question, like,’ he added, almost bashful. ‘So I’d be grateful if you kept it under your hat.’
It was not quite what Edith had asked and certainly wasn’t what she’d expected.
‘You can count on me, Jack,’ she said. ‘I won’t breathe a word.’
Jack could change a conversation as smoothly as he shifted gears. She still didn’t know what he intended to do, or what he’d done before, for that matter.
They got back very late. All the other houses in the street were in darkness except for the billet. The curtains weren’t drawn and all the lights were on, shining yellow on the snowy lawn. Even before she saw the Jeep drawn up outside, Edith knew that something was wrong.
‘Looks like the Military Police,’ Jack said.
‘Something must have happened.’ Edith got out of the car. ‘I think you’d better come in, too, Jack.’
The door opened before she’d even turned her key in the lock. Hilde’s blue eyes met Edith’s and then slid away again. Behind the girl’s usual passivity, Edith could clearly sense fear.
Edith gave her hat, coat and gloves to her. Jack stood back in cap and greatcoat, arms folded, awaiting developments.
The two military policemen were standing in the centre of the sitting room, looking large, masculine and slightly at a loss as to what to do. The German girls stood against the wall, hands clasped, eyes cast down. Angie, Ginny and Franny were huddled together on the settee, red eyed and crying. Lorna and Jo were by the window, rather less hysterical but nevertheless pink eyed. Frau Schmidt hovered inside the door, wringing her hands, fat tears rolling down her cheeks.
‘What on earth’s happened?’
‘Oh, Edith, thank God you’re back.’ Angie looked up, blue eyes glassy, lashes wet and spiky. ‘It’s Molly. There’s been the most terrible accident.’
This set Ginny off and the two of them dissolved into fresh sobs. She would clearly get no sense out of them. Edith turned to the two policemen.
‘Perhaps one of you could tell me what has happened.’
‘You are?’
‘Edith Graham. I live here.’ Edith showed him her CCG card. He inclined his head slightly as he acknowledged her rank.
‘There’s been an accident, ma’am. Involving Miss Slater. Fatal, I’m afraid.’ He turned his red cap round in his hands. ‘We need someone to identify the body.’
‘I couldn’t! I simply couldn’t!’ Angie cried.
‘I couldn’t, either!’ Ginny looked up, her brown eyes swimming. ‘It’s just too upsetting.’
Franny shook her head quickly and continued to stare down at the sodden wisp of handkerchief she was winding round her fingers. Of all them, she seemed the most upset. Despite the cruel jibes, ‘Good old Goll’ had been devoted to Molly.
‘When did this happen?’ Edith asked the policeman.
‘This evening. She was on a motorcycle. Icy road. No helmet, of course. It’s, well, it’s not pretty—’
‘I see,’ Edith interrupted. ‘Thank you, sergeant.’ As much as she disliked the Common Room hysteria, these girls were only young and they’d had a shock. ‘I’ll do it. I’ll identify her.’
‘I’ll come with you,’ Lorna volunteered from the window. ‘I’ll get my coat.’
Jack drove them, following the Jeep. They didn’t have far to go. The girl had been taken to the Red Cross Hospital: a modernish red-brick building on Marlistraße, by the banks of the Wakenitz.
They followed the two military policemen down into the basement. A strong smell permeated the long cream-painted corridor, disinfectant and formaldehyde with a sweetish undertone, as though morgues could never quite rid themselves of the smell of decay. Lorna put her handkerchief to her mouth. One of the policemen opened rubber-flanged double doors. He flicked switches on the wall. Pairs of low-hanging lamps cast interlocking cones of white light; their wide metal shades creating shadows on the ceiling and in the corners of the room. Tiles covered every surface; any natural light came from two small windows set high on the far wall. It was like being in a white-tiled cave.
The lights illuminated ceramic dissecting tables on thick pedestals. Three of them occupied, one vacant. The tables were curved at the head end, straight across the bottom, with a thick lip around the edge. The empty table showed a grooved and channelled surface sloping towards a centre line. Metal piping provided drainage into the floor. Lorna gulped, as if she might be sick, turning her head away quickly, as if the reality of what went on here was too much to absorb.
Edith put her hand on the girl’s sleeve. ‘You don’t have to do this, Lorna. If you feel unwell, you can leave.’
‘No,’ she shook her head. ‘I’ll be OK.’ She gave a wan smile. ‘Let’s get it over with, eh?’
‘Very well.’ Edith looked to the sergeant.
‘One on the right, ma’am. With the sheet folded down.’
Edith stepped forward. She took Lorna’s hand, squeezing tightly. The girl was as white as the tiles on the wall.
Molly Slater lay with only her head showing, her slender form covered with a coarse, worn sheet. The right-hand side of her face was perfect. Even her makeup was intact. Sooty lashes, thickened with mascara, brushed the bluish skin of her cheek. The platinum hair was set in rippling waves, hardly a strand out of place. The other side of her head was a mess. The silvery hair clotted and bloody, the skull beneath it misshapen, that side of her face abraded. Edith forced herself to look back at the good side, the Molly side. She might not have liked her very much, but she really was little more than a child. The closed eye showed a sweep of blue liner, irregularly applied, as though she’d been interrupted, or her hand slipped, or something. Edith felt the hot-pepper sting of tears behind the eyes.
‘Is it her?’ the sergeant asked. ‘Miss Margaret Slater?’
‘Yes.’ Edith nodded, throat tight.
‘Miss?’ He turned to Lorna.
‘Yes, it is her. It’s Molly. They called her Molly, not Margaret,’ she added as if that was something important for him to know.
Edith nodded towards the body on the slab next to Molly.
‘And that is?’
‘Miss Slater’s companion. The boyfriend.’ He looked at his notes. ‘One Valdema-rs Jansons, or so his papers say.’
There was another body on the far side of Molly, completely covered, except for a hand flopped down from under the coarse, greyish sheet. A small hand with bitten nails and missing the upper joints of the little finger. The skin broken, yellowish, like the cracked surface of a bisque doll.
‘Who’s that?’
‘Who knows?’ The sergeant shrugged. ‘What the Yanks call a Jane Doe. No identification. DP most probably. Fished out of the Trave when they were breaking ice.’
Edith resisted his efforts to shepherd her towards the wide doors.
‘Wait,’ she said. ‘I think I might know her. May I see?’
‘Are you sure? Ain’t a pretty sight, ma’am. Looks to have been there some time.’
‘I’m sure.’ Edith couldn’t bear to think of her lying there, unnamed, unclaimed.
He pulled the covering cloth from her ruined face. ‘Could be worse. Water’s near freezing. But it’s the fish, see? Eels especially.’
‘Thank you, sergeant.’ Edith swallowed hard. ‘I think her name is Agnese. She worked in our billet. A Latvian, I believe.’ She turned to Lorna. ‘She’s not been there for … how long?’ Lorna shrugged and shook her head. ‘I’d say a few weeks now.’
He took out a notebook. ‘Any other name?’
‘I don’t know, I’m afraid, but she claimed to be cousin to the young man you have over there.’
‘I see.’ He wrote something and snapped the notebook shut. ‘Thank you, Miss Graham. You’ve been very helpful.’
‘So you knew t’other wench?’ Jack asked as they walked back to the car, the younger Military Policeman going ahead with Lorna, his head bent towards her, solicitous.
‘She worked at the billet,’ Edith replied. ‘She was missing the top joints on her little finger. That’s how I recognized her. She is, was, Jansons’ cousin.’
‘He’s a right mess,’ Jack said quietly.
‘Jansons?’
‘Yes. Head nearly ripped clean off. I took a gander while you were occupied with the girl. That’s no accident. Partisan trick. Seen it plenty of times in Italy. Wire across the road.’ He made a guttural noise and passed a finger across his throat. ‘Done for.’
She was bone tired. The house was quiet. The girls packed off to bed with mugs of sweet cocoa. Für den schock, Frau Schmidt said and offered to make some for Edith but that was about the last thing she wanted. She poured herself a stiff whisky and went up to her room. She had postcards, menus, recipes to write and code but she couldn’t think about writing. What she’d just seen eclipsed everything.
She stared down at the blank paper, thinking back. Agnese had disappeared very soon after their conversation in the kitchen. And Harry Hirsch: the Friday night she’d told him about the attack on her. He hadn’t been there next morning. Making a phone call, he said. Tilhas Tizig Gesheften. Up your arse business. She should stop this spying. She wasn’t cut out for it. Escape from its spreading, tenebrous shadow. Meddle no more. She covered her face with her hands, tears leaking through her fingers for two young women stretched out in the morgue who might well be there because of her.