Chapter 54

October 1918

Later in the month, we were informed of a move to a more permanent facility. Hauptmann Hahn seemed pleased to send us packing deeper into central Bavaria. This time the closed train windows did not create oppression, as the weather was cooler and the journey was a short three hours. At Ingolstadt station our boots were returned for the five mile march to a country fort, appearing rather out of the Middle Ages with its crenelated walls, moat, and drawbridge.

“Velcome to Fort Prinz Karl, officers of the enemy. I am zee Kommandant, and I ride, how you say, zee high horse. I see everything.”

This greeting was from Hauptmann Fuchs, who talked strong but looked weak with hunched shoulders, unkempt dark-brown hair, blue Aryan eyes, and a mustache he had evidently been trying to grow since puberty. He looked uncertain as he explained that, since we were not expected, there was no food, but for four marks a week we would be fed well. Being familiar with that story, we freely accepted it and instead conspired about ways to manipulate this vulnerable soul.

After settling in, the days again passed with tedium, but the three of us were together. In spite of the brick walls and haunting grass roof of the castle, the room was quite warm. We were free to move around and to make acquaintances without interference from the guards. Escape talk again surfaced, albeit not serious, as we bantered about how easy it would be to negotiate the moat. Even if we did, we would not last long in the near-freezing temperatures.

One day I strolled alone through the hallways and passages of the complex building, smoking a Turkish Murad. After moving past a grand stairway that led to the main level, I came to a cordoned-off section, which had chairs and rustic tables lined along the wall. An elaborately decorated double door was just visible in the darkness at the end of the hall.

Stubbing out my cigarette on the concrete floor, I pushed past the movables to get to the doors. Locked! I hesitated, looked behind me for spying eyes, and then pushed gently. There was a little give. Pushing harder, then shoving, the right door opened so hard I had to catch its handle to stop it from violently banging the inside wall.

As my eyes adjusted to the darkness, I could see before me a magnificent ballroom with enough space to hold all of the three hundred prisoners held at Prinz Karl. I moved cautiously inward, being careful not to trip over unnoticed furniture, and was able to pull aside large velvet draperies. As light filtered in and dust drifted down onto my shoulders, I saw more chairs, long tables, small sideboards, and a lectern at the front.

But the prize was sitting there in the center of the far wall—an old Bechstein. I strode to it, gently rubbed dust off the signature plate, C. Bechstein, and looked at its inlaid woodwork casing. Ah, the German obsession for precision in their hand manufacture was embodied in that instrument. Staring at the piece under the dim light took me back to central London where my grannie would sometimes take me for tea. We would pass Bechstein Hall and its related shop on Wigmore Street as we returned to Marble Arch station. Pianos that were built for British royalty and shipped all over the world were on display. I wondered if the currently deep-seated anti-German sentiment in Britain extended to such brilliance as the Bechstein piano.

I carefully raised the cover to expose the keys, gently plunging one black, one white, then another black. Not wishing to draw attention, I quickly covered them. How long had they been asleep? Who had owned this musical masterpiece?

. . .

“You gotta come quickly!” I had burst through the door of our room, startling both Howie and the Vicar from afternoon slumber. After rebuffing my excitement, they hurried after me down the stone corridor and into the large room off the inside passageway. Emboldened by the attendance of my new accomplices, I ambled over to the piano and brashly opened the cover.

Gently tapping out “Chopsticks,” I asked, “What do you make of this?”

The Vicar looked delighted. “I make happier days ahead.”

“Quite so, Bobby!” howled Howie.

Both of them turned to take in the room, glancing from end to end, looking up at the giant, gaudy crystal chandeliers. The delight in their eyes spoke loudly that they were thinking as I was. “Do you think they will allow us to use it, to have sing-alongs?”

The Vicar nodded as Howie spoke. “Why don’t we find out? But let’s not ask, let’s just do it. Fuchs is soft, and surely even the Hun can see the usefulness of a music hall, eh?”

I beamed with excitement. “All right, let’s call for a concert, shall we? I think I can render up some songs from memory. After all, we had lots of practice at Ochey and Xaffevillers, Villeseneux too.”

“Splendid. You work on those ivories, and I’ll spread the word.” Howie’s grin filled the room. “How about tomorrow evening for a couple of hours before curfew?”

I sat at the keys and thought of tunes that I had played in Walthamstow. Ten years back to that Easter in ‘08, back to all the wonderful times that the piano inspired. Music had such a wonderful ability to transport one to events, happy and sad, but memorable nonetheless. It was through music I would most remember Cissy, from the music at the Savoy, and the music at Fortnum tea, to the music of our love, from quiet hums to loud orchestras. And as Dr. Mott used the piano as therapy at the Maudsley, I would bring music to this jail. I wanted to bring comfort to the other prisoners. This was my chance to meet my commitment to be a positive voice, their positive voice.

The next evening’s concert involved most everyone, from inmates to jailers. We had left little choice for Hauptmann Fuchs but to accept our intrusion into the ballroom since, by the time the guards had rousted him, we were already well underway. We counted on his indecisive nature to give way to acceptance. With this little bit of manipulation, it thankfully did.

Even for the guards who had been hastily placed at the entrance and in every corner—after all, the kommandant could not know if our British flyers were hatching some secret, sinister plot—this was a welcome diversion as they tapped their toes and hummed along.

Oh, Mademoiselle from Armentieres, Parlez-vous.

You might forget the gas and shell,

But you’ll nev’r forget the mademoiselle!

Hinky-dinky, parlez-vous.

We were careful to select songs that were not obviously offensive to our enemy or those that mentioned war, for to provoke them now would be pointless. The hostility we all carried in our hearts would not find anger, at least not through these means.

Dusk and the shadows falling

O’er land and sea;

Somewhere a voice is calling,

Calling for me.

This rule made our selection somewhat difficult due to the vast number of anti-German songs sung over the war years and lyrics that made traditional songs bawdy. Still, we were able to sing with gaiety many songs that the Germans in the room did not understand to represent the free, decent life we had all been fighting for.

I’ve got a lovely bunch of coconuts;

There they are all standing in a row.

Big ones, small ones, some as big as your head.

Give them a twist, a flick of the wrist—

That’s what the showman said.

In this way we passed the days practicing and the evenings singing. Having stumbled upon the ballroom that day, and exposing that beautiful piano was a heaven-sent message that we were to be all right, to endure our time left in captivity.