Sophia was assigned to the lowest ward. It was not his, it was the room for the least serious patients, some of whom could walk around or sit and play cards. Though many of them had lost limbs, they seemed optimistic. Some were in their forties, even fifties. She was struck again by the men’s good nature, their friendships, their dedication to one another.
Some of the prisoners had worked in England before the war, and were eager to talk about it. They wanted to know where she lived, whether she was married or had a young man. When she spoke German to a man in distress who kept calling for his mother, they were enchanted. Within an hour every prisoner who was capable of understanding knew she spoke the language. Where had she learnt German? Did she have German friends? Did she know Stuttgart? Schwäbisch Hall? Berlin? Had she ever seen the cabaret at the Wintergarten, or been to the Luna Park? The answer was yes in each case, but she could not bring herself to say so – the memory of her carefree holiday in Berlin made her sick with sadness. One man said, ‘Will you marry me? It would make me happy and I shall be dead soon, I shall be no nuisance, and I will leave you my flat in München, it is very elegant, and I have some fine works of art.’ His friends told him to be quiet. She moved between the beds, calming the men if they became too animated, saying she would be back the next day, and all the time she worried about Freddy.
By the evening she’d decided she had to tell Matron, the daytime matron, who looked as though she might be sympathetic.
She knocked at Matron’s door. Matron seemed to be taking a nap, and regarded Sophia disapprovingly.
‘Yes? Nurses do not come to matron except by special appointment through their ward sister. You know that.’
‘Matron, I’m very sorry, but I have to tell you, I know one of the patients here.’
‘That’s not unusual. Nurses do find they know patients. Patients come here from all parts of Britain. Have you just come to tell me that?’
‘He’s not from Britain.’ Matron looked at her uncomprehendingly. ‘He’s German.’
‘German? Oh, I’m sorry. What do you want, then?’
‘I want to be allowed to sit beside his bed and talk to him if he can understand me. When I’m off duty, of course.’
‘I can’t allow it. A friendly word, yes, but we cannot allow fraternising with the enemy in hospital, any more than in the field.’
‘Matron. . . The thing is, he’s not just a friend. He’s my brother-in-law.’
‘I see.’ She looked appalled.
‘I know him very well, he lived with us for two years in London, he’s. . .’ And she burst into violent sobs.
Matron let herself forget she was matron. She told Sophia to sit down, unlocked a drawer, took out a flask, gave Sophia a drink. This made Sophia feel better. She’d never drunk whisky, only the rough wine provided in great quantities in the estaminet.
‘My poor child,’ said Matron, reaching for the glass and helping herself. ‘He may get better. What is his name?’
‘His name is Freddy.’
Matron raised her eyebrows. ‘Surname?’
‘Curtius.’ She was on the verge of another crying fit. It was childish, unprofessional, she told herself, but she couldn’t stop.
Matron consulted a register. ‘No one can say we aren’t efficient here, in spite of it all.’ She found the name, and frowned.
‘I’m afraid the outlook is not good. It’s a head wound. The chances of recovery, even survival for more than a few days, are very slight.’
Sophia stared at her, wordlessly. Matron lowered her eyes.
‘Nurse, in these exceptional circumstances you have my permission to spend half an hour with the prisoner.’ She sighed. ‘With the patient. He is not often conscious, I understand. You realise, you must take great care not to excite him. I will speak to the ward sister.’ She took another sip from her glass, which was decorated with a comic picture of fat people on a beach and the words ‘A present from Scarborough’. Sophia never forgot that glass, it would appear to her years later in her dreams. ‘I am very sorry, my dear. We live with so much suffering around us that it hardens us.’
‘Thank you. You’re very kind.’
‘Well, we can hold onto a bit of kindness, whatever else has to go. What’s your name?’
‘Benson.’
‘I mean, your Christian name.’
‘Sophia. I’ve almost forgotten it here,’ she said drearily.
‘Sophia, you shouldn’t delay. Go and have your dinner – even if you don’t want it, you must keep your strength up. Go to the ward when you’re ready. They’ll be expecting you.’