The Farmer's Daughter (29 page)

‘I'll send someone else, you're done for.'

‘What shall I do?'

‘Go back to camp. There's transport to take you. You've done a good job. Couldn't have managed without you.'

‘Jerry or not, he's a hero,' said the woman with the baby. ‘I'll never forget him.'

He walked wearily back to the lorry, hauled himself up and collapsed in a corner. There were other men there but they were all nearly as exhausted as he was and no one spoke.

When he arrived back at the camp he found Otto, sitting on one of the beds, reading a German newspaper. ‘
Mein Gott
, Otto, where have you sprung from?' he demanded. ‘Where have you been?'

‘Home.'

‘You got home?' He was astonished.

‘Yes, and now I'm back.'

‘What happened?'

‘I made it to London, sneaked aboard a freighter and pretended to be a Dutch member of the crew. It was going to Hamburg. It was a city in ruins. I managed to get on a train …'

‘What did you use for money?'

‘They took English money. Half the railways were out of action and I saw a lot of the country while I going from one train to another, catching buses and walking. Everywhere was in ruins, Karl, nothing but rubble. People were scavenging for food and begging and when the snow came they died …'

‘But your folks?'

‘Dead, Karl, dead. They died in the floods when the Möhne was breached. The letter I had from them was written before the raid.' He gave a hollow laugh. ‘So I came back and gave myself up. Here I am and here I stay.'

It was strange that Otto, who was so keen go home, was going to stay in England while he, who wanted more than anything to make his home here, was down to go back to Germany.

‘I shouldn't go,' Otto said, reading his thoughts. ‘In the Russian zone it's worse. I heard that anyone who has been in Allied hands is sent straight to Siberia.'

The efforts of the German prisoners during the floods, particularly Karl's, were praised by everyone and some of the animosity towards them eased. Gradually the land dried out and the farmers tried to catch up with the sowing and planting, but the ground was still sticky and they had no idea how much would germinate. Lost livestock had to be replaced. The Colemans were lucky in
that respect; they had lost no animals, though the milk yield was down. The sheep had lambed indoors but as soon as there was grass enough for them, they were put outside to graze. Karl's labour was needed more than ever. Gordon went from animosity to toleration, which Jean supposed was a step in the right direction.

The ban on British women marrying Germans was lifted in July, which was followed by a flurry of weddings. ‘It's for you to decide, sweetheart,' Karl told Jean, when they debated whether to follow suit.

‘I want to more than anything,' she said. ‘But I think we should wait until you have been home. See your parents first.'

‘You are probably right,' he said, thinking of what Otto had told him. If he was prevented from coming back he would be leaving her in an untenable position. Married, perhaps pregnant, but unable to marry again until she could go through the courts for a divorce; messy, expensive and time-consuming. She obviously realised that herself and he was glad of it, even if it did mean more self-restraint than ever.

Colonel Williamson was smiling broadly as he addressed the group of men he had summoned. ‘You are next for repatriation. Transport will take you to the holding camp in Leicestershire tomorrow morning immediately after breakfast. I suggest you collect your belongings together. Please bear in mind the restrictions on what you may take.' He handed them each a sheet of paper. ‘Mr Muller, stay behind please.' It was the first time Karl had been addressed as mister since the use of military titles had been abolished and it sounded strange. On the other hand that was how he wanted to be addressed when he came back. If he came back.

He waited until everyone else had left the room. ‘Can't we even warn our employers?' he asked.

‘I don't see how you can.' Colonel Williamson said. ‘I am aware of your relationship with Miss Coleman, Mr Muller, I would have to be blind not to be. I could have reported it …'

‘We appreciate that you did not, Colonel.'

‘I am surprised you haven't asked to stay. The Russians will not make you welcome.'

‘I know that, Colonel, but I must find out what has happened to my family.'

‘You know that if your home is with the Russians, you may choose the zone you want to be repatriated to?'

‘So I have been told.' He knew the British and Americans had combined their zones for administrative purposes. ‘I will ask to go to the Bizone. I have cousins who live in Osnabrück. They might be able to tell me more.'

‘Do you want to come back to England?'

‘Yes, Colonel, eventually.'

‘Then I think I can help you. If you buy a return ticket, you will have four weeks to decide whether to stay in Germany or come back. If you stay, you will forfeit the cost of the ticket, if you come back it will be refunded. How does that sound?'

‘It sounds very good, sir.'

‘Then it will be arranged. Go and pack your belongings.'

He left to obey, cramming as much food and as many cigarettes into his luggage as he had managed to hoard, even though rationed food was on the list of banned items – along with government property, uncensored mail and English currency. He had his issue clothes but also garments that Jean had given him: an overcoat, flannelette shirts and pyjamas, warm socks, jumpers and dungarees. It made a hefty kitbag full, just below the weight restriction.

Then he sat on his bed and contemplated not being able to say goodbye to Jean. ‘I'm off,' he told Otto, standing up suddenly and reaching for his cap. ‘If anyone wants to know where I've gone, I am in the latrines. Stomach upset. Too much excitement. I'll be back.'

Jean was sitting close to the lamp, darning a ladder in a lisle stocking, picking up the stitch with a crochet hook and carefully
working up to the hole where it started before darning it in, when she heard someone knocking on the back door. Everyone else had gone to bed. She had only stayed up because the last conversation with Karl had made her feel uneasy and she knew she would not sleep. The knock came again, not loud, but insistent. She rose to answer it.

‘Karl!' She pulled him into the kitchen. ‘What's happened? Why are you here?'

‘I'm leaving tomorrow, first thing. My turn has come.'

‘Oh, Karl.'

They wrapped their arms around each other.

‘I don't know how I am going to manage without you,' she said.

‘The colonel will send someone else to replace me.'

She gave a watery giggle. ‘I didn't mean that and you know it.'

‘I know. I was only trying to cheer you up.'

‘Nothing can. I shall be miserable until I see you again.'

‘No, please, my love, do not be miserable. Be happy. It is not the end of the world. The future is ours and, if God so pleases, it will be a future together. Hold onto that thought.'

‘I'll try.' She clung to him, unwilling to let him go. ‘Oh, Karl, I have so been dreading this moment.'

‘So have I, but it has to be. We have always known that. I must go back before I am missed.' He kissed her, moving his mouth all over her face and neck, tasting her sweetness, smelling the lavender scent she wore, trying to store it in his memory for the days and weeks to come.

They pulled apart as the door opened behind them and Doris stood there in her dressing gown and slippers. ‘I heard voices. Karl, what are you doing here?'

‘He's come to say goodbye, Mum. He's being sent home tomorrow.'

‘Oh, I see.' She looked at Karl, who was still holding Jean's hand. ‘Are you going for good?'

‘I hope not, Mrs Coleman. I should very much like to come back, if I can and if you will have me …'

‘It's not up to me, is it? It's up to Jean.' She looked from one to the other. ‘I'll leave you to see him to the door, Jean.' It was most certainly a dismissal and made Jean smile.

She accompanied Karl to the back door. Outside, a full moon lit up the garden and the outline of the outbuildings in a grey-scape of sharp angles. Beyond the orchard, the water in the pit shimmered in a light breeze. He took her in his arms and held her close against him. She put her head on his shoulder. ‘Come back to me, Karl, please come back.'

‘I will do my utmost. Remember, my love,
auf Wiedersehen
is not goodbye.' He took her face in both hands and tipped it up so that he could kiss her, then pulled away and strode off down the drive. She watched him go, then went back into the kitchen and fell sobbing into her mother's arms.

The next morning he was taken by lorry to the transit camp. If he thought interrogations were at an end, he was wrong. There were more questions, many of which he had already answered. Had he belonged to the Hitler Youth? What had been his job in civilian life? How long had he been in the army? Which branch of the army? Had he ever made political speeches? What had he learnt from the re-education programme? His answers satisfied his interrogators and three days later he was on his way to Hull which was teeming with others on their way home, all cheerful and joking and loaded with baggage. The ship that was to take them was an old German freighter captured early on in the war. Streaks of rust and drab grey paint proclaimed its age. They laughed when
they saw it. They didn't care; they were going home. Karl, taking his place in the long column going up the gangplank, was torn between elation and despondency.

The accommodation was spartan and crowded, but they had all known worse. Karl left his kitbag on his bunk and went on deck to watch the coastline of Britain fading into the distance. It was all very well to tell Jean
auf Wiedersehen
was not goodbye, but as the distance between them increased, it certainly felt like it. He had his return ticket safely in his wallet, but would he ever be able to use it?

Twenty-four hours later, the ship docked at Cuxhaven and Karl found himself back on the soil of his homeland, being greeted by members of the German Red Cross with hot coffee and sandwiches. They did not linger long on the quayside but were shepherded to a waiting train. Now he was here, he began to feel a little different, a little more eager, a little more anxious. The countryside beside the rails was ravaged. There was evidence of bomb damage everywhere and the people looked so drab, shuffling about in shabby clothing.

His next stop was Munsterlager, which had once been an army camp and later a camp for British prisoners of war. They had all gone home, of course, and now it was a demobilisation centre for returning German prisoners. Before that could happen there were more questions, even more searching than the previous ones, designed to weed out any Nazis who had slipped through the net. He was provided with civilian clothes, given forty
Reichsmark
in lieu of back pay and handed in his
Soldbuch
which he had kept in his possession all through his captivity. It contained his military registration and identity disc numbers, his medical history and a record of his rise through the ranks, pay and awards. In exchange he was handed his
Wehrpass
, which was given to every serviceman
on his release and held a record of his military service. He tucked it safely in his wallet with the money, his new identity card, new ration book and return ticket, and made his way to the train station to find a train going to Osnabrück. At last, at long last, he was a free man.

Otto had not been exaggerating. Karl had been prepared for devastation but not on the scale he saw it. Two years after the end of hostilities, the country was still in ruins. Train services were unreliable and his journey to Osnabrück was delayed more than once by a need to leave the train and make his way to the next stretch of line that was working. Every town through which he passed seemed to be a heap of rubble. A start had been made on clearing it. He saw women with shovels or just their hands, piling trucks with broken bricks, twisted metal and shards of glass. They were thin and ill-clothed.

Osnabrück, when he finally reached it, was particularly bad. It took him some time to find the address he wanted because of the destruction. The house was still standing but badly damaged; he did not think it was habitable. If that were the case, where would he go next? He rapped on the door. There was no response. He rapped again.

The door opened a chink and he saw the side of a woman's face and one eye. ‘Who are you? What do you want?'

‘I am Karl. Karl Muller. I am looking for
Frau
Gabrielle Braun or Maria.'

The door opened wider to reveal a mousey-haired, unkempt woman dressed in a thick black skirt, a yellowing blouse which had once been white, and a grey cardigan. She appeared to be old, but on looking closer he realised she was not much older than he was. ‘Muller?' She sounded doubtful.

‘Yes. Are you Maria?'

‘Karl Muller?'

He smiled. ‘Yes. If you are Maria, then I am your cousin. Are you going to let me in? I have come a long way.'

She stood aside to allow him to enter. Instead of finding himself in a home, he was faced with ruin. He could see right through to the back garden. ‘This way.' She led him down to the cellar. There was a semblance of normality in that it was sparsely furnished and there was a fire in the grate. An older woman was stirring something in a pot over the flames.

‘Mutti,
here is Cousin Karl,' Maria said.

The old lady turned to face him. He had not seen her since he was a child but he could clearly see the likeness to his mother, though when he had last seen her,
Mutti
had not been so ravaged. ‘Hello,
Tante
Gabi,' he said.

She screamed and dropped the spoon. He put his kitbag down and ran to help her to a chair. ‘I'm sorry if I have given you a shock.'

‘My goodness you have. Where have you come from?'

‘England.'

‘Oh, yes, Elise said you were a prisoner.'

‘Lisa?' he queried. ‘You have spoken to her?'

‘Of course. She will be back from work soon. She is lucky, she works at the barracks in the office of the military governor.'

‘You mean she is here, in Osnabrück?'

‘Yes. She came in '44,' Maria added.

‘Vati und Mutti?'

‘As far as we know, they are still in Hartsveld. Your father would not leave the farm and your mother would not leave him, but they both insisted that Elise escape while she could.'

‘I was afraid of that. Do you know how they are?'

‘You had better ask Elise. Here she is.'

He twisted round to see his sister coming through the door. She was carrying a shopping bag. ‘Lisa,' he said.

‘
Mein Gott!
Karl.' She dropped the shopping and stared at him. ‘Are you a ghost?'

‘No, I am real enough.' He held his arms wide and she ran into them. He could feel her boniness through her clothes.

‘Let me look at you,' she said, leaning back to scan his face. Her eyes were bright with tears. ‘You have not changed. A little older looking perhaps, but you are still my beloved big brother.'

‘You have not changed either,' he lied. She was desperately thin and in spite of being three years younger than he was, looked much older. Her hair was pale and wispy, not the gold of ripened corn that he remembered. Her eyes, blue as cornflowers, had not changed.

Maria had picked up the shopping bag and was emptying its contents onto the table: a dozen small potatoes, a turnip, a tiny jar of ersatz coffee, a tin of dried milk and a canvas bag containing a few lumps of coal. ‘We do quite well,' she told Karl. ‘Because Elise works at the camp, she can sometimes get stuff for us.'

‘It is because I speak English,' Elise explained. ‘I translate. Now tell me all about you. Have you been discharged?'

‘Yes.' He delved into his kitbag and produced the food he had brought with him: tea and sugar, both of which had been on the forbidden list, a tin of milk, a tin of spam and another of peaches, several packets of razor blades, three bars of chocolate and the cigarettes, which he piled on the table beside Elise's shopping. ‘I couldn't carry any more,' he said.

They stared at it for several seconds before falling on it and handling every item as if to ascertain it was real. Maria gathered
up the cigarettes. ‘Better than money,' she told him. ‘They will buy us many things.'

‘I have money,' he said, taking his wallet from his pocket.

Elise put a hand over his. ‘No, you keep that. You will need it. I am paid wages.'

It was apparent that it was Elise who was the breadwinner but she did not seem to mind. They were grateful they were not as badly off as some of the other citizens, crammed into the habitable buildings, existing on what they could barter, beg or pilfer. ‘Maria is the scavenger,' Elise told him. ‘Finding food, wood and coal is a full-time job.'

The more they told him, the more horrified he became. He had never thought of his life in England as luxurious, but it was, compared with what they had suffered and were still suffering.