The Farmer's Daughter (31 page)

‘Good. I like pound notes. The exchange rate is better.' He took the money, crammed it into his trouser pocket and returned to the wheel. ‘I doubt we will be stopped before we reach the crossing at Buchhorst, so sit back and enjoy the ride.'

Karl threw his bundle down and perched on the roof of the cabin at the rear of the barge. It was unusually warm for September. He was glad to leave the heat of the wurzel field and feel the cool breeze as they chugged over the water. Going this
way was slower than train or road, but it was infinitely more enjoyable.

‘What are you carrying?' he asked.

‘Tomatoes, apples and clothing.' He grinned at Karl. ‘And a stowaway.'

‘Stowaway?'

‘Of course. If you are discovered hiding among my boxes of fruit, I shall deny all knowledge of you.'

Karl suddenly realised that he had been unwise to trust the man. After all, he knew nothing about him. He could take his money and still betray him. There was nothing he could do about it but take his chances.

‘Have you taken many people across the border?'

‘Some, but most going in the opposite direction, coming out, not going in.'

‘More than one at a time perhaps?'

‘Oh, I see. You are going to fetch someone out.'

‘If they are prepared to come.'

‘I cannot hide more than one. Others will have to have false papers and that costs much more than you have given me today. The risks are far greater, you understand.'

Karl was left to muse on this and they were silent for some time.

‘Would you like to take over the wheel while I prepare something to eat?' Johannes asked when the sun was at its highest in the sky and the heat bounced off the roof of the cabin.

‘OK.' He slid down beside his host. ‘There's food in my pack: bread, a little butter, some home-made jam – I have no idea what it's made of – a handful of potatoes and some cooked chicken. My sister could not spare any more.'

‘We'll leave that for later.'

A few minutes later, he pulled into the bank and switched off the engine while they ate bread and cheese and apples, washed down with weak tea.

‘What are rations like in the Netherlands?' Karl asked.

‘Not good but better than in Germany.' He grinned. ‘We were on the winning side, after all. We are not plagued by reparations.' He speared a piece of cheese on the point of his knife. ‘When did you last eat cheese?'

‘In England, over a month ago.'

‘You were a prisoner?'

‘Yes.'

‘Tell me what England is like. I have often thought I should like to go there.'

They wiled away the rest of that day's voyage talking about England and Holland; the two countries had much in common and both had been inundated with floods in the spring. Karl avoided the subject of the occupation and forced labour or anything that might inflame the Dutchman. It wasn't a subject he wanted to talk about anyway. They moored up for the night. He could have slept in one of the two bunks in the cabin but elected to sleep outside where it was cooler and where he could see the stars, the same stars shining over his parents at Hartsveld, on his sister in Osnabrück and Jean in England. Jean. He had not told his aunt or sister about her. He did not know why, except that, for all she worked for the military governor, Elise was no lover of the British. What they had suffered as the result of bombing raids and invasion, could not easily be forgiven. Any idea of bringing Jean to Germany had soon been abandoned. Besides, he knew she would not come, not even for him.

He lay on his back staring upwards as the barge rocked
gently on its moorings, and remembered their last goodbye. Had it really been the last? He ached to be with her, to hold her in his arms, to see again the sparkle in her eyes when he amused her, to hear her singing
Rosslein
in atrocious German, to work beside her on the little farm. His return ticket ran out at the end of the following week. It did not look as though he was going to make it.

‘This is your home,' Gordon said, when his mother broached the subject of moving. ‘It will always be your home, especially now with Pa gone. Rosie agrees with that, don't you, darling?'

‘Yes, of course you must stay with us,' Rosie said. They were sitting in the kitchen after having a little party to celebrate Stan's first birthday. He was hauling himself up on his feet now and would soon be walking. Surrounded by women who doted on him, he was a little spoilt. Nothing was too good for him. Rosie was always buying him clothes and toys, using her own clothing coupons as well as his, and often begged some from Doris. All the small children in the village had been invited. It had been noisy with laughter, tears and more than a few tantrums. It had taken Jean all her time to keep the little imps in order, but she loved them all. The children had gone home and Stan, worn out by the excitement, was fast asleep in his cot.

‘How will I manage without you?' Rosie went on. ‘I don't know anything about being a farmer's wife.' This was perfectly true. She was prepared to gather eggs but drew the line at wringing the neck
of a chicken, plucking and cleaning it ready for cooking. And she hated the noisy, smelly pigs and their disgusting pigswill. When she should have been outside helping with the farm work, looking after the animals, learning to milk, she would be indoors playing with Stanley or painting her nails. Jean had no idea where she had managed to find the bright red polish.

‘I don't think Rosie will ever be able to take over my jobs,' Jean said to her grandmother one day. She was spending more and more of what little leisure time she had down at the cottage where she was at ease and could unburden herself. ‘Gordon can't do everything. I do miss Karl.'

‘Have you heard from him?'

‘I had a letter, nearly a fortnight ago now, saying he had arrived at his cousin's safely and found his sister there. He said conditions are pretty bad, but not a word about when he was coming back. I keep wondering where he is and if he has managed to find his parents …'

‘Jean, you have to consider that his love of his parents and his home is as great as yours for your mother and the farm. His parents may need him as much as your father needed you.'

‘I know. I just don't want to believe he would abandon me.'

‘Is that what you've been thinking?'

‘I don't know what to think. Perhaps he's been arrested. I know he was afraid of that.'

‘There's nothing you can do about it, Jean. You have to think of yourself. Go out, enjoy yourself a bit, make new friends. All work and no play …'

‘I said that to Karl once, at the beginning of the year when we went skating on the pit and he was doubtful if we should. It was lovely.' She sighed. ‘What a year it has been. All that snow and then the floods, the crops ruined and no harvest to speak of. I
think it all contributed to Pa's death. Gordon is really down in the dumps and talking about giving up the farm. He won't, of course, but he misses Pa's advice. I miss him too.'

‘We all do.' She paused before going on, ‘Think of yourself, Jean. Make a new life for yourself.'

That was easier said than done, she realised as she made her way back to the farm and the milking. Gordon could not manage without her. And she did not know how she was going to manage without Karl.

Karl, standing at the door of his childhood home, was conscious of the stubble on his chin, his uncut hair, his shabby suit and the down-at-heel shoes, nothing like the smart uniform and gleaming boots he had been wearing when he was last at home. He was coming back like a tramp, though he looked no worse than anyone else in the Soviet zone through which he had passed. The state of the countryside had shocked him even more than that of Osnabrück. It was like a strange moonscape, grey and forbidding. Rebuilding was well behind that in the west; rubble still lay about, bridges remained in ruins, especially any connecting east with west. Townspeople lived in the cellars, country people in the remains of their homes. He had seen them using oxen and primitive wooden ploughs to farm.

Johannes had managed to hide him well and the inspection of the barge and its cargo at the Buchhorst–Rühen crossing had been cursory because the Dutchman had bribed the border guards with cigarettes and money and offered them schnapps. Karl was sorry he had doubted him. Since leaving the barge at Potsdam, he had set out to walk, dodging Russian soldiers and German police, until he had been given a lift by a lorry driver he had come across filling up at a petrol station. It was risky because he had no idea if the
man could be trusted. Both wary, they had not said much to each other and did not exchange names or personal details.

‘I'll set you down here,' the driver said, as they approached the outskirts of Berlin. ‘I'm not supposed to take on passengers.'

Karl thanked him and lost no time in disappearing into the city's crowd. It had saddened him to see the once beautiful city in ruins. Women were clearing the rubble, painstakingly separating the whole bricks from the broken ones and chipping off the mortar so that they could be used again. There was little motor traffic, but some of the trams were running. Goods were being delivered by horse-drawn vehicles, and he saw a woman take a packet of cigarettes from her handbag and extract three to pay for a kilo of plums from a market stall. In spite of that, people seemed to be going about their business, shopping, sitting in the cafes, walking with their children. Rebuilding had started, but the devastation was so widespread, he knew it would take years.

He had risked boarding a train from Berlin to Eberswalde, a line that had been repaired, and dodged the guard who came along to examine tickets. As the train slowed to come into the station, he had opened the door, hesitated a second and jumped, rolling down the embankment into the woodland that gave the place its name. He knew it well and was soon marching purposefully for Hartsveld and his father's farm.

He arrived at dusk, when the sun was sinking beyond the trees and the shadows were lengthening, but there was enough light to see the house was a ruin. It was obvious no one was living there. He looked about him, wondering where to go next, a neighbour perhaps, and then he saw a bent figure walking across a field of stubble. At least there had been some sort of harvest, he thought. He walked towards the old man, forming his question in his mind, a simple question, not intended to arouse suspicion, but it flew
out of his head as he and the man approached each other.

‘Vater,'
he said.

The bent back straightened and his father looked directly at him. ‘Karl!
Mein Sohn. Mein lieber Sohn.
' He stumbled forward and put his arms about him. Karl was surprised how small he seemed; his memory was of a tall upright man who was master of his little kingdom, not to be thwarted or crossed, and certainly not emotional. The man in his arms was openly crying, his thin hands were feeling round his face, touching every curve and contour in the growing darkness. ‘I cannot believe it. You are here. We must find
Mutti
quickly and tell her the news. She will be overjoyed.'

He led the way to a small cottage, once occupied by one of his farm workers. ‘We live here now,' he said, opening the door. ‘It is more convenient.'

‘Marthe!' he called. ‘Come quickly; I have brought us a visitor.'

His mother came through from a back room wiping her hands on an apron. The years had not dealt kindly with her either. She had once been plump, now she was thin and her hair was pure white. She stood and stared at him for several seconds.

‘Well?' her husband queried. ‘Are you not going to greet your long-lost son?'

‘Karl.' She still did not come forward to embrace him. It was as if she did not believe he was real and would dissolve into nothing if she touched him. He walked forward and took her into his arms.

‘Mutti,
I am so pleased and relieved to see you safe and well.'

She spoke at last. ‘Karl. Where have you come from? How did you get here?'

‘He can tell us all about it while we eat,' his father said. ‘I hope you can find food for him.'

‘I have a little,' Karl said, holding up his kitbag. ‘I have not come empty-handed.'

‘It doesn't matter if you have,' she said. ‘All that matters is that you are here. Come into the kitchen, we can talk while I cook. I have soup on the stove.'

While they ate vegetable soup with a little bread, he told them about finding Elise and his journey from Osnabrück. ‘Elise is well and working for the military governor as a translator,' he said. ‘You were right,
Vati
, to say learning English would benefit us one day. She sends loving greetings and asked me to say not to worry about her.'

They told him about the arrival of the Red Army, the raids and heavy artillery they had used on what had become a defenceless country, the destruction of their house and the ruination of a once-prosperous farm. ‘We farm like peasants nowadays,' his father said. ‘And what we harvest is nearly all taken in what they call “reparations”. They took everything of value from the house, too.'

‘It was nothing but looting,' his mother added. ‘I am glad Elise was not here. They were raping every woman they could get their hands on.'

‘You too?'

‘No. I hid.'

Karl was not sure if she was telling the truth, but accepted what she said. ‘And now, is it better?'

‘Oh, yes. We no longer own the land but we can still farm it. We lost nearly all the livestock but they have allowed us to keep a few milch cows. The milk is collected every morning, but we keep some back for ourselves, just as we keep a little grain and potatoes. We are surviving.'

It was clear while they talked that his parents were uneasy. They kept cocking their heads to one side in a listening gesture and looking towards the door. ‘Are you expecting someone?' he asked during a pause in the conversation.

‘No, no. It is all right,' his father answered. ‘You were not seen arriving in the village, were you?'

‘I don't think so, it was nearly dark.'

‘Good. Newcomers are viewed with suspicion. We have to be careful.'

‘Tell us what happened to you,' his mother put in quickly. ‘What is it like in England?'

He told them how he came to be captured. ‘The Allies called it D-Day,' he said. ‘We resisted as long as we could but everything was in disarray, and then my company was cut off and we were forced to surrender. We were taken to England on the troop carriers which had brought Allied reinforcements.'

‘You were treated well?'

‘Yes. I was sent to work on a farm. It was a small family farm. The owner had had a stroke and all the work was being done by his daughter. She was friendly from the first and we worked well together. I taught her German songs and she helped to improve my English. Her name is Jean.'

‘Ah,' his mother said, looking closely into his face, making him blush, something he had not done since he was a boy and caught out in some mischief. ‘She is perhaps more than a friend.'

‘Yes,' he admitted. ‘I did not want to leave her, but I had to come back to you.' He smiled and changed the subject abruptly. ‘And now I am here, I am glad I came. What can I do to help you?'

‘Nothing,' his father said.

‘Would you come with me to England, if you could?'

They looked at each other but it was his mother that answered. ‘No, son. This is our home. One day the Russians will go and we will be left in peace to rebuild our home and our lives. But you must not stay. Sleep here tonight but tomorrow you must leave. We dare not shelter you longer than that. We know for certain
that others who have come from the west after being released from captivity have been sent east into forced labour. There are people in the village who inform …'

‘That is dreadful. You were always respected, they were your workers and your friends.'

‘They do it for money and food,' his father said. ‘Who can blame them?'

‘Tomorrow, before it is light, you must leave,' his mother repeated. ‘Go back to the west. Go back to your Jean. Be happy.'

‘I have only just arrived. I cannot leave you so soon.'

‘You must. Go to
Herr
Beauman. He will help you.'

‘Why would Heidi's father help me?'

‘He hates the Russians for what they did to Heidi and Gunther. His poor wife died of grief soon afterwards. We know he has helped other people to leave. Go and ask him.'

‘What about you?'

‘As long as you and Elise are safe and well, we are content. Do not worry about us.'

He tried arguing, but they were adamant and fearful. He did not want to make them any more afraid than they already were; if he could not stay with them there was nothing to keep him. They sat up most of the night talking and at dawn he left them. ‘Now I know the new address, I will write,' he said, embracing first his father, then his mother. ‘And God willing, I will come back when this insanity ends.'

‘God bless you,' his mother said, pushing him away from her. ‘Go. Go before the sun comes up.'

Another quick hug and he left them standing at the door of the cottage with their arms about each other. He turned to wave when he reached the bend in the road, but they had gone inside. The door was shut. He stumbled on, his eyes so full of tears he could not see where he was going.

Herr
Beauman had once been the mayor of Hartsveld and lived in a substantial house on the square. To visit him, Karl would have to venture into the middle of the village where he might be seen by anyone. If it were true about informers, he had better approach with caution. Already people were rising to begin their day's work. He walked purposefully, as if he were one of them. Looking about him, he realised how much damage there was and how shabby everywhere looked. He had expected to feel elation at being back where he had grown up, and a certain nostalgia for those happy far-off days but all he felt was pity for everyone living here, mixed with a kind of urgency to be gone.