Forbidden Liaison: They lived and loved for the here and now (3 page)

Izzy strained to peer in through the galley-kitchen window. She could just glimpse her Aunt Margaret if she jumped up. She tapped lightly on the glass pane and Margaret immediately walked to the door.

‘Who is it?’ she shouted.

‘It’s me, Izzy,’

Margaret unlocked the door to let her niece in. ‘What are you doing, coming in around the back?’ she asked pleased to see her.

‘Mum sent you these,’ Izzy said giving her aunt the basket full of vegetables. ‘Couldn’t let everyone see the loop-holes, now could we?’ she smirked. ‘I’ve just come from the dairy, Benjy’s guarding the lorry.’

‘How are you?’ Margaret asked as she took Izzy by the shoulders to kiss her on the cheek.

‘I’m fine. We were wondering if you’d heard anything about Uncle Harry,’ Izzy asked, giving her aunt a hug.

‘Not yet. How’s Hannah?

‘Fine.’

‘And that grumpy father of yours?’

Izzy laughed. ‘He’s fine, too.’

‘Want some tea?’

‘I’d love some.’

Margaret made a pot of tea with the water in the kettle which had already boiled, stood it on a tray with some bone-china crockery then took a bunch of keys from her apron pocket. Izzy picked up the tray and followed her aunt along the hallway to get to her living quarters. As Margaret reached the door, Heinrich came down the staircase.

He touched his cap when he saw Margaret. ‘Good morning,’ he said, and he politely bowed.

Margaret gave one sharp, dismissive nod of her head and disappeared into her room. Izzy followed, but not before she turned her head to glance at Heinrich who simply bowed again. Izzy didn’t respond, she quickly looked away and he carried on walking towards the front door. As he grabbed hold of the door-knob he glanced back at the same time Izzy decided to have another look at the officer. Their eyes met, but he found he couldn’t sustain the look for very long. It was not because she was unattractive; on the contrary. Something seemed to bind in that one look and it bothered him. He hurriedly left the house. Izzy became curious. She had noticed how straight and erect he carried himself. A proud man, she thought, but his proudness seemed disconnected to the arrogance of some of the other soldiers on the island. It seemed, to her, more like a personal pride, not pride associated with his nationality. There was something about him that was different, and how intense his gaze was.

Izzy put the tray down on a table by the window. ‘Who was that?’ she asked, peering through the net curtain to watch him walk through the gate then on down the street.

‘The new officer. He arrived yesterday,’ Margaret informed.

‘How come, all the good-looking men around here are German?’ Izzy asked light-heartedly.

Izzy’s remark was flippant, and Margaret took it as it was intended, but she looked at Izzy as if to say she shouldn’t even be thinking it.

Izzy changed the subject. ‘Have you heard about Collette Dubois’ mother?’ she asked.

‘Yes, Parkinson’s Disease. Such a shame.’

‘I suppose Collette only has herself to blame if no-one goes near,’ Izzy remarked.

‘Sounds like something Hannah would say. But I happen to agree with you. Collette was always a needy woman: always had to have a man, no matter whose man it was.’

‘God, I’m not getting to sound like mother, am I?’ Then as Izzy looked closely at her aunt she said, ‘How is it sisters can be so very different?’

‘Your mother was always the serious, stern one. You’d have thought it would have been the other way around, me being older.’

‘Why did you never have children of your own?’ Izzy asked. She had always wanted to ask her aunt that question, but the time never seemed right.  

‘Did your mother never tell you?’ Margaret asked, pouring the tea.

‘Mother never discusses anything remotely related to love, sex and babies. What the birds and bees do I had to learn from a book. I used the phrase
sleeping with
this morning and mother nearly had a fit.’

Margaret laughed, but soon became serious. ‘I had a child once, a little girl. She was stillborn. I had such an awful time, then I got an infection because of careless hygiene by the midwife. It left me unable to have more children.’

Izzy now wished she had never asked. ‘I’m so sorry, you and Uncle Harry would have made wonderful parents. Why did no-one tell me?’

‘The family were ashamed of me because I had the baby before I was married. I was twenty eight, a spinster when I met Harry. He was an officer in the British Army. We were going to be married, but Harry was posted to France and we never saw each other again for two years. I have a photograph of her. No-one knows about the photograph, only Harry, and now you,’ Margaret said, her eyes watering.

Izzy wanted to ask if she could see the photograph, but didn’t want to appear intrusive as Margaret was still feeling the grief and the loss. ‘I won’t tell anyone,’ Izzy said.

Margaret smiled at her niece. ‘If anyone thought I’d got a picture of a dead baby then they might think… I was… you know.’

‘When I have children: if I have children: I want three or four. Being an only one has sometimes been lonely,’ Izzy said.

‘You’ve still not heard from Alain?’

Izzy looked down. ‘No. I just wish he would let me know he is still alive. It’s not bloody knowing that’s so hard to take. And I have this nagging feeling at the back of my mind that perhaps if he is still alive he doesn’t want to get in touch.’

‘Are you worried your mother might say,
I told you so
?’

‘Not really. I know she never really got on with him, but would never admit it. It was the way she used to talk to him sometimes, you know, that guarded way she has with some people. That superior air.’

I think you’re reading too much into it. Perhaps whoever you chose to marry, the man would not have been good enough for Hannah’s little girl.’

‘I just feel so fed-up, Aunt Margaret,’ Izzy sighed.

‘I’ve got just the thing to cheer us up,’ Margaret smiled.

‘What’s that?’ Izzy asked.

Margaret walked over to the sideboard and pulled out a packet of cigarettes. ‘Here, we’ll smoke one each.’

Izzy lifted one from the packet Margaret held out to her, and with some matches that she took from the mantel shelf, lit it, then taking in a deep draw before exhaling the lung-filtered smoke through her nostrils she said, closing her eyes, ‘Oh, I’ve not had one of these for months.’

‘No substitute for your fella, but the next best thing, eh?’ Margaret said.

‘That officer: does he have a name?’ Izzy asked taking another casual draw on the cigarette.

‘I overheard someone say Heinrich, something or other.’

‘Himmler?’ Izzy chuckled. The tobacco had made her feel very light-headed.

‘Could be,’ Margaret grinned.

Izzy burst out laughing. ‘I’d better be going,’ she said, extinguishing the cigarette between her thumb and forefinger, making sure it was out before putting the stub into her pocket to finish off later. ‘Dad will wonder where the lorry’s got to. He’ll be concerned about the tyres.’

‘You take care,’ Margaret said as Izzy downed the last dregs of tea from her cup.

‘Take care yourself: Abyssinia,’ Izzy replied, and she left the room.

Heinrich was on his way back and just managed to reach the gate before Izzy. He touched the shiny black peak of his cap again while he held the gate open until she was through.

‘Thank you,’ Izzy said, avoiding eye contact with him. But she wasn’t surprised by the gentlemanly gesture as the behaviour of the troops was mostly exemplary, and she had come to expect no less from them. But as she walked off down the road to where the lorry was parked she could feel his eyes on her back. Her mother’s saying of
loose hair, loose morals,
flashed through her head and she smiled to herself as she took a yellow ribbon from her pocket to tie back the chestnut coloured curls.

Heinrich just stood quite still watching her harness the copper strands which seemed to have a life of their own as some of them managed to break loose of the restraint to curl around her ears. His eyes then travelled from her hair to the rounded curves of her hips which were accentuated by the ill-fitting overall she was wearing as it pulled a little too tight across her backside. He blinked, and the movement of his eyelids brought him back to reality; he had to force himself to look away.

A few days after his arrival Heinrich was sent an invitation to attend a small dinner party hosted by his commanding officer, an Oberst Bluchner. It was to be held at the Fitzgerald house, a large private residence on the outskirts of St Helier. Heinrich began to tut when he read the invitation. He would rather be on duty, trying to instil some battle sense into his men, than being forced to pay lip-service to his superiors and their mistresses. He hated social gatherings at the best of times, especially get-togethers where he didn’t know anyone. And he did realise the only reason the Oberst had insisted he attend was to see how his new Oberleutnant handled himself, so he reluctantly accepted.

He made a special effort to look presentable that evening, spending about ten minutes brushing the course nap of his uniform so smooth it was about to take on a shine. He used the time brushing as therapy for his weariness, but most of all, his frustrations. He was in need of something, but didn’t know what that something might be, and, at that point felt he would never find out. As he adjusted his Iron Cross attached to the left-hand breast pocket of his tunic he looked into the mirror. He had earned that medal four times over, and it got him some respect from older, more experienced officers who hadn’t seen as much action as he had, and, for the first time, in a long time, he felt glad to be alive.

A staff car and driver was sent to Heinrich’s billet to pick him up. He deliberately kept the driver waiting as he didn’t particularly want the before dinner cocktails as he’d hardly eaten that day. The breakfast that was offered-up that morning had left him with a bad bout of indigestion. For the rest of the day all he’d done was drink coffee and smoke, which exacerbated the condition. He finally left the house to walk down the path to the waiting car. The driver got out to open the door, and as Heinrich was about to get in the back he noticed Mrs Wilfred behind the net curtaining, straining to see what was happening. Back home she would have been called a snoop: a block-warden: one of those party zealots who informed on others just to ingratiate themselves with the authorities. Heinrich couldn’t deport her for simply being nosy, but being watched all the time was beginning to become tiresome. What he didn’t recognise then, was that Margaret wasn’t watching him as such, but was keeping vigil for her husband’s return.

The moment he arrived at the Fitzgerald house Heinrich began to feel his tunic collar tighten around his neck, restricting his breathing. After he had put his cap on the dresser in the large hallway, he felt nervous as he was shown into the dining room where small clouds of tobacco smoke fluttered about in the air, the smell coupling with the scent of cheap French perfume. He was introduced to the other officers before he nodded and bowed, in general respect, to the women with them. But as he looked around he noticed none of the men had that hardened battle-weary look he had: that stamp of a seasoned soldier.

‘I’m sorry I’m late, he said, offering his apology for missing the before-dinner drinks. ‘I was held up by an urgent administrative matter, which needed attending to,’ he lied, but luckily for him no-one asked what that urgent matter was as he continued to glance around at the faces.

‘I’ve heard you are very conscientious and thorough,’ the Hauptmann smiled.

‘Just doing my job, Sir,’ Heinrich replied as they were all ushered to their seats at the dining table.

At the head of the table sat the Oberst, a bespectacled man in his mid-fifties, small in stature, but lean. Directly opposite him was Marian Fitzgerald, his mistress and owner of the house that had been requisitioned as a senior officer’s billet. Marian was over made-up with bright red, rosebud shaped lips that would have been better suited on a porcelain doll, and the pale cream dress she wore was too tight. Not only that; the colour made her skin look sallow and old. She also looked tired as she fussed around the Oberst, calling him Max. She might have appealed to Heinrich if her finger nails didn’t match the colour of her mouth, and the un-natural yellow of her hair resembling the sun at dusk. Also when she leaned forward her big bosoms spilled over the top of the low-cut dress. It was like watching the throat of a bull-frog inflating with excitement, or the cheeks of someone about to vomit. Heinrich found it most distasteful. Earlier in the day Heinrich had made some enquiries about the family and had been informed Marian’s husband had been away on business when the islands were occupied, so she and her nineteen year old daughter, Odette, used their time to entertain the German officers. This they found more palatable than having to suffer any hardship or discomfort. Apparently, making do and mending, was something Marian and her daughter were not used to, so they let the opportunity of evacuation pass them by. And Marian would have done anything to stop her beautiful home and antique possessions being taken away or abused.

On the Oberst’s right sat Collette Dubois, an Anglo-French woman whose husband had been killed during the Nazi occupation of Paris. She lived on the island with her senile mother who was left on her own as Collette’s lover, a Major Schmidt, had ordered Collette to attend the dinner party. She appeared very prim and proper in the starched white blouse which was buttoned right up to the throat, and her curly mid-brown hair framed her boyish features, while her cheeks blushed pink with pent-up anxiety.

Major Schmidt had the appearance of an athlete, tall and slim. His pinched face, small eyes and pointed nose gave him a look that inclined towards meanness. Heinrich, though, thought he looked untrustworthy. He had met officers like him before. Brought up in comfort and style, never having to work for anything they wanted. Then with the war they were suddenly catapulted into the middle of an almighty battle where they stood not knowing which way to turn whilst ordering their men to hold the initiative. Only too well Heinrich remembered the amount of initiatives he’d been ordered to hold. Yes, he felt sour about the whole business. He felt he had a right to be. But he knew it was the likes of the Major and other higher ranking senior Wehrmacht officers, who could perhaps bring about an end to the Fuhrer’s reign. Heinrich just hoped it would be sooner, rather than later.

The Major paid far too much attention to his mistress who was obviously annoyed with him about something. Unsuccessfully he tried to placate her every now and then by whispering something in her ear which she pretended not to hear. Then he would touch her, or smooth down her hair as if trying to remind her he was there. Collette just shrugged him off and slightly embarrassed he would continue talking to Marian or anyone else who was receptive enough to listen to his chatter. Heinrich looked down, amused. If the Major knew anything about women at all he should have already grasped he would be spending the night alone, so why all the fuss? And if Collette did relent to take the Major to her bed, then Heinrich thought there was nothing worse than a woman who just lay there, unresponsive. The thought of this happening to the Major pleased Heinrich no end, as earlier in the day he’d been given a dressing-down for being three minutes late for a meeting. The fact that there’d been a road accident and Heinrich had stayed to sort the mess out, had not swayed the Major.

Heinrich sat on the Oberst’s left, with Odette between himself and Hautpmann Milch. The Hauptman was about fifty, balding, with a body that had turned to fat. He looked as though the only action he’d seen was pushing paper across a desk instead of steel across Europe. Heinrich felt uncomfortable and not particularly hungry, and he picked at the roast beef which he washed down with a plentiful supply of red wine. His mother would have slapped his hand for fiddling with his food like that, but he just couldn’t eat when his brain was in turmoil, and to add to his displeasure, he had to fight off the attentions of Odette – The Swan Princess – from underneath the table. After she found that brushing her leg against his wouldn’t get the response she wanted, she then took off her shoe to stroke his leg with her bare foot. Still getting no response she hoisted her dark blue dress up around her thighs so that Heinrich could admire her legs. But it was the long dark-brown hair that coined her character – wild and passionate. But all through the meal Heinrich had to quell the urge to stand up and order her to behave herself and tell her he wasn’t interested. But he resisted, of course, as he knew he was being scrutinised by his superiors. 

‘Life can be quite tolerable on the island,’ the Hauptmann commented to Heinrich. ‘A cushy posting for us all. Sit out the war in relative comfort, peace and tranquillity, with good food, excellent wine, and a woman to keep you warm during the long cold nights.’

Heinrich just smiled, raising his eyebrows in a gesture of approval at what the Hauptmann had just said. But he felt bitter he should have been the cannon-fodder while these so-called professionals lived it up in what looked to be extreme comfort. I wonder if he’s ever picked up a machine-gun, let alone fired one, Heinrich thought, and I never saw a woman for nine months. As for sleeping with one? When he did come across a woman she smelled as though she’d been with quite a few soldiers before she got to him. He had passed her over to masturbate, it was kinder to his health. But what the Hauptmann really needed, he thought, were those smooth edges roughed up by a stint on the Eastern Front, where the conditions were not even conducive to keeping a dog.

‘You were wounded, I’m told,’ the Hauptmann said.

‘Yes, at Kharkov,’ Heinrich replied, not wanting to go into any great detail as he was trying to forget the experience of nearly losing his left arm. Suddenly he felt Odette’s hand on his upper thigh. He gritted his teeth, trying to ignore it.

‘Have you family?’ the Major asked from across the table. He was uncharacteristically indulging in small-talk which didn’t suit his demeanour.

‘I have a wife and two daughters in Offenbach,’ Heinrich informed. He said no more about them either, as he missed his children and didn’t want to appear over sentimental.

All this time the conversation had been in German and the women had sat silent. But Heinrich knew they understood more than they let on as he watched their faces. Marian, though, was too preoccupied with fussing over the Oberst, the dinner and the dinner table. Collette listened but said nothing. Heinrich thought it was only because she was in such a foul mood with the Major. But Odette understood every world that was being said and had turned her head to actually look at Heinrich when he mentioned his wife and children. She was playing a very dangerous game. And as her hand moved closer towards his groin, he did no more than put his hand under the table to squeeze Odette’s fingers so tight she gave out a little squeal. But, to Heinrich’s dismay, she seemed to enjoy it: nevertheless, she didn’t put her hand anywhere near his groin for the rest of the evening.

Compared to the women around the table the copper-haired woman Heinrich had met at his billet that morning, appeared as fresh as a walk through a forest at dawn. The damp early morning, or the dewy spider’s webs caressing his face as he walked through the trees. He could brush away the webs, wipe the dew from his skin, but he couldn’t erase the feeling that the copper-haired woman could perhaps stop his yesterdays blurring into today: perhaps there was hope for tomorrow after-all.

Marian left the room to return with a box of good cigars and a bottle of Cognac. She placed them on the table in front of the Oberst.

‘Well, what do you think of your new posting?’ the Major asked Heinrich.

Heinrich held no tolerance for the Major, mainly because he constantly wore his spurs which jangled like coins in a trouser pocket. Also his stiff-backed, upper-class bearing exuded contempt for the lower-classes. The likes of the Major were still well-rooted in the Empire, the two-class system that had been shattered by Germany’s defeat in the First World War. He epitomised everything Heinrich loathed. Even though Heinrich knew he could not compete with these men in the class stakes – his father was a watch and clock repairer who had lived over his shop for as long as Heinrich could remember. And even though National Socialism had given people a way out, Heinrich had shunned it. He snubbed the ugliness of Nazism. Instead he took on the grey mantle of the Wehrmacht and although he took orders, he could not be servile to anyone. Some would say he was the sort of man who would be instrumental in forming a new, better Germany. He was clever enough, and a man didn’t get through the Russian Offensive without watching out for snipers: covering his back.

‘Brandy, Oberleutnant?’ the Oberst asked, before Heinrich had the chance to reply to the Major’s question. Then he poured out brandies into the glasses Marian had brought in.

‘Thank you,’ Heinrich replied as a brandy was placed in front of him.

‘I think you are a man of deeds, and very few words,’ the Oberst said as he sipped his brandy.

Heinrich picked up his glass.

‘Your apparent shyness is not to be underestimated,’ the Major interjected, looking closely at Heinrich.

Heinrich frowned as the Major’s gaze became fixed on the Iron Cross. ‘Its second class,’ Heinrich informed. ‘Awarded to me by the Fuhrer himself.’

‘I am well aware of what class it is, and who gave it to you, I have access to your file,’ the Major retorted.

‘Then you will also know I was commissioned by a Prussian General Field Marshal,’ Heinrich reminded.

This irked the Major. His colour came up. Heinrich was sure that if they were alone having this conversation the Major would be bursting a blood vessel by shouting and yelling at him.

‘My commission came by way of the back door, so to speak. I received it for services to the Fatherland and for heroism in the field,’ Heinrich added smugly. He liked to watch certain officers squirm, especially the privileged ones.