‘I’m afraid it’s not that simple. Caroline was doing specialized work.’
‘What sort of work?’ Phoebe interrupted.
‘I’m not at liberty to say but work of national importance . . .’ She looked up to see if Phoebe was picking up on what was not being said.
‘Where?’ This hedging about was not good enough.
‘In Belgium . . . during the occupation.’
Phoebe shook her head. ‘I knew she was holding out on me . . . that figures. She had a Belgian nurse and a boyfriend. Is she with him?’
‘Any addresses you have might be helpful at this stage. She disappeared from our radar . . . Don’t be alarmed. It’s only a matter of time before she’ll turn up safe and
sound.’
‘Has she been held captive?’
‘We think so. Records are being checked and in due course—’
‘In due course! How long will it take? The war’s been over for months . . .’ Phoebe felt her anger flaring up. This was ridiculous.
‘It depends on many other factors,’ Mrs Cameron sat back. ‘You have to understand—’
‘Is she still alive?’ Phoebe blurted out, her heart beating fast.
‘Unfortunately, I can’t give you a straight answer. We just don’t know. I’m sorry. As soon as we hear anything . . . We know she was in St-Gilles in Brussels. Someone saw
her there in 1944.’
‘But that’s a year ago . . . Where can she be now? So all those postcards we received . . . was it you who . . .?’ Phoebe wanted to shake the woman as she sat there admiring
the wallpaper.
‘That is normal procedure for all our service personnel.’
She was being cagey again and very cautious, giving nothing away, but Phoebe wanted more than platitudes. ‘You’ve been feeding me false hope all this time? Are you also saying we
must prepare ourselves for the worst of outcomes?’
‘Not necessarily, but only time will give us the full facts. I’m sorry to burden you with uncertainty. It’s only fair to be honest at this early stage.’
‘But surely, you can tell me what on earth she was doing in Belgium?’
Mrs Cameron chewed on her scone and didn’t answer.
‘Dammit all, she has a young son! What am I going to tell him?’ Phoebe pounced into the silence.
‘Nothing at the moment but there’s always hope in these cases . . .’
‘So there are other women like Caroline? How many have returned?’
‘Some have returned safe and sound from labour camps in Germany,’ Mrs Cameron replied, smiling.
‘And the others?’
‘I’m not at liberty to say. I have no access to other departments.’
‘I see,’ Phoebe said curtly. ‘My own child disappears into the mist on important duties and I will be the last to know what she was doing and why?’
‘I’m sorry to be so circumspect, Miss Faye, but there are rules about how much information we can release. You have been told as much as we know. We will keep you informed, I promise
you. It would be what Caroline would have wished.’
‘You talk as if she were dead.’
‘I didn’t mean to . . . I do apologize. It’s been a long drive here. I did want to explain to you in person. There’s always hope,’ Mrs Cameron said, rising up.
‘I wish I could have brought more definite news.’
‘No news is good news in this household.’ Phoebe sighed, feeling faint as she stood up quickly.
‘Let’s hope so. I’ll ring as soon as we have more news. I am so glad to have met you. You must be so proud of your daughter. She is a brave determined young lady.’ With
that accolade she departed promptly, leaving Phoebe standing at the door unable to move for the shock of her words and shaking with fear.
She staggered back into the drawing room and flopped into the armchair, her eyes shutting with despair.
Oh, Caroline, where are you? What made you do such a foolhardy thing?
She lay
back, her head throbbing as if hammers were chipping into her brain.
When Mima came in to clear away the tray, she found Phoebe sitting staring through the window, her face twisted, her tongue hanging loose, her body lopsided, unable to lift her arms.
‘Madam!’ Mima cried. ‘Jessie, come down quickly . . . I’ll ring for the doctor. Don’t move.’
Phoebe couldn’t speak, smile or move, frozen by this sudden weakness down her side, imprisoned in the chair. What on earth was happening now, she thought as the room faded from view.
Callie struggled to make the spark and light the dry tinder from the forest floor. They hugged the tiny blaze, warming stones to ease their frozen fingers but always fearful
the smoke would give them away. They found a few pine cones with seeds inside and roasted them, melting snow in their cans for the warmth of hot water, chewing on the last of their black crusts,
making each mouthful last, not knowing when they would eat again.
We can’t stay here,’ Maddy warned. ‘If we head west we might meet the Allies. We just keep walking.’
‘But we don’t know where they are. Perhaps we should head back to town and get more news,’ Marie suggested.
‘Are you mad? We’d be recognized in these things,’ Maddy argued.
‘Not if we travel by night. I have an idea,’ Callie added. ‘If we can get rid of the camp stripes, we have the dark overalls, but if we could find some things to cover up . .
.’
‘But how?’ Maddy was not convinced. ‘We have no papers; we’ll be caught and sent back. I’d rather die than go back there.’
‘It won’t come to that, I promise,’ Callie tried to reassure her friend. ‘Trust me.’
They spent the second night sleeping in a bombed-out house on the edges of Markkleeberg. Callie did a quick recce, seeing what looked like a farmhouse in the distance. They daren’t risk
asking for help there but she saw crops in the field. The morning was breezy and fair, and there was washing strung along the hedge, fluttering in the breeze. How she longed for clean linen on her
skin.
‘Stay under cover,’ she ordered.
‘Where’re you going?’
‘Over there,’ she smiled, pointing to the farmhouse.
‘Are you off your head?’ Marie grabbed her arm.
‘We have to get rid of these shirts. It’s important. I’ll grab what I can.’
‘And have the dogs on you?’ Maddy cried.
‘There are ways . . .’
Her old training was kicking in. She crawled along the ground downwind of the dogs, if there were any, creeping along the hedge, covered in mud. She pulled a man’s shirt and a sheet from
the hedge, then a vest with sleeves, some socks. There was a tempting blouse on the line but she saw a dog suddenly rouse itself to investigate and she crept back, crushing her booty underneath her
body.
The girls rushed out to pull her back undercover, delighted with her haul. They carried the clothing deep into the forest. Between them they were able to cover their camp uniforms sufficiently.
It was too cold to think of removing them completely and losing their warmth. They tore the thin sheet into squares of headscarves to cover their stubbly heads and the rest they draped into
neckerchiefs to hide their uniforms.
The effort to scavenge had cost Callie nervous energy and she found she was weakening faster than the others. They knew they must keep walking, hungry and blistered, always on the fringes of
daylight, but progress was slow and they drank where they could, even dirty rainwater. By the time they’d not eaten for three days, all of them had stomachs cramps and Callie began to vomit
and retch. She had taken in too much foul liquid and fever was beginning to make her shiver. She didn’t want to hold them back but she was finding it hard to walk. When they reached the
outskirts of Leipzig she knew she could go no further.
‘Leave me here,’ she pleaded, but the others ignored her.
They were just moving on again when they saw in the distance a posse of SS soldiers walking towards them. Callie’s heart sank. They had no identity papers or permits and it was nearly
dark.
‘Say nothing, either of you. Leave this to me and look very sick,’ Maddy whispered as they clung to each other.
‘Papers,’ shouted one of the soldiers, eyeing them with suspicion. Maddy stood tall and spoke in almost perfect German. ‘We have no papers, they are back at the camp.’
She pointed vaguely into the distance. ‘We’re French field workers in the forest. Look, we’re covered in pine needles. This one is very sick and we got separated. We’ve got
permission to take her for treatment. You can see she has a fever. Don’t stand too close . . . It may be TB.’
The soldier stepped back at her words, eyeing Callie with interest, seeing the sweat rolling down her brow. It stood to reason she needed two girls to help her walk. ‘Carry on,’ he
ordered, and they staggered into the twilight, shaking with relief. Maddy had saved them once again. ‘You have to stand firm, look them in the eye and lie through your teeth in good German.
That’s one of the benefits of having lived on the border in Alsace,’ she said with pride in her eyes.
As they got ever closer to the city, they met men and families trundling along with hand carts piled with mattresses and children and chickens. They were heading west, fleeing the city already
defeated by bombs and hunger.
‘The Russians are coming!’ they warned them. ‘Go back!’
‘We have to find shelter,’ Marie insisted eventually, turning round to survey the increasingly deserted city street. ‘We can’t go on any more.’ She spotted a church
tower. ‘Let’s ask for sanctuary over there.’ She pointed. ‘They’ll not turn us out of God’s house. It’s our only hope.’
It was an effort for Callie even to walk up the steps. Marie opened the great wooden door but inside was chilly and the darkness lit only by flickering candles. Callie sank to the floor
exhausted, looking up at the painted ceiling as it swirled above her head. It was clearly Catholic, not Lutheran, with all those golden statues peering down at her with pity.
Out of the shadows a priest emerged from behind the confessional. ‘Can I help you?’
Marie kneeled before him. ‘Help us, please . . . We place ourselves on your mercy, Father. Our friend is very sick. We are French labourers. We need your help. We’ve not eaten for
over three days. We’ve walked so long, we can go no further,’ she pleaded.
‘You are escapees?’ he said, examining each of them in turn.
‘From the labour camp at Markkleeberg. We were made to march. If we go back we will be hanged. Please help us,’ Maddy added in German. ‘We have nowhere else to go. Lotte is
very sick from bad water . . .’
The priest locked the church door and beckoned to them. ‘Come with me. Can you all climb the stairs?’ He guided them up the twisting belfry tower step by step to a platform around
the bells. Callie had to crawl each agonizing step on her hands and knees. ‘You must wait here. I will bring food.’
When he had gone, Maddy and Marie wondered aloud if he would betray them to the local police. Were they truly safe? Only time would tell. Callie was past worrying. The angels on the ceiling were
spinning round her as she floated in and out of consciousness. She lay in a stupor of sweat and pain, not caring if she lived or died.
Callie was woken by a bell. Staring at a tiled room, unable to focus at first, she saw vague figures gliding around her. There was a basin and jug. She was lying in clean
sheets in a bed and there was an arched window looking out to a tree in full leaf, letting in the warm glow of sunshine on her face. She tried to sit up but flopped back, weak and faint. Then she
saw a pink face in a headdress staring at her. ‘You are back with us,’ the woman said in halting French. ‘Our mystery lady returns.’
‘Merci, Madame, mais oui,’
Callie replied instinctively. ‘Where am I, back in Brussels?’ Had she been dreaming such a nightmare?
‘In the Convent Hospital of St Elisabeth . . . Don’t worry, the war is over. You are no longer the enemy or we, yours. Father Bernhardt brought you to us. He found you collapsed in
his church.’
‘Is this the prison hospital?’ She could remember a kind warder somewhere but the rest was a blur. Who was Father Bernhardt?
‘Just rest, you’ve have been very ill. Don’t try to move yet. It is enough that you’re awake after such a terrible time. Your body shut down but now it is ready to live
again.’
‘Where am I?’ Callie couldn’t take all this change in. Her head was all fuzzy and mixed up. She dreamed she’d been in a forest and running from soldiers, and there were
dogs and guns and people hanging from trees, skeletons on the floor in the snow. Her mind had lost its power like an engine run out of steam so the wheels wouldn’t turn in the cogs. Why
couldn’t she remember anything? What was she doing in a convent? She lay back, exhausted by the effort of trying to think. Who was she? She started to panic, realizing she couldn’t even
think of her name. Later that day, a doctor in a white coat and spectacles came to examine her. He tapped her chest and tested her muscles, looked in her mouth but not into her eyes.
‘Who am I?’ she asked, speaking like a helpless child.
‘This form says you are a French labourer brought in by a priest in need of attention,’ he replied, still not looking at her. His French was slow and halting. ‘You had enteric
fever complicated by malnutrition and infected sores.’
‘Please help me to remember,’ she asked.
He didn’t look up from his writing. ‘Be patient, young lady. It takes time to recover from serious illness. You will remember when you are ready to remember. There are usually good
reasons why people choose to forget. The nurses say you called out in your fever and sang some nursery rhyme in Dutch. That may help you remember.’ He gave her a strange look. ‘Your
clothes were burned. They were regulation items from a labour camp. That fact may help you too, and at some time in your life you had a child. Your body tells me that. These pieces of the jigsaw
might amount to something or nothing.’ He left her, briskly moving on to another room. His words made no sense and she had no will to worry what they meant. It was enough to be dry and warm
and clean. If this was heaven then she was well satisfied.
Phoebe found the exercises frustrating. It was hopeless trying to lift her useless arm. It curled like a hook, flopping on her chest. She had no patience, no strength, no
mobility down one side, her speech, when it came back, was a garbled mumble of sounds. She couldn’t hold a decent conversation. The hospital in Glasgow had done a good job and now she was
convalescing in a nursing home overlooking the Clyde, but her progress was too slow. They told her that she’d probably had a series of little strokes but the damage was done in the big one in
the summer. They told her she’d make more progress if she practised her exercises a bit more, got on her feet and learned to accept the disability. There would be sticks to help her walk and
a wheelchair when she was tired. It was up to herself how much more strength she gained. The speech therapist promised good results if she kept attending sessions, and as an actress and singer she
knew how to develop her breathing and produce sounds, but half the time she couldn’t be bothered. The doctor told her being depressed was a normal part of recovery. ‘You’ve had
shock to your system and such an independent woman like yourself will take it hard at first.’