Written by Jenean McBrearty
Dedicated to those who discovered they were an actor in someone else's play.
Trevor held the boy like his mother held him seventeen years before – or as Trevor imagined she did. He’d come to the western front to deliver the news: the war was over. He’d slogged his way through the trench, stumbling over the dead and dying, and finally, fell to his knees with exhaustion. He looked to his right and saw the boy was holding his metal helmet to his chest with his left hand as he stared at a mud-splattered photo of a pretty young girl he held with his right. Three feet away was a blown-off leg, and just beyond, a bootless foot.
“Billy, is that you?” the boy said as his eyes moved from the photo to Trevor’s half-hidden face.
“Yeah, it’s me, mate,” Trevor said.
“I’m waitin’ for the medic. He’s got to stitch me up ‘cause I’m bleedin’ bad. My Jenny can’t see me like this.”
“We’ll wait together, then, aye?” He pointed to the photo. “She’s a looker, alright.”
“Yeah, I can’t wait to see her.” He was silent for a minute, “It’s so quiet. I can hardly hear the guns.”
“There ain’t no more guns. The war’s over, mate. We’re all goin’ home.”
“That’s good, Billy. When I get home, I’m going to toast the King. I’ll stop at the pub, drain my glass, and give my Jenny a wedding ring. I’ll plant her a garden of roses, and when we’re old and gray, we’ll forget about the gas and the bayonets … Someday.”
The boy’s head fell forward on his chest. Trevor sat him upright, pulled his tag from, his neck, and stuffed it and Jenny Belle’s photo in his pocket, as a gentle rain began to fall. Without noise and smoke, it seemed for a moment the world could be made habitable again. The sun wasn’t shining, but it was daylight. That was a sign of hope, wasn’t it?
He kicked a rat that was already feasting on the dead soldier’s leg, and removed the bayonet from his rifle to kill a few of the buggers. “Hey, you!” someone yelled. Get your ass out of here. Some of these Huns ain’t got the word yet. Move on up the line!”
“I need a body bag!” Trevor yelled back.
A uniformed man was staggering slowly toward him through the mud. “I’ll see to ‘im. We’re gathering the dead,” a man said in broken English with a thick German accent. He slipped the boot and the foot into a linen sack like a park custodian cleaning up after a pic-nic. “Help me bag ‘im.”
The two of them put the boy and the leg into a khaki canvas bag. “You have his tag?” the German asked.
“Aye, I’ll give it to the Color Sergeant.”
Above them a supply wagon, loaded with canvas bags, rolled to a stop. He and the German tied the bag closed with heavy cords, and hoisted it to the crouching men with outstretched arms who pulled it up the embankment. Once loaded, the wagon moved down the trench line.
“The war is over,” Trevor said. “What are you doing here?”
“I was a prisoner. Captured last night. Now I’m just a thief.” He sat down and reached inside his coat pocket. “You want some of this bread?” He broke it in half and handed one side to Trevor, who gnawed on it like the rat.
“Thanks. There weren’t no meat?”
The man nodded his head. “Eine Minuten,” then pointed to himself. “Sergeant Karl. Wie heissen Sie? Name?”
“Corporal Trevor.”
Karl handed him a chunk of roasted pork, but the real treat was the flask he uncapped, took a swig and passed it, too. Flat beer that tasted like champagne. “Which side did you steal from?” Trevor said.
“Your officers left in a hurry,” Karl said, and something in his voice made Trevor laugh.
“They finally did something right. Moved their asses.”
“The dead boy was your friend?” Karl said.
“I was just passing the word down the line. I couldn’t leave ‘im.”
“I hope some stranger stayed with my brother.”
“You two men down there … I said, get off your asses and move out!” He sounded like a barking dog, but it was only the silhouette of a large man. “At least you’re in the right army, you filthy bastards. No wonder we have so many casualties!”
Trevor took Karl’s hand and stood up. “Which is the right side, Sir?”
“Just head north. When you get to a sign post, if you’re British, keep going straight. If you’re German turn right and keep marching east. Somebody will find you.”
They ripped off their insignia, threw away their helmets, and, once again, followed orders. Like old men, they limped away, shoulders slumped, backs bent as though carrying sacks of rocks. They met other soldiers heading for their demobilizing units – one for the victorious, one for the defeated, indistinguishable except for the color of their uniforms.
“When you see the boy’s family, tell them this German soldier didn’t want him to die,” Karl said at the intersection.
Trevor offered his hand and nodded. “I’ll tell them. Tell your family this British soldier is glad you came through alive.”
He should have been elated. Strangely, Trevor regretted they were going their separate ways. The war was hell, but this was the most terrifying minute of his life. He had to face the truth. He had nothing to go back to.
Karl might have sensed it. “Meet my family,” he said. “Come visit. Mein Papa, Gerreg Schulman. Reverend Schulman, of Passau.”
“I’m Trevor Jones, of Wales.”
They parted ways, their bodies intact as the day they left their countries. At least, outside. Inside, was the thinnest of bonds holding muscles to bones, veins to brains. Hereafter, when he felt himself breaking apart, he would remember Karl, and hope the memory of his enemy’s humanity would knit him together.
***
When the taxi stopped in front of a white-stone rowhouse, Trevor checked the address Sgt. Green had given him, glad to link up a bereaved family with an orphan kid barely nineteen. “This is it, mate,” the driver said. “Joseph Pulley’s place. You want me to wait?”
“Can you come back in an hour? I may be outside.”
“Any word you have about Joey Junior … you’ll be there for hours.”
My. Pulley worked for the telegraph office, maybe typed the news of Trevor’s mother’s death himself. “Bad news, that,” Sgt Evans had said. “At least you won’t leave no broken hearts behind if one of the Kaiser’s boys get you.” That was Evans’ silver lining, alright.
Joey’s parents fed him biscuits and tea without tears or questions. “He was a good son,” was all Mrs. Pulley said as she brushed crumbs off the ‘good’ tablecloth.
“Come ‘round the telegraph office and I’ll get you the job they promised to Joey. You’ll have a hard time finding work in this economy, but with your training — you were a runner, right?” Mr. Pulley wore durable clothing, and sturdy shoes.
“Yes, Sir.”
“Come tomorrow after lunch. I’ll send word to the boss. Ask for Mr. Weldon.”
“Thank-you, Mr. Pulley. Very much.”
Mrs. Pulley was as direct as her husband. “You can stay here. No sense sleeping in a government flophouse when we’ve got a spare room.”
“Come on,” Mr. Pulley said. “I’ll drive you to get your things.” He walked Trevor to the door, and whispered. “Thanks for not telling the missus ‘bout how you found him. Sgt. Green gave me the details. He delivered the British War Medal himself. That was something special to Evie, even if every soldier got one.”
***
By Easter, Trevor had saved enough money to buy a business suit, a fedora, and a pair of oxford shoes, earning the right to call on Joey’s sweetheart by way of a guy named Billy. Mrs. Pulley cut his hair. Mr. Pulley’s contribution was rose water cologne, and information. He knew Joey’s friend, Billy. A pub mate, Mr. Pulley called him, but didn’t recognize the girl in the photograph. “Joey called her his Jenny,” Trevor explained.
“Could be Billy can tell you,” Pulley suggested. “Or someone at the Owl’s Bridge. ‘Though she don’t look like a girl who’d spend time with the lot that does their drinkin’ there. See the cameo she’s wearin’? Ladies wear those. I hardly ever delivered telegrams to the grand houses until the war. I’ve seen the foyers of thousands now.”
“Did you deliver a death notice to Billy Robertson’s house?”
“No … but that don’t mean Billy’s still alive. We had over a hundred-fifty men who did nothin’ but deliver bad news to London families. You want the car?”
“I’ll take a cab. You and the missus might want to visit Victoria’s Gardens.”
The cab set him back plenty, but it was worth it. Jenny Robertson’s grand house was located in Belgrave Square. “Those are houses?” he asked the cabby in disbelief.
“Get your callin’ card ready. The young lady may not see you this time ‘round,” the cabby answered.
“I’m here to see Billy …”
“You mean Master William. Jenny’s his sister. You’re young, handsome and employed. You’ll definitely meet Miss Jenny. Young ladies is lowerin’ their standards since the war.”
He was right. The maid who answered the door led him into the library where the sun provided light for a young woman seated on a sea-blue settee reading a book. She looked up, and closed the book, when she saw Trevor standing tall and straight in front of her. Her smile was gracious, but not genuine as her voice revealed an undercurrent of resentment when she spoke.
“Clare, bring us some tea — unless you prefer spirits, Mr. …?”
“Jones. Trevor Jones. I’m here to see Billy.”
“Oh, of course. Clare, tell my brother he has company. What’s your pleasure, Mr. Jones?”
“Sherry will be fine. If you have any.”
She laid the book on a side table. “Somehow, we weathered the storm of war without too much deprivation. Clare, we’ll have sherry.”
“Yes, Ma’am,” came the reply without a shred of deference.
“William says you worked in the demobilization unit. It must have been quite a job, sorting things out for three million men. What a headache. Still, you managed, though.” She motioned him to sit. “You’re with the telegraph service now, I hear.”
Clare returned with a tray with a tea-pot, a decanter, and paraphernalia to make them both happy. Trevor made a point to say, “Thank-you, Clare.”
“So, tell me, what has the army have to do with William now, I wonder,” Jenny said.
“It’s about Joey Pulley.”
“What about him?”
“You do know him?”
She added cube of sugar to her tea with child-sized silver tongs. “He was William’s friend. Why, I can’t say, but they got along. More so after Joey saved his life. We all believed William had drowned in the lake of our country house, but Joey turned him over like a piece of toast and pushed water out of him like he was kneading dough. I told Mama Billy was dead, but Joey said, ‘he’s only half dead,’ and then William began to cough and sputter like a car engine. Joey certainly proved he was a handy man. Is he finally back from the front?”
Trevor downed his glass of sherry and stood. He was honor bound to tell Jenny about Joey’s death, but reticence was easy now. Death never seemed more of a defeat than at this moment, and a man was entitled to his dignity. “He’s gone home, Ma’am. And I should do the same if Billy’s indisposed. Have a good afternoon.”
Jenny smoothed her bangs. “I’ll try. William is indisposed, it seems. I don’t know why he’d agree to see you, and then disappear. I’ll tell him you stopped ‘round. Maybe you can come again next week. I’m sure it’s his new jaw. He was under Harold Gillies’ care at Saint Mary’s Hospital for months when he was invalided home. I should warn you, he’s unbearable to look at … men are so much stronger than women when it comes to those things.”
“They can always use volunteers at the demobilization center, Miss Robertson. If you want to help.”
“Oh no! I couldn’t stand it!” She sank back into the upholstered settee. “There are still things women shouldn’t see. William wears a hood when he’s with the family. He understands.”
“I’m sure he does.”
“Clare … see Mr. Jones to the door.” Her eyes never met his. Rather she opened a magazine and began to read, or at lease pretended to.
“Mister William says he has some business at the Owl’s Bridge. If you’d like to meet him there,” Clare whispered to him as they neared the beveled glass door.
“I’ll do that.”
Running was the only respectable way to burn off the rage he felt. Jenny Bell was brought up as a lady but behaved like a gutter snipe. Yes, he was healthy now, and slept without lice and rats gnawing on him, but he wouldn’t sleep well tonight. He’d dream of properly a laid table with silverware so polished it blinded with a gleam like the eyes of seductress, and a hooded monster sitting in the shadows at the far end of the table, far away from those who recoiled from him. He was thankful now, that Joey Pulley died on the battlefield never knowing the truth about the woman he loved, and the friend who thought of him only as a drinking mate.
Energy spent, Trevor leaned against the street lamp, gasping for air. Not from physical effort, but from bitterness. Why had he thought Billy had come home unscathed, or that his family would rally ‘round him? Because the woman in the picture looked like she could love a regular fellow, that’s why, and a mud-splattered face could be mistaken for a mate in the fog of war. As though memories of love and battlefield friendship could make him whole again.
Reality was devouring the words he wanted to scream at her. He met the new enemy at the intersection of Shame Street and Desperation Avenue straight-backed, tall, and determined — until he bent over when he couldn’t get air. He sucked in short, painful breaths. “You relive the gas attacks and they become real,” Dr. Finebaum had told him. “We are what we believe, and you believe you should have died, too.” Survivor’s guilt.
He took a step. Then another. One foot at a time. It would pass. He would be late, but he could make it to Owl’s Bridge.
***
Billy sat in one of the back booths in a darkened room reserved for clandestine meetings with mistresses and opium dealers. He drank his beer through a tube. His new jaw filled out the flesh of his sagging right cheek, but the prosthesis was purely cosmetic. He couldn’t chew with it, yet.
“Can you speak?” Trevor asked him.
“I can, but you may not be able to understand me well with my tongue separating my jaw and my palate. I still write my responses at home.”
“I understand you fine. Just speak slowly.”
“You came through it.”
“My wounds can’t be seen,” Trevor confessed.
“You met Joey?”
“I was with him when he died. Not that it matters, but I thought you might want this.” Trevor kept Jenny’s picture in a card he’d bought at a stationer’s shoppe, and handed it to Billy.
He opened and laid it on the table, staring at it the way Joey had. “So, that’s where it went. It disappeared from my mother’s shrine to the sacrifice of her womb to womanly duty. She has a framed photograph of her children for every year from the day they were born. They litter her private parlor.”
“Jenny didn’t give it to him?”
“Of course not.” Billy folded the card, and put it in his coat pocket. “She was beautiful at sixteen. The trouble is, she knew it too well. Flirted with every man she met, and collected their hearts like the butterflies she and my father pin on posterboard.”
“Joey died believing a lie. I hoped that it wasn’t … but it it gave him comfort.”
“Every man who died in the war believed one lie or another, and they all had hopes,” Billy said.
“Please don’t tell her Joey stole it, Billy. She doesn’t deserve to know he loved her.”
“I’ll return it to its ‘lil pearl frame, and set it on the piano. And, you? What will you do now? Continue with the telegraph service?”
“The firm’s got another government contract of some kind. The telephone is quicker, but not secure, Mr. Pulley said. They send me to Downing Street sometimes.”
Billy gave the room a quick scan. “Do you ever read those telegrams?”
“Not me,” Trevor said, and quietly.
Billy rubbed his cheek as though he were in pain … or considering his own words well. “The new coin of the realm is information, Trevor. Politics isn’t just for the upper classes anymore. Since the war, every country has its spies and agents. Looking out for other country’s spies and agents.”
“Is that so?”
“It is. I was at the bank two days ago, and you know what I heard? Germany isn’t giving up just because it surrendered. Ol’ man Rothchild wants every German mark he can lay his hands on before they aren’t worth wiping your ass with. Do you like plays, Trevor?”
“You mean Shakespeare and all that? I suppose so.”
“Well, the Germans are going to be writing act two soon. The next war is already in the planning.”
“G’wan.” Trevor finished off his stout. One look at Billy’s contorted face, and he knew the man wasn’t lying. Or, at least believed what he said was the truth.
“People made so such goddamned much money off the last war, why not go ‘round again, yeah? Think on that, Trevor. Think about how much blood men gave for that money.” Billy rubbed his new jaw, grasping it between his thumb and fingers. “You’d better go now. I want to eat and you don’t want to see that. No one does.” He brought out a cloth bag from under the table and slipped it over his head. He reached under the fabric, and when he removed his hand, it held a piece of steel.
***
It was difficult not to think about how much ordinary men gave. Everyday, when Trevor delivered telegrams, he saw men like ‘Mr. Croquet,’ who walked the streets with glazed-over eyes, his hand outstretched, jostled by passers-by who bumped him like a mallet, as he repeated, “I fought at Verdun,” in hopes people would give him a few coins. Whatever the amount of his last tip, Trevor would drop the coins on the man’s palm, and curl his fingers over them, never saying a word because all Mr. Croquet heard were the guns.
Odd that this secret daily act of charity would tempt Trevor to refuse when Mr. Weldon offered him a promotion. “Sir Cyril Robertson said you’re a bright lad. More like a handsome one to his Jenny, I’ll wager. But you know Morse Code, and all you have to do is transcribe messages on the telegrams, address the envelopes, and drop them in the area boxes.”
It meant working alongside men like Mr. Pulley, and double the pay for indoor work.
He accepted immediately, though. “You’re very generous, Sir. Of course. Thank-you.”
“I knew it wouldn’t be long, Trevor,” Mrs. Pulley said.
“I’ll be able to pay rent now,” he said. He thought it was good news. They had to be tired of him.
“You’ll do no such thing,” was Evie’s response. She wagged her finger at him twice, and was off to the kitchen before he could protest.
Mr. Pulley looked up from his newspaper. “You’ll need a car of your own if you’re going to court Miss Jenny,” he said, and smiled like a fortune teller delivering good advice. “Save your money.”
This was the life Joey should be living. For hours the thought summersaulted through his mind as he lay in Joey’s bed staring at the fluttering curtains, and listening to the silence of peace. Where was Mr. Croquet? At a flop house, sleeping in a doorway, or maybe under the bridge with other homeless men gathered around a trashcan fire? Joey died believing a lie, but he was living one, as a replacement for the son they lost. The Pulley’s were good to him. Too good to him. What heroic act had he performed to merit another man’s life? He’d stayed handsome.
He dressed, and left a note: gone out for a pint at Owl’s Bridge. Billy would be there. Maybe Mr. Croquet, too, hiding in the shadows. If not, he’d find them. If he could make it down the stairs. Make it to the door. But he stumbled. Loosened his collar to breathe. He had a promotion to celebrate … like a bullet in his gut. There was no gas. He felt his leg, let his hand travel down his shin bone to his foot. He was still whole.
A knock on the door brought him back to reality. “I saw your light was on, Trevor. A letter came for you. I’ll slip it under the door.” It was Mrs. Pulley, a religiously respecter of privacy. Without waiting for a thank-you, she shuffled away in her slippers. He wiped the sweat from his face and crawled to the white envelope staring at him from a freshly waxed floor. An invitation from Sir Cyril, perhaps, in response to his thank-you note for the recommendation. But, no. The invitation was from Karl Schulman.
Dear Trevor:
It has taken me two years to track you down. It seems there are
many people named Jones in Wales. I am assured, however, that
you are residing in London after you separated from the demobilization
programme. I also was retained for that purpose, given that I was
deemed physically fit and sane, and, I, too, decided to reside in the
capitol after returning to a land and people I no longer know. My
Uncle owns a printing firm, and found a place for me as a company representative. I will be staying at the Browns Hotel to meet with our
British counterparts on 15 June to the 22nd, and would love to meet
and at least have dinner and a drink. Contact me at 622 Friedrickstrasse,
Berlin.
Regards
Karl Schulman
Who was his enemy now? It was another question for which he had no answer. What he did know was that there was someone on the other side who knew that the peace was as unbearable as the war. It gave him small satisfaction. Only a few drops of hope to sprinkle on the lies.
***
“Jenny said you’d be here.” Trevor hung his raincoat on a hook screwed into the side of the booth divider, and sat opposite Billy.
“I’ve a good head start on you, Jones.”
“Bring us a pint,” Trevor said to the barmaid who’d followed him to the rear of the Owl’s Bridge pub, and held up two fingers.
“Aren’t you generous now that Jenny’s wrangled you a promotion. You’ll be invited to dinner soon. She wants to be married before Christmas. Give Sir Cyril a grandchild, and you’ll be president of the company,” Billy garbled.
“I’ve already been invited to dinner, but not by the Robertsons.”
“Another vixien has set her cap for you, has she?”
“No, and as tempting as Jenny can be, I rather like my position. I can see it becoming very lucrative in a few years,” Trevor said.
Billy paused as the barmaid sat pints of ale on the table, winked at Trevor, and sashayed away before he spoke. “A wise man considers his future well. You’ve been thinking about our King’s German cousins. What’s challenged your mind?”
“A man named Mr. Croquet. You don’t know him. Probably never seen him, but he fought at Verdun.”
“Is that what you call James Tillman? The names other people call him aren’t so flattering.” Billy stuck his tube into his fresh pint.
“You know him …”
“Haven’t you seen the papers? The Times admits he was a nuisance, but regrets the suicide of the Verdun vet. He’s been discussed here quite thoroughly. Mixed reviews, of course. Some think he was playing the fool for money. Others scoff at their insensitivity. But, you and I know, a man can play many roles throughout his life.”
“Damn it!” Trevor slammed his glass on the table.
Billy wrapped a cold scarred hand around Trevor’s, then slowly pushed it away before moving the glass away from his grip. “Take it easy, mate. The war is truly over for him now.” He handed Trevor a handkerchief. “It’s hot in here. Better wipe the sweat from your cheeks.”
Trevor blotted his face. “I … I know you’ll think me stupid, but the first thing I thought of when I got my promotion was how I could help Mr. Croquet. Mr. Pulley says I should save up for a car to court your sister, but I though maybe, if Mr. Croquet got out of the rat-holes he’s used to here in London, you know, got out to the country once in a while. Maybe he’d get …”
“Get well? Recover his senses? There’s no cure for persistent memories.”
“Someone ought to do something, Billy. Why not me?”
“Have you heard of this fella in Germany named Hitler? He wants to do something. He wants to overthrow the Communists in Weimar, tear up the Versailles Treaty, and send the Jews packing.”
“Let’s go for a walk. It’s noisy in here,” Trevor said as he laid a pound note on the table.
“Do we have a destination?”
“The bridge in the park.”
***
The pubs were filling up, heavy with smoke, laughter and jazz bands. On the sidewalks, sweet young things, heavy with make-up and glittered headbands, waited for their male escorts to park their cars. Some of them stared at Billy with pity, others with shudders. Finally, Billy grabbed Trevor by the arm and steered him down an alley, reeking of urine and garbage cans. The two men were soon away from the hub-bub. A light mist had replaced brief, sudden shower, and the fog was rolling in from the river, but the homeless hadn’t given up begging in the crowds yet, so their path was unimpeded.
Trevor eased into conversation with a question. “Does Jenny have German friends?”
“She has friends everywhere. India. America, Italy. And, yes, Berlin. Did I tell you, I’m fluent in written German?”
“You’d be valuable to either side,” Trevor said.
“That’s s true. That’s why I don’t want it known.”
“Does Jenny know?”
“No. My family now equates my appearance with stupidity. They’re right, in a way. I was stupid enough to volunteer to fight a war for a country filled with people who think that way.”
“And a country that doesn’t give a fuck about the soldiers willing to die for it.” Trevor lit a smoke. Did Mt. Croquet smoke? A month ago, he didn’t have any tip money to give him, and gave him a fag packet of Craven A. “What does Jenny think about this bloke, Hitler?”
“She thinks German women are too fat to wear clothes from Paris. She’s going there next week with some friends. Let me tell you something about my sister, Trevor. As long as her husband can make her friends envy her, she’ll forgive all the time he spends away on business. If he’s discreet, she’ll even forgive his private affairs, too. It’s what all upper-class girls are trained to do.”
They stopped in the middle of the bridge between lamp posts, and watched the water ripple with the wind. “And how does a husband make other women envy his wife?” The moon cast a sliver of silver through the clouds that landed on Big Ben. He could see the clock-face, big as another moon.
“Jewelry and attention, I suppose,” Billy said, after a minute of consideration.
“Too rich for my blood.” Trevor said.
“Not attention from him, necessarily. Her husband could introduce her to men who will admire her. If she has her own private affairs, she’d be unlikely to care about her husband’s business dealings even if they included other women. Harold Nicolson and his wife, Vita, are notorious for their patience in that department. You’ve heard the gossip, I’m sure. Hell, if I wasn’t so ugly, I’d escort Jenny to every party, where handsome men and beautiful women would swoon over her. A man doesn’t have to be rich to do that, and a beautiful wife can be an asset in certain kinds of businesses.”
Billy offered him a cigarette from a gold case. “Go ahead. They’re Cheserfields. I like them because they’re milder than Turkish fags.”
“Did I ever tell you there was another person with Joey when he died?” Trevor lit up a cigartette – a votive candle for Mr. Croquet. “He was a German soldier, Karl Schulman, who works in Berlin for his uncle’s paper company.” Trevor pulled Karl’s letter from his pocket. “He’s coming to London in June, staying at the Browns, and wants to have dinner. He speaks English fairly well. You can practice your language skills together.”
“I don’t habituate polite company, but we could meet for a drink after dinner, and thank-you,” Billy said. “You haven’t seen him since the war?”
“I haven’t, but it wouldn’t surprise me if he wanted to go into the paper business for himself. He can tell us more about Hitler and what’s going on in Germany. It should be interesting. As for your appearance, I’ll prepare him. Men on both sides ended up like you.”
***
“Time has been good to you, Trevor Jones,” Karl said after handshakes and beer orders. It was different for Karl. He was gaunt and aged. Trevor didn’t remember him having a face wound, but then he wasn’t paying attention to anything except getting away from the trench where Joey had died. Yet, there it was, a thin red line from his temple to just above his chin.
“Don’t be fooled. The clothes and the car are borrowed. My friend, Billy, is determined to have me as a brother-in-law, and extends me undeserved courtesies. He suggested La Petite Francois.”
“Du gehörst hier. Sorry, you belong here.” Karl said in a thinner German accent. ‘Be careful or he’ll make a gentleman out of you.”
The waiter stiffened, and gave his attention to Trevor. “Do you wish to order, sir?”
“Fish and crisps,” Karl said.
The waiter pursed his lips. “An excellent choice. Vinegar or sauerkraut?”
“Bring both,” Trevor said in an exaggerated Welsh accent. The waiter clicked his heels and made a curt bow. “Yes, sir.”
“Did he expect me to order filet mignon and crepe Suzettes?” Karl said.
“I think we should be glad we got side-eyes instead of dueling swords,” Trevor said. “Billy would have received worse treatment. He got quite blown up in the war.”
Karl scanned the room, bathed as it seemed to be in sparkling light as the electric bulbs bounced off brass fixtures, and chair backings, and bar rails and door handles. On very wall hung pictures of angled faces, sharp city skylines, and fractured bodies; elegant, haughty evening clothed aristocrats juxtaposed with proletariat workers in heavy boots, carrying heavy tools, wearing ghoulish grimaces, accompanied by black dogs with barred teeth.
“Why would he be rejected here in civilization’s graveyard?” Karl said.
It was another question Trevor couldn’t answer. Curiosity overcoming hesitancy, Trevor asked boldly, “What does degenerate mean? I read things in the paper, hear things on the radio, about Mr. Hitler drubbing degenerate art and I don’t know what he means by that, or why it matters.”
“Look at the walls, Trevor, and tell me which picture you think is the most beautiful. One that you would hang in your house to make you think of lovely things and memories.”
After their food was delivered, and Karl remarked that the fish was tasty, Trevor studied the pictures as he ate. He owed Karl a truthful answer. He recognized names Albert Gleizes,Kandinsky, Klee, and Kirchner, and knew they were important because Hitler hated them, but didn’t think any of the pictures were beautiful.
“Well?” Karl said as he finished off his beer. “Have you decided on which one you’d buy?”
“I like bright colors. If I had to take one home, it would be The Red Tower. But buy? I wouldn’t pay for any them. They’re all chopped up, like stew meat.”
“That’s why Hitler hates pictures like these. The war chopped up the world, and he wants to make it whole again. What do you think of that?”
“I wish he could make Billy whole again. Or Mr. Croquet.”
“Who’s he?” Karl asked.
“Just a man who lived, died, and died again.”
“We must leave this place,” Karl said, and lifted his hand to call the waiter who ignored the call until he’d finished talking to another waiter standing near the kitchen. “The cur,” Trevor heard Karl mutter as he stood and threw two, one-pound notes on the table. His eyes riveted on Trevor. “No tip.”
***
Defiant in defeat. Without a hint of regret. Ill-mannered? Perhaps. But a regular fellow as close to regal as Trevor had seen a paper representative conduct himself. And respectful. He greeted Billy with a handshake, and a polite nod of his head, looking him square in the face.
Trevor had said Billy and Karl could practice their language skills, and so they did. Every few sentences, they would acknowledge his presence, but, for the most part, they spoke and wrote in German and so intensely, that it was obvious even to Trevor they were not strangers.
“The hour is late,” he finally said, “and I have to work tomorrow. I bid you good-night, gentlemen …” Whatever dealings they had, they were not ready to share them with him.
“It’s time we had another walk in the park, Trevor,” Bily said. “We need to speak privately.”
“Wait, Trevor,” Karl said. “We’ve been … discussing whether or not to trust you. It’s a most delicate matter. If you’ve the slightest feelings for Miss Jenny … the truth is … what I told you about meeting with my counterpart is true. Billy is my counterpart, but it’s nothing to do with representing the paper company. You’ve heard of Rotha Lintorn-Orman? She served in Greece during the war with the Red Cross.”
“Invalided home about the same time I was when she got malaria.” Billy said. “She hates two things. Communism and internationalism. She’s forming a Fascist Party here, in England, and I want to be a part of it.”
“What’s that got to do with Jenny?” Trevor said.
“I want you to marry her,” Billy said. “She’s your key to respectability. The Party will need someone on the inside, with a conduit to the government without being part of the government. I can’t do it. People can’t stand the sight of me. But you?”
“The Party will need money and Jenny can get these fat cats to open their wallets while you organize the working men. It’s the way it works. Hitler knows it. Mussolini knows it.” Karl eyes glowed with fervor. “Hitler grows more popular with every election. He’s going to need information …”
Trevor looked at Billy. “That new coin of the realm, you said.”
Billy nodded. “Herr Schulman tracked me down first. I gave him Pulley’s address.”
“At least say it outright. You pegged me to be a spy.”
“I want you to fight again. Not for England, but for veterans like Mr. Croquet. For men like me who’ve been betrayed the way Germany was betrayed. Knifed in the back by profiteers. Our families. Our friends … Can you forgive me for not telling you?”
“Billy’s going to Germany with me. My Uncle will give him a job. He’ll translate what you send into German.” Karl handed Trevor a stack of fifty-pound notes wrapped with a rubber band. “Billy will suggest you be promoted to supervisor when you and Jenny are engaged. Buy a tailored suit and a decent coat.”
***
Trevor added the money to what was left of his week’s pay. The new suit could wait. James Tillman — Mr Croquet, needed a cemetery plot and a headstone with the words “I fought at Verdun” carved on it, to serve as a reminder that he’d been betrayed by his country, murdered by indifference.
He wouldn’t buy the car. He would leave the Pulley’s ten pounds for his room and board, and buy a ticket to America in the name of Trevor Jones, a war-time, fleet of foot communications expert with a letter of recommendation from Mr. Weldon in his pocket. The Pulleys would miss him, but he couldn’t be a replacement for Joey. And he would fight no more for countries or political systems, no matter what languages they spoke.
He would buy a new coat, so he could give his old one, and a full pack of Chesterfields, to the first cold man he met in the stinking alley behind the Owl’s Bridge.
And before he boarded the Cunard ship, Carmania, sailing from Southampton to New York, he would have three romantic meetings with Jenny Robertson. The morning after their fourth date at a jazz club, a constable would find her hanging from the park bridge, a rope tied around a streetlamp post, dressed in a yellow, thigh-high, sequined evening dress with a fringed shawl about her shoulders, her head covered with a linen hood, in honor of the brother she murdered with indignity.
***
Before the war, Trevor had been a collier in South Wales. In 1913, coal production reached its peak, but not before it took the life of his father in one of many underground explosions. If it hadn’t been for the war, Trevor, too, might have perished. But, he’d learned to read, at his father’s insistence, and this would help him find work in a place called Pennsylvania. How could he have forseen that in seven years, he would be sleeping in a government flop house with the lice and the rats, until he met a man named Fritz Kuhn and joined the German-American Bund in 1936?
About the Author
Jenean loves chocolate chip cookies and milk. She also writes poetry, stories, and commentary, and gets in trouble for doing so—but does it anyway. She says she deserves a medal for being a teacher for twenty-seven years.
Some of her novels that are available to purchase on Amazon are:
Parker Hunt: A Man of Deeds (detective/noir)
The Ninth Circle (detective/mystery)
Helmut Wolf: The Good Engineer (dystopian future)
The Tarnished Halo of Father Bergonzoli (priest detective/mystery)
She's also producing her first audio book, The General's Lady, which is set for release on 3/1/26.
Jenean can be contacted at Bent Eye substack (flash fiction, short stories) and X@jenean McBrearty