War on the Margins Page 6
Peter, a Polish Communist from the Dombrowski Brigade who spoke broken Spanish and English, sat on a bench as far away as possible from the bucket. He surveyed the group, illuminated by a naked bulb. Most were similarly seated on benches, wrapped in filthy blankets, trying to roll with the ship. Perhaps they would get used to the motion enough to allow a game of cards. Suddenly a gust of sea air cut the stench. A German soldier descended into the hold. He shouted something in German, looked around at the queasy men, and returned above decks. The German speakers quickly translated. ‘We’re going to some kind of work facility. We will build fortifications. Anyone who does not work, who steals, all the usual things, will be shot.’
The men received this news calmly; this wasn’t new. Usually, all they could think about was food. It was only the seasickness that kept these thoughts at bay. First they tried to think of nothing. Then they found themselves thinking of refreshing things that might ease the nausea: a mint leaf, a single slice of lemon, a small piece of ice. If their minds rolled like the ship and veered in the direction of chocolate, whisky, garlic, ripe cheese, the bile would rise in their throats. Steering their minds towards the bland and the cool kept their stomachs where they belonged. No sooner had most of them mastered this than two sailors appeared with pots of bitter ersatz coffee and a crate of suspect bread. The men who found this revolting gave their rations to the men who did not.
The light bulb went off to mark the first of two arbitrary nights. Each comrade made himself as comfortable as possible on his share of bench to encourage a fitful sleep punctuated by dreams of ice and mint, or of nothing but flat land and blue sky. When the men awoke with the light bulb’s peremptory dawn, their lice had all become acquainted. Again they were served the bitter beverage and the insult to the idea of bread, this time with some ‘margarine’ that must have been skimmed from the dirty oil slick in the harbour. The sailors made a show of emptying the brimming slop pail, though it had already been filled a few times over, only to topple over in the pitching hold. Most of its contents flowed aft, away from the benches, but the odour added itself to the cacophony of rotting fish, vomit and ancient dirt. Peter looked at Little Juan (one of four Juans) and smiled.
‘Juancito, it is like trench warfare, only the trenches move.’
‘Yes,’ replied Juan, smiling with blackened teeth. ‘Camarada, I almost have nostalgia.’
CHAPTER 22
Paris, 1931
Farewell, snow, desert, rocks, eternity,
Enraged and tender mouth, necessary storms.
The loud ghost whom you said you knew,
You know his name at last and do not dare say it.
Follow with your eyes the comet about to disappear
Outside your universe, in an ignored sky.
You would roll in his train with inebriated suns
Your spirit made rebellious by your untamed body…
Remain alone and standing in your pride of copper
With the dead dreams which rot your nights,
The croaked stars, disgusting with sperms
And the flabby women, lovers forever abandoned…
But you understand too late, when the horizon closes up,
Your heart caught in the door and your hands crushed.
Fleeing the blind sky and the worried sea,
You build for yourself alone boring Paradises,
But each rising dawn confirms your defeat
And chases away the shadow seated at the foot of your
bed.
Must one live again still, live eternally
The desperate night, the unending day,
And for a brief respite cowardly wish
To fall asleep dead drunk, with one’s forehead on some
table?
For the lying mouth and the disloyal hand,
For the powerless heart which knew not love,
For the body enslaved to uneventful pleasures
And for fleeing eyes, there is no recourse.
A shivering bird turns in the black sky.
Were the bird catcher to leave the cage open,
It will fall, with its wing beating and its heart heavy with
hope.
The north wind is cold on the deserted plain.
But you, you who knew how to cross mirrors,
You don’t even know, in the pitiful night,
How to find the house of the irrevocable master.
The infallible formula has lost its power.
Faithfully followed by the funeral entourage
Of shame, remorse and livid dreads,
You will always be searching, dragging your dead soul
Which bears upon its neck the trace of your fingers.
Claude Cahun
CHAPTER 23
La Rocquaise, St Brelade
December 1941
Thank God for the wireless. They listened to BBC and the powerfully intrusive German stations sporadically during the day; often Lucille would take notes on the nine o’clock BBC news broadcast and, with Suzanne’s illustrations, turn these into missives from the Nameless Soldier. They liked to think the recent rumours of multiple desertions were due, in part, to their efforts. More Orders against the Jews had appeared, spelling out the means by which proceeds from terminated Jewish businesses were to be handled. The local government that had been Marlene’s place of employment was now the agent of her persecution. They wanted to turn her in to the Nazis; they might even be looking for her actively. Her colleagues had become jerrybags and informers. The fact of a Jewish father, formerly just a curiosity, was now a dangerous secret. Lucille and Suzanne, Mary Drummond and the wireless were her new family. She had got to know the newsreaders; they now often introduced themselves before reading the report in order to prevent impostors from passing on propaganda. Alvar Liddell, Bruce Belfridge, Frederick Grisewood and Godfrey Talbot were cousins who came to her home bearing news that they wanted her to hear from their own lips. They pulled no punches, but they never went to pieces. They did not lecture or condescend like Haw-Haw, who would be more depressing if he didn’t sound so pompous. Haw-Haw was the tippling uncle on German Overseas Radio whom everyone made lame jokes about. Churchill, though his speech often sounded somewhat slurred, was a more beloved uncle whose faults were overlooked in the face of his unrelenting optimism and eloquence. Although Mr Orange had been an example of an untrustworthy authority figure, she couldn’t bring herself to think the same about Churchill; it made her nauseous with fear. What if all of them were in on it? What if Churchill was making the ‘V’ sign with one hand and taking Reichsmarks with the other? She shivered and quickly argued the thought away before it drew tears.
With a history book with maps borrowed from Lucille and Suzanne’s vast library, she began sorting out the different locations mentioned on the wireless: Tunis, Berlin, Kiev, Singapore. She wanted to put a map of the world on the wall and put pins in locations where war was being waged; she wanted to put a big pin on Jersey. Maybe she should just put a pin in her heart, to locate her on the map of suffering which unfolded almost worldwide. It became the world itself, really, and not a map. She was just a pin, a dot. She could put nothing on her heart, especially not a monogram. She could be taking her life in her hands if she wore a monogrammed sweater; the thought made her chuckle.
They sat in the living room after a Sunday dinner of bread and swedes, sipping wine. They had managed to scrounge enough wood for a small fire, so each woman needed only a single shawl to ward off the chill. They switched on the wireless at nine to listen to the news. Alvar Liddell came on and began announcing a surprise attack by Japan on a place in the Pacific belonging to the United States, Pearl Harbor. Marlene had never heard of Pearl Harbor; she looked towards Suzanne and Lucille, who were listening intently with unreadable expressions. When Liddell had finished, they looked at each other. ‘This is bad for America,’ said Suzanne, ‘but I think it is good for Europe. I think America will join the war now; they will defeat the Germans
.’
Lucille interjected. ‘But cherie, America has always been averse to this war. They want nothing to do with our problems; they are capitalist.’
‘True, Lucille, but they to some extent incited this. They cut off Japan’s oil supply. Surely they knew that would lead to something.’
‘I suppose. But they still have to decide to enter the war.’
‘Yes. Well, time will tell.’
‘This is a good opportunity, though, for that letter to the jerries we were planning: “Hitler leads us.”’
Suzanne, smiling, took it up: ‘“Goebbels speaks for us. Goering eats for us.”’
‘“Himmler … Himmler murders for us.”’
‘But nobody dies for us!’
CHAPTER 24
Paris
1933
Though he emerged better educated, Peter’s prison record in Poland stripped him of the few rights he otherwise would have had. In late 1933 he set out for Paris with a false passport and the Party’s blessing. He immediately found a Party cell and a job. Though he worked illegally, the Party was legal in France and he was astonished by the casual air of the meetings, with no look-out posted to watch for the police. L’Humanité, the French Communist newspaper, was sold everywhere. So was the fascist paper, Action Française.
The threat of fascism was palpable; shortly after his arrival, Peter almost lost his life outside the Palais Bourbon, countering anti-Semitic right-wing rioters protesting an alleged Jewish/government conspiracy that ended in the mysterious death of one Serge Stavisky.
Peter continued working with the Polish Communists, selling the Yiddish-language Naje Presse and the Polish Dziennik Ludowy (Daily Worker), doing the odd job. Then Madrid was bombed in 1936; the Spanish Civil War had begun. This became the sole topic of conversation among both Communists and Social Democrats, who had put aside their enmity and formed the Front Populaire to respond to the immediacy of the fascist onslaught. People began to make their way to Spain to join the rapidly-forming International Brigades. The town of Albacete was their staging area. Peter joined the Jaroslaw Dombrowski battalion of Poles (named after a Polish member of the Paris commune) in the XIIth brigade, fighting side-by-side with Anarchists, Socialists, and ordinary Poles. Many of the fighters were Jews who saw that the first half of the century was not turning in their favour; they printed their own Yiddish newspaper behind the lines. With guns and grenades and the help of the populace, they defended Madrid on the bloody Jarama Front, losing half their number, then were sent to fight the Italian fascists alongside the anti-fascist Garibaldis in Guadalajara. Peter received the occasional letter from Polish comrades and his worried family; he wrote back in case his letters would actually get out: I’m fine, I’m helping the Cause, do not worry. The letters from other relatives urging him to leave Spain and go to Palestine were torn up. He was an Internationalist.
Then he began receiving news about the Great Purge; Polish Communists in the Soviet Union for one reason or another were rounded up and executed; Stalin never forgave their earlier enthusiasm for Trotsky. A year later, the Polish Communist Party was dissolved. The fascists received more reinforcements from their friends the Nazis and strove to cut the Republican defenders in two. A slow retreat began. Amid raids from the new Stuka divebombers, through burning towns, Peter and his comrades withdrew. The Dombrowski Brigade was reorganised into the XIIIth. Ever optimistic, they engaged the enemy for four months at the Ebro River.
The fascists were using Portuguese, Moroccan, Italian and German forces to great effect; the League of Nations thought a withdrawal of International Brigades would be mirrored by a withdrawal of foreigners on the other side, it being the twentieth century, and people having learned so much from the Great War. The fascists and their allies saw this as their great opportunity and pressed on, finally taking Madrid.
The Internationals withdrew to Barcelona, were honoured by the Communist heroine Pasionaria and the local populace, re-engaged the enemy one last time, then continued their retreat to France. France denied everyone passage to Mexico and threw the Red Spaniards and Polish Communists into the Gurs and Le Vernet camps. Peter found himself a stateless undesirable, a pawn of the zealous bureaucrats of the Third Republic.
CHAPTER 25
The Evening Post
Sixth Order relating to measures against Jews.
February 7th 1942.
In virtue of the plenary powers conferred upon me by the Führer and the Supreme Commander of the Wehrmacht, I order as follows:
§ 1.
Prohibition on being out of doors.
No Jew shall be outside his residence between the hours of eight o’clock in the evening and six o’clock in the morning.
§ 2.
Prohibition on change of residence.
No Jew shall change his present place of residence.
§ 3.
Penalties.
Any person who contravenes the provisions of this Order shall be liable to imprisonment and a fine, or to either of such penalties. In addition, the offender may be interned in a camp for Jews.
§ 4.
Commencement.
This Order shall come into force as from the promulgation thereof.
The Military Commander in France.
CHAPTER 26
Norderney Camp
Alderney, Channel Islands
March 1942
Most of them made it through the winter. Those who had preceded them told them they were on Alderney, a windswept and almost treeless island that had been abandoned by most of its inhabitants. They aided the completion of rows of barracks started by the better-off Belgians and Vichy French; several had died from beatings by the Germans or the camp police. Now they settled, if that was the right word, into a routine of fourteen-hour days of quarry work, which involved the endless crushing of stone. Exhaustion and filth, starvation and beatings, all punctuated by watery soup and sawdust ‘bread’. Those who exchanged their ‘bread’ for cigarettes died more quickly. The survivors became adept at swiping the errant beetroot or cabbage leaf from the garbage, trading cigarettes with the kitchen girls for potato peelings. The Spaniards kept to themselves, as did the Poles and Belgians. The contractor they were all ‘working’ for, Organisation Todt, treated the Spaniards and Belgians a little more leniently than the Poles, who were considered sub-human. Peter was able to stay with the Spanish detail but could circulate among the Poles because of his origins; this gave him more access to camp news. Rumours of the war were rampant: it was going poorly for the Germans and would soon be over, it was going well for them, the Americans had entered, Britain was going to capitulate. Peter hefted his hammer, brought it down wearily on a rock. Rock dust and grit powdered his hair, saturated his rags, filled his thin shoes. Every movement was painful; his muscles were sore and grit constantly abraded his skin. If he had had more energy for a sense of humour, he would have compared himself to a rasp or one of those small files used by women on their fingernails. It bothered him that he was so weakened by hunger that he couldn’t swing the hammer well, his arms often failing to generate enough momentum to carry it through a swing, leaving him to jump dizzily out of the way as the thing dropped out of its arc. Why should it bother me, he wondered. It’s not as if I’m working for the Revolution; I’m working for beasts who consider me a beast. The whole thing was crazy; if they really wanted work from us, why did they starve us? If they wanted to kill us, why didn’t they kill us? If they pay us, why is there nothing to buy? When they were stronger, he and his comrades used to debate this. Now they mainly communicated by looks. Every look said the same thing: ‘This is a living hell. How long will it last until we are free or dead?’
The Juans had made it thus far. Little Juan slowly pushed a wheelbarrow towards Peter’s little pile of stones. He looked at Peter with a mixture of exhaustion and pity. Peter managed a gritty smile.
‘Juancito, they are making the rocks harder today.’
‘Pedro, look in my pocket.’
‘Gracias, camarada.’
‘De nada.’
Peter eyed the beetroot, rubbed it on his shirt, exchanging sawdust for rock grit, and devoured it.
Juan lingered, taking his time loading the rocks.
‘I am helping one of the French girls. She did not want to be a whore, so they work her to death in the kitchen. She can help us get more food.’
‘What do you do for her in return?’
‘I give her cigarettes, I listen to her. The poor girl. I piss on the mothers of these Nazis.’
Peter brought his hammer down hard on a rock. Juan hauled his load away in the rickety wheelbarrow. Dr Todt counted his money.
CHAPTER 27