Iris Gower - Bombers’ Moon

His father came towards me and cradled me in his arms. ‘We must be brave, Liebling, we must be brave.’ And then we cried together, despairing tears that could never wash away the anguish we both felt.

Hari and Violet strolled together in the autumn sun; it was a hot day with the leaves beginning to turn red and gold, and the grass, in the open spaces, browned by the heat. Violet was pensive. At last she spoke. ‘Sorry, thinking about the war and all that. By the way, have you heard from your sister?’

‘Not a word—’ Hari’s voice was dull—‘I’m so afraid she’s been killed, she’s been leading a dangerous life, spying on the Germans, getting involved in goodness knows what. My independent Meryl was always up to something, was cheeky and lippy and so bloody courageous.’ Hari realized she was speaking about Meryl as though she were already dead.

As they neared the rows of sheds, Violet began to move away from Hari. ‘Shall I see you at break time? We could eat our spam sandwiches outside, it will give me a rest from that terrible stink of powder.’

‘OK. See you about five then, the sun will have cooled by then but it should still be nice to sit outside and get some air into our lungs.’

‘Aye, pity it’s not fresh air!’ Violet smiled. ‘Even if it’s gone misty by then I’ll still see you, will I?’

Hari looked round the site of the munitions factory; it was usually covered in mist and that helped conceal the buildings from the bombers but she hoped that at teatime it would still be fine and the skies clear of enemy aircraft.

‘I’ll see you,’ Hari said firmly.

The office was stuffy, the windows criss-crossed with tape. To one side hung a blackout curtain ready for the night workers to pull across when it grew dark. Hari longed to throw open the windows but even if she could the all-pervading dust would drift in and coat everything in malignant yellow powder.

She sat at her desk and listened for the Morse code to start chattering through her headphones but she couldn’t concentrate. Her heart was heavy, Michael was gone from her forever, killed at the hands of his own people. If it was Michael who had been shot down, how was the artillery to know that flying a German plane was a Welshman, brought up on a farm in Carmarthenshire, raised by a good Welsh woman who happened to have had a German husband?

Hari felt helpless tears run down her cheeks and she brushed them away as the familiar tip-tapping came through from her radio. Her heart lightened a little. There was important news: ‘Operation Overlord’ had been a success. The message from a careless, frightened German operator told of the rout, the bad news phrased as diplomatically as possible so as not to alarm his superiors, who would pass the message to Hitler.

Hitler would take no notice; it seemed he never took notice of what his intelligence told him unless it suited him. But what of Meryl—was she alive or dead? Somehow Hari had the premonition that ‘Overlord’ had involved Meryl in some way. But how could it? Meryl was probably tucked up safely in bed by now crying her eyes out for her lost husband. With that thought, Hari clenched her fists into a tight ball and cursed love and all it stood for.

With the success of the Normandy landings I thought the end of the war was nigh—silly me. The battle continued through the summer: the Allies made some headway and then the Germans made some headway; it was like the crazy dance of scorpions or spiders—it got soldiers killed but nothing achieved. And through my lonely days was the terrible knowledge that my darling, my Michael, was dead. The one bright spot in my life right now was Eva. She was coming for the weekend and I could talk to her, tell her about my baby.

I made up her bed with fresh sheets; since my belly began gently to swell Herr Euler had hired a woman from the village to come and wash and clean for me. Frau Kleist was meticulous, a good, sensible woman. She was, inevitably, a war widow from the first time round and now she had white springy hair, a wry humour and an indomitable courage I admired very much.

We ate lunch together in the kitchen of the farmhouse. We ate the late vegetables from the garden, hers and mine, worked now by her disabled son with his one good arm, his weakened body hit by shrapnel, and the spirit inherited from his mother.

Eva arrived in a flurry, her boyfriend, a dazzling pilot, brought her in a car. In Wales we would have called him a ‘toff’ even a ‘show off’ but he was brave enough to risk his life fighting for what he believed was a worthy cause.

‘Eva, come in and have some tea with us, it’s all been done by my wonderful Frau Kleist, so no fear I’ll poison you.’

Eva laughed and hugged me. ‘I’ve missed your funny little ways,’ she said, and then shyly, ‘this is Erich, he can’t stay long, he’s got an operation tonight though he can’t tell me where of course, you know, security and all that.’

Erich hogged the conversation—his German cultured, his talk all about himself. I was reminded of Stephen, Kate’s boyfriend back home, before he was changed by war into a humble human being.

At last Erich rose and sauntered to the door. ‘I’ll have to go.’ He was reluctant to give up his audience but I sighed with relief. I tactfully stayed behind as Eva saw her pilot to the car and Frau Kleist and I exchanged briefly raised eyebrows, a gesture that drew me to her and made us both smile.

That evening, sitting round the fire, just Eva and me, with a glass of good German wine courtesy of Erich, we relaxed into our old easy friendship.

‘He’s a bit full of himself—’ Eva flashed her lovely smile—‘but he is generous with the goodies.’

‘No rose-coloured spectacles then?’ Strange how languages share clichés. Eva shook her head and her silky hair whispered across her cheeks.

‘He’s fun but that’s all he is. My men seem to get killed as soon as I get fond of them so the lesson is, don’t get fond.’

‘What happened after I left?’ I had changed the subject abruptly and Eva grimaced knowing she’d touched a raw spot.

‘Your desk was searched. The SS got very excited when they found your tin. You should have seen their faces when they realized it only held what it said on the lid, sanitary wear.’

She sobered, just a little because the wine was strong and taking its toll. ‘I heard you were arrested all the same.’

‘I was,’ I said slowly. ‘I was silly enough to go for a drive to the seaside just when the enemy landed.’ I bit my tongue. I’d nearly said ‘Allies’. And much as Eva liked me I couldn’t afford to make any more mistakes.

‘Well, you weren’t to know the enemy had the gall to attack the coast, were you?’ Her voice rose as if it was a question and I stared at her for a long moment.

‘I worked on the same job as you, I heard just what you heard, we took down the same messages, how could I know about the invasion when you didn’t?’

‘Oh, I know that, I didn’t mean to imply you did. It’s just the rumour swept through the office that the authorities were looking for a radio set, the sort the resistance uses. You are so good at the Morse, so quick at the codes I suppose you were just being checked out. You wouldn’t betray your own country, would you?’

‘Of course not—’ Eva would never understand the irony in my voice—‘and the SS had no evidence on me, that’s why they let me go at last, that and the fact my father-in-law is a respected army officer. He came to get me out, thank God.’

‘They didn’t… touch you, did they?’ Eva’s eyes were round. I knew what she meant.

‘No, nothing like that. My husband was a German pilot and I was already expecting his child; they showed me utmost respect in that way.’ At least I could say that with all truth. I didn’t tell Eva about the commandant and his threat to pull out my toe nails or about the screams of women during the night. She was a tender girl with belief in her country and the goodness of its leaders but I knew more than she did and I knew the truth would be unbearable to her once it all came out.

‘Tell me more about your love life,’ I invited. Eva’s face lit up, she loved talking about herself, she was so young in the head.

We talked until midnight. As I locked up for the night, I peered through the curtains. The farm was quiet, the moon shining brightly outside across the garden, making a silver pathway in the grass. The Bombers would be out tonight, nothing was surer.

Eva and I kissed goodnight. I put out the lamps and candles—the generator needed fixing again—and climbed the stairs wearily. This was the time when I was filled with sadness, with doubts about living without Michael. Sometimes I could pretend he was on a mission but mostly there was this dreadful sense of emptiness and loss, of despair with no light for the future. I crept into my cold bed and rubbed my eyes, they were too dry for any more tears.

Sunday night a car came for Eva. There was an SS man driving it and as she left she fluttered her bright scarf at me. All I could see was Eva’s white face as the car drew away from the farm and with a sinking heart I knew she was going to betray me.

‘Your hair looks nice, Vi.’ Hari touched Violet’s bright curls. Violet had taken the only way out, saving her hair from the acid in the lead shells by dying her hair a proper blonde shade toned down from the garish yellow streaks made by the shell powder.

Vi’s smile was grateful. ‘I’ve put flour on my face mixed with a bit of the face powder my mam gave me, don’t look too bad at all now, do I?’