Opposite Sides (13 page)

He was moody for a few
more days as he tried to avoid Jan as much as possible. He either
went out walking alone, or stayed in his room, reading. He wished
he had the luxury of a wireless or whisker set, for Robert told him
it played some interesting programmes and it would have been one
way to have spent the time. He was still upset that no letter for
him had arrived from Mrs Brymer in either the morning, or in the
afternoon postal delivery. She had promised him that they would
keep in touch, if they should ever have to leave. Hans dearly
wished for that promise to be fulfilled.

Then, true to English
weather, the warm spell broke right in the middle of summer and a
whole week of cold, wet weather with heavy showers and howling
winds followed. Hans remained in bed for several days. He had
caught the bad cold that was laying many a boy low and after going
out in the rain and getting wet, the cold had worsened. Ellen ran
up and down the stairs bringing him hot lemon drinks and countless
bowls of steaming vapour balms and towels to help clear his nose
and chest. His head remained groggy and he could not think. But as
soon as he was beginning to get over the worst of it, his thoughts
returned to his happy, carefree childhood.

He had been just on seven
when Vati had uprooted the family upon his promotion. Emperor Franz
Josef had wanted representation in the German Kaiser’s Imperial
Army as the two countries organised closer connections with each
other through promises and treaties. As fears grew over the
instability in Russia and the alliances between France and England,
the Empires of Austria-Hungary and Germany pledged to stand side by
side, come what may. That was the time when his father had moved
the family and set up residence near to one of Kaiser Wilhem’s
palaces in Berlin. The move meant that the children saw much less
of their father than they had ever done in Austria. He was always
so busy and their mother always seemed to be occupied with
well-dressed, rich ladies draped in fox-furs and large pheasant
feather hats. It was left to one of the servants to take the
children into the city centre to watch the Kaiser ride along the
wide street in his open carriage. But it had been exciting. The
boys squeezed themselves between the crowd lining Unter den Linden
until they were able to peep round the soldiers who stood between
the people and the richly decorated carriage. Hans could remember
the huge carriage horses with their proud, arched necks and sleek,
shining black backs and behind them sat the Kaiser alone in his
beautiful golden carriage and he could also remember the rows and
rows of soldiers that went on and on, stretching all the way from
the huge grey solemn columns of Brandenburg Gate and reaching well
past the statue of Frederick II sitting astride his horse. He
remembered how he and Renard cheered in their childish voices along
with all the other onlookers until the golden carriage was well out
of sight. Such pomp. The Kaiser knew how to impress his
citizens.

Hans also remembered the
brief appearances of his father after that fateful summer in ’14.
Something dreadful had happened back in his homeland but he did not
know what. Only that his mother was very distraught and wanted
father to take the family immediately back to Austria to be closer
to the family. But Papi had his orders. They remained in Berlin and
there followed long, ever so long, periods of absences during which
they never heard or saw their father from one month to the next.
When Papi did come home, it was for such a short period. Hans did
not understand why but he was old enough to sense the distress his
mother showed each time his father said ‘goodbye.’

The Kaiser
and his ministers know what they are doing. It will all be over by
Christmas. You’ll see,
everyone had
said
.

Christmas
1914 came and went and with it, his father. Papi did come home at
the beginning of December for a week. An early Christmas. The joy
they felt, the excitement of being able to share this time together
had stuck in his mind. He remembered the exhilaration of hanging
small fruits and biscuits on their tree which Uncle Karl had found
for them, and after dinner sitting in the soft glow of the
crackling fire, singing together, Papi’s deep voice leading the
melodies of
Stille
Nacht
and
Tannenbaum
.
It had seemed so long ago when they had been together like
that, a happy family . . . Papi and Mutti and their two little
boys. Yet, in an instant, it had passed and Papi was dressed in his
uniform and walking away into the freezing, snow-covered street.
Their Christmas was over.

Mutti, why
does Vati always have to go away
?

He’s gone to
do his duty.

Why does he
go to do his duty, Mutti?

Because your
dear Papi is a soldier, that is why and all soldiers must obey
their emperor.

He had noticed that his
mother’s voice appeared sad and tired. And each time Papi came
back, he seemed more and more remote as if he belonged to another
world. And then, there were the years of waiting . . . waiting for
his father’s letters to arrive, waiting for Mutti to read them the
part where Vati told them to be good children and help look after
Mutti. The boys always looked forward to that part. One day, Mutti
took the boys back to Salzburg where they stayed for several months
with Oma while Mutti grew fatter and rounder, and more tearful as
the weeks slipped by. Then, as the Spring of ’17 began to stir,
Mutti took to her bed and Aunt Laura came and looked after everyone
and a short time later, Aunt Laura took the boys in to their
mother’s bedroom and told them the stork ahd brought them a little
brother. Mutti was holding Axel and from that day, they became
three. But Vati never wrote. He would never write again. Several
weeks after that a telegram arrived and Mutti cried and cried so
much that she became really ill.

Both his parents were now
gone and it made him sad to remember. And he remembered hearing
that it would never happen again and that children would never lose
their fathers like that again. He resolved to push the thoughts to
the back of his mind.

As soon as Hans recovered
enough to move around again, Miss Turner kept him occupied with
jobs around the house. First, she got him to take the books off the
shelves in the library so that they could all be dusted before
returning them again, and next she got him to repair several wooden
seats that sat out in the garden. Jan Turner also asked him to do
several little things for her but she never remained around him for
very long. She did not speak much to him and he, in turn, had very
little to say to her. They now had an understood truce. It allowed
them time to come to terms with their own thoughts and feelings
with regard to each other.

He was rubbing down a
small occasional table top with a piece of sandpaper, preparing it
for a new coat of varnish, when Miss Turner, who had been planting
some small plants in the kitchen garden, leaned her head through
the kitchen doorway.

“
Resmel,” she
said. She had dropped the more formal ‘Mr’ but on many occasions
still called him by his surname. “Do you mind fetching the clock
from the front-room? I’ve got my gardening boots on and cannot come
inside.”

The wooden carved clock
with its gold-rimmed glass face stood on a shelf close to where
that war photograph hung. He was drawn to it once more and he stood
gazing at the small cluster of sepia figures with the grey, gloomy
background. He had not noticed Jan until she spoke.

“
Hans Resmel,
my aunt’s calling you. Aren’t you going?”

He mumbled something but
didn’t budge. Jan noticed his attention was drawn in to that old
photograph again and she came over.

“
That’s my
aunt’s brother.” She pointed to one of the English soldiers. “That
one. Those are the enemy ones. You know.” She closely observed him
for any reaction. Hans gave no indication that he had heard her. He
remained quite still and silent. So, she continued, “You’re one
like them, aren’t you? The other boys say you are. Irving calls you
a ‘Fritzy’, doesn’t he? Like that one there in the spikey helmet.
And like that one, too.”

Her finger pointed to one
of the men standing on the mud-splattered terrain close to her
aunt’s brother. The man was dressed in a different uniform and it
was clear that he belonged to the others on left: the ones with the
spikes on their helmets.

Jan watched intently for
any reaction as Hans turned away from the photograph. He peered
into her face with same glaring stare as the men.

“
That officer
there . . . ” He stiffened and drew himself to attention. He sucked
back his lips so that his cheeks were drawn tight against his
teeth. “That one. The officer. He is
my
father!”

With that, he clicked his
heels and stormed out of the room.

CHAPTER
5

Friends

The photograph was
immediately removed. It was hidden away in one of the side-board
drawers. Someone must have told Miss Turner. Jan insisted it wasn’t
her. However, from that time on, Miss Turner seemed to be kinder
and more understanding towards Hans.

Maybe, she
suddenly realised that war had two sorts of victims: the men in the
field and the families that were left behind
, Hans thought.
My family suffered
just like your family
. But how she had
come to have such a picture was beyond his
comprehension.

Miss Turner did
understand. How he must have suffered seeing his own father in the
photograph. Her brother Timothy in the photo had lost his life in
that dreadful war, just days before the whole ghastly thing came to
an end. She had never believed that the Resmel in the officer’s
uniform was one of those monsters they had been led to believe in
by their own government. They were all young men in that photo and
on that Christmas Day in 1914, the ordinary soldier had shown that
they did not really want to maim or kill their fellow man. And as
the war had dragged on and more pictures came to light, the
suffering grew stronger. You could see it in their faces. You could
see it ingrained into their souls. Verdun, Ypres, Mons, the Somme .
. . places where those ‘heroes’ had been mown down or blown up at
the whim of an order.

Now, here was another a
victim. Erwin Hans Resmel. In her house, in her school, in her
country. How much like his father the boy was: the same facial
features, the same look. She wondered whether he was like his
father. He certainly had his grandmother’s firery temper. That she
could not deny. No wonder the boy was having trouble settling in
with the hate still fresh in the minds of the masters and boys. So
many had lost fathers or brothers, uncles or cousins. Many more had
said farewell to a man only to be reunited with a battered and
fragile shadow of the human form. It had not been that many years
since the Great War had ended and people needed time to forget. New
bridges needed to be built and new friendships made. It was up to
the young ones to show their parents how it could be done. The
older generation had to let go of their past and allow the younger
ones a chance to build their won lives.

Miss Turner decided it
was time to talk to Hans about the photo he had seen before the new
school year began. She made herself comfortable on the settee and
patted alongside her to indicate she wished him to join her. He
perched himself on the furthest edge if making sure he could jump
up if needed. But she did not seem to notice and was most satisfied
that he had agreed to join her.

“
I am sorry
you were upset over that photograph,” she began. “I had intended to
put it away before you came.”

“
It was Papi.
Why Papi?”

“
It was that
first Christmas. Both sides met in No-man’s Land and shared
Christmas together. The brother from England; the family friend
from Germany. That is why I have it.”

“
Friend?” he
asked.

“
That
one.”

Hans was gob-smacked. He
hardly knew how to react.

“
You knew my
father?”

“
I knew your
grandmother.”

“
Then you
knew that Papi was killed?”

“
Only after
the war. We were deeply sorry for your mother and you boys. We lost
Timmy in that war. He was killed . . . blown up. Died instantly the
family was told but Mother never got over it and refused to believe
he had gone. ”

“
Sorry. Was
he that man in the photograph?” Hans asked. He could see the
sadness deep in her eyes.

“
No.” The
look in her eyes was far away and Hans thought for a moment that he
could see a small tear in the corner of her eye.

“
Jan’s
father?”

“
No. Raymond
and his wife were killed in 1921 in a train crash. Luckily, they
hadn’t taken Janine with them. She became an orphan and has lived
with me ever since. She’s still not come to terms with losing her
parents. Now, I am all she has in the whole wide world. I know she
says some dreadful things at times but she hurts herself as much as
others. I think at times she feels she has been deserted. She built
a wall around herself after Raymond and Nancy died. She still feels
very alone at times, especially when that dreadful anniversary
comes round again. Is that how you felt after your mother
died?”