December 8, 1944 (still...)
It was a brisk December day, and Newkirk pulled his collar up as he headed into the compound, looking for a place where he could sit and read in peace. The recreation hut was a bad idea; too much traffic and if he wanted to be around a bunch of nosy Parkers, he could have stayed in Barracks 2. The same went for the benches outside the infirmary. There were too many sickly people hobbling in and out, requiring kind, sympathetic words of encouragement. No, if he wanted quiet, the only option was to let himself into the shower room. No one would be in there at this time of day, and it was safe from the elements and had benches.
He ambled across camp, passing the mess hall, then hovered under the eaves of the boiler room until the way was clear. He dashed across a dusty passage, scooted around to the side of the building, and hoisted himself up on a high ledge to peer through the window. He was in luck; the window was ajar to air out the damp room, and the climb was easy. He pulled himself up again, pushed the window open, slid through, and landed like a cat on the ceramic floor.
Newkirk looked around and was about to have a seat when his eyes fell on a scrap of soap on a bench. Well, wasn't that lucky? He decided then and there to help himself to a quick shower; his mates would thank him later. He didn't take long, because the water was bloody cold, but in a world of weekly showers, it was deeply satisfying to emerge feeling squeaky clean. He dried off with his undershirt, dressed again quickly, and laid the soppy shirt out to dry while he read.
He fished his mother's letter out of his breast pocket. "Calon bach," it began, and he had to laugh or he would have cried. Little heart, dear heart—whatever it meant, she hadn't called him that in years.
It was the birthday letter he'd hoped for, full of a mother's expressions of astonishment that her mischievous, darling little boy was now a responsible, dashing grown man of 30, and full of hope that she would hold him close soon. He read it with a smile on his face and a lump in his throat. God, he missed her. He was immensely proud of her, proud that she raised her 10 children well against tremendous odds. As he read the letter, his lips curled with amusement; he was certain that he'd inherited his gift of the gab from her. The letter segued from birthday greetings to sweet scenes of their summer visit to Aberystwyth. It had clearly been a joy for the youngest Newkirks despite the fact that the seashore was curtained off behind barbed wire.
Peter, the die was cast when Taid told them a story about your summer adventures here as a boy. Armed with wooden swords and brass toasting forks, they headed for the Promenade and captured the bandstand. Determined to uphold the family's honor, they defended their conquest against all comers for four solid hours. Finally, they magnanimously allowed a few children who live in the town to climb the steps, provided they paid tribute of a farthing apiece. For a ha'penny more, they could enter and touch old Uncle Dai's glengarry badge, campaign ribbons and biscuit tin from the Second Boer War. Maggie came up with the financial scheme, and Arthur stepped in to enforce payment. It kept the lot of them in chips drenched in vinegar all week.
Somehow that well embroidered tale made it past the censors; Newkirk could only assume they gave up on trying to figure it out after taking one look at the Welsh words that dotted the page here and there.
He could feel himself sniffling a bit as he inserted the letter back into the envelope. Well, he'd just had a cold shower on a December day; of course he was feeling it. That was it. It couldn't be anything else.
He shoved his wet undershirt into his deep coat pocket and wandered back to Barracks 2, satisfied yet pensive. Something in his gut told him that this could be it for a while. The war had entered what everyone firmly believed was the final phase, but that didn't mean it would be easy. Food was increasingly scarce. Red Cross packages were now being shared among three or four men. And Colonel Hogan's efforts to wring concessions from Kommandant Klink were becoming less and less successful—there was no extra bread to be had, no extra fuel for warmth, no blankets. And the winter seemed destined to be a harsh one.
He decided to dole out the rest of his letters. No need to read them all at once. Make them last through Christmas, he told himself.
Mavis's two chipper, upbeat letters kept him going on days when he just needed a boost from the girl who was not only his sister, but his very best friend. Rita's three love letters reminded him that there might be someone special waiting for him, someone he could build a future with. And the kids' letter, complete with their very own telling of their seaside exploits—and drawings to boot—made him laugh and reminded him that their joy and innocence was worth protecting and fighting for.
Even the old man's letter gave him hope. He held it for last, and took it down below decks on Christmas Eve to open it in the privacy of the wardrobe area where he manufactured and stored all of the team's costumes and uniforms for missions. It was short and didn't say much, but it said the most important thing: "I'm proud of you, son. You're fighting for something very important. Come home safe."
January to April 1945
A few more letters did trickle in. In January, there was one was from Granny, admonishing him to smoke less after she'd heard he had another bad cold, and one from Mavis. She wrote to say that on one of Da's visits, a little boy had tagged along, a newly motherless six-year-old named James with the same charming Freddy smile that most of the Newkirk children had. He had a small suitcase and bright eyes, and Mam took him in without argument.
In February, Rita's letter arrived, asking frantically why Peter wasn't responding. Apparently his letters to her were not getting through; he wrote back instantly and although he was not a religious man, he found himself praying that she received this one.
In March, Mam and Mavis both wrote chatty letters, but they contained disjointed references to news he hadn't heard from them, and he realized some letters must have gone missing. Mam enclosed a picture of herself, smiling with Jamie on her lap and the other children around her, and there wasn't much doubt. Except for the eyes, it was like seeing a picture of himself or Arthur at that age. Lord, he thought, his mum had a great big heart.
He didn't hear from the old man again, but he cobbled together bits and pieces from what everyone else wrote.
Newkirk knew from Mavis that Fred wasn't staying at the family home—he and Mam couldn't work it out after so many years apart—but he was helping her. He kept the building society loan on the house paid up, his visits had become more regular and fairly pleasant, and he hadn't mention any schemes that required the services of any of the children—not even Peter or Harry, assuming they got home.
Newkirk learned from Mam that after a buzz bomb destroyed the Entwistles' home, four doors down, Fred had come by with clothes and shoes for the family's four children, who were crammed in across the street at their Granny's house. He also brought a team of his "associates" to repair collateral damage to the girls' bedroom on the top floor of Chez Newkirk, as well as the roofline above it. Where he got the building materials, no one could say. But instead of trying to peddle his leftover boards, nails, bricks and mortar at a tidy profit, he popped across the street to the Feinsteins' house and patched up their roof too.
Each week, as a Red Cross postcard form was issued to each prisoner, Newkirk dropped a letter to one of his loved ones. Rita, his Mam, Mavis, and even his crusty old Granny were on his list.
The very last letter Peter Newkirk wrote from Stalag 13 was addressed to his old man, informing him that he might just take him up on that drink. In fact, he was looking forward to it.
Dear readers, thank you for hanging in there with me, and for accepting the long delays between chapters without complaint! There is one more chapter to go, and it should be posted on December 31.