Dear Readers, happy 9th of May (WW2 Victory Day) I think in Europe you celebrate on the 8th because of the time zone, but in Russia we celebrate on the 9th.
The original story for this was set in Leningrad; I changed it to Dunkirk for the English version.
Enjoy!
XI. Dunkirk 1940
When he had been small, he had believed that his mother knew everything. Later, when he had grown a little, he thought his mother knew nothing at all. And yet now, he wished he had listened to her.
When he had been small, his mother had taught him a good lesson he remembered only now, like an old letter one accidentally finds in a dusty drawer. While building cardhouses, his mother had taught him that one can spend hours building it, but just a second blowing. Blowing down all those neatly stacked ones and twos, eights and nines, kings and queens and aces.
Humanity could have spent an eternity building cathedrals and works of art, architecture and science; humanity could have spent centuries marking their presence on this planet. Humanity could have spent millenia playing God on Earth. And yet, now, in one puff of a candle, they played God again, on the planet that now became the devil's playground.
Nothing in these gray dunes by the coast, in the ruins and fallen ships, in the rubble that once marked time, spoke of human presence. Spoke of the history of the Old World. Nothing spoke of a human footprint on the earth that had seen so much. A few years destroyed a century. A millenium in a few days. An eternity in a moment.
The bay was crowded. Everyone was thrown together in a big heap, soldiers, civillians, officers, horses, ships, the dead, the alive, the inanimate. A navy officer, with his fancy British uniform and gold epaulettes, was shouting about the Luftwaffe, using words too obscene to print; a group of men sitting together by the coast, covered in blood and grime, were singing. There'll be bluebirds over the white cliffs of Dover. Tomorrow, just you wait and see...why is it that every promise was for tomorrow, some tomorrow, and not today? Not now? A man with half his face missing lay motionless on the ground, not far from a wrecked ferris wheel, while his friend rocked back and forth on his heels, bending over him, as if in prayer. That could be me tomorrow, he thought. Lyndie London lay, fallen and conquered, anchored to the sand. The ship that had borne his beloved town's name.
How he longed for the London he had once known. How he longed for the rain, the sweet, refreshing rain that would wash away the blood and the nightmares that came after he woke. Rain...water. A gunshot resounded, echoing inside his head. An officer was shooting the horses, one by one, flaring his hand like a musketeer. Behind him, soldiers on a broken merry-go-round cheered as the went round, and round. Round and round, like his head...water, he wanted water. The wound in his chest prickled.
When night fell, he had to mind the dead strewn on the ground. That could be me tomorrow, he would think, as he stepped on a hand or a leg; the ships had arrived, oh yes, he could see their dark forms looming beyond the bay in the light of the many fires, of broken, incinerated cars and scraps of wood; the beach was a little less crowded, and quieter, and yet, not many slept. The only ones who slept were either very young, or dead.
He had not found a drop to drink. Lyndie London swam in his eyes, the sheets of London rain...he imagined himself standing, uncovered, with his head upturned and his mouth open, drinking the rain.
«C'mon, buddy, you'll see, tomorrow we'll be through with all this, just you see, we'll be 'eaded back home, don't you worry,» said his friend, always at his side. He had never left him, never let him down; his warm eyes and endless cockney chatter was what took his mind of things he had to, but didn't want to think about. He wished he could step in the rain and quench his thirst, wash away the false blame and clear his name, and bring his beloved back to him. He had not raped that woman. He didn't deserve this redemption in combat; he hadn't done anything that needed such redemption.
As his thoughts turned to his mother, he saw her. He saw her small, plump frame waddle out of sight, behind a stone pillar. Heart beating in anticipation, he followed her. The wound sent stabbing pains through his chest as he panted, running after his mother, the sound of his own heartbeat muting his friend's calls.
There she was, standing in the corner of this wrecked building. Why was her face so blurry, so fuzzy? Perhaps, he had tears in his eyes? He did not feel them. If only he had tears. He would drink them, salty as they were. It was so hot, oh, so hot.
«Sit down,» she said. Her voice was the way he remembered it. Cockey, just like his friend's, soft, loving. There was a tub of water, so cool against his feet, his bear feet. He threw the boots down nearby, onto the rubble-strewn floor. The flames outside, on the beach, made the room glow. Glow like the living room back home, with his mother, and her...
«I must get back to her, you know, soon. She loves me, you know? She loves me,» he said, his voice sounding the way it did when he was a child. Enthusiastic, adoring. She looked at him, with her cherished eyes, and smiled, the way he remembered her smile. Then she spoke again.
«Till you get back, get those papers I gave you for the road. Remember them? The picture and the love letters. The ones I found in that box of antique razors in the master's house. Master said I could have them, and I kept 'em for you,» she said, chuckling, the way he remembered her chuckling. He could feel those papers pressed against his chest. Those, along with her letters, and the picture of the cottage by the beach...
He would get to the cottage right now, with its blue painted windows and back rooms where you could hear the sound of the sea creeping off the shingle of the beach. He looked back, and his mother was gone; it was alright, he would see her later, when he returned. When he returned, he'd embrace them all.
«Hey, where're you goin with yer boots off? What's goin' on? What's the rush? Ye feelin' alright?» He had nearly forgotten about his friend waiting for him back outside.
«Never better,» he said, increasing his pace, «Got to find the cottage...shouldn't be far off...blue painted window frames...»
His friend's face was alarmed. «Sure, that's where we're goin', c'mon!»
They descended down into the bomb shelter where they slept. Sure, this couldn't be what it looks like...he thought to himself. Perhaps the cottage was too far off. Now he couldn't think. He just needed to lie down, something soft beneath him, something warm. There, his friend was covering him with a blanket, and settling down near him. He had forgotten his thirst. It didn't matter any more.
«What you got there pal?» asked his friend. He had taken out his bunch of letters and the postcard...the one she had given him. Of the cottage by the sea, with blue-painted window frames.
«These are her letters. She loves me, she's waiting for me. When this is over we'll be in a cottage by the sea, with blue-painted window frames...» he paused. «And these...» he extracted a bunch of letters at the back – they were yellower than her letters, older, with a few tears here and there. «My mother found these in a box of antique razors the master of the house had. Mr. Tallis. They were hidden beneath a false bottom. She was cleaning them when she found it.»
«Whose letters are they?»
«Someone like us. Only not at war. In Australia. Penal colony of Botany Bay.»
«He must have been a tough nut to survive that place», said his friend, tucking the blanket closer around him.
«I don't know if he survived...he was falsely accused of murder, sent there for life. These letters are for his wife, apparently. Though he never sent them.»
«Don't think they could send mail from there, buddy,» said his friend, chuckling.
«He kept them with him all the time. With this,» he took an old picture out, of a man, a woman, and a young baby girl with an abundance of fair curls. Perhaps that will be us tomorrow, he thought.
«Poor chap,» said his friend, handing the picture back to him.
«Listen to this,» he said, taking out a letter. «Dear Lucy,» Dear Cecilia... «I want to start this letter with a promise,» So do I. «I promise I will come back home to you, and love you, and be with you forever, and live without fear and shame.» I promise I will come back, and love you, marry you, and live without fear and shame. «The weather here is most peculiar. In the warm season, the rolls of thunder are accompanied by a wind like from a bread oven. Every time I feel it, I remember how I helped Mr. And Mrs. Lovett when the pie oven broke. I'm laughing as I write this – how rare it is to laugh. Perhaps I will survive that way. The waves of hot and cold are enough to startle anyone; one hour you sweat till you wish to strip off all your clothes, and the next second you shiver with cold, and long for a fur coat. There is probably a reason this place is called Botany Bay. It is a heaven for botanists. One needs no orchestra or music for the incessant clamour the frogs and insects make. I try to keep quiet and out of everyone's way. I have some good friends, partners in sorrow, as you might call it.»
It's a wasteland here, cold, and hot, too. The heat comes from the fires, always the fires, and the bombs. Its hot enough to kill. I try to keep out of harm's way. I have some good friends, one very good friend, in fact, a partner in sorrow, as you might call it.
«We wake at crack of dawn and eat something that tastes much like water for breakfast, with bread that feels like chewing a shoe. Perhaps your cooking has spoiled me in time. Then we have have to get to work, but I don't want you to worry. I'll manage. Just wait and see.»
We wake at crack of dawn and taste soil mostly. There's hardly and water here, and oh, Cecilia, it's so hot! Then its war as war is, wondering if the bullet will get you or your best friend first. But I don't want you to worry. I'll manage. Just wait and see.
«I remember all those things I learned from you. That the simple is the ideal. That your treasure is there, where your heart is. I cherish every word you once told me. My worst fear is that one day, your voice will slip away from my memory...»
I remember all those things I would not have known if not for you. The clarity of passion. The way even a library can be romantic. How something small can grow into something enormous. How holding hands under a table is so secret and yet so obvious. He turned to another letter.
«Today, a friend of mine died. In my arms. It's painful to be away from you. It's painful to lose someone you shared your thoughts with in a bunkhouse full of the kind of men that have earned their punishments. Perhaps I should earn mine, since I'm already here, and do the same to that officer as what he did to my friend. Don't be scared, I know this will scare you. I shall not make friends no more. Nothing's ever yours to keep. Something else you unwittingly taught me.»
Men die out of the battlefield every second. We are not people, but cannon fodder. It's painful to lose someone you share your soul with. I hope that with the end of the evacuation this will be over. Have I not shot many men? Don't be scared, I know this will scare you. I hope I won't have to shoot no more.
He turned to a later letter. «Sometimes, I wonder if I'll be able to come back. Sometimes, I lose hope. I tried to run, and yet was apprehended with a couple of friends and thrown into this dark cell, from which I now write.» The letters were jumbled up, written in the dark, blindly. They were hard to read, mainly smudged, as if written in charcoal or black tar. «In those few hours of escape, I indeed hoped I was close to seeing you again. And yet here I am, a rat – or a mouse – I cannot tell - gnawing at my fingers, too absorbed in this letter I cannot even see to stop it, but now I realise how we have an entire ocean, months of journey chained together in a foul-smelling cabin reeking of death...of course I will never send this to you. I don't want you to know these terrible things.»
Sometimes, I lose hope, too. He flicked through the letters with his weak fingers, searching for an earlier one. They were brighter. Hopeful.
«Yesterday, they let us out to the docks, to look at the sea. I closed my eyes, and imagined that you and little Jo were sitting next to me. It was so peaceful. I almost forgot where I was. When I come back, we'll get a small house somewhere and live there in peace, away from prying eyes, away from talking mouths, away from everyone.»
Before we found the beach, I went out into the fields today. I think that wound of mine is getting a little better. It was so peaceful – the misty red sunrise, the sound of crickets, the tall, cool, dewy grass. When I come back, we'll live at that cottage by the sea, away from prying eyes and voices, away from everyone.
«And you will wait for me, and always remember me, won't you? You won't care about the deep marks on my back. I will come back, I promise. Don't you know me?»
His vision blurred, and he put his hand down, still clutching the letters, and closed his eyes. He saw himself in the police car, being dragged to it, his mother banging her fists on the bumper, her in that long, beautiful forest-green dress, standing there, her mouth slightly open, her head on his shoulder as she embraced him. The man and woman kissing on the cinema screen, him kissing her in the library, holding hands under a table...
«Hey, hey!» his friend was jerking him awake. He could still see her face, as if printed with that old type writer into the pupils of his eyes. The type writer he had written her romantic letters on, while listening to opera on the radio, clouds of smoke billowing up from his cigarette.
«What is it?» he asked.
«Ye been shouting, pal, and tossin' and turnin'.» His friend stroke a match and brought it to his face, and it was pasty, shining with sweat. «God in 'eaven, ye look feverish. Ye should sleep buddy, an' try to keep quiet, or them folks'll get peeved, they been drinkin' all night...»
«I promise,» he said. To everyone. To his friend, to Cee, to his mother, even to that poor inmnate of Botany Bay, long dead. In the dying light of the match, he caught another glimpse of the postcard of the cottage by the sea. Tomorrow, at 7, will be the beginning.
As seven o'clock came, his friend placed a hand on his shoulder, his cold, motionless shoulder. His eyes were open, his rigid hand still clutching the letters. His friend sat there for a moment, his eyes creased and watery, in that timeless moment before the silence broke. Placing his fingers on his eyelids, he pushed them down. Now, he could be sleeping.
With the first creak of a matress, the first shuffles of feet on the floor, he took the postcard and letters from his friend's hand, and covered him gently with his blanket. He lingered a few seconds longer. A few seconds, that was what the war allowed him.
«Cheerio, pal.»