My Name is Eva(18)
‘Robin,’ says Evelyn. ‘Was there a Robin?’ She nibbles her biscuit, then begins to hum, which develops into singing in a wavering voice, ‘When the red, red robin comes bob-bob, bobbin’ along—’
Pat slams her cup down on its saucer, rattling the whole tray. ‘Do you see what I mean? It’s hopeless. I don’t know how we’re ever going to find out what’s been going on.’
‘Not to worry,’ says Inspector Williams. ‘I can pop back another day. Sometimes, when people have had a chance to reflect, they remember things after a while.’
Oh, I do remember. I remember it all most distinctly. There’s no doubt about that. But all Evelyn says is, ‘Oh dear, are you all going now? Do come again soon, won’t you? I’ll ask Cook to make us a special apple cake.’
Part III
Animals have strange cuter ears (9)
18
12 July 1945
My dearest darling,
Such a thrill! At last my language skills are finally going to be useful. I always thought they would be eventually, although during the months when I was training and they were making me crawl through woods in Scotland and I was brushing up my French, I wasn’t sure if I would ever be able to make good use of my German, which as you know is really quite fluent.
But now the war in Europe is finally over and we have to ensure it stays that way, so I am finally going out to Germany after all. When we first heard the news of the surrender, of course I was thrilled, just like everyone else, but I’m ashamed to say that, even as we were all celebrating, a little part of me was just the teeniest bit disappointed, thinking I would no longer be useful and actually joining in with the real action and following in my brave husband’s footsteps. I had been so looking forward to my new identity, to being called Eva. It quite suits me, don’t you think?
The division I’m joining is setting up a new base to interview German military personnel and others, not far from Hanover. I am really quite excited, but also a little apprehensive, now that we know how dreadfully so many people were treated out there. I’m hoping it won’t be too ghastly, but I do so want to help. I know I will encounter some awful people, I’m sure, but some of their strategic information will be jolly useful. Thank goodness I have not let my German get rusty or aus der übung, should I say. I had to keep it up to scratch while I was training, just in case.
But, and this a very big but, my darling, and I think you would be rather cross with me if you were here and knew this: I believe the unit is under the command of your ‘he who cannot be named’, Colonel Stephen Robinson. I know, I know, you’re thinking how on earth is she going to keep her feelings under control and will she be sent back home in disgrace? Well, to tell the truth, I am wondering how I’ll feel when I see his face for the first time, as my hatred for the man who caused your death has not declined one tiny bit. But I’ve decided I’m going to absolutely do the best job I possibly can and while I’m doing it, if I see any glimpse of a chink in his armour or find any opportunity to make him pay dearly for his dreadful errors of judgement, I will do so, just you wait and see.
Our operation will be based in Bad Nenndorf, which I understand is a spa town somewhere near Hanover. Apparently one of the spa resorts there is being equipped for use as the centre of our operations, so I expect it will all be very clean and up to the minute.
The Germans call the spa facilities the Schlammbad, which literally means mud bath! Sounds quite exotic, doesn’t it, but I’m sure I shan’t be getting my hands dirty or having any wonderful spa treatments, as I expect I shall be scribbling away, trying to get every word of the interviews down on paper. I hope I will be able to do the job justice and that you will be proud of me.
Much love darling,
Your Evie xxx
Ps I love you
19
Eva, 15 August 1945
Glorious Mud
Eva Kuscheck, Evelyn Taylor-Clarke as was, walked from her guesthouse to the interrogation centre. Her scratchy khaki was stifling in the hot sunshine of late summer and she was sure her uniform carried a faint odour of the cabbage that her sullen German landlady was continually steaming into damp submission.
It was Eva’s first day of duty at the Winckler-Bath spa in Bad Nenndorf, but there were no rows of athletic bronzed maidens in swimsuits, bending to touch their toes at the foot of sunbeds by the edge of a glittering pool; there was nothing at all that corresponded to her idea of a luxurious health resort. The sweeping brown walls of the complex reminded her of the mud treatments available in the Schlammbad for which the town was famous. Perhaps the mud was ubiquitous and used for everything here: the spas, the bricks of the buildings, even the rendering of the exterior. She imagined mud puddling around her feet in their sturdy polished shoes, as she sat writing reports at her desk inside the former clinic.
A tiring combination of boat, train and trucks had conveyed her across the war-battered landscape of Europe. She’d passed towns reduced to piles of rubble, where tired ragged women and shaven-headed children piled bricks in the streets, and shattered stations where emaciated refugees held out their hands as the trains trundled by. At last she had arrived at this famous spa town in Lower Saxony, about twenty miles from Hanover, where people had been coming for the acclaimed healing powers of the waters for nearly two centuries. As the final lorry carried her to the clean but sparse guesthouse where she and some of the other clerks were billeted, she glimpsed the extensive landscaped gardens of the spa town’s Kurpark, now unmown and weed-strewn from neglect during the years of war.