Through My Eyes. Again
Copyright© 2019 by Iskander
Chapter 17
Easter – early April 1964
School ended on the Wednesday before Easter and we made plans to spend time together over the Easter period. I would travel up to London on the Tuesday after Easter and my mother insisted I came home on the Monday evening. I negotiated to be home by eight o’clock: Col and Mutti Frida wanted to give me a farewell dinner.
When I arrived, I found the girls dressed in the finery they had worn at Christmas, which made me feel a bit underdressed, in slacks and a pullover. As we finished the delicious Strudel with whipped cream Col and Lili had prepared under Mutti Frida’s supervision, Col slid her hand into mine. “What time’s your train?”
“I’m catching the twenty-five to ten train which gets me to Victoria before eleven o’clock. From there, I go to the Victoria Hotel where I’m meeting the group at noon.”
Col gave me a strained smile. I knew she would miss me but lurking underneath the emotion of parting was the fear my trip would reveal her location to her father.
I slipped my hand into hers and gave it a gentle squeeze. “Please don’t come to the station to see me off. You never know who may be watching.”
Col frowned at me, about to argue.
Mutti Frida leaned across. “Col,” she said, sadly. “We shouldn’t go.”
“I’ll come and see you off, Willi.” Lili said.
Col stiffened.
Was she jealous?
Since the near disaster at Mrs Wiśniewski ‘s Christmas party, our three-way friendship had grown. Mutti Frida’s glance travelled between Col and Lili.
“Is that okay, Col?”
Lili’s gentle question drew a small, self-deprecating sigh from Col. “I’m sorry, Lili. Yes, of course.” Her eyes filled with sadness. “I wish I could be there too.”
After we cleared the supper table and washed up, Mutti Frida retrieved her bottle of Schnapps and filled a tiny glass.
“Willi. We wish you a safe and happy trip.” She raised the glass to me and tasted it.
Then she passed the drink to our friend. “Take a sip, Lili.”
“Yes, Will, have a safe trip to east Germany.” Lili touched the glass to her lips and shuddered at the taste, passing the glass to Col.
Col picked up the glass, holding my eyes over the rim. “Two weeks is such a long time. Come back to me safely, darling.” She sipped and suppressed the shudder, wanting to show a brave face. She reached across the table to hand me the glass.
I took the glass glancing at Mutti Frida and Lili but returning to hold Col’s gaze. I thought for a moment before addressing her in French. “You are my entire life. Stay here in safety, knowing I will think of you all the time”.
Col’s eyes closed for a moment and I heard Lili’s soft intake of breath. French was our secret language and Lili’s weakest, but she had understood what I had said. When Col’s eyes opened, moisture gathered at the corners.
I took a sip, the alcohol exploding the taste of Schnapps across my tongue and I almost coughed – my body was not used to spirits. I passed the glass down to Mutti Frida, whose eyes lingered on me. She may not have understood the French, but she understood the emotional content of what had passed between her daughter and me. She gave me an understanding smile, picked up the glass and drained the remaining mouthful.
Col jumped up and retrieved a package wrapped in blue tissue paper, tied with a delicate bow of thin white ribbon, from the dresser drawer. She sat down and slid it across to me.
I smiled at Col, recognising the preserved paper, and opened the package: a leather wallet.
“Something to take with you to remind you of all of us during your travels.”
“Thank you,” I said, smiling at all three of them.
“And now, Willi, you must leave to be home on time.”
We all rose from the table. Col hung back whilst Lili and Mutti Frida gave me intense hugs.
Mutti Frida’s sensitivity showed again. “Col will say goodbye to you in the hall, Willi.”
I put the wallet in my trouser pocket and went out into the hall with Col, who firmly shut the door behind us. We shared lingering kisses before Col pushed me away. “You must go, Willi.” Her voice trembled before firming again. “And when you return, we will talk about our promise to Mutti.” Her eyes held trust, fear and desire.
A frisson ran through me, lifting the hairs down my back and arms. I leaned in and planted a gentle kiss on the tip of her nose and caressed her cheek. “Take care of you.” I paused at the gate, turning to receive and return a blown kiss before the door closed.
The moisture on my cheeks was cold in the night air.
My mother sensed my mood and gathered me into her arms, staying silent for a while. “I know you’re worried about this trip. Everything will be fine, but be careful over there, Will.” Her voice firmed as she engaged my eyes. “Don’t make life difficult for yourself ... or anyone else.”
I nodded.
“Hot chocolate?”
“Thank you.”
I hung about in the kitchen and then took the mug up to my room to check my suitcase, again. I transferred the money I had taken out of my Post Office account into my new wallet, putting it on my desk with my passport and the information about the trip. They would go in my duffel bag, along with a jumper and things I want with me all the time. I had pondered what books to take and had settled on Thomas Mann’s Der Tod in Venedig and Shakespeare’s Sonnets, both of which were set texts. After a moment, I added my pure Maths textbook to leaven the mixture and slipped into it the picture of Herr Schmidt I had cut from the newspaper. I wanted to recognise him. After a moment’s thought, I also slipped in the copy of my essay I had laboriously copied out.
Despite my worries, the emotion of the day had drained me. I slept so soundly my mother had to wake me when she checked on me at half-past seven. I hustled through my morning ablutions, packed my wash bag and did one final check on the suitcase before closing it up.
I was treated to a lovely breakfast of scrambled eggs, bacon and toast, causing me to raise my eyebrows.
“You need to start with a full stomach, Will. Today will be all over the place and heaven knows when you’ll eat – or tomorrow, travelling to Berlin.”
As I waded through my breakfast, my mother sat opposite me, sipping her coffee and glancing at the paper.
“Try to send us a postcard from West Berlin when you get there before you go into East Germany, Will.”
I smiled at her concern.
“Allow me a mother’s concerns over her chick, Will.”
“Okay.” I smiled. “I’ll try to send a postcard from West Berlin. I don’t know if it will be possible from inside East Germany.”
“I understand.”
I sat and read the newspaper for a while before my mother said it was time to go. I took my bags out to the car and my mother drove us to the station. She insisted she pay for the return ticket to London and as we turned away from the ticket office, Lili walked into the station.
“Have a safe journey, Willi,” Lili said, in Polish, shyly leaning forward to give me a brief kiss on the cheek.
Mustering my Polish, I took her hand. “Thank you for coming to see me off. Please take care of Col.”
Lili gave another shy smile and nodded.
“Your Polish is coming along then, Will?”
“Yes, he and Col are both doing well,” Lili explained.
“Col’s not coming to see you off?” My mother asked.
Before Lili could answer, I turned to my mother, “I asked him not to come. He told me he hates goodbyes.”
My mother gave me a surprised look.
“Dr Johnstone?”
We turned around to find a photographer.
“I’m from the newspaper. I’d like to take a photograph of you and your son as he heads off on his prize trip. Perhaps the three of you could stand together.” He shepherded us against a British Rail cream wall. “Young Mr Johnstone in the middle, please.” Lili moved from beside my mother to beside me. “Excellent.” The camera flashed. “One more.”
He changed the flashbulb and the camera flashed again. As it did, a man in a trilby hat stared at us from across the station foyer.
“I’m sorry, but we must be going. My son has a train to catch.” My mother used her doctor voice and moved us towards the platform ticket machine.
The photographer doffed his hat. “Thank you for your time, Dr Johnstone.”
My mother inserted two thruppenny bits into the platform ticket machine, handing one of the tickets to Lili. We moved out to the platform as my train was announced. It rolled in with an electric hum: none of the hissing clouds of steam and smoke I had enjoyed as a small boy.
My mother watched the coaches slow to a halt and I climbed into one with open seating. I had no trouble finding a seat on the platform side. I stowed my case, plonking my duffel bag on the seat and waved to Lili and my mother.
The train started moving so smoothly it was as if the station was bearing Lili and my mother away waving farewell; then the carriage jerked and reality reasserted itself: I was leaving them. My stomach fluttering queasily at what the next two weeks would hold. The train moved inexorably down the platform, past waiting people including the trilby hat man. Disinterestedly, they watched our accelerating departure.
As we picked up speed, I sat down and pulled the Thomas Mann novella from my duffel bag to distract myself from my worries. I’d been finding Gustav’s obsession with Tadzio a bit uncomfortable.
Was this coloured by Col’s initial reaction to the revelation of my strange circumstances?
It is fascinating how we read ourselves into literature – or perhaps great writers leave room for the reader to see themselves in their work.
We clattered through the Kentish countryside, which drew my attention from Gustav’s obsessions. Exuberant green leaves were replacing the blossom in the orchards. I was still coming to terms with the startling greenness of the country after decades of the sparse, grey-greens of Australia. Soon, the Kentish fields and orchards gave way to London’s expanding suburban sprawl and we rolled into Victoria Station.
I checked my wallet and repacked my duffel bag, checking for the umpteenth time my paperwork and passport were safe in the internal pocket. My first time through as a teen I had been absentminded, prone to leaving a trail of unintentionally abandoned possessions. Decades of life had trained me to be careful, but still I checked.
With my duffel bag over my shoulder and my suitcase bumping awkwardly against my legs, I set off to find the Station Hotel. A porter gave me directions and, pausing occasionally to swap my case between hands, I found the hotel.
“Yes?” The bored man behind the reception desk asked, staring down his nose.
“I’m part of the UNESCO group, the International Youth Cultural Exchange program travelling to Germany.”
He waved at a sign pointing down a corridor. “In the Mallard Room.” He dismissed me by dropping his eyes back to the work on his desk. I walked past two rooms, also named after famous locomotives of the steam age.
There was no-one in the Mallard room. I put my case on the floor beside a sofa, sat down, retrieved Der Tod in Venedig and, with nothing to distract me but my still fluttering stomach, started reading. As it was eleven o’clock, I wasn’t surprised to be the first.
The clock was showing half past eleven when a harried man poked his head in and then stood aside for a young man. “Two,” he muttered and disappeared.
“You’re just a kid.” The young man’s eyes narrowed. “You must be the runner up,” he sneered. “Do you actually speak German?”
He wanted to establish his superiority; I smiled and returned to my book. After a moment, he dropped his case loudly beside an armchair and sat down, drumming his fingers on the armrests.
A girl in her late teens stepped into the room. “Is this the UNESCO trip to Germany?” she asked in a soft voice, her eyes downcast.
“Indeed it is. I am Peter Farquar.” He leapt to his feet and his hand came out ready to shake, but the girl shuffled back and did not put out her hand.
“Oh, I am Virginia Dawson.” Her voice held a trace of west country.
“Come and sit over here with me.” Peter grabbed for her suitcase, but Virginia pulled it away searching for a safe refuge. She retreated to the armchair beside my sofa, her pale, freckled skin blushing beneath her red hair.
Peter frowned and went back to his seat, trying to hide his embarrassment at being turned down in front of me. I thought about returning to my book but decided I should introduce myself to Miss Virginia Dawson.
I turned towards her. “Hello, Miss Dawson. I’m Will Johnstone.”
The freckled face turned towards me. “Hello, Will.” She glanced furtively across the room at our companion and turned back to me. “I’m pleased to meet you. Please call me Ginnie. Are you going to east Germany too?”
Peter Farquar’s voice cut across the room. “Little William is our runner up.”
The sneer persisted. We had someone in our midst who needed to shore up his self-image by putting others down.
I watched Ginnie stiffen and make as if to respond. Instead, she held my gaze. “Are you reading Thomas Mann?” She nodded towards my book.
“Yes, it’s one of my set books.”
She was startled. “You’re reading it for O Level?”
I shook my head. “No, for A level.”
“Oh.” She gave me a closer inspection, blushing faintly when she realised this was rude. “Sorry ... er ... how old are you, Will?” she asked, curiosity sounding in her voice.
“Umm...” I was worried it this would intensify Peter’s unwanted attention. “I’m fourteen.”
The harried man hurried in, followed by two boys, both in their late teens.
“Pay attention, please,” the man said, putting a bunch of room keys on the coffee table. “I’m Mr Stock and we’ll be joined soon by Miss Turner. We are your guides and chaperones for this visit to east Germany.” He paused, looking around to identify us. “We’ll get you settled into your rooms and conduct introductions over lunch.”
He glanced at the clipboard he was carrying. “Here are your room assignments. Peter Farquar and William Johnstone.” He picked up one of the keys and tossed it to Peter. “Henry Ruthven and Timothy Charles.” Another key was tossed. “Virginia Dawson, you are with Miss Turner.” He picked up the remaining key and handed it to her.
“Okay, off you go.” He waved at the door. “Be back down in the dining room by one o’clock.” He glanced at his watch. “In about fifteen minutes. Don’t be late.” He bustled out without waiting for us to start moving, followed by Henry and Timothy.
I packed my book into my duffel bag and stood up, but there was no movement from Peter. As he had the key and knew our room number, I waited.
Peter stood up. “I’m stuck with the baby of the group,” he said disgustedly, half to himself. “Listen, you little oik. Stay out of my way or there will be dire consequences for you. I don’t want to see or hear you.” He leaned down and picked up his case. “The room is mine and it’s bad enough you have to sleep there. Stay away for the rest. D’you understand?”
His attitude was not unexpected given his initial reaction to me, but I had not been expecting to share a room with him. I was unsure what to do, so I stood there.
He dropped his case, took stepped towards me, towering over me. “Did you hear what I said, oik?”
He was built like a rugby scrum player and would have no trouble flattening me. Before I could summon up a safe reply, he grabbed my shirtfront and pulled me up onto my toes. “Cause me any trouble on this trip, oik, and...”
“What,” asked a commanding female voice, “is going on here?” Miss Turner was standing in the doorway, bristling.
Peter dropped me back on to my feet and pretended to brush down my shirt. “We were discussing arrangements about our shared room.” It slipped glibly from him: he was well-practised in this.
“No, you weren’t,” Ginnie’s enraged voice appeared from the corner where she had been standing. “You were bullying William.”
Peter’s eyes narrowed.
“Miss Dawson, is it?” Miss Turner asked.
Ginnie nodded, trying to smother her fury. “Peter Farquar was ... intimidating William.”
Miss Turner saw the room key in Ginnie’s hand. “I see you have our room key. I suggest you take your bags there. I’ll join you shortly.”
Ginnie made me a sympathetic face and sidled past Miss Turner.
Peter turned and picked up his case.
“Where do you think you are going, Mr Farquar?”
It was a rhetorical question, but Peter answered in a tone assuming unassailable superiority. “To my room,” and he attempted to push past Miss Turner, who had moved back into the doorway after Ginnie left.
“I think not, Mr Farquar.” Her tone was icy. “Please give me the room key.”
Peter stayed there, unused to being commanded by a woman and yet concerned a confrontation could see him in trouble. After a long second, he tossed the key at Miss Turner, who caught it deftly.
“Go and wait at reception for Mr Stock and we’ll decide what to do with you.”
Trying not to seem like he was following her instructions, he sauntered out past Miss Turner.
She tapped the key on her palm times. “I thought putting the two of you together might cause problems, William, but...” She paused, surveying me. “From what I hear, you are used to being out of place. Hmm?”
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