At the Break of Day (43 page)

One hour before breakfast the squad leader, Corporal Jackson, read a Communist publication aloud in their hut with a guard at the door. He read without pausing for full stops, for correct pronunciation, but used his own. It lightened the morning.

Four men collected the food from the camp kitchen where it was cooked in pots, carrying it back to the hut in a large bucket. The men placed their rice bowls and cups round the bucket and millet was spooned out into each. They ate it standing or sitting on their straw mats, talking quietly.

Another four men drew water into another bucket and wash-pan from the kitchens, where there was a gasoline drum full of water which was kept full over a fire which burned from dawn to dusk.

A bell rang at 10.00 hours and they went with the other men of their squad to the lecture room, where they sat with legs crossed on the bare boards and listened while they were instructed on the Marxist philosophy in Chinese, and then again in translation whilst their ears and noses felt that they would drop off with the cold.

They broke at midday, ate rice which contained a few tiny pieces of pork.

‘It’s a better camp,’ Steve said.

‘The Commies have officially decided that they’ll not convert us all by cruelty. They’re trying kindness to turn us into eager little beavers who will spread the message back home, when we get back. Make the most of it. Who knows how long it will last,’ the Sergeant said.

They sluiced their bowls, then walked in the compound, taking note of the sentry at the gate and the sentry posts at intervals around the perimeter. They watched the village life which went on outside the wire and Jack remembered the Italian prisoners and how they had given the evacuees apples and showed them pictures of their children. He thought of the hot meal he had eaten. The prisoners probably ate better than the villagers. The whole thing was crazy.

At 14.30 hours they were back in the unheated hall and now the prisoners were made to read aloud from Marxist books and they did so, with no regard for punctuation or meaning.

The lecturer then picked Jack out to give his opinion on the chapter that had just been read.

Jack had listened to the beginning and the end so he stood up and repeated, ‘The philosphical basis of Marxism is dialectical materialism which is hostile to all religion. Marxists feel that religion defends exploitation and drugs the working classes.’

He sat down.

‘Proper little swot, aren’t we?’ grinned Bob.

‘But what is your opinion of it?’ the lecturer insisted.

‘Oh-oh,’ whispered Steve as Jack rose to his feet.

‘Love is an opiate, so is alcohol. They exist. Religion exists. It gives ease as the others do and comfort. Therefore my opinion is that as religion exists so does its use as an instrument of peace and comfort.’

There was silence as he sat.

‘Didn’t understand much of that,’ Steve murmured.

‘Neither did I,’ Jack replied.

‘Neither did he, from the look of him.’ Bob was looking at the lecturer who looked at the guards, then shrugged and asked another man for his opinion of Jack’s opinion.

The hours crept on and in the evening they were issued with Russian and Chinese papers, translated into English. They used the paper to roll marijuana cigarettes in the summer, the Corporal told them, tearing the outside edge of three of the sheets, but only three, because the guards took the papers back at the end of the evening.

The next afternoon they were issued with paper and pencils and ordered to write an essay on ‘Why the unjust aggressor is in Korea’. Jack managed to take two pieces of paper and, writing on both sides of one, he kept the other so his lessons could begin again that night with Steve.

And so the hours and the days slowly passed. Sometimes there were letters though none from Rosie, but then many people had none. They wrote letters too, but doubted that any were sent.

January became February and then it was March which limped into April and the days were still filled with boredom, with hunger, with cold and nothing changed with the coming of spring but the weather.

By mid December ’51 Rosie and Mario had extended the club, using the annexe for tables, leaving space in the back room for dancing. Luke and Sandy had left to tour Britain, along with the Larkhill Boys Rosie had met in the club with Joe.

‘Bookings are good,’ Luke rang to say. ‘Full houses everywhere. Harry’s bought himself another gold watch. You’ll be able to do the same.’

‘Or maybe Father Christmas will do that for me,’ Rosie laughed. ‘See you in January. Take care, all of you.’ She put the phone down and looked round her small flat.

The table lamps lit the room softly, illuminating Grandpa’s books. He would like it here, not as much as in his own home, but he would like it. There was a small half-knitted cardigan lying on the workbasket. She reached for it, began knitting, listening to the fire which hissed in the grate. She missed Luke and the boys. She measured the length of the cardigan then decreased for the armhole. It was ten o’clock. She was tired. She should sleep but each day and each night she waited for Joe to phone with news of Jack. He hadn’t yet.

She finished the armholes, caught the remaining stitches on a holder, cast on for the left front, knitted up to the armhole, but her eyes were dry and sore. Rosie looked at the clock again. Eleven. She put her knitting away and went to bed, hearing Lucia breathing quietly in the cot beside her. The baby hadn’t stirred since her feed at ten. She would sleep through until seven. She was perfect.

On 19 December she received a Christmas card from Frank and Nancy together with a present of a $50 bill which she put into the bank with the rest of her money. There would be no gold watch for her. There was a long future to build. She read their letter as she waited for the spaghetti to cook in the café kitchen.

Lower Falls
15th December

Dearest Rosie,

Well, your skis are still in your room, the snow is here but you aren’t. We understand though, really we do. Joe told us how busy you are and we can remember how hard we worked when we took over the paper. One day, we’ll come to you.

Frank is well. He writes his columns, and edits the paper unofficially, makes his ‘pinko’ stand for common sense. Two of his friends still can’t find regular work but pick up whatever they can. They will never write again, as long as McCarthy can stand up and give the performances that he does.

It is thought that maybe Eisenhower will throw his hat into the ring for the elections. Maybe he will be able to bring him to heel. Enough of that. We survive. I hope it isn’t that which keeps you from us? But even as I say that, I know it can’t be. Forgive me. It’s just that you start leaping at shadows some days, so many friends have turned their backs.

It was so strange, wasn’t it, the way the shooting stopped in Korea at the end of November following the establishment of the truce line along the 38th parallel. Joe filed his copy on it, saying no one ordered it, it just happened. For a moment there was peace.

I can’t hold out much hope on a full armistice for a long while. The repatriation of the prisoners of war is the stumbling block. Have you heard from Jack? What is that boy playing at? How did you get on with Joe? He’s a good reporter. He’s sending back some good copy.

Have a wonderful Christmas, Rosie. The house will be empty without you, darling. Dare we say we will see you in 1952?

Your ever loving
Nancy

Nancy did not mention the feature Rosie had written about the Festival. Perhaps there was too much happening with them over there. Rosie wished she could go, but she couldn’t.

Mrs Orsini, Mario and Rosie decorated the café and the club the next day, tying together holly with red ribbon bought from Mrs Eaves, pinning it up in corners, sitting Lucia up in her pram so that she could see, stringing streamers across the room. The customers helped. Mrs Eaves helped too and somehow there was enough laughter to wash away another Christmas without Jack, without news even.

On the evening of the twenty-second Rosie cut, coloured and pasted chains for her flat, showing Lucia who banged her rattle on the blanket in front of the fire, turning from her front on to her back, kicking her feet, pushing the rattle into her mouth, dribbling. Rosie kissed her cheeks, they were wet, pure.

She picked up her child and held her, seeing Jack in her movements, in her smile. She carried her to the window, looking out over the rooftops, hearing the jazz, the shouting and the laughter.

‘Where are you, Jack?’ she called, breath clouding the window.

A telegram came from Joe the next day, while she was serving customers and Mrs Eaves with mince-pies.

‘Have news stop Be with you 24th stop Joe’

Rosie put it down. Mrs Eaves read it, folded it, put it away, then asked Mrs Orsini to babysit for Lucia while Rosie came with her to the West End.

Rosie looked at her, then started to put sugar into bowls. They were too full. There would be news tomorrow. It would be Christmas Eve and there would be news. How could she wait that long? Why was it so hard to breathe?

‘Come on then, get your coat,’ Mrs Eaves said, picking up her handbag and her gloves, pulling them on, pushing up between her fingers. ‘Come on, get your coat, I said. Let’s get you through this evening anyway. And don’t worry. It can’t be bad news or he would have cabled you earlier.’

They walked out into the crisp air. There was jazz all around, coming up from cellars, mingling with calypso, with swing. Tomorrow there would be news and she couldn’t bear the minutes that had to pass until then.

Chestnuts cooked on braziers, sailors on leave entered the pubs, finding accommodation for their leave, amongst the homosexuals or the girls. Tarts lingering in doorways called, ‘Merry Christmas, Rosie. I’ll be in later for a coffee.’

Mrs Eaves took her arm and pointed to the Christmas tree outside the pub. There were streamers on it and candles which weren’t lit. ‘They’ll light them at midnight on Christmas Eve, as they always do, now the war’s over,’ the publican said, as he waved to them from the doorway.

But the war wasn’t over. Not the one Jack was fighting and the thousands of other young men.

They caught a bus, singing carols with the Salvation Army band as they waited. They went up to the West End, walked along Oxford Street, then, catching another bus, walked along Shaftesbury Avenue, looking at the billboards; and then they went back to Soho which they both preferred, which they both knew now. At least the evening was passing. There was only the long night to get through and some of the next day.

Joe didn’t come until six p.m. on Christmas Eve when the café had closed. Rosie stood at the door of her flat, watching as he climbed the stairs. There was a small decorated Christmas tree fixed into a log in his hand. He held it out. Rosie’s breath was shallow again.

‘For Lucia,’ he said. His mac was open, his belt dragged on the floor. It was dirty, muddy.

Rosie nodded, stood aside to let him enter. The tree smelt of pine. She placed it beneath the window. By the morning the room would smell too. It would be fresh and clean and pure but she couldn’t wait any longer. She turned.

‘Tell me,’ she said.

Joe smiled, shrugged. He looked tired, there were bags under his eyes, lines across his forehead. ‘Well, the good news is that he’s safe. He’s a POW. His father should have been notified. I don’t know why he didn’t let you know. Something went wrong somewhere. Anyway, Jack is one of the lucky ones. At least he’s been named as a prisoner by the Communists. Thousands of them have just been sucked in and lost.’

Rosie turned to the bright sky, to the stars, to the jazz which she could hear drifting up, along with the steam from the clubs and pubs. It was going to be a good Christmas, she thought, as the joy surged within her. He was safe, he was out of the fighting. He had not come back because he couldn’t, that was all.

‘So that’s why he hasn’t written,’ she murmured, putting her hand to her mouth.

Joe wrestled with his tie, pulling it loose, unbuttoning his collar. He looked around, saw the bottles on the table and asked, ‘Can I pour myself a drink?’

Rosie came across the room, poured the bourbon Mario had found for her and then one for herself. Joe could have the crown jewels for bringing that news.

‘I’ve no ice,’ she said, feeling the smile broaden on her face.

‘Drink up, Rosie. I said that was the
good
news.’ Joe swirled his drink round in the glass. It was amber in the soft light. The fire was hissing. She looked at the tree. She shouldn’t have smiled, that was it. Or made the streamers. If she hadn’t made the streamers it would have been good news only. No, she didn’t want to hear any more. She knew the important news, didn’t she?

‘Take your mac off, Joe,’ she said, sipping the bourbon. It was harsh in her throat. The glass was cold. She put it down on the small table by Grandpa’s chair, carried the mac across to the hook on the back of the door. It smelt of Joe, of America. It should smell of Korea. Why was it so hard to breathe? Why did her throat ache like this?

She walked back, sat in Grandpa’s chair.

‘Tell me now, then.’

She didn’t look at him, but at the Christmas tree, at the chains she had made, but which would have been better left unmade. Then she looked at the fire as he told her that he had discovered in Japan that Jack had fallen in love with a Japanese girl called Suko. That they had had an affair, that he was to marry her on his return. That he would never be coming back to her and that was why he had never written.

She looked at the glass of bourbon on the table, she pulled it to the edge, tipped it, breaking the vacuum as they had done at the Lake Club when they were so very, very young. There was no vacuum, but what did it matter?

She drank, then looked at the tree, at the fire, at the chains, at Joe who stood there, looking down at her.

He moved towards her, knelt, touched her knee, her arm. ‘I’m so sorry. So very sorry.’

‘At least he’s safe,’ she said but she didn’t want Joe there. She didn’t want anyone there. She wanted to push him away, he was making the room dark. He was taking what air there was. She couldn’t hear the hissing of the fire while he was there. She couldn’t see the chains. She couldn’t see the tree, but it was his tree. He had bought it for Jack’s daughter. He had been kind. And there was no pain yet. For God’s sake, the pain hadn’t come yet.