That night we lie awake in the darkness and listen to the sound of a violin being played for an hour. The music seems to voice all the unspeakable sorrow in me: for Warsaw, for the starving people we passed, for my home, for my family, for Scotty, for Ralph, but most of all for Bill and for love that is lost to me forever.
• • •
One bright afternoon in late March, I’m sitting in my usual spot, deep in a book about a village called Middlemarch, when a sound makes me lift my head. It’s a whistle, someone whistling. A long way off. I lay my book down, not even noting the page number, and tell myself, “Lots of men whistle…” but the tune begins afresh, moving away from me, and I recognize the song about the nightingale in the square that Bill always played for me. My heart leaps, and I jump to my feet, weaving between the huts and around the groups of men to follow the sound. It stops and I panic. Maybe it’s him, but we’ll forever miss each other in this great maze of humanity. Then it starts again, and the words come back to me: angels dining at the Ritz. It’s closer now, and I begin to run, rounding the edge of the cookhouse and running slap-bang into the whistler.
“Oy!” he yells, and pushes me away. I stumble back, half losing my footing, and catch a momentary glimpse of a dark-haired, lanky stranger.
“Watch it!” he snarls.
I back away, muttering, “Sorry, sorry.”
I round the edge of the nearest hut, with his voice following me. “You wanna mind where you’re going!”
I crouch down against the wall, curling into myself, into a tight ball of pain. It’s not Bill. It will never be Bill. All my life I’ll hear snatches of song, or catch sight of a blond head in a crowd, and think it’s him. And it never will be. I pull my knees into my chest, hugging the pain, holding my breath, willing myself out of a world that no longer has Bill in it.
Footsteps stop close to me, and someone says, “All right, mate?”
I lift my head and grimace.
A man with sergeant’s stripes nods encouragingly. “Nearly over now.”
I nod, and he moves away. But it’s not over for me. It will never be over for me.
• • •
On Good Friday, March 30, the guards set lookouts to scan the horizon for tanks. In one direction they report sightings of Nazi Tigers, in the other, American Shermans. Our prison camp is smack in the middle, under the flimsy protection of the Red Cross flag. There’s a vibration of nervous tension, as if all the men around me have drunk too much coffee. The sound of gunfire is incessant, and it seems to come from all directions, all around us, as though we are in the center of a typhoon that may wipe us out as it spins away. I pray that I’ll be hit by a stray bullet. I don’t want to live without Bill.
I watch prisoners exchanging addresses on the parade ground as if it’s the end of term at school. A plane flies low over the camp. All round me, men shout, “Hit the deck,” and throw themselves to the ground, covering their heads with their arms. I stay on my feet, shading my eyes to watch the plane going over, letting it target me if it will. But it doesn’t open fire. A few days earlier, the prisoners were given paint and allowed to climb onto the roofs of the huts to paint “POW” in giant white letters. Perhaps the crew of the plane has read the message on the roofs.
And then, as the men are getting to their feet and brushing down their coats, there’s utter silence. The firing has stopped. We all look around nervously, as though this is the prelude to some gigantic explosion. But nothing happens.
“Maybe this is it,” whispers Max.
Others join in. “Perhaps it’s all over?”
A tremendous roar goes up from the gates, as if the final goal has been scored at a football match, and someone shouts, “It’s the bloody Yanks!” Max grabs my hand, and I’m pulled along by him toward the gate to see what’s happening.
I can’t get a view for all the heads in the way, but Max raises me up to see a US jeep, with six GIs sitting in it, laughing, as it’s lifted from the ground by starving prisoners and carried into the camp.
Everyone around us goes crazy, crying, laughing, hugging one another. They whoop and yell for joy. “It’s over. It’s bloody well over.” Many men have tears pouring down their faces; others hug each other rapturously as a stream of trucks enters the compound. Max hugs me and presses his lice-ridden head to mine, but I am a stone.
All around me men are saying, “It’s over! It’s over! It’s over!” as though only saying it will make it real.
Outside the fence, columns of armored cars decorated with American stars speed past, their occupants standing to throw packs of cigarettes and chocolate to us. There’s a scramble near the wire to gather up the bounty, but Max says, “There’ll be more where that comes from. Let’s not get trampled in the rush.”
The side is dropped from one of the trucks that has driven into the compound, and two American women with perfect hair, wearing red lipstick, begin to serve coffee and doughnuts. The smell of sugar and real coffee coming from the truck feels like another mirage. The camp loudspeaker crackles into life, and we pause for a moment to hear an announcement, for someone to tell us all this is true, that we are free. But no announcement comes. Instead we hear the scratch of a needle on a record and the opening of a dance tune booms over the camp.
“It’s ‘In the Mood’,” laughs Max, and the music plus the overpowering smell of doughnuts and real coffee is more convincing than any words could have been. Stick men in rags start to dance with one another. The whole camp has transformed into a fairground, a circus. Another food truck dishes out meat sandwiches made with the whitest bread I’ve ever seen in my life.
Near the cookhouse the Americans have gathered the Nazi guards into a huge cage. They look terrified. One of the US soldiers guarding them says to me, “Go on. Point out who was cruel to you. I’ll kill him now. No one’ll know.”
I raise my eyes and scan the faces for the man who broke Bill’s nose. But when I find him, I think, What’s the point? and shake my head.
And then, beyond him, behind the cage of guards, across the parade ground near the latrines, something catches my eye. I shift and grab Max’s arm to stop him.
“What is it?” he asks, following my gaze.
I duck left to try to catch another glimpse, but the caged guards are blocking my view. A shape. For just a second, I thought I saw…half-hidden…I strain to get a clear view past them. They move and block my line of sight. The sound of whistling reaches me. It’s the nightingale song. But I’ve been disappointed before, and now rather than lifting, my stomach plummets. It will be that stranger again, whistling our tune, taunting me.
We reach the end of the cage and would now have a view across the parade ground to the latrines if my vision wasn’t clouded by tears. I stumble, and Max, catching my arm, stops dead, lifting his hand to shade his eyes, gazing where I was looking before. The whistled notes rise, and I blink my eyes clear. It’s a figure I’d know anywhere. He turns and looks straight at me.
It is.
It’s Bill.
Epilogue
Bill takes my hand. “Come on,” he says. “Let’s go and find someone in charge.”