Times of War Collection

  Then out through the mist they came. Tanks! Twenty or thirty of them, and they kept on coming. “Americans!” Peter shouted. “They are Americans!” And he began waving at them frantically, and running towards them. That was when Marlene took fright. She pulled away from me, and fled. I went after her, calling and calling for her to come back. But her run became a charging stampede. Trumpeting in her terror, her ears flapping wildly, her trunk flailing, she simply disappeared into the mist.

  By the time the lead tank reached us, they had all lurched to a stop. A soldier’s head came up out of the turret. He pulled off his headphones, and stared at us in disbelief. I shall never forget the first words he said to us. “Holy cow! What in hell’s name was that? Was that an elephant?”

  “It was,” Peter told him. “We sure are glad to see you.”

  “You American?” the soldier asked.

  “Canadian.” Peter replied. “RAF. Flight Sergeant Peter Kamm. Navigator. Shot down over Dresden a few weeks back.”

  “You walked all the way from Dresden?” the soldier asked, still incredulous. “With an elephant, and all those kids?”

  “Yep,” said Peter.

  “Holy Cow!” the soldier said. “Well I’ll be goddamned.”

  “We have to find that elephant,” Peter told him. “We have to go after her. She has been with us all the way.”

  “Don’t you worry,” the soldier assured us cheerily. “We will find her for you. Nowhere much an elephant can go without being noticed, I’d say. But right now you guys have got to get out of here. There is a war going on, you know.”

  Mutti tried to argue with him, to let her go after Marlene. Karli and I begged him too. Mutti told him and told him that Marlene would just keep on running, that she would be terrified, that no one would be able to catch her, except one of us. She knew only us, she trusted only us. But the soldier would not listen. We were all led away, still protesting, by an escort of soldiers. Mutti was inconsolable. I think she knew then that she would never see Marlene again. So at the moment of our greatest triumph, we had lost Marlene. For days, for weeks, we never stopped looking for her, asking after her. But no one had seen her. It was as if she had simply disappeared off the face of the earth.”

  At this point in the story Lizzie stopped, and looked at us as if to say: That’s it, that’s the end.

  “And? And? What happened?” Karl was echoing my thoughts exactly. “What happened after that? To Marlene, to all of you? Did you find her in the end? And Papi, did Papi come home?”

  “What happened afterwards?” Lizzie replied. “Oh, a lot happened, a whole lifetime of happenings. But I think I shall keep it short. I am suddenly rather tired. And you must be too. Well, here is how the story ends…”

  “Within a day or two of meeting the Americans, we found ourselves – Mutti, Karli, me and the choir-school children – in a camp, a sort of refugee camp, for ‘displaced persons’, that was what they called us. Peter did all he could to stop them taking us away. He told them how Mutti had helped him to escape, told them the whole story. But rules were rules, they said, and that was that. All displaced Germans were being gathered up into camps.

  Before we were loaded up and driven away in an army lorry, they gave us a few moments to say goodbye to him. That was when he pressed this compass into my hand, and told us that he promised he would go on looking for Marlene. Mutti was there, so was Karli, but I remember I could not help myself. When it came to my turn to say goodbye, I clung to him and cried. He whispered in my ear that he would write, that he would come back for me and find me. The last I saw of him as we were driven away, he was standing there in the rain, in his uniform again now, waving us off. I thought my heart would break.

  We all lived for six months or more in that camp. When I think about it now, it was not so bad, I suppose. There was no privacy, none, that was the worst of it. And I hated living behind barbed wire, unable to go where I wanted, do what I wanted. The huts were overcrowded, but they were warm and dry at night. Defeat was a bitter blow to many of the soldiers and refugees, but for our family I have to say that the end of the war and the death of Hitler came as a great relief. We learned that life goes on.

  Amongst the thousands of prisoners there were many musicians and actors and poets. They produced plays, gave concerts. It broke the tedium of captivity. For an hour or two we could simply forget everything. The best concert for me, without any doubt, was when the choir-school children gave a performance for everyone. They sang mostly the folksongs we had sung together through those long nights tramping through the dark. They knew our family favourite was, ‘I walked through a green forest’. I was quite sure, and so was Mutti and Karli, that they sang it specially for us.

  Mutti decided after a while that what was needed in the camp was a school for all the children, including the choir-school children, and she needed my help, she said, to look after die Kleine, the little ones. It kept us both busy, and feeling useful too, and that was so important. Most important of all though to me in my time in the camp were the letters I got from Peter. I always wrote back the same day, to some address in London. He was always full of good news, and great plans, about how once things had settled down, and he could get leave, he would come back and fetch me. We were going to get married, and then live in Canada together. We would go canoeing and fishing. He could not wait to show me the salmon and the black bears, and everything in the Canadian wilderness that he had told me so much about.

  When we were all at last released from the camp, we had to say goodbye to the choir-school children. It was a tearful parting. They had become almost like family to us. The authorities only let us out because we had an address to go to. Mutti took us to live with a cousin of hers in Heidelberg. We had one room overlooking the river, where we could see the sun setting over the town. Renate was Mutti’s oldest cousin, a school teacher and a bit strict and prim. She did her best to be kind to us, and tolerant, but she was used to living alone, and sometimes, I think, she found it difficult to hide her irritation with us.

  Even though we were now free, and life was returning to some kind of normality, this was the worst time of all for me because Peter’s letters just stopped coming. I had sent him our new address, but he never wrote again. And Mutti too was as unhappy as I had ever seen her. Every day she went to ask the authorities for news of Papi. There was none. Both the men we loved had disappeared. I am sure this was why I became closer during these days to Mutti than ever before.

  And Karli? Poor Karli cried every night for Papi and Marlene, but he got on much better than either Mutti or me with Renate, and would tell her again and again all his stories about Marlene and our miraculous escape across Germany. In the end we managed to find ourselves a little apartment nearby. Renate arranged for Mutti to teach at her school, and found places there too for Karli and me. So we went back to school. It seemed strange to be back at school again after so much had happened. I was so full of sadness by now that I found studying impossible.

  But then came the glad, glad news that Papi was alive. He had been taken prisoner by the Russians over a year before. We did not know when he would be home, but he was alive and that was all that mattered. We cried for joy when we heard, and Mutti sat us round the table for a ‘family moment’. Now I knew that Papi was safe, I prayed only for Peter. Every time the postman came, I would run out to meet him and ask if there was a letter. I kept writing, kept begging him to write back. But no letter came. I began to give up all hope of seeing him again.

  Then one afternoon – it was a few months later – we were on our way back from school, and had just turned the corner into our street, when we saw there was someone sitting on our front doorstep, with a suitcase beside him. He stood up and took off his hat. It was Peter. The trouble was I had to share the hugging with Mutti and Karli.

  “Why didn’t you write?” I cried, not that it mattered now. Peter told me later that when he had left England and gone back to Canada, they just had not sent my letters on
. Then they had all turned up one day at his home address in Canada in one big parcel. That was how he knew where to find us.

  Maybe you have guessed the rest. We got married, in Heidelberg it was. You should have heard the bells ring out. A week or so later the two of us sailed for Canada. I hated to leave Mutti and Karli, but Mutti insisted.

  “We have very few chances for happiness in this life,” she said. “You take it. Go.” Karli told me, as he said goodbye, that he would come and live in Canada when he was older, and he did too. Sometimes all really is well that ends well.

  It took another four years though before Papi finally came home from Russia. Mutti wrote that he was thin, but that she was feeding him up, and that as soon as he was well enough they were going to apply for visas to come to Canada and join us in our little town not far from Toronto. So that is how we all of us came to live here in Niagara-on-the-Lake. Peter was acting in the theatre here, and getting bigger parts all the time. And I became a nurse, like your mother, Karli. Life was good. Cold in winter, but good. Peaceful. Contented.

  But that is not quite the end of it. One summer evening – we would have been in our forties now I suppose – Peter and I went to the circus in Toronto, a travelling circus from France. Peter always loved to watch clowning. He had a clown costume himself, and he would perform at children’s parties sometimes. But right away it was not the clowns that interested me. The star of the show was an elephant, and I knew as soon as I set eyes on her that it was Marlene. And the extraordinary thing was that she knew me. As she was led around the ring in the grand parade, she stopped right by me where I was sitting in the front row, and reached out her trunk towards me. I felt her breath on me. I looked into her weepy eye. It was her. There was no doubt about it.

  We went round the back afterwards, and talked to the circus people. They had bought her from another circus ten years before. They had no idea where she had come from before that. They said she was the best elephant they had ever had, that she had quite a sense of humour. I told them our whole story then. They cried, and we cried.

  We spent long hours with her for the whole of that weekend, just talking to her, telling her about our lives, how Mutti and Papi had passed away within months of each other a while ago now, and how Karli was making films, how he could still do his juggling. The morning the circus was packing up to leave town, we were there to wave her off. We cried again, of course we did, but at the same time, we were not sad at all, just happy that we had met up again, that she had survived as we had, and that all was well with her.

  I have been on my own for a while now, the only one left. Peter and I were married for almost sixty years. I cannot say we never had a cross word. We had our problems and our sadnesses too. Everyone does. No children. I should have liked children of my own. But we were as happy as anyone has the right to be happy. And this is Peter’s compass.”

  Lizzie held the compass out to Karl. “Yours now, Karli,” she said.

  I tried to protest, but she put it in Karl’s hand and folded his fingers over it. “You keep it,” she said. “You look after it, and look after my story too. I should like people to know about it. Oh, and do not forget to bring me my photograph album tomorrow, will you?”

  I could see she was completely exhausted. I think she was asleep before we left her.

  When I came to work the next morning – school had been cancelled because of the snow – Karl was with me. We had Lizzie’s photograph album with us. We sat on either side of her bed while she talked us through her photos, one or two of the family down on the farm, one of her wedding day in Heidelberg, some of Peter in theatrical costumes, several of them both, then in the new city of Dresden.

  “And look!” she said, turning triumphantly to the last page. “This is Marlene and me at the circus that day! Do you believe me now?”

  “I have always believed you,” Karl told her.

  “Always?”

  “Always,” said Karl.

  “And you?” Lizzie asked, looking at me knowingly.

  “Almost always,” I replied.

  Contents

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Shadow

  Preface

  When the Stars Begin to Fall

  “And They Keep Kids in There?”

  We Want You Back

  Shadow

  Bamiyan

  “Dirty Dog! Dirty Foreign Dog!”

  “You Must Come to England.”

  “Walk Tall, Aman.”

  Somehow

  Counting the Stars

  Polly

  “Quite a Hero”

  Silver, Like a Star

  “The Whole Story, I Need the Whole Story.”

  “God is Good.”

  The Little Red Train

  All Brothers and Sisters Together

  “It’s Where We Belong Now.”

  Locked Up

  “We’re Going To Do It!”

  Shooting Stars

  “Just Two of Them And a Dog.”

  Singing in the Rain

  Time To Go Home

  Postscript

  Yarl’s Wood

  Army Sniffer Dogs

  o many have helped in the genesis of Shadow. First of all, Natasha Walter, Juliet Stevenson and all involved in the writing and performing of Motherland, the powerful and deeply disturbing play that first brought to my attention the plight of the asylum-seeking families locked up in Yarl’s Wood. Then there were two remarkable and unforgettable films, that inspired and informed the Afghan part of this story: The Boy who Plays on the Buddhas of Bamiyan, directed by Phil Grabsky, and Michael Winterbottom’s In This World. And my thanks also to Clare Morpurgo, Jane Feaver, Ann-Janine Murtagh, Nick Lake, Livia Firth, and so many others for all they have done.

  Michael Morpurgo

  August 2010

  This story has touched the lives of many people, and changed their lives too, for ever. It is told by three of these people: Matt, his grandfather and Aman. They were there. They lived it. So it’s best they tell it themselves, in their own words.

  one of it would ever have happened if it hadn’t been for Grandma’s tree. And that’s a fact. Ever since Grandma died – that was about three years ago now – Grandpa had always come to spend the summer holidays at home with us up in Manchester. But this summer he said he couldn’t come, because he was worried about Grandma’s tree.

  We’d all planted that tree together, the whole family, in his garden in Cambridge. A cherry tree it was, because Grandma especially loved the white blossoms in the spring. Each of us had passed around the jug and poured a little water on it, to give it a good start.

  “It’s one of the family now,” Grandpa had said, “and that’s how I’m going to look after it always, like family.”

  That was why, a few weeks ago, when Mum rang up and asked him if he was coming to stay this summer, he said he couldn’t because of the drought. There had been no rain for a month, and he was worried Grandma’s tree would die. He couldn’t let that happen. He had to stay at home, he said, to water the tree. Mum did her best to persuade him. “Someone else could do that, surely,” she told him. It was no good. Then she let me have a try, to see if I could do any better.

  That was when Grandpa said, “I can’t come to you, Matt, but you could come to me. Bring your Monopoly. Bring your bike. What about it?”

  So that’s how I found myself on my first night at Grandpa’s house, sitting out in the garden with him beside Grandma’s tree, and looking up at the stars. We’d watered the tree, had supper, fed Dog, who was sitting at my feet, which I always love.

  Dog is Grandpa’s little brown and white spaniel, with a permanently panting tongue. He dribbles a lot, but he’s lovely. It was me that named him Dog, apparently, because when I was very little, Grandpa and Grandma had a cat called Mog. The story goes that I chose the name because I liked the sound of Dog and Mog together. So he never got a proper name, poor Dog.

  Anyway, Grandpa and me, we’
d had our first game of Monopoly, which I’d won, and we’d talked and talked. But now, for a while, we were silent together, simply stargazing.

  Grandpa started to hum, then to sing. “When the stars begin to fall… Can’t remember the rest,” he said. “It’s from a song Grandma used to love. I know she’s up there, Matt, right now, looking down on us. On nights like these the stars seem so close you could almost reach out and touch them.”

  I could hear the tears in his voice. I didn’t know what to say, so I said nothing for a while. Then I remembered something. It was almost like an echo in my mind.

  “Aman said that to me once,” I told him, “about the stars being so close, I mean. We were on a school trip down on a farm in Devon, and we snuck out at night-time, just the two of us, went for a midnight walk, and there were all these stars up there, zillions of them. We lay down in a field and just watched them. We saw Orion, the Plough, and the Milky Way that goes on for ever. He said he had never felt so free as he did at that moment. He told me then, that when he was little, when he first came to live in Manchester, he didn’t think we had stars in England at all. And it’s true, Grandpa, you can’t see them nearly so well at home in Manchester – on account of the street lights, I suppose. Back in Afghanistan they filled the whole sky, he said, and they felt so close, like a ceiling painted with stars.”