A Wartime Friend Read online

  Contents

  Cover

  About the Book

  About the Author

  Also by Lizzie Lane

  Title Page

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Epilogue

  Copyright

  About the Book

  Leah escapes from a train bound for a death camp – along with a surprising friend, a kind-natured German Shepherd dog. Discovered in France by an RAF pilot, the traumatised Leah wakes to find she’s forgotten everything. Fostered by the pilot and Meg, his wife, Leah becomes Lily, remembering nothing of her former life. However, war and tragedy shatter their lives. With their home in ruins and Lily’s adopted father missing in action, Lily and Meg are forced to flee to the country.

  In the Somerset countryside, Lily is reunited with Rudy, the heroic German Shepherd, while Meg finds herself subject to the attentions of a local criminal – and the village policeman. Before long, it becomes clear that Rudy isn’t just watching over Lily – he’s protecting Meg too, and someone wants him out of the way. Lily and Rudy’s unlikely friendship could be the only thing that saves them…

  About the Author

  Lizzie Lane was born and brought up in one of the toughest areas of Bristol, the eldest of three siblings who all came along before her parents got round to marrying. Her mother, who had endured both the depression and war years, was a natural-born storyteller, and it’s from her telling of actual experiences of the tumultuous first half of the twentieth century that Lizzie gets her inspiration.

  Lizzie now lives in Bath, preferring to lead a simple life where she can write without interruption.

  Also by Lizzie Lane

  Wartime Brides

  Coronation Wives

  A Christmas Wish

  A Wartime Family

  A Wartime Wife

  Home For Christmas

  Wartime Sweethearts

  War Baby

  Home Sweet Home

  War Orphans

  CHAPTER ONE

  In her dream she was back in Austria, the country where she’d been born, dancing around a picnic table spread with food of every description: creamy slices of confectionery, pies and succulent pieces of chicken; puddings, plums, pears and freshly baked bread spread with bright yellow butter.

  Her father’s English friends were visiting and she had the chance to practise her English on them. Her father smiled with pride on hearing her.

  ‘Perfect! Just perfect.’

  The sun was shining across the great expanse of lawn and the air was full of the smell of flowers. The breeze whispered through the leaves of the oak tree beneath which the sumptuous picnic had been set. White linen tablecloths flapped on square iron-framed tables.

  Walking across the lawn, his head and shoulders dappled with sunlight, she saw her father looking handsome and strong in his dark grey suit, smiling through the thickness of his beard. Her mother drifted through the assembled guests, nodding and smiling at each one, her chiffon tea dress floating behind her like the open wings of a butterfly, pale lilac streaked with purple. The laughter and animated conversation mingled with the sound of bees buzzing from one summer rose bush to another. Their buzzing became louder and, as it did so, petals fell from the roses, the laughter and conversation diminishing.

  Her attention was suddenly drawn to the edge of the pond where what looked like bees rose in a gigantic pillar, spiralling upwards in a noisy black swarm. Mesmerised, she watched as the buzzing changed to something else, a terrifying sound like the clattering of many feet pounding on a wooden bandstand. Her father back by her side, she tugged at his sleeve but he did not answer. His expression was grave and her mother’s face had turned white, her pale skin tightening over her high cheekbones. Her mouth opened unnaturally wide, her dulcet voice suddenly a blood-curdling scream. The dream vanished. Reluctant to leave the dream and the past behind, Leah squeezed her eyes tightly shut, willing herself to go back to sleep, to return to how things used to be: full of colour, happiness and light. Not like now. Not the horror of what was now. In the feeble light of a candle she saw an elongated shadow stretch across the wall, its legs and arms as thin as sticks, half its body trailing over the ceiling. Elements of her dream resurfaced as she sucked in her breath. Who was this creature? What was he doing in her bedroom, a lovely place of lilac and mauve with pretty white furniture?

  ‘Get out of my room!’ she wanted to shout, but no sound came out, the words stilled in her throat like a lump of food she’d failed to chew and swallow properly. Not that it could be food. Food was precious and eaten quickly.

  Her pretty bedroom of pastel colours was replaced by mudlike tones and lumpy walls, dark green window frames and dingy curtains bearing more than a passing resemblance to old potato sacks – which they might once have been. More awake now, she recognised the smell of the room they all shared: the damp mouldiness of crumbling plaster, the accumulation of cooking smells from both this room and others nearby; rooms lived in by refugees like them, people with little choice of where they could go and what they could expect from those who begrudgingly gave them shelter. She knew now that the scrawny shadow twice the height of a normal man was that of her father leaping from his bed.

  Reality crowded in on her. This place was not Austria. This place was not her bedroom. Back in Austria she’d had her own bedroom with a violet-coloured counterpane and wallpaper sprinkled with tiny lilac flowers. They’d lived in a beautiful house with many rooms. The garden had been idyllic. It was always summer in the garden, or had seemed that way to her. Her father, a professor of economics at the university, had his own study and their kitchen had been large. There had also been servants. But everything had changed when Hitler came to power.

  At first her parents had done their best to protect her from the truth, teaching her at home when she was no longer allowed to go to school. ‘The school is being renovated and reorganised,’ they had said, but something inside told her otherwise. Her school had gone. Her friends had gone. Her world had turned upside down and fear had made her nervous and disbelieving of anything her parents told her. She didn’t need to be told they were living on the edge of a precipice. She could feel it.

  ‘Your father is on a sabbatical,’ her mother had told her when her father no longer went to the university. Then their house had been taken and her father, Professor Rudolph Westerman, had taken the decision to leave Austria and head for France.

  ‘The French motto is “liberty, equality, fraternity”; we will be safe in such a country,’ he’d confidently declared. So with the minimum of money and a few belongings stuffed into three shoddy suitcases – expensive ones might look as if they contained valuable items and were likely to be searched – they had fled to France.

  For a while there had been safety but no beautiful house with a study and a garden. At first they’d had two rooms
, but so many people were now fleeing Austria and Germany in hope of a safety that seemed increasingly precarious as jackboots marched and subjugated one country after another. Then there was only one room and, although the roof leaked and the shutters didn’t quite fit, they’d felt safe – until now. War was declared and France was invaded.

  For a while, before Dunkirk, they had held on to a faint hope. Her father had been full of confidence: ‘The allies will hold them back.’ But Rudy Westerman’s hopes had been in vain. Germany stormed through the Ardennes and into a country still fighting in the manner of the Great War: a static defence from behind the Maginot Line. The Germans had merely driven round it. Paris had fallen and, like a plague, the invaders had spread swiftly across the country. Now here they were.

  The tall apartment block echoed with noise, thuds, screams and shouted orders. Leah cowered at the side of her bed. If it wasn’t for the suitcases stuffed beneath it, she would have hidden there. A draught of cold air filtered into the room; Leah shivered. Her father had opened the door a fraction. He peered through the gap before shutting it firmly with both hands, palms flat as though that would keep out the threat to his family.

  ‘We have to go.’

  ‘No—’ Her mother’s voice was a long wail.

  ‘Rachel! We have to go. We cannot stay here. They are ordering us out. We must obey or …’

  His wife broke down into tears, shoulders trembling, her face hidden in her hands. Rudy Westerman turned to his daughter.

  ‘Dress, Leah. Quickly.’

  ‘But I thought we could stay here,’ Leah whined, hoping her plaintive pleas would have some effect. ‘Anyway, it’s still night-time.’ She glanced tellingly at the mantle clock. Two o’clock in the morning. It was still dark and she was sleepy. Hungry too. At least hunger wasn’t so pressing when she was asleep, even though her dreams were full of food.

  Seeing her reluctance, her father dragged her from the bed and pushed her towards the chair where she’d placed her clothes the night before.

  ‘Dress. And pack. We cannot refuse them. We dare not refuse them!’

  His heart was heavy. His original plan had been to escape to England but he had felt for his tired family. Persuaded by his wife, he had fallen in with her wishes to settle in France. Her reasoning was not unsound.

  There was a sound like thunder as the German soldiers used their fists, then their rifle butts on the doors of their neighbours living on the lower floors, finally kicking them in with their boots, splintered wood flying into the room. ‘Schnell! Schnell! Get out! Get out! All Jews get out!’

  Once he’d checked their suitcases were packed and they were dressed in warm clothes, Leah’s father opened the door to their apartment. Screams and shouts of protest rose from the lower floors as people were turned out of their rooms, told to bring only what they could carry. Children cried and babies wailed. Her father closed the door swiftly as the sound of thudding boots came closer.

  Leah shivered as she pulled on her clothes. She badly wanted to go to the lavatory, but her legs were shaking so much she didn’t think she’d make it that far.

  Her mother made a pitiful noise, her long white fingers curled against her mouth, her eyes wide with fear. ‘You said we’d be safe here, Rudy. You said they wouldn’t dare do in France what they did in Germany …’

  Rudy grabbed his wife’s shoulders. ‘I am sorry, my love. It is now happening in France. Dress and pack only what you can carry. Now! And remember to wear those clothes into which we sewed some money. Your fur coat, yes? Leah, help your mother. Quickly. Both of you.’

  Going to the lavatory was forgotten as she helped her mother throw a few things into a suitcase, including half a loaf of bread and a sausage. It was her father who’d insisted on the food. Up until then her mother had been piling underwear into the case along with family photographs in silver picture frames. Her father told her to hide anything that was silver or gold. ‘Just take the smaller frames. The bigger ones will take up too much room.’

  Rachel Westerman’s face crumpled with despair. ‘This can’t be happening to us. We came to escape this.’

  Rudy had no time to explain or ruminate on what they had hoped for, and what was now actually happening; he only wished he’d acted sooner and travelled on to England. Complacency. You are guilty of complacency. If only …

  But there was no time for regret. He had to ensure his family’s survival.

  ‘Pull yourself together, Rachel! We have our daughter to think of.’

  His wife wailed hysterically. ‘But when we left Germany, you said …’ She wouldn’t let go; she was on the verge of hysteria.

  ‘Rachel!’ He slapped her face. Her look of despair was replaced with one of total shock.

  Feeling instant regret, Rudy folded his fingers into the palm of his hand. Never before had he raised his hand to either his wife or their child, but the tactic worked. The threat of her sliding into outright hysteria receded and a blank, uncomprehending expression came to her face. As though in a dream, she put on her fur coat and wound her favourite pink scarf around her neck. It didn’t match the coat. One was for winter, the other a thin silky thing fit only for summer.

  Rudy turned his attention to his daughter. Smiling weakly, he told her they must all be brave. So far she appeared calm. He wished most sincerely she would stay that way. The sound of tramping boots was getting closer.

  ‘Listen to me.’

  Leah smelled the pipe tobacco on her father’s breath as his face came close to hers. She felt his hands trembling on her shoulders and she trembled too. Although she needed the lavatory, she didn’t say so. Despite this room of shadows, the intense look in her father’s eyes demanded her full attention.

  ‘We have to go. We have no choice, but if we get separated head west. Get to England. Here is my friend Daniel Loper’s address. I will put it in here.’ He took his wife’s pink scarf from around her neck, sliding a piece of paper into a gap in the hem. ‘Keep it safe.’ His voice broke as he tied the scarf around his daughter’s neck, tucking it beneath her coat collar.

  There was a resounding crash as the door slammed open. Huge dark figures blanked out the meagre light from the landing.

  ‘Schnell! Out! All of you out!’

  Like upright parcels, they were pushed outside, Rudy doing his best to protect his daughter from the thudding rifle butts, the violent pushing. The noise of furniture being overturned and glass smashed sounded behind them from within the shabby room that had been their refuge.

  Along with their neighbours, Leah and her parents were bundled down the stairs, most of which they took two at a time because the soldiers were pushing them, slamming their rifles across their backs, all the while urging them to be quick.

  Once out in the street Leah fixed her gaze on the familiar buildings opposite, almost as though she had never seen them quite so vividly before now. A searchlight mounted on the back of an army truck lit up the street. Canvas-covered trucks had their headlights on. Leah had never seen Rue de St Auguste so well lit.

  Rue de St Auguste.

  Some deeply buried instinct convinced her she was seeing these buildings for the very last time. The light softened their dirty grey stone. There were details she’d never really noticed before that she now felt obliged to save to memory: stone cherubs holding up a balcony, the weed thrusting up at roof level above the guttering, the bright brass door knocker and matching brass plaque outside the doctor’s house.

  ‘Schnell!’

  Intently studying the buildings of the mediocre street, she failed to hear the shouted order. The soldier’s rifle butt threatened just inches from her head, serious injury only prevented by her father stepping between her and its impact. She heard him cry out, a cracking sound as his back arched like a bow about to be fired. She gasped with fear and the urine, which she’d so far held in check, trickled down her legs and into her socks.

  The yawning mouth of the tarpaulin-covered truck awaited. The pushing and shouting wa
s unrelenting. ‘Get going! Up! Up!’

  Assisted by her father and those already inside the truck, her mother climbed in first. There was little room. Everyone had to stand. Nobody could sit down.

  ‘Leah! Take my hand.’

  Leah felt her mother’s long fingers reaching for hers. She did as asked, surprised at her mother’s new-found strength dragging her up on to the tailboard. When had her fingers become so thin? She couldn’t remember her ever having so little flesh. Her father assisted, his movements urgent and jerky as he lifted her up into the truck, groaning in pain from the injury done to his back.

  The interior of the truck was stuffy and stank of stale sweat and other, more disgusting, smells. She wasn’t the only one who had wet herself – but there was worse.

  Body was packed against body. Leah felt she was almost suffocating. There were so many people and so little room. Not enough to breathe properly. Some people were crying softly. Others were slumping against their companions, dependent on the next tired person to keep them upright.

  Her father did his best to reassure her, his breath warm on her face. ‘Don’t cry, Leah. Everything will be all right. We’re merely being relocated because of the war. It is only because of the war.’

  Leah wasn’t crying and she already hated the war. It was the war that had caused her family to flee from Austria to France. Now the war had caught up with them. It seemed nowhere was safe.

  Her mother added her own reassuring words. ‘Listen to your father, Leah. See? I am not crying.’

  But you are, she wanted to say, though her comment was smothered against the silky fluffiness of her fur collar.

  Her mother was almost choking with the effort of trying to hold back her tears. They came out anyway. As more and more people were loaded on board, Leah was crushed more tightly against her mother’s chest. Her mother’s body pulsated with sobs.

  It was hard to see anything in the truck, but Leah was reassured by the smell of the soap her mother used, the sweetness of her father’s tobacco. She could feel the softness of her mother’s fur coat, a wedding anniversary present if she remembered rightly.