6
‘Stay with me, Ivy . . . Ivy? Can you open your eyes for me?’
The voice seemed further away than before. Straining to do as she was asked, Ivy’s eyelids refused to obey her command. There was that flutter in her chest again, like a large bird was trapped there. And still her eyes felt as if they were stuck together with superglue. It was as though she was sinking, down and down further, to a place beneath the level of the road. John was there too, smiling at her, encouraging her to keep her chin up as he’d done in 1941 – the first and only time they’d been separated.
He’d been in Cyprus when she sent word she’d given birth to their only daughter, a letter sent through the free postal service run by the British Red Cross. People were so kind back then. Instead of moaning about hard times, they looked out for each other. Like the couple from Benwell in the city’s West End who used to listen in to Vatican Radio and write down the names of POWs. They took it upon themselves to write to Ivy and tell her that John was among them, captured in North Africa by the Italians. Their kindness averted heartbreak for Ivy who, the very next day, received a letter from the War Office telling her that John was posted: missing, presumed dead.
Like the person helping her now, the Benwell couple were good people. Salt of the earth. Not long after they had made contact, Ivy received a pre-printed postcard for war prisoners with a red cross stamped on it and bits crossed out where appropriate. Ivy was so shocked to receive it, she could remember the words by heart . . .
(post mark date)
(Data del timbre postale)
My dear, Ivy
I am alright (I have not been wounded (or) I have Sto bene (non sono stato ferito (o) sono
been slightly wounded). I am a prisoner of the Italians stato ferito leggermente). Sono stato catturato dagli Italiani
and I am being treated well.
e mi trovo bene.
Shortly I shall be transferred to a prisoner’s camp and Nel prossimi glorni saró transferito in un campo di
I will let you have my new address.
Prigionieri del quale vi comunichero l’indirizzo.
Only then will I be able to receive letters from you Soltanto allora potró ricevere la vostra corrispondenza
and to reply.
e rispondervi.
With love John (signature)
Saluti affettuosi (firma)
J. Kerr
The word wounded worried her sick. Just how wounded was wounded? That was the question she’d asked herself in the weeks and months that followed. But, with telegrams arriving daily for less fortunate soldiers’ loved ones, knowing John was alive was of great comfort to her and his extended family. He ended up in Stalag 18, near Wolfsburg in Austria when the Italians capitulated. He stayed there until peace was declared, working on a farm, being cared for by equally good people. He’d always wanted to go back there, find the family and thank them for all they had done. Only he’d never had the means, until a few hours ago when an opportunity to return to Austria had fallen in his lap. He’d seized upon it without a moment’s hesitation before it was too late.
That’s how much it meant to him.
They were separated for nearly five years in total. They went to live with Ivy’s mother when John came home until they could afford to rent a place of their own. Times were tough. They were practically strangers when he returned. He never talked about the war but she knew he’d seen bad things. He wasn’t the same afterwards. They married for their daughter’s sake, but it was a rocky relationship at times.
Ivy loved him so much, even though she suspected he’d fallen in love with an Austrian girl when he was away. Not that it mattered any more. He’d come home to her. Married her. Been a good father to Annaliese, the name he’d chosen for their daughter. Forcing her eyes to stay open, Ivy tried to focus straight ahead and not on John, who still hadn’t moved or made a sound. He would survive. He had to. If only to make that trip.
‘He hates the sight of blood,’ Ivy said, as if her rescuer had been party to her memories.
‘It’s a good job he’s taking a nap then. You’re doing really well, Ivy. I’ll have you out of there in no time.’
The wind had changed direction and rain was bleaching through the open window. Ivy felt cold. So cold. ‘He will be all right, won’t he?’
‘Try not to worry, love. Let’s concentrate on you for now.’
Words of comfort couldn’t console Ivy in 1942. And today was no different. What was taking so long? Wasn’t anyone else coming? There were no trenches here but the place looked like a war zone nevertheless.
What terrors must John have seen all those years ago?
‘We were arguing when he lost control . . .’ Ivy confessed, a pang of guilt niggling deep inside her – making her feel partly responsible. ‘I wanted to delay ’til morning but he insisted there was no time like the present. Said we’d be in London by mid-morning. Our daughter doesn’t even know we’ve gone.’
‘I’ll take care of that, pet. Soon as you’re both out of here. Going on a trip, were you?’
Ivy nodded. Glancing at John, she began sharing the secret he’d insisted she keep to herself.