Hugbert
Dearest Mother and Father,
We heard today that a British newspaper has called Holzminden camp ‘the worst camp in Germany’. This is troubling, but sadly not without foundation. The food in particular is very poor and the rations meagre, but in fairness that is largely the result of the economic blockade on our country. It is still the infamous Turnip Winter here, I am afraid. I am heartily sick of turnips, but I eat them for they are filling and nutritious, and are the best that can be obtained at the moment. But if you, Mother, or Tante Mathilde, could find it possible to send me a food parcel, I would be more grateful than I can say. One of your apple cakes, perhaps, and some stollen, which should keep quite well, or even some pickled beet and potato dumplings.
If you can manage this, I would ask that you wrap it very securely, since there is a rumour in the camp that our Kommandant, Hauptmann Niemeyer, steals food from the prisoners’ parcels. I do not know how true this is, but he is a greedy and selfish man, much given to petty vindictiveness. He is greatly disliked, and I have occasionally overheard the prisoners making plots against him. Most of the plots are so wild they could never succeed, and involve such fates as dunking Niemeyer in a sewage duct or spiking his supper beer with syrup of figs. I do not think either of these ploys is likely to succeed, but I shall be watchful.
On a more cheerful note, I and several others have organized games for the men – football, hockey and tennis – and next week there is to be staged a concert, which the men have written and rehearsed themselves. This I shall attend and anticipate enjoying. Unfortunately, Hauptmann Niemeyer’s twin brother is to pay us a visit, and will form part of the audience. That I shall not enjoy, for he is reported to be as humourless and greedily inclined as the Hauptmann himself.
The Englishman who is so plagued by nightmares seems to have found a friend, which I am hoping will help him a little. It is a Russian journalist who was captured in France – a dangerously charming young man, the kind that I should not like my dear Freide, or any of my sisters, to encounter. He is, however, teaching me a little Russian, although it is a difficult language. But with that, and the smattering of English learned from some of the other prisoners, I feel I am adding to my knowledge. This pleases me.
Fondest love,
Hugbert
The next letters were the ones Nell had read in B.D. Bodkins’ book, and talked about Iskander and the young British officer. Hugbert still had not named the officer, but she was starting to hope very much that it really was Stephen Gilmore.
But in the summer of 1917, Hugbert had written to Freide:
I am becoming more and more uneasy about the Russian newspaper man, Alexei Iskander. I sense that he is planning something outrageous, and certainly he dislikes the confines and the authority of the camp. You remember I wrote to you of how he argues against everything and regularly challenges the regime here and the conditions. He is a scoundrel, that one, and I would not trust him with anything, but he is such entertaining and lively company, I can forgive him much. One night recently I asked him what he had done before writing for newspapers. He eyed me coolly and with complete self-assurance said, ‘I was a burglar. And I was a very good burglar indeed.’
I must have looked disbelieving, because he said, ‘It is perfectly true. I was successful and prosperous and I was never caught. When I am finally freed from this hell-hole, Herr Edreich –’ (he will never use my rank no matter how often he is ordered to) – ‘I shall return to my apartment and the beautiful things in it.’
Against my will, (Iskander has the effect of making people say things they know to be unwise), I said, ‘And is there a beautiful lady waiting for you?’
The curious thing is that with the question his self-possession seemed to vanish for a moment. His eyes suddenly seemed to look inwards, as if at some cherished memory, but then he blinked as if to dispel an image, and said, lightly, ‘Ah, there are so many of them, Herr Edreich. So many ladies, and so little time.’
I do not believe any of it, of course. What I do believe is that he will cause trouble, although I do not, as yet, know what that trouble might be.
He has befriended the young Englishman, and I think they communicate mostly in French, although I believe Iskander is already able to make himself understood in English. He is also becoming proficient in some basic German – he has a magpie mind and devours all information with immense energy. I do not worry about him, for he is a survivor, but I do worry about the English boy. Sometimes, often during mealtimes, he rocks back and forth, whispering to himself, almost like someone praying. ‘Let me not be mad,’ he says, over and over again. ‘Not mad … Let me keep hold of my sanity, then I shall survive.’
Recently, he said, in a perfectly normal tone, ‘He is with me most of the time now.’
He has quite good German – I believe he learned it at school, and I have a little English now, so we are able to understand one another fairly satisfactorily.
‘Who?’ I said. ‘Who is with you most of the time? Iskander? Is that who you mean?’