大象传媒

''I have momentous news from home at last,' wrote my Danish wife Minna, on 15 July.1945 'Mother has had a terrible time. She has been writing to me regularly but I have never received her letters and she has not heard from me since 1940. Father was taken ill that year and was in hospital for two years suffering from cancer of the stomach. Towards the end he was taken home and Grethe (my wife's younger sister) came in to nurse him. He died on 10 October 1942. I am trying to give you the gist of Mother's letter. I cannot convey the heartbreaking tone of it, the undercurrent of sorrow. The boys got his farewell. Mother got them by phone, but he continued to ask for me.

'Well Len, you will know what I felt like when I read that. Mother has managed to pay all debts and carries on with the little business, without assistance. Finn (her youngest brother) tells me that a letter from me has arrived at last. He has not seen mother so glad for many years.

'I want to talk to you. You know that I have been even more depressed than usual of late, that I have been preparing for a shock of some sort. Well it has come. I met the postman on my way and made rather an ass of myself in the office. Must have done, for no-one spoke except in subdued tones for the rest of the day. I was asked if I would like to go home, but I could not face an empty house.

'I always had a secret dread of anything happening at home because of father's periods of acute depression and what followed. I have been doing him an injustice for the last five years. His terrible suffering brought to the surface all that was best in him. He was kinder, more patient and grateful for all that was done for him. They all cherish the memory of his astonishing courage and goodness of heart which wiped out all that had gone before. Perhaps it helped Mother to get over her loss. She loved him so dearly and stuck to him even when everyone advised her to leave him in those old wicked days. A load of many years standing has been taken off my mind although I grieve that I did not see father before he died and got things cleared up which needed it. The news has not broken me up completely but has marked the end of a period of interminable waiting.

'The other interminable waiting must go on, waiting for your return. Everyone in Denmark would like to see you soon. They would be thrilled. Be prepared for a certain amount of hero-worship. To them, a British Tommy is far above any other human being so do not insist, if you write to them, that you are a rotten soldier. I have already boasted to them about you.'

I have reproduced Minna's letter at length because here was the first hint that my homecoming might be less than joyful. Minna had left her husband, family and homeland in 1937. For eight years - in peace and war - we had loved and supported each other in every way. No man could have had a more delightful companion. She had never shown regret at the course she had taken. Now there was a trace of guilt. Later I would learn that her father had died calling 'Mia! Mia!' his pet name for her.

I made all the right noises in my reply but thought she was being over-dramatic. Denmark had got off lightly by comparison with other countries under German occupation. All fathers die and my own father was younger than Minna's when I lost him. Recent letters from Minna had veered between acute depression and an almost hysterical joy. She had had a bad war - much worse then mine - alone in a foreign country, suspected of being a 'plant' or 'sleeper' when serving with the A.T.S., surviving a near-miss from a V-2... no wonder she was off-balance. All would be well when I walked through our front door, ready to take up life exactly where we left off.

Minna's letter was written on the eve of her departure for a camping holiday in Salcombe, Devon, with a Roman Catholic family and their friend, Father Richard Berry, a priest attached to Westminster Cathedral. What would she make of this menage? Her next letters amazed me. Blindly, I did not foresee that she was being drawn into a religion with a rigid set of moral rules which might separate us for ever:

'My beloved. You would hardly know me. I am brown, clear-eyed and the years, including the war-years, are falling off me. I am spending these pleasant days with good friends and can talk as much as I like. Father Berry is an excellent companion. I have been received into a pleasant family after years of loneliness.'

I should have been delighted. Why was I not? I distrusted 'matey' Roman Catholic priests. I had known the other kind - the sadistic black-robed fellows who had terrorised me in my Roman Catholic schools.

Minna continued: 'I have emerged from the abyss of despair. It is not so much what I did as what I thought after long and involved discussions about almost anything... and the effect of water, sun and wind accompanied by laughter. I was in a nice state before this family came to the rescue. Richard picked up the pieces and carefully put them together, not with Popish mannerisms but sheer human kindness and a good deal of tact interspersed with a lot of joking and fun. I wonder just how much my earlier letters to you gave me away. I was not really conscious of my hopeless depression. I was full of forebodings and no desire for camping or company. 'Obviously I am unable to manage on my own any longer after having learned to live with other people. I do not remember feeling so well since before the war and my good health is accompanied by extraordinary happiness. You must realise that I had a very dark patch immediately preceding the holiday and the contrast is startling, even to myself. I am still busy sorting myself out and I am looking forward to your meeting our new friend, Richard. I feel certain you will get on well and he is keen to meet you. He is an excellent talker and a good listener. I would like to tell you much more about him so that you may follow events here better.

'He reminds me of long-lost friends in Denmark, people who spoke my "language". No-one could have been more surprised than I to find a real person in the garb of Rome. A keen intelligence and a tremendous will-power spiced with lots of human kindness and understanding yet with a dignity which was never lost however much we might be enjoying ourselves - fooling about like kids. Although 'Father' said his Mass on Sundays he insisted on being Richard all the rest of the time, dashing round in shorts wielding a sheath-knife or an axe and generally behaving like a boy of varying ages, down to about five. I dared to be quite natural, free-and-easy for the first time since you went away. I have had one or two ghosts laid at the same time and got balm for my conscience - my bad conscience about father etc. (and what, I thought, did that 'etc.' cover - her divorce?).

'Richard does not preach. He will answer questions but does not volunteer information. I have told him quite a bit about myself and feel sure you will not mind. My tidy mind found it necessary to mention that you had been a Catholic. I am terribly keen that you should like him. We have never failed to like the same people. I should find it difficult to break off a friendship that promises so well for all three of us.'

Richard... Richard... this bloody Richard! I was beginning to tire of her reiteration. I told her that I was glad she had made 'new friends' but doubted if I would fit in with them. 'Service overseas has not made me any more tolerant of Christianity or with its priests. When I read of your preparations for my homecoming I don't know whether to laugh, cry or just say "Thank you". England seems so distant - much more a foreign country than Algeria or Italy.'

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