Chapter 4
From the day that Oskar had left, every evening just before full dark, Rachel walked down to the little beach by the croft and looked out over the sea.
The water changed colour nightly; the August daytime turquoise of the shallows shifting to iron, indigo, or slate.
Gulls flew inland, to settle for the night, and she saw fishing boats returning, their lamps illuminated, in lines of three or four.
“Where are you, my darling?” she would whisper into the gathering dark.
“Are you safe and warm at home? I pray that you are! Oh, when will this lunacy end, and bring you back to me?” But the sea did not answer.
She knew that the locals would notice that the tall, blonde German no longer made an appearance in the village – neither in the streets, nor in the shops, for previously, Oskar had gone alone just to buy the daily newspaper, and she also knew that speculation about his sudden absence would therefore be rife.
She waited at the croft for two more weeks, guessing that the mandatory registration now enforced for German nationals residing in Scotland would now include rural areas, then she set off on the long walk to Invermory.
She made a point of going first to Mrs. Bain, both postmistress and owner of the grocery, for she well knew that anything told to her in the morning would be passed on through the entire village before supper.
She also knew that Mrs. Bain’s nosiness would get the better of her, and that she was bound to break her self-imposed vow of silence.
The little bell above the door tinkled as she entered, and Mrs. Bain looked up.
“Good morning!” Rachel smiled cheerfully.
The woman deigned to give a slight nod, without smiling back.
“I’d like a quarter of a pound of butter, please,” Rachel said.
In silence, Mrs. Bain slowly cut a piece off the block and put it on the scales. Rachel waited, feeling the woman’s snoopiness build. Her sense was correct.
“Yer man’s no been seen in a while,” Mrs. Bain said then, her tone and expression severe. It was the first time she had spoken to Rachel for months, having taken to jotting down how much she owed for her purchases, and pushing the note at her across the counter.
“Oh, with the compulsory registration now in place, he went to Inverness weeks ago to report to the authorities, and I haven’t heard since,” Rachel lied.
Mrs. Bain gave another slight nod.
“They’re talking of internment,” Rachel went on. “Maybe that’s what’s happened.”
Her guess had been correct. As she began to walk home, she saw a cluster of men standing around a printed notice nailed to a post beside the well.
Her curiosity piqued, she approached and stood apart, but did not step forward.
One man was reading it aloud for the benefit of the illiterate.
The notice declared that even rural enemy aliens were now required to register, that they were subject to restriction, and that they were not permitted within certain distances of harbours, telegraph stations, or railways.
“And him?” a man at her elbow deigned to ask her coldly, sliding a glance across at her.
“He went early to report,” she lied again. “Just as soon as he read it in the paper. I’ve heard nothing since.”
“He’ll be in one o’ they camps,” another voice said to no one in particular, not looking at her. “On the Isle o’ Man, or doon at the border, I’ve heard.”
“Aye, an’ may he rot there,” she heard yet another voice mutter.
Oskar crossed the Channel into Germany in the second week of August, before the British authorities had completed the registration of enemy aliens.
The journey was hurried and tense – trains were full of reservists, the platforms thick with uniforms and farewells.
Oskar headed home. From Hamburg, he took the early train south-east, changing once, and arrived by late afternoon at his family residence outside Bremen — a broad, pale, stone villa set back from the road behind iron gates and clipped lime trees.
The house had been built in his grandfather’s time, when shipping contracts and colonial trade had made the Bauer name synonymous with prosperity.
A maid admitted him. On hearing his voice, his mother came swiftly down the central staircase, her silk skirts in one hand.
“Oskar!” she exclaimed in shock when she saw him.
“My long-lost son! You’ve managed to come back, thank God!
It’s been too long!” She flew across the foyer and reached up high to embrace him.
“You’re thinner!” she said, pulling away from him.
“But you’re here! You’re home! I’m so happy! ”
His father appeared then, walking more slowly from his study, his spectacles in his hand. “Ah! Oskar! We were wondering what had happened to you! We’ve been hearing about the treatment of Germans in Britain! I’m happy to see you – you got out in time, and have come safely back!”
“Yes – hello papa!” They shook hands firmly, before the old man drew him into a relieved, brief embrace.
At dinner that evening, the family gathered in full – including Oskar’s younger brother Karl, thirty-nine years old, already in field-grey with a cavalry regiment, his sister Lotte, thirty-seven, brisk and purposeful, recently attached to a Red Cross auxiliary hospital in Hamburg.
The topic of the war sat with them like an uninvited, but dominant guest. Karl spoke of mobilization; the rush, the cheers in the streets, and the flowers thrust into rifle barrels.
“It will be decisive,” he said confidently. “France cannot hold long.”
Lotte spoke of hospital trains being prepared. “There’s such organisation!” she said. “It’s astonishing!”
His mother looked from one child to the other, her features showing both pride and anxiety. “And you,” she said to Oskar. “You’ve been spared all this! God has returned you to us before the British could - ” She stopped herself.
“Before complications arose,” his father finished evenly.
Oskar set down his glass. “I will not be spared,” he said quietly. The table fell silent.
“What? What do you mean? You intend to enlist?” Karl asked.
“I’ve already reported my return. I expect to present myself to the naval authorities in a few days,” Oscar informed them.
His mother gasped, raising her napkin to her mouth. “But you’re forty-six!” she exclaimed, her heart sinking.
“Mama, I’m not infirm.”
“That’s not what I meant!” she cried.
His father regarded his wife steadily. “In his latest letter, he did write that he anticipated some form of service,” he reminded her. “Remember? But he did not specify.”
“Perhaps I chose to ignore that,” she replied, her tone dull.
“There are provisions for reserve commissions,” Oskar clarified. “Particularly for men with maritime experience.”
Karl’s expression shifted to one of interest. “So, you’d join the navy?”
“Yes. As I just mentioned, I intend to present myself to the naval authorities.”
“On a battleship?” Karl asked excitedly.
“That’s unlikely.” He paused briefly. “I have experience,” he continued, “which may be of use.”
“They’ll want proof of your identity, your birth certificate, and no doubt documentation of your years abroad,” Karl informed him.
“Yes, I’ll give them all that.”
“Experience of what?” his mother asked.
“Of British shipping. Scottish ports. Coastal routes. And I speak English fluently.” Silence fell around the table.
“You mean…you’d advise?” Lotte asked.
“Possibly more than advise.”
“So, you intend to return to Scotland?” his father asked.
“If assigned to naval intelligence or auxiliary operations, knowledge of the Scottish west coast may be operationally relevant,” Oskar told him. “I would request to be posted there. The broken west coast of Scotland is an area I’m highly familiar with.”
“And your – um - relationship,” his mother said then, her voice dropping to little more than a whisper. “With the Scottish woman, Rachel. Is that still ongoing?”
“Yes,” he replied without hesitation. “It’s been eighteen years now.”
His mother crossed her arms. “We received your letter,” she said. “We were surprised.”
“That I haven’t been able to divorce Ingrid? I explained everything in the letter.”
“You did, yes.”
“She’s here, and international divorce is too complex for my solicitor,” he reminded his mother.
“That marriage has long been unsatisfactory in any case,” his father cut in mildly.
“That’s not the point,” his mother countered. She turned to Oskar. “She’s a very nice girl, but you have a relationship with the enemy!”
Oskar sighed. “She wasn’t the enemy when I met her, was she?” he snapped, irritated.
Karl leaned back slightly, studying him. “So, the west coast of Scotland. You’d risk a naval assignment to be near her?”
“Risk? I’d accept a naval assignment for which I’m suited,” Oskar replied. “If that assignment places me in waters I know well, then I may serve Germany effectively.”
“And be near her,” Lotte acknowledged.
“Yes. That too. Especially that.”
His mother rose and crossed to the window, looking out over the darkening garden. “She would be the mistress of a German naval officer,” she said slowly. “Living in Britain.”
“In Scotland.”
“In Britain,” she repeated. “You understand what that means?”
“I do.”
“You cannot simply land and walk to her door,” his father said, after a moment.
“I’m aware.”
“Even posted to western Scottish waters, you may never even see her.”
“I know.”
“Are you serious?” Karl asked then.
“I am indeed.”
“And if our navy uses your knowledge for raids there?” his father asked. “Shelling? Even bombing?”
“Then it’ll be because that knowledge is useful,” Oskar replied, intentionally vague.
His mother turned back. “You speak of the Scottish west coast and its shipping as if they were abstractions. That’s her home!” she cried.
“I’m aware,” Oskar repeated. “It was our home.”
“And you would bring war to it?”
Oskar did not answer at once. “I wouldn’t bring it,” he said finally, his tone bordering on exasperation. “The war exists already. The British are sure to fortify, and patrol, and pepper their waters with mines. My knowledge won’t create danger, it may, perhaps, limit foolishness.”
“You believe you can influence operations,” his father said, nodding in approval of his son’s practical reasoning.
“I believe I can prevent miscalculation,” Oskar replied.
“And what of your…mistress?” Lotte asked then. “Does she know your intentions?”
“No.”
“You haven’t told her?”
“No. She thinks I’ve returned here to live with you until the end of the war. I don’t want her worrying if I’m posted somewhere dangerous.”
“But if you’re posted on the Scottish west coast?”
“Then I shall surprise her, if I can,” he smiled.
A long pause followed. His mother returned to her seat, but she did not resume eating. “I’m glad you’re home,” she said quietly. “I thank God you left Britain when you did – they’re enforcing internment now. But I won’t pretend I’m glad you intend to go back - in any capacity.”
Oskar reached for her hand across the table, an unusual gesture. “Mama, I won’t be digging trenches,” he said gently. “Nor fighting in them. Nor charging in cavalry lines. I’ll be of use in a manner suited to me.”
His father lifted his glass. “Then we must trust,” he said, “that the Kaiserliche Marine recognises that suitability.”
They drank then, with a gravity befitting the moment.
Later that evening, alone in his old bedroom, Oskar stood at the window, overlooking the same sweep of trees he had known as a boy.
From this house, from this very room, he and his German wife had once departed for Glasgow with his commercial ambitions, and, from the outside, a respectable marriage.
Twenty-eight years later, he had returned separated, in a loving relationship with a Scottish woman, and preparing to enter a war against the country that had been his home for almost thirty years – her country.
Downstairs, he could hear his mother’s soft, animated voice telling a servant that her eldest son had safely returned.
For several days he remained at home, walking with his father through account books and estate matters, listening to Karl’s confident predictions of swift victory, allowing his mother to supervise his meals as if he were a child again.
But beneath the surface of domestic comfort lay one fact: he would present himself at the naval base of Wilhelmshaven, and submit himself to the in-depth scrutiny which would inevitably follow.
He would accept a reserve commission if offered, and, if the German navy deemed the lonely, rugged west coast of Scotland to be strategically relevant to its war plans, he would not protest, because along that remote and wild shoreline stood a croft cottage on the shores of a sea loch.
Within it, was the woman he worshipped, and, come hell or high water, he would get back to her.