The hearing had been set for that afternoon. Wogan asked
Christopher to come with him to the camp, saying that the hearing would be in German, which he didn’t understand well; he wanted Christopher to translate for him when necessary.
When Christopher first saw Kurt, he appeared to be exactly as Wogan had described him, a sturdy smallish peasant youth with a pretty face and apple cheeks, innocent and healthy. If there was any slyness about him, it would be merely sexual, Christopher thought; he would probably be good at slipping noiselessly out of his room at night and sliding into someone’s bed. At the moment, he looked subdued and sad, as was only natural, but not guilty or anxious.
The examiner had come down from London. He was an English-
man but he spoke German fluently. He impressed Christopher
as being a real expert at his job. He talked quietly, he didn’t bully, he made no show of moral indignation––if anything, he seemed
faintly amused, though his face remained unsmiling. Obviously, he 110
Lost Years
had studied Kurt’s case in the minutest detail. He asked Kurt if he had ever been a member of the S.S. Kurt admitted that he had, but added that he hadn’t volunteered for it, he had been drafted.
“Where were you inducted?” the examiner asked. “In Dresden.”
(I’m using names that come into my head; I don’t remember the actual ones.) “Where was the barracks that you had to report to?”
“On the Wilhelmstrasse.” “You’re quite sure?” “Yes, I am sure.”
“Because that was where they took the volunteers. Draftees went to the barracks on the Kaiserplatz.” Thus the examination proceeded, step by step. The examiner appeared to know every move Kurt had made; every lie he had told. It became steadily more obvious that the accusation against him was true. Kurt denied everything at first. Then he turned sullen. Two or three times, his face showed a glimpse of rage, like a defiant, cornered animal.
There were no tears, no appeals to Wogan for his sympathy. When the hearing was over, he went out of the room without looking at anybody. Wogan was shaken and upset. Even Christopher had
become involved. He felt he had witnessed something ugly and
terrible, an unmasking. Just for a moment, the fact of the massacre––and of Kurt’s part in it––seemed obscenely present, right there in the room. And yet nothing much had actually happened.
The authorities had proved their case, but Kurt would almost
certainly never be punished; he was one among thousands. To be shocked that a boy who looked like Kurt could have done such a thing––that was sheer sentimentality. Why shouldn’t a murderer be pretty? All that had been demonstrated here was a hideous but homely truth: that most of us live quite comfortably with the memory of our vilest acts; and that, if they are discovered, we are angry and humiliated, we curse our stupidity and are heartily sorry
––that we got caught.
On March 15–16, there was a tremendous gale; to Christopher, it seemed the most violent he had ever been in. On the 16th, he went with Olive and Jean to the movies. Being out on the streets was quite dangerous, for tiles were being blown off roofs and, once, a large shop sign came crashing down, close to them. Inside the cinema, the noise of the storm was so loud that it distracted your attention from the screen; it even began to seem possible that the building itself might be in danger. Olive was scared. To make her laugh,
Christopher said, “Try to pretend it’s only an air raid.”
The storm brought floods which closed roads and railway lines, thus preventing Christopher from going to Stratford to see Beatrix Lehmann, who was appearing there in the Shakespeare season. That uncanny chameleon was playing Viola, Portia and the Nurse in
¾ 1947 ¾
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Romeo and Juliet on successive nights.1 Instead, Christopher went directly back to Wyberslegh, on March 17.
I have few memories of this second visit, although it was nearly as long as Christopher’s first––exactly four weeks. One memory is of a session with Mr. Symonds, the family lawyer, about the drawing up of a formal deed making over the Marple and Wyberslegh estates to
Richard; this was at Mr. Symonds’s office in Stockport on March 24.
Symonds told Kathleen and Christopher––Richard, I’m nearly sure, wasn’t present––that Christopher’s gift of the estates to Richard couldn’t be regarded as absolutely unconditional, because there was always the possibility that Christopher might have a child who would claim a share. In such an event, said Mr. Symonds, the child’s claim might well be upheld by the court. It was typical legal teasing––
Symonds positively smacked his lips as he spoke––and Christopher was delighted to be able to shut him up. “There is no possibility,” he said, “of my having a child.” And he went on to tell them all about the median bar, and Dr. Gorfain’s surgery and his consequent sterilization. It seems obvious to me now that Christopher hadn’t told Kathleen about this earlier because he knew instinctively that it would upset her. If so, it was extra unkind of him to do it in Mr. Symonds’s presence. His motive was spite against them both, as representatives of the heterosexual majority. How dared they assume that he should want to have a child, anyway? Nevertheless, the violence of Kathleen’s reaction took him by surprise. She seemed to regard Christopher’s sterilization as a crime quite equal to that of abortion, and she cast all the blame for it on poor Dr. Gorfain. “He ought to be put in prison!”
she exclaimed. When Christopher was alone with her on the way home, he tried to talk her out of her indignation––why in the world should she expect him, a well-adjusted homosexual, to switch to women in his old age? What did it matter if he was sterilized or not?
To which Kathleen answered, with an obstinate pout which made her look for a moment like a young girclass="underline" “But I want grandchildren!” At seventy-eight, with one foot in the tomb, she could say this––without the slightest consideration for the wishes of the two sons she professed to love! But, of course, this wasn’t Kathleen speaking, it was the matriarch-cunt, deaf to all decency, demanding that its gross fleshy will be done. Christopher gasped at it, awed and amazed and
disgusted. There was nothing more to be said. . . . The deed was signed later, on March 28.
1 Commenting on these character changes in a letter to Christopher, Beatrix wrote that it was “all done by faith.”
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Lost Years
Another memory is of some conversations Christopher had with
Mitty Monkhouse, while they were out on walks, around the back of Lyme Park and over Whaley Moor. Alone together for the first time in their lives, the two became intimate at once. Even the landscape made them feel close to each other, for they were both children of these damp sad beautiful dark hills––“moor born,” in fact. As for the difference in their ages, about seven years, it meant very little now that Mitty was into her thirties. And she evidently needed a confidant.
She told Christopher that she was in love with a man much older than herself. This man loved her too. But he was married and his wife wouldn’t divorce him. Furthermore, his health was very bad; he couldn’t expect to last long. Mitty was urging him to come away and live with her. He was tempted, but still refused to do this because he feared he would only make her unhappy––first, by involving her in a scandal, then by dying and leaving her alone. Mitty’s choice of such an old lover suggested a hang-up on her father, Allan. Which was ironical, because Allan was the most drastic of puritans. He had once forbidden a young man the house because he had playfully kissed Rachel goodnight. And now Mitty had found herself a father