They stood in the bedroom, the silence awkward between them, Tom lifting items out of his kitbag and handing them to Lilian to put away in the drawer she had emptied for his return. Tom did not know what to say. Short home leaves had not prepared him for the changes in his wife. Her pent-up resentment confused him.
He pulled a sock from the bottom of his bag and upended it onto the green chenille bedspread. Four silver spoons tumbled out.
“What are they?” Lilian asked, already suspicious.
“We were billeted in this big mansion. It belonged to a Nazi industrialist. He’d been arrested as a war criminal—”
“You stole them?”
“No! Everyone was helping themselves—the Yanks were the worst. He was a war criminal, for God’s sake!”
Lilian picked up the spoons and ran her fingers over the handles. “There’s a crest here. And a monogram—looks like a K.”
“Stands for Krupp: Alfried Krupp. He made the weapons for Hitler’s army—well, slave labor did the actual work.”
Lilian threw the spoons onto the bed. “They’re tainted!”
“Don’t use them then, or chuck ’em away, I don’t care!” Tom jerked around to stare out of the window. The house stood at the end of a cul-de-sac. He looked down the length of the street—drab houses, black skeleton trees, not a hint of color. Lilian left the room without speaking. He shouldn’t have yelled at her, but the drama she made out of four lousy spoons was insulting. She had no idea what military service was like. He missed the easy camaraderie of the squad, even after his elevation to officer. They gave each other nicknames: he was Griff, a shortened version of his last name—a good sport, always up for a lark. Those nights in Brighton, the way the girls hung on his arm, one particular girl…
Tom turned back to the overcrowded bedroom. A double bed, dressing table and single wardrobe took up the space. He was surprised to see that his wife had taken the spoons with her. Picking up the empty kitbag, he went out to the landing. The sound of plates chinking rose up the staircase as Lilian gave the children their tea.
“I’ll put the bag in the loft, shall I?” he called down, a peace offering of sorts. No reply.
When he came down to the kitchen where David and Ann were eating, Lilian was at the sink, her back to him.
“Don’t make such a mess, David,” Tom scolded. The boy had dark brown Marmite smudges all over his cheeks. He should be neater with his food at six years old. Lilian threw a sharp glance over her shoulder; she didn’t like him correcting the kids. “Ann, how about a smile for your Daddy?” Ann, three years younger, dark-haired and serious, obediently drew her lips up into a grin, then looked down at her plate again. They treated him like a stranger; he was a stranger. How long would it take for him to feel at home?
The brutal winter eventually loosened its grip. In April, Ann turned four. Lilian was determined to throw a birthday party. She made her daughter a mauve satin dress with puffed sleeves and a white ribbon sash. Three little girls from the neighborhood, occasional playmates at the local park, were invited. Lilian worried about the weather all week, but the day dawned sunny, although a little chilly for the outdoor activities she organized. With David at his side, Tom stood smoking as the girls shrieked and stumbled through a game of blind man’s buff.
One of the accompanying mothers approached him. Peroxide blonde and red lipstick, she had been introduced as Madge. Madge reminded Tom of the girls he’d met in Brighton. Not the girl but maybe one of her friends? That was impossible though; this woman would have been back in London caring for a baby—the pretty child now playing with Ann.
“Could I beg a light?” Madge asked in a breathy voice, looking up at him through her lashes.
“Of course.” Tom leaned over her cigarette with his lighter. She cupped his hands in hers as she sucked in, then leaned back to exhale smoke away. Tom caught a whiff of a familiar perfume before standing upright. Lilian was watching him; her face gave nothing away.
“So, how’re you enjoying civvy life?”
“It’s good,” Tom answered, resisting the urge to elaborate on the contrast with life in the front lines. “How about your husband?”
“Oh, we’re divorced.” Madge smiled, then inhaled again, red lips puckered provocatively around the cigarette. David dug his knuckles into Tom’s thigh. His son didn’t speak much, but Tom was beginning to interpret the non-verbal signals.
“If you’ll excuse me,” he said. “I need to go inside and help with the refreshments.” Tom gave a small formal bow, grasped David’s hand, and headed for the back door.
After Ann blew out the candles, everyone sang Happy Birthday and the cake was sliced and eaten. Then Lilian produced a final surprise: ice cream. Two of the little guests had never tasted the delight before. Amid the oohing and aahing, Lilian handed out four bowls. From the center of each creamy mound rose a silver spoon.
Not all marriages survived the war. Long absences, exposure to diverse experiences, and unacknowledged trauma took their toll. But Tom and Lilian’s marriage survived—for fifty more years. In 1949, they had a third child, and in 1952 they left London for the North of England. By the Sixties, the shadow of war and its difficult aftermath had receded. The family moved back to the Southeast and established a comfortable middle-class life, with European holidays, bridge parties, and a cleaning lady. The silver spoons appeared on celebratory occasions, and the story of their possible former ownership by the reviled German industrialist Alfried Krupp was retold. Tom died in April 1994, and Lilian died exactly a year and a week later.
Their surviving children faced the task of disposing of their parents’ possessions—items without much value or beauty but weighted with memories and family legends. Their own children had no desire for the objects and little interest in the stories that accompanied them. The photo album with its faded record of past lives was picked over for a few choice images, the rest—including coal miner Tom—tossed in the trash.
For the present, four silver spoons lie unused in a kitchen drawer in Bellingham, Washington, five thousand miles and nearly a century from their original home.
