A Child Called Lidice
The queue for the film snaked through the front doors of The Plaza,
right down to the end of Talbot Road. The customers outside held
their umbrellas tilted towards the drizzle drifting in off the Bristol
Channel, and the stinging grains of sand the wind carried from
Aberavon beach. The customers inside swayed, shifting their weight
from one foot to the other, the wet soles of their shoes sinking into
the mustard coloured carpet of the foyer. Fortunately Belia and her
husband David were close to the box office. It had been David’s idea
to come to the cinema. They were showing a Hollywood movie starring Richard Burton and Donald Houston, men who were Welsh,
like him. David said that his cousin had once drunk bitter with
Richard Burton. As they bought their tickets they were approached
by another couple, a tall, portly man and a woman with hair like
Jean Shrimpton. The man tried to kiss Belia’s hand. Belia giggled.
She said, ‘I am Belia Bevan. I am German.’ Every time Belia gave her
name, she gave her nationality too, because that stopped people from
saying, ‘Oh, you’re German?’
David laughed. ‘This is Peter, Bel,’ he said, ‘from the works. He
knows you’re German, love.’ David worked at the Port Talbot steelworks, along with every other man in the town who wasn’t a policeman or a postman or a grocer. It was an ugly, grey structure rising
5
above the ribbons of terraced roofs, a perpetual black fog puffing out
of the blast furnace chimneys. Immediately the men began to talk
about union business. Belia noticed the Jean Shrimpton woman’s
trousers. They were daffodil yellow and slim fitting, making Belia
feel inferior. She was nearly eight months pregnant with her third
child and wearing a full-circled flowery skirt. She’d never been able
to participate in the fashions of the early 60s, no lambs-wool dresses,
nylons or kick-pleats because she was almost always pregnant. In fact
David had nick-named her Belly. The Welsh woman smiled amiably,
but Belia knew what she was really thinking. She was wondering
why a pregnant German woman would come to see a three hour epic
about the D-Day.
They bought American Hard Gums and went into the theatre,
heading to the stalls that smelled heavily of leather and rain. Behind
the balding red velvet of the Balcony curtain, the usherette was
yawning and swinging her little torch. On the screen above them a
warm-up film had already started. A river trickled through a small
village, the sloshing sound coming loud out of the speakers and
instantly making Belia want to pee. She thought the cinema manager
silly for deciding to show two films in one night, especially when one
of them was three hours long, but many people in Port Talbot could
not afford a television so there was nothing else to do. Besides, she
didn’t want David’s friends to think she was a spoil-sport. She sat
down in her seat, her tummy swelling out of it like scorched cake
mixture from a sandwich tin. The film showed Welsh people going
about their daily business; a housewife washing her clothes in a tin
bath, a school mistress chalking diagrams of the solar system onto
the classroom board, a group of naked, oil-black miners sharing a
cold shower until their bodies turned milk-white. All of this went
on for a long period of time with some rousing Welsh chapel music
playing along in the background.
6
A CHILD CALLED LIDICE
Eventually a motorcar arrived in the village, a German voice
roaring out of the gigantic speakerphone attached to its roof. ‘Achtung.
Achtung. Zer Bevölkerung Cwmgiedd.’ The Reich was taking over
and the people were asked to put their trust in the Führer. Belia
wanted to cross her legs and appear elegant, like the Jean Shrimpton
woman, but she was jammed between the armrests with the bag of
sweets perched on the top of her big bump. She tried to concentrate
on the film. In it the school mistress was telling her pupils that they
were no longer allowed to speak Welsh. This saddened Belia because
she liked people who spoke Welsh. She still wanted to go to the lava-
tory but did not relish the thought of pushing past the legs of the
people in her row. She sat tight and tried to control her bladder with
her mind. From the speakers there were two gunshots that made her
jump. The villagers were queued up in front of the German officers,
giving their name and their age. ‘What is this?’ Belia said, agitated by
the sudden violence.
David leaned towards her and whispered. ‘They are the real
people, love, from Cwmgeidd. They’re using their real names. It’s a
7
true story, see, about some place in Europe that was razed in retaliation for Heydrich’s murder. But it’s set in the Swansea Valley.’ On
the screen a disorderly line of schoolchildren staggered into the back
of a lorry while a German officer stood guard. Something about the
image made Belia feel bilious. She was filled with the same tangible
foreboding she felt when she watched her sons climbing on the furniture. It was as if she was watching herself being shunted into the
truck, something like what the British called déjà vu. She didn’t want
to watch the film any more so she removed her reading glasses and
slipped them into her handbag. She stood, letting her seat thud up
behind her, the Hard Gums scattering across the floor. She felt a little
trickle of urine run out of herself as she headed up the grubby aisle
and past the bored usherette. After what seemed like many minutes
fighting with the curtain she found the gap and went out into the
light.
The café was empty except for the boy putting chairs on the
tables. We’re just shutting he told her, so Belia walked out into the
street. The streetlamps bared the shelves of rain, pounding on the
pavement and flowing in fat rivulets down the beige-tiled façade of
the Plaza. There was a pub called The Red Lion on the other side
of the road. The line of men at the bar turned to stare at her as she
entered. She ordered a glass of stout.
‘The iron’s good for the baby,’ she said, rubbing her stomach.
Mr Griffiths, her next-door neighbour, insisted on paying for
the drink. Belia’s first encounter with Mr Griffiths happened on her
second day in Wales. She was hooking washing on the line when
he came out of his house, a roll-up dangling from his lips. ‘Nice
day for it isn’t it, bach?’ he said. Being inexperienced with the many
facets of the Welsh language, Belia thought he was making fun of her
by saying something about the famous German composer, Johann
Sebastian Bach. She ran crying into the kitchenette and was still
8
A CHILD CALLED LIDICE
9
10
A Child Called Lidice
The queue for the film snaked through the front doors of The Plaza,
right down to the end of Talbot Road. The customers outside held their
umbrellas tilted towards the drizzle drifting in off the Bristol Channel,
and the stinging grains of sand the wind carried from Aberavon beach.
The customers inside swayed, shifting their weight from one foot to the
other, the wet soles of their shoes sinking into the mustard coloured
carpet of the foyer. Fortunately Belia and her husband David were close
to the box office. It had been David’s idea to come to the cinema. They
were showing a Hollywood movie starring Richard Burton and Donald
Houston, men who were Welsh, like him. David said that his cousin
had once drunk bitter with Richard Burton. As they bought their
tickets they were approached by another couple, a tall, portly man and
a woman with hair like Jean Shrimpton. The man tried to kiss Belia’s
hand. Belia giggled. She said, ‘I am Belia Bevan. I am German.’ Every
time Belia gave her name, she gave her nationality too, because that
stopped people from saying, ‘Oh, you’re German?’
David laughed. ‘This is Peter, Bel,’ he said, ‘from the works. He
knows you’re German, love.’ David worked at the Port Talbot steelworks, along with every other man in the town who wasn’t a policeman
or a postman or a grocer. It was an ugly, grey structure rising above the
ribbons of terraced roofs, a perpetual black fog puffing out of the blast
11
furnace chimneys. Immediately the men began to talk about union
business. Belia noticed the Jean Shrimpton woman’s trousers. They
were daffodil yellow and slim fitting, making Belia feel inferior. She was
nearly eight months pregnant with her third child and wearing a fullcircled flowery skirt. She’d never been able to participate in the fashions
of the early 60s, no lambs-wool dresses, nylons or kick-pleats because
she was almost always pregnant. In fact David had nick-named her Belly.
The Welsh woman smiled amiably, but Belia knew what she was really
thinking. She was wondering why a pregnant German woman would
come to see a three hour epic about the D-Day.
They bought American Hard Gums and went into the theatre,
heading to the stalls that smelled heavily of leather and rain. Behind the
balding red velvet of the Balcony curtain, the usherette was yawning
and swinging her little torch. On the screen above them a warm-up film
had already started. A river trickled through a small village, the sloshing
sound coming loud out of the speakers and instantly making Belia want
to pee. She thought the cinema manager silly for deciding to show two
films in one night, especially when one of them was three hours long,
but many people in Port Talbot could not afford a television so there
was nothing else to do. Besides, she didn’t want David’s friends to think
she was a spoil-sport. She sat down in her seat, her tummy swelling out
of it like scorched cake mixture from a sandwich tin. The film showed
Welsh people going about their daily business; a housewife washing her
clothes in a tin bath, a school mistress chalking diagrams of the solar
system onto the classroom board, a group of naked, oil-black miners
sharing a cold shower until their bodies turned milk-white. All of this
went on for a long period of time with some rousing Welsh chapel
music playing along in the background.
Eventually a motorcar arrived in the village, a German voice roaring
out of the gigantic speakerphone attached to its roof. ‘Achtung. Achtung.
Zer Bevölkerung Cwmgiedd.’ The Reich was taking over and the people
12
A CHILD CALLED LIDICE
were asked to put their trust in the Führer. Belia wanted to cross her
legs and appear elegant, like the Jean Shrimpton woman, but she was
jammed between the armrests with the bag of sweets perched on the
top of her big bump. She tried to concentrate on the film. In it the school
mistress was telling her pupils that they were no longer allowed to speak
Welsh. This saddened Belia because she liked people who spoke Welsh.
She still wanted to go to the lavatory but did not relish the thought of
pushing past the legs of the people in her row. She sat tight and tried to
control her bladder with her mind. From the speakers there were two
gunshots that made her jump. The villagers were queued up in front
of the German officers, giving their name and their age. ‘What is this?’
Belia said, agitated by the sudden violence.
David leaned towards her and whispered. ‘They are the real people,
love, from Cwmgeidd. They’re using their real names. It’s a true story,
see, about some place in Europe that was razed in retaliation for
Heydrich’s murder. But it’s set in the Swansea Valley.’ On the screen a
disorderly line of schoolchildren staggered into the back of a lorry while
a German officer stood guard. Something about the image made Belia
13
feel bilious. She was filled with the same tangible foreboding she felt
when she watched her sons climbing on the furniture. It was as if she
was watching herself being shunted into the truck, something like what
the British called déjà vu. She didn’t want to watch the film any more
so she removed her reading glasses and slipped them into her handbag.
She stood, letting her seat thud up behind her, the Hard Gums scattering across the floor. She felt a little trickle of urine run out of herself as
she headed up the grubby aisle and past the bored usherette. After what
seemed like many minutes fighting with the curtain she found the gap
and went out into the light.
The café was empty except for the boy putting chairs on the tables.
We’re just shutting he told her, so Belia walked out into the street. The
streetlamps bared the shelves of rain, pounding on the pavement and
flowing in fat rivulets down the beige-tiled façade of the Plaza. There
was a pub called The Red Lion on the other side of the road. The line
of men at the bar turned to stare at her as she entered. She ordered a
glass of stout.
‘The iron’s good for the baby,’ she said, rubbing her stomach.
Mr Griffiths, her next-door neighbour, insisted on paying for the
drink. Belia’s first encounter with Mr Griffiths happened on her second
day in Wales. She was hooking washing on the line when he came out
of his house, a roll-up dangling from his lips. ‘Nice day for it isn’t it,
bach?’ he said. Being inexperienced with the many facets of the Welsh
language, Belia thought he was making fun of her by saying something
about the famous German composer, Johann Sebastian Bach. She ran
crying into the kitchenette and was still upset about the incident when
David came home from the works and explained that bach was some
sort of Welsh term of endear-ment. Belia was so pleased to hear this she
took a bowl of their beef broth round to Mr Griffiths’ house.
Now Mr Griffiths pointed at Belia’s stomach. ‘It won’t be long will
it?’ he said, his blue eyes sparkling with the drink. Belia sighed. ‘I cannot
14