The Survivors

Albert sat alone at a table, staring at an old black-and-white photograph. Fifteen faces stared back at him, one of them his own. Fifteen haunted faces and eyes that spoke of fear, suffering and loss. He sighed and folded the picture in half with great care and put it in his wallet.

It had been 72 years since a soldier had taken that picture of them. 72 years since the allies had arrived and liberated the camp’s prisoners. Because they had all lost their families, they were brought to England and placed in foster families. They had made a pact to meet up every year on the day of their liberation. A promise everyone had kept until one by one they had stared passing away. Last time there had only been three of them; himself, Hans, and Frida.

Albert sipped his coffee that had already gone lukewarm. He grimaced as he swallowed it. He had never liked the coffee in this place, but they made mean pastries. It was early afternoon and the place was filling with the usual crowd, some tourists, some locals, some lost souls. Albert rarely made it to Central London these days, but he still loved its eclectic mix of people.

“Hello, love.” A voice that still hadn’t lost its Polish accent penetrated his thoughts. He looked up and saw Frida beaming at him. He started to get up. “Don’t you worry, old man.” She laughed and waved her hand. “I’ll get these.”

Hans looked at her admiringly as she ordered the drinks. She had always been such a positive force, even on the day when she had returned to her cabin and waited for her sister and mom, who never came back. Even then she had not lost her faith that someday it would all be over. And she had been right. But they had all paid such a terrible price.

She returned with the drinks. Two bottles of beer.

“You didn’t know they now serve alcohol, did you?” She smiled at Albert’s surprise. “I thought we could use a beer. Might as well enjoy life with the few years we still have left. How have you been old man?”

“You watch who you’re calling old. I am, if you care to remember, a whole year younger than you. But, since you ask, my arthritis is worse than ever and the old hip is making it difficult to get around. Other than that, can’t complain. How about you? How have you been keeping?”

“Well, you know how it is. I’m bent double with the osteoporosis, but there’s still life left in the old bird.” She cackled with the familiar mischievousness lighting her eyes.

She had always been the one to cheer everyone up at the camp. And in London, she had become the life and soul of their reunions. It had been Frida who had first suggested this 24-hour diner for their meeting place. Since then they had met here every year on the same date and the same hour. Even when they moved on in their lives and their contact twindled, they had kept the reunion date.

“Remember the old days when we all met here?”

Albert’s eyes travelled around the cafe. It was incredible how little the place had changed over the years. The owners and staff had changed several times and the clientele had got younger. And he had gotten older. But the old counter still remained as did the old cash register. Albert doubted it saw much action these days. 

“The good old days. Oh, I remember those days well. We had some great times, didn’t we?”

“We’d always start here and then you would lead us from one pub to the next. You always were a bad influence and I’m glad to see you haven’t changed.” He lifted up his bottle of beer and saluted her.

“Cheers.” She picked up her own bottle and chinked it against his. They both drank deeply for a moment, lost in more youthful times. “They were good times, weren’t they? With everyone still around.”

“Yes, they certainly were.” Albert glanced at his watch and realised that Hans was over half an hour late. “Speaking of everyone, Hans is very late. But then he’s always running a bit late.”

“Oh, you haven’t heard?” A sadness brimmed in Frida’s eyes and Albert’s smile faltered. “Hans passed away just six weeks ago. His wife called me. I’m sorry, I thought you knew. I thought she would have called you, too.”

“I didn’t know his second wife at all. Never met her.” Albert picked on the label of his bottle. “What was it?”

“His heart stopped. It was all very sudden. She had been pottering in the garden while he went for his usual nap. When she came to wake him up, he was gone.”

They drank in silence, both lost in the thought of how fifteen had become two.

“And then there were two.” Albert gulped down his last drop of beer. “I’ll get us another round.”

He stood up, his creaking joints a reminder of his own mortality. Wondering if the grim reaper would come for him or Frida next, he ordered the beers and returned to the table.

“To Hans.” They clinked their bottles together and drank for his memory.

“But listen.” Frida gave him a sharp look, which turned into a smile marred with melancholy. “You know the old rule. We are not here to talk about the dead, but the living. So, tell me, how is your family?”

“Well, I am now a great granddad...”

The afternoon wore on, and far too soon the light faded outside. Albert checked the time. He needed to be heading home.

“It has been a splendid afternoon, but I have to go. I have a set of pills waiting for me at home.”

“When did a few more pints change into a few more meds, hey?” Frida swigged the last drops of her beer. She set the bottle on the table and needed the help of both her arms to hoist herself on to her feet. “I still feel like 25 in my head, but my body tells me otherwise.”

“Tell me about it.” Albert picked up his walking stick that he needed whenever he took more than a few steps in succession.

“Until next year then.” They kissed each other on the cheek three times before parting outside the diner.

The two survivors headed their own way, both wondering if they would be around to see the next reunion.  

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