The Hidden

by Mary Chamberlain

  She was trembling inside, nerves hot and tingling, sweat under her arms.

  ‘Wanderers. Like Jews,’ the Jurat said. ‘Do you have loyalties, Miss Simon?’ He stared at her, grey eyes narrowing from beneath his black eyebrows. Took a deep breath. ‘Are you Jewish?’

  ‘Jewish?’ Stay calm.

  ‘Don’t make this difficult,’ he said. ‘It won’t do you any favours.’

  He looked at her and she looked back at him. Behind him, Sir Leonard nodded. She hoped her face did not betray her, that it stayed serious even though her heart played havoc within.

  ‘Are your parents Jewish?’

  ‘No,’ she said.

  ‘You’re quite sure?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Are any of your grandparents Jewish?’

  ‘No,’ she said. Her voice came out loud, too loud. She could see Grandfather now, sitting with his black kippah pinned to his hair and his gnarled old-man’s hands together. Hear, O Israel.

  ‘You’re quite sure?’

  ‘Yes.’

  He sniffed. ‘Simon is a Jewish name.’

  ‘It’s a common English name too.’

  ‘Your first name is Dorothea,’ he said. ‘Not Dorothy. Your second name is Susannah. That sounds a Jewish name.’

  ‘Swedish. English, too,’ she said. ‘French. Italian.’ She spoke too fast, nervous, smiled, with a lopsided anxious turn of her lips. ‘We Europeans have many names in common.’

  The Chief Aliens Officer leaned forward and twisted a pencil on the desk, lead, lead, end, tap-tip, tap-tip. ‘Are you Christian?’

  She shook her head. Perhaps she should say she was a Quaker. She knew they weren’t quite Christian, not enough for the likes of this Jurat. But she had lied enough as it was.

  ‘Then what are you?’

  ‘I was brought up agnostic.’ Secular, but agnostic was less of a confrontation.

  ‘Communist?’ the Jurat said.

  ‘I didn’t say that.’

  He thumped his fist on the desk. One side of his face twitched, lip, eye, an angry synchronised tic.

  ‘At least you don’t look Jewish,’ he said, staring at her hard. Dora stared back, until he averted his eyes. ‘Get out.’ He stood up, Sir Leonard behind him.

  She nodded, pushed her chair back and walked out of the room, gripping the door handle hard. She couldn’t let it slip from her sweaty grasp, for that would give her nerves away.

  Tante Lilli, Uncle Otto said, had seen the Gestapo at her door, knew why they’d come. One moment, please, while I fetch my coat. Went into the bedroom and threw herself off the balcony.

  Dora was halfway down the corridor when she heard the Jurat’s door open.

  ‘Miss Simon.’ Dora stopped. Sir Leonard stood in the corridor. ‘One more thing.’

  Dora turned, her heart thundering.

  ‘I gather you paid a visit to La Ferme de l’Anse a while back.’

  ‘I attended,’ Dora said.

  ‘Laurent is a most unsavoury character.’ Then his voice softened, became sugary. ‘But you’re here alone, without family. Somebody needs to look out for you, help you find your way.’ He smiled and turned on his heel. ‘Take a little friendly advice. Steer clear of him. Good afternoon.’ He tossed the words over his shoulder.

  This was not a man to cross, Dora could sense that. Neither him nor the Jurat. Or trust. There was no explanation for why Moye was casting himself as protector.

  ‘I can look after myself,’ she said, but he’d already shut the door to the office.

  It would be forward to visit Mr Laurent again, although she thought about him all the time. Odd, really, she’d only seen him three times. An unsavoury character? All the more intriguing, like one of those stories in Titbits that she’d read at the dentist. There she was, hoping she’d bump into him again, seeing his reflection in a window and turning to find it a fraud, spotting his head in a crowd only to have it evaporate. Did she dare take him at his word, cycle over on her day off, Hello, is it convenient? It was ridiculous, really. An infatuation. What was the other word the English used? A crush. Did she have a crush on him? A pash? He could be twice her age. Old enough to be her father. Was she looking for a surrogate? If so, he couldn’t be more different. He was bigger than her father, taller, beefier, with hands – she’d noticed those hands – big enough to grab a whole octave as if the spread of the notes was no larger than a paperclip. Did he play the piano? She hadn’t noticed one in his house. Nor many books, either. Her father was a dapper man, tall and slender, cultured, not muscular and rough like Geoffrey. But his eyes were kind, and his smile joyous, and each night Dora lay in bed imagining him, how they’d meet again, and again. If he really liked her, he’d make the first move, wouldn’t he?

  But the hospital dance, now, that was another thing. A charity event. She slipped the invitation in an envelope, cut the stamp on the diagonal, posted it. She waited for the mail next day, but nothing came, nor by second post either. Nor the next day. He wasn’t coming. He didn’t mean it when he’d said, come again. Well. Forget him. That’s it. She’d go alone. Besides, it wasn’t professional to go out with a man whose daughter had been a patient. The last thing she wanted was to be struck off. Trapped. No work. Who’d protect her then?

  She heard the band before she even rounded the corner. Band? Just a trumpet and a bass from the sound of it, but enough for her to sway and tap with the life of the rhythm. Nurses weren’t obliged to be there, Matron had said, but it would be a gesture of goodwill to attend, for our benefactors, once the war is over.

  Dora had put on a yellow summer dress, let her hair down so it fell in coils around her face, best foot forward in an elegant patent pump that she’d had from before the war. She drew a seam up the back of her bare leg. Managed to scratch out a dab of colour from the empty lipstick and squeeze the last of the perfume from her bottle of Chanel, a present from Uncle Otto.

  The dance was in the dining room, the tables stacked at one end, the orchestra on a raised dais opposite. Charles Janvrin and his All Star Band. They used to play at the Pomme d’Or before the Germans came, and then there had been seven of them. Now they were two. The nurses stood along one side of the hall. The men hung around on the other wall. One or two were even smoking, a sliver of smoke unfurling from their cupped palms.

  Dora smiled at her colleagues, walked closer to the podium. A woman had appeared on stage now, nodded to the trumpeter. Dora recognised her from the Pomme d’Or. Her voice was mellow and she swayed with the rhythm. Rita. Dora wrapped her arms around herself and swung her hips left, right, left. Rita Fitzroy, that was her name. Dora turned to smile at the others and came face to face with Mr Laurent.

  ‘I didn’t see you,’ she said, a livid heat reddening her cheeks.

  ‘May I have the pleasure?’

  He took her by the hand into the centre of the floor, placed an arm round her waist and led her, gentle, light on his feet. She’d only ever seen him in heavy work boots and muddy trousers, never imagined him dancing, like this, urbane and sophisticated. She fell into his step, one arm on his, the sway and swell of his body beneath her fingertips. A heartbeat together, a rhythmic pulse. The floor had filled, couples together, forward, back.

  ‘I hoped you’d be here,’ he said.

  ‘Well,’ she said. ‘I am.’

  The lights in the dining room were bright.

  Mr Laurent took her hand and led her to an adjacent room where the refreshments were being sold. They bought some tea and sat at a small table at the back, side by side, facing the wall.

  ‘I sent you an invitation, Mr Laurent,’ Dora said. ‘I wasn’t sure you received it.’

  ‘Mr Laurent makes me think of my father,’ he said, smiling, a dimple in one cheek. ‘Why don’t you call me Geoffrey?’

  ‘Geoffrey,’ Dora said, trying it on for size, making sure it fitted. ‘You didn’t reply.’

  ‘Forgive me. I was busy. I wanted to see you again,’ he said. ‘But I’m an old m
an, widowed. Not great company.’

  ‘I will decide that,’ Dora said. He would think her fast, but she added, anyway, ‘I thought you didn’t want to see me, as you didn’t reply.’

  He laughed. ‘Well, aren’t we a pair?’

  Her face relaxed, gave in, smiled from eyes to chin. He reached over and placed his hand over hers, squeezed it. ‘When is your next free weekend?’

  ‘Next week,’ Dora said.

  He leaned forward, pushed a tress of hair behind her ear and breezed a kiss on her cheek, the touch of a butterfly wing.

  ‘Perhaps,’ he said, ‘you might like to come to the farm? There’s not much to do in town. The cinema only shows German rubbish these days.’

  He placed his hands over hers. They were warm, his skin rough and calloused, dark hairs whispering on his knuckles, sneaking out under his cuff. A yearning for him tumbled inside her, turbulence in a storm, a wave crashing against rocks.

  It was early May, hot and clear with an unexpected heatwave. She’d lost count of how many times she’d been here now. Once a week, since the dance. Was that six weeks? Or seven? Sometimes, just being close to him was unbearable with the ache of desire, the need to reach and touch. Did he feel the same? Did he have the same scorch if their hands brushed, the same flare at the thought of her? She’d never felt a force like this.

  Geoffrey picked up the hamper and led her out of the door, through the gate and into the field. The grass was tufted. The wooden soles of Dora’s clogs slid on the grass, and her feet twisted inside the canvas uppers. The field was on the slope and Dora struggled, tempted to walk barefoot, but she knew the dangers of tetanus. Just a little scratch from a sharp stone or a piece of rusty wire, that’s all it took. From the top of the hill they could see the sea and the spinney in one direction, the fields in another. They went down into a small dell.

  ‘Do you know,’ Geoffrey said, ‘we can’t be seen from the house, though we can see it. I used to hide here, as a child.’ He flicked a blanket out, laid it on the ground.

  ‘You were brought up here?’ Dora said.

  ‘I was born here,’ he said. ‘As was my father. Grandfather, too.’ He shook his head. ‘Where are you from, Nurse Dora? I’ve never asked.’

  He was sympathetic, this man, but Dora hesitated, even so.

  ‘Let me guess,’ he went on. ‘Strawberry-blonde hair.’

  Rotblond.

  ‘Blue eyes.’ He studied her, smiling, lines around his eyes white against the sun-beaten skin. ‘Somewhere north.’

  ‘There you have it,’ Dora said.

  ‘Norway? Sweden?’ he went on. ‘I thought Swedes were white-blonde.’

  ‘Viking blood,’ Dora said. ‘Some were redheads. Horns. Curly hair.’

  ‘Your English is good,’ he said.

  ‘I’ve lived here some time,’ Dora said. ‘And my father used to send me to England every summer before the war. Threw me in at the deep end. Insisted I must learn English. And French.’ She smiled. ‘It stood me in good stead.’ Even so, she needed to watch what she said. She thought in her mother tongue. It would be so easy to slip.

  ‘And your father?’ Geoffrey said. ‘What did he do?’

  ‘He was a doctor,’ Dora said. ‘A surgeon.’ Ran the field hospital in Verdun and came home with the Iron Cross and skills no surgeon wished they had, but she didn’t tell him that.

  Geoffrey took a chicken out of its greaseproof wrapping and laid it on a plate, finger to his lips. ‘Fell off the back of the requisitions list,’ he said. ‘It’s a seagull, if anyone asks.’

  Dora laughed.

  ‘I forgot the carving knife.’

  ‘Oh, well,’ she said. ‘We can manage. What are fingers for?’

  He reached into the basket, pulled out two glasses and a bottle.

  ‘Elderberry,’ he said. ‘From before the war. Ripe and fruity, and rather sweet.’ He poured into the glasses, passed one to Dora. ‘Happy birthday.’ He raised a glass. ‘To you.’

  ‘How did you know it was my birthday?’ Dora said.

  ‘I sneaked a look at your identity card,’ he said. ‘It’s not just the Germans who find it useful.’

  ‘So you saw my place of birth too?’

  ‘Of course. That’s how I guessed.’ He laughed. ‘And I know how old you are. Today.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Twenty-seven.’ He moved closer. ‘I thought you might be younger.’

  ‘Would that have disturbed you?’

  ‘Yes,’ he said.

  Young enough to be his daughter? Was he thinking of Margaret?

  ‘Dora.’ He put his finger to her chin, lifted it up and towards him. She felt the brush of his skin, hot as cinders. ‘Would you make love with me? I promise I’ll be careful not to make you pregnant.’ And kissed her.

  She had no hesitation.

  Love was amber. It trapped her in its honey resin, warm and glowing as they lay curled, melted into one, heart and soul. Love was a deep hunger that pined in its greed, an anarchy of desire that blew reason afar. Love needed no words.

  ‘When will I see you again?’ His breath was soft on her cheek, his whiskers rough on her skin, arms tight and close, dark flesh against her freckled fairness. She pressed tight to him, as if he could absorb her whole.

  ‘Don’t come to the house,’ she said. ‘Miss Besson doesn’t like us to have gentleman callers.’

  It was bad enough that Dora had to tolerate Miss Besson’s insinuations, there was no need for Geoffrey to have to put up with them too, whatever he had done to incur her disapproval. She had asked Miss Besson once about Geoffrey. Miss Besson had curled her lips and walked out of the room.

  Dora met Geoffrey on the parade ground, or near the market where there was a teashop. Sometimes they went for a ride, sitting on the box seat in the front of the cart, watching Ernest move his head left, right, as he pulled them along. Dora had never had much to do with horses, but she loved the solid smell of his hide and the ancient leather harness.

  That day, driving down Elizabeth Place, a man in a homburg hat stepped into the street. Ernest shied, swung to avoid him as the cart tilted and Dora slid along the seat, banging her hip on the side rail.

  ‘Watch out,’ Geoffrey called. The man turned. It was the man who’d been present with the Jurat. Sir Leonard somebody or other. Dora swallowed, saw Geoffrey clench his jaw so that his bone stood proud beneath the skin. Sir Leonard raised his fist and shook it hard.

  ‘You watch out,’ he said.

  Geoffrey raised his fist in response and spat in the road. Dora went cold. It was a side of him she’d not seen. It made her uneasy. Was he a crude man? A bitter man? Like those old German soldiers who followed Hitler and his false promises? Was this what Miss Besson had meant? And Sir Leonard? Unsavoury, he’d said.

  The cart lurched to a halt.

  ‘I said, are you all right? You’re quiet. Are you hurt?’ Geoffrey’s face had relaxed back into the familiar folds.

  Dora said nothing. She wanted to get down, go back home.

  ‘I apologise,’ he said. ‘Did I shock you?’

  ‘Yes,’ Dora said. She didn’t like the Jurat’s sidekick, but everyone can make a mistake, step out into traffic, their mind on other things.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Geoffrey said. He turned and looked at her, poised to talk. He was chewing the words, contemplating whether to say them. ‘I’ve had altercations with that man,’ he said at last. He pointed to his broken nose and smiled. ‘He’s a two-faced bastard, if you’ll forgive the expression.’

  ‘You were angry.’ Dora’s voice was soft, shaken.

  ‘Did I frighten you?’

  Dora nodded. She had no time for other people’s anger, not now. Keeping alive took all her energy.

  He reached over and folded his hand over hers.

  ‘It’s a side of you I’ve never seen,’ Dora said. ‘A temper.’

  ‘I don’t have a temper,’ Geoffrey said. ‘I have a rage.’

  A rage goes deep,
Dora thought, like love. Rage was passion, not a veneer that could be scraped away.

  Ernest moved forward, his head down, his rump swaying with the rhythm of his walk, his hooves click-clicking on the road.

  ‘I’ve met him,’ Dora said after a while. ‘He was there at the Chief Aliens Office. I was interviewed by them.’

  ‘That’s the kind of work he’d do.’ Geoffrey shut his mouth tight so the skin grew taut once more. ‘Be careful.’

  Dora laughed. For all her foreboding of a moment ago, she’d trust Geoffrey over Sir Leonard.

  ‘Friends?’ he said.

  ‘Friends.’

  She visited him on Wednesdays. She always wore her midwife’s uniform, threadbare and patched. She carried her bag with its instruments in her basket. It didn’t prevent her being stopped at the road checks, but it was a kind of laissez-passer, a permission to travel. Legitimate business.

  Geoffrey had returned to his old, calm self and the memory of the incident faded. She longed for those days when they were together, could barely sleep for the imagining of them, the dreaming of them, the caress of their love as they lay in his soft down bed. She wanted to bury herself into the tissue of him, feel the weight and thrust of him, the smack of their skin, sweat on sweat. She smelled of him, of happiness and vitality and the promise of earth. Love, she thought, hurtles, a helter-skelter of tenderness and desire. In all the scourge and mess and pain around her, she was wildly, deliriously happy.

  On sunny days they’d go for a ride, she sitting on the crossbar of his bicycle, he pedalling, his arms embracing her as he gripped the handlebars, nibbling her ear or kissing the back of her neck. She yearned for his touch, his company. He was her nectar, she its thirsty drinker.

  Today, as the sea licked the shoreline in large crescent dribbles, she thought she could live here forever, make a home with Geoffrey in the farmhouse, a family. She thought how small her world had become, reduced to this tiny promontory on this tiny island, she who had only ever known the grand cities of Europe. And how huge her world had become, with just she and Geoffrey. It was always in the detail that you saw the bigger picture. That was what her father used to say. Geoffrey was her haven, a refuge from the turmoil of war and her jagged fears and emotions. One day they would leave the island, break free. Once the war was over. Surely, it couldn’t last forever. Not a hundred years. She tried to think ahead, but the concrete defences around the island shut off her dreams, along with her escape. Geoffrey was in the here and now, the today of her life, her happiness and release. Climbing the hill from Anse la Coupe, freewheeling down to Geoffrey’s farm, the Germans and the island, her worries and her troubles were cast into the breeze. Who knew what kind of future would turn a corner, come from nowhere, tucked inside a wheelbarrow or falling from the sky?