• • •
Karen Oliver’s hair was blonder than he remembered. The Paris sun lit the silk sheen of the purple dress.
‘If you’re not going after him, you should sit down and stop gawping at me,’ she said.
He put the little boy’s forgotten baguette and the bag of peaches on the table, unloaded the rucksack from his back and the rifle from his shoulder.
‘I thought artists were supposed to be pale and feeble. You look as if you’ve been hunting bears and living in a cave.’ She pushed the other chair with the toe of her shoe. ‘We must celebrate. I shall buy you a drink. Oh, here’s Mama, back for her bread.’
The woman had returned with the little boy, who had the rawness of a fright on his face. The woman said in French, ‘Thank you, mademoiselle, monsieur. My son loves that old horse and I should have known to keep an eye on him. Say thank you, Pierre.’
‘Merci, madame,’ said Pierre. The effort made him wince and tears trickled down his face.
‘Oh, darling, don’t cry. Here, I have a hanky in my bag.’ Karen smoothed the child’s face and gave him the handkerchief. ‘You keep it, just in case.’ The boy held it to his nose and Michael knew it would smell of Karen’s perfume. The French woman nodded her thanks again and Michael saw her notice the mismatch – his unshaven face, a rifle and a filthy rucksack, and the sophisticated English girl sitting with him.
The woman and the little boy left them, the boy skipping with the broken baguette flopping over his shoulder.
Karen signalled to the waiter to bring another glass. ‘I’ve discovered these.’ She waved her cigarette. ‘Much nicer than the Woodbines Stanley used to smoke. And this too – it’s like drinking aniseed balls. And, since you’re about to ask, I’m on my way to Munich. I have a job and I’m being paid to stop off to do some shopping. Isn’t that glorious? My train goes this evening.’
She told him about the guest who stayed at the London hotel where she was working. Old Herr Landau from Bavaria had employed her. It was luck, she said, he must have liked her face. She reached across and filled Michael’s glass, spilling anis on the table. ‘Now you.’
‘I’m on my way home.’
‘I heard about your father. I’m sorry, Michael.’ She lit another cigarette. ‘Death makes things clear, don’t you think? It shows who you really are. When my father died, Ma blamed everyone, everything, even him. Then I realized she’d always been like that, simmering, gritting her teeth, waiting for proof the world was bad. She blamed us too, for needing her, for reminding her of Dadda – everything. Elisabeth wailed if I went out of the room. She was eight and I was ten. What a joke.’ Karen filled her glass again. ‘At least I know now not to waste time.’ She counted on her fingers. ‘I’ve learned that being good won’t make you happy; that life isn’t fair; that love should be given for nothing and not as some kind of trade; that it’s better to risk it than never to know. There! You have my list.’
He had never heard her talk like this and he felt caught up with her in a way he never had before. She leaned her arms on the table. ‘What a speech. Hark at me, just like one of your gloomy intellectuals. And you need cheering up. Let’s talk about this later, in about twenty years – then you can tell me if I’m wrong.’
The high clouds over Paris moved across the sky, obscuring the afternoon sun, and the dazzle of colours dulled over, the air cooled and a breeze stirred around the dusty blossom on the pavement. Then sunshine bloomed again, the warmth returned, and shadows spread like blots of ink under the trees and tables.
She filled their glasses. ‘Here’s to us. And Paris! You can’t want to go home. Surely you don’t.’
‘I’ve never wanted anything so much.’
‘I tell you, Michael, I prayed to God to get away. People in London are knotted up inside. They think being miserable proves they’re virtuous. Drink up. I’m paying.’ She pushed the water jug towards him. ‘I’m getting serious again. I swear I’ll be cheerful from now on. So, tell me why you mean to die of dreariness in England?’
He could see she’d had too much to drink. They would look like a couple flirting, arguing, getting drunk together.
‘I must see your sister. I may be in love with her,’ he said.
Karen laughed softly, reaching across the table to tap her glass against his. ‘Oh, bravo! You may be in love? How strange you are! But you haven’t seen Elisabeth for years. You can’t mean it, Michael.’
‘I do.’
‘How can you tease me? Elisabeth? The little goody-goody, the shrinking violet who’s as tough as steel?’ Karen laughed. Her teeth were small and perfect. ‘I’ll never work you out and I adore it because you never bore me. We’re the same, Michael, we hate bores – and martyrs and pretenders.’
His mind was thick like honey and he felt suddenly besotted with the beautiful Paris street, the downy hairs on Karen’s bare arms and the sunlight in her hair. He wanted to touch her because she was made of the same flesh as Elisabeth. ‘I love her.’
Karen pushed her glass away, sat back. Something had altered in the light. ‘You are serious.’
‘Yes.’
She lit another cigarette. The sun was full on her face and she put back her head and closed her eyes. She said, ‘I think you should know, Michael, Elisabeth is married.’
The shock was so swift, for a moment he didn’t feel it.
‘Don’t spoil things for her, Michael. And I’ll tell you this, it wouldn’t ever have worked between you. My little sister wouldn’t want a life like yours.’
‘I hadn’t thought that far.’
‘I don’t suppose you have, but I have and –’
‘If she’s happy, then I’m glad.’ He cut across to stop more words he didn’t want to hear.
Karen didn’t say any more and Michael was grateful to her. Café tables along the street emptied. The waiter brought coffee. A cat had curled up on the rucksack.
The gauzy clouds were still luminous but the air had the dusk in it. They sat in silence for a time. Karen put a cardigan around her shoulders and tidied her hair. ‘Walk with me to the station, will you, Michael?’
The porters were loading the luggage and Karen tried to explain that a dressing case and a travelling bag were to be taken to her compartment but the trunks should be stowed in the luggage wagon. She was annoyed at being unable to make herself understood and two liveried attendants tried to help, anxious to placate this first-class passenger.
Michael spoke to them in French, raising his voice above the din of the station. Karen was ushered by an attendant to the steps, and she turned, perhaps to say goodbye, but the noise was too much and she beckoned Michael to follow her.
They stood in the quiet of her compartment, close together in the small space beside the single bunk made up with white sheets and dark blue blankets.
‘Michael, where will you go now?’
‘I shall go home anyway. I should see my family.’
‘Sit down for a moment. You look awful. Wait there. I’ll be back in a moment.’
He sat on the bunk and the blankets gave off a quiet scent of lilac that made him think of Nanna Lydia. He was tired and his clothes were filthy. The carriage shifted and doors were slamming along the train.
He heard Karen talking in the corridor, some altercation with the attendant which she must have won because a boy struggled into the compartment with the rucksack and the rifle.
Karen was standing in the doorway. ‘Come to Munich, Michael. There’s no reason to go back. I have money. I’ll give you plenty, and when we get there you can go anywhere you like.’
There were shadows moving although the carriage seemed still, and he looked round to see Paris sliding past the window.
‘There,’ she said. ‘It’s easy.’
• • •
It was after midnight. Munich Station was deserted except for a man in a dark coat waiting beneath a lamp and smoking a cigarette. In the light his hair was the same white-gold as Karen’s.
She introduced them and although Artur Landau’s English was halting, he welcomed Michael to Germany and apologized for the train from Paris arriving so late at night. Karen smiled, standing close to Landau, but he would not look at her and Michael knew the feelings that would move a man to act this way. He had seen Landau’s expression when they disembarked, understanding that Karen had not travelled alone. Whatever he was feeling, Artur Landau would hide it. He asked how long Michael planned to stay.
‘A couple of days. No more.’
‘I’m so disappointed,’ Karen said. ‘It was such luck to meet up on the train. Artur, you’ll persuade him to stay longer, won’t you? Please do. Michael takes no notice of me.’
‘He has plans, I am sure,’ said Landau.
‘Michael is a painter. There must be galleries he should visit. If you won’t persuade him, then I shall tie him up and make him stay!’ She laughed, one hand lightly resting on Landau’s arm and the other on Michael’s. ‘At least a month, Michael, and you shan’t argue.’
Now Landau was watching her. He was searching for more than friendship in her smile for Michael; intimacy perhaps, or guilt. She is reckless, Michael thought, or perhaps she simply doesn’t think that either of us might care.
An hour ago, the wagon-lit attendant had knocked on the door of their compartment to bring coffee and to announce that the train would shortly arrive in Munich. They had got up and dressed. Karen steadied herself in the rocking carriage, leaning her hip or her foot on the panelling to put on underwear and stockings, and Michael sat on the narrow bunk and watched her, knowing she should look beautiful to him. He saw how graceful she was, the fineness of her bones under the pale even flesh. She twisted to fasten the suspenders and she smiled at him through a tangle of creamy silver hair.
When the train swayed, she fell on him and the weight of her, her breasts in silk against his chest and her thigh under his hand, made him want her again. She pushed herself away, laughing softly and scrambling up, then kneeling on the floor by her dressing-case mirror to put on earrings and lipstick. She unpacked a skirt and blouse. The purple dress she had worn in Paris was on the floor and she left it there.
When she was ready, they sat side by side, not knowing what to do for the last minutes of the journey. Michael turned off the light, pulling back the curtains, and they watched the blackness streaking past.
‘I’m sorry, Michael. You shouldn’t be here but I’m glad you are,’ Karen said. He wanted to tell her he was sorry too, because throughout the journey the longing for Elisabeth hadn’t lessened. They were silent for a while, then she said, ‘I should tell you, someone will meet me at the station.’
‘Then we must say goodbye now.’
‘No, it doesn’t matter. I shall tell him you’re my friend from England, and you are.’
‘He’ll know, Karen.’
‘I wish you loved me and I loved you,’ she said. She put her hands on his face, turning him to look at her, and he kissed away her lipstick.
Now they were in Munich with another man who was her lover and Michael couldn’t understand why he felt as if he was deserting her. She might be oblivious of the hurt she could inflict, but there was more tenderness and honesty in Karen than he had understood before and something made him reluctant to leave her with Artur Landau.
They came out of the station on to the empty street and Landau said, ‘The journey has been long, I think.’ Karen looked away and yawned. The Paris sun had disappeared from her skin and the street lamps hollowed out her cheeks. Her eyes were dark with fatigue. She hadn’t slept, or eaten anything but peaches since leaving France.
Two young men were lounging against Landau’s car. They were good-looking, almost beautiful, heavy and tall like Landau. They nodded to Michael, looked at the rifle with interest, glanced briefly at Karen. Landau opened the door for her and she got in. She didn’t say goodbye and perhaps she sensed she should let things be.
He lifted the rucksack on to his shoulders. Landau’s handshake was fierce. ‘Goodbye, Michael Ross. Good luck,’ and he opened the driver’s door, taking off his coat and throwing it over Karen’s lap. He bent inside the car, tucking it round her, and Michael heard him say, ‘It is cold in Germany, Liebling.’ His voice was tender for the first time.
Then there was a shout, ‘Monsieur! Pardon, monsieur!’ A boy in uniform came hurrying out of the station. It was the wagon-lit attendant who had served them coffee. ‘Attendez-vous, monsieur!’ he called.
Landau stood up.
‘I found this, monsieur,’ the boy said in French to Michael. ‘Your wife left it on the floor of your compartment.’ He held out Karen’s purple dress. ‘Apologies, monsieur, it is not damaged, I hope.’
Michael took the dress, in that instant knowing he should not. He should look perplexed, say there was some mistake, but it was too late and the boy had gone.
After the briefest hesitation Landau said, ‘You have friends in Munich? You have a room to stay?’ He might not have noticed the dress, or perhaps he didn’t understand French.
‘I’ll find somewhere. Thank you.’ The cloth gathered easily into Michael’s palm.
‘Do you speak German, Michael?’
‘No. None.’
‘Then my friends will take you to a place for tonight. It is suitable, I think. A fair price.’ Landau went around the car to the young men and flung his arms around their shoulders. There was some discussion in which Landau seemed emphatic. The two men moved away and stood waiting. ‘It is arranged,’ Landau said. ‘You will see you are wrong in England, Michael Ross. We Germans are hospitable.’ He slapped Michael softly on the back. ‘Goodbye, old chap, old sport,’ he said, smiling at his own joke.
He got in behind the wheel. The car drove off, turning down a side street. The sound of the engine faded.
The two young men began to argue: one seemed angry and the other tried to pacify him, and Michael wondered if they wouldn’t bother to take him to a boarding house now Landau had gone. But after a few minutes they nodded to him, turned together and started walking. He pushed the crumpled dress into the rucksack and followed them. The two were shoulder to shoulder, a few yards ahead. They turned up their collars against the cold and dug their hands into their pockets.
From time to time they glanced back. Michael had no idea how far this place might be and the weariness of travel, the lack of sleep and the weight of his belongings made keeping up with them more and more of an effort.
The streets were straight and the square provincial buildings had painted plasterwork and shutters, wrought-iron grilles bolted on the windows and heavy carvings on the doors. Yellow street lamps shone thickly through the trees, and the coldness had a northern chill that smelled of earth and sap. There were no lights in the houses and no sign of people, such as open windows, or the scent of wood smoke, or a bicycle leaning on the railings. Munich could have been deserted. There was only the sound of their boots on the pavement.
The two men walked for half an hour or more, turning from street to street, until Michael was lost and had no idea in which direction they were going, then they slowed and walked on each side of him.
Nothing was said; the men looked ahead, hunched down into their shoulders, and the three of them went on walking. Michael knew they weren’t taking him to a boarding house. They all understood that he wouldn’t run. He couldn’t pull the rucksack off his shoulders unless he dropped the rifle first. There wasn’t a chance he would get away.
He wondered where they were taking him, why they had walked so far to rob him and if they would ask for money before they took the rifle – this was what they must want because he had nothing else worth stealing.
They stopped in a silent street of gabled houses set back in leafy gardens. The two men faced him and Michael saw that in spite of their size they were not much more than boys. One squared his shoulders but they both looked anxious as if they didn’t know how to start.
Michael unslung the rifle and then the rucksack from h
is shoulders. He could run now but his back was against an iron gate. He would have offered them the rifle if he spoke German but they would take it anyway, and he felt them stoking up their anger so they weren’t weakened by any doubt that he deserved what they would do. They must hate him for witnessing their fear.
Across the street, there was the sound of a door opening; a pause; then it was shut quietly and locked. The boys looked at each other as if this could still turn into a joke and they would laugh, take him to the boarding house and say goodnight.
Then one boy lunged, punching him so hard his head smashed back against the iron gate; the other kicked his legs away. As he was falling, white thoughts told him that his head was split, his knee was broken and these boy-men were flying on the joy of cruelty and wouldn’t want to stop.
• • •
On the first occasion, the body was left on the pavement; more recently, another one inside the gates. Last night they had dragged the Jew right to the front door, leaving blood along the path and on the step.
The neighbour and his son came immediately when Ruben Hartog called them. He had no strength in his arms these days, and between them they carried the man along the passage to the surgery. Hartog told his wife to keep the grandchildren and the dog inside and that Esther should throw water on the step. To beat a man outside a doctor’s house might seem perverse but he knew it was another warning.
There was nothing to see of this man’s face, which was swollen tight, black with bruises and split open like a gourd. They had broken his hands. What other injuries there might be would be known soon enough and might not matter.
Hartog could see he was young, this Jew, by his black hair and lean body. He had no money or papers, and nothing in his pockets except a silver locket engraved with the letter E.
16
It was a crush with all of them in the bungalow. Elisabeth and Toby seemed to swell their numbers by more than two, and Lydia felt the rush and busyness of guests clearing her head and carrying her on as if she was a bit of driftwood being rolled by a wave.
The German Boy Page 16