Hannah & Emil

by Belinda Castles

  I held the letter up to the light, trying in vain to see some mark beneath the blackout that might give me a clue to the name of the country. I believed it must be Canada, after the news of the Arandora Star. Fine then. I spoke French if it was to be required. I would happily go to Canada, if we could only be together there. Would the men be released? So far from Europe and the war? Or perhaps I would be expected to be interned in a camp with him. I knew nothing about the future, not the smallest detail, and yet somehow I had to prepare for it.

  I fell asleep that night in our bed with the letter in my hand, tucked in its taped-together envelope. My dreams were filled with the sea, great ships, emerging submarines, bright flashes over grey waters. I did not even know if it were possible for a civilian to go to sea in such times. Then, too, I was quite afraid of the ocean, spent many sleepless nights before every short trip to Europe, and this journey was likely to be much longer. But he had asked me to go. And I would apply all of my intellect to every last administrative detail; I would find the right person to beg, make my case, pluck the requisite money out of the ether, and we would be refugees together.

  Emil

  THE ISLE OF MAN, 1940

  The men had been at sea for only a few hours, below decks in dank dormitories, when Emil heard the motors grinding, felt the hull shift sideways against the sea, their speed drop away. They were ordered up on deck and saw a long beach lined with a high wire fence, boarding houses, the dark shapes of people wandering along the promenade. Have we even left England? he wondered. There were no signs on the dock. ‘Isle of Man,’ an officer told them as he hurried them across the gangway. ‘Douglas Camp. Fresh air. Decent food. You’re lucky.’ The air was wonderful. The tangy sea, the cold wind. They had been in a new housing estate on the fringes of Liverpool for weeks. Their overcrowded rooms and tents had quickly become close and rank and food was so scarce that some had taken to rummaging through dustbins. His spirits lifted a little.

  Low grey skies sat over the town, casting the red brick of the boarding houses in a dull light. Seagulls cried as they wheeled about the docks in a gang, looking for holidaymakers to bully for food. Slim pickings these days. They marched with their cases along the dock to a high metal gate in the wire fence. Passed through, rifles on them, along the seafront to yet another man with a list on a board. The British army must have a whole regiment of these, with an aircraft hangar full of boards and pencils.

  He was assigned to a room in a house a few hundred metres along the promenade. He and two others let themselves in. The red patterned carpet, the smell in it of ancient meals of meat and potatoes and green beans, the long wooden banister—he had stayed in houses like this when they came ashore with Siemens. At any moment a landlady might appear from some back office with a smile and a glass of sherry, a widow not yet dyeing her hair. He found his room upstairs while the others found theirs. Only two beds: one made neatly, a suitcase beneath it, the other bare, with blankets and sheets folded at its foot. The window was open and the smell of the sea came in on the breeze, curtains billowing. A crate, turned on its side so its divider made a shelf, sat between the beds. There were books, miraculously, some in German. He sat on the low bed to read the spines. Thomas Mann, Kafka, Shakespeare plays, poetry: Yeats, Auden. He wished he had paper. He wanted to write to Hannah at once. She would be thrilled at this piece of good fortune. And yet another marvel: next to the books, wedged in as a bookend, an exquisite little globe of hand-painted wood, Germany small enough to fit easily beneath the tip of his forefinger, Britain not the length of a staple and yet all its intricate coastline beautifully drawn. The Isle of Man was barely a dot, though; even this expert hand could do no more for this tiny, forgotten place.

  He met the owner of the books and the marvellous globe walking along the promenade at dusk. On a bench in the strange pink light from the sea and sky sat a man with a well-cut waistcoat, thick, just-combed brown hair and round gold-rimmed glasses. He was holding a paperback in one hand and a handmade cigarette in the other. Emil sat next to him. The man did not appear to notice. ‘I wonder if you are my roommate,’ Emil said, looking out at the shifting surface of the ocean that touched all the continents of the world.

  The man turned, holding his page open, cigarette away from his face. ‘What makes you say that?’

  ‘Well, he has so far been absent from our room, though he has left behind him plenty of books. I have wanted to ask him all day if I could borrow one, but so far, no luck. I have been quite bored.’

  ‘Did you come over from Liverpool with the others?’

  Emil nodded. This man was smaller and more perfectly made than most. There was a liveliness behind his eyes that made Emil like him instantly. A neat, crisp man. And, it seemed, happy in his skin, incredibly. He set the book upside down on his knee and held out a hand. ‘Solomon Lek. Take any book you like. Then I might have someone to talk to about them.’

  ‘Emil Becker. You find the energy to discuss literature?’

  ‘Oh yes. There are not many situations where a discussion about books can’t cheer me up. Those poor characters always have it so much worse than us. Read the Russians. Marvellous! And look, we have been sent to a holiday camp.’

  They looked together at the high rolls of wire above their heads and laughed. ‘My wife would like you,’ Emil said.

  ‘Then you must keep her away from me at all costs. I am greedy for the affection of intelligent women.’

  ‘Well, she is not really my wife. I could not prevent you from liking her as much as I do. Or her you.’

  ‘You’re a man who carries his stories within him,’ Lek said thoughtfully. ‘I’m surprised you have any need for books at all. Have a cigarette. Tell me as much as a perfect stranger is allowed to know.’

  And so he did, talking mostly of Hannah and the countries he had seen travelling on the ships. Emil had a quarter-bottle of whiskey for which he had given up a good pen in Liverpool. They drank and smoked and watched the sky lose its colour. They might have been free. Travellers in a port, exchanging stories before the next voyage. Solomon told him a little too. He came from Berlin. He was born there, went to the university and became a literature professor, until in 1933 he had his books burned and was forced out of his job. Emil’s books too had ended up on a bonfire on the street, Greta had written. Solomon came to England and became a teacher. His family—a mother, aunt and cousins—had not wanted to accompany him. He did not say why.

  Solomon was arrested at the school, in front of his English class, at the beginning of the British round-up. The event was familiar to him from when they had come for him in Berlin; although then the head of his department had been accompanied by a posse of eager young henchmen.

  ‘I’m happy to be among German speakers again, Becker. I could talk like a drunkard, as you have learned, regrettably. But I miss my books. I was proud of my library. In Berlin, I used to give books away to my students. I think about it every time I pick up one of these old things.’ He showed Emil his book, its torn cover, pages coming unglued. ‘I can see them, all the pristine books I threw about freely. Can you imagine? Insanity!’ Then, as night fell and the curfew siren sounded, and they stood to walk along to the house, Lek offered him a piece of information he had come by the day before. ‘They are going to ask for volunteers for Canada.’

  ‘Where did you hear that?’

  Solomon tapped his nose. ‘I am considering my options.’

  ‘You would go all that way? You might be there for the whole war.’

  ‘Who would miss me? I’m not a good traveller, but I will do my best to be courageous. And you, you strike me as an adventurer, a man who likes to do things in the world. Perhaps a long journey would suit you.’

  Emil could not imagine he looked like anything of the sort, but he liked this man, who made conversation a series of thoughtful gifts, offered happily.

  ‘And, Emil, in addition—’ Solomon’s eyes were sparkling ‘—they say that wives will follow.’


  ‘Really? You’re married?’

  ‘I was thinking of your excellent fiancée, who would find me so appealing were we to meet.’

  The next day, leaflets were pasted on all the lampposts, asking for volunteers for Canada. It promised that wives and children would follow, work would be found, return passage would be paid when England was made secure. This Lek was clearly a good man to know.

  July turned cold. If they left the window open at night a freezing blast roared off the sea and into the room. When they closed it the glass rattled in the old frames. Emil dreamed he was away at sea and awoke ravenous, the sea air gusting emptiness through him night after night.

  Large numbers of the men went along to the office to put their names on the list for Canada. Some of them had been in German camps. Some, like him, had other experiences of the Nazis. Lately you could not look at the surface of the sea without wondering about submarines, torpedoes. As he signed the paper, he wondered whether Hannah had remained in Winchester, not twenty miles from the coast. How well would the British defend their island? The soldiers who guarded them did not inspire hope. They seemed a mix of arbitrary discipline—no elbows on the table at meals, make your bed every morning—and bewildering softness, expecting the men to be excited about treacle cake once a week, becoming hysterical on the sidelines of internee football games.

  The men heard nothing for several days, and then one windy night, the room filled with salty, wet air, soldiers entered the houses along the promenade shouting names and orders. A soldier came, stood over Emil. ‘Lek?’

  Solomon sighed, put his feet on the floor.

  ‘What is this?’ Emil said. ‘What is happening?’

  The man had turned to Solomon. ‘Downstairs, with your case, five minutes.’ Then he was thumping down the stairs, opening another door, barking out another name.

  ‘This can’t be right,’ Emil said. ‘We volunteered together.’

  ‘Perhaps you’ll come later. Perhaps there’s more than one boat.’

  ‘I’ll come too. They never keep track. They’re hopeless.’

  ‘I’m not sure, Emil.’

  ‘Don’t worry. We’ll just stick together.’

  Solomon shrugged and scooped his books into his bag. He paused.

  ‘Do you want to take half the books, in case we get split up?’

  ‘If you wish.’

  ‘Yes. They will travel like kings and queens. Safest apart.’

  Emil fastened his case, three of Solomon’s books inside. ‘Come on, we’ll mix in with the others.’

  On the street there were soldiers with lists, checking men off and directing them to join a line along the wire fence. Emil tried to duck through amid the crowd. A hand grabbed the back of his collar.

  ‘Name?’ It was the soldier who had woken them.

  He plucked a common surname from the air. ‘Schlösser.’

  ‘Not here. You’ve made a mistake. Back to bed, Schlösser.’

  When the soldier moved along, he tried it again, was stopped again. This time the soldier jabbed him back to the house with his bayonet, tearing his jacket. ‘Come out again and I’ll shoot you.’

  He went upstairs, watched them from the window, looking for Solomon. The day was breaking over the sea. They were all lined up now with their cases. He peered at the faces in the half-light. Quite a few were known fascists. What might that mean? At the tail of the line, there he was, a pale flash of sickness and worry, casting about for his friend. Emil raised a hand at the window. Solomon glanced up. They exchanged a look. Emil knew there was no use in shouting over the hectoring of the guards. He wanted to tell Solomon: I will see you again, you will be all right, but then they were moving, and he saw only the back of him, moving along the seafront towards the dock, where a troop carrier was waiting.

  He spent that day walking up and down the promenade. Why round Solomon up with the Nazis? But he knew the answer. Because they didn’t know what they were doing. Because whenever someone wanted to round people up, they would rather catch extras than miss one.

  At breakfast the next day, after Emil had spent the previous twenty-four hours trying to tap officers for information and walking himself into an exhaustion that allowed him to sleep, the commander of the camp came into breakfast mess and made an announcement. At seven o’clock yesterday morning the Arandora Star, bound for Canada and carrying several hundred men who had been sitting at these almost empty tables two days before, was torpedoed by a German submarine off the coast of Ireland. Most of the twelve hundred or so on board, including a large number of Italians, were lost at sea.

  He left the mess hall, a mildewy church room, as quickly as he could move between the long tables of men all doing the same. It was a bright clear morning. He stood at the fence looking out to sea for a long time. The sun made a sheen on the waves. He had no place to put the information he had received and so he thought of the models of ships he used to make for his boy, the thoughtless pleasure in chiselling and in the smell of wood shavings.

  A week later at dawn, as he lay sleeping badly on the bed, the other still empty, a hand landed on his shoulder. He took hold of the wrist before his eyes were open. He was not surprised, as he looked into the boy guard’s face, which wore a look of mild terror, or perhaps embarrassment. He was not sure he had even been asleep, so ready was he to stand up, pull his already-packed case from under the bed, shuffle down the stairs with the others, join the throng outside. The waves were loud, it was a wild sea. This was his last dawn in England, he was certain.

  They marched silently along the promenade to the dock. There had been rumours that the Arandora Star did not have a convoy. The men around him were silently ashen as they lugged their cases towards the troop carrier. No one, now, wanted to go to Canada.

  It was a rough crossing to Liverpool. Some of the younger ones tried to talk about where they might be going, but were quickly hushed. Soon enough they came down the gangway at the dock, where a huge ship occupied most of the quay. Alongside it was a line of trucks, soldiers shouting at their occupants, spilling from the vehicles in their hundreds. As those from the Isle of Man stepped down onto the quay the soldiers ran to the gangway and began shouting at them too, holding up the jagged blades of their bayonets. The refugees, huddled together, looked into one another’s faces uncomprehendingly. Emil wondered whether he had underestimated the English. They did not look like overenthusiastic football supporters now. He remembered the men he fought in Turkey and Palestine, their faces as they charged, the darkness in their throats.

  Out on the dock, as the men tried to hold onto their suitcases, the soldiers immediately began to push and harangue them towards a large group gathered under guard at the gangway to the ship. Many, Emil included, were forced to abandon their cases on the dock in the surge as they were jostled forward with the others. He saw with a lurch in his chest the back of a head he recognised, that thick hair now lank and awry, the glasses, his silk scarf crumpled, and put his hand in the air. It took him a few more moments to believe it. ‘Solomon!’ he shouted, men crushing him on all sides, the soldiers pushing and shouting. Solomon did not hear him in the madness. One of the soldiers smacked him across the shoulders with the flank of his rifle. ‘Shut it, you filthy kraut.’ Emil grasped the butt of the weapon, but a German behind pushed him forward up the gangway, away from the soldier. ‘Are you crazy? These men are rabid.’

  As they approached the high grey walls of the ship, the crowd seethed in boiling hotspots. Beyond the turmoil, Emil saw the name of the ship painted on its military grey metal: Dunera. He was soon close enough to the melee to see what was happening among the men. Fights were breaking out over luggage. Up on the gangplank an elderly Jewish man was struggling to hold onto an instrument case—for a tuba, Emil thought; it was very large—as a fat soldier pulled it, jabbing with his bayonet at the elderly man, who would not let go. The case eventually slipped free of their grasps and fell the depth of the exposed hull to the dark water below. There was a mom
entary silence among those closest by as they watched the descent of the instrument, and then the fighting over luggage began again with more violence and energy.

  Eventually, the captain, down on the docks amid the round-up, fired a rifle into the air and the crowd stilled. Emil was close enough now to Solomon to reach out and touch him. Beneath his hand he felt the rough wool of his friend’s heavy winter coat and saw that his neck was moist with sweat. Somehow he had hung onto his coat, or found another. Solomon’s face turned and broke into a brief, warm smile. ‘Herr Becker! Welcome to hell!’

  ‘What’s happening here?’ Emil asked.

  ‘Perhaps they’re expecting trouble, because of the Arandora. I choose to hope they will calm down when we’re on board.’

  The captain spoke into a loudhailer, with military emphasis on every fourth or fifth word. ‘These are your orders, Fritz. Hand over your luggage to my men as you approach the gangplank. We will return it later. You cannot take it to your quarters, there is no room. Obey all orders. I will not ask twice. We do not like spies, so do not give us any excuses. And speak English, not kraut. Proceed.’

  The men began to shuffle on board more quietly, murmuring questions to one another. Emil drew level with a guard. ‘I need the receipt for my suitcase!’ Emil told him, but was shoved along by the crowd. It was Hannah’s case. She had it when he met her. She was using it as a bedside table in her bedsit in Brussels. It was next to his face that morning when he woke. He could not just give it over to these brutes. He felt a hand on his wrist. Before he could get his other hand to it in the crush, he glimpsed another soldier, a few feet away, holding up Emil’s watch to a colleague with delight. ‘That’s my watch!’ he shouted, but already he was being herded onto the gangplank, three abreast with men and sagging in the middle, forced to keep moving away from his watch—Benjamin’s watch—and its new owner by the mass of bodies behind. He grasped Solomon’s wrist, their arms stretching as men crammed between them. Someone thrust a heel into Emil’s bad leg and water sprang to his eyes. Behind him a boy was crying. Ahead of him there was a sudden slowdown that threatened to topple those around him off the gangplank. Emil looked down. The strip of water between the quay and the ship was a long way beneath, dark, oily. Solomon turned back towards him from up ahead. ‘Slow down,’ he addressed the surge of men. ‘The rabbi is frail. Slow down, please!’