Innocence To Die For

by Eidinow, John

  ‘I imagine they can’t forget the casualty lists last time. And I suppose they know we have to go to war, but aren’t sure to what end. And are we fighting Hitler or the German people. And how on earth can we restore Poland?’

  He went in for another drink. White clouds were drifting across the sky, making occasional shadows where they sat.

  ‘I think I could learn to like your Kenwood black beer. But of course things became not good for us in Vienna.’ With cigarettes alight, she picked up her story. ‘I could have returned home, but my grandfather never had claimed his Roumanian papers. His wife, my grandmother, died in 1918. He was eternally Austrian, loved the German language, existed through it, and could not believe that simply as a Jew he could no longer be a colleague; after all his famous German academic work, unwanted. He had had his room in the university. He used the libraries. He would teach any student who showed an interest. When all that was suddenly withdrawn and his existence was treated as nothing – worse than nothing, an insult to Austria – I feared for him. Just in time, a university friend arranged for him an academic invitation to London. He could not manage on his own. I could not leave him. We packed up his books and papers and a few possessions. And here are we.’

  ‘Safe and sound.’

  ‘Safe, not so sound. My poor grandfather is not altogether at home—in his mind, you understand. The Germany of language and culture is where he has to be: his, you know, Heimat, true home, like Heine and his old mother:

  “Deutschland hat ewigen Bestand,

  Es ist ein kerngesundes Land!

  … Werd ich es immer wiederfinden …”

  Germany is eternal. It is a healthsome land … It will always be restored to me—’

  She blinked and looked away. ‘This German was for him, not for me.’

  ‘But what of you, and all your plans?’

  ‘Of course I stay with him. I have to work. I don’t know how long Selfridge’s will hold me. They are losing a lot of staff. But when the order was given to train us in air raid precautions, I know the question was asked if I should be trained. I try to study: I walk round London when I can looking at the buildings. My parents are happy I am not in Czernowitz. My father finds it difficult to work. My mother no longer can work. I hope they will get on a train.’

  ‘Perhaps I could come with you on one of your walks.’

  ‘Your company would give me great pleasure.’

  ‘When we’re ready, perhaps you would like to see the famous High Point workers’ flats? They are only a short way away.’ He stood. ‘Would you excuse me for a moment?’

  Rinsing his hands, he became aware of some disturbance in the courtyard. A man’s voice, hoarsely shouting. The red-faced man from the Heath was standing over Dinah. He was bellowing into her face. ‘Fucking German bitch. I’ll fucking teach you to fucking tell an Englishman to fucking shut up—’

  White, she managed to say, ‘I am not German.’

  ‘Lying bitch. I heard you. Spouting your fucking, shit language.’

  In three strides Peter was at his side, seizing his elbow, pulling him back. He got as far as ‘How dare you—’ and the man kicked him in the knee.

  On the ground, clutching his leg, Peter was conscious only of the agony in his knee; it was running up his back, gripping his skull. He became aware of Dinah’s bending over him, then of firm hands gripping his shoulders and of being eased into a sitting position. Around him was a little circle including the landlord and a barman. The man had run off down the hill, said the landlord, but not before ‘your young lady gave him a tremendous slap in the chops, didn’t she.’ ‘Had more than was good for him’, added the barman. The landlord frowned.

  A young man came up saying he was a doctor. Gently he felt round the knee, pushing the kneecap. ‘Nothing broken, as far as I can tell.’ The whole knee was bright red and swelling rapidly. ‘You’re going to have a corker of a bruise. Keep the leg up for three or four days. It’ll be pretty stiff anyway, but wait for the swelling to come down before you start chasing after your assailant.’

  He turned to Dinah. ‘Make sure he rests it. As little movement as possible. And plenty of ice on it when you get home.’

  ****

  Fortified by a double brandy ‘on the house’, his brutally aching knee swathed in a cold tea towel, Dinah’s arm through his, Peter settled himself in a taxi. The landlord’s advice, offered sotto voce while Dinah absented herself, was not to let his young lady speak German in public. There had been some comment from regular customers. And today, of course, of all days …

  Over Dinah’s protests, Peter told the cabbie to drive them to the High Point flats, insisting she should get out to inspect the white, starkly angular block while he peered through the window. Then, as the cab rattled down towards King’s Cross, he took the plunge. ‘The landlord said I should advise my young lady not to speak in German in public.’

  ‘I am afraid he is wrong.’

  ‘Wrong?’

  She was staring out of the window at the blighted industrial landscape.

  ‘Wrong about?’

  ‘One should be able to speak any language. Languages do not hurt people; people hurt people.’ She looked round at him. ‘But I am very sorry for your poor knee, and that I brought this on you.’ Her cheeks flushed slightly. ‘Your young lady will not … will try not to … speak German in a public house.’

  He took her hand and kissed it, then held it for the remainder of the journey.

  ****

  As their taxi drew in, a man carrying a brown leather Gladstone bag came out of her gate and gestured at the driver.

  ‘It is my grandfather’s friend.’

  He was middle-aged, of middle height but broad-shouldered, with dark hair brushed straight back from a wide, flat forehead over prominent ears. His glance swept the taxi and, with a grin exposing uneven, yellow teeth, he recognized Dinah. One of his canines was missing.

  Her friend Peter had hurt his leg walking on Hampstead Heath, Dinah explained.

  ‘Walter Thomas.’ He stuck out his hand into the taxi to shake Peter’s. ‘Sorry about the leg. Poor fellow. If by any chance you’re going towards Victoria, could I share your cab?’

  The accent was transatlantic over … what? Slavonic of some kind? Thomas stayed on the pavement for a moment with Dinah.

  ‘How did you find grandfather?’

  ‘Not completely himself, but there were good flashes of the old professor. Always so true to himself.’

  ‘Will you return? He so looked forward to your visit.’

  ‘Not this trip, but I expect to be back next year and see more of him.’

  ‘A second.’ Dinah leaned back into the cab. ‘Thank you for a lovely walk and for lunch, dear Peter. Remember to keep up your poor leg. From the store I will telephone you tomorrow.’ Her warm lips brushed his cheek.

  ‘Go on to this gentleman’s address and we’ll take it from there.’ Walter Thomas settled himself beside Peter, waving away his protestations that it would be quicker to go straight to Victoria. ‘I guess you’d like to get that leg home. Who kicked you?’

  ‘Kicked me?’

  ‘There’s a boot mark on your knee.’

  Peter looked down. A set of hobnails was clearly visible in the flannel. ‘You’re right. A drunk ruffian started to abuse Dinah and thought he’d give me a kick. Are you an American, Mr Thomas?’

  ‘I live in Canada. How did this ruffian come to pick on Dinah?’

  ‘She’d been reciting Heine in German, and he objected.’

  ‘Probably thought she was quoting Hitler. It must hurt like hell. How d’you come to know her?’

  ‘We met at an anti-war protest. Outside one, to be precise.’

  ‘Have you met the professor, her grandfather?’

  Peter shook his head.

  ‘Professor Gershon Altschuler. A great scholar and a good man. This enforced move has turned his world upside down. Dinah needs all the support you can give her.’

 
‘How do you come to know them?’

  ‘In my youth I studied with him, and we became friends.’

  Their taxi driver was hooting and cursing an Austin Seven, which had overtaken them and then slowed to a crawl, presumably looking for an address. At the wheel was a young blonde woman, looking straight ahead; by her side a young man, a Prince of Wales cap obscuring his face, staring into a street map. Suddenly she speeded up and pulled away.

  ‘And you, Mr Hill? Eton and … Oxford or Cambridge?’

  ‘Why should I be either?’

  ‘You remind me of two other men I met who were at Eton and Cambridge. I’ve forgotten their names but perhaps you knew them. A Scotsman. Slim, very clever and very good-looking; a good family—father a politician, I seem to remember. Liberal? And there was a big Englishman, also very clever and full of talk on every subject, often drunk, forever drunk, and’ – he dropped his voice – ‘not a lover of the ladies.’

  ‘They could be any number of men at school and varsity.’

  ‘The Scotsman is in your Foreign Office, I think. And the bachelor in the BBC?’

  Peter merely shook his head again. The ache in his swollen knee and the insistent tone of the questioning was getting on his nerves. His companion fell silent.

  ****

  Walter Thomas insisted on helping him out of the taxi and up into the flat. He glanced round appreciatively, assisted Peter to a couch and put a cushion under his knee.

  ‘Ice – do you have ice? Let me put ice on the swelling.’

  ‘In the Frigidaire.’ It was impossible to deny the man.

  Thomas came back with a hand towel packed with ice. The doctor had been right: a corker, the skin swollen, taut, and rainbow-coloured. Thomas whistled.

  ‘He caught me by surprise.’

  ‘I guess gentlemen don’t kick each other much.’ Thomas smiled, not unsympathetically. ‘Before I go, can I fix you a drink? Whisky?’

  He made Peter a large whisky and soda and pulled an occasional table with books and magazines in reach. ‘I hope it gets better soon. I’m sure Dinah will be an excellent nurse. She is a lovely girl and a loyal granddaughter. I’ll let myself out.’ He picked up his bag, went to the door, and stopped. ‘I’m sorry, but speaking of Dinah reminds me I have a package for the professor that I clean forgot to give him. Could I leave it with you?’ He took out a book-sized brown paper parcel and put it on the table. ‘It’s not urgent—next time you see Dinah, perhaps. Good to have met you. Look after that knee.’

  Looking at the parcel, Peter saw an envelope underneath it. Clutching the tea towel, wincing all the way, he hopped to the house phone to call the porter, and then to the front door to put it on the latch.

  Five or six minutes passed. He called the porter. No gentleman had left by the front door. The other entrance? Tradesmen’s and servants’? He couldn’t say.

  At least Mr Thomas wasn’t an Irishman. There had been something constantly watchful about him. Or was he imagining that? And some force of character. Or was he imagining that too? He wondered if Dinah had many such friends. The ache was too penetrating for him to read. He adjusted the icy towel and lay back, running over his day with Dinah as the dusk settled around him, his fingers touching his cheek where her lips had brushed.

  ****

  The hall lamp clicked on. Ella asked if he was in.

  Roused from his reverie, he shouted. ‘Put that light out. The blackout’s not up. I’ve crocked my knee.’

  ‘What on earth have you done to yourself?’ Satisfied over the tightness of the blackout, his sister had finally turned on the lamps in the drawing room and was looking down at him with concern.

  ‘I haven’t done anything. Some ruffian kicked me. On the Heath.’

  ‘Have you called the doctor?’

  He explained that a doctor had taken a look at it.

  ‘So it was in the pub, not on the Heath. And was it the doctor who made a bandage of that towel?’

  He looked at it, seeing for the first time how neatly and regularly Thomas had folded it round his knee. ‘The doctor said to put ice on it.’

  ‘I’ll get some more, then I’ll make us an omelette and you can tell me what you’ve been up to. In full, mind.’

  The game was up. ‘More ice and an omelette would be very welcome. Let’s have a glass of wine and some music while you cook.’

  He lay back, wondering about Ella’s reaction. In defence of a German-speaker. If only he could see gold-lamé-and-opals’ expresson on telling her that.

  Chapter Four

  His knee was very stiff and sore after a restless night. Ella’s was an evening shift and she brought him breakfast in bed, archly curious for more about ‘your newfound friend’, and the professor from Vienna, and Walter Thomas. ‘A Selfridge’s window dresser. You are a dark horse.’

  ‘A refugee student of architecture. When you meet, you can talk about drawing.’

  The swelling was no worse, he thought, but he would call the doctor in, just to be on the safe side.

  ****

  ‘Bit early in the season?’ His doctor raised his eyebrows at the bruising but concurred with the young man at the pub: no serious damage. He would have some embrocation sent round and Peter must simply rest his leg. He would also give him a letter in case the question of call-up arose, though he couldn’t think why it should, yet.

  Peter telephoned chambers, only to learn from one of the clerks that the barrister with whom he was learning the ropes had entered government service for the duration. Fortunately, if Mr Hill was minded to stay on, Mr Creevey-Adams had expressed himself happy to take him under his wing. ‘There’s a lot to be learned from Mr Creevey-Adams, you’ll find.’ Mr Creevey-Adams would be in touch, but there was a desk in his room where Mr Hill could sit when he was fit again.

  He had just put down the phone when it rang—at last, the low, accented voice he’d been longing to hear. She was sorry for not calling earlier and now had only a few minutes. She would so like to see him – but sadly today she must work late and tomorrow had to go with her grandfather when he registered as an enemy alien.

  He broke in: whenever she could manage, it would be very pleasing.

  ‘After work on Wednesday, would that be in order?’

  ‘Whenever you can come will be very much in order.’ Her friend Walter Thomas had left a package for the professor she could take.

  ‘My, you are smitten,’ said Ella, returning as soon as he put the phone down.

  ****

  Later that morning, Creevey-Adams telephoned and inquired after the knee. How had it happened?

  Perhaps, “an English fascist kicked me while I was defending the Jewish refugee I adore”? Perhaps not. ‘The doctor thought it was a bit early in the season.’

  ‘Ah yes.’ Creevey-Adams moved on. ‘I was hoping we could go along to the Russian Tea Rooms this week. Our friends there have expressed a wish.’ He paused. ‘Anyway, don’t want you to be bored, so I’ll bring some papers round if I may. Nothing too complicated, but I gather you’re good at drafting and you might try your hand on these.’

  He was round just after tea, bearing a portmanteau stuffed with what looked to Peter like a very tired set of instructions, gladly accepting the offer of a drink – a large brandy – and sitting heavily on the sofa opposite Peter’s, looking round the room, fat legs sticking out before him.

  Peter thanked him for his kindness in taking him on. ‘But will you be joining the war effort too?’ He looked at the fat legs. ‘Fight perhaps?’

  ‘More than happy to offer you what experience I can. I’m sure we’ll get on splendidly. As for the war effort, I have been asking myself that. Bit long in the tooth for the trenches, I fear. Of course, I hope we’ll see sense and come to an agreement. I’m sure the Germans would rather be our friends and allies than at war. And I’m quite sure our interest is to have them as friends. All reasonable people must see that. Nonetheless, if it came to invasion of these islands, I would stand with the defend
ers. I want to make that very clear.’ He swallowed his brandy.

  Peter gestured at the decanter. Was there some unease under the self-assurance?

  ‘And you, won’t your father expect you to volunteer for his regiment? He had a very distinguished Great War, I understand.’

  ‘Very. But it’s not always like father, like son. Besides, I might serve my country on the home front.’

  Creevey-Adams turned to look at him. ‘Have you had an approach?’ His tone was unexpectedly sharp.

  ‘From the talks department of the BBC. Of course I said I was too busy at the Bar.’

  ‘I’ll be doing my best to make a reality of that. I really must be going, I’m sorry. Thank you for your hospitality.’ He waved his glass at the walls. ‘I see you’ve lost some pictures.’

  ‘Mother’s modernists. From her Paris atelier. She’s had them sent into storage in the country, away from any bombing.’

  ‘French, your mother?’

  ‘No, but she spent time in Paris.’

  ‘So did my sister, finishing. I’ll be in touch. Pop round for another chat. Very enjoyable. I’ll see myself out. Hope the knee keeps mending.’

  So he was ready to fight for “these islands” but not what “these islands” stood for. Taking him up on that might have been interesting. Asking him about giving Hitler a free hand in Europe. Was that the decency that defined England?

  ****

  Over the next week or so, visitors’ conversation turned, inevitably it seemed, to the rights and wrongs of going to war. Bright young things, he remarked to Ella, had been replaced by earnest young things.

  ‘Earnest? Not you. You never commit yourself – standing back and joining in the argument at the same time – whatever side tickles you. Even over the war, it’s just an intellectual exercise. You should come down and get your hands dirty under the brute of an ambulance they’ve found for us.’