The Other Me

by Saskia Sarginson

  I lean forward. “How could you tell?”

  She raises her eyebrows and smiles. “I just could.” She laughs. “Come here, cariad.” She folds me inside her talcum-powdered warmth to kiss me goodnight. Her cheek is downy soft as a small silk cushion. “When a man falls in love with you, it’s a powerful thing. It sweeps you away,” she says against my ear. Then she pulls back, her smile gone. “It was hard, because my parents were against him. In the end I had to run away.”

  “Is that why we never see them?”

  She nods. “They couldn’t understand. We eloped.”

  “Eloped!” I can’t imagine my father doing something so romantic and impulsive.

  She tips her head on one side as if she’s thinking of what to say. “Yes,” she says. “It does sound romantic doesn’t it? And in a way it was. But after the war my parents weren’t the only ones to keep hatred in their hearts.” She looks at her hands. “It wasn’t easy, settling down, trying to make a home. But we believed, Klaudia. We put our trust in Jesus.”

  * * *

  The next morning I find a carving of a bird on my bedside table looking at me with unblinking eyes: a perfectly crafted creature with folded wings and a curl of claws tucked up. I realize that my father must have stood by my bed in the darkness while I was sleeping. Perhaps he’d touched my hair after he’d left his offering, or rearranged my covers. I take the bird into my hands. It feels cold and hard.

  ELIZA

  1995, Leeds

  November

  WE SPEND MOST OF our time at his place. He shares a house with two others from teacher training, and his friend, Mike. They’d tossed a coin for bedrooms. Cosmo won. His is the largest, at the top of the house, with views over rooftops and church spires to a glimpse of brown and green moorland, and most importantly, it has a double bed.

  He’d swung his door open, standing back to let me enter, and I’d caught a tremor of uncertainty in him. I’d thought it was the anticipation of sex: nervy and necessary, a quickening in the air between us. But then I understood.

  His walls were covered with paintings and sketches. Canvases, stacked together, leaned against a table. Color and shape leapt out at me, so that I didn’t notice anything else. I went closer, staring at the pictures, recognizing faces of his friends, scenes from the city. And there were other paintings, like dreams; a shifting fantasy of mythological creatures, floating stars, moonlit woods.

  When I turned to him, he was standing in an agony of waiting, twisting his hands, holding them out as if waiting for a jailer to clamp his wrists. His gaze was on my face, analyzing, dissecting. I didn’t have to speak. He knew. Relief sank through him. He dropped his hands to his sides and grinned at me.

  “Why are you teaching?” I went to him. Indignant. Excited by his talent. “You should be an artist. You are an artist.”

  My words were caught by his tongue moving between my lips, asking without speaking, and we were falling backwards onto the luxury of his double bed. His hand behind my head to cushion me made me want to cry. Rain tapped against the window. A sudden squall of winter. He was pulling my jumper over my shoulder, kissing my collarbone, licking at the curve of clavicle, feathering my ear with his breath.

  * * *

  The outside is full of the hiss of sparklers and snap of sausages. Gangs of children run giggling in the streets, full of the energy of the night, emboldened by the shrieking sky and smoky darkness. Everyone is going to Roundhay Park to see the fireworks display, but Cosmo pulls me back. “I have a better idea,” he whispers.

  There’s a pull-down ladder that leads up to the Velux window in the sloping ceiling of his bedroom. He goes first, leaning down to help me up through the gap and out onto the slippery tiles of the roof. I catch my breath: the view of treetops, spires and buildings is eclipsed by the huge swing of the sky. Then I look down and my stomach lurches at the drop.

  He holds out his hand. “Trust me?”

  I nod, placing my fingers inside his.

  “I know it’s an old line. But I won’t let you fall,” he says.

  A breeze tugs at my hair and I hang on to him, snatching glimpses into the void below, where a sea of rustling shapes moves. The bushes and trees of the garden transformed into an ocean.

  It’s a short shuffle across a stone ridge till we reach the big chimneystack and can crouch beside it. Hugging the cold, solid weight of bricks, we cling together and marvel at explosions of color which become bigger and brighter, shattering the darkness around us, as if we’ve flown closer to the moon. I want to tell him how much Mum loves fireworks. Instead I squeeze into his chest, laughing as a shower of hot cinders falls onto our heads.

  “Never a dull moment when I’m with you,” I say, patting the sparks out of his hair. “Have you got a thing for heights?”

  He glances at me sideways. “Didn’t I tell you, our next date is rappeling from the top of the cathedral?”

  A rocket explodes, and streamers of red and gold scrawl across the sky, so close I could put up my hand and stir the colors like ribbons. Far away we hear the collective sighs of admiration rising above the trees in the park. But we are alone, high above the city, like birds. He turns and settles his lips on mine. “You taste of gunpowder.”

  As we’re climbing down the ladder into his dark bedroom, a song comes up from the sitting room below: Mick Jagger’s voice wailing through the ceiling, the bass thumping and moaning.

  “I love this song! Dance with me.” I take his hands, pulling him across the carpet, hips swaying.

  He moves with me, smiling. “You love every song.”

  We’re waltzing around like Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers, turning inside moonlight, singing along to the words. Then he pulls me close, ribs pressed against ribs. And we’re unpeeling our clothes, trying to find skin, pressing our mouths against each other, clashing teeth, swallowing breath. I smell the cinders in his hair, damp and smoky as he buries his face in my stomach, and we slide across the bed, entwined and laughing.

  “I’ve never met anyone like you, Eliza Bennet,” he says as he slips his hands around my waist, tugging at the waistband of my jeans. “Nerves of steel. Skin like silk. And legs that could crush a man to death.”

  * * *

  Mike leans over and grabs a slice of pizza from the boxes spread on the coffee table. He sighs with pleasure as he takes a bite of stringy cheese, grease shining his fingers. Cosmo and I are slumped on the tatty sofa, hips welded together, his arm around my shoulder. Cosmo’s other housemates, Lou and Peggy, are kneeling on the floor by the coffee table, passing a joint between them.

  I lean my cheek on Cosmo’s shoulder, letting their voices wash over me. Honey melts in my bones; there’s a sensitized ticklishness on my skin. My lips are swollen from kissing. I’m suddenly ravenously hungry and I lean forward, pick up a piece of drooping pizza and take a huge bite. Cold, salty, chewy. It’s the most delicious thing I’ve ever tasted.

  “How’s the dancing?” Lou asks me, eyes narrowed against the smoke. She pinches a fragment of tobacco from her tongue with fastidious care.

  “Good.”

  And it is. Voronkov took me back. I’m working hard. I haven’t tried to perform in public again. But I’m going to kick my fear away. One thing at a time, I tell myself. Sitting here, I feel as though I could do anything.

  “I admire you,” Lou is saying. “For taking a risk. I mean, personally, I couldn’t do it. I need to know I can support myself. Teaching is one of those jobs. It’ll always be there.”

  “God, that’s a bit reductive isn’t it?” Mike hoots, mouth full. “Whatever happened to passion? For educating the unformed mind—inspiring the next generation. Dead Poets Society and all that.” He looks at me. “We could all do with being a bit more passionate, like Eliza with her dancing.”

  “Oh, I don’t know if I’d call it passion.” I swallow a piece of dough. “It’s more like a compulsion. I have to dance—even when it’s hard, or seems impossible. The need to do it is inside me
, and I can’t get rid of it. When I got to Leeds it was my chance to do what I believed in instead of what was expected. A geography degree just wasn’t right for me. It was a big decision to drop out, but you have to admit your mistakes, don’t you?” I look around at their listening faces. “Marriages. Jobs. Degrees. How many people won’t admit it when they’ve got it wrong? They keep soldiering on until it’s too late. It’s so British, so stiff-upper-lip. You made your bed; you have to lie in it. What kind of idiot saying is that, anyway?”

  I stop, flushed, aware that I’m talking loudly, scared that I’ll give myself away if I say anything else. I’ve sailed too close to the truth already. I stiffen, staring at their faces: waiting for one of them to question me. But Mike raises his can of lager towards me in a silent salute. And Cosmo turns his head and presses his lips against my forehead.

  * * *

  A chink of moonlight through the curtains throws shadows over Cosmo’s face. The planes and valleys of his features move across each other like a puzzle. Knowledge of him falters, and I press my fingers against his jaw, feeling the shape of his nose, twin arching brows like supplicant creatures.

  “You’re very quiet.” I lean over him. His chest rises and falls beneath my ribs. A boat carrying me onwards.

  “Just thinking about what you said.” He takes my hand in his, kisses my fingers. “I wish I was as brave as you.”

  I crumple, my arm losing strength, too weak to hold me up. I sink onto my side. “I’m not brave.” I look at the dim ceiling. “I just dance. That’s all.” I twist my head away, squeezing my eyes shut.

  He rolls over and hugs me close. I’m turned away from him. My spine curved into the hollow of his chest. I can feel tension inside him. His self-doubt. “You’re pleasing your parents,” I murmur. “You’re being sensible. Sensible is good.”

  “That’s another thing. You’re so courageous about being alone.” His words rumble through me. I feel them in my stomach, my heart.

  I fidget inside the cage of his arms. My fingers dig into the sinew of his biceps. “No,” I whisper. “I’m not.”

  “Where are your brothers?” he asks.

  I’m glad he can’t see my face. “Abroad,” I say. “Both of them. They live in Australia.” I need to change the subject. I can hardly breathe. “Weren’t you interested in becoming a doctor—like your mother and father?”

  He gives a quick humorless laugh. “It’s not just my parents that are doctors. My sister and brother too.” He hauls me closer, his legs spooning mine. “I was never much good at science at school. Always had my head in history books or I’d be messing about with pencils and paint. I’m the odd one out.” He blows gently into the nape of my neck. “You can imagine what family meals are like when we get together. I don’t get a word in edgewise among all the medical anecdotes and in-jokes.” He’s kissing the edge of my shoulders as he speaks. “Why is it doctors never stop talking about blood?” He stops, moves away slightly. “Seriously though, I have great respect for them.”

  “Of course.” I wriggle out of his grasp and turn on my hip to face him, relieved to be talking about something safe. “It must be amazing to be able to make a difference—actually cure people.”

  “They’re committed to saving lives.”

  “All lives?” I can taste his breath.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I don’t know,” I flounder. “Say if someone was terribly injured, in pain, with no chance of recovery?”

  I can just make out his frown. “It’s a tricky subject. But modern medicine can relieve pain. I don’t think it’s up to us to end lives—think where that could lead.”

  I speak without thinking. “You sound like my—”

  I bite back the word. I can’t get air into my lungs. I struggle up, sitting over bent knees, coughing, palm over my mouth, eyes watering. He sits up too, pats my back, and passes me a glass of water from the bedside table.

  I gulp dusty liquid. Wipe my eyes. We settle again, lying down, making room for each other, my head on his chest.

  “Hey. Why are we talking about death?” He slips his hand under the covers and finds my breast, as if by accident. I shiver. Wanting starts up again, blossoming between my legs, warm and urgent.

  “I’m going to introduce you to my grandmother,” he murmurs, his fingers teasing my skin in soft loops. “I think you’d really like each other. She’s the bravest person I know. She survived a concentration camp.”

  Desire leaves me, empties out. I move abruptly, crossing my arms. His fingers fall away.

  “You never said.” My voice is small. “You’re Jewish?”

  “No.” He turns onto his back and folds his hands behind his head. “I’m a goy.” He sounds cheerful. “My father’s Dutch Jewish. Not Mum. But Dad’s mother is the archetypal Jewish grandmother. All chutzpah and chicken soup. I used to be fascinated by everything at her house. The menorah. The language she used for things. It seemed so exotic and foreign.” He finds my eyes through the wavering moonlight. “Then one day I saw the number tattooed on her arm. It was a shock. It brought it home to me. This whole history I have. Through her. She doesn’t talk about what happened—not unless you ask. She lost her entire family. She’s this tiny wisp of a woman. But she’s stronger than anyone.”

  I inch away from him, acres of cold sheet stretching between us like a desert. Cosmo is still speaking, but his voice is distant. I can’t hear anything clearly for the thunder of blood crashing in my ears. His history has changed my lie, swollen it to new proportions, making it huge and grotesque. Guilt twists up from the past, flooding through my veins, marking me out as my father’s daughter.

  ERNST

  1933, Germany

  THE RADIO IS ON IN the parlor. It’s a freezing January and Mrs. Meyer sits by the fire knitting, thin ankles crossed under her skirt. Bettina and Agnes are on the floor, practically in the grate itself, shelling nuts into a bowl. Because it’s bitter out, Otto and I are allowed inside with the rest of the family. We kneel hunched over a sheet of paper, cleaning tack.

  Meyer is on a chair by the radio, head cocked towards it, listening. The only other noises are the soft clicking of knitting needles, snap of twigs breaking inside flames, and an occasional tumble of embers. A tinny voice shouts out of the radio into the hushed room.

  A sudden whistling interrupts the program; sounds crackle and hiss through the transmitter. The voice disappears inside the noise. Meyer frowns and twiddles a knob. The voice rises up from the machine, even louder. “Reich President von Hindenburg has appointed Adolf Hitler, leader of the National Socialist Party, chancellor of the Reich.”

  Bettina throws a handful of peel into the fire. Flames flare green. I keep rubbing at the leather strap in my hand. Smelling horse sweat, beeswax and burning chestnut skins.

  “Hitler is a friend of the farmer.” Meyer nods. “And no friend to communists. Things will get better now.”

  Mrs. Meyer takes off her glasses and rubs at her eyes, her knitting abandoned on her lap. She gazes into the fire. “Put another log on, Ernst.”

  Meyer turns the radio off. I get up and place a piece of wood in the grate, the heat scorching my face as I lean close.

  * * *

  Two months later, Otto and I travel into town on a Saturday morning with Meyer, to take eggs and cheese to market as usual. As we draw up in the trap on the market square we see at once that something is happening: stalls are abandoned, and there’s a crowd gathered around the steps of the town hall. Otto and I jump down and wriggle past elbows to get to the front. Men in brown SA uniform are taking down the German flag; we watch as they pour petrol on the twists of fabric. One of them drops a match and sets it blazing. Their polished boots reflect the glare. Farmers and townspeople shuffle and whisper.

  “They’ve got rid of the mayor,” someone says.

  “Good riddance,” another voice says.

  A thin stream of smoke catches in the bright air, smudging it. A group of Hitler Youth push up be
hind the SA. The boys are the only ones to react openly. They cheer. I look at their uniforms, the knives in their belts, their flushed, excited faces, and feel envious. As the flag on the ground writhes and blackens, Otto and I watch the SA men begin to hoist a different one. The men shout to each other, voices full of satisfaction.

  “Come along.” Meyer tugs at us. “We’re here to work.”

  We resist him, craning our heads, staring up above the gabled roof of the town hall, eager to see the new flag unfurling. There is no wind to lift it. It hangs, drooping and stubborn as a dead thing. But we know that when it snaps open it will show a black swastika, a red background.

  * * *

  We are German Catholics, living in a German Catholic family; but we have no official proof of our parentage, which is a problem. The organization insisted on taking photographs of us from different angles and sent them off for verification of our Aryan physiology. The results came back in our favor. But still we must undergo a worse humiliation.

  Our section leader, Winkler, takes us into his office and makes us drop our pants. He has to check that we aren’t circumcised, he explains. Otto stands to attention, staring straight ahead, flushing scarlet. Cold air breezes around my private parts, shriveling my balls. I nearly pull up my pants and walk out. I don’t want to play at soldiers that badly. I want the knife—a dagger that says “Blood and Honor” on it. Only I’ve just discovered I won’t get it until I’m fourteen. But there are other reasons for joining, I tell myself, as Winkler bends to stare at my penis: nobody will be able to doubt the purity of our blood if we are in the organization. And marching up and down with flags and drums will be more fun than toiling up and down the fields spreading muck. We’ll have the perfect excuse not to do all kinds of farm duties. There will be trips into the mountains to go camping, weekends away. And we’ll be the same as the other boys at school. Most have joined up now.

  Winkler straightens and nods. “With no birth certificates, none of the correct paperwork, we have to be safe. You understand? Yours are … unusual cases.”