I pause, looking at the crying child. “Is he yours? He’s … lovely.” The boy’s wide, watery gaze doesn’t move from my face. “You’re married? I didn’t know. Belated congratulations.”
She runs a hand across the folds of her tunic, and the tilaka between her eyebrows glares at me like a fiery third eye. “It isn’t really my business. But as you’re here, I wanted to talk to you about Mrs. Gupta.” She tightens her lips, and places her hands on the handles of the buggy.
“Sorry?” I wonder if I’ve misheard her.
“She’s upset. Your father is avoiding her. She says you’ve only been in the shop once since you got home.”
“Well … yes,” I admit.
“I think your father is being unfair. Mrs. Gupta was a good friend to your mother. What happened was a tragic accident. It wasn’t Mrs. Gupta’s fault.”
“Of course it wasn’t,” I reassure her. “Look, I appreciate you trying to help … but my father has suffered a terrible loss. I think it’s up to him where he chooses to shop.” I am firm. “It’s nothing against the Guptas. It’s not personal.”
She tightens her hold on the buggy. “If that’s your attitude.”
“I can’t force him to talk to Mrs. Gupta.” I raise my chin. “I think he deserves some peace. He’s grieving.”
Aseema’s mouth turns down. She has never liked me, not since school. She always presumed there was something between Shane and me.
I watch her walk away, her shoulders straight, head up. She glides rather than walks. Even with a buggy to push. Her plait hangs down her spine, longer and glossier than I’d remembered.
I know that Aseema is close to Mrs. Gupta, but even so, she has over-stepped the bounds of neighborly concern. I’m glad that I defended my father. Whatever he did in the war, he loved Mum, and she loved him. It feels good to be on his side for once.
ERNST
1933, Germany
THREE SS DOCTORS HAVE COME to school. They sit in the gymnasium at trestle tables. We file into the fusty, boy-smelling hall class by class, going up in alphabetical order when our names are called. When it’s my turn, I stand with head down, enduring it like one of the cows at milking time, toes curling inside my socks, while the unsmiling men in white coats instruct me to turn this way and that. I try not to breathe through my nose; the stink of rubber from mats piled in the corner makes me feel sick. The men weigh me and check my height. The thinnest one measures my skull with silver pincers, peering down his nose while he clamps the metal arms to either side of my forehead. The metal is sharp against my skin. They have a chart with glass eyes embedded in it. One of the doctors holds the chart next to my head, checking which one matches my iris; he reads out a number and the thin one writes it down. We all know blue is good. Brown is bad.
Winkler has already given leaflets to the German Youth boys telling us what the Aryan race looks like. Otto enjoys reading bits aloud. “An Aryan is tall, long-legged and slim.” He scans the words, as if he needs to be prompted by the text. But he can recite it off by heart, like a poem. “The race is narrow-faced, with a narrow forehead; they have a narrow, high-built nose and a prominent chin. The hair color is blond.”
There are posters on the clubhouse wall. One is of a fat man with a bulbous nose and drooling mouth groping a slender, fainting German girl. We spend extra time studying this particular poster, as the girl has such a tiny waist and pointy breasts. Another shows two men with bushy beards and hooked noses running away with Aryan babies stuffed under their coats. A caption screams: Beware the baby-eating Jews! Semites are well-known cannibals. The last one is an illustration of ugly women in headscarves, cackling like witches as they steal food from innocent blond children. I stare at the pictures, reminding myself that these cartoon creatures are Jews. But it doesn’t seem real. I’ve never seen a real person that looks like any of them.
I’ve seen quite a few people that come close to the Aryan ideal, including my own face in the mirror. And then there is Otto, standing inches taller than me, whose shoulders are broader, whose nose is finer, and whose chin is firmer than mine. He looks exactly like the picture on the leaflet. He could have been the model for it. Right at the beginning, Winkler picked my brother out as a perfect representative of the Volk community, a warrior throwback from the lost continent of Atlantis. “You are the future of the Third Reich,” he’d said, his hand resting on Otto’s broad shoulder. Otto fought hard to keep a stern expression. But I could tell by the twitch at his mouth, the light in his eyes, that he could hardly contain his excitement.
Wherever we are, Hitler keeps an eye on us. There’s a portrait of him in our classroom as well as in the club; the school portrait is even larger, and it’s been positioned where the crucifix used to be. Every Monday, under his gaze, we have lessons in racial purity.
Sister Engel drums her fingers on the desk and looks across at us, most of us in our German Youth uniform, with the new flag on our collars.
She rises in her rustling robes and stands by the blackboard.
“The Master Race is not an accident,” she says. “It must be preserved with careful breeding.” She squints at the back row of desks. “Can anyone tell me what eugenics are?”
Karl’s hand shoots up. “Racial science, Sister.”
She nods. “Very good. From the Greek word meaning ‘good origins’ or ‘good birth.’”
She stares out over the class, her hands folded before her. “Now, Gregor Mendel’s Principles of Heredity were developed through the study of eugenics.” She tilts her head to one side. “Can anyone tell me what these principles consist of?”
Karl is reaching for the ceiling, half out of his chair, face flushed. “They tell us that when two races mix, the lesser race will be … dominant in their children. The higher race is…” he frowns, “re … re…”
“Recessive,” she finishes. “Yes. That is correct. Which means the lesser race will weaken and destroy the higher race. And we must never let that happen. We must keep our race pure.”
She writes the words Gregor Mendel and Principles of Heredity on the board in her sloping letters.
“Of course we know that the highest race is Nordic.” She smiles. “Who can tell me what its traits are?”
Everyone shouts at once: “Born leaders!” “Great warriors!” “Intelligent!” “Physically strong!” “Blond!” “Pure blooded!”
She’s holding up her hand. “Indeed. The Nordic race is born to lead, which is why it’s the master race.” She smiles at us. “Can anyone tell me what the other races are?”
As we shout out names, she writes them on the board: Dinaric. Falic. Ostic. Ost-Baltic. Slav. Negro. Semitic.
She underlines Semitic with scrawling lines, pressing so hard that her chalk snaps in half. “This race comes at the bottom of the list,” she says, “because it is the lowest. In fact, the Jews are subhuman. Think of them as parasites. Something we need to stamp on; otherwise,” she shakes her head, “they will defile us, pollute our blood and turn Germany into a mongrel nation.”
She wipes the chalk off her hands and pushes her glasses further up her nose. “To quote from our own Führer in his wonderful book, Mein Kampf,” she clears her throat, “a nation which, in an era of racial poisoning, commits itself to nurturing its best and highest racial elements must, one day, become master of the world.”
“Heil Hitler,” we chorus, raising our arms.
Lessons used to start and finish with a prayer. Now there are no more prayers, except for short ones about protecting the Fatherland and the Führer. As we file out into the corridor, I hear the crackle of the radio. The principal keeps it on all day, for when the Führer makes a speech. Then a loudspeaker alerts nuns and teachers to listen with their pupils, and we drop what we’re doing and sit in silence. I can’t help wondering if he is angry all the time, or just when he gives speeches.
* * *
Otto and I are lying in the long grass by the lake. Mrs. Meyer has sent us off to find wild garlic and
cuckooflower, and we’re resentful of this unnecessary task. Since joining up, our lives are even busier. Between farm duties, school and the German Youth, there’s hardly time to chew on some sausage and bread before falling into bed exhausted.
Mrs. Meyer can’t see us here, flopped on our stomachs with a wilting, aromatic pile of garlic stalks beside us. We’re splitting grass stems to make whistles; some of our attempts sound more like trumpet blasts and others farting raspberries. Our loud voices ring out in the still air, provoking and boasting. I’m glad. It will alert Sarah and Daniel, in case they’re near. Our careless human sounds shatter the cool mystery of the forest. Without raising my head to look at it, I sense its louring presence beyond the wide, rippling surface of the lake. When I’m outside its borders, I always feel that something is watching me from between those dense lines of trunks and tangled branches. Being with Otto makes me feel safer. He doesn’t believe in anything he can’t see.
“You know, you and I, we don’t have to do everything the Meyers tell us,” Otto is saying, carefully splitting a grass stem with earthy fingers. “They’re old and past it, no use to the Fatherland. It’s us that are important. We’re the ones who matter.”
“So are you going to throw them out?” I tease. “Take over the farm?”
He spits in disgust. “I’m not going to be a farmer.” He rolls onto his back and stares up at the blue sky. “I’m going to be a soldier in the SS.” He turns his head to squint at me. “It would be fun to turn them out though, wouldn’t it? I’d like to see their faces.”
“What about Bettina and Agnes?”
“Bettina can stay.” He smiles. “She’s a pain. But she’s pretty. She’s growing tits. Did you notice? You can see them through her cotton blouse.”
“I didn’t notice.” I look towards the forest. It’s thick as a maze. Somewhere inside its interior is the cottage Sarah mentioned. The place they go to get away from things. I chew the end off a stalk of grass. It’s spiky and fibrous, alien on my tongue; I pull it out between my lips like a green worm. Sarah is really pretty. Prettier than Bettina. Not that I can say that to my brother.
“Don’t you fancy anyone?” He pokes me. “What’s the matter with you?” He leans close and flicks a mucky finger at my ear. It stings. “You know we have to make lots of babies for the Fatherland. It’s our duty.”
“Stop it!” I cup my ear with my hand. He flicks me again on the other side. Bits of mud fly and splatter against my cheek. My lobe throbs.
I roll over onto him and grab his shoulders. He wrestles me, pushing and pulling until he slides out from under me. We both struggle to our feet. We’ve trampled the wild garlic and I inhale its bitter, pungent smell. He grabs the sweater tied around my waist by a sleeve, and yanks hard, stretching it.
“Look out, you’ll break it!”
The knot of sleeves unravels and he’s left holding the sweater in triumph. With a shout he hurls it high into the air. We both watch it float up over the lake and come down with a gentle splish onto the surface. The fabric fills with water, darkening, spreading out. Soon it will sink.
I scratch my head. “Idiot!” I say between clenched teeth. “You threw it. You get it.”
Otto laughs. “No way! It’s too cold.”
The one thing in the world I can do better than Otto is swim. I know he doesn’t like deep water. Is afraid of it.
“Oh, of course. I forgot,” I say casually, turning away. “Don’t worry. I won’t make you get in.”
I kick off my shoes. The mossy ground cushions the arch of my soles, is ticklish under my bare toes. I begin to hum, as if getting into the water is something delightful and easy.
He pushes me to one side. “I’ll get the damn thing,” he says roughly, pulling off his own shoes and stamping out of his shorts, wrenching his top over his head.
He wades in naked, wincing at the cold, a flush of goosebumps rising on his arms. But he strides on, up to his thighs in the freezing water. His hands paddle beside him, pushing through lumps and tangles of weed. I cover my mouth with my hand. It’s important that he doesn’t see me laughing or I’ll be dead.
“Watch out for the eels!” I call, my voice concerned and innocent.
He stops for a second and then throws himself headlong into the lake. Its mirrored surface wrinkles under a gust of wind. The sweater has drifted farther out. He swims towards it with hesitant strokes keeping his head above the water level. The surface is black in the evening light and glistening with silver reflections. Suddenly he lets out a yell. “Something bit me!”
He turns, eyes wide, and swims for the shore, his arms flailing, splashing. For a moment I’m concerned. But I realize that he can stand where he is. And, as if he can read my thoughts, he stumbles and pushes himself upright. I know his feet will be sinking into thick, slimy mud. I see distaste and fear in his stretched mouth, his wide eyes.
He collapses on the bank next to me, clutching his calf. There’s a cut there, blood leaking out in a smudged red line over his wet skin. He gasps and winces, rocking his knee into his chest, his shoulders rigid as he curses through clenched teeth.
“Don’t be a baby.” I stand over him. “You must have scratched yourself on something.”
“It’s not a scratch!” he shouts, hauling himself back onto his feet and fumbling with his clothes. He hops on one leg, attempting to pull on a sock. “The bloody thing had teeth.”
“What about my sweater?”
I can just make it out: a dark splodge of bloated wool sitting under the surface, like the humped back of a water goblin.
“Get it yourself.”
He pushes a hand through hair turned greenish brown with river water and scowls at me; but I notice a blurry film over his eyes and immediately my victory evaporates. I want to sling my arm around his shoulders, and give him a reassuring squeeze. But I know better. I leave him to stomp back to the farm without me. And I watch him pull his elbow across his face; brushing away the tears he thinks I didn’t see.
KLAUDIA
1996, London
“THE BUZZER’S BROKEN. Come in,” Scarlett says.
The hall light goes off with a click.
“Keep the door open a minute,” she yells.
I stand, my hand on the handle to stop it slamming shut behind us. Naked electric light floods the bare hall.
“Quick!” She beckons. “Up the stairs before the damn thing goes off again.”
At the top of the stairs she turns a key in a lock, and I peer through a dusky jumble of shadows, inhaling incense, overripe fruit and the sour tang of milk that has gone off. It reminds me of my shared house in Leeds, of Meg and Lucy, and I feel a pang of homesickness for my lost life. She sets off down a narrow passage, dropping her coat on a crowded table as she passes. “Kitchen. Living room. The can,” she intones, motioning into darkened rooms. I nearly trip over a pile of shoes and boots as I follow her, squeezing past boxes on the way to another flight of stairs.
“It’s what you guys call a maisonette. Two floors. Neat, isn’t it?” Scarlett leads me upwards. “We can get onto the roof extension as well. Barbecues in the summer. Well, except for the bees maybe…”
She carries on talking. “Luke and Cosmo are in the two rooms across the landing.” I glance at the closed doors. I want to ask her which one is Cosmo’s. I try to sense if he’s there, behind a door, just an arm’s length away from me. I’m suddenly breathless with the fear that he’s about to come out. We’ll be crushed together in the narrow corridor, and I’ll feel the weight of his disappointment, his embarrassment at seeing me.
She turns a handle. “This is my room. Welcome to my boudoir.”
I dive past her, clumsy in my haste, and she shuts us into a space that’s crammed with a bewildering jumble of clothes, accessories, different colors and textures; winking rhinestones and sequins.
A battered wooden wardrobe gapes, its doors flapping apart, hinges straining under layers of costumes. A dressmaker’s dummy leans drunkenly to on
e side like a headless, subdued ghost. Rows of shoes and boots line one wall, arranged in heel height from fluffy flat slippers to thigh-high boots with towering platforms. I smell face powder and the floral, waxy scent of lipsticks. A large mirror is propped on a table that’s spread with bottles, tubes and pots of make-up. The bed is draped with tasseled shawls, and silk cushions covered in Chinese dragons.
She indicates that I sit among the shawls. Immediately I leap up. Something sharp has attacked my bottom.
“Oh jeez! Sorry. Forgot about these.” She scoops the heap of gleaming pins into a pot as I rub my right buttock.
“In the middle of hemming something.” She tilts her head towards a sewing machine that I’d failed to notice on a table on the other side of the bed. “I make pretty much all my own costumes.”
I finger the silky folds of a diaphanous cape. “You made this?” It takes a moment for me to adjust my image of the Scarlett I know swaying across a stage in a suspender belt and nipple tassels, to someone crouched over a sewing machine, industrious and neat, with pins in her mouth.
“Wanna try something on?”
“No,” I laugh. “Not now. Thanks.”
“You can borrow a hat if you like. I haven’t seen you out of that red beret once.”
I reach up and touch the felt. “I’m growing my hair out. It’s a mess at the moment.”
“I know that one. Well.” She shrugs. “Lucky you look cute in red.”
She leans over and reaches behind one of the pillows, takes out a bottle of vodka and waves it at me. “Let’s see if either of the boys is around. I might even share this with them.”
* * *
There’s a large man in the kitchen. He has a thick, brown beard. A green T-shirt strains across his round belly. It says “Blue Note, New York City” in white letters. The beard can’t hide his cheeks, broad and pink as a giant toddler’s.
“This is Luke,” Scarlett says. “My other flatmate. Luke. Meet Eliza.”
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