The Other Me

by Saskia Sarginson

  “We were scared,” she says. “We thought someone might have put it here as a warning.”

  “I’m sorry … I hadn’t thought…”

  Daniel’s lips are pursed, his eyes narrowed. “What does a Nazi want with a forbidden book?”

  I can’t stop myself from sighing. His mistrust of me is frustrating. “I just want to read it. That’s all. I’m not your enemy, Daniel. I’m not going to tell anybody about this place. About the books.”

  “But you—” he begins to say.

  Sarah slips her hand inside her brother’s. “I believe him, Dan.”

  I look at her gratefully, and then back at Daniel. I want to win him over, show him that I’m not like the others. “What does your father think about everything that’s going on?” I lean against the wall. “Did you know that people … your people, are leaving town? Emigrating. Herr Huber, the ironmonger, has gone already. The rumor is he went to America.”

  “Of course I know.” Daniel rubs his cheek. “But my father says we just need to wait it out. He says this can’t last forever. Hitler will lose power.” His skin has angry marks where he’s touched it. “My father fought in the Great War. He was a German hero. Jews have been in Germany since Roman times.” Behind his glasses, I see his expression change from suspicion to hope. “We’re not going to run away. Things will get back to normal. They have to.”

  Sarah turns to me. “What do you think, Ernst?”

  It’s the first time she’s used my name. I imagine those syllables melded by her tongue, how her lips formed the word. The intimacy makes me blush again. I cough and run my finger around my collar.

  “I don’t know.”

  All I can think of are the posters in the clubhouse, the ranting speeches, the Storm Troopers smashing the chemist’s windows. That has become the norm. I don’t see how time can run backwards through all that hatred and return to how it used to be.

  “Will you come again?” Sarah’s face is open, her cheeks flushed. “To read your book? Perhaps we can play a game of cards next time?”

  I would like to stay in the cottage forever. But it’s getting late, the light ebbing away, leaving us inside a mire of mossy gray like the liquid texture of the lake. I can’t make out their features anymore, as if we really are underwater, swimming apart through fronds of shadows.

  * * *

  Otto is waiting for me by the gate into the rye field. Behind him the last rays of the sun are burning.

  “Where have you been?” He scowls.

  “Getting away from you,” I say lightly. And looking over his head, I spot a blur of movement, a shape disturbing the usual lines of tree and hedge. There is someone standing beneath the spread of a chestnut tree on the other side of the field. “Look,” I say to distract him. “Who’s that?”

  Otto snaps his head around and stares. “It’s a woman. She’s on our land.”

  I look more carefully. He is right. The shape is a woman’s; she’s standing under the tree as if she’s waiting for something. I squint, unable to make out her features. I don’t recognize her silhouette. She is probably a stranger. There are plenty of people on the road, travelers, people looking for work or shelter for the night.

  Otto is already striding over there. “You! You’re on private land!”

  The woman under the tree flinches. I see her begin to turn away and then back as if uncertain about what to do. I’m following behind Otto, and as we get closer, I realize that she’s older than I first thought. She’s thin, and her fingers clutch at long, tatty skirts.

  “She’s probably looking for charity,” I guess, “food or somewhere to stay.”

  “More likely looking to steal.”

  The woman takes us in with startled eyes. Her mouth opens and closes in a thin face; auburn hair sweeps behind her in a long plait. She might have been beautiful once, only there isn’t room to consider it properly, as my head is full of Sarah, her shining loveliness. The woman’s lips flicker around the hint of a smile, hands lifting.

  “Don’t come any closer,” Otto yells. “There’s nothing for you here. What are you? A Jew? A gypsy?”

  Her face folds inwards, fear knitting up her features. She ducks her head and backs away, hunching; and I know that she’s used to making herself small, making herself invisible.

  Otto picks up a stone, pulls back his arm. I grab him in time, my fingers tight around his bicep.

  “What are you doing? She hasn’t done anything wrong.”

  He spins round, chest out, curled fists ready.

  I shake my head. “You’re just angry about the Ancestor Report. Go and punch a scarecrow. Don’t take it out on an old woman.”

  I walk back around the edges of the field, avoiding trampling the new shoots, and his voice shouts, “You’re an idiot! We’re never going to belong. Not really. And you don’t care!”

  His words echo inside the branches above my head, scaring a bird into flight. A rabbit runs out from under my feet, dashing in a panicked rush for the hedge, white tail glowing through the dusk. But I hardly notice; I am already letting my mind settle around those moments with Sarah, re-exploring the feel of her hand in mine. I wonder now if she hadn’t squeezed my fingers before she let go. The more I think about it, the more I seem to remember the slight extra pressure of her flesh against my own.

  KLAUDIA

  1996, London

  I’VE ARRIVED AT THE CLUB early, before my official hours start. I’m planning to tidy the office, wash the tea-stained cups that clutter Josh’s desk, and sort out the rail crammed with Scarlett’s costumes. The place should be empty, but the door isn’t locked. Pushing it cautiously, I see two people, a man and a woman with their backs to me. The man is Cosmo.

  For a moment I can’t understand. He’s finished the mural. His job is done. Stupidly, I think he must have come to see me, and my heart lifts. Then I realize that he’s showing his work to a diminutive, elderly woman; he stoops to her level, their heads touching conspiratorially, both lost in contemplation of the painting before them. I slip off my jacket, bundling it and my bag through the velvet drapes into the office, and hover awkwardly. It’s been minutes and neither of them acknowledges me.

  Cosmo places a cushioning palm on her elbow, murmuring. All her focus is on the painting, absorbed and reverent. I’m certain he knows I’m here. Even though he doesn’t turn around, I feel his attention shift towards me. And I understand that he doesn’t want me here. Sorrow turns me inside out. I shift from one foot to the other.

  He turns at last, his face closed, helping the woman at his side as she moves with careful, fragile steps. I know it’s his grandmother before he introduces us. My heart begins to hammer in my chest.

  She’s exactly as I’d imagined: a tiny old lady with wrinkled skin, her hair just ivory fluff over a domed skull. But her eyes are bright, all-seeing. I shrink from them. As Cosmo makes the formal introductions, she gives me her hand. It’s such a slender collection of bones that I’m scared of crushing it. Her mouth curves into a generous smile, showing off a row of perfect dentures.

  “Eliza,” she says. “What a pretty name.”

  I find that I’m blushing. I look at Cosmo. He raises one eyebrow, shrugging away my confusion.

  “What do you think of my grandson’s work?”

  “He’s very talented,” I say quietly.

  “You have a fan, Cosmo.” She pinches his elbow with playful fingers.

  I look at the tidy folds of her blouse, how it buttons around her narrow wrists. I think about the hidden number tattooed onto one of her arms. Does she hate it? Or perhaps it’s a reminder of what she’s endured, a symbol of her strength.

  He’s put his arm around her shoulder protectively. “Come on, Bubbe,” he says. “I promised to buy you dinner.”

  “He spoils me,” she hisses, delighted.

  They leave together, whispering like lovers. I open the dishwasher and begin to unload sparkling glasses, placing them in racks.

  * * *


  Darkness blindfolds me. Something jolted me out of my dreams. And there it is again, the noise that woke me: a desperate howl. A primeval wail. I sit up, hugging the bedsheets and blink through the night, beginning to make out the familiar shapes of my room.

  The hairs on my arms stand up as it comes again: a shattering cry. It has to be the sound of a child being murdered, a mother torn from her baby.

  I get up and feel my unsteady way to the window, pulling back the curtain. My legs are shaking. I know that I should go out there, try and help. I expect to see people running from their houses, a police car wailing to a screeching halt. But the street is deserted. A shadow moves from under a parked car. A bushy tail dragging low, and a sharp-nosed face is caught in the flare of streetlight.

  I press a hand over my juddering heart. A fox. I’d heard their cry before. But I’d forgotten the pain and anguish, the hideous urgency of it. I watch as another emerges. It walks on tiptoes, back arched like a hyena. They are making a chattering sound now, like angry men smacking their lips.

  Back in bed, the fear that the foxes’ screams have stirred up is banging in my chest. And I curl myself into a ball, wrapping my arms around my bent legs, holding myself tightly. I can’t wipe away an image of Cosmo’s grandmother in the concentration camp, starving, beaten. Her head shaved. He’d wanted me to meet her. It wasn’t supposed to be like this.

  * * *

  Scarlett is trying on outfits for me to judge. She’s thinking of a new routine. She wanders around her bedroom in her silk kimono, a stocking trailing from one hand, a red-feathered hat perched on her head.

  “I met Cosmo’s grandma the other day,” she says. “What an amazing woman! Did you know that she’s a concentration-camp survivor? She was forced to go on one of those death marches and ended up in Bergen-Belsen. Incredible that she’s alive.”

  My pulse begins to thud at my wrists. I raise my shoulders, making a noise in my throat.

  “I asked her if she didn’t want Cosmo to convert, you know, become Jewish?” Scarlett carries on, unperturbed by my lack of response. “Anyway, she just gave me this really steady look and held my hand in hers and she said, ‘Religion has caused enough pain in this world; why would I let it come between me and my grandson? He’s his own man, my dear; what more could I want from him?’” Scarlett turns to me, eyes wide. “How amazing is that? It’s like, she’s not bitter or anything, just a lovely lady. And you know, a lot of those Nazi bastards are still out there, getting away with what they did.” She shakes her head. “It’s so wrong.”

  “Yes,” I say quietly. “I know.”

  “Cosmo told me that he wishes he shared her ability to forgive what they did to her. Thinks she’s a saint. He says he has a hard time biting his tongue when he’s with her.”

  I knot my fingers together, wishing she’d stop talking about it.

  She rummages in her wardrobe. “By the way, Josh told me you’re a dancer.” She picks up a fuchsia boa and then discards it. “You kept that one quiet.”

  “I took classes,” I say slowly, relieved that the subject has changed, “and I was thinking of studying dance full time.” I roll onto my stomach on Scarlett’s bed.

  “According to Cosmo, you’re good.” She raises one eyebrow. “You know what they say about lights and bushels.”

  Cosmo was talking about me. Pleasure and pain collide. I sit up, wrapping my arms around my legs. “I have a problem though…”

  She stops prowling around and sits next to me. “What?”

  I shrug and look away, playing with the tassels on one of the shawls. “The one time I stepped onto a stage, I froze. Just blanked out completely.”

  “Any idea why?” Scarlett asks.

  I shake my head. I can’t tell her about my father, my childhood. The school years spent hiding from Shane. The bullying and ostracizing. Each day full of difficulty. My one safety measure was to stay unnoticed, unseen.

  “I think we should work on it,” Scarlett says. “I mean, burlesque is about revealing yourself while staying in control. I could give you some tips.”

  I hunch my shoulders. “I’d just be wasting your time.”

  “It’s up to me to decide that.” She crosses her legs and pulls her dressing gown around her. “I’m looking for new dancers, and here you are.”

  I slide off the bed. “I’m a ballet dancer—a contemporary dancer. Not burlesque…”

  “But you do tap, right? Bet you’ve learned a bit of swing or jive? Salsa?”

  “Well … yes.”

  “So add burlesque to your repertoire. It doesn’t mean that you’ll be doing it as a career forever.”

  I run my fingers through my hair. “Sorry. I appreciate you trying to help, but I don’t think it’s a good idea.”

  “OK.” She lets the kimono drop and sashays across to the wardrobe. Picks out a short, ruffled dress and slips it on. She regards herself in the mirror. “But do one thing for me.”

  “What?”

  “Dance for me.”

  “Now?” I give a short, embarrassed laugh.

  Scarlett turns and she isn’t smiling. “I’ve never seen you dance. I’ll only know you when I see you express yourself through movement—because it’s who you are, isn’t it?”

  I sink back onto the bed playing with my thumbs, winding them round and round each other. I pinch one until it hurts. My body is alive with the fizz of adrenaline.

  But she’s right. I get up slowly and begin. I’m feeling awkward, clumsy; too aware of Scarlett’s intent gaze. But within seconds, I’ve lost myself: stretching and dipping, contracting and swaying. Music plays inside my head. I break away from remembered choreography. I’m not looking at Scarlett. I’m alone. My body can’t lie. I dance out the ache inside, my longing for Cosmo, my sorrow for the lost people in my life, for Mum, and all those people I don’t know, the invisible ones that move beyond the edges of sight. I’m expressing my feelings with every extension through fingers and toes, every curving line.

  When I stop my skin is hot. I’m panting, ribs rising and falling. I hear the passing traffic in the street. Notice the dust motes caught inside the sunlight coming through the grubby windows.

  Scarlett and I hold each other’s gaze, and I stop breathing. I wonder if she can really see me. My hands hang by my side. I wait.

  Scarlett says in a quiet voice, “My offer stands. Let me know when you’re ready.”

  She’s sitting before her mirror, applying foundation and powder with practiced fingers, humming to herself as if I’m not there.

  * * *

  Mrs. Perkins’s new cat is in the apple tree. It must have gone up after the birds. It clings to a branch meowing pitifully, pink mouth open, its yellow eyes fixed on me. Hooked claws dig into mottled bark. I stand below and make enticing noises, clicking my tongue. The cat thrashes its tail and stares down at me.

  It rained heavily last night and leaves drip onto my upturned face. The damp trunk offers no footholds. I fetch the stepladder out of the shed and place it at the foot of the tree. Carefully, I edge upwards, testing the rungs one at a time. I stretch out my fingers. “Here kitty,” I whisper. He gives me a haughty stare. It’s clear that he isn’t going to meet me halfway.

  I stand on the top rung, praying that the ladder won’t slide from beneath me, and make a wild grab, managing to catch the animal around its middle. I haul it off the branch, but it seems to stretch like elastic in my hands, tenacious claws clinging to the tree. I have to yank to release them, and wince, imagining I hear the snapping of tiny hooks. Rammed tightly under my arm, it writhes and struggles in a frenzy of desperation, as if it’s become ten cats. A panicked paw flashes past my face. Pain sears. I nearly fall. Nearly drop the cat. He’s scratched me just below my eye. But his protest must have exhausted him. He gives up and flops in my grip like a furry rag-doll. I back down the ladder using one hand, soft gray fur crushed against me.

  I slip through the hall and out of the front door before my father appears, and ring
Mrs. Perkins’s bell. She emerges with a look of indignation on her face.

  “My baby!” She holds out red-tipped hands for him.

  I hand him over. His ears and tail droop. “He was stuck in our tree.”

  She hugs the cat, drowning his head between her mountainous breasts. The cat shoots me a disbelieving look and lets out a low wail. She turns to leave.

  “Mrs. Perkins…”

  She stands, head cocked, one foot on her doorstep.

  “Are you sure you heard my mother … screaming?” I put my hand to my stinging cheek. “Couldn’t it have been … something else. A fox maybe?”

  “You think I don’t know what a fox sounds like?” She shakes her head with such vigor that her gold necklaces shimmy across her chest. “I’ve not a shadow of doubt. It was your poor mother. Heard it night after night, and my Harry heard it too. We were going to call the authorities. It didn’t seem right.”

  The door shuts with a bang. I pat the raised line on my cheek and look at my finger, at the small dots of gleaming red.

  I remember the terrible sound of the foxes—how exactly they mimicked the sound of a woman or a child being murdered. Mrs. Perkins is lying. She would have gone ahead and called the police if she’d been sure that it was my mother making that noise.

  ERNST

  1937, Germany

  MEETING SARAH AND DANIEL at the cottage has become a habit. Sometimes, with farm duties and German Youth activities, it’s impossible to get away. Or I can’t give Otto the slip. But I usually manage it twice a week. We have prearranged times, and we leave notes if we miss each other. We read, chat, eat the food they smuggle in their pockets; we play cards. Daniel and I talk about science; we spread a map of the world on the floor to plan the trips we’ll take one day, adventures we’ll have in Africa and Australia. We’ve stopped talking about what’s happening at home. It’s become a kind of unwritten rule.

  Once, in the kitchen, when Daniel wasn’t there, I kissed Sarah on the cheek, brushing my lips across that plump rise of flesh below her eye. Both of us pretended it hadn’t happened. We avoided looking directly at each other for days afterwards. But her embarrassment was thrilling because I knew then that she felt the same: her chest tightened, her heart raced, when I was near. I’ve stopped bothering to remind myself that they are Jews. There’s no point—it doesn’t make sense.