Some Girls, Some Hats and Hitler

by Trudi Kanter

  “That’s not so easy.” Mr. Curlow shook his head. “He has to guarantee to give his technical advice for the production of his patent whenever we need it.”

  “I can help you with that. Usually only lawyers are allowed to visit internment camps. But if you give me a letter stating that you need technical advice which only Walter can give, they might let me see him.”

  His green eyes were probing. He called in his secretary and dictated the letter.

  “Get in touch when you get back,” he said. “Good luck, my dear.”

  3

  The train to Liverpool was packed. People stood in the corridors. A dark-eyed girl looked through the glass door at me. Her eyes sparkled. I opened the door and offered her my seat for a while. She hesitated, and an elderly man spoke up: “I’m sure we can make room for the young lady.”

  Now five people were sitting on a bench for four. Luckily, the girl was very slim. Sitting next to me, she told me that her name was Mimi and she was going to Huyton to visit her interned husband. She was Viennese and had a great sense of humor.

  “How do you keep so slim?”

  “It all goes here,” she said, patting her full behind. “And thank God—that’s what he loves me for.”

  Once we reached Liverpool, we shared a taxi from the station.

  * * *

  Some of them stand close to the long barbed-wire fence, peering out to see who is coming; others walk around with hunched shoulders, their heads down, not expecting anyone. A cold wind is blowing. It wouldn’t be quite so bad if they were in uniform, but they wear old suit jackets, overcoats, and scarves; some are freezing in shirtsleeves. I can’t see Walter or Father. I run up and down the fence, searching. Where are they?

  A soldier escorts us to an office. I sign a document stating that I am entering the camp at my own risk. German airplanes come and go overhead.

  I rush outside. Why can’t I see them? Walter knows I’m coming. What’s happened? I think of the man who was shot by accident in an internment camp. I’m frantic. And then, upon a hill, I see a man with white hair that is blowing in the wind.

  “Father!” I’m shaking.

  He strokes my hair. His eyes are dull.

  “Where’s Walter?” I ask. “Is he all right?”

  “He’s right next to you,” Father says.

  I turn. Walter’s olive skin has turned white. There are blue shadows under his eyes. He takes my hand and leads me across rough, hilly ground into a large, long room. A bare wooden table runs the length of it. At each end of the table stands a soldier, bayonet up. On each side of it are narrow wooden benches. The internees have to sit on one side, visitors on the other.

  Walter. My father. Prisoners. I want to cry. I hold Walter’s hand under the table. Our every move is watched by the soldiers.

  “Mother sends her love,” I say.

  “How are you managing?” Father asks.

  “We miss you.”

  “How’s Mother taking it? I’m so worried about her. We’ve never been parted before.”

  “She sleeps in the bed with me. She doesn’t cry. She’s being very brave.”

  Walter’s face is so strained. “Are you ill?” I ask. “Why are you so pale?”

  “There’s nothing to worry about. I’ve got an inflamed bladder, that’s all.”

  “Is it painful?”

  “Much better now.” He smiles.

  “How did you get it?”

  “When they brought us here, Huyton was an unfinished council-housing estate. You can’t imagine what it was like. Piles of rubble everywhere. There weren’t enough houses, so they pitched tents in a nearby field. I managed to get Father into a house with eleven other internees. It wasn’t finished, but at least he had a roof over his head, and it was dry. I had to go into a tent. They gave us a sack each and told us to stuff it with straw to make a palliasse.”

  “What’s a palliasse?” I ask.

  “A kind of mattress,” Father explains. “Very uncomfortable. Anyway, it took Walter a while to get into a house. We had no towels, no lavatory paper, a one-ounce tablet of soap per week.”

  I put my hand in front of my mouth. I feel so sorry for them.

  “It promptly rained, of course,” Walter says. “The field became a sea of mud. It’s not surprising I’ve had bladder trouble.”

  “How can this happen in England?” I shake my head.

  “It all happened too quickly. They didn’t know what they were doing—they were panic-stricken,” says Walter.

  “You always defend them!” My father is bitter. “Tell her how they banned newspapers, books, the wireless. They censored our letters, and we had to wait ages before we got them. It made us feel so isolated. Why do they punish us like this? We’re on their side.”

  Walter winks at me. “I have something top secret to tell you,” he whispers. “I was offered release from internment if I agreed to join the Pioneer Corps, a voluntary labor force for foreigners. I would have been sent overseas to dig trenches and do other work—not fighting, because they wouldn’t issue us with weapons. They said they would give us English names on our papers, in case we got taken prisoner. Then last week I was taken to see the officer in charge of the camp. He told me to sit down, gave me a cigarette, and said, ‘Ehrlich, I don’t want you to join the Pioneer Corps, not while you are an internee. This is a decision one should make as a free man. Is that clear?’ ‘Yes, sir,’ I said. ‘Thank you.’ ”

  “He knew you would have been in double danger—if you had been captured, they would have known immediately that you are both Austrian and Jewish. And you wouldn’t even have a weapon.”

  “The commander has taken a liking to Walter,” Father says. “He’s given him some work in his office.”

  “It makes life much easier,” Walter says. “And I’m trying to help some of the internees.”

  “Well, I’m glad you’re no longer just a number,” I say. “How’s the food?”

  “It’s not like Nesti’s goulash.” Father chuckles. “Boiled cabbage, cold sausages, meat pies—ugh.”

  “Do you get enough to eat?”

  “Who wants more of that?”

  “Can you buy extra?”

  “They took all our money when we got here. We can draw five shillings a week to spend in the canteen and for cigarettes.”

  Father sees me smuggling an envelope into Walter’s hand underneath the table. I have scraped together twenty pounds for them.

  Other visitors have come in since we started talking. Wives, sons, daughters, fiancées, friends.

  I tell Walter about Mr. Curlow and Mica Products and ask him what I should do.

  He shrugs. “I leave it all up to you, darling. Whatever you say.”

  One of the soldiers glances at his watch. How much time do we have?

  Father’s hands are rough and chapped. “Don’t tell Nesti of our troubles,” he says. “Give her my love and tell her how much I miss her.”

  Walter’s hair needs cutting.

  A bell rings. The parting is brief. Walter’s badly shaved face rubs against my cheek. “There are rumors of a German invasion,” I whisper.

  “I know, darling. We’ve found a hole in the perimeter fence. It won’t be difficult to enlarge it.” Then, more loudly, he says, “Keep well, darling. Love to Mother.” He squeezes my hands. Father’s eyes fill with tears.

  I am on the other side of the barbed-wire fence, dazed. It is nearly dark. Someone touches my shoulder; it is Mimi, crying.

  We reach Liverpool in the middle of a terrible air raid. It is 7 September 1940. Planes roar over us. We hear the whistle of falling bombs. Explosions. Dust and gravel fly through the air. We run to the nearest hotel.

  The staff and guests are crowded into a basement ballroom, along with people like us who have come in off the street. A baby crawls along by the wall. A little girl’s face has been blackened. She bawls. We are lucky to find a corner. Mimi and I sit on the parquet floor, huddled together, too tired to talk.
r />   It is impossible to leave Liverpool that night. Bombs rain down. I can’t sleep. The visit to the camp has upset me badly. And I’m worried about Mother, who is expecting me at home. What if there is a big air raid in London? She’s always afraid to be left alone.

  Finally, the painful night ends. I hear the all clear and rush to the telephone. Mother cries when she hears my voice.

  “It’s all right, Mother. They’re well. They send their love. I’ll tell you all the news as soon as I’m back, but I don’t know when I’ll be home—trains are very slow. But please don’t worry.”

  We are told to report to the police station—foreigners are permitted to travel through Liverpool but not to stay. The police want to see our documents. They question us. We plead and beg and explain. It takes an hour to persuade them to let us go. There are no buses, so we have to walk. The streets are littered with rubble and glass. Water pipes have burst, and jets of water shoot up everywhere. All the shops are closed, but luckily the station café is open. We have breakfast and buy some stale sandwiches for the journey.

  The train seems to stop at every single station. Our compartment is full. Mimi manages to get two cups of weak tea. She is upset about her husband.

  “He’s so unhappy. Sharing good times is one thing, sharing bad times is another. I wake up in a comfortable bed, and I feel so guilty. I eat good food and remember what he gets, how little his five shillings will buy him. I’m not even talking about freedom—do you understand?”

  “Yes. Thank God Walter and my father have each other, and I did manage to give Walter some money under the table.”

  Mimi is upset she didn’t think of giving her husband money.

  Suddenly, the lights go out. We are coming into London in the middle of another air raid. There are strict blackout regulations. Even the tiny light of a cigarette could be dangerous.

  We are on a ghost train, talking in low voices. The other passengers are whispering shadows. As we approach the suburbs, I hear a man’s shocked voice: “Good God, they must have bombed the docks! Look at the sky!”

  It is in flames. It looks like an abstract painting: red, pink, purple. Heavy smoke merges with clouds; gashes of red gleam through them. Swishing sounds of falling bombs. Slowly, slowly, the driver shunts the train into a tunnel. I grip Mimi’s hand. I don’t know how long we wait there. Then brakes screech, and we’re off again.

  The train draws into St. Pancras. Bewildered passengers mill about on the platform, wondering how to get home; there are no trains, buses, or taxis. The blackout is still in force, but the sky is lit by the burning docks. Shadowy figures move about, asking each other questions, trying to find a way home.

  I turn to ask Mimi where she lives, but I can’t see her. I walk on, glancing back; she has vanished. Suddenly I have a painful feeling of loneliness. The day, the night, the shared journey, and now Mimi’s disappearance: a ghost story. I sit on a bench to wait for daylight to come.

  I hear someone call my name. It is Felix Hartley, my solicitor. He was on the same train as I; he, too, has been visiting internees. He has his car and is going my way.

  4

  Mr. Curlow wants to show me the City of London during an air raid. It is a damp September night. Mist rises from the Thames, lingering in the narrow streets. Bombs are falling in the distance; fires blaze everywhere.

  “Are you afraid?” His strong gaze seeks mine.

  “Not at all,” I say. I am too shy to meet his eyes.

  “You’re cold!” He puts an arm around my shoulder as if to protect me from the mist, the fires, the bombs. He stops his car in the middle of the deserted London Bridge. We get out and look down the river. He is tall and powerful. In this unreal light, his dark hair looks blond. Even in my new white raincoat, I feel small and unimportant next to him. Searchlights outline the edges of the clouds. Luminous rays sweep across the dark sky.

  I have left Mother in the shelter. Mr. Curlow takes me back there. We stand at the church entrance.

  “Thank you for everything,” I say.

  “It was my pleasure.” The thunder of antiaircraft guns drowns his voice. “We didn’t talk much about business.” White teeth glint in the darkness. “I want to get the agreement finalized. Will you ring me tomorrow?”

  “Yes.” He doesn’t know yet, but I need another favor from him.

  “Tomorrow, then.” He kisses my cheek. The nearness of him makes my skin sensitive.

  * * *

  I am frantic because I haven’t heard from Walter. When I telephone Mr. Curlow the next day, I beg him to help me. “I need a letter. Please help me—I’m desperate . . .”

  “Calm down,” he says. “Let me take you out to dinner tonight. It will be easier to discuss things. I’ll pick you up outside the shelter at eight.”

  In a Chinese restaurant in Soho, we sit at a corner table. Bright red linen tablecloth and napkins, tall white candles in wrought-iron candlesticks, white walls painted with scrolls. Mr. Curlow hands me the menu. I don’t know anything about Chinese food. There were no Chinese restaurants in Vienna. I ask him to order for me.

  The waiter wears a white shirt with huge sleeves, black trousers. A large red napkin is tucked into his leather belt as an apron.

  “Well?” Curlow’s eyes behind his glasses seem turbulent. He is aging, but his lips are full, his chin square. He is tough without being coarse. His vehemence and his brilliance attract me.

  “You asked me to help you. Now, my dear, tell me all about it.”

  I explain. The newspapers have been campaigning for useful aliens to be released from internment. I have to prove that Walter is such a person. I must get him out of that terrible place. I need Mr. Curlow to write a letter for the Home Office, saying that he needs Walter for essential war work in his factory and giving a guarantee of employment.

  Curlow studies his manicured fingernails.

  “You know Walter has talent,” I say.

  The food arrives. Five warming plates with two dishes on each are placed on the table. Curlow explains what each exotic dish is, and puts a portion from each on my plate. Prawns are fried golden in batter. I love the sweet-and-sour pork, the duck sliced into narrow strips and roasted with caraway seeds, the fried rice, the crispy noodles. What a change from our usual wartime fare.

  “Help yourself to the vegetables. The Chinese fry them lightly so they don’t lose their flavor. The bean sprouts are delicious.” He hands me a bottle. “Soy sauce: the Chinese salt.”

  We eat in silence. Then Mr. Curlow says, “Mrs. Ehrlich. Trudi. Did you come here tonight because you wanted to have dinner with me? Or did you come because you need me to write the letter?”

  “That’s a difficult question,” I say.

  “Don’t stall, my dear. Yes or no?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Don’t be childish. An experienced young woman like you knows her own feelings.”

  “Don’t make me say something I might come to regret. I didn’t come here to row.”

  “I’m glad to help you out, of course. But I don’t like being taken for a ride.” His eyes are contemptuous now.

  “How dare you! You insisted I come tonight. And now you are trying to force me into saying things I know I will regret. It’s like blackmail.”

  “You’ve gone too far now!” He bangs the table. People are staring.

  “I want to go home,” I shout at him.

  We go to the shelter in silence. Outside the entrance, he starts again. “Trudi. Was it me? Or was it the damned letter?”

  “I have nothing to say.”

  Roofs and chimneys are silhouetted against the red sky. Mr. Curlow vanishes into the night. There is a sudden feeling of absence once he has gone. I want to cry. Is this my fault? Even in my smart clothes, with my sophisticated maquillage, my two marriages, and all my recent experiences, I am still an immature girl.

  I go into the shelter. The all clear has sounded, and most people have already gone back home. Mother is sitting by hers
elf on a bench, her hands folded in her lap.

  On the way home, she says, “Why did you go out with that man? You’re a married woman. It’s not right!”

  I explain about the letter I need for Walter.

  In the double bed, next to Mother, I try to sleep, but I am too restless. I ache for Walter. And I can see Mr. Curlow’s face. His features are thick and stubborn, like his body. He is powerful. Walter, hold me, I can’t see you.

  Early in the morning, I hear Mother downstairs. The blackout blinds are still drawn. Mr. Curlow’s letter to the Home Office about Walter was posted through our letter box during the night. There is no message for me.

  5

  He stands in the doorway: white, wild hair, sparkling eyes. Mother runs to him.

  “Trudi, Trudi, Father is home!” She stands on tiptoe, trying to put her arms around his neck. “Sit down, take that old coat off. I’ll get you something to eat.” She rushes into the kitchen, singing.

  “Father, sit down and tell me about Walter.”

  “He’s fine, darling. He hopes to be home soon. And since the Home Office took over the internment camps, things have improved. Now there’s toilet paper, soap. The food is better. We don’t feel as though we are the enemy anymore. Letters are still censored, of course. But don’t worry about Walter. He’s sharing a good house with nice people and enjoys his work in the office. Did you know that Walter is a born organizer?”

  Mother is radiant. She and Father didn’t stop talking. When the siren went, Father came down to the shelter with us for the first time.

  I missed Walter.

  And three days later, I was holding him in my arms. There are shadows under his eyes. Hand in hand, we climb the stairs to our room.

  “I have some news,” I say. “Fritz Levy came to the shelter the other night. And not to see how we were doing. Not to ask if Mother was all right. He came to give me notice. He told me that the girls were spending more time in the shelter than in the workroom. He was losing money. ‘Paying for nothing,’ he said, ‘is the fastest way to lose a business.’ He gave me a check for the exact amount he owed me and left. Then the next day, Otto Levy telephoned and asked me to go and work for him in Luton. The salary is the same. Expenses will be paid. I’ll have to travel thirty miles each way, but it’ll be worth it—I’ll have a job.”