The English German Girl

by Jake Wallis Simons

  THE ENGLISH GERMAN GIRL

  ‘Fascinating and moving. Shines a light on a neglected aspect of WWII’ Monica Ali

  ‘An important subject explored by a writer to watch’ Jonathan Freedland

  ‘A powerful evocation of a bygone era. The drama, sorrow, hopes and challenges of a Jewish girl’s journey from pre-war Berlin to post-war London are brought to life in compelling prose. I was deeply moved and inspired by this novel, which is itself inspired by real life’ Sir Martin Gilbert

  ‘As a Kindertransport child myself, I found this book utterly convincing and profoundly moving. I arrived in England in 1939 at the age of four, and have always believed that not remembering my parents is, in some ways, a blessing. This book returns me to that belief. It puts into sharp relief the anguish first of the parents, then of the older children who so vividly remembered them. A very important novel’

  Sir Erich Reich, Chairman of the UK Kindertransport Committee

  ‘A quietly unsettling novel which meets the particular demands of its subject with grace and poise’

  Giles Foden, author of The Last King of Scotland

  ‘Vividly realised, brilliantly executed. Advances through the twentieth century like a train through the night’ Nicholas Royle

  ‘Rich, tender and hugely engaging, The English German

  Girl is a terrific novel’ Jeremy Gavron

  THE ENGLISH GERMAN GIRL

  Jake Wallis Simons

  To the children who escaped from the Nazis on the Kindertransport, and to their families.

  And to my own children, Libi, Isaac and Imogen.

  I catch sight of my face in the mirror of a shop, and am horrified to see that I am smiling. You can’t help smiling, in such beautiful weather. The trams are going up and down the Kleiststrasse, just as usual. They, and the people on the pavement, and the tea-cosy dome of the Nollendorfplatz station have an air of curious familiarity, of striking resemblance to something one remembers as normal and pleasant in the past – like a very good photograph. No. Even now I can’t altogether believe that any of this has really happened.

  —Christopher Isherwood

  Contents

  Praise

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  PART ONE

  31 January 1933, Berlin

  23 December 1935, Berlin

  9 November 1938, Berlin

  10 November 1938, Berlin

  16 March 1939, Berlin

  17 March 1939, London

  18 March 1939, London

  PART TWO

  19 June 1941, Norfolk

  25 November 1941, Brentwood, Essex

  21 February 1944, London

  8 May 1945, London

  7 March 1947, London

  Afterword

  Index of real-life characters in the novel

  About the Author

  Copyright

  PART ONE

  31 January 1933, Berlin

  1

  The grand city of Berlin lies milky in the morning light. Amid the avenues and alleyways, the tram stops and department stores, a little girl by the name of Rosa Klein hurries through the freezing air to buy some rolls for breakfast. She turns onto the Wilhelmstraße, a trail of vapour from her mouth lingering in the air beneath a canopy of tram cables, and, a little breathless, reaches the Konditorei and heaves at the heavy door. A little bell chimes, and a cloud of delicious, moist scent blossoms into the street, floating like a blessing towards the dogs scrounging in the gutters. Rosa enters the bakery, a Reichsmark note clenched in her fist like an autumn leaf, brimming with pride; she is not usually allowed out alone, after all she’s only nine, but there is not a crumb of bread in the entire apartment, and she was awake anyway, and Mama decided that it’s time for her to spread her wings, or at least start to unfurl them.

  In the Aladdin’s cave of browns and golds, with mirrors multiplying her every move, Rosa Klein approaches the counter. The steely-eyed Fräulein in a black-and-white uniform cocks her head curiously, twisting a paper bag in pink, chapped fingers. Rosa smiles politely but no such smile is returned; instead the Fräulein rearranges the Mandeltorte, shuffles the Apfelkuchen and wipes down the surfaces, which are already spotless. Only then does she acknowledge the little girl in the blue felt hat, raising her eyebrows the tiniest of fractions. Rosa smiles understandingly, for the Fräulein is clearly a very busy lady, asks for a dozen Schrippen rolls and presents her Reichsmark note. The Fräulein speaks not a word as she slots the rolls into a bag, places them on the counter and activates an ornate cash register, which rattles, whirrs and produces a single ring. Then suddenly she says, wait a moment, and reaches for her lapel where there glints a small golden pin. A deft movement of her fingers brings it away from the fabric, and she places it on the counter, gesturing for the girl to take it – Rosa, confused, accepts the gift, enacts an awkward bow and makes her way to the door. She heaves it open, the bell chimes again, and a bracing gust of air freshens her face; she responds to the Fräulein’s salute by mumbling Heil Hintern, as her big brother Heinrich taught her, then hurries from the Konditorei, clutching the Schrippen, into the wintry watery light.

  As she runs home with the Schrippen in her satchel and the lapel pin cold in her palm, and her curls bounce like the hair of a clown from beneath her blue felt hat with the big flower on the side which Papa says butterflies will land on come summer, a shadow passes across Rosa’s face. How clean the bakery was, how spotless; it made her feel dirty just for being there, just for breathing, just for having hair, just for being composed of flesh and blood rather than perfect surfaces and pure, moist bread. As for the Fräulein, well she fitted right in, cool as the stainless-steel trays, manipulating the loaves with fingers mercury-cold, her white cap like an ice-cap upon the undulating straw-coloured waves, her apron white and starched and stiff against the creaseless black of her skirt. Yes, that bakery is beginning to seem a little sinister, and so, come to think of it, is the Fräulein, although it isn’t so nice to think like that, she should always think the best of everybody, or that’s what Mama says at least.

  As she turns onto the grand boulevards of Tiergarten and her nose grows pink and chilly, she feels a little confused because the symbol on the pin in her palm has appeared all over Berlin since yesterday. In practically every window it stares, an angry swirl, spinning mechanically in its pure white disc in the centre of a scarlet rectangle, hundreds of them, like wheels in a vast machine, row upon row spinning all along the Tiergarten, even hanging from the lamp-posts, and when she gets home she will want to know the meaning of this! She takes a short cut and is cast into shadow as she veers down an alley, the slopey floor clip-clopping its response to her flapping feet; then she emerges once again into the light, arrives breathless at her front door and rings, and rings again, until finally the door is opened by Frau Schulz, and Rosa cries, Schrippen im Anmarsch! Schrippen im Anmarsch! Here comes bread! and hurries up the polished staircase to give it to her mama.

  Frau Schulz shivers, rubs her shoulders and shuts the door against the biting Berlin air. Rosa takes off her little coat and flings it over the banisters, and the maid gathers it up for her, following her pattering patent shoes into the spacious, high-ceilinged, high-windowed apartment, full of air and light, with a fine fire roaring in the fireplace, and rugs imported from the Orient stretching luxuriantly underfoot, and blond oak panels lining the walls to chest height. The breakfast things are all laid out beautifully, gleaming even, reflected in the mammoth gilt-edged mirror above the fireplace. Rosa hands the rolls to her mama and climbs up onto one of the high-backed chairs with the stripes that she likes, looking intently at Papa,
and what she really wants to know is:

  —What is the meaning of this?

  She holds out her hand, displaying the pin like a golden bullet; but Papa is not paying attention, he is talking to Mama, who is standing with her hands on the back of her chair, rolling her eyes.

  —Come on now, Otto, she is saying, come on.

  —But it’s just not possible, says Papa. The man is a hypocrite. However can he remain in his position as if nothing has happened?

  —Ah, stop being so anxious, replies his wife. Wilhelm is nothing but an honest policeman. Politics has nothing to do with his job.

  —Of course it does, Inga. The police force is riddled with politics. You saw how they behaved during the riots on the Fasanenstraße. It’s a matter of principle.

  —Really, Liebling, really. This will not last, that’s what everybody is saying, you said so yourself. You shouldn’t worry so.

  By this time Rosa is sitting on her father’s knee, her dress tumbling in a fan over the edge of the seat, tugging at his slippery necktie, and he is benignly swatting her hands away.

  —Well at least now we have Schrippen, he says, a morning without Schrippen is almost as bad as a morning without tea.

  —I need an entire pot of coffee this morning, says Inga, after last night.

  Last night – suddenly Rosa remembers. It had been forgotten along with her dreams, but now it all comes back. Woken by a commotion outside, she got up, straightened her nightdress and padded along the dark-wooded hall into the drawing room. Papa and Mama were standing side by side at the window, their hands clasped behind their backs, gazing down at the Wilhelmstraße, where a flickering ocean of flaming torches could be seen, and marching music and drums could dimly be heard, together with the roar of massed voices. Papa passed his hand over his sleek hair and said: one cannot pretend that this new Reichschancellor is not bad news, but in reality, my dear, he is only a figurehead, he cannot survive very long. At this point he drew the curtains in a strange sort of way, and Mama lit a cigarette; Rosa got a funny feeling behind her knees and crept back to bed, where she burrowed into the blankets and, to the sound of her parents’ voices, fell into a fitful sleep.

  —Was it a fire last night, Papa? she says.

  —It was nothing, Püppchen. Your mother and I just stayed up too late, talking.

  —Why? says Rosa.

  —Because to talk, says her father, is good for the soul.

  He lifts Rosa from his knee and places her on a chair.

  —There, he says, have one of your Schrippen. Now, has anybody seen Heinrich? It’s not like him to miss breakfast.

  —I think he came back late last night, Liebling, says Inga. Pfui, that boy.

  —How late? says Papa. I’ll get to the bottom of it when he deigns to make an appearance, that’s for sure. And here he is missing the Schrippen. Frau Schulz, the tea please? And a pot of coffee for my wife.

  —Hedi, says Inga, come here! Oh, Hedi, please. Be a good girl.

  Hedi, being quite good but only two, slips from her chair and toddles off after Frau Schulz on her short plump legs, her little white dress ruffling in all directions like a moving heap of doilies, and Mama strides up behind her and gathers her squealing into her arms and returns her to the breakfast table, pfumpf on her nappy. And Hedi slips down again and makes for the hall again, and Mama, slightly impatient now, gathers her up once again and firmly places her at table, ignoring her yelps and fixing a puff pastry Schillerlocke in her hand.

  As Papa reaches for the silver teapot with one hand and smooths his moustache nattily with the other, and the sun falls upon his slicked-back hair, his eye is caught by the glint on Rosa’s palm – finally – and he notices what is lying there – finally – and he takes it from her and gets to his feet. Dropping his napkin to the carpet he crosses to the fireplace, holding the pin delicately before him in long, surgeon’s fingers.

  —Where did you come upon this little thing, Püppchen?

  —From the bakery Fräulein.

  Her father pauses.

  —You must not go back there, he says.

  —Why?

  —No questions now. Frau Schulz, place the Schrippen in the fire.

  —In the fire?

  —We have some Schillerlocken, do we not? That will do. And some green herring or something, I don’t know. Just bring whatever we have for the moment, yes, Frau Schulz? And hurry please, Rosa needs to go to school.

  Frau Schulz, looking somewhat bewildered, gathers up the Schrippen and takes them through to the pantry.

  —Don’t you think you may be over-reacting, dear? says Inga in a low voice. Rosa did purchase the Schrippen specially, you know.

  Klein turns to Rosa, sees her anxious expression.

  —Püppchen, next time you see such a Hakenkreuz, close your eyes and have nothing to do with it, do you hear?

  —Yes, Papa. But what does it mean?

  —Sit up straight, Püppchen. No questions now.

  Well, all this seems like madness to Frau Schulz, but then this type of madness has become commonplace in the household of late. First it was the newspapers: Herr Klein instructed her to cancel his beloved subscriptions, every one, saying the papers contained nothing but nonsense cover to cover, and she said, are you sure, even the Berliner Tageblatt, and he snapped at her, yes, Frau Schulz, I am quite sure. It was unfathomable – to think of it, Herr Klein without his newspapers! More curious still, he ordered her to set up a subscription with the Jüdische Rundschau, even though he cannot stand that newspaper, he had been saying so for years. He is losing his mind, in Frau Schulz’s opinion. How about last week: she was walking down the hall towards the kitchen late at night, getting a drink of water, when she heard a strange noise from the drawing room, so naturally she went to investigate. The door was ajar, she put her head round it and who did she spy but Herr Klein, alone, hunched over on the floor, shirt all untucked and with no collar on even, a cigarette clamped between his teeth, a screw-driver in his hand, dismantling the wireless, yes, dismantling the wireless! And burning the walnut casing in the fire. Very methodically and everything, in his surgeon’s manner, but there was something frightening about it, breaking up the wireless, now what will she have to listen to in the long evenings when the children are in bed and Herr Klein and his wife are at the theatre? She has never been one for books, and these days everyone should have a wireless, should they not? Then Herr Klein looked sharply up from the screws and walnut panels on the floor and saw her, he looked as if he was going to scold her, but he said, Frau Schulz, dispose of this dreckige Goebbels’ Schnauze, would you please? And, ignoring her alarm, he strode past her and slammed the door to his study, to work on his book no doubt, he is obsessed by that book at the moment, and the smell of cologne and cigarette smoke hung in the air, and more than a little Schnaps, as well as a positively poisonous feeling. What language, she thought to herself, dirty Goebbels’ gob indeed, not the kind of phrase that she was accustomed to from Herr Klein, but what was she to do? So she cleared up the remaining bits of her poor precious wireless and went directly to bed.

  Frau Schulz: she has been working for the Kleins for several years now, with her starched apron that never stains and her widely spaced grey eyes. She is, Otto Klein felt at first, too angular to be a maid, maids should be softer, more homely, and Frau Schulz is not soft or homely in the slightest, but she is extremely competent, she runs the house like clockwork. Yes, the only thing that stands between Frau Schulz and the Aryan ideal is her chestnut hair, several shades away from blonde, which she wears in a propeller bow, black for weekdays, white for weekends; she is a woman whose attractiveness is eclipsed by her preoccupation with getting things done. Yet that is a good quality in a maid, in Klein’s opinion, you don’t want one who gets above her station. Often when he visits his colleagues to play a rubber of bridge and is exposed to the sorts of maids that some people are forced to put up with, he thanks his lucky stars for Frau Schulz.

  The children like h
er too, particularly Rosa, who is terribly fond of the maid, which at times seems to bother her mother, who appears to feel a little dethroned, shall we say, but in Klein’s opinion there is nothing to worry about: better a maid she loves than a maid she loathes! And Inga, reluctantly, tends to concede at this point, in the face of such irrefutable male logic. But there is enough to think about at the moment without worrying about maids and servants, there is an overwhelming quantity of work at the hospital, and several colleagues are now card-carrying members of the Party – the expressions they wear in the corridors, it is practically laughable – no, it doesn’t help, this political madness that is blighting the proud face of the nation, the sooner it passes the better. But where on earth is Heinrich?

  Heinrich is, somewhat guiltily, allowing himself to wonder what it would be like to kiss Frau Schulz. Lying in bed, he calls through the door, I will be there directly, just give me a moment. These illicit thoughts make him feel rather schmutzig, but he can’t help but wonder what her mouth would feel like upon his own, ach, it makes him feel sick to consider it, incestuous almost, kissing the maid Frau Schulz. Yet at once somehow attractive. Then again the fantasy collapses in the face of reality, for when he lays eyes upon her he realises that he would not like to kiss her in real life, not at all, with her dry lips and unnerving stare. It was Klaus who put these ideas into his head, he is always talking about her, in fact he is obsessed, the only reason he comes to visit is to stare at Frau Schulz as she comes in and out with tea, his mouth slightly ajar like a lizard. Heinrich can still recall the expression on his face when she dropped a spoon and bent over to retrieve it – his eyes bulged like eggs and he gulped visibly, it was funny, of course – ach, to hell with Klaus after last night, the coward, and now Heinrich has a splitting headache to show for it, and there is blood on the pillow, and he does not know how to explain it to his parents.