The English German Girl

by Jake Wallis Simons

  —You see? says Rosa. Berta brought much more this time, true to her word.

  Inga follows her daughter into the apartment, past rows of hanging laundry, kissing Hedi and struggling out of her sodden coat.

  —And she didn’t mention Otto?

  —No, Rosa replies, now here, look, have a bit of Damenkäse, can you believe she managed to find Damenkäse?

  —We shouldn’t, we should save it.

  —We will save the rest, just have a taste.

  Inga takes a small bite of the buttery cheese, and a wave of soft pleasure flits momentarily through her, causing her to sway on her feet, almost to stumble.

  —Tasty, isn’t it? says Rosa. Here, have some more.

  —Pfui, Rosa, stop being so indulgent, says Inga sharply, this has to last for two weeks at least. She sneezes.

  —Oh, says Rosa, have you been wet all day?

  —I’m afraid so, Inga replies, I hope I am not coming down with a chill.

  —Do you feel ill?

  —A little hot and cold, says Inga and sneezes again.

  Behind the boarded-up windows of the apartment, night is slipping across the sky. The atmosphere inside darkens, and Inga, peeling off her stockings in her bedroom, calls out:

  —Rosa? Please would you light a candle or two?

  —There are not many left, comes the reply.

  Inga wraps herself in a dressing gown and leaves the room, suppressing another sneeze.

  —Why don’t we use the electric lights? says Rosa. I’m sure it’s safe now.

  —I don’t know, says Inga worriedly.

  —If you look out of the window you will see other lights.

  —Ah, very well, says Inga.

  Within a minute the lights are blazing throughout the apartment, and Rosa busies herself preparing the supper. From the bathroom, Inga can be heard sneezing and splashing water in the sink. Rosa is overcome by the luxurious food that she is able to cook, she has the entire palette at her disposal, all the colours and textures and flavours.

  The windows steam up, and the apartment, which is blazing with light, fills with delicious aromas. Then there is a heavy thud on the door. Rosa stops still for a moment, aubergine sizzling in the frying pan. There is another thud.

  —Rosa, calls Inga from the bathroom, can you please bring me a towel?

  Rosa creeps across the apartment, turning off the lights as she goes, and shepherding Hedi into her bedroom. Then she opens the bathroom door a crack; in an instant Inga understands something is wrong.

  —Open up, comes a man’s voice, I know you’re in there. I can smell the food.

  Rosa feels her way to the cabinet and lights one of their last Shabbat candles. Then she carries it over to the door and says:

  —Who is it?

  —Herr Gruber, don’t you recognise my voice? Herr Gruber. Now open up.

  Rosa exchanges glances with her mother and opens the door halfway. In the doorway stands an ogre of a man with florid cheeks, wearing a worn pair of braces that strain at his trousers.

  —Good evening, says Inga, to what do we owe the pleasure?

  —The pleasure? Ha, snorts Gruber, this is my building, I can do as I please.

  He nudges his way into the apartment and stands, hands on hips, in the gloom.

  —Turn on the damned light, won’t you?

  Inga nods to Rosa, and she turns on the light. Gruber squints, rubs his eyes and proceeds to light a wrinkled cigarillo, puffing smoke in gritty clouds round his shoulders.

  —What can we do for you, Herr Gruber, says Inga levelly, have we fallen behind with the rent?

  —Rent’s up to date, Frau Klein, up to date. Mein Gott, something smells delicious. What is it?

  —Just our supper, says Rosa respectfully.

  —Just nothing, says Gruber, it smells like heaven itself. Bring me a plateful.

  Rosa hurries into the kitchen and returns with a plate of food; Gruber accepts it and, without sitting down, begins to eat, scooping the food into his mouth with a piece of bread, cigarillo smoke wafting from his nose.

  —Very good, very good, he says, now how about some beer?

  —I’m afraid all we have is brandy, says Inga.

  —No beer? You Jews make me laugh. Very well, brandy. He coughs noisily as Rosa hurries over to the drinks cabinet.

  —Now, he says, you must be out within two weeks.

  —Out? says Inga. Out?

  —Out, says Gruber, chewing. I’ve got nothing against a tenant so long as they pay the rent, whether they’re a criminal, a pimp or a Jew.

  —Why then?

  —It’s the law. It has been since the twenty-first of November. I’m a bit late. Ah, thank you, darling.

  He accepts a glass of brandy from Rosa, drinks it in a single draught and winces.

  —What swill. It’s true what they say about the Jews. You’ve probably got the good stuff under lock and key, haven’t you? Only for your brethren?

  —No, Herr Gruber, that’s all we have, says Rosa.

  Gruber laughs in an exaggerated way.

  —Anyway, two weeks, he says, finishing the last of the food, stubbing his half-smoked cigarillo out on the plate and dropping it onto an armchair.

  —Herr Gruber, wait a minute, says Inga. You don’t understand, my husband and son have been taken to Sachsenhausen. If we move house then when they are released they will be unable to find us.

  —I’m crying, says Gruber, walking towards the door, I’m really crying.

  He makes a whining sound in the back of his throat, which then becomes an unidentified tune as he walks out of the apartment without closing the door and descends the stairs; his footsteps fade away, and all is silent.

  Inga turns off the electric lights and kindles the candle again. Cigarillo smoke lingers horribly in the air.

  —What shall we do? she says, and sneezes.

  —Two weeks, says Rosa, how can we find somewhere in two weeks?

  —We need to think, says Inga.

  —Is it really true that Jews can no longer be tenants? says Rosa.

  —Anything is possible, Inga replies, ah, this makes things difficult. She paces around the kitchen, then sits down at the table.

  —Herr Gruber ate a lot of chicken, says Rosa.

  —Chicken? says Inga. I haven’t had chicken for years.

  The evening stretches on. Inga retires to her room to write some letters. Rosa, not knowing what else to do, continues with the food preparations by candlelight, wincing at her mother’s sneezes. A storm is gently brewing above Berlin, clouds are gathering in dark masses beyond the reach of the city lights. Rosa wonders if Herr Gruber has children. Time wears on and soon the food is ready, but Rosa, not wanting to disturb her mother, busies herself with setting the table, and cleaning again the floor, the sink, the surfaces, reorganising the kitchen cupboards; and all the while her mind is churning, trying desperately to come up with a solution to the problem of where in Berlin they can live.

  Finally the list of chores runs out. Just as Rosa is about to knock on her mother’s door, she hears a lorry stopping in front of the tenements and people jumping out, and the lorry moving away again. Her heart quickens, and she strains her ears into the silence, telling herself that surely it is nothing. A door slams downstairs, in the courtyard. Rosa takes a step forward, then back again. Is that – yes, footsteps in the stairwell, she is sure of it. Inga has not emerged from her bedroom; she must be out of earshot. And now the footsteps are ascending the stairs, slowly, deliberately, floor by floor, getting louder, closer to their apartment, finally coming to a halt directly outside their door.

  There is the sound of a man’s voice, quiet yet unmistakable, a man’s voice. Then there is a knock at the door, not a thump but a fluttering tap. Rosa does not move, and the person knocks again. She hears movement coming from her mother’s bedroom – finally Inga has heard what’s going on. Knowing she has no choice, Rosa crosses to the door and, heart pounding, releases the lock and swings it
slowly open, staring through the doorway into the gloom, trying to make out the figures that are standing outside.

  —Who is it, she says, who is there?

  The doorway gradually lights up as Inga approaches from her bedroom with a candle. There, standing awkwardly at the top of the stairs, are two waif-like figures with pinched cheeks and shaven heads; the younger one is stooping slightly, the older one standing erect; they have no hats, no jackets and no overcoats, just shirtsleeves and oversized trousers. The candlelight laps softly against them.

  —Otto! gasps Inga. Heinrich!

  For a moment there is a pause while they look at each other, speechless, unable to breathe or think. Then Inga rushes to the doorway and helps the two men inside; they gaze around the apartment as if for the first time, their shaven heads like crustaceans in the half-light. The family embraces, stony-faced and tearful, without speaking, for many minutes. Then Rosa takes the candle, hurries to her bedroom and comes back with some blankets, for they both look so cold. How greatly they have changed in just two weeks! She raises the candle to see them better, puts blankets over their shoulders and embraces them again. A smell of rotten wood and sweat slips from the folds of their clothes, their eyes are dark and empty, their fingers blackened, their lips cast into crust and cracked. Papa laughs for the first time; his voice is dry and thin yet the melody is the same, and Heinrich smiles, his lips stretching a familiar shape across reduced cheeks, and then Rosa knows for sure that it is them, it is undeniably them, these are indeed her father and brother, finally she has them back, after so many sleepless nights, so many days fearing the worst, the family is together again. Inga goes to find Hedi, brings her from her bedroom to greet the homecomers, at first she is scared but then she recognises them, runs to her papa, he attempts to sweep her into the air but is only able to lift her to waist height, he puts her down, kneels to embrace her, and so does Heinrich; and from then on, for a long while, Hedi clings to Papa’s grimy trousers without letting go. As night sets in overhead, and turbulent clouds mass in phalanxes across the black sky, the family gets used to each other again, and a little happiness arises, and the candlelit apartment shines like a pinprick in the darkness.

  4

  Rosa, luckily, in her exuberance earlier in the evening, cooked more food than she, Inga and Hedi could possibly have eaten; but it has turned out for the best, and the family sits round the damaged table, and Rosa serves, and there is just enough to go round. Upon seeing the food, a single expression comes over the faces of Papa and Heinrich: the lines smooth from their skin, their eyes open like infants’ freshly to the world, then close again as the warm savoury scents drift into their nostrils. Then, while Heinrich remains in a stupor, Papa hunches over his plate, eats furiously, guarding his prize with his forearm, flushed with effort, devouring mouthful after mouthful, feverishly; it is only when Inga touches him on the elbow that he looks up and, as if awaking from a dream, corrects his posture and clears his throat and makes a visible effort to recall the notion of etiquette. Hedi is wordless, open-mouthed, and Rosa stares at her plate, not eating despite her gnawing hunger. Heinrich is still sitting with his eyes closed; then he lowers his head and begins to spoon food into his mouth, rapidly, mechanically, seemingly unaware of anything around him, mouthful after mouthful at a persistent pace, pausing only to drink glasses of water, obsessively, as if eating were a job to be done as rapidly and efficiently as possible.

  —Don’t rush, says Inga, you will make yourself sick.

  Heinrich does not reply. The crown of his shaven head, bent over the table, is silvery with bristles in the gloom; as he eats his left hand runs over it repeatedly as if checking for cracks, the sound is loud and scraping.

  —Papa, says Rosa, what …

  Klein looks up at his daughter sharply, the power of his eyes accentuated by his awful baldness.

  —Do not ask me, Püppchen, he says hoarsely. To discuss it is off-limits. If Heinrich or I were to breathe one word about it, one single word, we would be taken back immediately and that would be the end. None of us would survive even one more week there, none of us.

  There is a silence filled by the noise of the pipes, the barely audible sound of traffic passing across the city and the scraping of Heinrich’s hand over his head.

  —The main thing, says Klein, is that we have been released. We are together again.

  He continues to eat, slower this time, his head erect yet inclined in a way that Rosa has never seen before.

  —I was convinced you would be kept there for a month at least, says Inga softly.

  —I am ashamed, says Klein in a quiet voice.

  Nobody moves, nobody responds; even Heinrich looks up from his plate and stares at his father.

  —I am ashamed, repeats Klein louder.

  —Liebling, says Inga, perhaps this is a conversation for later …

  —No, says her husband, it is a conversation for now.

  He raises his gaze and looks at each member of his family in turn, scanning their faces, reading them, his face cast with shadows, amber from the candle. Then he gets unsteadily to his feet, crosses to the drawer and takes out his pipe and tobacco; he packs and lights the pipe, facing the wall, then returns to the table, breathing smoke in front of sad eyes, holding his pipe like a delicate thing, his customary confidence absent.

  —Until this morning we had no hope, he whispers, drawing his family to him. We were in the Appelplatz, lined up as usual for roll-call. Among the officers was somebody different, a man in a different uniform. He singled out Heinrich, he singled out me. We were told that we were to be released, that we were to leave Deutschland as soon as we can. We were given a medical examination, no sign of overt maltreatment was found, our clothes were returned to us … mein Gott I am ashamed.

  Pipe smoke leaks gently from his nose and the room is filled with the pungent aroma of tobacco.

  —There is no reason to be ashamed, says Inga.

  —The man who released us was Krützfeld, says her husband bluntly.

  There is a pause.

  —Krützfeld, he repeats louder. Krützfeld released us. Krützfeld looked us in the eyes, and released us, Krützfeld gave us back our freedom, such as it is. Krützfeld granted us our lives. And I was ashamed. And now, sitting here, I am ashamed. I am ashamed, I am ashamed.

  There is another pause, then Klein lays his pipe gently on the table and continues to eat. Taking the signal, the other members of the family turn back to their plates, their eyes downcast, any hope of conversation impossible. Rosa cannot eat, yet she is unavoidably hungry; she cuts her food, moves it from one side of the plate to the other, tasting the occasional morsel.

  —And something else, says Klein.

  —Perhaps later, Liebling, says Inga anxiously.

  —I have been wrong all these years, he says bitterly, picking up his pipe again. I have been wrong about everything. Inga, we must emigrate. We must leave Deutschland, for it has left us. This land for which my blood was spilt in the war, for which my father and his father before him lived and breathed and loved, has betrayed us, made us prisoners in our own city, homeless in our own homes, lifeless in our own lives, inhabiting shells like snails. We must leave Deutschland, children, do you hear? We must leave this accursed country with its blackened face and broken promises. Never again shall I be a German, and never again a Prussian. Never again. It finishes today, this hour, this minute, here, at this table, today.

  He bows his head, his face falls into shadow, and his pipe gradually and quietly goes out. Rosa gets to her feet and gathers up the plates, stacks them and deposits them in the sink; Inga kisses her husband gently on his head, then, sneezing, takes Hedi to her bedroom and begins to warm the water for the men, and to prepare their bedclothes. Heinrich goes to his room and can be heard moving gingerly about, opening and closing the wardrobe and drawers. Klein continues to sit at the table, rubbing a finger in little circles upon its surface, saying nothing. Rosa crosses the kitchen, stands behind him,
places a hand on his shoulder; he turns in his chair, pulls her to him, embraces her tightly, tightly, as if he never will let go, his shoulders shuddering with heavy, violent sobs.

  5

  For several days the men do nothing but sleep, waking occasionally to devour some food, and then slipping again into oblivion, as if the waking world is nothing but an inconvenience. Night after night Rosa is awoken by her father’s shouts, hears her mother calming him, filtering soothing words into his sleep. By day, he will only be roused from his lethargy by news of embassies, consulates, quotas and visas; Rosa and Inga keep up their feverish pursuit of emigration, buckling under a mounting sense of despair as door after door is closed to them, glimmer after glimmer is extinguished, and again and again they find themselves back at the beginning with nothing to show for their efforts. Klein daily swears that tomorrow he will go back to work, start making enquiries in the Gemeinde regarding passage abroad, but tomorrow comes and he finds that he cannot lift his bony head from the pillow. Heinrich receives regular visits from Jizchak and Edith, who have received word of his release; they arrive after nightfall, spend time with him talking in his room, only to emerge closing the door quietly behind them, motioning that Heinrich has fallen asleep.

  The threat of eviction hangs over Inga and Rosa secretly, they discuss it in whispers, not wanting to worry the men; Rosa makes enquiries amongst friends to find another apartment, but it seems that nobody can help. They decide to write to Herr Gruber proposing to increase the rent by ten per cent if he allows them to stay and along with the letter they leave on his doorstep half a chicken, even though the food supply is diminishing rapidly. A reply arrives with surprising swiftness: Christmas is approaching, and in the spirit of the season Gruber will accept an increase of twenty-five per cent, and not a pfennig less, to be reconsidered in the new year. They accept Gruber’s offer via another letter, presented on his doorstep beside a bowl of asparagus in white sauce.

  After a time, the men gradually begin to regain their strength, to stay awake, to talk, to weave themselves back into the fabric of life. Heinrich’s hair sprouts in a thick black fur, but Klein’s scalp has become raw and infected, tufts appearing but nothing more; he rubs vinegar every night onto the skin, the infection is subdued, not dispelled.