—Where would we live?
—In London, he says, with the Kremers. My cousin Gerald. We’ve been writing, and he’s happy to have you. Do you remember him?
—When will you be coming? Rosa asks.
Inga glances briefly at her husband.
—We have no arrangements, she admits, yet. But if you are in England, you will be able to find somebody there to employ us as domestic staff. Then we can get a work visa and join you in London.
—What if I cannot find anybody?
—You will, says Inga, her face illuminated and pale.
—What if I do not wish to go? says Rosa suddenly.
—What do you mean? says Inga.
—I can choose, can I not?
—Well, of course.
—How long have you been planning this? says Rosa.
—Perhaps a month.
—A month? And you were not going to tell me?
—Pfui, we are telling you now, says Inga.
Klein drains his brandy.
—Let’s all keep calm, he says.
—It is difficult to be calm, says Rosa, when one is not being treated as an adult.
There is a tense silence.
—I am brave enough to stay with you, says Rosa at last, I am not afraid.
—This isn’t about bravery, darling, says Inga.
—I go to the embassies the same as you. I do the customers’ laundry,says Rosa. I should not be forced out of the family.
—Nobody is forcing you out, says Inga, please, Rosa.
—I am being forced. I do not want to leave.
—If you don’t want to go, Püppchen—
—Don’t call me that.
—If you don’t want to go, says Klein, we may reconsider.
—You will reconsider, says Rosa.
—The Kremers will make wonderful foster parents, says Inga.
—Foster parents? So now I am being fostered?
—Oh, Rosa, you know what I mean. They are referred to as foster parents by the Jewish Refugee Committee. I didn’t mean you’re actually being fostered.
—I don’t need parents, says Rosa, if my parents don’t need me.
She gets up from the table, gathers her blanket and hurries out. Her parents, carrying the candle, go after her into her bedroom.
—Stop following me, says Rosa.
—We want you to listen, says Inga. It’s just not true to suggest that we want to send you away.
Inga sits beside Rosa on the bed but Klein remains standing, his raw tufty head casting a round shadow behind him.
—This plan is the best one we have, he says, the only one in fact. Believe me, the last thing we want is to send you away. You are our daughter, the most precious thing in the world. But with things as they are …
—Anyway, says Inga, if you’re truly not happy you don’t have to go. We can send Hedi instead. It’s just that it makes more sense to send you so that you can try to get us visas.
—Very well, says Rosa, her face burning. I’m sorry.
—Darling, says Inga, touching Rosa’s cheek, we may get a visa for the whole family soon, anyway, for Chile or Shanghai. We mustn’t lose hope.
—When do I leave?
—In March. So you’ve got a little time. You can think about it.
—I shall be unable to think about anything else.
7
Rosa breathes deeply, smelling the cotton pillow, feeling it against her cheeks, her forehead; air filters through the weave of the fabric into her body, filling her lungs with the familiar scent of home. It is daytime but the room is dark, her back is divided by a slit of light coming from a crack in the board on the window. She is tired and her fingers are sore from the laundry; she kicks her feet a few times against the mattress and lies still again. Soon she must get up and continue with the housework, but for a few short minutes she can lie here, doing nothing, alone. There are only a few days left now, yet it’s as if time is standing still. She will be glad to leave this hellish city, and when it is all over she will be glad to come back and become once again a normal German girl. And then, she supposes, she will have to go back to her books. She should like to study nursing, she has always wanted to be a nurse, or maybe she will even qualify as a doctor. And she will get married, to whom she does not yet know, she can see him in silhouette but his face is hidden; he is tall and slim, with very black hair, yes, and the sort of hands that are equally at home tilling the land and cradling the face of a lover; and he will get on well with Papa, they will smoke together and drink Schnaps, and he will play handball with Heinrich, and take Hedi on outings to the cinema and buy her ice cream. And they will have four children, two of each. Is she really going to leave Berlin? What will happen if the SS catch her at the border? What if she cannot get visas for her family? No, don’t think of it. What will the Kremers be like? All these questions and not an answer in sight, she has no choice but to wait and see; she cannot believe the end will truly come.
After a time Rosa’s mind begins to clear and she feels exhausted. The sound of cooking can be heard, and the smell of vegetable soup slips into the room, vegetable soup until Berta comes again. Rosa rolls over and sits up against the wall, her cheek creased with red, looking at the crack of light at the edge of the board over the window; she cannot help but feel a pang of jealousy, for Heinrich is not leaving, and nor is Hedi, they are staying here with Mama and Papa, and they will continue, as a family, without her; as time goes by they will have a life together that Rosa will not share, and their letters will surely reduce over time. She will become the distant aunt, the lonely grey-haired old spinster living in the British Isles where everybody wears brown and drinks tea. Perhaps she should have refused to go.
—Rosa? May I come in?
So deeply has Rosa been involved in her thoughts that she has not heard the knock. She gathers her thoughts and opens her bedroom door.
—I’ve brought a candle. It is always dark in your room, says Heinrich.
He enters the room and sits beside her, the candlelight picking out a corona of hair on his head, half grown and matted like a bear’s.
—How are you holding up?
—All right, says Rosa, not long to go now.
—Have you started packing?
—I’ve got ages really. And we are only allowed one suitcase.
—I am sorry I can’t come with you. What an adventure, don’t you think? I’ve always wanted to go to England, although of course I will be going to Palestine in the end.
—Yes, it will be an adventure.
—I can’t wait to join you in England. I’m sure it won’t be long.
—I will do my very best to get you all a visa. I hope I can do it.
—It cannot be that difficult when you are actually in England yourself.
—I hope not.
Heinrich reaches into his jacket and pulls out a rectangular object wrapped in a rag.
—Here, I have something for you. To take to England.
Rosa accepts the gift and peels the rag away. In her hands, in an embossed silver frame, is a photograph. For the first time in a long while, she smiles.
—When was this taken?
—Years ago, in Wiesbaden. See, you look about eight maybe. And look at Hedi, she’s tiny, can’t be more than a few months old.
—Look at Papa, he’s so funny with his trousers tucked in his socks all the way to the knee.
—Yes, his hiking style.
—I wonder why I haven’t seen this before?
—I stumbled across it after my room was destroyed. It must have been at the back of a cupboard somewhere, but it was lying in the corner completely unscathed.
—I hope it doesn’t break in my suitcase.
—I’ve wrapped it in a rag, and you can wrap it in a jumper or something as well.
—Judah, thank you.
Heinrich puts the candle down on the floor, and they embrace; then he relaxes his grip but his sister continues to hold him for a f
ew moments; then she lets go.
—Keep your spirits up, says Heinrich, within months we will all be safe.
There is something within the melody of his voice, something unusual, a dissonant chain of notes that act against the meaning of his words. Rosa looks up at her brother, into his eyes, and sees – perhaps she’s imagining it – a lingering presence of doubt.
8
Rosa will always remember: in the few short days leading up to her departure, Papa took her on frequent walks through the Grunewald on the outskirts of Berlin. It wasn’t safe, but nowhere was at the time, and there were usually few people in the woods, which made things a little easier. The sun fell gently upon the weave of Papa’s jacket as she followed him up the hill overlooking the city. He was a brisk walker, it was difficult for his daughter to keep pace, but he made no allowances; it wasn’t that he was being unkind, it was simply that he didn’t notice her struggling, he was too engrossed in the conversation, this had always been his way, why should things be different now? He climbed the hill with great gangly strides, his ankles flashing as his trouser legs rode up, stride by stride, talking over his shoulder as Rosa bobbed in his wake.
When they got to the brow of the hill he sat down, rather out of breath, waited for the girl to catch up and removed his hat, placing it on the grass beside him, leaving his poor infected head exposed like a thumb, feathery wisps of hair and patches of bare white skin; his baldness made a mockery of his proud bearing, and his moustache, still waxed and smooth as ever, looked absurd, the tail pinned on the donkey. Rosa lay on her back and drew her knees up against the sky, the sky grey as her skirt; Papa sat for a few minutes gazing down at Berlin, a defiant smile playing over his lips, his bald head higher than the highest point in the city: look, Deutschland, what you have done to me, raise your eyes to my hatless head, O Berlin, and be ashamed.
And they talked, and a comfortable discussion developed, a conversation of which silence was a friend, that neither of them wanted to conclude, for although they did not mention it they were both aware with every breath that Rosa was leaving. Papa had a medicine bottle full of brandy which he sipped from time to time, a poor replacement for the Weiße mit Schuss that he used to enjoy at the end of his hikes in happier times, the white beer with that lovely squirt of raspberry served in a bulbous stemmed glass on a little circle of paper as he lounged in his favourite seat in the Alpengrund restaurant, looking out at the forest clearing. This memory was vivid as he propped himself up uncomfortably on his elbows, tilted the brown bottle and sipped, wincing with each swallow, and gazed blankly over the city, imprisoned beneath the steely sky. The breeze was strong, not blustery as such, but strong, and Rosa’s curls fluttered off to the west, into the grass, the brown mingling with the green, the colours barely discernible in the dusky afternoon light. She was concerned about tangles and gathered her hair under her shoulder, it kept flapping out, Mama was cutting it at home by that time with those great kitchen scissors, a clumsy instrument but she made a good job of it, she had a sharp eye for fashion even then.
And they sat, and the conversation meandered here and there, and Papa’s words were full of advice: always be strong, Püppchen, and always make us proud, very soon we will be together again, I am sure you will manage to get us passage to England. Make yourself useful when living with the Kremers, remember they are doing us a great kindness, they didn’t have to take you in, you know, so we owe them a debt of gratitude. And what better use for all those English lessons we have given you? Now, your mother and I have been thinking; although until recently we have not brought you up with any sense of religious conviction, we should like to request that when the time comes, please give your own sons a bar mitzvah – will you promise me this, Püppchen? Speaking of which, my daughter, before your trip to England there are a few things I would like to tell you about how babies are made – so, Mama told you already? What a relief. Yes, Papa, I am fifteen.
16 March 1939, Berlin
1
The broad avenue that leads to the Bahnhof Friedrichstraße is all but deserted, its tramlines glimmering like eels in the darkness. The city slumbers. Three people are making their way along the pavement in the direction of the station, in and out of the light from the incandescent streetlamps, as wary as street-dogs. They link arms as if the figure in the middle might collapse.
—This suitcase is heavy, are you sure you will be able to carry it once we’ve left you? asks Klein.
—Yes, Papa, I can manage, Rosa replies, surprised at the strength of her voice.
—I shall try the Brazilian Embassy tomorrow, Klein says into the bitter air.
—Yes, Liebling, that’s a good idea, replies his wife. And I will try Argentina.
A tense silence falls as they make their way with inevitable steps towards the railway station, step by step towards the station, the doorway to the rest of the world. This is the moment they all thought would never arrive, yet now it is occurring, it is happening so fast, like a dream.
The three figures walk on along the pavement through the darkness, and now they can see the lights of the thick-walled, red-bricked Bahnhof. Rosa’s upper arm is uncomfortable, she squirms but stops herself; under her father’s fingers, beneath the sleeve of her woollen coat, under her cardigan sleeve and the sleeve of her very best blouse, is Papa’s gold watch, clamped around her bicep so tightly that it pinches the skin. Although Rosa cannot hear the familiar whisper of the second hand, she knows it is measuring out the seconds exactly – she can visualise it perfectly, the tiny needle moving precisely from point to point to point, continuing unremittingly, regardless.
Rosa’s suitcase is tied with one of Heinrich’s belts like a quid of tobacco. She glances across at it intermittently, watches it bumping against her father’s knees. She is amazed it has not split and spewed its contents all over the pavement by now; she and Inga both had to sit on it before Papa could get the buckles to close, and now it is straining and bulging like a fat man’s fist. It was packed, not once, or twice even, but many times, packed and repacked, with only her finest things, her best frock, or Shabbat frock as Inga calls it these days, which she hasn’t worn for many months, her warmest jumper, her favourite books and Inga’s cashmere shawl, which may be a little worn and frayed, but is nevertheless of a wonderful quality and retains the warmth like nothing on earth. And Heinrich’s photograph from years before, taken in carefree Wiesbaden, each child is allowed one photograph; and Hedi’s dolly Gigi, wrapped in a pillowcase to keep it hidden, her favourite toy, with the crack along her face caked with UHU, offered to her sister by way of goodbye, and also to keep it safe.
Inga had to unpack the suitcase, fit in the doll and put everything back again, shaking out clothes with a professional flourish, refolding various items, all freshly laundered and scented with the Grunewald lavender that she picked last summer; maybe this jumper would be better at the bottom, let’s lay the socks out flat and line the case with them, here inside your spare shoes there is a little space, if only you were allowed two suitcases! Then Papa put down his glass of brandy and helped to close the case, Inga and Rosa sitting on it, side by side, while Papa reached behind their ankles and strained with the buckles, trying to point out the comedy in the situation; it was not until Heinrich joined the struggle that the suitcase was finally fastened. The only clothes that were not infused with the scent of Inga’s lavender were the ones Rosa was wearing, which smelled vividly of newness, of material which has been cut freshly from a roll. That smell belonged to old Berlin, the Berlin of several years ago, and it seemed incongruous, but Inga wanted her daughter to arrive in England looking her very best, to have the best possible start with her new family, for first impressions last.
Now they are almost at the ugly pillared entrance of the station, and little groups of parents and children can be seen moving silently around the concourse, standing in pale-faced clusters, bleached yellow by the incandescent lights. The Kleins join them, each family contained within its own be
ll jar. Most of the children are younger than Rosa – there are a pair of twin girls in identical black felt coats and berets, an assortment of boys of various levels of scruffiness, some girls of various heights and, there, a woman holding a baby bundled up in a blanket, nothing to be seen but a small sleeping face.
Rosa is unable to recall saying goodbye to Heinrich; she must have said goodbye to him at the apartment, but try as she might she is not be able to remember exactly – ah, memories, memories, already they are becoming important, it is strange what the memory does, the tricks it pulls, the games it plays, its priorities are all skewed, but she cannot remember, in her mind when she tries to remember there is only a blank space. Hedi, however, she vividly recalls giving up her doll, no don’t think of it, her little morbid face with those liquid eyes, her only crime to be born at that particular time, in that particular place, her young unhappy life.
—Ladies and gentlemen, please listen. You cannot go to the platform. The police will not allow it. You will have to say goodbye in the waiting room. Follow me if you please.
The astute-looking man checks that he has been understood then steps off the chair and carries it across the concourse, the small crowd of parents and children ambling in his wake. Klein and Inga grip Rosa’s biceps, the gold wristwatch on her arm pinches, and they manoeuvre to the waiting room as a unit. The door is closed. The waiting room is boxy, stuffy, smells of disinfectant, someone coughs. The walls are painted black to shoulder height and grey above, light bulbs dangle from the ceiling collared with green cones. No one removes their coat. A group of youth leaders register the children on clipboards and tag them and their luggage with labels.
Rosa looks from her mother to her father and back again. Papa is standing silently, pale and distracted, Mama is saying something about how they will see each other again soon, just as soon as they can get passage to England – or Argentina or Brazil, thinks Rosa, you might be going there, mightn’t you, if you get your way at the embassies tomorrow; and many of the children here are Hedi’s age, some younger, yet Hedi is not being sent away. The twins are wailing and it is putting everyone on edge; their mother is kneeling, trying to comfort them, crying herself now. It is difficult even to think clearly. Rosa’s throat feels blocked like a tube of bamboo, she is surprised she is still breathing, she does not know how the air is getting in. A youth leader with a clipboard comes over, his fingers stained with cobalt ink, yes, Rosa is on the list. Papa hands over Rosa’s passport and he checks that it has been stamped with the word ‘Staatenlose’ – ‘stateless’ – and the letter ‘J’, and that ‘Sara’ has been inserted as a middle name as is required by the Reich for Jewish girls; then he places it in his folder and moves on to the next person. Rosa is surprised to be processed so easily, surprised that this isn’t just a game, some kind of practical joke, a stunt pulled by someone somewhere for some reason. She receives her tags, feels somewhat foolish being labelled like a parcel; it’s not so bad for the little ones. Inga helps her tie one tag round the handle of her suitcase and loops the other over her head, a number printed on a piece of cardboard, hanging round her neck from a shoelace.
The English German Girl Page 15