The mood has been subdued, but suddenly it begins to change. There is the sound of laughter from a corner, and some confusion regarding a little girl who does not appear on the list; at the same time a small boy in the centre of the room begins to howl, burrowing into his mother’s skirts and twisting round and round. Now Rosa looks at her parents again: she is finding it difficult to focus and the watch on her bicep is pinching uncomfortably. Papa is fiddling with her suitcase, tightening the belt, his hat slips as he bends over and he has to keep pushing it back on his head, exposing his tufty scalp, it is like a comedy in a way, Mama is saying something, her face is red, she must be hot, perhaps she should remove her scarf, it is a little warm in here, Rosa didn’t think she felt the heat so much, if only those twins would stop wailing, their shrieks are quite piercing, she is finding it hard to swallow, and the watch on her bicep is actually giving her pain. The astute-looking man gets up on his chair again and says:
—Now it’s your last goodbye. The guides will take over and they will accompany the children to the train. Please don’t come to the platform because it only causes trouble for us.
The constriction in Rosa’s throat builds to an almost unbearable degree. Inga is terribly red now, and she is trying to smile and say something, but her face is creasing in a way that Rosa has never seen before, from somewhere she produces a handkerchief, then replaces it in her pocket and smiles an awful smile, she has become so thin, Mama you are so thin, now Papa is standing back from the suitcase acting as if he feels a genuine sense of accomplishment, he says, Püppchen, if this suitcase does not survive your adventure to England I will eat my brush, maybe we will meet again before you even manage to open it, and he smiles too, another awful smile, then he says, don’t spit out of the window, it will come back in your face, and smiles again. Rosa does not want to go, it is all happening too quickly, everything unravelling before her eyes, she can smell Papa’s cologne, she realises she has never smelt it before, not really, not properly, never paid it much attention, and she looks at her parents, she has never seen them before, not properly, she must remember every detail of their faces, imprint them in her mind, the way her mother touches her cheek, with that kind of insouciant affection, it is part of her, that gesture, part of the whole experience of her, a throwaway caress, yet filled with an everyday kind of love, it seems strange under these circumstances, now Rosa’s eyes are itching and she does not want to go, Papa carries her suitcase to the door, then can go no further, Rosa must go alone. He puts down the suitcase, takes her shoulders and turns her gently towards him, puts his hands on her head, closes his eyes, says a blessing, the last blessing, his hands rest on her hair in the familiar way, and he whispers be strong, meine Püppchen, be strong; and then Mama does the same, murmuring her prayer silently, then her trembling hands slip away. Rosa must carry her suitcase herself, she heaves it up, walks through the doorway, looks back one final time: Papa and Mama are standing arm in arm, they are waving, but their masks have fallen away, they look hopeless, and that is the worst thing of all; Rosa turns her back and they are gone. She has seen them for the last time.
As she walks towards the platform, Rosa can’t feel her feet. She remembers Mama saying once that angels have no feet, they simply glide along without them, and that is how she feels, it is a surprise that her feet are carrying her along as normal. A youth leader helps her to board, she places her hand on the cool metal side of the train, feels its rivets beneath her fingers, sees the oblong letters DEUTSCHE REICHSBAHN, then the youth leader directs her along a cramped corridor into one of the compartments, heaves her suitcase into the air and stows it on the rope luggage rack overhead, it must be the heaviest suitcase on the whole train, the rack bulges like a fishing net under the weight, the youth leader groans as he lifts it, the same sound that Papa makes as he removes his coat and hat at the end of a day; Rosa glides over to a seat as if nothing unusual were occurring, and she raises the window using the little leather stub, rests her elbows on the sill and looks out; the night air is cool on her face, she wants to catch another glimpse of her parents but they are hidden away in that room, only a few metres away after all.
Suddenly she is overwhelmed by a desire to write to her parents, to tell them how she has been feeling these last few days, to confess everything, for she now feels that they truly love her. But her pencils are packed deep in the bowels of her suitcase and Papa has secured it so tightly she is afraid to open it, and – oh, her compartment is full now, all children, little girls, quite young, one or two a bit older, and great clouds of steam are spurting up past the window, this train does not seem mobile at all, seems more like a house, and there’s the shout, Alles einsteigen! Alles einsteigen, can this train really move, it seems too heavy, like a house, look at all that steam, it’s as if it is surrounded by fog, and somewhere those twins are still howling, their cries can be heard above the noise of the engine, who knows how they got them on the train, but here they are, sitting side by side and wailing in an identical fashion, the train must be about to depart, these are the last few seconds—
Just as the cramped train begins to tug and groan, the carriage door opens and something is slid in. The door slams, and Rosa cranes out of the window. A slight figure hurries away along the platform and disappears in a cloud of steam. The train pulls painfully away.
Rosa and the other children sit in silence as the train picks up speed and the distance from their parents widens. Along the narrow corridor the silhouette of a rectangular object can be seen next to the train door, moving from side to side as the carriage jolts over the tracks. Dim lights and telegraph poles judder by in the darkness.
After a time Rosa gets to her feet, leaves the compartment and walks unsteadily down the corridor towards the object. When she gets near enough she stops. There in the shadows sits a wicker basket filled with blankets, and in the middle is the motionless face of a baby. Rosa puts her hand gently on the child’s chest and detects a gentle movement, he must be in a deep sleep. Then her fingers brush a hard object – she withdraws a bottle filled with milk that has been tucked inside the blankets. She looks around. No youth leaders can be seen anywhere. The carriage is crammed with little girls, all peering out of their compartments, their tags swaying from side to side to the rhythm of the train, their hollow eyes fixed blankly upon her.
2
The door is firmly closed and none of the parents attempt to leave, they are doomed to remain in this adult domain, an empty Hameln suddenly devoid of children. Klein clears his throat. There is no Rosa, no fat suitcase, only nothingness. We will see her soon, Inga. We will all join her soon. Inga’s face is motionless, her eyes fixed on the door of the waiting room. The minutes pass and then there is the sound of a train’s whistle, that familiar sound beloved of children. Then the noise of steam and the speeding-up rhythm of a train’s engines, they’re leaving, they’re leaving, they’re leaving, finally fading to silence.
Eighteen months later, a few miles away, at the Grunewald goods station, most of these parents will be boarding freight trains bound for the east. But for now all they can do is leave the waiting room, pass through the concourse and make their way home.
3
The train is, for the most part, normal enough, headed by a great black engine with its eagle-and-Hakenkreuz insignia, spurting steam into the cold blackness of the German night; its occupants are largely businessmen returning from the city, their spongy overcoats smelling of alcohol and cigarette smoke, their hatted heads nodding to their chests, dreaming vaguely of home, or dwelling upon the various issues that concern them, swaying in a single wave as the train shudders rhythmically forwards. So much for the first few carriages. Yet the last carriages, dimly lit like the rest, windows soapy with reflections like the rest, smelling of steam and carpets like the rest, are full of dark-eyed, still sitting children, their tags swaying with the motion of the train, looking at the fifteen-year-old girl standing in the narrow corridor, a wicker basket awkwardly in her arms
, practically a grown-up yet wearing a tag like the rest of them, occasional shadows falling upon her shoulders then passing, falling then passing, as buildings slip past outside.
—Where are we going, Fräulein? asks one of the black-coated twins as Rosa enters the compartment, the basket in her arms. The other is still crying.
—Don’t you know? responds Rosa, casting her eyes around the carriage for a space to place the basket. We’re going to England.
—When will we get there, Fräulein? asks the girl again. She can’t be more than seven or eight, about Hedi’s age.
—We will arrive when we arrive.
The girl falls silent and continues to watch Rosa. Gradually her sister stops crying.
Rosa moves her to another seat and shifts a few children along. Then she places the basket on the empty seat and crouches on the carpet beside it.
—Is that a baby? says a girl in a scratchy-looking woollen skirt, several sizes too big. Her palms are pressed together between her knees.
—Yes, says Rosa looking in vain for a youth leader. It’s a baby.
—Can I give him a cuddle?
—Can’t you see he’s asleep?
The girl gives Rosa a cheeky grin. Her skin is very white.
The train judders on and the children, in subdued tones, begin to talk. Rosa checks that no one is watching and adjusts the watch on her bicep. She recalls seeing a couple of girls of her own age in one of the compartments that she passed earlier; she picks up the basket and makes her way down the dim corridor, holding on to the brass handrail for support, trying not to bump the basket against the polished wood panelling on either side.
We’re leaving, we’re leaving, we’re leaving.
The door of the compartment is closed, and curtains are drawn across the window. Rosa hesitates, then knocks and enters.
—Hello, she says.
This compartment, like all the others, is full of children, amongst whom sit the two older girls wearing the long skirts and sleeves of the Orthodox.
—Is that your baby? one of them asks. She has blonde hair in two Heidi-style plaits, and a blouse with a wide white collar.
—No, replies Rosa.
—So why have you got it then?
The baby moves, tilting his head upwards and moving it from side to side. Two tiny hands appear and flail against the sides of the basket. Then a cry can be heard, small and breathless like the mewing of a cat.
—Have you seen a youth leader anywhere? asks Rosa.
—It’s hungry, says the blonde girl. I can tell.
—How do you know? says Rosa.
—She has a baby brother, that’s how, responds the other girl. She is swarthy with meditative black eyes, and her arms are firmly folded across her chest.
—I think he’s tired, not hungry, says Rosa, losing her balance slightly as the train lurches on. And I’ve got a baby sister.
—How can it be tired? It’s just been asleep, says the blonde girl. Rosa flushes. The black-eyed girl gives the barest hint of a smile. The blonde girl speaks again:
—You’d better give the baby some food, since you’re looking after it. Look, it’s going all red in the face.
—Shall I pick him up? asks Rosa.
—I suppose so, says the blonde girl. What do you think, Britta?
The black-eyed girl nods, her arms still folded.
—Pick it up. Then sit down. What’s your name, anyway?
—Rosa.
—I’m Gusti. And this is Britta.
Rosa sets the basket on the seat, takes the baby carefully under the arms and draws him out. He arches his back and kicks his legs, crying relentlessly, gasping for breath. One of the blankets unravels and drops to the floor; Gusti tuts and tucks it back round the baby.
—You’ve got to support its head, she says.
—It’s not an it, it’s a he, says Rosa, defensively.
—How do you know it’s a he?
—I don’t know, I just know.
—What’s his name, then?
—How should I know?
—Well whatever his name is, if he cries for much longer he’s going to be sick.
—I think I shall feed him, suggests Rosa. Would you please pass me the bottle? It’s in the basket.
Gusti complies and sits down next to Rosa, who takes the bottle and aims it cautiously at the baby’s mouth, jolting to the rhythm of the train.
—Not like that. You need to tip it up or else nothing will come out, says Gusti.
—If only the train wasn’t bumping so much, says Rosa.
—Do you want me to do it?
—No, I can manage.
Suddenly the teat slips in and the baby begins to suck ferociously, making little distressed noises in the back of his throat.
—There, that’s better, isn’t it? says Rosa. That’s much better. There.
—Keep it covered up, it’ll get cold, says Gusti.
Suddenly the baby begins to cough violently.
—Take the bottle out, says Gusti. It’s choking.
Rosa removes the bottle so sharply that she almost drops it.
—You need to wind it. Here, let me. Gusti takes the baby from Rosa’s arms, puts him over her shoulder and starts to pat his back.
—Be careful, says Rosa, you might hit his head on the window.
—I know what I’m doing, says Gusti.
There is a loud burp and the baby seems to settle. Gusti hands the baby back to Rosa and he is immediately sick. Britta, once again, from within her solemn black eyes, almost smiles, adjusting the tag around her neck. Rosa dabs her skirt anxiously with the baby’s blanket and picks up the bottle again. The baby sucks ferociously.
—Careful, says Gusti, you’d better make sure you’ve enough left for later.
—What do you mean? says Rosa.
—She means, says Britta, that it’ll be hours and hours before we get to England. You mustn’t use up all the milk.
Rosa removes the bottle with a pop and holds it up to the dim light, the milk inside dancing to the movement of the train.
—There’s not very much left, says Gusti. It’s a good eater.
—Perhaps you can dilute it, says Britta.
The baby sucks his tongue for a while, dribble bubbling between his lips; then his lower lip protrudes, his face crumples and he begins to cry.
—It’s still hungry, says Gusti.
—Yes I know, says Rosa, but you told me to stop feeding him.
—You have to hold him to the side and jig him up and down, says Britta, chipping in. That’s the only way. I’ve seen people do it before.
—Like this? asks Rosa.
—Not quite, says Britta. Let me.
Britta takes the baby from Rosa and begins to rock and bounce him to and fro. Almost immediately, the baby stops crying.
—That’s right, says Gusti, very good.
The train cuts noisily through the moonless night and it feels as though they will never arrive. Several of the children doze, and the others retreat into themselves. The baby falls asleep in Britta’s arms, and she places him back in the basket. The clank and grumble of the train has a hypnotic effect and Rosa’s mind begins to cloud over; she rubs her bicep absent-mindedly, falls into a fitful sleep.
We’re leaving, we’re leaving, we’re leaving.
4
—I say, are you all right?
Rosa is woken by Gusti moving to the seat opposite where a round-faced girl is sitting, staring vacantly into space; the girl does not respond, does not acknowledge Gusti’s presence. She is sitting on her hands, staring straight ahead, lips clamped into a crease, eyes two buttons. She might be four or five.
—Are you all right? Gusti asks again. There is no answer, no movement, no response.
—Your nose is running. Gusti pulls a wrinkled handkerchief from her pocket and applies it to the girl’s face.
—Is there a problem here? comes a male voice. Rosa looks up to see the astute-looking man from the stati
on leaning against the dark wood panelling, swaying from side to side with the movement of the train; his hair is swept neatly back and his dark, almost oriental eyes regard the world with certainty. I thought there were no youth leaders on board, she thinks, thought we had left them all in Berlin – thank goodness. She feels strangely comforted and, despite herself, imagines him slipping a golden ring onto her finger and sweeping her into his arms.
Gusti motions towards the round-faced girl. The man enters the compartment and crouches in front of her.
—I say, little one, are you not feeling well?
There is no response. He checks the girl’s tag against a list on his clipboard.
—How long has she been motionless like this? he asks Gusti.
The English German Girl Page 16