The English German Girl

by Jake Wallis Simons

  —Ever since we left Berlin, Herr Wollheim.

  —She is a quiet girl, says Britta unexpectedly. I know her. Agnes Pfeifenkopf.

  —I see, says the man. Perhaps kleine Agnes is tired.

  He lifts the child gently in his arms; the girl flops against him, expressionless. Then he hoists her onto the rope luggage rack, cushioning her with bags and suitcases, laying her there as if in a hammock. The little girl turns onto her side, burying her face in the crook of her elbow. Wollheim clears his throat, walks into the corridor and turns to address the children.

  —Now listen everybody, girls, please.

  Heads appear from compartments and a nervous ripple goes through the carriage.

  —We are approaching the border at Bentheim. In approximately one hour we will leave Deutschland and enter Holland. But there is one thing I must tell you: the customs officers have been replaced by SS guards. So please be compliant, stay in your seats and do whatever they say.

  Wollheim walks along the corridor, holding on to the handrail, peering into the compartments, showing smiles to the tired children, and Rosa feels a kind of strength coming from him; she knows she should tell him about the baby but for some reason remains silent. He catches her eye, and her heart makes a small palpitation – then he walks through to the boys’ carriage.

  Night gives way to a thick grey dawn that closes upon the train as it noses its way towards Holland, spurting white steam into the air as if there were nothing to hide. Rosa massages her bicep and rests back in the seat, allowing her mind to drift. Then, out of the corner of her eye, she notices a movement; she opens her eyes to see the little twins struggling down the bumpy corridor towards her compartment, one leading the other by the hand. She sits woozily up.

  —What are you doing here? Speak up, now.

  —May we please sit next to you, Fräulein?

  —Certainly not, there isn’t room. Everyone must stay in her own place. Back to your seats at once.

  The leading twin looks at her steadily, neither accepting nor resisting her order. The one behind rubs her eyes with a balled-up dimpled fist. Then, without a word, they turn and make their way laboriously back down the corridor.

  —That was mean, says Gusti. She is sitting by the window twisting one of her plaits, her fingers dimly reflected in the glass.

  —No it wasn’t, says Rosa. We must stay in our seats, that’s the rule.

  Gusti shrugs and gets to her feet. She slides past Rosa into the corridor and makes her way down the carriage. Rosa cranes her neck and sees her entering the twins’ compartment.

  Gradually the train begins to slow, and the jolts become more spaced out, as if the engine is falling asleep. Lights appear outside: illuminated buildings, warehouses, factories, strings of streetlamps forming erratic lines across the landscape, which is flatter than that of Berlin. A jigsaw of fields can be seen stretching out across the plains, emerging as the grey light grows. Rosa tucks the baby’s basket as far as possible under the seat, concealing it from view in anticipation of the search. A silence falls inside the carriage, more profound than before, and the children who were sleeping start to awake.

  —Rosa! comes a sharp whisper. She jumps – this is the first time that anyone has used her name since they left Berlin. She looks over to see Britta leaning towards her, an expression of alarm on her face.

  —Up there. We’d better lift her down.

  She follows Britta’s pointing finger and is surprised to see the round-faced girl still lying in the rope luggage rack, her head nuzzling the crook of her elbow. She gets to her feet and climbs onto the seat; Britta scrambles up beside her, holding the luggage rack; together they manage to drag the little girl awkwardly into their arms and sit her on one of the seats. She rubs her eyes and looks around, silently, before resuming her vacant stare. The two older girls take their seats once again just as the train draws into the station; they smooth their dresses and hair, and Rosa pushes the wristwatch firmly up her arm.

  She looks out of the window, through her own reflection, watching as Bentheim station rumbles into view, wrought iron and concrete appearing and disappearing in clouds of steam. Finally the train comes to a halt. Doors are swung noisily open and passengers disembark from the front carriages, turning their collars up and swarming towards the exit. Rosa sees a man in a beige greatcoat and homburg hat walking drunkenly, leaning on a cane. And she sees SS officers striding along the platform as if immune to the cold, passing documents brusquely back and forth, patent peaks crowning their chiselled features, clouds jumping from their mouths as they speak.

  —Don’t look, hisses Gusti, keep your face away from the window.

  Rosa continues to look, watching the SS officers, the passengers, the platform, the scene – this is the border, and along that track, through that mist, lies Holland.

  Herr Wollheim steps off the train and approaches the group of SS officers. He is hidden by a cloud of steam and then is visible; he hangs back until one of the officers calls him over, then approaches, head bowed, and hands some papers over. The SS are all several inches taller than him, more erect, more vital, one of them claps him hard on the back, causing him to drop his clipboard on the platform; the others laugh and light cigarettes as the Jude picks up the clipboard and smooths the papers on it. After a few more minutes of conversation Wollheim does a little awkward bow and hurries back to the train.

  Rosa looks into the basket on the floor beside her – the baby is beginning to wake up, moving his head from side to side and stretching his arms. She reaches down and gently pats his chest, and the baby’s hands grip her cold fingers; she glances up to see Gusti watching her silently, her hands not moving from her knees. Rosa rocks the basket and eventually, with a sigh, the baby falls asleep again, his arms flopping limply to either side. Rosa tucks the blanket tighter, avoiding Gusti’s gaze, and pushes it deeper under the seat.

  Hushed voices can be heard outside and, after a short while, Herr Wollheim comes back into the carriage, a little out of breath.

  —Girls, please listen, he announces down the corridor. We are almost out of Deutschland. All that remains is for the SS to check you are on their list and search your belongings. I have had to allow them to take one child from each carriage away for questioning. So please … comply with whatever they want and we will be on our way shortly.

  Once again he glances into the compartments, showing a smile to the children, and disappears. Rosa looks out of the window. On the platform, two SS officers are sucking the last flickers of life out of their cigarettes – they grind them under their heels, grab the train’s handrail and swing onto the carriage without using the steps. The train seems to drop under their weight, and a deathly silence falls upon the children.

  Loud voices suddenly fill the corridor, and the sound of confident footsteps. Then the same command can be heard repeatedly: Name! Name! Name! The children’s responses cannot be heard. The voices come closer, and nobody dares move. Rosa’s bicep is itching furiously, and it takes all of her willpower not to reach up to the contraband wristwatch. Britta has unfolded her arms, and they are by her sides, stiffly, her fingers gripping the seat; everyone in the compartment is staring down at the floor.

  A man in a black uniform strides in. He has taken off his cap and holds it awkwardly under his arm; Rosa can see the inside as he ticks off names on his list, it is plushly lined and looks comfortable. The polished silver badge, in the shape of a skull, winks from the hatband in the gloom. She sneaks a glance at his face: he is surprisingly young, about Heinrich’s age, and looks quite incongruous in his stiff uniform. There is something bookish about him, he could pass for a science student, a physicist perhaps, carrying out his duties in earnest. Just a man in a uniform, a boy really, no reason to be afraid, a boy like Heinrich, like any other.

  —Name?

  —Wolf, Hanna.

  —Name?

  —Holtzapfel, Ursula.

  —Name?

  The round-faced girl stares i
nto space, making no response, her button-eyes blank and dull.

  —Name? the SS officer demands again. Britta speaks up.

  —Please, Herr Soldat, her name is Agnes Pfeifenkopf.

  —She can speak for herself.

  —Please, Herr Soldat, she is too scared.

  —So. What kind of a name is Pfeifenkopf?

  —It’s her name, Herr Soldat. I don’t know.

  The officer scans through his list, shrugs and continues.

  —Name?

  —Schwarz, Britta.

  —Name?

  —Klein, Rosa.

  —Gut.

  He glances at his watch and looks round the carriage, scrutinising each detail: the luggage bulging in the rope racks above, the twin rows of children sitting solemnly on their high-backed benches, their cardboard tags hanging round their necks. Rosa spreads her skirt across the seat, letting it hang and conceal more of the baby’s basket. He swivels on his feet – there is not much room for manoeuvre between the children’s knees – and his gaze finally settles on Britta, perhaps because she has spoken up.

  —Komm doch mal mit, he says, without smiling.

  —Ich?

  —Komm mit.

  Britta gets to her feet obediently, her arms still stiffly by her sides, and shuffles over to him. He motions silently to the luggage racks; Britta clambers onto the seat, stretches up to reach her suitcase; she overbalances and has to step heavily down. The officer blows out his cheeks short-temperedly, reaches up and grabs her suitcase by the handle, but he underestimates the weight and the suitcase topples to the floor, striking the knees of several of the girls. He curses; the suitcase has split open and he stuffs the clothes back in before shutting it clumsily and gathering it up in his arms. One of the smaller girls starts to cry, and he silences her with a glare. There is a moment of stillness in which shouts can be heard from the other compartments, Name! Name! Name! Then the SS officer nudges Britta out of the door, prods her along the corridor and disappears out of sight.

  Nobody in the compartment dares to breathe, and they keep their eyes fixed on the floor, listening to the shouts from the other compartments, the sound of things being dragged violently along the corridor; from time to time SS men stride past, setting the door of their compartment rattling like a loose tooth.

  There is a noise from under the seat – a fumbling sound followed by a high-pitched yelp. Rosa glances nervously at the door and slips her hand into the basket, patting the baby on the chest. There is another yelp, then another, then the beginnings of a cry. The children fix their eyes harder on the floor as Rosa drops to her knees and pulls the basket out a little. Boots thump past in the corridor outside, and the children can hear an argument beginning amongst the SS further along the carriage. She feels in the basket for the bottle and slips it into the baby’s mouth. The crying stops immediately and is replaced by a guzzling noise. After a few minutes there is the sound of sucking air, and Rosa takes out the bottle. It is empty, but the baby has fallen quiet. She presses the basket back beneath the seat.

  Eventually things begin to die down. Out of the window Rosa can see a pile of suitcases and bags lying open on the platform, surrounded by a group of SS officers. Rosa watches as they snatch up articles of clothing carefully folded by many mothers, tubes of toothpaste, shoes and hairbrushes and belts, scrutinise them for contraband and toss them back into the suitcases, exchanging jokes and passing around cigarettes. There is no sign of Britta or any of the children who have been taken away. One of the SS men glances up and catches Rosa’s eye – she sits back and looks at the floor again, forcing herself to be still. The wristwatch begins to sting her arm, itching as if it were made of sandpaper.

  The children sit like this for a long time. We’re leaving, we’re leaving, we’re leaving. Then, finally, they hear luggage being dragged back onto the carriages and the nervous steps of children reboarding the train. The door opens, and Britta appears, her arms folded tightly across her chest, her black eyes downcast. There is no sign of her suitcase. She enters the compartment and sits down without looking at anybody, and without leaning back in her seat.

  More time passes and suddenly, Alles einsteigen! Alles einsteigen, could it be that the train is moving, yes certainly it is moving, tugging and groaning, pulling out of the station, leaving this accursed platform, leaving this accursed country. Rosa turns her face full to the window and looks back; the SS men are milling about and talking amongst themselves, the platform slides by and then disappears from view, the train’s whistle sings a note into the half-light, then there is nothing but flat landscape, covered in mist, punctuated by the occasional illuminated building or thread of lamps from the nearby villages.

  As the train rushes into Holland there is a noise from the adjoining carriage. Rosa runs to the compartment door and looks out; the corridor is full of poked-out heads gazing towards the next carriage from which can be heard a cacophony of shouts and screams. The noise gets louder, and Rosa can see silhouettes of people moving violently around; then the door bursts open and all at once the carriage is full of boys, little boys, big boys, all shapes and sizes, singing and dancing, punching the air, bursting into the girls’ compartments and grabbing them by the hands, hugging, laughing, hollering, dancing. Suddenly she feels a rushing sensation, as if a dark weight is fading from around her, and all at once she feels free, she is alive! She is caught up in a whirlwind of children, intoxicated with jubilation. Beaming smiles are everywhere, there is the sound of many songs being sung at once, some in Hebrew – in Hebrew, bold and loud! Rosa does not know the words but she sings along, la la la, finds herself arm in arm with Gusti doing a kind of jig, then Gusti starts singing Am Yisrael chai, and Rosa learnt this one from Mama, and she joins in with all her heart, Am Yisrael chai! The People of Israel live! Od avinu chai! Our forefathers live on! A boy appears and grabs her hands, and they spin along the corridor in a whirlwind of excitement, colliding with other children and the walls of the corridor, goodbye, Berlin, good riddance! Farewell! Farewell! Farewell!

  The train, a joyous cylinder of frenetic activity, slips along the track flanked by an expanse of fields turning yellow and pink as the sun starts to rise. After a time the girls collapse back in their seats, giggling and exhausted, while Zionist songs can still be heard from the boys’ carriage. As Rosa settles into her seat she catches eyes with Britta and asks, softly, are you all right? Britta nods and looks out of the window; she is still sitting erect, her back not touching the seat, her hands folded tightly across her chest.

  Rosa gazes out of the window at the vastness of the countryside. Suddenly she remembers the baby and reaches under her seat for the basket – but it is not there.

  —Oh, don’t worry, says Gusti, noticing her expression, Herr Wollheim came in and we gave the baby to him.

  —Who said you could do that? says Rosa sharply.

  —Nobody, says Gusti. But you wouldn’t have got it off the train anyway.

  Rosa is suddenly enraged, furious with Gusti, with Wollheim, with herself. She bites her tongue and stares fixedly out of the window; then, as the minutes pass and the sun rises, her thoughts disperse into a dreamless sleep.

  We’re leaving, we’re leaving, we’re leaving.

  As the train draws into the station on the Dutch side of the border the children become subdued once more, gazing apprehensively at the window. Rosa untangles the shoelaces round her neck and lays the tag flat on her chest. As the train comes to a standstill at the platform a hand appears and knocks on the dew-spotted glass; a plump female face hangs in the dawn light, nestling in a fur scarf and hat, gesturing for her to open it. Rosa grips the leather stub and slides the window down – the woman clucks in Dutch and passes her a steaming metal mug. Rosa, perplexed, accepts it; a smell fills the air, an old aroma, from a distant time, soothing, bitter-sweet; it takes Rosa a few seconds to fix a name to the smell, but when she does so she can barely believe it. Cocoa.

  The woman on the platform is joined
by some others and, smiling and honking like a group of good-natured geese, they dispense the cocoa from a huge cauldron as naturally as if they had drawn it from the river. Rosa helps them distribute the mugs, taking care not to catch Gusti’s eye, for she still cannot forgive her. Finally they hand Rosa a bulging paper bag, pat her cheek and lug the cauldron away, chuckling to each other good-naturedly.

  Rosa heaves the window closed, opens the bag and dips into it: a handful of miniature slices of bread emerge, dried-out little crackers, golden and crispy: Dutch Zwieback. She bites into one, leans back against the seat and closes her eyes again, allowing the bag to gape open on her lap, feeling little hungry hands plunging into it and hearing the children giggle at the crunch. Gusti remains seated, looking out of the window.

  There is a noise at the door, and Wollheim enters the carriage holding the baby. Rosa gets to her feet and reaches out but he holds the baby out of reach, asks her where it came from, what she knows about it. Gusti is still gazing out of the window. Rosa stumbles over her words and can only watch, mute, as Wollheim strides urgently out of the compartment and down the carriage, taking the baby with him.

  As the train pulls heavily out of the station en route to the port, and the sun brightens and the mist disperses, Rosa’s mind begins to drift to Papa, Mama, Heinrich and Hedi, asleep in their beds in Berlin behind boarded-up windows as she heads towards the freedom of England. How she wishes they could be here. At that moment a weight begins to settle in her heart, an irrational weight that can be neither explained nor reasoned away, a heaviness that comes and goes as it pleases, impossible to control. She cannot give to this weight a name, dares not identify it for what it is: a deep-seated, life-denying guilt.

  It is this same weight that hangs in her heart as she pushes her suitcase into her cabin and shuts the door behind her. The same heaviness prevents her from stretching out on the heavenly bed with the clean cotton sheets; the same guilt stops her from smiling at the steward who comes to serve her tea, odd tea with milk in that she drinks only for the heat. And yet, what keeps her awake as the ship ploughs its way through the chilly waves of the North Sea, apart from the cold and the sea-sickness, apart from thoughts of the baby and her family, apart from the guilt even, is a feeling of dislocation, as if she has been cut off, somehow, from herself.