The English German Girl

by Jake Wallis Simons

  —Yes, but what if we have to evacuate?

  —What about it?

  —The cottage up in Norfolk isn’t very large, you know.

  —We’ll only have her for a while, says Gerald. Until her parents come over.

  —I jolly well hope so, says Mimi testily. It simply won’t do to have her for long.

  She glances at Rosa, who sends a faltering smile back. There is a pause. Gerald finishes his cigarette and stubs it out on a sandbag.

  —I hope the workshop is running without me, he says, you can’t take your eyes off those boys for a second or they’ll slack off, and they’ve got a consignment of mink arriving this afternoon. Maybe when we’ve settled the girl in, I’ll pop down to Petticoat Lane.

  A graceful-lined car trundles past making a clanking noise, driven by a man wrapped in a greatcoat, hat and scarf.

  —Carburettor, that noise, says Gerald, or the clutch.

  —When’s that tram going to put in an appearance then? says Mimi.

  —Here you go, says Gerald. Number forty-nine. See that, Rosa? Four, nine. Forty-nine.

  —Can you read that from here? says Mimi. Perhaps I need spectacles.

  —It’s this pea-souper, says Gerald.

  The tram lumbers to the stop and comes to a halt, its pole crackling on the overhead wire; it is red and tall, a double-decker, with an open platform at the back where the conductor is standing like a policeman. Gerald gestures for Rosa to get on, and she climbs carefully aboard, receiving disapproving glances from hurrying Londoners. Gerald helps Mimi onto the tram then climbs on himself, lugging the suitcase and puffing.

  Having stowed the suitcase on the lower deck, they clamber up the spiral staircase and sit at the front, like elephant riders. A scruffy-looking boy on the pavement glances up and gives them a cheery wave as their heads appear in the sooty windows above the advertising banner for Whitbread’s Ale & Stout. The upper deck of the tram is thick with cigarette smoke and the windows are steamed up with cold.

  —Here you are, says Gerald, front row seats.

  —Yes, says Rosa uncertainly.

  —Grand view of London, he says, don’t you think?

  —Yes, says Rosa again.

  —Come on, Gerald, she hasn’t got a clue, says Mimi.

  Gerald buries his chin in his black fur collar, rubs the window absentmindedly with his sleeve and lights another cigarette. The three of them sit in silence as drizzle begins to fall outside; drops slip down the window in irregular trails, joining and splitting into pools and globes; the buildings are hazy in the smog. Rosa gazes continuously around as if in a dream, baffled by the newness of every detail of the city, trying to make out words on advertisements. Mimi pulls her foxtail muffler tighter round her neck and slides her hands under her armpits, for it is terribly cold. When the conductor arrives, she jumps.

  —That’s threepence each if you please, he says. Mild today, isn’t it?

  The tram jolts to a stop – the conductor looks at the mirror in the stairwell, sees that there is nobody on the platform and stamps on the floor, signalling the driver below to move off. Then he drops Gerald’s coins jangling into his leather pouch, tears off the tickets, clips them with his ticket-punch and hands them over, tweaking the peak of his cap.

  —There you are, squire, he says. Mild today, isn’t it?

  —Yes, says Gerald, shivering, mild. Thank you very much.

  —What do you think of it all then, guv?

  —I’m sorry?

  —Got to stop old Hitler’s gallop, I reckon. I was in the last one, me.

  —Oh … yes.

  —No question to my mind, says the conductor. I’ll be staying put in London town even if it’s gas. Incendiaries are worse anyhow, he says, turning his back and making his way on sea-legs down the aisle.

  At the top of Bishopsgate they pass the goods yard, outside which a knot of hats are milling: trilbies, homburgs, army caps, fur hats, all moving about in patterns on the pavement, interweaving with bicycles, newspaper vendors, policemen, tramps. A panicked-looking man can be seen using a telephone in a police box; Rosa cranes her neck until he is out of sight. As they move away from the heart of the city the atmosphere is less frantic, people pass like ghosts in and out of the smog. Gerald blows cigarette smoke against the window.

  —Colman’s starch, he says, we could use some of that. And it comes in a cardboard box.

  —I do hope this girl is not going to be trouble, says Mimi as they trundle onto Stoke Newington High Street.

  —Don’t be daft, Gerald responds.

  —We’ve got to consider what’s best for Samuel.

  —Samuel’s all right. The boy’s all right.

  —No, Gerald, he is not. I fancy he might be soft on that Cailingold girl.

  —Esther Cailingold? Honestly, Mimi, she’s out of his league. Anyway, the boy’s eighteen already.

  —And when did you last see him in synagogue?

  Gerald rubs his eyes and smooths his fur collar.

  —It’s a risk, dear, says Mimi.

  —Heaven preserve us, mumbles Gerald, rolling his eyes and pulling a newspaper out of his pocket.

  As the tram trundles onto the Kingsland Road, Rosa begins to think how she will describe Herr and Frau Kremer when she writes her first letter to her parents: Frau Kremer is a little like an owl, and her husband, with his patchy beard, resembles a goat, and is not in the least like Papa; the Kremers may be religious but they also look worldly, and can seem abrupt at times; they are not affectionate, but then Papa had warned her of the English temperament, and in truth she is glad to be left alone. The thought of home makes the pain start again, and the heaviness immediately returns; she pushes her hands into her coat pockets and gazes listlessly out of the window at a cloud of pigeons rising from behind the post office into the dirty-looking sky. After a while she finds herself watching the conductor as he nips busily up and down the stairs, clamping coins in the coin-tester to check for counterfeits, calling out stop names, pulling bell-cords, talking about it all, stamping on the floor. People embark and disembark, talking, smoking, hurrying, waiting, lost in worlds of their own. The tram presses through the smog like a scarlet bathtub, like a boat. Rosa feels as if she has been travelling forever, as if she has no past and will have no future, but will remain in this crimson English tram indefinitely.

  Then, as the tram rolls deeper into Hackney, Gerald, as if awakening from a dream, gets unsteadily to his feet, pulls the bell-cord and climbs down the stairs followed by Mimi and Rosa; the tram stops and they step out onto the pavement. The drizzle has passed, and an ominous layer of coal smoke hangs in the sky. Gerald beckons to Rosa and walks off down the street, lurching and puffing under the weight of her suitcase. A gang of workmen in cloth caps are erecting some trolleybus wires overhead, sharing rough jokes and spitting on the ground; Rosa flinches from them instinctively and is surprised that Gerald and Mimi do not. The workmen’s gas masks are piled up beside them on the pavement; it is striking how neat the pile is, for workmen.

  —‘Jews back to Palestine’, mutters Gerald, motioning vaguely towards the words scrawled on the sooty wall of the convent on the corner of Heathland Road.

  —Oh, haven’t they cleaned that off yet? says Mimi.

  —I’d be the first to go to Palestine, says Gerald, if I could.

  —If there’s a war you won’t be going anywhere, says Mimi.

  —If there is a war, Gerald replies, the boy will be off and you’ll be in a frenzy.

  Finally they arrive at a white, square house surrounded by a hedge of little round leaves overlapping each other in uniform contentedness; the hedge is penetrated by way of a miniature gate, the point of which Rosa fails to understand. Gerald and Mimi enter, touching the mezuzah on the doorpost and kissing their fingers. To Rosa, the whole building seems wholly inelegant, a building for passing days and nights, nothing more.

  —Mind the steps, says Mimi, they’re icy.

  —Yes, Rosa replies. She ta
kes a deep breath, clenches her fists and goes inside.

  4

  —Where’s the little German girl? asks Samuel, walking into the dining room and adjusting his collar.

  —On her way, says Gerald. But I must tell you, she is actually fifteen.

  —Fifteen?

  Samuel warms his hands at the coal fire then takes his seat at the dinner table, the tips of his fingers reflecting in the mahogany.

  —Where’s she going to sleep? he says.

  Before Gerald can reply, a hush falls upon the family as Rosa enters the dining room, her hands clasped in front of her, taking everything in. Savoury smells fill the air, the table is laden with food. Herr Kremer sits at the head of the table directly beneath a heavy-looking brass light that, if it were to fall, would land in the exact centre of his homburg hat, which he is wearing indoors. To her right she sees an aged man with a pointed skullcap, his bleached beard covering his chest like a mat; to her left a boy of around Heinrich’s age with the lanky strength of a giraffe, Brylcreemed black hair and eyes like cocoa. And there is Frau Kremer, stirring a tureen of soup; she has replaced her hat with a headscarf, little locks of hair peep from under it like confectionery. The appearance of the dining room is Jewish yet English, and very alien: contrasting floral patterns provide a backdrop for ornaments, symmetry, a wind-up gramophone, framed pictures of Hebrew calligraphy, brown paintings of men with beards, faded lace cushion covers, row upon row of gleaming leather-bound Hebrew books; everything is cold and stuffy at once.

  —Here you are, says Gerald, do come and join us. Allow me to introduce to you my father-in-law Zeidi, and my son Samuel.

  The old man grimaces from his chair, and the Brylcreemed boy gets to his feet and bows his head; Rosa extends her hand, and for a moment it hangs in the air; Samuel grasps it and shakes it, a little violently, and returns, red-faced, to his seat. Mimi says:

  —We don’t do that, Samuel.

  —Honestly, Samuel replies, it’s only a handshake.

  —I’ll speak to the boy later, says Gerald in a low voice.

  Mimi turns back to the soup. Rosa, unable to understand, smiles again, shrugs and takes her seat, her head is heavy and her eyes itch, yet she is overwhelmed by the array of food that she sees before her, like a vision of paradise. In the centre is a basket overflowing with rolls and slices of bread, white bread that looks almost like cake. Beside it is a fluffy salmon mousse sitting cold and delicious in a bowl, garnished with a sprig of parsley; and then there is a carrot salad, a potato salad, a dish of boiled eggs, chopped liver, pickled herring, a cluster of white gefilte fish balls crowned with individual slices of carrot and, on the sideboard, a real bottle of wine.

  —You must be hungry, says Gerald, taking note of her expression.

  —I beg your pardon? says Rosa.

  —Food, says Gerald, for you.

  —Ah so, says Rosa, food.

  —Her English isn’t up to much, says Samuel. I’ll tutor her until I get mobilised.

  —No you won’t, says Mimi, serving the soup.

  —Honestly, says Samuel, it’s only tutoring.

  —It’s a slippery slope, says Mimi.

  —Oh, says Gerald, I’ve got a gift for you, Rosa.

  He reaches underneath his chair and brings out a package wrapped in brown paper.

  —What’s all this about? says Mimi.

  —A present, says Gerald, make her feel at home and all that.

  Rosa accepts the package and places it on the table beside her plate. Then she bends her head and inhales the wet scent of the soup that Mimi has placed in front of her.

  —Aren’t you going to open it? says Samuel.

  —They have different ways in Germany, says Mimi.

  —Nonsense, says Gerald, open it. Go on, open it. It’s all right.

  Rosa takes the package in her fingers and carefully removes the wrapping paper, folding it and placing it to one side before giving the present her full attention.

  —She’s very neat, isn’t she, says Mimi.

  —What a super present, says Samuel, a dictionary. Do you know how to use it, Rosa?

  Rosa looks at Samuel blankly, not comprehending.

  —It’s easy. You just look up the word you want here, in alphabetical order, and then the translation is presented alongside.

  —I think the girl will know how to use a dictionary, says Gerald.

  —They might not have them in Germany, says Samuel.

  —Don’t be silly, says Mimi. Mind out of the way, you’ll have the soup over.

  Rosa gets to her feet, pushes her chair in, enacts a stiff little bow and says:

  —I beg your pardon.

  —Call of nature, dear? says Mimi.

  —I beg your pardon, says Rosa, and hurries from the room.

  —Could be the crossing, says Gerald, the Channel is jolly choppy this time of year.

  —Ech hob dir in drerd, says the old man malevolently, glowering from under his eyebrows.

  —Sha now, Zeidi, drink your soup, says Mimi. Drink up, everybody.

  —Ver derharget, mutters Zeidi.

  After a few minutes Rosa comes back into the room, takes her seat once more and begins to eat, closing her eyes, allowing the heat of the soup to fill her mouth like the essence of life itself, swallowing hard, forcing the soup past the knot in her throat.

  —I say, your eyes are rather red, says Samuel.

  —She can’t understand, you’ll have to speak slower, says Gerald.

  —Your eyes, Samuel mimes with his hands.

  —Sorry, says Rosa, sorry.

  —No, don’t … don’t apologise, says Samuel.

  The family continues with their meal and the conversation drifts along familiar lines: Chamberlain and Eden, Stamford Hill and Hendon, the likelihood of mobilisation, evacuation to Norfolk. Rosa sinks into a somnambulant state, peering at her reflection in the polished mahogany table, looking out of the window at the sooty garden with its bedraggled Alexandra roses. She finds herself wondering what would happen if the brass light really did come crashing down on Herr Kremer’s head, considering whether it would be impolite to take another gefilte fish, wondering at the floral wallpaper. Then, suddenly, she thinks of home, of Berlin, of her family, of what sort of lunch they must be having, their current supplies were running low yesterday; and she wonders about her bedroom with its boarded-up windows, which is probably full of laundry by now, and her bed is probably stripped bare, Papa may have even got rid of it altogether to make more space; the knot in her throat closes like a fist and her eyes blur with water. She folds her napkin beside her plate, gets to her feet and pushes in her chair.

  —I beg your pardon, she says.

  —Lavatory again? asks Mimi.

  Rosa hurries from the room.

  5

  Downstairs, moonlight is slanting through the dappled glass in the front door and illuminating a shelf of ceramic ornaments. In the drawing room Gerald is sitting in an armchair, his skullcap tipped forward onto his forehead, scratching his neck with one hand, leafing gently through a volume of the Talmud with the other, his lips moving silently as he follows the ancient Aramaic. Opposite him sits Zeidi, his head tipped back and his beard bristling horizontally. In the dimly lit kitchen Mimi opens the crockery cupboard and removes a pile of plates, examining each in turn before replacing them; no fault can be found with Rosa’s washing up. She takes a handkerchief from her sleeve and wipes her eyes, then opens the cupboard that holds the glasses.

  There is a sound on the stairs. Gerald looks up from his Talmud sharply; his skullcap tumbles from his head and lands with a soft thud on the pages of his tome. He peers into the gloom of the hall, leaning forward in his chair. There is a creak – then another. There is no doubt about it, someone is coming down the stairs. He sits up straight and stares into the darkness. A figure appears; it is Rosa, stealing down the stairs. From the kitchen the quiet sound of clinking glass can be heard, together with the occasional sigh. Gerald is about to
call out, but something makes him stop. Rosa’s silhouette pads silently along the hall until she reaches the front door. She touches the handle, allows her fingers to rest there for a moment; then she reaches up to the hatstand and straightens her coat. Finally she makes sure her shoes are lined up neatly, creeps back along the hall and disappears up the stairs to bed.

  Samuel is lying under the blankets, surrounded by quiet darkness, thinking apprehensively about the army. He has never been one to shrink from an adventure, but part of him hopes he won’t have to go. An icy glaze of frost is building up on the window above his bed, the frozen condensation of his breath. As his mind drifts, somewhere deep down in his heart, beneath the blankets, jumpers, pyjama jacket and vest, something is beginning to stir. His father thinks that part of the reason he wants to join the army is so that he can later be of use in Palestine, and his mother is under the impression that he still attends synagogue. From the outside, generally speaking, he looks the same, nothing is different. Inside, however, is where the big changes, the seismic shifts, have been occurring ever since the family moved to North London, even before. The East End had been getting claustrophobic, suffocating even, and for years Samuel longed, on a deep and unspoken level, to be free from the shtetl squalor of the Whitechapel Road and Cable Street, where people spoke Yiddish, Polish and Russian, and rubbish rose in great steaming piles on the cobbles in the summer, and families of six lived in two rooms, and everyone believed, against all the odds, that wealth and fame lay just around the corner, the cobbler, the butcher, the schneider, everyone. And when the family moved north a few years ago it was as if a universe had suddenly been opened; he was released into a wider world, getting a secular education at Tottenham Grammar, moving every day within gentile society, and like a silent rabbit he stopped and stared at gentile life and gentile girls, the gentile theatre and the gentile pictures, gentile pubs and gentile books, and in the evenings, in his bedroom, could not help but recall the story that Rabbi Grossberg once told him about a Jewish man who was about to have extra-marital relations, and whose tzitzis rose up miraculously and lashed him repeatedly in the face. Samuel’s mind wanders, images of the German girl mingling with thoughts of his upcoming mobilisation, until, after a time, he falls asleep.