The English German Girl

by Jake Wallis Simons

  —Samuel, she exclaims, what do you think you’re doing?

  —I’m helping Rosa write a letter to Baron de Rothschild.

  —I don’t care if you’re writing to His Majesty himself, you’re to keep your distance from the girl, do you hear? I’ve told you till I’m blue in the face.

  Samuel starts to explain but his mother cuts him short.

  —Look, she says, suddenly exhausted, go downstairs. That Cailingold girl is here to see you. I’ve told you to keep your distance from her as well. I’ve half a mind to turn her away. The shame of it.

  —Esther? says Samuel, surprised.

  —That’s the one, says his mother, there seems to be no end to the number of young women my son is cavorting with.

  Samuel slips from the room and his footsteps cascade down the stairs. The sages have taught that a man and a woman should never be left together in seclusion; what possibilities they must see in people to infer such danger! Or, believing in the danger, how often must they consider the possibilities! Without looking at Rosa, Mimi goes after him.

  Rosa sits for a minute in silence, then gathers up the shawl and hot water bottle and lies on her back on the bed; turning her head to the side, she feels cool cotton against her cheek. Her feet ache all the way up to the knee from today’s walking. In a moment she must sit at the desk and write a letter to her parents, but what to write? That the journey from Deutschland was lovely, that England is delightful, that the Kremers are wonderful and she is very happy here, that she had been knocking on doors and the English are very nice, and she is sure she will find them an employer soon? Ah, tomorrow she must give herself longer, get up earlier, walk faster, hurry straight to the place where she finished the day before and continue from that point onwards systematically, not stopping until she finds the unknown person who needs to be found. She will continue every day; even if she is struck down with a dreadful illness she will go on—

  There is another knock, the door opens partially, and Mimi’s head appears.

  —May I come in? she says.

  —Yes, says Rosa.

  Mimi sits beside her on the bed, setting the mattress springs groaning. She is holding a piece of paper.

  —Here, she says, I have drawn you up a list. These columns are for Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday and so forth. And here’s what you need to be doing. Kitchen, that’s floors, surfaces and washing up, then there’s laundry, and ironing, dusting, and so on and so forth. The char will show you how to do it all before she leaves, and so forth.

  —Work? says Rosa.

  —Indeed, Mimi replies. Paying your way, as it were. Singing for your supper. Perhaps there are certain advantages to your not being eight years old.

  —But I need to get visas for family.

  —Of course you do, says Mimi, there’ll be enough weekends for that. Mustn’t go over the top, must we? The char will be expecting you downstairs in the scullery at half past seven tomorrow morning.

  She heaves herself from the bed and crosses to the mantelpiece where she demonstrates half past seven on the carriage clock. Rosa is suddenly overwhelmed with an irrational anger which she struggles to contain.

  —I do not clean in daytime, she says, I clean in evening.

  —In the evening?

  —I get visa in daytime. I clean in evening.

  Mimi thinks for a moment, reading Rosa’s face.

  —It’s most unconventional, she says hesitantly. I suppose we could try it and see how we go. But I still want you in the scullery at half past seven tomorrow morning. So the char can show you the ropes and so forth.

  Giving her an odd sort of look, Mimi leaves the room. For several minutes Rosa doesn’t move, allowing her heart to settle, her rage to sink into a less venomous depression. This house is claustrophobic, all the rooms too small and cluttered, as if the walls are slanted over her, and the light is dingy, and it is cold; she wants to open the window and leap out, tread the air, float, or fly, disappear into the darkness.

  Suddenly there is a noise outside. She walks to the window, fists away the glaze of condensation, looks out: Samuel is sitting astride a great grasshopper-shaped machine, revving the engine with aggressive screws of the throttle, pulling goggles down over his face; clouds of exhaust are flurrying into the air behind him, the headlamp is sweeping a funnel of light across the road. A girl appears, bundled up in a coat with a scarf round her head, and mounts the motorcycle as well. The wine-coloured curtains part in the house opposite and heads appear in silhouette. Samuel fires the engine and lurches off precariously down the street and into the night.

  Rosa turns away from the window and sits down at her desk. The lamp is buzzing softly. Suddenly she crumples up Mimi’s timetable and throws it violently against the wall. She takes out a new sheet of foolscap and places it in front of her, then removes the lid of her pen. For a long time she sits looking at the blank paper in the lamplight, pen poised but unmoving, as the carriage clock ticks and the temperature drops, trying to write, trying to think, trying to find a way to begin the letter to her parents. Eventually she lets out a long sigh, picks up the balled-up timetable from the floor, smooths it out and places it on the desk beside her.

  3

  Samuel, holding a sheet of Rosa’s English exercises with his comments and suggestions written in red ink, taps on her bedroom door. He suspects that she might not be there – in all probability she has already left for another relentless day on the streets – but knocks anyway.

  —Rosa, he says, you’re not in there, are you?

  As expected, there is no response. To his surprise the door gives way, swings partially open, Rosa cannot have closed it properly when she left. He pauses. A column of light spills from the door onto the landing, he can see the edge of her bed. The house is quiet, nobody is here apart from Zeidi, who is asleep. Father has gone to his workshop at Petticoat Lane, Mother has gone shopping, and Samuel has been left at home to receive the Anderson shelter, the delivery of which, according to the council, is due this afternoon. He knows he should close the door, slip the sheet of paper underneath it, and go about his business; but curiosity is growing within him, he has allowed it to brew for too long, he can no longer resist.

  He pushes the door softly, it swings wider with a sigh, revealing Rosa’s room, laying it bare. The curtains are open, the April sunshine rests in a rectangle across the bed, and dust particles turn gently in the air. He leans across the threshold, peering surreptitiously around – Rosa has given the room a different scent, not quite perfume, nor sweet feminine breath, nor freshly laundered underwear, but related to all of these; undeniably the scent of a girl. Our sages tell us that men of independent means should engage in sexual intercourse with their wife every day, workmen twice a week, donkey drivers weekly, camel drivers monthly and sailors every six months. He places one foot inside the room, then the other. Get out, he thinks, forget about this room, this scent, this bed. He hesitates, then creeps further inside and closes the door behind him.

  Now he is sealed in her room; should anybody find him, should Mother come home early and find him, he would have no excuse. He should leave now, before it’s too late. He gazes at the bed, the blankets have been tucked in so tightly that there is not a single crease, like a fabric-covered brick. Yet in the pillow there is an indentation. He kneels beside the bed and places his hand gently in the hollow; it is the shape of Rosa’s head, he is sure of it, or even her face perhaps. He bends carefully over and lowers his own cheek gently onto the pillow, feeling the indentation against his cheek. A single hair lies on the cotton, curling like the flimsiest of springs, its tip raised an inch or two above the fabric, flicking occasionally in a barely discernible breeze. Samuel watches it for a moment, feeling connected to Rosa in the most intimate way. Then he rests back on his heels on the linoleum.

  All is still. He has gone too far, this is inexcusable, already he has sinned terribly. The faint sounds from the street, the occasional call of a blackbird, snatch of conversation, t
hrum of a tram, seem to be passing quiet judgement against him; the faded linoleum is hard and unforgiving beneath his knees, and his breath tickles his upper lip. He passes his hand over his comb-furrowed hair and picks up the photograph from the bedside table. Jolly strange, those Germans, so serious and formal, a family standing to attention for the camera, look at how the father has his socks pulled up to the knee, oh look at Rosa, doesn’t she look funny, much younger, and her unruly curls are really rather comical. If she’d been living in London then, he’s sure they would have been friends. He replaces the photograph, thinks for a moment, then, following an instinct, peers into the shadows under the bed. There, nestling against one of the legs against the wall, is a small painted box, a cigar box or a jewellery case. He should leave now, he’s done enough. He reaches under and slides it out, then pauses for a moment. His intentions are not malign, he simply wants to get to know Rosa, everything about her, and in real life he cannot even attempt a conversation without his mother interfering, or an insurmountable language barrier coming up between them, or a crippling shyness on Rosa’s part – or his own – putting paid to any hope of a relationship. He waits for a sign from God, some indication that he is sinning, some threat of retribution; nothing comes. He opens the lid.

  The first thing that catches his eye is the glint of a golden watch. He peers closely with a synagogue awe, not daring to lay a finger on it, admiring the elegant face, the embossed numbers, the heavy strap. The only other object in the box is an envelope with postage stamps bearing the image of Mr Hitler. He stretches out his finger and touches it; the contours of the face undulate beneath his fingertip, he draws his hand away. The guilt is beginning to clutch him; he tries to shut the box and walk away, but something prevents him, as if he is possessed. He watches his hand sliding the envelope from the box, opening it, removing two letters; they are written in German, both in elegant fountain pen, on tissue-thin, well-thumbed paper. So this is what Rosa reads, this is her true self. He watches himself sit at the desk, heart pounding, spread out the letters. Occasional words jump out at him: England, Kremer, Berlin. Rosa’s dictionary lies on the desk; he opens it, the spine makes a creaking sound and then a crack. He is sitting in her room, at her desk, in her chair, using her dictionary, exactly as she does night after night; this is her exact view of the window, the wall, the desk. His German is atrocious, of course, practically non-existent, but his curiosity is burning, his desire to really know this German girl, to learn her innermost thoughts, and those of her family. He still expects, somehow, a sign from God, something to tell him to stop; when still nothing comes he continues, surrounded by the silence of an empty house, looking up word after word in the dictionary, piecing together sentences, deriving meanings, line after line, as the rectangle of light slips imperceptibly eastwards.

  6. April 1939

  Mein liebes Püppchen,

  What a surprise to see a letter from England in the postbox, with all its funny stamps! I can see your English is improving already, how useful those lessons were that we gave you. It does indeed sound strange that the Kremers have a lavatory in a separate room from the bathroom, but these, perhaps, are the ways of the English.

  Mama, Heinrich and Hedi all send their love to you. Heinrich wishes me to tell you that he has become a leader in his youth group, and we are all very proud of him. Your mother has been cooking some particularly delicious food of late, even with the limited resources available, what a clever and wonderful woman she is. Hedi is missing you very much and says that as soon as she is big enough she wants to learn to ride a bicycle like you. We are all, of course, pursuing visas as much as we can, but things here are as difficult as ever. I do hope your searches will prove fruitful, it must be a lot easier in England, everything must be I suppose.

  Now for one of Papa’s tales. A boy that I teach at school, a little lad by the name of Pfeifenkopf, developed a gigantic boil on the side of his nose last week. Being a surgeon I was elected to deal with the situation. Every day I gave the boy a little brandy and advised him to rub it on the boil. And within four days it had completely vanished! So you see the healing powers of brandy.

  The Kremers sound like very kind and capable people. Do be sure to make yourself useful around the house, be polite and tidy up any mess you happen to make. Don’t forget that they are showing you great kindness in giving you a home, and always be grateful and obedient. Be sure to study hard, a facility with English will stand you in good stead for the future. Your mother wishes me to say that although the situation here in Berlin is not the easiest, we are spurred on by the thought that you at least are well and happy and it will surely not be long until we see you again. We have no doubt that you will be able to find someone to offer us a visa very soon. Please do your very best – we are counting on you. Be strong, mein Püppchen, be strong! Until then we are sending you lots of love.

  With an abundance of hugs and kisses,

  Papa (also Mama, Heinrich and Hedi)

  The letter is unremarkable, not even that private really, Samuel is sure that Rosa would have happily let him read it, he hasn’t done anything wrong. As he puts it to one side, something in the other letter catches his eye: his own name, shining like a beacon from halfway down the page. Immediately he turns to it – if he features in a letter, he should be entitled to read it, should he not? It is a shorter note, and signed by her brother Heinrich:

  Rosa:

  Well done for arriving safely in England. I’m sorry to hear that Mimi and Gerald are so awkward to get along with, I suppose all you can do is remember that they are your benefactors and be as cordial as possible (England does sound strange – why on earth do they feel compelled to paint everything scarlet?). I am glad that you feel a certain kinship for Samuel, I have never met him personally but Papa says he is a decent enough boy. Perhaps he can be a big brother to you whilst I am still here – if you don’t fall in love, of course!

  Write back soon.

  Heinrich

  As Samuel puts the crackling paper down and looks out of Rosa’s window, a strange feeling grows inside him, a feeling that he normally associates with the tiny glasses of whisky that are provided by the synagogue at bar mitzvahs and circumcisions. The letter has profoundly changed things; suddenly he has a window into Rosa’s life, without the shutters and curtains and filters that normally lie between one person and another, and he has found, lying there already, an image of himself.

  He folds the letters and replaces them beneath the golden watch, then slides the box back under the bed into exactly the place where he found it. As he does so a deeper, more serious thought rises to the surface of his mind. Even when translating so laboriously, even when focused on adjectives and synonyms and conjunctions, the desperation of Rosa’s family was palpable; he, sitting in Rosa’s room, by her window, has, to some extent, received the transmission of her parents’ desperation; and he should share the responsibility for rescuing them.

  Samuel gets to his feet, turns towards the door, catches sight of the wardrobe. We are told in Genesis that Adam and Eve, being perfectly innocent, did not wear clothes until after eating from the Tree of Knowledge, when they used fig leaves to cover their shame. There is a ring on the doorbell. He pauses then leaves the room, frustrated on the one hand, yet at the same time relieved that something has arisen to give him a reprieve from himself. As soon as he is outside on the landing and the door is shut safely behind him, he feels a wave of self-disgust. O Lord, I have sinned, I don’t know what came over me; I do not know what punishment awaits, but I repent, here and now, and swear that I shall never do it again.

  He opens the door to a rough-looking man in a cloth cap. Behind him, in the middle of the road, engine running, is a lorry from which neighbours are unloading curved sheets of corrugated iron. Ah, the Anderson shelter, he had completely forgotten. He walks through the warm spring sunlight to the lorry. As he unloads a shelter and carries it in, despite his lingering self-disgust and promises to God, his mind remains on t
he first floor, in the bedroom next door to his, by the desk where the German girl reads and writes letters to her family, and by the bed, where she sleeps – or attempts to – each night.

  4

  —Now, says Samuel softly, I shall do the talking. Try to follow if you can, and I shall explain later whatever you can’t understand.

  —I should not talk? says Rosa.

  —That’s right, Samuel replies, but you can say ‘shouldn’t’, remember? Shouldn’t. Not ‘should not’.

  —Shouldn’t, she repeats.

  —That’s the one. There, you’re getting the hang of it.

  They are sitting in an echoing chamber fuggy with heat; summer is making its approach, and the windows, being covered already in galvanised iron, cannot open, making the building even warmer than it is outside. The room has the twilight atmosphere of blocked sunlight. Paintings line the walls, an elaborate chandelier hangs many feet above them, and Rosa, wearing her very best clothes, feels incongruous.

  —It is warm, she whispers.

  —Indeed, Samuel replies, but you can say ‘it’s’, you know.

  —It’s warm.

  —Too right.

  They continue to wait in silence, their gas mask boxes on their laps. Harried-looking officials hurry past with overstuffed folders under their arms, mopping their brows with handkerchiefs, their shoes clacking and squeaking on the polished floor; somebody behind them is smoking a pipe.

  —Thank you for helping me, says Rosa nervously.

  —Not at all, says Samuel, it’s my pleasure, whatever Mother and Father might say. It’s useless reasoning with them, wouldn’t you agree?

  Some way off there is the bang of a double door and the regular clack of heels approaching. Then from a corridor emerges a short man with wire-rimmed glasses and a pronounced double chin. He makes his way over to where they are sitting.