—Rosa Klein? he says in a librarian’s tones.
—Yes, says Rosa.
—This way, if you please.
The corridor is long, so long that the ceiling, walls and floor meet in a single point far into the distance; the man is walking quickly and they struggle to keep up. Samuel tries to show a reassuring smile to Rosa but she is staring straight ahead, her face a mask of determination.
Finally they are shown into an office with a carpet so thick that their feet sink into it like snow. The man disappears, the door closes, and a voice floats from behind a mahogany desk:
—Sam Kremer?
—Yes indeed, says Samuel, and this is my friend Rosa Klein.
—Welcome to the Home Office. My name is Addison. Yes, yes, take a seat. Warm, isn’t it? I can almost feel the malaria coming on.
They sit down, and Samuel clears his throat. At first not much can be seen on the other side of the desk on account of the cigarette smoke that swirls in great blue sheets at head height; but then the fug clears slightly, and there appears a bald man with a moustache curling up at the corners, a dishevelled collar and hooded eyes; his desk is weighed down with masses of folders, stacks of paper tied with string and an overflowing marble ashtray.
—So, says Addison, I am informed that you go to school with John.
Samuel clears his throat again.
—Your son and I are fellow cricketers, he says. John is an accomplished bowler.
—Forgive me, but I was under the impression that you were together at Winchester.
—I’m afraid not, sir.
—From which school do you hail? says Addison.
—Tottenham, sir. Tottenham Grammar.
—A grammar school boy, says Addison, rolling the words in his mouth.
He sits back in his chair and slides a cigarette case between two piles of paperwork towards them. Neither Samuel or Rosa moves to receive it.
—Speak, says Addison, looking at his watch.
Samuel glances at Rosa and begins.
—I am here on behalf of Rosa. She is a refugee from Germany, a Jew.
—Cat got your tongue, my dear? says Addison, looking at Rosa.
—Her English, while improving, is not yet adequate, says Samuel.
—I see, Addison replies in a circumspect tone of voice.
—Both of her parents, as well as her brother and sister, are trapped in Germany.
—Rotten luck. Thus you wish to bring them to our green and pleasant land, says Addison.
—In a manner of speaking.
—And you have sufficient funds collected to support them once they arrive?
—A small sum might be raised.
—They have valid passports?
—The Germans won’t give them one without a British visa.
—You’re not suggesting that we issue a visa without a valid passport? says Addison.
Samuel searches his mind for a reply.
—My dear chap, says Addison, we can’t go around issuing visas willy-nilly. The applicant must at the very least be in possession of a passport. It really is the minimum.
—But it’s an impossible situation, says Samuel, feeling his neck flushing, they’ll only be issued a passport if you give them a visa.
—I do understand, comes the reply, but your friend’s family must play by the same rules as everybody else. You’re a cricketing man, I’m sure you understand.
Samuel is speechless. Addison draws on his cigarette.
—If you want my advice, he says, find them an employer. If they had a work permit, that would make all the difference. Gainful employment, old chap, that’s the thing.
—We’re trying that, says Samuel, we’re doing our very best.
—Good show, says Addison.
Redness is spreading into Samuel’s face like a cloud at sunset. Rosa leans forward.
—Please, she says, we need help. My father, my brother, in prison. Berlin is not safe for us. We are one small family. England must have room for one small family.
—Gainful employment, says Addison, that’s what His Majesty is looking for. Many people believe that there is a war coming, you know. We can’t be taking in scroungers.
—Quite, says Samuel, and they have no intention of scrounging. They are hard-working, honest people. But we need to get them out now. If war is declared, the borders will be closed and they will be unable to escape.
—I appreciate that, says Addison, but if you are unable to present me with a passport or a work permit, my hands are tied.
He gets to his feet, signalling the end of the meeting. Samuel and Rosa rise and, in turn, shake him by the hand; Samuel’s face is bright red and Rosa’s is startlingly pale. They leave the office, close the door and make their way back down the corridor.
—That cad, says Samuel almost at a run, that absolute prize-winning cad.
Rosa hurries after him, trying to catch up, her thoughts racing: how long must this nightmare go on for? How difficult can it be to find somewhere for a middle-aged couple, their son and daughter? The world is vast, there are hundreds of countries, billions of people, yet not enough space just for a surgeon and his wife, and their son and daughter. And Baron de Rothschild has not even replied to her letter, perhaps she should write to him again, how humiliating, this entire process is degrading, and exhaustion is beginning to take its toll, knocking on doors all day, housekeeping in the evenings, English study at night, it is grinding her into the ground. If only she could sink underground for a hundred years and sleep.
They walk through the baking streets and descend into the bowels of the earth. They do not speak as they wait on the platform in the smoky subterranean gloom; it is not until they take their seats on the scarlet train, and it picks up speed and clatters noisily northwards, that Samuel breaks the silence.
—I was convinced that Addison would help. John swore blind that he would.
Rosa does not seem to hear him. The train clatters towards a tunnel, the lights flicker on and off, and the passengers jolt in their seats, in unison.
—I will write again for Baron de Rothschild, says Rosa.
—‘To’ Baron de Rothschild.
—I beg your pardon?
—‘To’ Baron de Rothschild. Not ‘for’ him, ‘to’ him. Remember?
Rosa’s head nods to the rhythm of the train, there is nothing but solid blackness outside. Her reflection glimmers in the window, how old she looks, like a different person, nothing like how she imagines she would appear. As the blackness deepens and the reflection becomes more vivid, a hollow-eyed doppelgänger stares back at her, shuddering morbidly, hunched and small in the seat. It begins to change, becomes younger, sheds months, years, and in the space behind appear Mama and Papa, hands resting affectionately on her shoulders, the Wiesbaden hills extending behind them; on either side are Heinrich and Hedi, both smiling broadly, frozen in time, the wind catching their clothes. Look at herself, her younger self, with unruly curls and crescent-shaped eyes, enfolded in the centre of the scene! She is in the very bosom of her family, encased by her parents like a nut, innocent, and loved, her life filled with school, bicycles, birthdays.
—We’ll put an advert in the Jewish Chronicle, says Samuel.
—What?
—The newspaper, you know? We’ll put an advert in, I’ve seen them before, hard-working German couple seeks employment as butler and cook, that sort of thing.
Rosa squints at him in the flickering light of the train.
—I’m sorry, she says, I don’t understand. I don’t understand.
Samuel looks away, trying to think of a way to explain, but when he looks back Rosa’s hands are over her face. He touches her arm, gently, but she does not look up. Our sages teach us that all physical contact with the opposite sex is forbidden. He slips his arm round her shoulder and she bows towards him very slightly, her body stiff and unyielding, suppressing with all her strength the sobs that every night stab incessantly into her pillow. Our sages have rul
ed that even accepting a handshake, even when there is no sexual motivation, is forbidden. Samuel places his hand over hers, and for the remainder of the journey they sit like this, Samuel watching their reflection in the window, his heart beating hard in his chest; they look small, dwarfed by the juddering train, two young people on train seats, divided by language, divided by culture, yet somehow united against the opaque blackness that surrounds them.
5
20. June 1939
Meine liebe Rosa,
Thank you for another lovely letter. We are glad that your English is improving and that the Kremers are treating you well. It is a great comfort to us that you are safe and happy, and we look forward every day to hearing from you. How overjoyed we are when we find your letters in the postbox!
Meanwhile the situation is bleak here. But we refuse to give up hope. Thankfully Papa’s position as a schoolteacher is still secure, but for how much longer? Everybody is saying that war is coming, and the doors of the world are closed to us. Please try as hard as you can to get somebody to help us. We will do anything, cleaning, cooking, gardening. If war breaks out while we are still in Germany, we will be trapped. Every night I pray long and hard that we will be able to come to England soon. This is the only hope we have left, as all other avenues are now exhausted. I think that the only thing I pray for harder is the well-being of a certain English German girl! Papa, of course, has never been inclined towards religion but on occasion he prays as well.
Now all there is left to say is that we are sending you lots and lots of love from across the sea. We think about you always. Your letters are a shaft of light during these black times. Do everything you can to get us passage to England, we are desperate and have no other hope left. Be brave, my dear, and be strong, and remember that our love is always with you.
With endless love, hugs and kisses,
Your Mama
Rosa folds the thin paper and replaces it in the envelope. She is sitting on her bed in a short-sleeved summer dress, with a beret at an angle on her head, ready to leave the house; she had been on her way out when she saw the letter on the mat. A blaze of sunshine fills her bedroom, and a bumblebee bats against the window. She weighs the envelope in her hands, feeling the desperation with which her mother posted it, but today tears do not fill her eyes; instead her face is set in an expression of steely determination, for today will be the day, she will make sure of it, she will simply not accept another rejection. She glances at the carriage clock on the mantelpiece – she must go, or according to Samuel’s timetable she will miss her train. She drops to her knees and feels under the bed for the painted box.
Samuel is in his bedroom, lying on his back on the bed, looking at the shadows moving on the ceiling. One of his hands hangs over the side of the mattress, holding between its fingers a flimsy piece of paper, a telegram which he received this morning. When he came down for breakfast it was waiting for him on his plate, Mother had restrained herself from reading it, it is important to give her son his privacy, or that’s what Gerald says at least. Samuel took it upstairs to his bedroom immediately, where he sat on his bed, just as Rosa was sitting on hers on the other side of the wall; and just as Rosa was reading her mother’s letter, he opened the envelope and read the brief lines of the telegram. For a long time he had known that this day would come and he’d been looking forward to it, in a way, fantasising about it even; but now that it has happened, it is somewhat different. Feeling strange, unsettled, he lies back on his bed, letting his hand hang over the side, and fixes his eyes on the ceiling; this is where he remains.
He hears the footsteps in Rosa’s room, then on the landing, then a knock at the door, he does not reply immediately, he feels somehow distant, as if he has already left. Another knock.
—Yes? he calls at last.
—May I come in?
—Please do.
Rosa opens the door, dressed to go out, that dress looks lovely, ah yes, she is catching the train this morning, that’s right.
—You’d better hurry, says Samuel, you’ll be late.
—My box, says Rosa in a tense voice, have you seen?
—A box? What kind of box?
—Small, she says, like this. Inside it is my letters.
Samuel’s heart jumps.
—Haven’t seen it, he says casually. Have you looked downstairs?
Without a word Rosa closes the door and rushes down the stairs, her mother’s letter still in her hand. Where could it be? How can it have vanished from her room like that, she is always so careful to leave it beneath the bed, in exactly the same place – it is simply inconceivable that she has misplaced it, yet she must have done, for it is not there, certainly not there.
—What’s biting you? says Gerald, walking into the sitting room.
—My box, says Rosa looking up from the sofa where she has been searching under the cushions, have you seen?
—What kind of box?
—A small box, like this. For my letters.
—Afraid not, dear.
Rosa turns back to the sofa, pulling the cushions onto the floor; finding nothing she puts them hurriedly back and begins to search in the cupboards.
Upstairs, a block of summer light falls from the window onto the landing. A foot steps into it, leaving a long shadow, and then a whole person, and Samuel stands in the light on the landing, half of his body illuminated, the other half cast into shadow, quietly closing Rosa’s bedroom door. He can hear her searching, dashing frantically from one room to the next.
—Where did you last see it? he calls over the banister.
—In my bedroom, Rosa replies from the kitchen.
—Why not look there again? You might have missed it.
—Upstairs no, says Rosa. I looked.
—You’ll be late for your train, says Samuel.
Rosa looks at him fiercely.
—I know.
—Suit yourself.
He disappears into his bedroom and closes the door. Without a word Rosa stalks back up the stairs to her room. She drops to her knees and, in despair, looks once more under the bed; there, pushed slightly further back than usual, and half obscured by the leg of the bed, is the painted box. She scrabbles for it, pulls it out, checks the contents, yes, everything is still there, the letters, the watch, she closes it again, presses it to her forehead, eyes closed; then, breathing a deep sigh, places the letter from her mother inside. She holds the box delicately in her hands for a few moments. Then she places the contents of the box carefully in her bag; she will find a more secure hiding place upon her return.
As Rosa hurries onto the landing, Samuel happens to be leaving his room. He catches her eye and almost gives way to a tidal wave of self-loathing, almost confesses that he has been reading her letters, almost throws himself at her feet; but he does not. His heart is beating fast and for an instant he considers telling her about the telegram, but again something prevents him. Rosa smiles, nods a farewell, hurries down the stairs and out of the house, finally on her way to the railway station. Today will be the day, today she is determined, and nothing in the world will stop her.
6
Several hours later, after a tortuous train journey, Rosa finds herself walking along a perfectly straight driveway the colour of gold. To her left and right lie immaculate lawns and flowerbeds, and carefully cultivated trees, all alive with a bounty of colour; on the horizon there stands a fairytale castle with turrets and pillars, and row upon row of windows, topped by a languidly flapping flag. Her feet are heavy, and she is breathless with nerves; an impulse to flee overwhelms her, she thinks of her family, walks on.
After a time she steps into the lilac shadow of the castle. When seen close up it appears vast and deserted, like a museum, and she can hear the dry noise of the flag flapping high up on the roof. She rests her foot, in a shoe polished for the occasion, on the lowest step and pauses; then gathers her courage and climbs the steps until she is standing in front of the imposing front door, flanked by pillars
and topped by an ornate lintel. Glassy lawns sweep out like great fields behind her, and her hair trembles in the breeze.
She winces, having rung the bell too hard; it resounds like the peal of a cathedral bell, echoing many times off surfaces of marble, glass and silver. A grand silence returns, interrupted only by the occasional birdcall. She waits anxiously on the cool stone steps, adjusting her dress and her beret.
She is about to ring again when, without warning, the door swings smoothly open and she is regarded by a coiffed butler.
—Yes? he says deliberately.
—Please I must to speak to Baron de Rothschild.
—Do you have an appointment?
—I beg your pardon?
—An appointment, madam. Do you have one?
—I wrote to him a letter. My name is Rosa Klein.
There is a pause while the butler sweeps his eyes across her, noting every detail.
—I must to see Baron de Rothschild, says Rosa boldly, I must to see him today.
—If you’d like to wait, says the butler, we shall see.
She is directed to sit on a red-upholstered chair before the butler vanishes, leaving her waiting like a pedlar, breathless with nerves, tracing the veins on the marble floor. It is surprisingly cold in the castle and she presses her palms between her knees.
—Miss Klein?
A strong voice, with an accent, not completely English, French perhaps. Rosa looks up to see a tall, slightly dishevelled-looking man with a large, blunt face and a monocle. As she gets to her feet and shakes his hand, the monocle falls from his eye and dangles on his chest.
—Follow me, he says in a resonant baritone. Rosa follows him up a set of shallow stairs into a womb-like study filled with the breath of old books, the voices of long-dead generations and the richness of oil paintings, chandeliers and dark wooden furniture. The man scrapes at the fire with a poker, replacing his monocle as he does so.
—Please I must to speak with Baron de Rothschild, says Rosa.
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