The English German Girl

by Jake Wallis Simons

  —I’m the baron, says the baron casually, can’t you tell?

  With some difficulty he replaces the poker in a brass frame, brushes off his hands and takes a seat behind a desk, gesturing Rosa to sit down. Then he lights a pipe.

  —In March I wrote to you a letter, says Rosa.

  —I’ve been abroad. Only just got back.

  —I beg your pardon?

  —Abroad, you know. The Continent?

  —Sorry, my English is not good, says Rosa.

  —My German is appalling, replies the baron, but I’ll have a bash. I’ve been abroad.

  —Ah, you speak German?

  —A little.

  This is the first time Rosa has been able to speak German since her arrival, and the baron’s command of the language is excellent. She starts to talk, hesitantly at first, but then the words come spilling out, about her family, about Sachsenhausen, about the transport, about the Kremers and how she has been trying to find somebody to offer her family employment; she tells him how she knocks on doors, but there is so much housework to be done, and she is getting very tired, but she must carry on, all she needs is a work permit, a visa and a sponsor, and please, Baron de Rothschild, can you help?

  The baron, brow wrinkled, places his pipe on the table and steeples his fingers. Then he makes some notes on a pad of paper with a heavy-looking pen.

  —There’s a realistic possibility of war, he says. I have twenty-six children from Germany living at the Cedars already. They came here on transports like you.

  —Please, says Rosa.

  He puts down his pen and looks at her intently.

  —What does your father do? he asks.

  —He is a surgeon.

  —Will a surgeon work on a chicken farm? he asks.

  Rosa’s heart jumps.

  —He will work anywhere, he will do anything, she says.

  —And your mother? Your brother?

  —Of course, anything.

  He gets to his feet, towering to the ceiling, and his monocle falls from his eye, dangling on his chest; Rosa, a little dazed, gets to her feet as well.

  —I shall visit the notary straight away, he says, puffing on his pipe, and have them draw up a work permit.

  Rosa stumbles and has to support herself on her chair; the baron steps round the desk and takes her arm.

  —Come now, he says, I shall get you a glass of water and then you may accompany me.

  —No, says Rosa, no water. Let us go now.

  The baron smiles and a dappled light plays across his face.

  —Very well, he says, breathing strings of smoke from his nose, I’ll get my hat.

  7

  24. July 1939

  Meine liebe Rosa,

  Thank you so much for your letter. We are so very heartened by your news about the wonderful Baron de Rothschild. Will we be living in London, near you? What jobs will we have? How about Heinrich? Please write as many details as you can in your next letter, even small details that might seem irrelevant. We are very anxious to find out as much as possible.

  As it happens, we have some news of our own. This morning we received notification that Hedi has been accepted onto a transport. Could it be that our bad luck is lifting at last? The Kremers were reluctant, quite understandably, to take in another child, but they have agreed to look after her until we arrive, which after all may only be a few days. Needless to say, we are sure that you will look after Hedi very well indeed and prevent her from burdening the Kremers. Hedi will be so happy to see you!

  Wonderful, wonderful news! We will be together again soon! Please do write and explain all the details of Herr Rothschild’s offer.

  With so much love and kisses,

  Mama (also Papa, Heinrich and Hedi)

  Rosa folds the letter again and replaces it in the envelope; then she tucks it back into the pocket of her skirt and looks up at the August sky, cobalt blue, not a cloud in sight. On the arms of the deckchair her fingers are still, and her body relaxes in the red-and-white striped canvas; the narrow garden cradles her like a bijou, flowers tumble everywhere, even atop the Anderson shelter, which has a wig of hyacinths on its roof. She can hear the neighbours having a conversation about the threat of war; by now she can understand the gist, but even if she couldn’t the subject would be obvious, it’s all anyone talks about these days. In the distance rows of barrage balloons hang heavily, and from inside the house comes the sound of a crackling wireless, as the valves warm up it becomes more audible, again the war, the likelihood of war. The policemen wear uncomfortable-looking tin helmets now, and piles of sandbags have appeared on the main roads, nestling against the walls; yesterday in the street Rosa saw a man with a sandwich board advertising for ARP volunteers, he was wearing a gas mask and looking very frightening indeed. Her fingers tense and grip the arms of the deckchair. Hedi will arrive in just a few days, and her parents a week later, if war does not break out first; then they will be safe at Waddesdon Manor. Just a few more minutes and she will go back inside, continue with the housework, the floor still needs to be mopped.

  Inside, Mimi and Gerald are not listening to the wireless. They are sitting in the drawing room, and the wireless is muttering to itself in the corner, but they are not listening.

  —I’ve got the wind up, says Mimi, I don’t mind telling you.

  —Honestly, Gerald replies, you had the same jitters over Czechoslovakia last September. Perhaps it’s an annual event, your jitters.

  —That was different. There’s a war coming now, everyone says so. And this time Samuel will be all caught up.

  —Nonsense, says Gerald. It’s all just a lot of old sabre-rattling.

  —I know, I know. But with Samuel going off, it’s all a bit much. I shall sew blackout curtains for the dining room at least. Maybe for the other rooms also.

  —Dear, I’ve told you. If war does break out we’ll be moving to Harry’s place in Norfolk quick smart.

  —And the Germans won’t bomb Norfolk?

  —We’re already doomed with all these electric torches you keep

  buying at Boots.

  —They’re going up in price, Gerald, they’ve gone from sixpence to one and ninepence. The batteries will be rationed, and the globes.

  —There’s only so many electric torches a man can take, says Gerald. And blackout material. And tinned potatoes. And hot water bottles.

  —Hot water bottles fell into short supply last time round, I’ll have

  you know. And tins are important, Gerald. They are resistant to the

  damp and the gas.

  —The gas!

  There is a pause. The wireless crackles on in the background, and the floorboards creak beneath Samuel’s feet upstairs.

  —I hope Samuel will be all right, says Mimi.

  —It’s good for a man, the army. He’ll be able to pull his weight when he gets to Palestine. And it’s best to get Rosa off his radar, you said so yourself.

  —Yes, but the army? I don’t like it, I just don’t like it. Perhaps I

  should go up and help him pack.

  —For goodness’ sake, just let him alone. He’ll be down in his own

  time to say goodbye.

  Samuel’s silhouette approaches the window, and suddenly Rosa, in the garden, can see him clearly. He is wearing his uniform, army cap at an angle, how different he looks – he hauls the window up and leans out, the curtains flapping in the breeze beside him. Pressing a finger to his lips, he swings one foot over the windowsill; Rosa sits upright in the deckchair, what is he doing, he might fall; he swings the other leg over and clambers down the drainpipe to the ground. His cap falls from his head, he snatches it up and dodges behind the shed. Rosa gets to her feet and, as casually as she can, walks over to join him. They are out of sight, but they do not have long.

  —What are you doing? says Rosa, you could hurt.

  —Nonsense, Samuel replies, grinning broadly, I’ve done it hundreds of times before. Just wanted to say goodbye.


  —When you are going?

  —A few minutes.

  They regard each other silently for a moment, Rosa searching amongst her limited palette of words, Samuel wishing he had prepared something to say.

  —I’ll have two weeks’ leave in November, says Samuel at last, then it’s Crimbo.

  Rosa squints up at him. He laughs awkwardly.

  —Sorry, I forget. Christmas.

  There is a pause.

  —Thank you, says Rosa solemnly, for all you have helped me.

  —Not at all, Samuel replies. When is your family coming?

  —My sister in some days, says Rosa, then my parents a week later.

  —By the time I’m home on leave, you’ll be mistress of Waddesdon Manor.

  —I will write to you a letter.

  —Just say ‘I’ll write’.

  —I’ll write.

  —Just the job.

  Neither of them intends to reach out, but suddenly they are in embrace; the rough weave of Samuel’s uniform is against Rosa’s cheek, she can smell the newness of the material, feel the rise and fall of his chest; Samuel cups one hand on her hair, the other he lays on the small of her back, he thinks he can feel her breasts against him, her curls are soft on his face. And then, without either of them knowing who brought the embrace to an end, there is space between them, only a few feet but it is the beginning, and Samuel is looking left and right to check the coast is clear; he shins up the drainpipe and climbs back into his bedroom.

  Rosa walks quickly into the house in search of the mop, trying to give herself something to do. She does not know if Samuel’s departure compounds her sadness or alleviates it, for he will be back, most certainly, in November, she will be able to travel to London from Waddesdon to meet him away from the watchful eye of Aunt Mimi. And Hedi will be here soon, as well as her parents, so it has turned out that parting is only temporary, and the long days of absence will be telescoped into the moment of reunion, enhancing its bitter-sweet pleasure, its joy.

  She dunks the head of the mop into the water and slaps it onto the linoleum, skidding it back and forth, back and forth. She hears Samuel descending the stairs with laboured steps, he must be carrying a heavy load, she hears Mimi and Gerald going to meet him at the bottom of the stairs. Still holding the mop she sees Samuel standing in the creamy morning light from the frosted front door, tall and impressive in his uniform, a shapeless kitbag over his shoulder, his black hair forming little sleek waves from underneath his army cap; his mother is saying something, her arms are about his neck, and his father is shaking him by the hand, they are exchanging words, he smiles, wipes his eyes on his sleeve – and now his uniform is no longer new, it has been soiled with his tears, the first hint of the suffering of war, the suffering of parting. He looks up and sees Rosa standing in the doorway, winks and tries to muster a grin, his parents do not notice; Rosa smiles and lowers her gaze. When she raises her eyes the door is open and he is gone.

  8

  Summer burns on, sandbags multiply in the streets, and London is pervaded by a suppressed sense of excitement. In the days following Samuel’s departure the house becomes darker, quieter, emptier. It seems bigger somehow, also, stuffy, filled with artefacts. Gerald continues with his life as normal, going to Petticoat Lane each day, returning home in time for tea, smoking endless cigarettes; Mimi becomes obsessed with stockpiling, stacking the cupboards full of butter substitutes, vacuum-packed coffee and boxes of batteries, and purchasing multiple frocks; in the evenings she writes letters to her son. Neither of them takes much notice of Rosa, but it doesn’t matter, because soon her family will be here.

  On 2nd September, in the evening, after Gerald concludes the sabbath with the blessings over the wine and the candle and the spices, Rosa decides to bake bread. It is not a chore listed on Mimi’s rota but Hedi is arriving tomorrow and it would be lovely to welcome her with some home-cooked bread in the German style. Rosa remembers that when she herself arrived almost six months ago – has it truly been six months? – she was shocked by English bread, traumatised even, it was like eating cake, with a solid panel of butter sitting smoothly on the top like icing. As she submerges her hands in a bowl of wholemeal flour, light brown dust that sifts softly through her fingers like sand and rises into the air in gentle clouds, muffling the electric light, she tries to forget that Danzig has fallen, Warsaw is being bombed, Gdynia has been evacuated and the Poles are retaliating; she suppresses any recollection of people in the streets with rolls of black paper over their shoulders, and trams and buses running only with headlights. No, there is no reason to panic. Even though the evacuation is now in full force, many people still believe that war will be averted, and she counts herself amongst their number, she has to. She bakes, and as she kneads the dough she thinks through, once again, the preparations for Hedi’s arrival. Her bed has been pushed against the wall to make room for Hedi’s, and half of her wardrobe has been cleared, as well as half of her chest of drawers; as a finishing touch she has placed Hedi’s dolly, Gigi, in the bed, under the blankets, for her to discover as a surprise.

  That night there is a storm, and Rosa does not sleep. Downstairs, as the rain sprays against the window, and thunder rolls across London like a curse, her bread remains in the oven, cooling in the darkness as the night wears gradually on. Lightning flings itself into the heavens, and the rain lashes down in wicked sheets; she cannot help but imagine that the noise of the storm is, in reality, the sound of the fighting over Poland, which must be taking place this very moment. In her bedroom a leak develops, she finds a bucket and sits by the window, curtains open, lights off, listening to the hollow clang of the drops in the bucket. A solitary motorcar rumbles by outside, water streaming down its windows, headlights dimmed.

  She closes the curtains, sits at her desk and turns on the electric lamp. It is late but she does not feel tired. She takes out a sheet of foolscap and her dictionary, and removes the cap of her pen. For over an hour she sits and writes, not to her parents but to Samuel, painstakingly, translating word after word. Everything was easier before Samuel left, he gave a certain colour to life, an energy, and she misses it now that she is alone with Mimi and Gerald in this dark old relic of a house. She imagines him now at his army base in Aldershot, sleeping in a steel-framed bed with a single khaki blanket, rifle by his side; that is how she pictures it, at least, and she has nothing to contradict the image. Perhaps he is in charge of a tank, or a machine gun, surely he is responsible for some sort of heavy machinery. Her eyelids grow heavy and she finds herself thinking about the evacuation: yesterday she witnessed the chaos as she passed the railway station, and now the images float vividly back, the stony-faced husbands, the children clustering in smeared train windows, the women in headscarves carrying coats, the old ladies dragging suitcases, asking, where are all the porters? The harassed-looking volunteers wearing armbands, seeming to make no difference at all.

  Now sleep has pulled her under, her head nods and she snaps awake, focus Rosa, there is a blot on the letter now, where is the blotting paper, there, as good as new, where was she; she writes a little more but then an old man is saying he’d be no use in a war at his age, and a cluster of naval reservists, middle-aged veterans of the last war, are tramping morbidly along a train platform smoking cigarettes – she shakes her head and bites her lip, she has dropped her pen, she picks it up, do not give in, focus, but the images are incessant, perhaps if she rests her head here just for a minute, gathers her strength, just for a minute – a group of lads in ill-fitting uniforms are hurrying to the platforms, stumbling under the weight of their kitbags, a crowd of schoolchildren are gathering round the clock tower with blankets and bags, mackintoshes and wellingtons and toys, there is so much luggage it’s a wonder anyone keeps track of anything at all, there are piles of bags everywhere, like castles, like islands; the blackness rises up. Within minutes she is slumped over her desk, in the dim glow of the lamp, asleep.

  9

  Rosa awakes, somehow, i
n her bed, fully clothed, but she has no idea how she got there, no recollection; her last memory is of writing at her desk. Her sleep was deep but disturbed, filled with nightmares that fragment as she tries to recall them, leaving behind nothing but an uncomfortable sensation in her body. She struggles to her feet, she is still wearing yesterday’s clothes, she crosses to the window and parts the curtains. Last night’s storm has blown itself out leaving the streets wet and glaring; the sun is white and relentless, and a half-rainbow slants across the sky. She squints around the room, sees the carriage clock, blinks and looks again; it is true, it is eleven o’clock. She glances back out of the window, the sun is unbearable and her head hurts, why hasn’t someone woken her up? Surely Mimi and Gerald would have wondered what had become of her, but they didn’t come to check on her, they decided to let her sleep.

  She splashes some water on her face and makes her way downstairs, today is the day that Hedi arrives, though not until this afternoon. The noise of the wireless can be heard, it is incessant these days. Inside the house it is dark, like a clam’s shell, the shadows are blacker due to the brightness of the sun, its relentless whiteness. She is thirsty. She goes into the kitchen, drinks a glass of water, then another, perhaps she is coming down with something, but she does not feel ill as such, it’s just that her head hurts, and she has a dull thud in her stomach. Aunt Mimi must be in the drawing room, let’s go and see.

  Rosa enters the drawing room and is surprised to see not just Mimi but also Gerald sitting in the twin armchairs, upright, their faces grave; she begins to speak but they gesture to her to be quiet, to sit down, to listen. The thud in her stomach intensifies, and she sits on the sofa, trying to understand the fuzzy voice on the wireless; something out of the ordinary must be happening, she tells herself that she does not know what it is.

  The voice is slow and morose, with weighty pauses.