The English German Girl

by Jake Wallis Simons

  —This morning the British ambassador in Berlin handed the German government a final note stating that unless we heard from them by eleven o’clock that they were prepared at once to withdraw their troops from Poland, a state of war would exist between us. I have to tell you now that no such undertaking has been received, and that consequently this country is at war with Germany.

  There is more, but Rosa does not hear it, and nor, it seems, do Mimi and Gerald; Mimi’s head is in her hands and Gerald, although still sitting upright, eyes wide open, has turned extremely pale. Mimi says a single word, Samuel, and Gerald mumbles, I’d better ring Harry, but he doesn’t move; they sit motionless, all three of them, until the end of the national anthem. Mimi goes into the garden to look for aeroplanes overhead, and the air-raid siren sounds, and Gerald says that no aeroplane could possibly fly over from Germany so quickly, he thinks it must be a test, but they shutter the windows anyway and file down to the cellar, in silence, putting on their gas masks and adjusting the straps; the storm inside Rosa grows, the realisation slowly reveals itself, the truth of what has happened. They sit in silence in the chilly dampness of the cellar listening to each other breathing.

  At this very moment, in Berlin, at the Friedrichstraße Bahnhof, a train is at a platform. It is stationary, having been delayed for many hours, and clouds of steam billow around it. Alongside the train two officers of the SS stride in the direction of the engine, their legs cutting through the steam, boots falling loudly on the concrete, black uniforms flashing past the windows of the carriages; as they pass, the children in the carriages look up in alarm, they should have been on their way hours and hours ago, the delays have been endless, all this waiting in the train is agonising. Between two older girls is Hedi, wearing the number 273 round her neck, it dangles almost to her knees, she is sitting quietly, she does not dare to move; the SS officers have arrived at the front of the train, they are speaking to the driver who is leaning out of the engine. War has been declared, they are saying, the borders have been closed, this train is forbidden to leave.

  The children will be bundled out of the train. Soon the door to the waiting room will open, and the parents will watch, open-mouthed, as their children are returned to them, their children whom they have just said goodbye to for ever, returning impossibly, what sort of blessing is this? Klein will take Hedi in his arms, and Inga will fall to the ground, fainting at the sight of her second daughter with her little suitcase whom she thought she would never see again. The news will spread throughout the room that war has been declared, a cacophony of sounds will fill the air, cries, and gasps, and conversation, and shouts; afterwards, when it has died down, a procession of parents and children will leave the waiting room, will make their way round the edge of the concourse, out of the Bahnhof and, looking over their shoulders, back onto the streets of Berlin.

  Rosa, in England, in London, in the basement, gazes straight ahead, she cannot see anything, cannot move, for finally the realisation is making itself known to her. The worst has happened, the iron door has closed, the shutters have come down; all her efforts to get her family out of Germany have failed.

  PART TWO

  19 June 1941, Norfolk

  1

  Could, would. Couldn’t, wouldn’t. She could have done more, she should have. She would have done more, but – she should have. Memories fading like an old photograph in the sun, like this old photograph from Wiesbaden, which she keeps out of the sun, which fades still. Have to, had to, she had to do more, she didn’t. She had to do more, she couldn’t. She would have done more, she couldn’t. She had to do more. What’s happening to them? To her? A steel shutter down, a family cut in two. It shouldn’t be like this, didn’t have to. She had to do more, she didn’t. She could have done more, couldn’t she? She could. She didn’t. Memories are useless, they have ended, and she could have done more.

  Rosa’s consciousness breaks the surface, leaving her weighed down by the familiar heaviness, trying to capture her thoughts as she opens her sleep-thickened eyes to the quiet of another Norfolk morning. Little lines of light lie upon the slanting walls of the cottage, the oak-beamed ceiling, the sagging floor; when she was first evacuated she had been astounded by these thick irregular walls, these bowed floors and bulging ceilings, which were unlike anything she had ever experienced in London, and of course Berlin. But familiarity has dulled her sense of wonder, replacing it first with a deep boredom and then, as the fingers of wartime deprivation began to close, despondency.

  Thump-thump: her two bare feet land on the gnarled floorboards as she slips out of the net of sheets, crosses the room and, dressing-gowned, listens at the door without opening it: it sounds as though nobody is about, ah yes, Gerald and Mimi are off to a meeting with the Ladies’ Hospitality Committee about a canteen for Jewish servicemen in Norfolk. She allows her dressing gown to fall to the floor in a curved concertina then raises her arms towards the ceiling, stretching her fingers as high as they can go, and lets out a long, open note that falls into the cottage like snow falling into the ocean. Her heaviness lifts slightly, or rather is partitioned into a secret place. Today hard work lies ahead, but at least it isn’t housework; she will be out working in the fields, contributing to the war effort. She looks at her watch, late already, she doesn’t have time for breakfast, she will snatch a piece of bread on her way out. She begins to dress: tough dungarees, thick cotton blouse, scratchy woollen socks, a pair of Samuel’s wellington boots which she has stuffed with hay to make them fit, a jumper just in case, and finally her beret, tilted to the right as fashion dictates, to keep her hair in place when riding at speed. Then downstairs for some bread and butter.

  Rosa hurries into the brick-floored parlour, cuts herself a slice of bread and spreads it thinly with a scrape of butter from her four-ounce ration. She fills a bottle with barley water and turns to leave, but is surprised to see Samuel leaning casually on the doorpost. His black hair is unruly, unBrylcreemed; his shirt is untucked, untidy; the morning light catches his cheekbones and forehead, emphasising his sharply cut features; his shirt parts halfway down to reveal a wrinkled swathe of bandage; he is pale.

  —What are you doing out of bed? says Rosa.

  —Where are you rushing off to in my wellies? he replies lazily, regarding her with languid eyes, and why are you wearing that hat?

  —To help with sugar beet.

  —Don’t leave me all alone again, says Samuel, I can’t play Solo all day by myself, you know. No pun intended. God, it’s so boring convalescing.

  He pronounces the word with exaggerated consonants and Rosa has to smile. As she does so, her heaviness sinks out of sight like a sea creature submerging, biding its time for the next attack.

  —Convalescing is always boring, she says, it’s supposed to be like this.

  —The boredom’s worse than the shrapnel wound, Samuel replies sorrowfully. Let me come with you. I could do with a breath of air.

  —Come with me? says Rosa, pushing past him. You’re telling a joke? You’re not allowed to ride a bicycle even. Aunt Mimi would have me crucified.

  —She wouldn’t find out if we’re back before seven. And I can ride a bicycle, I’m a lot stronger than I was. The infection’s passing, Doctor Ashfield said, and that’s been the worst of it. Come on, I’d rather ache for a few days than die of boredom at home.

  —If Aunt Mimi found out, says Rosa doubtfully.

  —I assure you, they’re not coming back until seven. I’ve got my barbiturates, they’re magical. I won’t help with the harvest, I’ll just sit under a tree and convalesce, what do you say?

  —Very well. But I warn you, I’m late, I will ride fast.

  —Actually I can’t ride a bicycle, says Samuel, following her into the hall, doctor’s orders. I’d better sit on your handlebars.

  —Don’t be flipping, says Rosa.

  —Flippant, says Samuel. I’m not being flippant. Why don’t you ever take me seriously?

  It certainly is a glorious day
. A yellow wall of light greets them as they leave the cottage, fading into an eyewateringly bright blue sky. The world is vivid, every object so distinct that the hedgerows, the leaves, the blackbirds, look weightless. This is the England, thinks Rosa, that she will remember when she is back in Germany, that she will describe to her family when the war is over and they go for walks in the Grunewald. The erratic buzz of a bee draws circles round her head as she mounts her bicycle, swinging her knees over the low crossbar, and helps Samuel onto the handlebars. Then she pedals off down the lane, gaining momentum with every downward plunge, her gas mask box swinging against her hip. Samuel whoops with delight as they bounce past a row of ivy-clad trees, and Rosa’s heaviness is buried so deeply that it is almost imperceptible.

  Rosa likes English bicycles. If there is one thing that she never tires of, it is riding this graceful machine with its narrow tyres, slim wheels and gently curving handlebars, especially in fine weather. The bicycle, of course, does not belong to her but to Aunt Mimi, who allows her to use it strictly for errands or the war effort. Compared to riding the squat, thick-tyred machine she used to own back in Berlin, now she is the picture of elegance, perched straight-backed atop the saddle like a concert pianist, the wind fanning the eyelashes that line her crescent-shaped eyes. Samuel is rather less dignified in appearance, the soles of his feet flapping in the air, his hands grasping awkwardly the handlebars, his hair tangling in the breeze – yet his face is the picture of joy. At the front of the bicycle, between his legs, an empty cocoa tin with shielded slits has been fitted over the headlamp for after the blackout; it rattles and clangs with the bumps in the road. As the hedgerows on either side blur smooth with speed and the telegraph poles slip by he begins to sing, louder than decorum would normally permit, causing the sparrows flitting in the hedgerows to fly up into the air as they approach: when they sound the last All Clear, how happy my darling we’ll be, when they turn up the lights and those dark gloomy nights will be only a memory! Rosa laughs, tells Samuel to shut up, pokes him in the ribs, pedals faster.

  —Sorry, dear, says Samuel, it’s just that there’s nothing like freedom for a soldier like me, nothing like freedom for me!

  —What song is that?

  —I don’t know, I invented it.

  —Invented?

  —Yes, you know, made up.

  —Made up?

  They trundle over a stone bridge, turn left at the pill-box and join the main thoroughfare, rattling past lazy-looking farmers sitting in horse-drawn carts and groups of young farm hands with roughly woven shirts and caps. Rosa’s oversized wellingtons seem to be fixed to the pedals, clamping them between rubbery heel and sole. In the distance a truck comes into view in a cloud of dust, an unusual sight these days. Rosa freewheels to the grass bank as it roars past and Samuel almost falls off – they catch a glimpse of wiry-looking soldiers in khaki uniforms, sitting sullenly, equipment rattling. The dust cloud disperses and Rosa, being late, picks up the pace again, negotiating the potholes and bumps in the road. Samuel begins to sing once more, his voice jogging with the bounce of the bicycle, the cocoa tin rattling maniacally on the headlight as the tyres bounce in and out of the furrows.

  —What are those red flowers called again? asks Rosa, gesturing towards the patches of scarlet at the roadside.

  —Poppies, says Samuel. I may be a Londoner but even I know that.

  —Poppies, Rosa repeats, poppies.

  Yes, Mama, they have these lovely red flowers called poppies growing wild in the hedgerows, and more greenery than you could possibly imagine; we must go to England on holiday, really we must.

  2

  Sugar beet, sugar beet, sugar beet: it has been nothing but sugar beet, every Saturday since Christmas for Rosa and the motley collection of schoolboys, off-duty troops, local volunteers and Land Girls she works with. Rosa admires the Land Girls, how she wishes she could join them, or better still the nursing corps, for what she really wants to do is train to be a nurse, she has harboured this ambition ever since she was a child, perhaps inspired by Papa; but she is a few months away from being old enough yet for any of this, and Mimi and Gerald have expressed the opinion that nursing has a brutalising effect on young women and will not let her pursue such a career. It was hard enough to persuade them to let her train as a First Aid volunteer, and the classes were only once a fortnight, and they were most reluctant to allow her to join the sugar beet harvest too; Rosa suspects that the housework might have something to do with it.

  After some hours of toil the fatigue sets in, and the lines of labourers become straggly and uneven. Rosa’s back is sore and she tries to find another way of stooping that uses a different set of muscles. The sun is getting hotter, or so it seems, and a film of sweat lies on her forehead like glass. She glances over to the oak tree where Samuel is sitting in the shade convalescing; he is whittling a stick with a penknife and doesn’t notice her gaze. She bends again, lifting the leathery white bulbs of sugar beet and dropping them into the sack that she drags behind her; then she wipes her brow, puts her hands on her hips and stretches backwards, tilting her chin up to the cloudless sky, you are only supposed to stretch on the hour but she can’t go on any longer. She drags her jumper over her head, ties it round her waist and unbuttons the collar of her blouse, trying to prevent herself from glancing at Samuel again. The smooth sun falls on her face for another few seconds, then she picks up the sack and reaches for another sugar beet. As she does so she catches the eye of the ruddy-faced lad in front; he pauses, beet-hook in hand, frozen for a moment in the act of decapitating another vegetable. Beads of sweat are stippling his forehead, dark patches have spread around his armpits, and his chest rises and falls with effort. He grins and cocks his head, then brings the beet-hook down, severing the cluster of leaves at the head of the vegetable with a clack. Then he tosses the sugar beet lightly towards her, grins again, and turns away to reach into the fresh furrows overturned by the tractor. She feels herself flush and bends to pick up the vegetable.

  Oh, mademoiselle from Armentières, parlez-vous, someone sings. There are laughs and squeals from the girls. Oh, mademoiselle from Armentières, parlez-vous. More laughs, and a shout from the farmer to pipe down. She’ll do it for wine, she’ll do it for rum, and sometimes for chocolate or chewing gum, hinky-dinky, parlez-vous. Put a sock in it, Charlie, someone says, there’re ladies here you know. More laughter ensues, and somebody throws a sugar beet. The farmer stops the tractor, leaving the engine chugging beneath him, and turns to face the workers behind. Will you lot stop larking about, he shouts. Come on, mate, says a schoolboy, chewing something. It’s time for our break now, anyway, ain’t it? It’s not your break till I say so, you cheeky little blighter, says the farmer. Hang on, lads, says a soldier who has unbuttoned his shirt, here comes the grub.

  A cheer goes up from the workers as a group of farm women come into view laden with baskets of bread and a keg of fresh cider. Within minutes everyone has settled down under the shade of Samuel’s oak tree, and in the translucent light cider is poured, bread is cut into tough little chunks, and people massage their aching limbs. The farmer sits glumly on his tractor, nursing a mug of tea and eating bacon sandwiches from a wax paper parcel. Rosa sloshes some cider into two tin mugs, sits on her jumper next to Samuel and hands one to him. They both drink long from the cool liquid, which is fresh, thick and dusky, and has specks of apple floating in it. Immediately Rosa feels light-headed, and Samuel does too, a little. Someone is singing Mademoiselle from Armentières again, and a group of schoolboys are lying around a bouncy-looking Land Girl, making her laugh and throwing handfuls of grass into her hair. Two girls are practising kisses on each other’s arms. Suddenly Rosa looks up to see the ruddy-faced lad standing over her, silhouetted against pure blueness.

  —Mind if I sit down? he asks, his voice stretched by the Norfolk tongue.

  —Please yourself, says Rosa with forced nonchalance, and reaches for another hunk of bread.

  —Don’t mind if I d
o, says the boy, sitting down. My name’s Roddy, what’s yours?

  —Rosie, says Rosa reluctantly, and this is Samuel.

  —Charmed, I’m sure. You’ve got a funny accent, lass. Not a Hun spy, are we? Better watch me careless talk.

  —Don’t be stupid, says Samuel, she’s Polish. And your own accent isn’t exactly college-and-peerage either.

  —All right, bruiser, settle down, says Roddy, taking another swig of cider, the sun glinting off the edge of his tin mug. Can’t be too careful these days. Keep mum she’s not so dumb and all that. Pass the bread, love.

  —There’s none left here, says Samuel defensively. You’ll have to look in that basket.

  —I was addressing the foreign lady not the posh town-boy, says Roddy, locking his dull eyes on Samuel. What right have you to be drinking our cider, anyway? I’ve had my eye on you, lazing about in the sun while the rest of us work our arses off.

  —He was wounded in France, says Rosa boldly, his wound is making for him pain.

  The boy sniffs.

  —Making for him pain? That’s rich, he says. Don’t look too bad to me. What did you do, leave the cork out your Molotov cocktail?

  —The doctor wants for him to rest, says Rosa, flushing. Can’t you see the bandage?

  But Roddy has lost interest; he turns away and makes a grab for the bread basket.

  Just then there is a thunder of engines, and a cluster of black silhouettes appear in the sky. Everyone gets to their feet. The silhouettes bank and swoop, then the sound of machine-gun fire spatters through the blueness. Cheering breaks out among the boys. One plane cuts away and dives low over the fields before disappearing over the horizon. Smoke springs up from another; it corkscrews off to the west before nose-diving into a distant field with a thud. A cloud of smoke rises gently into the unmoving air.