The English German Girl

by Jake Wallis Simons

  —That was one of theirs, shouts Roddy.

  —No it wasn’t, says Samuel quietly, but the celebrations are already under way.

  The remaining planes bank and disappear.

  —Right then, shouts the farmer, twisting round in his tractor seat, that’s enough lying around. Back to work the lot of you. There’s a war on in case you hadn’t noticed.

  Roddy lumbers to his feet, drains his mug and directs a wink at Rosa.

  —It’s you and me in the field again, he says. You’ll be a bit nicer this time, won’t you?

  —Come on, says Samuel, drawing Rosa behind the tree, those lot really are the limit. Damned locals. Let’s scarper. They won’t miss you for one afternoon, won’t even notice probably.

  —I can’t, says Rosa guiltily.

  —Come on, Samuel replies, waving away her doubts like insects. Let’s get your bicycle and go for an adventure.

  —God.

  —Nobody believes in God. Come on.

  They thread their way furtively past the farm women who are gathering up the mugs and baskets, and trot down the other side of the bank in the sunshine. Samuel notices Rosa’s anxious expression.

  —Relax, he says, everybody deserves a day off once in a while, otherwise we’re as bad as the Germans. Come on.

  They hurry along the fence at the edge of the field, Samuel’s shoes skidding in the dry mud, their gas masks bumping on their backs.

  —Hold on, says Rosa, I’m leaving behind my jumper.

  —Never mind, says Samuel, throwing his face back to face the sun and breaking into a hobbling run, never mind, never mind, never mind!

  All at once Rosa feels liberated, weightless, as if she might float away over the treetops and disappear into the sky. She stumbles, grabs Samuel’s shirt-tails and starts to giggle – Samuel begins to laugh as well, and the two of them run as best they can until they reach the bicycle.

  —Must stop laughing, says Samuel, it’s agony for my wound.

  He perches on the handlebars as Rosa strains to get the bicycle moving, pressing on the pedals with all her weight; finally the bicycle gathers momentum and she steers past the farmhouse, past a group of chickens that scatter noisily in the yard, through the open stile and out onto the track, where they laugh again into the shimmering air.

  —Stop laughing, please, stop laughing, says Samuel, his black hair streaming in the wind, you’ll be the absolute death of me.

  —Where are we going? says Rosa.

  —I don’t know, how about Cromer?

  —Cromer?

  —Yes, Cromer. A warm, still seaside nest. That’s Swinburne.

  —Why there?

  —It would be fun. We could go crab fishing. And it sounds like Kremer.

  —All right, says Rosa, the sensation of freedom returning, which way to go?

  —How am I supposed to know, says Samuel, shouting above the wind. Anyway, all roads lead to Cromer, don’t you know.

  They ride on for a while until the bicycle slides smoothly round a bend in the path and joins the coastal road. Samuel calls to passers-by, asking them directions; a spunky-looking soldier assures them they are on the right track. Rosa pedals on and on, and the fields spread out around them, mile after flat mile, dotted with hamlets and poppies and villages; in the distance planes are still darting above the earth in dogfights.

  —I can’t believe I am running away, laughs Rosa as they speed on in the direction of Cromer, this is your fault. They’ll be having my guts for starters.

  —Garters, not starters, shouts Samuel over his shoulder. It’s not easy for me either, I’ll have you know, these handlebars are hurting my arse.

  As they travel on, Rosa begins to worry about her conversation with that man, Roddy; she must be more careful, her accent may give her away, she wouldn’t want a policeman knocking on the door and taking her away as an enemy alien, not now.

  3

  Eventually they arrive in Cromer, a Victorian seaside resort with bluff-turreted hotels and a pier jutting into the sea. They dismount and walk through the sandbagged streets, Rosa wheeling the bicycle by her side, Samuel massaging his behind. Bomb-blasts can be seen more frequently as they near the centre; a gang of men are working on ladders to repair a gaping roof, seagulls circling above their heads; people queue patiently at salvage sales; the front of the post office has been blasted, and the church looks in a sorry state.

  —This is fun, says Samuel. I haven’t had this much fun in ages.

  —Your wound is making for you pain? asks Rosa.

  —Look, says Samuel, the Regal. Let’s go to the pictures. Oh, they’re showing Foreign Correspondent. That’s the countryside for you, always behind the times. I’ll pay.

  —You mustn’t. Too much money for you. Crab fishing is fine.

  —I want to. Think of it as an early birthday present. How old are you going to be?

  —Eighteen.

  —Exactly. Far too young. Now let’s join the queue. If it stretches past Woolworth’s we’ll never get in.

  Samuel pays one and sixpence for the balcony, and they settle down in the springy velvet seats. They sit through the B picture, then the Pathé news, then finally the main feature starts: blasting horn section, swelling strings, dramatic images of a wind-swept Holland. Rosa and Samuel sit together in the dark womb of the cinema, clutching the arms of their seats as the picture opens with a gruesome murder. They cringe as the assassin plunges off the tower of Westminster Cathedral, gasp as a U-boat shells a British plane, and look on in wonderment as Jones proposes to Carol in the midst of a raging storm; the German soldiers on the screen appear comical, with stiff uniforms and funny accents. Rosa’s mind wanders, her heaviness seeps to the surface, and she finds herself thinking of her family. Since war broke out she has received only intermittent letters via the Red Cross, with sentences and even paragraphs blacked out by the censor; in the latest her parents indicated that they may be moving, they do not yet have their new address but will forward it as soon as they can; these letters, blunted by the censor, only reinforce the sense that her family are images from a hazy past, unconnected to her life, now, in England.

  By the time Samuel and Rosa emerge blinking from the cinema, borne along in a crowd of off-duty troops, Rosa’s heaviness has sunk back into a subterranean level of her mind; Cromer looks golden and beautiful, and it feels good to be with Samuel, doing something, for once, for fun.

  —Why don’t we go for a stroll along the pier, says Samuel. I’ll buy some buns from that bakery and then we’ll—hang on, we’d better be back by seven or Mother and Father will know we’ve been out.

  —Yes, never mind the pier, Rosa replies.

  —Very well, but you can’t be expected to pedal on an empty stomach, says Samuel, and disappears into the bakery.

  Rosa hangs her gas mask box over her shoulder and prepares herself for the long ride home. Then she sits astride the bicycle, the late afternoon bustle of Cromer milling dreamily about her. As the sun slants into her eyes she feels a sense of warmth inside, as if the light is finally filtering through to her core, thawing the ice, dispelling the heaviness a little. Sitting back on the saddle, she looks up at the empty Norfolk skies. Did she really grow up in Berlin? It has only been two years, yet it all seems so distant. How much has she missed, how many family conversations and family arguments and meals and stories? And what horrors are her family experiencing now, this moment, as she tastes this happiness with Samuel? Ah, she has forgotten even how to remember them! Every night she has cried until she is numb, yearned for them until they have been reduced to myths, gazed at the photograph for so long that it doesn’t mean anything any more; her memories have dislocated themselves from the real people, eclipsed them. It is only during her dreams that Papa, Mama, Heinrich and Hedi truly come back to her, but these days when she sleeps she simply slips into oblivion. And yet, at the same time, her life is only half lived in England, she is not letting herself settle, she is passing the time until the end of the
war when she can start living her life again, when these few years will be nothing but a brief, unpleasant interruption.

  The buns, when they come, are delicious. They eat by the side of the road, ignoring the disapproving glances from passers-by, then remount the bicycle and set off. Before long they are out of the town; the trees thin as they join the coastal road, and they catch glimpses of the sea as they clank along, cocoa tin rattling between Samuel’s legs. Rosa pedals on, and the lighthouse looms into view, proudly prodding the air, blotched with camouflage for the duration.

  —Golly, I’m thirsty, calls Samuel over his shoulder.

  —Oh, says Rosa, I have a bottle of barley water.

  —You’re joking, shouts Samuel into the wind, why ever didn’t you mention it? Steer up that track, there are some cliffs there, we can have a rest overlooking the sea.

  —We must get back, says Rosa hesitantly.

  —Don’t worry, says Samuel, it will only take a minute.

  The track turns into a gravel path as they approach the ridge, and Rosa is forced to dismount. Together they walk the bicycle up to the barren cliffs and stand silhouetted against the vast Norfolk sky, gulls honking overhead, their hair and clothes whipping off to the east, the cliffs punctuated at intervals by gun batteries. The great grey sea stretches out in a boundless circle in front of them, rippling like a flag and grinding its bones against the barbed wire on the shore far below. Samuel lies down in the tough grass; Rosa puts the bicycle on its side, finds the bottle of barley water and lies down beside him, stretching her arms above her head and breathing the sea air deep into her lungs, trying to quell her racing heart. Fresh wind rustles the grass all around.

  —I say, thanks for the drink, says Samuel, and also riding all this way. It must be jolly tiring.

  —That’s my pleasure, Rosa replies.

  —I can take over the riding if you like.

  —The doctor would not be pleased if you splat.

  —Split, says Samuel, not splat.

  As they share the barley water, the sound of distant engines can be heard; they look up to see a large blunt-nosed plane approaching over the ocean, surrounded by a group of smaller ones, the size of wasps. The planes bank, cut into the sky and disappear. A gull flaps lazily by.

  —Did you see that? says Rosa.

  —Bomber, says Samuel tersely. Don’t worry, we’ll get him in this light.

  —Do you think it is safe here? says Rosa.

  —Don’t worry, Samuel replies, that lot were miles away. Much farther than it looks.

  They sit in silence for a while. His name is Samuel, Mama, I think you will like him, he has been like a brother to me; he fought in France, you know, and was wounded terribly, and it got infected but he fought it off, and he helped so much with trying to get you passage to England, and one day we were lying on the grass on the cliffs in Norfolk, these beautiful cliffs overlooking the ocean, and—

  —Good picture, wasn’t it, says Samuel dreamily. Their shoulders are touching as they lie in the tickly grass. Rosa tells herself to move her arm away.

  —Yes, says Rosa, lovely windmills. I do love the Dutchmen.

  —When have you ever met a Dutchman? asks Samuel, chuckling.

  Rosa thinks for a moment.

  —A few years ago, she says tentatively.

  —What do you mean?

  —When I was coming on the train from Germany. We stopped in Holland. There were on the platform some Dutch women giving to us cocoa and the crackers. For years the cocoa we hadn’t tasted.

  —I’m somewhat partial to cocoa myself, says Samuel.

  There is a pause. The breeze drifts in from the sea, mingling with the warmth of the sun on their skin; the ocean whispers roughly to itself far below them.

  —What’s Germany like? says Samuel. I mean what’s it really like?

  —I don’t know. As a child it was very nice.

  —Do you think of your family much? You never mention them.

  —I do, says Rosa, all the time.

  —Do you know where they are?

  —Not really.

  She manages to roll onto her side, bunching her hair under her to prevent it from stringing in the wind; she is facing Samuel now, and their hearts quicken.

  —It’s a funny thing, war, says Samuel.

  —Funny?

  —Yes, funny. You know, strange.

  —Do you think it will one day end? says Rosa.

  —I bleeding well hope so. Shame the Frogs couldn’t hold their own, though. He stops and groans softly.

  —Does your wound make for you pain? says Rosa.

  —Sometimes.

  —No, I mean now.

  —A little. Hang on, my barbiturates.

  He twists his body to the side, fumbles in his pocket and administers himself a dose. Then he turns back to Rosa, his hair springing upwards towards the heavens in the breeze.

  —I am a little afraid of your wounds, says Rosa.

  —I’m a little afraid of yours, Samuel replies.

  He takes her hand and places it softly on his stomach. She can feel the bandage beneath her fingers.

  —Does that make for you pain? she says.

  —It’s fine, says Samuel.

  Our sages recommend maintaining a distance of at least four cubits from members of the opposite sex; there were one or two girls during his time in the army, French girls, but nothing remotely like this.

  —Have you ever been kissed before? says Samuel, pushing his words through a barrier of nervousness.

  Rosa shakes her head, suddenly tingling all over her body. Samuel cups his hands round her neck and draws her lips to his. They kiss under the sky, amongst the wild grass on top of the lofty cliffs, with the noise of the ocean beating the shore below. Samuel’s body slowly slips towards hers, and the bicycle wheel ticks round quietly in the breeze.

  —I’m sorry, says Rosa, pulling suddenly away, I don’t know, I am trembling.

  —I know, says Samuel, very well. Let’s just hold hands.

  —I can’t.

  There is a pause, and a light breeze fills the space between them.

  —You mustn’t love me, says Rosa at last. I won’t be here for long.

  —What do you mean?

  —After the war has ended I will be with my parents again.

  Samuel thinks for a moment.

  —Well, I jolly well look forward to meeting them.

  Rosa gives Samuel a startled look – then looks back up at the sky. Silence falls, and time passes, and her emotions fold one over the other inside. Suddenly her life in Germany is more than just a dream. Her family are more than just fantasies. They are people who one day might stand in the same room as Samuel, Papa could shake him by the hand, and Mama could kiss his cheek, and Heinrich could teach him handball, and Hedi could sit on his knee; and her life in England is more than a temporary episode where nothing she does can have a lasting result. As she lies there quietly beneath the vast Norfolk sky, her family become real again, and a fresh pain grows in her heart, and she turns to look at Samuel and feels an overwhelming love for him; and all at once she feels rooted in England.

  4

  When Mimi and Gerald are next out for the day, Rosa sneaks back from the fields to be with Samuel. They make themselves a jug of lemonade. For a while they sit in the pair of armchairs that belong to Mimi and Gerald, but it soon becomes clear that they are play-acting adults, and they feel uncomfortable, and exposed, as if at any moment the secret of their love might be discovered, even though neither of them has mentioned it since Cromer.

  So they go upstairs, carrying their glasses, and decide to sit in Samuel’s bedroom, where it is brightest and there is the most space. Rosa sits by the window, and Samuel lies on the bed on account of his wound – the infection is coming back, and worsening; Doctor Ashfield is considering changing the medication. The aroma of freshly cut grass is carried in upon the breeze through the window, and Rosa breathes it deeply. Her nerves cause her to laugh at
everything Samuel says, even when it is not meant to be funny. Suddenly Samuel seems so far away there on the bed, the distance between them is unbearable. Here is a person who knows her intimately and loves her nevertheless, and his love tempers the pain of her family’s absence, and it feels somehow disjointed to have a physical separation from the person to whom she is closest. So she crosses to his bed, and he takes her hand and draws her closer, and they kiss with trembling lips, the bitter lemon is still on his tongue, and everything falls away, all barriers and hesitancies and awareness of themselves; and in a fog of mouths and skin and slipping fingers they become absorbed, and the pleasure is such that it is indistinguishable from pain, like water that is so hot it could be cold; but they rein themselves in before the sexual act has occurred and then it is over, and the feverishness evaporates and they lie quietly for a while, until the ravens of guilt land heavily upon them.

  5

  By the autumn, things have changed. The branches of the apple tree click against Rosa’s window, the curtain above her bed moves slightly in a draught, and outside the call of birds can be heard. Her eyelids flutter in the light and she groans into her pillow; her chest tightens. She rolls her head to the side and squints at the clock, well at least she has managed to get two hours, that’s the most sleep she has had for days, in a single stretch at least. It is cold and she feels suddenly nauseous, she looks around at the room’s age-mellowed contours as if they will somehow soothe her – is she imagining it, or are the gentle dips and curves moving slowly, pulsing like an organic thing? She closes her eyes again.

  Rosa does not want to move from her bed, she wants to stay in bed forever, she wants to die there. She knows that she must swing her legs out into the cold and stand, feel the rough wooden floorboards under her feet, make her way downstairs and start the housework. But she does not move, lying exhaustedly on her back, her mind prickling with anxiety. Her hand falls over the side of the mattress, the fingers brushing the gnarled floorboards and coming to rest inches from where, in the shadows beneath the bed, there sits her painted wooden box, inside which is the following hurried note: