The English German Girl

by Jake Wallis Simons

  19. August 1941

  Meine liebe Rosa,

  So far we are still together, and as it turns out still in Berlin. We thought we were being relocated, but it turned out to be a false alarm. Many people are being relocated to the east, the rumour is to Poland. We don’t know how long it will be before we are also relocated. I am sorry we cannot write more. We hope you are happy and will see you again once this is all over.

  With all my love,

  Mama (also Papa, Heinrich and Hedi)

  There is a knock at the door.

  —Rosa? Come on now, says Mimi.

  —I am just getting up, Rosa replies weakly.

  —You’re ill, aren’t you, says Mimi impatiently, her voice muffled by the wood.

  —Not at all, says Rosa, I’m just a little tired.

  —I can’t wait any longer. We have to go to synagogue or we’ll miss the service. Don’t forget, the kitchen requires a thorough clean, and the shabbos lunch needs preparing.

  —Yes, Aunt Mimi, says Rosa, in a moment I shall be down.

  —Samuel’s wound is hurting him horribly this morning. The infection has set in, and he hasn’t the strength to accompany us. He’s to stay in bed, and you mustn’t bother him. Do you hear?

  —Yes, Aunt Mimi.

  Mimi, on the other side of the door, rubs her knuckles anxiously but is unsure of what else to say; after a time she retreats downstairs and stands before the mirror in the hall, where she puts the finishing touches to her hat: she has pinned it at a forty-five-degree angle in the style of the Duchess of Kent, and although lacking a feather it matches perfectly her flowing beige overcoat with its glittering brooch and foxtail muffler. In the shadows beneath her skirts can be seen two stout brown shoes, lying on the floorboards like Brazil nuts, and in the folds of her overcoat, dangling from her shoulder, nestles her embroidered gas mask bag. When her husband emerges from the kitchen, Mimi makes the final adjustments to her outfit and turns to face him, hoping for a compliment.

  —Well don’t just stand there, says Gerald, opening the front door and putting on his homburg.

  —Oh dear, maybe I should stay, says Mimi. It does worry me to leave them alone.

  —Nonsense, says Gerald abruptly, it’s Shabbos Shuvah, Reverend Fabritz is making a special sermon. Now come along, Harry’ll be waiting.

  As they leave the cottage Gerald reaches up to the mezuzah on the doorpost, kisses his fingers, then makes his way past the hedge and down the lane. In two days’ time it will be Yom Kippur, when the judgement will be sealed for the coming year – how many will pass from the earth and how many will be created, who will rest and who will wander, who will be impoverished and who will be enriched, who will be degraded and who will be exalted – yes, just two days left to overturn the evil decrees, and now he’s late for synagogue. What’s more he’ll be making Harry late too, and if he leaves without them they’ll miss the service altogether. The weather is colder than it looks; a dusting of frost clings to the hedgerows, the sky stretches out crisp and blue above, and rubbery brown leaves lie in clumps along the lane.

  —Harry’ll have gone by now, mutters Gerald.

  —No he won’t, says Mimi, he’ll wait five minutes.

  —What I wouldn’t give for a cigarette now.

  —Not on shabbos, says Mimi, out of breath.

  —Oh, give over, replies Gerald. Just said I fancied one, that’s all.

  They approach the bridge, and Harry is waiting dutifully for them, blowing into his hands. He doesn’t mention the fact that they’re late. They wish him good shabbos, climb into his contraption – a home-made light weight motorcar with bars for your feet – and make themselves as comfortable as possible. Gerald’s face is grim and overcast; Mimi knows from experience that when her husband falls silent it is best not to disturb him until his mood has blown itself out. The autumn countryside flicks past outside, heads turn as they phut by, three Jews in a home-made contraption, quite a sight for Norfolk even in the topsy-turvy days of wartime.

  As soon as the front door slams, Rosa breathes a deep sigh and walks out onto the landing, huddled in her dressing gown. She puts her head to one side and listens. The cottage is completely quiet. A little furtively, she makes her way along the corridor and listens at Samuel’s door. There is nothing but silence within, textured by the quiet rustle of the breeze.

  —Samuel, she whispers, are you awake? Samuel?

  No answer. She walks back along the sloping floorboards and down the stairs, but when she gets to the kitchen she stops; an overpowering odour of cholent stew, special for shabbos, hangs heavily in the air. Her stomach contorts, then opens violently. She is just able to make it to the back door, can’t get to the outhouse in time, not even to the rubbish pile; when the vomit gulps forth it is into the vegetable patch, Gerald’s victory garden.

  Eventually the spasms cease and she sits back on the grass, gasping in the frosty air. Shielding her eyes against the sun, she looks up at the undulating flint wall of the cottage. There is no movement in Samuel’s window. She wonders if he heard her being sick, wonders if he is even there at all. Chintz curtains hang in his window like tongues, lapping gently in the draught. She lowers her head, and for the first time that morning water builds up in her eyes as a cluster of sycamore seeds blow clumsily past her.

  6

  —Samuel?

  —Yes?

  Finally an answer. Rosa tries the handle but it does not move.

  —Your parents have gone to synagogue, she says.

  There is a pause, then the sound of movement inside the room, then the door is unlocked and flung open. Samuel stands in the doorway, framed by brightness, his shirt and hair unkempt, his eyes red-rimmed and dark. Immediately they fall into embrace, Samuel pushing his lips against Rosa’s curls and swaying slightly, Rosa pressing her forehead against his chest. Their hair mingles, the black and the brown; for a while they do not speak.

  —Do you have pain today? asks Rosa after a time.

  —I’m managing all right.

  —Your wound is getting worse.

  —Seems that way. It’s the infection. I’ve taken up praying again.

  —But you don’t believe in the God.

  —I need all the help I can get.

  —You’re joking.

  —Might be.

  Samuel walks back into his room and collapses onto the bed. Rosa sits down next to him on the creaking mattress, the breeze cooling her neck. The blankets are twisted and she smooths them absent-mindedly.

  —How’s your sickness? says Samuel.

  —Still the same, Rosa replies.

  He tries to roll over.

  —Ah, bugger it.

  —Pain?

  —Just a twinge.

  —Where are your barbiturates? says Rosa.

  —Run out, Samuel replies. Doctor Ashfield’s bringing some more on Monday.

  —Monday? But that is a long time. Can he not come sooner?

  —Apparently not.

  —Samuel, you mustn’t be too proud. You need barbiturates. Maybe the doctor can come tonight.

  Samuel kisses Rosa’s hand, gets awkwardly to his feet and crosses to the bookshelf. He scans the spines as if seeking a volume, but makes no move to pluck one from the shelf.

  —It’s the Aseres Yemei Teshuvah, he says over his shoulder, the Ten Days of Repentance. That means we’ve two days left until Yom Kippur, when the final judgement will be sealed.

  Rosa walks over to him and lays her palms lightly on his chest.

  —I just wish we could have done it properly, he continues, you know, got married and everything. I hate feeling ashamed, and I hate you feeling ashamed.

  They stand for a few moments, holding each other close, the ancient floorboards creaking beneath their feet. Rosa is reminded of how his bedroom used to appear to her – so intimidating – and the bed so private, so alien.

  —It is worse for me. I have betrayed your parents, says Rosa. I don’t deserve to live here any more.


  —Of course you do.

  —My own parents, says Rosa, if they knew …

  —Look, we’ll get married. After the war, your parents will be overjoyed. You’ll see. And my parents will be all right too, once they get used to the idea. Once we are married and respectable.

  —Then why don’t you tell them? says Rosa. If you wait much longer it will only make things worse.

  —I’ll tell them after Yom Kippur, Samuel replies. I promise.

  He pauses, rubbing the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger.

  —The main thing is, he says, that we love each other. It will be splendid. I will make sure it will be splendid. It will be grand.

  He flinches again, then sits down heavily on the bed. The mattress creaks, and he groans.

  —Pain again? says Rosa.

  —The old cut’s been giving me gip, says Samuel, his voice somewhat restricted. I think I must have been overdoing it. And this infection is irrepressible. Just when the doctor thinks it’s easing off …

  —Lie down and I’ll bring you tea, says Rosa, helping him into bed.

  —Oh, don’t, says Samuel. I can’t take any more of that dandelion and burdock swill.

  —From this week’s ration I have a pinch of tea still, says Rosa. You can have that.

  —You’re very kind, says Samuel, pressing his face into the pillow. And my ointment’s in the bathroom, if you wouldn’t mind. That might help a bit.

  —Of course, says Rosa. I shan’t be long.

  —I love you, says Samuel suddenly.

  Rosa stops and turns towards him. His dark eyes are burning with an intensity she hasn’t seen before. Sycamore seeds rise and fall in the breeze outside, tapping softly against the window.

  —I love you also, she says.

  7

  At last everything is ready for the shabbos meal, the goblet for the prayer over the wine, the bread under its traditional cover, the thin soup, the cholent stew made with vegetables from the victory garden, the apple compote for pudding, made from the rough-skinned apples from the orchard. They haven’t had meat since the start of the war, to get kosher meat in north Norfolk is impossible; they tend to swap their bacon coupons for fish, but if the fishmonger is out of stock nothing can be done. Rosa sets to work cleaning the kitchen and putting out the cutlery.

  After a time Gerald and Mimi return, and the family take their places at the table. To some extent Samuel’s ointment has worked, the pain is still there but he’s feeling a little better. Gerald conducts the rituals over the wine and the bread, and then they settle down to eat. Rosa takes a deep breath, holds it and goes into the kitchen to fetch the tureen of soup; she brings it into the dining room, places it on the side and tries to serve without inhaling its aroma. As she stirs with the ladle, and the kreplach dumplings bob and sink in the cloudy liquid, she begins to feel queasy again.

  —I’m sorry, she says, and hurries out of the back door and into the outhouse.

  —Call of nature, says Gerald.

  —She’s unwell by the looks of things, says Mimi.

  —Not to worry, I’ll take over, says Samuel, getting up to serve the soup.

  —You sit down, says Mimi, you’re an invalid.

  After a few minutes Rosa comes back into the room; the atmosphere is tense and her soup is no longer steaming. She takes her place, closes her eyes, swallows hard, forcing the soup down. As the meal wears on, Rosa is dimly aware of a conversation over whether or not the man in the post office is Jewish, he’s not Jewish, well he looks Jewish, but his wife’s as Caucasian as they come, maybe he has some Jewish blood in him somewhere along the line, come on, there’s more Jewishness in my little finger than in the whole of East Anglia. Rosa sinks into a somnambulant state, tapping the table absently with her fingernails, looking out of the window at the garden where grass can be seen swaying on top of the Anderson shelter, outlined against the apple trees. The movement makes her queasy, and she averts her eyes. At a nod from Mimi she clears up the soup bowls, avoiding Samuel’s gaze, and goes through to the kitchen to serve the cholent, steeling herself as best she can against the smell. But it is no use.

  —The girl’s dashed to the outhouse again, says Gerald.

  —She must be jolly ill, says Mimi. I knew she was ill when I woke her this morning.

  —I’ll serve the cholent, says Samuel.

  —You’ll do nothing of the sort, says Mimi. I’ve told you before, you’re an invalid.

  —Someone had better go and see if she’s all right, says Gerald.

  —Don’t let’s disturb her, says Samuel. It’ll be an upset stomach I shouldn’t wonder.

  Mimi gives her son a strange look as she gets up from her seat to serve; the family eat in silence until eventually Rosa returns.

  —Rosa, my dear, says Gerald, are you unwell?

  —There is maybe something bad with my stomach.

  —Shall we call a doctor? asks Gerald.

  —That won’t be necessary, says Samuel.

  —Are you sure it’s your stomach, Rosa, says Mimi, or is the smell of the food making you sick?

  Rosa and Samuel exchange glances, and Mimi raises her eyebrows.

  —Is there something you would like to tell us, Rosa? she says quietly.

  There is a pause that seems to last forever. Gerald peers up from his cholent, fork poised in the air, small droplets tumbling from the prongs and rejoining the stew in the bowl. Rosa looks silently at Mimi, and Samuel studies the table.

  —Yes, says Rosa finally, I think maybe there is something we need to tell.

  —We? repeats Mimi.

  —Yes, we, says Rosa, me and Samuel.

  Samuel still does not look up from the table; from his neck a scarlet smudge is beginning to creep across his face.

  —Well, what is it? Samuel? Tell me, says Mimi, gripping a napkin tight between her fingers.

  —I think … no, I don’t think, I know … that is … says Samuel.

  —I am sick because I am going to have a baby, says Rosa finally.

  There is a tense silence.

  —A baby, exclaims Gerald at last, a baby? When?

  —Knew it, says Mimi quietly.

  —I’m sorry, says Rosa, her voice wavering.

  Gerald gets up from his seat, walks across to the window, unfolds and refolds the bread cloth, returns to his chair and sits down, rubbing his beard roughly.

  —Oh, this takes the biscuit, he says at last. What an absolute disgrace. We’ve taken you into our house, given you a roof over your head, and this is how you repay us, with I don’t know what, with nothing but lewdness and immorality. Otto and Inga we were doing a favour, they are fine people. But you … how shameful, he says, shaking his head.

  —I can’t believe it, whispers Mimi.

  —Dare I ask the identity of the lucky father? says Gerald.

  Rosa takes a deep breath but no words will come. She gestures towards Samuel and looks down at the tablecloth.

  There is another stunned silence, more profound than before. Mimi and Gerald’s eyes fix on their son, who by now has gone completely red.

  —My son, tell me this is not true, says Gerald. She’s lying. Tell me she’s lying.

  —I’m not, says Rosa. We’re getting married.

  —Silence, Gerald retorts. When I wish to address this wanton girl I shall do so.

  —Keep quiet, Rosa, says Mimi, don’t make a scene.

  —A scene? splutters Gerald. I think we have a scene already, do we not? He turns to Samuel again.

  —I want to hear it from you, Samuel, my son, he says. Be honest now. True or false?

  Another solid silence stretches out second by second.

  —Samuel … says Rosa.

  —Will you shut up! shouts Gerald, hitting the table with his palm. A glass, upended by the blow, smashes on the floor.

  —Calm down, dear, says Mimi, we’d do better dealing with this calmly.

  —How can I calm down when two days before Yom
Kippur my son stands accused of fathering a bastard? says Gerald. He removes his hat and passes his hand over his face. Samuel, tell me it is not true. Tell me she’s lying.

  Samuel raises his eyes and looks his father full in the face.

  —Father, he says, it’s true. I’m sorry. But it isn’t just … we are in love. We wish to marry. I’m sorry.

  Gerald stares at his son, his lips struggling to settle. Samuel lowers his eyes again.

  —Have you forgotten who you are, my son? says Gerald at last.

  Samuel does not reply.

  —I am sorry, says Rosa again.

  —You keep your mouth shut, you dirty shikse! shouts Gerald.

  Rosa reacts as if she has been hit by an electric charge and buries her face in her hands.

  —I wish to converse with my wife in private, says Gerald, his voice repressed and hoarse, at a shabbos table free from impurity. Go upstairs, both of you, to your rooms. To your own rooms, yes? And if you talk to each other, if I hear so much as a single word, I will throw you both out of the house and you shall never come back, by God’s name I swear it. Go on, what are you waiting for? Go on.

  Like chastened children Rosa and Samuel get to their feet, their chairs scraping loudly on the floor, and leave the room. Rosa follows Samuel up the stairs; when they get to the landing she tries to catch his eye, but his gaze is downcast. He enters his room and shuts the door behind him. Rosa goes into hers, closes the door and lies on the bed, pressing her face into the pillow.

  8

  It is almost an hour before her sobs subside and Rosa lifts her head. The shadows have lengthened on the wall, and the light has grown yellow; through the floorboards, Gerald and Mimi can still be heard in discussion. She raises herself awkwardly to a sitting position, creases fanning out around her in the blankets, and cleans her face with a handkerchief. Her face is swollen and flushed, her eyes are bloodshot, yet the pain itself has not changed; the notion of feeling better after a good cry, which seemed such wisdom when she was a child, has over these past few years become absurd. She gets to her feet, tidies her clothes and her hair, tries to regain some composure. Then she crosses to the window, heaves at the sash and plunges her face into the cold air. The orchard lies beneath her, and beyond that a range of stubbly flats stretches towards the sea and the horizon. She rests her hands on the outside wall, feeling the cool, craggy flint beneath her palms, seeking to be stabilised by its ancientness and solidity. Inside she can feel the baby moving, or is it her imagination, after all she is not even slightly rounded yet, but she can certainly feel something; overwhelmed by a desire to protect it, she cups her hands over her belly. She peers left, along the wall, towards Samuel’s window, willing him to open it, to look out, to see her. She waits, but he does not come.