The English German Girl

by Jake Wallis Simons

  After a time, she wraps her mother’s cashmere shawl round her shoulders and sits in the wooden chair, watching the elderly sycamore beating its head against the breeze, moving on its root. There is the dry call of a rook, and then a cloud of them appear; black socks buffeted by the wind, they settle on the telegraph wires stretched between the poles along the lane beyond the hedgerow. Rosa’s emotions have settled now, she feels numb and thick-headed from all the crying, heavy with shame, mired in a bovine docility. Yet as time passes, and her head is cleared by looking out into the brilliant freshness of the autumn sky, her thoughts begin to churn again. She has been in here for a long time without any food or water, confined to her room like a child, she could just go downstairs, nothing is stopping her; but how can she disobey Gerald and Mimi when her freedom, her very existence, rests on their charity? Ah, perhaps this imprisonment is a good thing, at least if she is shut away in her bedroom there is nobody to witness her degradation; she can stay here, in her room, in the gathering darkness, like an insect. Samuel has not dared to leave his room either; he, who has faced the German guns, fought, nearly died for his country, is afraid to confront his parents, ashamed.

  Time passes, and the sun draws rosy hues from the horizon. The baby in her belly stops moving, lies still. She tries to write to her parents, but each time no words will come; then she decides to write to Heinrich and finds herself pouring out her feelings in a letter so long that the postage would be more than she can afford. For almost an hour she writes as the sun curves gently across the sky and shadows turn on their apex. Finally she seals the envelope and places it in her painted box. Then, listlessly, she sits in the chair by the window, looking out across the orchard into the vast expanse of the sky, listening to the occasional sounds of Mimi and Gerald going about their lives downstairs. From time to time she thinks she hears the creak of floorboards in Samuel’s room, the shame of it all, the shame – this heaviness will never leave her, she knows it, and what a way to bring a baby into the world.

  By nightfall nobody has entered her room, nobody has even come upstairs, and Rosa is starting to feel hungry. She gets to her feet and draws the blackout curtains; the starless night of the countryside is oppressive to her. The room is plunged into darkness; she lights a paraffin lamp. She is numb and stiff from the prolonged period of sitting, and her head feels congested and heavy; she gets to her feet, paces the room, sits down again, gets up, goes to the bed, lies down.

  An hour later there are footsteps on the stairs. Rosa sits upright but instead of a knock, something is left outside her room. She waits until all is still, then tentatively opens the door – there in the shadows, on a plate, is a husk of bread with a scrape of butter and a glass of water. Despite herself she picks them up, and before re-entering her room pauses in front of Samuel’s bedroom door, willing it to open. As if by magic there is a scuffling sound and the door creaks ajar; Samuel appears, his hair in disarray, his shirt-tails hanging over his thighs and his eyes blotched with red. He stoops to collect his bread and butter, and for a moment Rosa catches his eye – how to describe his expression? Broken, or perhaps breaking, as if each muscle in his face is straining to separate from the rest. Yet in his eyes Rosa thinks she can detect a burning defiance. Without a word Samuel goes back into his room and closes the door, leaving her on the landing in the gloom.

  That night Rosa cannot sleep. Rain whips across the cottage, and she lies in bed in the darkness, listening to the sound of distant cannons rumbling over the Norfolk flats. A charge is running through her body, pressing her eyes open and her mind awake. The rain lashes the window like salt, the darkness is a living entity, moving and shifting before her eyes. From time to time sleep attempts to drag her under, but then she is snapped awake again, the electricity in her body combating the sleep as if it were a virus. The carriage clock counts off the hours at a painstaking pace, the house creaks and groans to itself as it ages, and the night gradually passes.

  By morning the storm has blown itself out, leaving the world cold and new. Rosa wants to go outside, but still she does not leave her bedroom. Gerald and Mimi will surely call them down today, they can’t leave them up here forever. Another husk of bread and butter is deposited outside her door at breakfast time, and when she collects it Samuel is nowhere to be seen. She eats it slowly, with discipline, one bite every half-hour, staring aimlessly out of the window, and the morning trickles away. At lunchtime another husk is delivered, and this time Rosa devours it without hesitation, even though it will not make a difference to her hunger, it will probably make things worse.

  Time passes, and the afternoon is threatened by another evening, and the despair of another sleepless night begins to make its descent; Rosa thinks, if nobody has come within the hour, I am going downstairs. There can be nothing worse than this interminable wait, and it is cruel to be left with so little food.

  9

  Samuel is lying on his bed, his arms wrapped around his bandaged midriff, trying to block out the pain. Our sages tell us that honouring one’s father and mother is equivalent to all the other commandments. Since being confined to his room he has thought about the situation myriad times, his anger at being treated like a child, his humiliation, wishing that the clock could be turned back, the frustration and anxiety and distress; the same thoughts have been following each other relentlessly like an awful merry-go-round, but now the ointment has run out, his infected wound has started to throb, the pain has become searing, and he can think of nothing else. And God blessed them, saying, be fruitful, and multiply, and fill the waters in the seas, and let fowl multiply in the earth, and there was evening, and there was morning, the fifth day. Strange to think there is a German, somewhere, who dropped the particular bomb that created the shrapnel that is causing this pain. If Samuel were to meet him, would he rejoice? He might be dead by now. Samuel does not know how he will get through another night, he certainly cannot sleep in this state, and the doctor is not due until tomorrow morning. He can feel with vividness every detail of his rotting wound, every contour and seam and ridge, and when he moves he feels it twist within him, a crease in his side, hardened and sharp.

  There is a noise – somebody coming up the stairs, someone outside his door. There is a knock.

  —Yes? he says, surprised at the weakness of his voice.

  The door opens and his mother enters. She stands still for a moment, gazing at her son; then she sits on the bed and takes his hand.

  —You look in a frightful state, she says.

  —Are you surprised?

  —Where are your barbiturates?

  —Run out.

  —I’ll send for the doctor immediately.

  —He is coming tomorrow.

  —You don’t look as if you can wait until tomorrow. Anyway it’s Yom Kippur tomorrow. Father’s gone to synagogue already, for Kol Nidre, but I stayed behind to keep an eye on you. Why didn’t you tell me you’re in so much pain?

  —Have you forgotten? We were banished to our rooms.

  —Yes, but we didn’t realise you were in such a state, says Mimi. You should have come down. You should have told us.

  —You should have jolly well checked. You know my wound’s playing up, and Rosa’s pregnant. You shouldn’t have left us languishing in our rooms like a couple of prisoners. I almost came downstairs several times, you know, but each time I thought better of it. I decided to let you have your way. It was stupid to leave us for so long. Stupid and cruel.

  There is a pause. Mimi adjusts her headscarf and clears her throat.

  —Your father is extremely upset, she says. He can’t think straight. He’s carrying on about the workhouse at West Beckham.

  —The workhouse?

  —Yes, he’s on about sending Rosa there. Says she should give the baby to someone who wants it. What with the war, and spending so much time in Norfolk, his business has been deteriorating, Samuel. Unless God performs a miracle, we’ll be struggling to make ends meet by the end of the month. We cannot affo
rd to pay for a wedding, and certainly not another mouth to feed. There’s a war on, Samuel.

  —I won’t stand for it. I’d rather die than see Rosa sent to the workhouse.

  Samuel winces, clutches his bandage and rolls away from his mother; a bitter silence hangs in the air. Then Mimi speaks again, in a softer tone this time.

  —You’re supposed to ask for forgiveness before Yom Kippur, she says, before the judgement is sealed.

  —I’ve said I’m sorry, says Samuel. I don’t know what more you want.

  —That’s not what I mean, says Mimi. I’ve been thinking about things myself, I’ve been praying. And I’ve realised something. This entire situation, it’s my fault.

  —What do you mean? says Samuel.

  —Oh, it’s my fault, it’s all my fault, she says, sighing. Ever since Rosa arrived in our house I’ve done nothing but come between you. I’ve tried to stop you growing fond of one another, I’ve been terrified that you would fall in love and stoop to immorality. As it turns out, all I’ve done is drive you secretly into each other’s arms. Here’s me galloping about like a bull in a china shop, and I’ve ended up causing precisely what I was afraid of. That’s the reason we left the East End, to get away from those old-fashioned ways of thinking. We could see you were being suffocated, that’s why we sent you to Tottenham Grammar. But I’ve gone and ruined it all.

  There is a pause while she adjusts her headscarf again and dabs her eyes.

  —The irony is, she continues, Rosa has turned out to be a wonderful girl. She is diligent, loyal, kind … she would have been perfect for you, Samuel, if I’d given it a thought. But now my meddling has caused you to make an almighty mess of things.

  —I take full responsibility, says Samuel.

  —You’re young, says Mimi. I know what it’s like to be young. And you’ve been suffering with your wound, and Rosa has been suffering with her parents trapped in Germany. I should have known better. I should have been a better mother, I should have kept my nose out of your affairs, I should have been more tolerant of Rosa. I drove you to it. I’m to blame.

  She dabs her eyes again.

  —Will you forgive me, she says, will you ever be able to forgive me?

  Samuel raises himself on his elbows, and Mimi takes him in her arms, rubbing his back the way she used to when he was a child.

  —You and Rosa still have your future ahead of you, she says into his shoulder, when the war’s over you could still get married, have children and be happy. If only it wasn’t for this small obstacle.

  —That’s one way of putting it.

  —I’m going to find a way round it for you, she says, don’t you worry. I’ll make everything all right.

  —What about Father?

  —Don’t worry about Father. I know how to deal with him. She pulls herself together and gets to her feet.

  —First things first, she says, your barbiturates. We can’t have you lying here in pain all evening. I’ll send for Doctor Ashfield straight away. And while he’s at it, I’ll have him examine Rosa too. There are procedures that doctors carry out when girls fall pregnant.

  Samuel looks up at her from his bed, still feeling like a child. His mother is looking at him knowingly.

  —Procedures? he says.

  —Yes, procedures. You know, pregnancy procedures. Ladies’ matters.

  Samuel nods.

  —I love you, my darling, says Mimi. Everything will be all right.

  The door closes and her footsteps descend the stairs. Samuel turns onto his back, gasping with pain, and presses the heels of his hands over his eyes.

  10

  Rosa lies on her back in her bed, watching a funnel of shadow flicker on the ceiling. Several times she has walked to the door, laid her hand upon the handle, but each time something has stopped her; for a while now she has been lying in bed, anticipation building inside her, anticipation for she knows not what.

  And then a new sound can be heard downstairs, a male voice alternating with Mimi’s, one that Rosa does not recognise. Her sense of anticipation becomes almost unbearable, she is sure that this man has something to do with her, she tries to dismiss the thought, tells herself she is being paranoid; she feels sick to her stomach and thinks she can feel the baby moving, side to side, crouching, curling up protectively like a hedgehog. She rests her hands on her belly, and her breathing is short; individual words, sentences, snatches of conversation float up from below, Mimi is mentioning tea, the man is declining, they are discussing the weather and the war, nothing out of the ordinary, apart from the fact that this is a Sunday evening, and it is the night of Yom Kippur, and by no means a normal time to entertain.

  Now the man’s voice has left the hall and is sliding along beneath the floorboards towards the stairs. He and Mimi are in earnest discussion but their tones are hushed now, nothing can be made out. Now footfalls on the stairs, four feet like an animal, like a horse, a pantomime horse climbing the stairs, the front half talking to the behind in whispers, suppressed whispers, the sound of a gas mask box tapping against the wall, the floorboards creaking, and now they have arrived on the landing, they are almost outside her door, they are outside her door, will they knock, no, they pass by, it is Samuel’s room they are after. The sound of them knocking, of the door opening.

  —Samuel? comes Mimi’s voice. Doctor Ashfield is here.

  —Come in, says Samuel.

  —Ah Samuel, says the doctor, I came immediately when I heard. The wound is playing up, is it?

  The door closes and the voices become muffled. Something doesn’t seem right. Rosa has never liked Doctor Ashfield, his striking ugliness, the eyes that seem to have been pressed too high into the forehead, creating a wrinkled, overhanging brow tufted with black eyebrows, the lumpen and shapeless nose, and the sallow cheeks which flap like sails as the over-full lips twist around their words. He is a hairy man, and his voice sounds hairy too, as if his larynx is lined with fur; it is a gruff yet smooth voice, a lilting, persuasive voice, a voice in which even the sincerest of sentiments sound false.

  The conversation continues in Samuel’s room. What is happening, what was Mimi discussing with Samuel earlier, what is the doctor doing? Rosa’s sense of anticipation grows into anxiety, nervousness, nausea, she tries to pull herself together, she knows she is being paranoid. The funnel of shadow on the ceiling darkens as night draws in; she gets to her feet, stands for a moment, closes the curtains. Then she lights the paraffin lamp.

  After a time Mimi and the doctor can be heard leaving Samuel’s room, bidding him good night and coming along the landing. There are whispers outside her room, followed by a knock at the door. She pauses, unsure whether her ears have deceived her; there is another knock.

  —Yes? she says.

  —Only me, comes Mimi’s voice, may I come in?

  Her voice is cheerful, sing-song, and something does not seem right, after all Rosa has been isolated for more than a day; perhaps Mimi is labouring under a façade of politeness, keeping up appearances for the doctor.

  —Come in, says Rosa.

  The door opens and Mimi enters the room, smiling awkwardly. She turns to Doctor Ashfield who is standing like a shadow behind her.

  —If you wouldn’t mind just waiting outside for a moment, she says, there is a comfy chair just over there. I shan’t be long.

  —Certainly, comes the doctor’s fur-lined voice. I shall be here when you need me.

  Mimi closes the door behind her, and a quietude settles in the room.

  —Rosa, she says, I am sorry we have left you in here so long. Uncle Gerald is very upset. He’s gone to synagogue now, but he’s very upset.

  Rosa does not reply.

  —Shall we sit down? says Mimi, gesturing towards the bed.

  They sit on the bed side by side, as if on a train, and Rosa is struck by the absurdity of the scene.

  —Why is the doctor here? she says.

  Mimi clears her throat.

  —I sent for him to examine
Samuel, he’s been in terrible pain. The doctor has prescribed him some stronger medicine. I thought you could do with a once-over at the same time, she says.

  —I could do with some food, says Rosa.

  —Of course, Mimi replies, I will get you something nice in a moment. But first I want to say one or two things.

  She pauses, smoothing her skirt and gathering her thoughts.

  —As you know, she begins, Gerald and I have welcomed you wholeheartedly into our family. We have given you a roof over your head and food in your belly for two and a half years. And might I say, during that period you have been a pleasure to live with, an absolute pleasure.

  Rosa glances up at her but cannot make out Mimi’s expression: she is silhouetted against the glow of the paraffin lamp.

  —We have been thinking long and hard, Mimi continues, and we can see that you and Samuel are certainly fond of one another. This may just be an immature infatuation, of course, but it may also be something more serious.

  She adjusts her headscarf, compulsively.

  —Now, she says, I know that in the past I have not been best pleased with the idea of you and Samuel becoming close. But I think I was wrong about that. There’s nothing objectionable about you two getting to know each other, especially as you are nearly eighteen years of age. And there is nothing objectionable about your getting married, either, in principle. In fact I think it is a good idea. I think you might have a long and happy future together.