The English German Girl

by Jake Wallis Simons

  —Golly, she says, I’d forgotten how unpleasant it can be down here.

  She takes a handkerchief from the pocket of her smock and places it over her nose, then backs towards the door and beckons with her hand. Rosa begins to remove her rubbers but Lottie gestures that it doesn’t matter, that she should just get out of the sinkroom straight away so that they can have a proper conversation. Rosa steps into the corridor, keeping an eye out for Sister.

  —I can’t be long, she says, we’re in the middle of it.

  —I quite understand, says Lottie, you poor thing.

  She chuckles, though not with derision but solidarity. Rosa smiles and shrugs, and Lottie laughs again. Her flaxen hair is gathered tightly under her nurse’s cap, emphasising the length of her delicate neck, and as the light catches the angles of her cheekbones Rosa is struck afresh by her beauty and feels even more conscious of her rubbers and dirty hands. Lottie looks shiftily over each shoulder, leans across and speaks in a whisper, as if sharing a plot. Her breath is sweet and youthful.

  —Look here, she says, we’re having a do. Will you come?

  —When is it? says Rosa.

  —Tonight. Third floor, Alexandra House. Silly’s room.

  —Silly?

  —Yes, Silly. Cecily Harrison, two doors down from mine. Her window’s got a fire escape, might come in handy.

  —A fire escape?

  —Just joking.

  —But how about Sister?

  —Don’t worry, says Lottie lightly, this time we’ve got reliable intelligence. They’re having a meeting all evening. She glances again over her shoulder and gives Rosa a gentle nudge.

  —Come on, she says, promise you’ll come. You’ll have a fabulous time, and the men are dying to meet you.

  Rosa hesitates. She is sure that no other junior probationers have been invited.

  —Very well, she says with a tingle of excitement, I’ll come.

  —Good-oh. That’s splendid, says Lottie.

  Without another word, she draws herself up and walks smoothly off along the corridor like a swan, glancing at the watch that hangs above her breast, a picture of the perfect nurse; she spots someone running, calls out Fire or haemorrhage? – the official reprimand – with a brazen stylishness. In the distance, the figure of Sister appears; Rosa slips back into the sinkroom, hurries back to her station and heaves at another brimming bedpan, the tingle of excitement shimmering up her spine, spreading through her body. She has never been to the staff nurse dormitories before – what Pro has? – and would be feeling rather daunted had she not been invited by Lottie Barnes herself, the highest princess of them all. A fresh uniform has just been returned from laundry, she will wear that, she was intending to leave it for next week but she mustn’t look scruffy tonight. She has seen the medical men from afar but none of them have even noticed her, as a lowly junior probationer she would not even feature on their radars – until this evening, that is, when, as a guest of Lottie Barnes, she will ascend to the staff nurses’ quarters and attend one of her infamous and celebrated dos.

  The remainder of the day passes quickly. Rosa is put on folding duty in the lobby, surrounded by a bewildering variety of linen: tea cloths, medicine cloths, hand towels, roller towels, cloths for the bedpans, cloths for drying the tooth mugs. The task of lining up the labels proves more difficult than usual, her mind is distracted by the promise of the evening. By supper time she has still not finished the folding; she rushes through the final pile higgledy-piggledy, hoping that Sister will not inspect her work.

  The room is cold and shadowy and Rosa sits next to Lottie on the bed, looking down into a dusky glass of black market sherry. She doesn’t know what she had expected, but it was certainly nothing like this; the atmosphere is stilted and formal, and apart from her and Lottie there are only three people present: Silly – a sardonic-looking brunette with painted lips sipping from her sherry as if it were liquid gold – and two medical men standing at either end of the room, Roger Freebairn and Jeremy Capo-Bianco, exchanging witticisms through clouds of cigarette smoke.

  —And then she said to the nurse, I distinctly told you to prick his boil, says Capo-Bianco, laughing through his moustache.

  —You’re drunk, says Freebairn.

  —Chance, says Capo-Bianco, would be a fine thing.

  To underscore his point he takes a gulp of sherry. There is a pause.

  —So you’re from Holland, eh? says Capo-Bianco. Relative of Queen Wilhelmina?

  —Don’t be an idiot, says Freebairn.

  —She’s from Amsterdam, says Lottie.

  —Amsterdam, repeats Freebairn, how enchanting. I do admire the Dutch.

  —Why, says Capo-Bianco, for getting overrun by Jerry?

  —No, says Freebairn, for resisting.

  —Rosie’s being terribly brave, says Lottie, adding with an artistic flourish: her family are members of the Résistance.

  —Indeed? says Freebairn, impressed. Vive la Hollande.

  He drinks, without waiting for the salute to be returned. Rosa feels obligated to honour his toast; she raises her glass and sips, surprised by the fruity taste as the alcohol traces a hot line down her throat. She feels dizzy almost immediately.

  —I went to Holland once, says Silly, before the war. We went bicycling. Lots of windmills.

  Rosa glances at Freebairn who is regarding her admiringly, ignoring Silly and blowing smoke from his nose. Of the two men he is certainly the more palatable, but she cannot think of him as attractive; she cannot imagine thinking of anyone as attractive at the moment. She wishes that she hadn’t pretended she was Dutch – if this conversation continues, in a short time she may be in a rather sticky situation.

  —Did you go bicycling much? says Silly.

  —A little, Rosa replies, though only on day-trips.

  —Bicycling day-trips in Holland, says Freebairn, how romantic.

  —Not really, says Rosa, it tends to be rather muddy.

  Freebairn sucks on his cigarette and laughs uncertainly. Silly gets to her feet.

  —Can I offer anybody a … she says, then stops mid-sentence and cocks her head.

  —What’s up? says Freebairn, looking more surprised than usual.

  —Sssh, says Silly, I’m trying to listen.

  —The thing about Holland, says Capo-Bianco, is the tulips.

  —Be quiet, snaps Lottie, shut up.

  From far away along the corridor the clack of heels can be heard.

  —If I’m not very much mistaken … says Silly.

  —I don’t believe it, says Lottie, it’s Sister.

  —It can’t be, says Freebairn, she’s supposed to be in the meeting.

  —She’s bloody well here now, says Lottie, I’d recognise her footsteps anywhere. Action stations everyone.

  The two men stub out their cigarettes, collect up the glasses and the sherry and hasten over to the window; evidently they have indeed planned an evacuation procedure involving the fire escape. Lottie takes Rosa by the hand and hurries her over to the wardrobe.

  —Here, she says, get in quick.

  They step inside, Lottie pulls the doors together but leaves a small chink of light through which they can see Capo-Bianco, giggling, following Freebairn out of the window; once he is safely out of sight the window is closed and the blackout curtains drawn. Lottie closes the wardrobe tight and pulls Rosa away from the door, burrowing deep into the hanging clothes, into the musty scent of uniforms and linen. The two girls stand together in the stifling darkness; Lottie is still holding Rosa’s hand, and her other hand rests round her hip, calming her, it’s all right, she whispers, just stay still. Lottie’s breath is hot with alcohol and she presses her body against Rosa as the clothes close around them like a cocoon. Rosa bites her tongue, tries to quell her racing heart, forces herself to breathe quietly. The clack of heels approaches along the corridor and comes to a halt; there is a prim knock at the door.

  —Who is it? calls Silly in a lazy voice, amazing Rosa with her p
anache.

  —It’s Sister, comes a shrill response, open the door immediately, Nurse Harrison.

  From the darkness Rosa hears Silly crossing to the door, opening it; a muffled conversation ensues which, from the wardrobe, is unintelligible. Lottie pulls Rosa tighter, her breath is on her cheek, her breasts against her back; don’t worry my darling, she whispers, just keep still, don’t make a sound. Her lips brush Rosa’s cheek, lightly; an odd sensation floods through Rosa’s body as she stands stiff as a board in the darkness, Lottie’s arms wrapped protectively around her, eyes staring into the blackness, ears straining for a hint of what is happening outside. She hears the door closing and movement inside the room, then the wardrobe doors are flung open and she squints against the light.

  —Hurry, whispers Silly, grinning, it’s all right for now but she’ll be back.

  They clamber out of the wardrobe and follow Silly over to the window. Lottie is giggling into her sleeve. Silly parts the blackout curtains and opens the window to the cold air.

  —Here, she says, get going. Next time we’ll be sure to invite Her Sisterness.

  At this Lottie lets out a burst of laughter. Rosa swings her legs over the window ledge and drops down onto the wrought-iron fire escape, which clangs loudly in response to her heels. Ssssh, hisses Lottie, and giggles again; help me down, Rosie, help me, come on.

  Rosa takes her by the elbow and supports her as she slips down onto the fire escape. Silly, in the window, throws them down their cloaks, shows them a quick thumbs-up and closes the blackout curtains. Outside it is cold; they draw their cloaks about their shoulders and look around. In the distance searchlights tilt against the clouds like lances, and there is barely a twinkle from the blacked-out city.

  —Come on, says Lottie, I’m going to have hysterics.

  —Let’s take our shoes off, says Rosa, starting to feel light-headed.

  —Good idea, Sergeant Clark, says Lottie.

  She takes Rosa by the hand and they slip down the staircase, the wrought-iron freezing their stockinged feet, winding down the side of the building, floor after blacked-out floor. Suddenly Lottie laughs out loud; Rosa looks over and in the darkness can just make out that she is holding up a single shoe. My shoe, whispers Lottie, my shoe, I’ve dropped the bloody thing over the side. Without appreciating the futility of the action, they both lean on the railing and peer over into the blackness of space. Lottie starts to laugh again, Rosa tries to quieten her but then begins to giggle herself, and in a matter of seconds they are laughing uproariously into the night, supporting themselves against the railing of the fire escape, tears of laughter streaking down their cheeks and flicking into the night sky below them. Lottie moves towards Rosa and takes her by the hand, and Rosa, who despite the mirth is anxious to get back to the safety of her room, leads Lottie down the icy stairs.

  Minutes later, having recovered somewhat, they clamber through the fire-exit door into a dimly lit corridor, their cloaks falling against their backs.

  —Cavell’s that way, whispers Lottie, you’d better get a move on. I’m off to find my shoe.

  —Thank you, says Rosa, suppressing another giggle. I look forward to the next do with Her Sisterness.

  Lottie leans over and kisses her, once, on the cheek, though the edge of her mouth strays over the corner of Rosa’s lips; I’ll be seeing you soon, she says, good luck, then she turns and disappears into the gloom. The odd sensation flows through Rosa’s body again and she hurries along the corridor, up some stairs and out onto the enclosed iron bridge, the cool wind pressing her smock against her legs.

  She reaches Cavell House without incident, creeps along the corridor to her own bedroom; finally she is safe. She kindles her oil lamp, changes into her nightgown and slides into bed, huddling against the late night chill, not wanting to extinguish the lamp, not wanting to sleep. The sheets are chilly and her body is filled with a tingling sensation, as if pure light were coursing through her veins. She takes out a pencil and paper and begins to write, imagining her family in the room with her, as if they are having a conversation. The words pour out from the scratchy tip of her pencil, introducing Lottie, describing the hospital, sketching her uniform and bedroom, offering them her life via this flimsy piece of paper. Eventually she signs her name, folds the letter into an envelope and places it in the painted box, ready for posting tomorrow.

  Before lying back and going to sleep, for some reason she feels inspired to pray. She has never thought much about God, she has always been far too concerned with the everyday business of living, and even at her lowest points she has felt that a recourse to divine intervention would be an expression of failure. Yet now, in her new-found state of happiness, tempered but not dispelled by thinking about her parents and how they must be suffering, she finds herself making a request. Please God, she prays, protect my family and reunite us soon. It is a simple prayer, and a short one; she repeats it several times. Then she burrows back under the covers, extinguishes the oil lamp and closes her eyes. As a dark ocean of sleep wells up to meet her, and her body relinquishes its load of the day, she is unaware of an important fact: for the very first time since she ran away from Norfolk, she has fallen asleep without thinking of Samuel.

  3

  The seasons pass in a world of their own outside the hospital walls; war lumbers on in the distance, in the background, and life at the London is all-consuming. Rosa finds the role of the nurse coming more naturally to her; she begins to feel comfortable in the wards, with patients, with other nurses, even, gradually, with Sister. And as she sheds the chrysalis of Junior Pro and is awarded the silver brooch of the staff probationer, the news breaks of victory at El Alamein, and Africa falls to Monty, and the home stretch of the war seems to be in sight; few people believe that the war can now be lost, yet just as few dare predict how it might be won.

  At three in the morning on Christmas Day 1942, the hospital is woken for carol singing, which commences in the wards with a rousing rendition of ‘Christians Awake’; Rosa is impressed by the colourful paper shades on the lights, and the evergreens and balloons strung across the ceilings, and the Christmas scenes displayed on the tables, and the piles of Christmas stockings for the patients, and the traditional presentation of a bunch of violets to every nurse in the hospital. But 1943 wears on, and the mood in the city grows jaded. By night people have taken to roaming the streets during air raids to catch a view of the action, hampering the civil defence and putting themselves in danger; by day they huddle in scowling knots, grumbling about the rations, about the shortages, about the Jews. From the freezing womb of another winter 1944 is born, accompanied by the Luftwaffe who return with intense wrath to London under cover of darkness. The winter is exceptionally bitter, plagued by freezing fogs, and the days grow dark before their time. Rosa grips the side of the chilly enamel tub and raises herself from the water, leaning forward to the tap, trying to stop the infernal dripping, they are only allowed five inches as it is, and this is enforced by a tube of that height attached to the plughole, and her bath is currently five inches exactly, so this blasted drip must stop. Her fingers turn yellow and maroon as she applies pressure to the head of the tap, and then the drips stop and she lies back in the water. Sister made her promise that she will spend at least fifteen minutes in the bath, she has been working like a demon for weeks now without a break, even during teatime she does not join the other girls in the sitting room but continues to work in the wards, so she must rest, even if only for fifteen minutes, and what better way to do this than by soaking her aching limbs? She feels jumpy, unaccustomed to lying still, as if she is late for something, but she made a promise to Sister, and she has thirteen minutes left before she can get out and get back to work, and she knows that if she left the bath even one minute early Sister would know about it and make her do the whole procedure again.

  On the wooden chair beside the basin her uniform hangs like a skin, the Staff Pro’s silver ‘S’ glinting on the apron bib. Everything is different now, s
he thinks, even the uniforms have changed, there is less length in the skirt, less volume in the shoulders, the aprons are only to be worn in the wards, the capes have been exchanged for greatcoats, and Sister has to make do without the frilly streamers that used to hang down her back from her cap, or at least she must save them for special occasions. But most irritatingly of all, gone are the detachable sleeves which caused Rosa such distress when she first arrived! Gone, just like that, after she has finally grown used to them, and the new girls these days have had a lucky escape, from a sartorial point of view. Rosa avoids, whenever she can, the new girls, she dislikes the way they regard her, big dewy eyes and simpering grins; of course she understands that as a Staff Pro she will inevitably be impressive, but strangely, through no effort on her part, she has acquired a certain mystique-by-association, for as soon as Lottie left, Rosa was tacitly judged by the probationers to have inherited her status. This came about when, back in 1942, Lottie was caught by Matron outdoors after lights out. She claimed to be looking for her shoe in the hospital yard, but Matron considered this one infringement too many, and her parents were called, and she was transferred to a sector hospital closer to her home with the notion that her father might keep an eye on her. When news of this broke, and people realised that Rosa had been present at Lottie’s do that very evening, in the eyes of the probationers, if not the staff nurses, her social status instantly skyrocketed. Rosa herself maintained an irregular correspondence with Lottie for several months until neither of them could remember whose turn it was to write, so neither of them did, and the brief relationship ended. It was several weeks before Rosa realised that she was being widely regarded as the heiress to Lottie’s throne, and the more she tried to discourage this perception, keeping her affairs private and working diligently, the more her reputation grew. Then she received a letter that changed everything; she became rather withdrawn, and the old insomnia began to return, and she began to fill every minute of her spare time with extra shifts, surrendering herself to the regime of rules and procedures, scrubbing her hands with a block of soda every half-hour until they bled, replacing her identity with her uniform, becoming nothing but Probationer Clark, always on duty, always diligent, with chronic finger cramps and perpetually sore feet; this change was seen amongst the Junior Pros as a gesture of aloofness, and the more she drew away, the more she seemed to be revered.