Lying in the cooling bath trying to be still, the chilblains on her fingers stinging under the water, her nerves jangling with suppressed energy and still twelve minutes to go, Rosa remembers that letter. It was more of a postcard really, written in pencil, her mother’s handwriting was barely recognisable, it was very brief, just a few lines, but those were enough to change Rosa’s world, she remembers – no, don’t think of it, there is no point in giving the mind free rein to dwell on whatever it pleases, she could make proper use of these few minutes to catalogue her tasks for the evening’s shift, and then her efficiency will be enhanced; she might be forced to lie still in the bath, resting her body, but there can be no excuse for not disciplining her mind. Tonight: hot water bottles all round to mitigate the freezing temperatures, and Mr Everard’s dressing will want changing; hopefully the bedpans, ashtrays and sputum mugs will have been emptied by the Juniors, but if not she will be required to pitch in. And the ventilators must be shut and the flowers taken out, then there is cocoa to be made before lights out, and Mrs Hopkins will need to be fed some more whites of egg before she goes to sleep, doubtless nobody will have thought to do that. And then – unless there is an air raid, for the Germans have been at it again with the bombs almost every night, Mr Churchill has declared that it’s quite like old times, a ‘little Blitz’ – unless there is an air raid, she will go to bed for a few hours before the morning shift, when the usual routine will once again apply: pulling the blackout curtains away from the windows, morning bedpans, the brewing of Bovril, sweeping with tea leaves to settle the dust and refreshing the nibs in the pens on the inkstands, scrubbing and scouring with carbolic solution, fumigating and polishing and rinsing and wiping, emptying and changing and consoling and injecting, then the chime of the clock will throw everybody into a panic, then back to the bedrooms to collect notes and textbooks for the study period; then lunch, back to the wards, and so on.
Ten minutes to go, ten minutes. Rosa takes the grey-mapped pebble of soap and begins to wash, scrubbing her body vigorously and thoroughly, and she is distracted, her mind drops its guard, and immediately there it is:
Meine liebe Rosa,
Forgive me but I cannot write at length. We are being relocated tomorrow. I shall not be able to write again for a long time, and neither will you be able to write to us. Now we must say a very painful goodbye. We will love you always and are so proud of you, we will be with you always. You are in our thoughts, never forget us, please be strong, my darling.
All my love and prayers,
Mama
Ah, separation, in a way, is a simple thing, first there were five, then one was taken away, and then there were four, and the other one was elsewhere, that’s all there is to it, a matter of mathematics, Rosa cannot seem to rouse any other emotion – apart from anger, for they sent her away when she wished to suffer with them, she did not wish to go, she did not ask to be the one to be saved, and now they will be unable to write for a long time, they declare their eternal love but she no longer feels as if she knows them even, and when they get back in touch they will barely recognise each other, she knows it, why should she be condemned to safety? Ah, her parents, so perfect in their absence, they sent her away to protect her, she understands that; they are saints, beyond reproach, virtuous and pure, unassailably untainted, especially when compared to her own stained and sinful life, blemished as it is with inadequacy, soiled with dirt and guilt.
No, don’t think of it, don’t think of it, there have been a few newspaper reports about Europe’s Jews but this is wartime and such things are often distorted, and Mama sounded confident, she said she would not be able to write for a long time, and that implies that eventually she will write once again. The letter was painfully brief; she did not have time to write, well that might be true, but a little detail would have helped, it would not have taken long to suggest where they were going, and how long is long, and whether they are together still, and what is happening to the apartment, and when Rosa can expect to be contacted again. Don’t think of it, tonight we shall need hot water bottles all round, and Mr Everard’s dressing will need changing, Mrs Hopkins will need to be fed some whites of egg before she goes to sleep.
So Mama wants her to be strong, and she is strong now, she works hard and sleeps little and leaves no time for self-pity; she drives herself on. If only she had been stronger before – that night in the kitchen in Berlin she should have said no, Mama, I do not wish to go, I will stay with my family even if that means suffering, at least we shall suffer together; but she did not say it, she was weak. And she should have said no, Herr Wollheim, I do not wish you to take the baby from me, I have been caring for him ever since we left Berlin, he should not be absorbed into an orphanage or institution. And she should have said no, Samuel, I cannot love someone who has stooped so low as to read my private letters. And she should have said no, Aunt Mimi, I do not wish to undergo this procedure, whatever plan you and Samuel have concocted, I refuse to relinquish my baby; take your doctor and begone. And she shouldn’t have left Samuel a note under his door, she should have been bold, pushed her way in regardless of the early hour, you liar, she should have said, you told me we would marry and have the baby, you told me everything would be all right so long as we stay together, well, how flimsy your words have proved, may this sin be on your head forever. Yes, weakness, but now she is strong, and if she were to see Samuel again, if she were to visit the Kremers back in Norfolk with the intention of confronting them with her new-found strength, what would she say? Five minutes, five minutes more, then she can finally leave this bath and get back to work, and the water is practically at body temperature already and losing its heat fast, but one does not argue with Sister—
There it is: Moaning Minnie’s lament, creeping up to a fever pitch, that solemn whine of the night, warning against hostile aircraft overhead. And now the guns sound, they can be heard in the distance like thunder, that didn’t take long – and there, the giant heartbeat of the bombs, goodness but the enemy is almost at the gates, this new wave of intense raids has taken everyone by surprise, just when they thought the enemy were on their last legs; they may be worn down by years of hard work and meagre rations, but what choice is there but to get on with it? With three minutes yet to go Rosa pulls herself out of the bath, water falling from her body, she seizes a towel, dries hastily, reaches for her uniform; she may not be on duty for another half-hour but she knows she will be needed, the air raid is approaching fast and the wards must be prepared for casualties, the bedclothes must be folded ready to turn back, the dressing-trolleys must be fully loaded and equipped, the hot water bottles must be filled and placed in the beds, and everything must be rather especially to hand; by the sounds of things they do not have long.
She hurries into her bedroom and is reaching into the wardrobe for her apron when, from somewhere in the building, there is an echoing bang, followed by the sound of tinkling glass, and the floor beneath her feet trembles, and a rumble rolls and clanks inside the plumbing before disappearing into the silence. She hears hurried footsteps and stern orders, and somebody is blowing a whistle, and then the electric lights flicker, recover, then fizzle and fuse, and a darkness descends. In the blackness she feels her way to her bed, groping her way until the emergency lights flicker on. Then, adjusting her cap awkwardly, she hurries out of the room – not running, for even in emergencies nurses are forbidden to run – and walks swiftly along the corridor in the direction of the wards.
Her heart is beating hard, and fear is beginning to grip her from within, but this is a familiar feeling, and it makes her even more determined to head towards the heart of the danger. Her senses are heightening, she clenches her teeth, imagines herself to be like an automaton, emotionless, and this enables her to maintain control – she walks, does not run, towards the wards, past anxious First Aid volunteers and patients being pushed in beds, past blown-in doors and windows, round an uncoiled length of firefighting hose, heading in the direction of danger;
something within her is welcoming this peril, for it is in these moments that she feels closest to her parents, finally experiencing a little of what they must be experiencing, and feels united with them, with their suffering. She has left her tin hat in the bedroom, she is wearing only her soft starched cap, if Sister sees her she will be sent back to get it, for it is dangerous to be in the wards during an air raid with nothing but a cap for protection. The fear mounts; Rosa thinks of her parents, hurries on.
When she arrives in the ward the emergency lights are on, sending an inadequate brassy light into the cavernous room, and nurses in tin helmets are hurrying to and fro with candles and lamps, bottles of carbolic solution, injection trays and blankets, and clinking dressing-trolleys. By the looks of things the patients have not yet begun to arrive. In the middle of the ward stands Sister, the strap on her tin hat tight under her chin, perfectly erect and poised, directing operations like a general on the Front. Rosa catches sight of her and is unsure what to do, she does not want to be sent back for her helmet, perhaps she should hide until Sister leaves the ward; then, as she is caught in a state of hesitation, there is a commotion outside. Everyone turns in the direction of the double doors as they burst open and the beam of a blackout torch swings upwards to illuminate a face; Rosa squints and recognises a dishevelled-looking Roger Freebairn, covered in soot, his hair unkempt, a stirrup pump in his hands.
—The roof’s on fire, he calls, incendiaries. It’s nothing to worry about but any assistance would be appreciated to avoid damage to the kitchens.
—I’ll thank you not to trouble my nurses with histrionics, Mr Freebairn, says Sister sharply. Go on and extinguish the fires, you’re doing us all a great disservice down here.
—I do apologise, Sister, says Freebairn, I had thought there were medical men present.
The doors clack and he is gone. Sister waves the nurses back to their duties; Rosa, however, with a growing sensation of being a spectator to her own actions, does an about-turn and hastens towards the door.
—Miss Clark, calls Sister, might I ask where you are going?
—To get my tin helmet, Rosa replies. I’ve left it in my bedroom.
—At the double, says Sister, we’ll be needing you in the Receiving Room shortly. We can’t afford all this shilly-shallying.
Rosa pushes through the double doors; Freebairn can just be seen up ahead.
—Mr Freebairn, she calls, wait a minute.
He stops and turns to face her.
—Rosie? he says. Rosie Clark?
—I’ve come to help you with the fire.
—I … well, are you sure? I mean, it’s something of a man’s job.
—It makes no difference to the fire to be extinguished by a man or a woman.
—Indeed, says Freebairn, if Sister can spare you, who am I to argue? Very well, follow me.
They hurry along the corridors in the half-light, weaving around the porters and patients who seem to materialise from the gloom. Finally Freebairn opens a squat metal door and leads Rosa up a staircase towards the roof; they cover their noses and mouths with handkerchiefs as smoke fills the stairwell.
—It’s just you and me, calls Freebairn over his shoulder, everyone is busy in the wards.
They push their way into the night, steadying themselves against the stone wall round the edge of the roof. Rosa glances over the side: the rooftops of London stretch out for miles, fires are dotted erratically across the city and searchlights fence in the sky above. The freshness of the air is carrying the smoke upwards and it is less stifling up here than it was on the staircase. The roof slants upwards to their left as they skirt its perimeter, climbing behind the hulking hospital clock which stares like a single eye down at the Whitechapel Road. Rosa’s legs feel weak and insubstantial as the wind whips her curls in the direction of the city.
—Here, says Freebairn, that’s the worst of it.
Rosa turns the corner and sees lines of orange flame stretching haphazardly along the west side of the roof, lapping hungrily at the windows of the attic. She feels her heart quiver – suddenly she is back in Berlin, in the Scheunenviertel, peering from the window of a police car as Krützfeld strides towards the baying crowd, silhouetted against the burning synagogue; she shakes her head, remembers her parents and forces herself on. Freebairn clambers into an attic window and begins to pass her buckets of water and stirrup pumps.
—Do you know how to do this? he shouts above the noise of the fire, the wind.
—Of course, Rosa replies.
She plunges the stirrup pump into a bucket of water and heaves it towards the flames until the heat is almost unbearable. Then she sets it down, opens the valve and begins to pump, shielding her face, sending crystalline arcs of water into the flames. Now she is on top of the Rykestraße synagogue, pumping jets of water at the great stone star of David, fighting back the flames from the synagogue roof, she looks down to the street below, it is seething with a mob, she looks away, shields her face, pumps more water, her ears filled with chants of raus, raus, raus, Juden raus; she is bleached a vivid orange by the flames, and the black Berlin night stretches out around her.
Freebairn fetches some more buckets from the attic kitchens, and for several minutes they toil against the fire, smoke billowing around their heads, their eyes blurred and stinging from the smoke; at first the fire resists but then it begins to die; finally the flames vanish from the charred and sodden tiles of the roof, and it is over.
—Well done, says Freebairn, I think we’ve done it. The damage looks quite superficial. Jolly good show.
—I must return to the wards, says Rosa, somewhat dazed.
Freebairn smiles.
—You must be something of a chip off the old block, he says.
—What do you mean? says Rosa.
—Your parents are in the Dutch resistance, are they not?
—Ah, says Rosa, of course.
She turns, steadies herself against the perimeter wall and, leaving Freebairn with the stirrup pumps, makes her way around the roof and down the spiral staircase, disappointed at the ease with which the fires were extinguished.
4
—Miss Clark, says Sister, thank you for deigning to join us.
—I came as soon as I could, says Rosa.
—Might I ask the reason for the soot on your face?
—Soot? says Rosa, surprised that Sister can see it in the half-light, even under the shadow of her tin helmet, and even after she has washed.
Sister sighs.
—Report to the Receiving Room if you please, she says.
—Yes, Sister, says Rosa.
—And this time, Probationer Clark, do try to resist the temptation to take on the Germans single-handedly.
—Of course, Sister, says Rosa.
—Carry on.
Rosa makes her way to the Receiving Room, tightening the strap on her tin helmet, sliding her hand across its dome. The casualties have started to arrive, prostrate on green wire stretchers, slung between dustcovered volunteers, carried cold and jolting into hospital. A row of them has already formed along the wall; women from the Voluntary Aid Detachment move among them, stooping to administer bandages and splints, blankets and hot water bottles. Junior Pros distribute cigarettes and cups of tea. Rosa scans the room for the staff nurse in charge – there, Cecily Harrison, she is standing at the end of the room directing the Red Cross nurses. Rosa picks her way over.
—Nurse Harrison? she says.
—Yes? says Cecily, turning towards her with an authoritative air.
—I’ve been sent from the Gloucester Ward to collect patients ready for transfer, says Rosa.
—And not before time. Is there only one of you?
—I’m afraid so.
—Well, when you get back tell your Sister to send us some more, says Cecily, there’ll be carnage here before long.
She takes in the room with a sweep of her eyes.
—That patient there, she says, she’s been lying there far too
long. Get her installed and come back for the next.
Rosa makes her way over to the row of casualties and regards the patient who has been placed in her charge. A girl of not more than fifteen, with a pallid complexion, lies on her back, eyes closed, not moving; her hands are knotted in double fists by her sides and her hair lies in ropes on the stretcher, weaving amongst the wire frame like raffia. Her neck has been bandaged heavily, making her head look rather disembodied, and the bandages are stained a blackish scarlet. A sour smell fills Rosa’s nostrils as she stoops over the patient. She looks down; the girl’s skirt is darkened, sodden and foul. Rosa feels suddenly nauseous and looks away for a moment, then looks back. The patient has not moved, even her eyelashes no longer have the tiny vibrations of life. Rosa kneels beside her and presses two fingers onto the cool skin on the inside of her wrist; then she takes them away again, leaving a waxy indentation in the flesh, and places the fist carefully back in its place. She gets to her feet, reeling slightly.
—Probationer Clark, comes a voice from across the room, enough mucking about if you please. We’re in for a busy night.
Rosa shudders and walks discreetly over to Cecily, who is surveying the ward with a critical eye.
—I’m afraid the patient is deceased, says Rosa. By the looks of things she has been for some time.
Cecily looks from Rosa to the dead girl and back again. Then she sighs.
The English German Girl Page 32