The English German Girl

by Jake Wallis Simons

  —Bloody good start, she says. Look after the next patient along, nurse. And for heaven’s sake cover her up with a sheet or something, it’s just not dignified.

  Rosa nods and looks around for a hospital sheet; there is not one to be seen, they are usually kept not in the Receiving Room but in the wards. Making a decision, she unties her apron and slips it over her head. Then, slowly, from the feet upwards, as if tucking the girl into bed, she slides the apron up over her body. The apron reaches the girl’s neck, then moves over her chin, and now her mouth is obscured, and her nose, and now her eyes are gone, then her forehead and hair, and finally the apron lies undulating in peaks and hollows on the stretcher, the straps trailing onto the floor, and nothing can be seen of the girl but her feet, her hair, her knotted fists.

  Rosa stands back as two Red Cross woman bustle past her to collect the stretcher; she closes her eyes for a moment, steadying herself, pushing her way through a growing nausea like a skiff cutting a course through a storm. Then, forcing herself to press on before she loses her momentum, she turns her attention to the next casualty in the line. This patient, a man this time, is clearly alive, breathing in great hungry gulps, and appears to be semi-conscious. His head is covered with a swathe of bandages through which a claret oval is spreading; an old shell-dressing has been applied to his face, bandaged round his head as if he has a toothache; his left arm is in a splint and bandaged from fingers to shoulder; the part of his face that is not covered by bandages is streaked and blackened with soot, and his lips are cracked and grey. Rosa searches for some notes but cannot find any, she asks the man his name but he mumbles something unintelligible. She finds a porter in the corridor and instructs him to assist her, they lift the wire stretcher, the patient groans. Rosa leads the way back to the Gloucester Ward where they transfer him into a bed, blackening instantly the sheets.

  —Your name, what is your name? says Rosa, out of breath.

  Again she cannot understand the reply. First things first, she thinks, that head dressing requires attention. She hauls the dressing-trolley over and draws the curtain round the bed, then finds an oil lamp and places it on the windowsill, illuminating the patient’s bandage-swollen head. Streaks of light and shadow thread along the wrinkles of the bandage, and the scarlet oval is spreading visibly. The man is moaning, a thirsty noise that sounds like an expression of mild disappointment, and with his good arm he is clutching his side. Rosa puts on some sterile gloves and begins to cut the bandages away; there is the unpleasant crunch of scissor against fabric, and then the bandages fall open like a case, red and black on the inside, revealing patches of scarlet-stained gauze sticking to the wounds on the man’s forehead and cheek. Patches of his hair have been blown away, revealing raw skin glinting in the light of the oil lamp, the colour of uncooked bacon. The man groans his groan of disappointment, and Rosa begins to clean his face, using a swab to wipe the soot away from his nose and cheeks, away from the areas of broken skin; then she peels away both gauzes, dropping the sodden material into a kidney dish, and cleans closer to the wounds. Part of the gauze has adhered to the skin; the man yelps as she pulls it away. He is groaning louder now, and jerking his head, Rosa tries to soothe him with calming words but it seems to make little difference; she turns away, searches on the dressing-trolley for the barbiturates, but none can be seen; she clicks her tongue in frustration, it is elementary practice to reset the dressing-trolleys in advance of an air raid, and this patient is clearly in desperate need. In the distance the guns continue their thumping into the sky, and a bang closer at hand rattles the windows and dressing-trolleys; everyone in the ward ducks instinctively, then carries on.

  It is when Rosa turns back to the patient, and sees him from more of a distance, that it happens. His scorched eyelids open, revealing bloodshot eyes, and suddenly there is something familiar about him. His cheekbones are high and defined, his hair black and thick, his features confident, bold. With a gasp of recognition Rosa raises her hands to her mouth, and at that moment the patient begins to gurgle, his eyes open wide as if seeing an apparition, his lips draw back from his teeth.

  —Rosa, he murmurs, Rosa?

  She backs away from the bed and stumbles, and as she rights herself her hand automatically grips Samuel’s leg. He sucks air through his teeth and winces; he tries to sit up but he is unable to raise himself from the bed.

  —Rosa, he croaks, is that you? Is that you? Am I mad? Am I dead? Are you really there?

  —Just lie back and close your eyes, says Rosa, grasping unconvincingly for her nurse’s authority.

  —It is you, says Samuel, it is you. Rosa, speak to me. Tell me it’s you, tell me. Tell me you remember.

  —You’re delirious, says Rosa desperately, just lie back—

  —I’m not delirious, I can see you. Are you not real?

  —Lie back, Mr Kremer, please. Lie back and close your eyes.

  Suddenly Samuel presses his head into the pillow and starts to moan, Rosa, Rosa, you must be real, you must. His words rise and merge into a howl, spittle flicks from his mouth, his arms thrash in the air, a lotion bowl is upset from the dressing-trolley and smashes on the floor. There is the sound of swift footsteps approaching, and suddenly the curtain is swept away from around the bed; there stands Sister, the dim light glinting on the rim of her tin helmet.

  —Now that’s quite enough, she says, show a little fortitude, for goodness’ sake, or we shall waste no time putting you in a straitjacket.

  Samuel stops for a moment and then resumes at a lower volume, wailing Rosa, Rosa, Rosa. Sister turns, her eyes flashing.

  —Probationer Clark, she says, why have you told this patient your Christian name?

  —I did not, stammers Rosa, he is an acquaintance. And he is delirious.

  —Heavens above, where on earth is your apron?

  Before Rosa can reply Samuel begins to moan, a wordless atavistic moan, and he suddenly goes very limp, panting hard and gazing in the direction of the darkened ceiling.

  —Watch him, says Sister, I shall get some morphia if the cabinet is still intact.

  She pushes through the curtains and there is the noise of her opening the lock on the cabinet; Rosa slips back into the shadows and watches Samuel wide-eyed. Finally Sister appears again. Without a word she administers the morphia with a syringe, impregnating the patient with a maximum dose; he sighs as it enters his bloodstream, twitches a little, closes his eyes.

  Sister places the syringe on an injection tray. Then, in case of further outburst, she passes a blanket sideways across Samuel’s bed, tucks it in and secures it tightly to the mattress using six-inch safety pins. Finally she straightens her back and tidies her apron.

  —Well, she says, what do you have to say for yourself?

  —I’m very sorry, Sister, says Rosa.

  —Very well. Now get your apron on and clear up this blasted carnage. In all my years, I’ve never known a probationer to appear apronless in the wards. And for heaven’s sake put the patient on a drip, he’s badly burned. Where are his notes?

  —I couldn’t find them, Sister.

  There is another bang outside followed by the tinkle of bottles on dressing-trolleys and the clatter of chart-boards being blown off the bed rails; everyone ducks apart from Sister, who does not flinch. Samuel is lying motionless, sweeping stains of blood smudged across the pillows, the sheets, the bedclothes; his eyes are closed tightly and his breathing is deep and laboured. Sister reaches into his shirt and withdraws a stained sheaf of notes.

  —Look at the appalling state of these, she says, goodness gracious. Now let me see … yes, burn wounds mainly. He’ll need a Bunyan bag on that arm, I should think, and clean dressings of course. Whoever put these bandages on has done a frightful job. Carry on, Probationer Clark.

  —But Sister, says Rosa, I would rather be assigned elsewhere.

  —You’ll be assigned where I tell you, says Sister. For now you’ll dress this man’s wounds and then report back to the Receiving R
oom. Casualties are arriving thick and fast, you know.

  With that Sister ghosts into the gloom, leaving Rosa alone again with the patient. She looks away, counts to ten, then turns slowly back to face Samuel, who is lying like a pharaoh in the golden half-light. Her heart is pounding, she breathes deeply to regain control, trying to remind herself that she is a nurse, in a ward, with a patient. But this is not an anonymous casualty, this is Samuel in front of her, prostrate and injured and brimming with morphia, what cruel turn of fate is this? For a brief, crazy moment she considers not treating him, leaving him to rot, for now he is at her mercy. But then she pulls herself together: he is a man, just a person, a patient like any other, with skin and muscles and lacerations and burns, treating his wounds is a scientific process, nothing more, she has dealt with wounds like these a hundred times before. She picks up the surgical scissors and starts to cut the bandages away from his arm, struggling to keep her hand steady and suppressing an impulse to weep.

  21 February 1944, London

  1

  Samuel Kremer opens his eyes to a melancholy light and doesn’t know where he is. He feels groggy; his head is in pain, heavy and swollen like a mushroom. He winces and tries to raise himself on his elbows, but only one of his arms will move, he finds himself thrusting backwards into a pillow, oh, I am in bed, this is not my bed, and that is not my ceiling, and why do I find it so difficult to move? He turns his head gingerly from one side to the other: his left arm is enclosed in a sort of cloudy plastic bag, and his right is hosting a long grey tube. Rows of steel-framed beds stretch out endlessly left and right, full of people, some of whom are moaning.

  He closes his eyes and tries to think, piecing together fragments of memory: frantically working a stirrup pump, a burning roof somewhere in the East End, a tin hat with ARP printed across it, several sizes too big, he remembers having to keep pushing it back on his head; someone saying something about not being willing to risk his neck this time round, not with victory on the way.

  Two girls dressed in uniforms walk briskly by, their lavender smocks and white aprons flapping in gentle triangles; both are carrying boxes of medicine bottles which clink together as they walk. They pass Samuel’s feet, which are sticking out at the end of his bedclothes; he tries to call out but his voice remains stubbornly silent. It occurs to him that his bed is a carnival float and the girls are cheering him as he passes, throwing handfuls of flowers in the air. They disappear through the double doors, leaving him confused and alone and in pain. He lets his weighty head fall back, his headache is getting more intense by the moment, he closes his eyes, then opens them. The ceiling is lit by a dim light that soaks into the room from the soot-smeared windows, he can’t tell if it is morning or evening. After a brief struggle he manages to withdraw his right hand and feel around his forehead: rough material, bandages, all round his head and under his chin as well. He looks at his left hand again – it is floating in a cloudy plastic tube, which on closer inspection appears to be full of liquid. Fine, he thinks, this is just fine, fine. His head is burning with a white heat, it is almost unbearable, and nobody seems to have noticed him, he is being left to rot. On the bedside cabinet his trousers are folded, he wonders who removed them; painfully he stretches over and rummages in the pockets until he finds his bottle of barbiturates; he swallows a dose and lies back to await the medication’s sluggish embrace.

  The doors to the ward swing open again and a rosy-faced girl appears, carrying an injection tray. She approaches his bed, places the tray on the dressing-trolley and draws the curtain round him.

  —I’m Probationer Robinson, she says cheerily. How are you feeling this morning, Mr Kremer?

  —Where am I? croaks Samuel, finally managing to force out a sound.

  —The London.

  —I know that, but where?

  —The London Hospital, Mr Kremer. Gloucester Ward. Whitechapel, she says helpfully, as if to a child. You were brought in last night, during the air raid.

  —What time is it? What’s wrong with me?

  —It is eight o’clock in the morning. You’re suffering from some nasty burns and a wound to the head, shrapnel from a rocket gun shell. I’m told that your tin hat was split in the middle, imagine that!

  —Those blasted rocket guns. What’s this tube doing?

  —That’s a Bunyan bag, Mr Kremer. It contains Milton solution. For the burn, you understand, to stop it burning. You understand?

  —Quite so.

  —Your head must be a little sore, I imagine?

  Samuel nods and groans. The nurse removes his chart-board from the bed rails and glances over it.

  —Everything hurts, says Samuel, though I shouldn’t grumble. And my feet are cold, frightful chilblains. I’ve taken a sleeping pill.

  With efficient movements the nurse covers his feet with the blankets, then busies herself around his bed. She has a motherly manner and Samuel feels comforted. He thinks for a moment.

  —I can’t remember a damn thing, he says, groggily.

  The nurse angles a syringe towards the ceiling and spurts liquid into the air.

  —Here we are, Mr Kremer, she says, a little something to take the edge off.

  Samuel turns his head to avoid sight of the needle and catches sight of a nurse walking briskly along the length of the ward, pushing a dressing-trolley. Something about her is familiar; he half-remembers something, a dream perhaps. He peers closer: curly hair bobs from under her starched white cap, her eyes look as if they have been designed to smile, but for a long time have been filled with other more sober expressions. She is very thin, everyone is thin these days but she is thinner than most; her apron is drawn tightly round her narrow waist, and she plucks at the shoulder of her smock as she walks. As she approaches Samuel’s bed she turns her face away, and something in an inaccessible part of his mind awakens. He struggles to raise himself on his elbow, calls out, but then the vision is gone.

  —Probationer Robinson, he says, who was that? The one pushing the trolley?

  —Who? Oh, you mean Probationer Clark.

  —Probationer Clark. Ah, I must be seeing things, I could have sworn it was Rosa Klein. It must be the medication, I’m seeing her everywhere.

  Betty Robinson looks at him in surprise.

  —Did you say Rosie Klein? she says.

  —Indeed, says Samuel.

  —Well now, there’s a coincidence, says the nurse. How ever do you know her Dutch name?

  Samuel tries to reply but the nurse’s voice is beginning to fade into the distance as the barbiturates and the morphia take effect. For a moment he struggles against the tide. He is light-headed, his eyelids are leaden, the world has become soft, pliant and shimmering. Things do not seem particularly serious, in fact nothing seems to matter any more, and all he wants to do is to sleep, to fall into a velvety slumber for a very long time.

  —Perhaps she can come and say hello, he mumbles, I’d appreciate that. When she has the time, you understand.

  He does not hear Probationer Robinson’s reply; within seconds he has fallen into unconsciousness.

  2

  Samuel awakes with a start. His head is throbbing with a dull pain, pulsing in time with his heartbeat. The smell of antiseptic is strong, the lofty ceiling is lit with a mid-morning sun, and subdued bustle is all around him. He tries to sit up, is restrained by his arm and falls back: Rosa. She is here. He cranes his neck and spies the rosy-faced nurse from earlier, he cannot remember her name.

  —Please, he says, please.

  The nurse comes over, balancing two bedpans on her hip, and scans his chart-board.

  —Mr Kremer? she says.

  —Have you spoken to Rosa yet? asks Samuel. Have you told her that I’m here?

  —You’re referring to Probationer Clark, I presume, the nurse replies primly.

  —Yes, that’s right, Probationer Clark. I must see her, she is a personal friend.

  Betty leans over with a stony expression and drops her voice to a whisper.r />
  —Probationer Clark has no interest in seeing you, she says.

  —I need to see her.

  —She doesn’t want to see you.

  —Look, nurse, just tell her I need to see her, only for a few minutes. Look at the state of me.

  —She has no time for the likes of you.

  Catching sight of Sister, the nurse straightens herself up and raises her voice to a sing-song.

  —Now, Mr Kremer, you must lie back and rest. You’re due another dose of morphia in half an hour, and then the doctor will be round to see you.

  She glares at him meaningfully and walks away, holding herself erect, collecting another bedpan with a self-satisfied flourish. Samuel thumps the mattress in frustration with his good hand, sending a shock wave through the drip and earning himself a glare from Sister. Soon he will be able to get out of bed; Rosa might be avoiding him, she may hate him, but he will find her, and come hail or high water he will explain. He has been searching for her for years to no avail, and now that fate has delivered her to him, provided the opportunity to put things right, come what may he will clear his name. Reeling from the morphia and the sleeping pills, he says, my dear Rosa, will you forgive me? And he hears Rosa reply, of course I will, darling, I can see now that this has been nothing but a terrible misunderstanding, I love you now more than ever.

  He closes his eyes. The pain is returning and the room begins to spin, he grips the bed with his good hand, tries to force it to be still, then abandons himself to the motion and finds it not altogether unpleasant. He remembers walking with Rosa along the cliffs, the sea a vast semicircle to their right, tough grasses stretching up past their ankles, the sun perfectly still overhead. Everything was perfect, the still summer day, the sea and the grass, the salt filling their hair with a coarse stickiness; the cliffs grew more shallow until they reached a point where they could scramble down to the beach, they lay down in the pebbles listening to the swell of the ocean as the waves swirled about the barbed wire and beach scaffolding, looking up at the camouflaged lighthouse far above. Gulls swooped in and out of view as Rosa rested her head on his shoulder and they lay there in perfect silence, illuminated, almost glowing in the sun, and his fingers were stroking her cheek. Later on that day, at home in the cottage before his parents came back, they engaged in the full sexual act for the first time. Rosa was nervous at first, and so was he, but passion took over, took them to a world in which strictures and laws and parents did not exist, only pure love and the desire to be one. And although they would make love again a few times after that, Samuel feels sure that it was that time, the very first, that Rosa conceived their child.