The English German Girl

by Jake Wallis Simons

  —I’ve spent two years hating you, Samuel.

  —I’ve spent two years loving you.

  From along the platform there is another, more irritated shush. For the first time Rosa looks into Samuel’s face, trying to read his emotions. Despite his bandages she sees instantly that the old tenderness has not died; it is still there, more intense perhaps now than it used to be, although covered with layers of suffering. Conflicting emotions rise within her, creeping from her stomach through her chest into her throat; she chokes and turns away again.

  Samuel gets to his feet and picks his way along the platform, Rosa hears him go but does not move. The letter from Heinrich, which by now she knows by heart, slips uninvited into her mind: if one day he were to come begging to you on bleeding knees, never, ever forgive him. For years her family has been telling her to be strong – such a simple concept in the material world, but as a measure of the emotions how elusive! For so long she has resisted the tide of emotion, refusing to succumb to her weaknesses and fears, standing firm, doing her duty, carrying on; she has developed an impenetrable, armour-like shell that has frozen the world out, enabled her to withstand its pressures. Could it be that her hardness is not a sign of strength after all, but just another manifestation of weakness? Might the course of true strength be to lower her guard, to face the risks, to accept them? To accept him?

  On the edge of the platform Samuel stands looking up at the curved ceiling of the tunnel, rubbing his bandaged head as if to alleviate his headache, absently reading the posters advertising Guinness and Austin Reed. The war has brought endless confusion, and in the chaos, two years and four months ago, in a melting pot of selfishness, and duty, and fear, and love, another life dropped from the world. In times like these, does it matter? When millions are dying, does it matter? As the bombs continue to burst overhead, and the man with the cloth cap continues to snore across his bicycle, Samuel finds a feeling of peace settling inside him, as if his life makes a certain kind of sense now that he has finally put his case to Rosa. From this moment on he will be happy, somehow, to be alone. If she rejects him, if he never sees her again, if he ends up abandoned and lonely with not even his parents to turn to, he knows now that he will survive. He has followed Rosa through to the end, he has trusted his instincts and risked his life for her, and he has won the chance to tell her the truth of what happened two years ago in Norfolk; now their future is in her hands, and he is at peace with his conscience. How indifferent London can be, England can be, the planet can be, he thinks. Yet he can feel some of that indifference, finally, falling away from him, and as he turns round and makes his way back towards Rosa’s slumbering form, he feels a new strength beginning to grow.

  Rosa, hearing him approach, rolls achingly onto her back and opens her eyes.

  —You’re awake, says Samuel softly.

  —Yes.

  There is a pause.

  —Have you heard from your parents since I last saw you? he says.

  —They wrote to me saying that they would be unable to write for a long time, says Rosa.

  —I see, says Samuel quietly.

  Despite herself, Rosa finds that she is desperate to speak. She has not had the opportunity to talk to anyone about her family since she left Norfolk, and even after all this time there is nobody in existence who can understand her as deeply as Samuel.

  —Sometimes I think I have forgotten them, she says, but then the memories come back with such strength that I expect them to walk through the door. Often I see reflections of them in the windows, but then I look and they have gone. I should be with them, not here. I should be suffering the same as them. I don’t know even why I am alive. I am cursed with life.

  —They know you are safe, and that must give them strength, says Samuel.

  —I hope so, says Rosa, at least then I would have some use.

  —They must be proud of your career as well.

  —I am not qualified yet, but yes, they are proud. Especially Papa.

  —So he should be. I think you might be doing more for them than you realise.

  Rosa looks at Samuel and suddenly she feels alive, as if her shell has been dissolved and the breeze is touching her skin for the first time. The man in the cloth cap lets out a snore so loud that it produces murmurs of sleepy protest all around. Rosa cannot help but smile – Samuel notices her expression and feels a weight lifting.

  —Come on, he says, we’ll never get any sleep here.

  —I’m too weak, says Rosa, I cannot even stand.

  —Don’t worry, says Samuel, I’ll help.

  Grabbing the sleeves of her greatcoat in cold-numbed fingers, he hauls her upright and supports her weight.

  —Come on, he says, don’t worry, I’ve got you.

  He draws Rosa to him – she smells of antiseptic so strongly it is as if that is her natural scent – and they begin to shuffle in and out of groups of blanket-covered bodies, round suitcases and gas mask boxes, along the platform towards the exit. They make their slow way towards the stationary escalators, two dishevelled silhouettes without rhythm or coordination, stepping on each other’s feet, their knees colliding again and again, a lumbering couple in the darkness. Now they are not smiling or laughing, not even looking at each other; Samuel is glancing around for a gap in the hundreds of slumbering bodies, and Rosa’s eyes are closed, as if asleep, or about to faint, moving in time to the sporadic rhythm of his steps, allowing him to carry her in vague figure-of-eights around the station, supporting her on his bandaged arm as her greatcoat flaps gently against her ankles. She opens her eyes.

  —Are we dancing? she whispers.

  —Well, I’ve got two left feet, says Samuel, and there isn’t any music. Hold on, there’s a space just down there. This way.

  He shuffles towards the escalator, aiming for a vacant lower step. All around them, throughout the tunnels and the escalators, people sleep, snore, scratch, like so many tramps. As they wind their way through legs and bags and slumbering faces, Rosa promises herself that from now on, during the air raids, she will start to use the shelters; for now she has feared enough.

  They reach the escalator and sit down, exhausted, amongst the feet of the people on the steps above. A canvas bag lies on the end of the step, Samuel reaches over to arrange it as a pillow for Rosa, she senses him moving towards her and raises her body to meet him; Samuel’s trembling fingers cup her face, and Rosa’s hand slips across the shoulders of his greatcoat. Their feelings are familiar yet different, more meaningful, grounded by suffering and at the same time more genuine for it. Rosa lowers her head onto Samuel’s chest, she can feel him shivering beneath her forehead; she feels renewed, as if, in all the dark that surrounds them, she is emerging into the brightness; and she is filled with an absolute certainty.

  —We can try again, says Samuel softly, I would like to try again.

  —It’s been a long time, says Rosa, we are different now.

  —Yes, says Samuel, but nothing has changed. I still love you.

  Rosa lifts her head, tears blurring her eyes, and attempts to reply.

  —I’ve lost my family, and I’ve lost my baby, and I lost you, Samuel. I don’t want to lose you again. I don’t want to be alone.

  —Don’t, says Samuel, don’t say it. You don’t need to.

  Rosa raises her mouth, and their lips meet once, lightly, and then again; they kiss, lifting their hands to each other’s faces, tears mingling with soot on their cheeks and slipping between their fingers, cleaning white lines across their skin. As the bombs continue to fall overhead, and the guns pound shells into the sky, and the incendiaries whip vicious fires across the roofs, and twisted pieces of shrapnel tumble onto the city, in the tunnels under London thousands of people sleep; yet Rosa and Samuel lie awake in each other’s arms, awaiting the daybreak.

  8 May 1945, London

  1

  The war in Europe is over. The streets of London are festive, crammed with so many people that, when seen from a vantage point
at the top of a lamp-post, or on the back of a stone lion, or the roof of a bus, the impression is akin to millions of matches stacked side by side from building to building across every street, swarming round corners, coating every statue and vehicle and monument. Here is Nelson’s Column, here the Houses of Parliament, here Buckingham Palace, here the Mall, and everywhere a jubilant mass of celebrating people forming bristling dunes around them. A constant fluttering motion sparkles on the surface of the crowd, everybody is waving something, flags, hats, handkerchiefs, hands. People are dancing in the fountains. The excitement is electric, more than electric, more visceral, more jubilant, triumphant, a celebration of human emotion that wells from millions of hearts in ecstatic quantities and manifests in movement, in laughter, in kissing, dancing and, above all, in sound. The noise is tremendous. The cheering is constant. Whistling, piping, singing, chanting, church bells pealing, laughing, laughing, laughing. Yet nowhere can there be seen a single glass of alcohol; the crowds are intoxicated by nothing other than the pure taste of freedom.

  Rosa is sitting on the top of a lion, her hand raised above her head, holding a Union flag which slips and flutters in the breeze. She speaks over her shoulder to her fiancé:

  —Is it three o’clock yet?

  —Not yet, he replies, two more minutes.

  And he cups his hand round her cheek and kisses her full on the mouth, an action which in any other circumstances would have invited disapproval, but today, for one day only, has become commonplace.

  —I am so glad, he shouts above the noise of the crowd, I love you more than anything in the world. No more air raids, no more blackouts. Life begins again! Isn’t it wonderful?

  Rosa smiles but doesn’t reply, and goes back to fluttering her flag; she knows she cannot leave, not yet, not until Mr Churchill’s address, although she is desperate to get back to Whitechapel as soon as she can. Not that this isn’t an excellent party and an excellent day, she feels it too, profoundly, and doesn’t want to miss it; but she cannot deny that a part of her lies many miles away, across the sea, in Germany, and today that part of her is crying out louder than it ever has before, demanding that she act immediately.

  Finally Big Ben chimes, and a hush falls upon the crowd; the clusters of loudspeakers nestling high on lamp-posts crackle, and all at once Mr Churchill’s pugnacious voice bellows rousingly into the air: this is your victory! It is the victory of the cause of freedom in every land. In all our long history we have never seen a greater day than this, God bless you all. And then For he’s a jolly good fellow, and Land of hope and glory, conducted by Mr Churchill himself, and more cheering, dancing, celebrating.

  When the speech and songs and applause have ended, Rosa turns once again to her fiancé.

  —I’m sorry, darling, I need to go home now, she says.

  —Go home? Samuel replies. What ever for? The party has only just started.

  —I know, she says, you stay and have a party to remember. But now the war has ended, there’s something I need to do.

  She slides over the black flank of the lion and slips down to the ground, showing him a reassuring smile. He appears concerned as he acknowledges her farewells with a half-smile of his own; now his is the sole face in the sea not to wear an expression of delight.

  Yet going home is not as easy as Rosa had hoped. The crowds, in anticipation of Mr Churchill’s procession along the Mall, are locked together as tightly as cement, and she is unable to push her way through until the Austin Cambridge finally appears, preceded by ceremonial guards on cantering horses; Churchill passes like Moses through the ocean, raising his hat and showing his scowl-smile to the cheering throng; and then the crowd-waters close behind him, hundreds of people run in his wake, waving their hats, chasing like children amid shouts of excitement and praise. Rosa makes her way to Piccadilly station, and from there home to the London.

  The silence is magnified as she closes the door behind her and all sounds are muffled in the familiar quietude of Cavell House. The building is strangely deserted, she has never known it so quiet before; she is briefly struck by the impression that she has entered not her home but a museum. In an attempt to steady herself, rather than going straight upstairs she first makes her way to the kitchen to make herself a cup of tea – the home maids are all off duty, along with everybody else, for the celebrations. Then she makes her way upstairs to her cramped study-bedroom, sets the tea down on the writing desk, hangs her coat in her wardrobe then takes out a pen and paper, glad that everybody is out, as she needs to be alone – not only alone but also feeling alone – to write.

  8. May 1945

  Liebe Mama, lieber Papa, Heinrich and Hedi,

  I don’t know how to begin this letter. After six dark years there is at last hope that we shall be together once again. I can’t tell you how I have longed for the war to end, and now that day has truly arrived and all I can think about is your welfare, and when we shall be reunited. I have so much to tell you, I don’t know where to start. I am engaged to be married now, to a wonderful man by the name of Samuel Kremer (yes, the son of Gerald and Mimi), and I cannot wait to introduce him to you all. And I am less than a year away from qualifying as a nurse, a proper nurse, at the London Hospital, Papa will be so proud when he hears of it!

  Please write soon and reassure me of your well-being. I have been worried out of my mind for years on end, and the only thing that has kept me going from one day to the next is the thought that one day we will be a family again. How wonderful it is that the day will be soon!

  Mit lieben Grüßen,

  Rosa

  Surprised at the ease with which she has managed to write in German after all this time, she seals the envelope and addresses it to their apartment in Prenzlauer Berg. She knows that the chances of the letter finding its way to her parents are slim; but this is a day on which miracles have been allowed to occur, and despite the odds her heart is full of hope. Leaving her tea forgotten on the writing desk, she hurries downstairs and out into the street as if the slightest delay would cause the war to start again, her parents to be trapped and this precious opportunity to disappear as quickly as it arose.

  It is not far to the letterbox on the Whitechapel Road; she allows the envelope to hang from her fingers inside the scarlet walls. The city, free from the shackles of blackout, is dusted with countless lights. A prayer comes into her mind, her prayer, please God, protect my family and reunite us soon. She releases the letter, and it tumbles down into the shadows. For a few moments she stands on the pavement before walking back to Cavell House, knowing that a new period of waiting has begun.

  As she is fumbling with her keys outside the front door, there is the sound of somebody approaching. She turns to see Samuel emerging from the darkness, walking along the path towards her, his black hair ruffled and his shirt-tails untucked, dangling his hat by the brim, still exuberant from the party.

  —Rosa, he says, it’s you.

  —What are you doing here? she replies, kissing him.

  —I came to join you, says Samuel, to check that everything’s all right.

  —You should have stayed with everyone else. A war doesn’t end every day, you know.

  —The festivities will be going on all night and well into tomorrow, I shouldn’t wonder, says Samuel. Can you believe it’s over? It’s finally over. We’re living in the future.

  Rosa opens the front door and steps into the hall.

  —Why don’t you come in? she says. At least we know that for once nobody is around and you won’t need to sneak about like a burglar.

  He follows her inside and attempts to toss his hat onto the banister, but it bounces off and falls to the ground; he swipes it up and perches it there, leaving it hanging like a scalp, a symbol of their temporary ownership of the house.

  —Why did you run off? says Samuel. I followed you as soon as I could but the crowds were intolerable.

  —Would you like a cup of tea? says Rosa.

  —Yes please, says Samuel, I’m p
arched.

  —I’ve been here, says Rosa, walking into the kitchen, writing to my family.

  She puts the kettle on to boil and turns to Samuel, her face glowing with an unusual excitement.

  —I can’t wait for you to meet them, she says. You’ll have to learn German, or they’ll have to brush up on their English, or a bit of both. Hedi will be fourteen now, can you believe it? Fourteen. And Heinrich will be twenty-five. You’ll love Papa, I’m sure of it.

  The kettle whistles, and Rosa pours the water steaming into the teapot.

  —Our first post-war cup of tea, says Samuel. I’m going to enjoy this.

  —We could probably drink it in the sitting room, don’t you think, says Rosa, now that the place is deserted? I’ve always wondered what it would be like to take tea with you in the sitting room. Perhaps we can play the piano. I don’t think it’s ever been used.

  —I’m not sure, says Samuel. What if someone were to arrive unexpectedly? Let’s go up to your room.

  As they climb the stairs, Rosa removes Samuel’s hat from the banister and takes it with them. They enter her bedroom, and she goes to shut the blackout curtains.

  —You needn’t do that, says Samuel, the war’s over, remember?

  —Ah, says Rosa, it’s just such a habit. It feels criminal to let the lights blaze out like this.

  She leaves the curtains open and sits beside him on the bed. He looks out of the window for inspiration, trying to find a way of phrasing what he wants to express; the hospital building hulks against the night sky, its windows alight like rectangular stars.

  —We’ll arrange for my family to come to London, says Rosa, we’ll find them a little house somewhere nearby, and Mama will help look after our children, when we have them.

  Samuel takes a breath.

  —I’m certain that you will be reunited with your family, and very soon at that, he replies, but your parents have no known location. We must accept that there is a remote possibility …