The English German Girl

by Jake Wallis Simons

  His voice trails off and Rosa takes a sip of tea.

  —Oh God, Samuel continues. What I’m trying to say is that I just can’t help but feel that we should focus our thoughts on discovering their whereabouts rather than thinking about what we’ll do when they get here. We don’t want to build up a potential disappointment. I’m sorry, Rosa, this is sounding appalling even to me. I am sure they are alive, and I’m certain you will be together soon. I don’t mean to dampen your spirits, I’m sorry.

  —I don’t know what you’re saying, says Rosa.

  —Indeed, says Samuel, getting to his feet and walking to the window, you’re right. I’m sorry, let’s talk about something else. Just look out there, no barrage balloons, no searchlights, just God’s clear sky. After five and a half long years, amazing.

  There is a pause while Rosa refills Samuel’s cup from the teapot.

  —Does it upset you when I speak about my parents? she says suddenly.

  Samuel’s profile is outlined against the glowing tapestry of the window.

  —Upset me? he says. Why should it?

  —Because I’m so keen to see them, and the end is in sight.

  —So?

  —In light of the situation with your own parents.

  Samuel gives a barely perceptible flinch and turns back to the twinkling lights of London.

  —That’s completely different, he says. I’ve never missed Mother and Father, and I never shall. Not after what they did. I’ll never miss them.

  —They’re still your parents.

  —Yes, says Samuel, it’s just … the only thing that troubles me is that they won’t be present at our wedding. I know it’s foolish, but I can’t help it. One’s parents are supposed to be there, aren’t they?

  —I’m sorry.

  —Don’t be, says Samuel stoically, I don’t even want to talk about them.

  Rosa goes to join him at the window, and they embrace, two silhouettes joining in the dazzling light.

  2

  In the months following the end of the war, Samuel finds a good use for his savings. If he’s to get married to Rosa, and they are going to start a family together, he’ll need to start earning some money. So he decides to take a step into the unknown, to shoulder the burden of risk, and put into action an idea for a business that had occurred to him when he looked into buying a motorcar several months ago. At the time he was regularly travelling by bus from his digs in Hendon to Whitechapel, to see Rosa; the buses and underground trains were reasonable, but he couldn’t help but feel that the journey would be easier by motorcar, and it would enable him to take Rosa on day-trips as well. But when he looked into the purchase he found that there was an eighteen-month waiting list for new models and gave up on the idea; the next day, from the window of a bus, he noticed a derelict bomb site on the Finchley Road, and an idea started to form in his mind. Upon investigation he discovered that the plot of land was available for lease; he made other enquiries at various places, and put up advertisements, and in the January of 1946 he opened Kremer’s Motors, a second-hand dealership selling Rileys, Austins, Morrises and MGs, all of which were popular vehicles, all of which he fixed up himself, and all of which attracted significant interest. He and Rosa met weekly, on Thursday evenings when she was off duty; she was surprised to learn of his new direction and somewhat bewildered when he arrived one week wearing a natty suit and driving a bright red 1935 Riley Kestrel Saloon, which he was going to sell the following day.

  From the start business goes well for Samuel; demand is high, competition scarce. And Thursdays come, and Thursdays go, and he promises Rosa that he will buy a house as soon as they are married, a perfect house. As winter draws to a close and spring approaches, and he sells his twentieth motorcar, he feels that a celebration is in order. That Thursday he borrows a particularly special vehicle, a two-seater Midget from 1936, with elegant lines, a jet-black body and scarlet grille, and drives east across London to see Rosa; he is caught in a traffic jam on Aldgate on a scale unseen since before the war, a bottleneck has formed on account of the haycarts, he cleans the grease off his hands, unfolds a newspaper, takes a cursory glance then folds it up again, placing it in the pocket of his greatcoat and adjusting his hat. I miss the war, in a funny sort of way, he thinks, back then things were simpler, the papers reported victories, defeats, advances, retreats, numbers of wounded and killed, momentous events that were either good or bad, and we all had a purpose to life; these days things are more complicated.

  He is tired, and would usually be looking forward to nothing more than supper, a spot of wireless and bed; but as the traffic clears and he guides the Midget nearer to Whitechapel, attracting looks of admiration from passers-by, Samuel is in high spirits, for in the breast pocket of his jacket lies a Manila envelope containing his surprise. Last week, a customer by the name of Tony Simons, while purchasing an old 1933 Morris Ten-Four, had mentioned in passing that he and his wife Ruth, for their honeymoon, had spent a wonderful weekend in Jersey, where there is no longer any rationing; and they had eaten butter and cream and steak to their hearts’ content, and played skittles on the beach, and had a splendid time. So the following day Samuel purchased tickets of his own, made reservations at the Grand Hotel in Jersey and bought himself a set of skittles; now, as he parks the MG, steps onto the pavement, gathers his coat against the late winter cold and walks past the steps of the London, with the tickets in his pocket and a spring in his step, he is so excited to share the news with Rosa that, despite the tiredness, it takes all his willpower to prevent himself from breaking into a schoolboy’s run.

  On the corner of East Mount Street and Stepney Way, outside the dignified façade of the Edith Cavell House, Samuel waits, as usual, for Rosa. He is a little early, half an hour early to be precise, and finds it difficult to contain his exuberance; he looks up at Rosa’s window, begging her to look out, see him and come down, but there is no movement inside; he attempts to distract himself by pacing up and down the frost-covered street, his breath blossoming into clouds above his head, but this only serves to agitate him further. Finally he can simply wait no longer. Without formulating a plan, he walks along the path to the front door of Cavell House and knocks, he doesn’t ring, he knocks, furtively, hoping against hope that a friendly face will open it. As luck would have it, the door is opened by Betty Robinson who gapes at him agog and whispers, what on earth are you doing here? Samuel replies, I’ve simply got to see Rosa, I’ve a surprise for her; Betty gives him a knowing look and whispers, Rosie’s in her room but don’t blame me if you’re caught; then she takes a few steps backwards, glances around surreptitiously and beckons him in. Samuel removes his hat, hurries past her into the antiseptic-smelling hall and dashes up the stairs, praying that he will not bump into the staff nurse, or even house sister, both of whom are confirmed dragons; then he tiptoes along the corridor and taps on Rosa’s door, whispers, Rosa, it’s me, open up, and is surprised when he does not receive a reply. He mustn’t stay outside in the corridor, he’s certain to be seen. Taking the Manila envelope out of his pocket, he tries the handle; it turns; he opens the door and peers round it, then slips into the bedroom. At first he doesn’t see Rosa, she is so still.

  —Rosa, he says softly, are you all right?

  The dying winter light is filtering through the net curtains, illuminating a figure sitting straight-backed at her writing desk as if playing the piano, gazing blankly at her reflection in the mirror. Samuel calls her name again, and again she makes no answer; he approaches and puts his hands on her shoulders, and she slowly raises her head to look at his reflection in the glass.

  —Whatever is the matter, he says, are you ill?

  Rosa says nothing but continues to look at Samuel with eyes of indescribable sadness. He notices that she is clutching an envelope; he slides it from her fingers and holds it up to the light.

  The envelope is addressed to Otto und Inga Klein, in Rosa’s handwriting, postmarked yet unopened, still sealed. Samuel turns it o
ver, and his heart misses a beat. Written on the back of the envelope, in squat black letters, are the words: Deported Berlin–Auschwitz 12.01.1943.

  Samuel kneels on the floor next to Rosa, he can’t think of anything to say. For a while, he cannot tell how long, she remains motionless as the long rays of sun fall through the window onto the dressing table, and the melody of a conversation can be heard outside. Then she speaks:

  —It doesn’t mean anything. It’s not conclusive one way or the other. It may be a mistake. They may have gone elsewhere, or they may have escaped. Even if it is true, they would certainly have survived, many have. It doesn’t mean anything.

  —Yes, says Samuel unsteadily, you’re right. Of course you’re right.

  —You would tell me, wouldn’t you, if you thought it meant something?

  —Of course. I agree with you, it’s inconclusive.

  Rosa falls silent and bows her head, weighing the letter in her hands. Then she gets to her feet, takes her painted box from her underwear drawer and places the envelope inside.

  —I think, she says, I shall go back to Germany.

  —Germany?

  —Yes. It’s the only way.

  Samuel is about to reply but stops himself, swallows his words and says instead:

  —Very well.

  She sits back down at the writing desk and takes his hand.

  —Will you come with me? she says.

  Again Samuel swallows his words, preventing himself from mentioning his business, or Rosa’s upcoming Hospital Finals, or the expense of airline travel, or the difficulties involved in travelling in Germany. Instead, he says:

  —Of course.

  Rosa notices, for the first time, the Manila envelope he is holding.

  —What’s that? she asks.

  —This? Oh, nothing much, he replies.

  —Yes it is, surely it’s something. What is it?

  —Well, now hardly seems the appropriate moment.

  —Appropriate for what? Come on, tell me.

  He passes her the envelope, and she opens it, curiously.

  —Jersey.

  —Yes, says Samuel, I thought we could go there for the weekend. Celebrate the sale of my twentieth motorcar. They haven’t got rationing in Jersey, you know. We can have cream and butter and steak.

  He is aware, even as he speaks, that his words are sounding hollow.

  —Oh, that’s terribly kind of you, says Rosa. Thank you so much. Do you think you will be able to get a refund?

  —A refund?

  —Yes, for these tickets.

  —Why should I need to get a refund?

  —Because we shall be in Germany.

  —Are you planning to go so soon?

  —As soon as possible.

  —And how are you going to pay for it?

  —I don’t know. I have a little money.

  —You have fifteen pounds’ savings, which will hardly get you very far.

  Rosa looks at herself in the mirror and then turns back to Samuel.

  —Germany is three times the price of Jersey, says Samuel abruptly. And you’ve got your Hospital Finals coming up, which you’ll need to swot up for. Don’t you think you should wait a little? The authorities might be able to help.

  —The authorities?

  —They might provide some information.

  Rosa gets to her feet again, paces to the door and back.

  —I need to do something now, she says, I can’t just sit around in London waiting for some authorities to grind into action.

  —I appreciate that, but perhaps Bloomsbury House—

  —Look, if you won’t come with me I shall go alone. I’ll find a way somehow.

  —I never said I wouldn’t come with you.

  —That’s what you implied.

  There is a silence, and they avoid each other’s eyes. Then both of them speak at the same time; Rosa says, it doesn’t mean anything, and Samuel says, we don’t have to go out tonight. Then there is silence again.

  —The letter was here when I got back from the afternoon shift, says Rosa, sitting down.

  —Were there any other details?

  —Nothing.

  —No mention of your brother and sister?

  —I don’t know, mumbles Rosa.

  —Sorry?

  —I don’t know, she snaps. Please Samuel, I don’t need an interrogation now. Let’s just leave it for the moment, all right? We’re supposed to go out, let’s go out.

  —I’m not sure we should, says Samuel, I think you need some time alone.

  —Samuel, I’m fine. I’m happy to go out, one can’t spend one’s entire life moping.

  —There will be other evenings, says Samuel. I can see I’m only making matters worse.

  —You’re not, of course you’re not. I’m happy to go out.

  He crosses the room and kisses her on the cheek.

  —Please don’t be angry with me, says Rosa.

  —I’m not angry, says Samuel, don’t worry.

  He leaves the room, hurries down the stairs and strides out of Cavell House, ignoring the open mouths and wide eyes of the nurses emerging from the sitting room. Outside it is raining, a sort of floating rain that creates a soaking, indelible mist, and leathery leaves adhere to the pavement. Why does he always make a mess of things? Several schoolboys have gathered on the pavement admiring his Midget, and he finds that he does not have the heart to approach; despite the rain he continues to walk as a smog descends around him. Grey-specked liquid slides across the brim of his hat, the rain is getting heavier now, the hiss of it continuous, solid sheets of water instead of mist, his trousers are clinging to his legs, there is no longer any reason to avoid the puddles, and still he walks on, walks on. After a time he happens to pass the Blind Beggar, it is glowing like whisky in the fog; a quick drink before heading home might be just the thing. He climbs the rain-shined steps that were blasted half off in the war, then stops, hand resting on the door with its ugly Victorian glass, stained the colour of tea. Through the window he can see a cluster of overcoats and hats, hunched together conspiratorially on hatstands; he can hear the sound of laughter within, smell the cigarette smoke, the pipe smoke. The glass is tough under his fingers, somehow it must have withstood the bomb that damaged the steps, little lines of rain jerk at angles across its surface; Samuel, water slipping down the back of his greatcoat, pushes open the door and steps inside, grateful for the sweet fug that instantly enfolds him. He hangs up his coat and hat, approaches the bar, orders a pint and scans the room for a table, taking a cigarette case out of his pocket and lighting up; as he does so, he finds himself thinking about the logistics of travelling to Germany with Rosa.

  3

  —Kremer’s Motors.

  —It’s me, Rosa.

  —Oh, hello.

  —Samuel, I… I’m sorry.

  —Whatever for?

  —I don’t want to push you away. I don’t want to lose you. It must be terrible being engaged to me. You’re going to call off our engagement. I quite understand.

  —Whatever gave you such an idea?

  —But you stormed off last night. I’ve been thinking about it all day.

  —I didn’t storm off.

  —We were supposed to go out.

  —You’d just had a bit of a shock.

  —I can’t stop worrying, Samuel.

  —I know, it’s difficult. I wish there was more I could do.

  —You needn’t come with me to Germany.

  —Perhaps we should talk about this face to face?

  —Anyway, I’m sorry.

  —I’m sorry too, Samuel replies. I always seem to make a mess of things.

  There is a pause.

  —I received a letter this morning, says Rosa, from the Central Office for Refugees. Bloomsbury House.

  —Oh?

  —They have received lists of… names.

  —What do you mean?

  —You know, from the camps. The victims. They’re displaying them Mo
nday week.

  —I see.

  —Sister has allowed me the morning off, so long as I make up for it.

  —I’ll come with you.

  —You needn’t.

  —Nonsense. I’ll come with you.

  —You needn’t, honestly. It won’t be a very pleasant morning.

  —I don’t care about pleasant mornings.

  There is another pause. Rosa clears a circle in the condensation on the window of the telephone box and looks out onto the bustling Whitechapel Road, the colour of butter in the failing light.

  —Are you still there? says Samuel.

  —Yes.

  —I’ll come with you.

  —Are you sure?

  —I’ll collect you at half past six, and we’ll go to my house for breakfast first. Then, when you’re ready, we’ll motor to Bloomsbury House.

  —Samuel, I—

  Rosa’s voice breaks and she bites her tongue.

  —You don’t have to say anything, Samuel replies. See you next Monday.

  Monday arrives before its time. On Rosa’s insistence, they have a full and extravagant breakfast. The wireless is playing at a considerable volume, which makes conversation difficult, so they exchange reassuring smiles across the table as they tap the tops of their eggs with the underside of their spoons and slide rough-edged soldiers into the yolks. Rosa makes a Pro’s Pudding, the recipe for which a probationer imparted to her during the war: golden syrup, bread, two eggs and lots of milk, placed in a pan and boiled. Samuel doesn’t care for it, says it’s too sweet for breakfast; Rosa, uncharacteristically, eats most of it herself.

  After breakfast they prepare to leave. Rosa has packed sandwiches for the journey as if they are going on a day-trip, and the weather lends itself to that impression, a warm day in early spring; they decide to take their coats just in case, folded in the boot of Samuel’s latest car, which is an impossibly narrow Austin 8, smelling of grease and leather, with a bonnet that tapers to a grille, two circular headlamps and scuffed running boards along each side. Samuel has to duck his head to get through the door, his shoulder touches Rosa’s as they sit in the cramped, maroon front seats.