The English German Girl

by Jake Wallis Simons

  —Nice not to be going to work, says Samuel, turning over the page of his newspaper.

  —Isn’t it? says Rosa, lowering an egg into a saucepan of water with a spoon.

  —There’s not much here about Palestine, says Samuel, not on the front page at least. People get used to war, after a while it just carries on in the background. Especially if it’s not involving our own troops.

  —Everyone’s sick of it, says Rosa.

  —Ah, there’s something on it here, on the inside pages, says Samuel. The truce is holding, apparently, although it is fragile, and violations are occurring on both sides. I have to admit, part of me wishes I were there.

  —Would you like a cup of tea while you’re waiting? says Rosa.

  —No thank you, says Samuel absently.

  —I think the war is a little pointless, says Rosa, as if we haven’t had enough of war over the last decade.

  —It’s not pointless, says Samuel, we must fight for a homeland. We need a Jewish state. You should know that as well as anyone, with your background.

  —I’ve enough trouble with being German and English, says Rosa, I couldn’t possibly manage with a Jewish nationality as well.

  —Nonsense, says Samuel curtly, if there had been a Jewish state during the war things would have been rather different. You would have had somewhere to run to.

  —I had somewhere to run to, says Rosa. I came to England.

  —Many Jews weren’t so fortunate, says Samuel, his temper rising.

  Rosa turns sharply and faces him.

  —I know about the misfortune of Jews, she says.

  He clears his throat.

  —All I’m trying to say is that fighting for a Jewish state is a noble and worthy cause, he says, not a pointless one.

  Rosa turns away and turns down the flame on the stove.

  —I know you are thinking about Esther, she says quietly.

  —What are you talking about?

  —I’ve seen how you react when I mention her, says Rosa. You never stop going on about her, morning, noon and night. You’re pining for her. You talk about nothing but her.

  —I am entitled to grieve.

  —You said you had forgotten her.

  —She was a hero, says Samuel.

  Rosa removes the saucepan from the heat and drains it into the sink.

  —Dead people are easier to love, she says.

  Samuel gets to his feet.

  —You take that back, he says.

  —You take back your comments about my family, says Rosa.

  —What comments?

  —About Jews who were not fortunate.

  —I wasn’t talking about your family.

  —Then who were you talking about?

  Samuel, trying to swallow his rage, looks up at the ceiling.

  —What do you expect? he says finally. These days you and I are nothing more than friends.

  —Friends?

  —Yes, friends. Not man and wife.

  Rosa turns back to the saucepan.

  —I am tired all the time, she says. I am working many night shifts.

  —You don’t have to work, you choose to. Have you grown to hate me?

  —I do not hate you, says Rosa.

  Something in her voice causes Samuel to stop. She sits heavily at the kitchen table and Samuel, after a pause, draws up a chair to join her.

  —There is something I need to tell you, she says.

  Samuel looks at her intently, concerned by her expression, her voice.

  —Go on, he says.

  She takes a deep breath.

  —I have been to the hospital for some tests.

  —What kind of tests? Why didn’t you tell me?

  Rosa looks up, and for an instant he glimpses her vulnerable, exposed, without a mask.

  —They don’t think I am capable of having children, she says.

  There is a silence.

  —Not capable? says Samuel.

  —Something to do with … Norfolk.

  Another silence.

  —When did you hear? asks Samuel.

  —Recently.

  —Why didn’t you tell me?

  —I wanted to. I couldn’t.

  Samuel gets to his feet and walks to the window. Outside the summer breeze is tousling the grass and the trees, lifting tiny birds high on swelling thermals.

  —I think I need a drink, he says. I know it’s early, but if you’ll excuse me?

  Rosa nods and he leaves the kitchen, goes into the sitting room and opens the drinks cabinet; the bottle of Bristol Cream has just been started; he pours himself a generous glassful. Then, replacing the bottle in the cabinet, he takes a gulp and returns to the kitchen.

  —Are they sure? he asks. I mean to say, shall we get a second opinion?

  —They are sure, says Rosa.

  He clears his throat and raises his eyes to look at his wife; suddenly he is filled with an overwhelming tenderness, as intense as his anger of a few moments ago.

  —It’s all right, he says, it’s all right. He takes her hand and embraces her.

  —Perhaps we might consider alternatives, he says.

  —Alternatives?

  —Yes. I don’t know, adoption.

  —It wouldn’t be the same.

  —I know.

  They sit quietly, the wind maintaining a texture outside.

  —Everybody needs children in their lives, says Samuel. Perhaps we could grow to love an adopted child as if it were our own.

  —Perhaps, says Rosa. Perhaps.

  4

  Several months later Rosa rises for work early. Neither she nor Samuel has slept well; filled with anticipation, they were too excited to sleep, they talked into the small hours, and eventually, though sheer exhaustion, dropped off. Another winter is approaching, and the morning is rather cold; she untangles herself from her husband’s arms and swings her feet out of bed onto the chilly linoleum.

  —Not morning already? Samuel mumbles into his pillow.

  —Don’t worry about getting up now, says Rosa, it’s early.

  Already her heart is beating with nerves. Samuel seems to fall asleep again, and she moves quietly through the shadows, dressing, readying herself for the big day. Then, with an exaggerated yawn, he rolls onto his back.

  —I never thought this day would arrive, he says, his voice deepened by sleep. I truly never did.

  —I’ll be waiting on the hospital steps at lunchtime, says Rosa. Everything is prepared and ready here. If you make any mess, be sure to clean up after you. We can’t have it looking messy, not today.

  —Yes, Sister, says Samuel.

  Rosa smiles.

  —Don’t forget to bring the documents, she says.

  —Of course.

  —And bring a map.

  —But I’ve driven there scores of times.

  —Bring a map.

  Rosa kisses him then goes downstairs. On the table beside the front door is a large package in brown paper; she picks it up carefully and tucks it under her arm. Then she leaves the house, embarking upon her usual morning journey to Whitechapel.

  Today everything is somehow imbued with significance; it is as if all creatures in the world and every object in it are working together seamlessly to carry her into the future. A tingle of excitement spreads up her spine as she takes a seat on the upper deck of the tram, wipes the condensation on the window with her sleeve and looks out into the chilly streets. She remembers the first time she went on a London tram, all those years ago, from Liverpool Street to Hackney, accompanied by Mimi and Gerald; it was a cold day like today, colder in fact, with thick smog outside the window, she remembers the smog. And she could speak no English then, barely a word, she was a timid German girl who knew nothing at all about life; it seems like an age ago now that she is looking into the glare of a future, dawning as she approaches; she feels elated, perhaps, but nervous, for today is the day when their own family will begin.

  When Rosa arrives at the hospital she
makes her way not to the wards, but to the quarters of the deputy matron, her nervousness increasing step by step. She has only been to Matron’s wing a few times before, most recently when she received the news that she was to be blued and issued with a brown parcel of material which she was to take to Miss Duggan, the dressmaker; the very same material that now, having been made into a uniform, is folded inside the parcel under her arm. She knocks politely, twice, and waits in the early morning shadows in the corridor. The door opens without a sound, and Rosa enters; a home maid shows her to the deputy matron’s cloakroom where, a little nervously, she parts her curls in the middle, pulls her hair back from her ears and forms a bun on top of her head, in the manner that has become so familiar to her; then she takes out her new dusky blue uniform and puts it on. The starch has made it rather stiff; Miss Duggan is a devil when it comes to starch. And here are the blue sleeves to be attached above the elbow, I haven’t worn detachable sleeves since I was a probationer, for some reason Sisters still have to wear them. There, how does she look – she regards her reflection in the mirror – as if she is dressing up, not her at all. She supposes she shall get used to it. Ah, she is trembling with nerves; why did they choose to blue her today of all days? She should have applied to take the day off, prepare for this afternoon. Can’t be helped. Now, ready – oh, just one more thing, a good handful of hairgrips, she has heard about the weight of those caps.

  She leaves the cloakroom and indicates to the home maid that she is ready – prepared to be blued. Within seconds there is the sound of footsteps approaching, and Deputy Matron herself appears; in her hand is a crisp white Sister’s cap, complete with three-foot-long frilly streamers. She regards Rosa haughtily, she is a short lady and Rosa stands above her, so she tilts her head back to allow her line of sight to nevertheless fall along the length of her nose.

  —You have not breathed a word about this to a single soul?

  —No, Deputy Matron, I have told no one.

  —Good, she replies, the butterfly must not be seen to shed her chrysalis.

  She makes a motion with her hand, and Rosa stoops, then bends, then kneels, awkwardly, on the floor.

  —It gives me particular pleasure to award you the status of Sister, Mrs Kremer, she says. As you may be aware, Matron, being somewhat old-fashioned, is of the general opinion that it is impossible for the married lady to look after her home and work at the hospital at the same time. She believes that no married lady can survive in full-time nursing beyond a few months. You, Mrs Kremer, are happily proving the exception to the rule.

  —Thank you, Deputy Matron.

  —Right, now let’s get on with it, says Deputy Matron, composing herself. I beseech Thee, O Lord, to bless the hand of this new Sister of the London Hospital, to protect her and guide her in all her duties, to help and inspire her to always keep the welfare of her patients foremost in her mind. Amen.

  With the Amen she places the cap over the bun on Rosa’s head – it is heavier than she expected and requires her to straighten her neck and back, and tilt her head forward; Rosa reaches up and spends some time pinning the cap to her hair, while Deputy Matron looks on in silence. Then she gets to her feet, feeling rather unbalanced.

  —Very good, Sister, says Deputy Matron. She raises the watch that is pinned above her left breast.

  —The time is twenty-three minutes past eight, she says. Accompany me to the wards, if you please.

  Rosa, now walking with a Sister’s upright gait on account of the weighty cap, follows the deputy matron out of Matron’s wing, across an echoing iron footbridge and into the hospital. She is surprised that the people she passes do not acknowledge that she has within the last few minutes shed the chrysalis of the staff nurse and been reborn as a fully fledged Sister; then she passes a small group of probationers, and one of them catches sight of her, looks away, looks back, recognises her, grins, nudges her companions, points; and Rosa feels a mixture of pride and humiliation, torn between the world of the nurses and that of the Sisters. Then they turn a corner, and the probationers are gone, and Deputy Matron pauses, and Rosa pauses behind her; they have reached the double doors of the Rowsell Ward. Rosa is surprised at the noise that can be heard within, the sound of frantic activity. She knows exactly what has been going on this morning: the night reds have been removed, folded and replaced with the day reds, the patients have been bathed and served their breakfasts, the probationers have washed the dishes, balancing bowls on the coal box and the washstand, the ward has been swept with tea leaves to lay the dust, the ashes from the fireplace have been raked by a middle-aged cockney ward maid, the junior probationers have emptied and replaced the bedpans, the locker tops have been scrubbed, a high sweep has been carried out on the ledges, the aspidistras have been brought out in vases with leaves polished with castor oil, the hassock has been brushed and placed in the centre of the ward, the bell and prayer-board have been placed conveniently to hand, Sister’s inkpot and pen tray have been polished, and a final flick of the duster has been carried out over the reds. Yes, Rosa knows exactly what has been going on, but she had never appreciated the noise it all made, or how far that noise can carry outside the ward. Deputy Matron turns, looks at Rosa along the length of her nose and says, are you ready, Sister Kremer? And Rosa thinks of her papa, Herr Doktor Otto Klein; she remembers him in his doctor’s white coat, regarding his ward with an easy authority, and in imitation of his manner she draws herself up and says, yes, Deputy Matron, I am ready. She pushes open the double doors, and a hush falls immediately upon the ward; the staff nurse and her probationers line up ready to receive their new Sister, and after checking and locking up the ward stock of morphia, Rosa walks along the line, inspecting them. When she reaches the staff nurse they catch each other’s eye – it is Betty Robinson. Her mouth drops open, she looks as if she is about to keel over from shock, and a broad smile spreads across her face. Rosa selects the probationers who are to be on duty and sends the others away.

  A junior probationer steps forward, performing her task as usual.

  —The temperature of the ward is as it should be, please Sister.

  Rosa nods gravely as she has seen ward sisters do hundreds, maybe thousands of times before. Then Betty Robinson speaks her staff nurse’s lines, the grin still spanning her face, her eyes moist:

  —Please Sister, nothing special to report, the ward reports are on your desk, please Sister.

  —Will there be anything else, Sister Kremer? says Deputy Matron.

  —No thank you, says Rosa, that will be all.

  —Sister Kremer, she says with a flourish, your ward.

  With that she turns on her heel and leaves. Rosa takes her place on the hassock; the nurses and probationers kneel behind her, and the patients bow their heads; then, in perfect imitation of all the Sisters who have come before her, Rosa leads the ward in the London Hospital prayer:

  —Almighty and Everloving God, Who didst send Thine only Son Jesus Christ to be the Saviour of men, we pray Thee as earnestly as we can to bless the work done at the London Hospital. Bless all those, whether rich or poor, who have denied themselves to help the Hospital. Help all those who are nurses to have always present to their minds the example of our Blessed Saviour’s love and sympathy for the poor and suffering. Give them grace and patience faithfully to fulfil their holy calling, doing all as unto Thee, and we pray Thee to crown their work with success and happiness. We commend, O God, the patients to Thy loving care. Soothe their pain; relieve their anxiety; lead them to a knowledge and love of Thee; give them patience under their sufferings, and a happy ending to all their trouble. We pray Thee also to remember the wives and children of the men here, and to help them in their trouble and distress. Grant this, we humbly beseech Thee, O God, for Thy Son Jesus Christ’s sake. Amen.

  After a pause Rosa gets to her feet, followed by the nurses and probationers, and work begins in the ward, the hum of ordered activity filling the air. It was a little strange leading a Christian prayer, but Ros
a knows that few people pay attention anyway. As she approaches the Sister’s desk, Betty takes her aside and whispers excitedly:

  —Goodness gracious, Rosie, I cannot believe it. Why didn’t you tell me you were going to come out in blue?

  —I was forbidden, Rosa replies. Matron would have sent me packing with a ferocity second only to Miss Lückes’s.

  Betty smiles and wipes her eyes on her apron.

  —Who would have thought that you would be blued first, she says, out of everyone in our set? Out of all the Speedy Susies?

  —Don’t worry, says Rosa, you’ll be next, I’m sure of it.

  For the remainder of the morning Rosa is surprised to find that she falls naturally into her new role. At lunchtime she automatically walks towards the nurses’ dining room; she is halfway there before she remembers that she is no longer a staff nurse and makes her way instead to the Sisters’ dining room, where a place has been set for her complete with her own napkin ring, a place that she knows she may occupy for years, even decades. As soon as lunch is concluded Rosa changes back into mufti and hurries to the hospital entrance, her nervousness returning. Samuel is waiting for her in his best suit, leaning on the side of his motorcar and huffing into his hands, for the day has become very cold. Rosa joins him, and they kiss; then they get into the motorcar and thread their way nervously into the traffic.

  5

  Willesden Lane is a spacious, grand sort of street. Distinguished trees, stripped of their summer finery, stand at regular intervals along the pavement, and behind walls and gates large, rambling houses lie couched in grassy grounds. Rosa and Samuel swing open the doors of the old Riley Samuel is driving, step out outside number 167 and stand arm in arm looking up at the house. Its high façade, rectangular and whitewashed, hosts a porch supported by thin pillars, and stone balconies outside the first floor windows. A flight of steps leads up to the door, and the semicircular driveway is bordered by perfectly tended flowerbeds. The house and grounds seem imbued with an atmosphere of almost uncanny peace and decorum.