Of Love and Other Wars

by Sophie Hardach

  There was a look of such utter horror in his eyes that she stopped.

  ‘It was only an idea. Another idea would be for someone to tell her to take it off. You see, if I told her, she might simply resist, since she sees me as a friend rather than a figure of authority. But if someone else were to tell her . ⁠. ⁠. perhaps . ⁠. ⁠. if you . ⁠. ⁠.’ She was openly pleading now. ‘You could tell her it’s an order from the headmaster. Max, she has to get rid of that thing.’

  Max shrugged. ‘In my opinion, she can wear it as long as she wants to.’

  ‘But it’s for her own good! It’s not a necklace, it’s a horrible, hideous, morbid noose. Can’t you see that? The only purpose it serves, the only function it has, is to remind her and everyone around her of all she left behind, every single minute of the day. It chains her to that very moment when her mother knotted it around her neck in their kitchen in Berlin, with her little brother watching. And we need to cut her free from that, we need to cut her free from that morning in the kitchen with her mother and her brother and a plateful of rolls with jam and butter.’

  Max shrugged again, and Grace hated him as she had hated him during his first week.

  ‘Have you even looked at her?’ she cried. ‘It makes her look odd. It makes her look like . ⁠. ⁠. like a suitcase that someone left on an abandoned platform in the pouring rain.’

  ‘She is odd. All of us are odd. Let her wear her piece of string.’ He folded his hands under his gaunt face. ‘Sometimes I wish I had one to wear myself.’

  *

  Grace realized then how much she had relied on her work to sustain and nourish her. From the time when she had accompanied the Dutch official to Vienna to negotiate exit permits for Jewish children, she had prided herself, congratulated herself on being one of the few people who did good in this dim and evil world. Yet it occurred to her now that the chief beneficiary of all those hours in train stations, in offices, at Quaker fund-raising lunches, had really been herself. She had created a world where she could paint the walls yellow and laugh at Max’s wonky Christmas ornaments; where people spoke to each other in kind, calm tones and worked for a common purpose. Now the very air at Samhuinn was jittery and fearful, there was no place left where she could replenish her spirits. When she prayed, she found her mind puzzling over Max’s sullen hostility. When she closed her eyes in Silent Meeting, she saw nothing but a piece of grey string around a slender neck.

  The worst aspect of this new situation, however, was that it made a certain time of the day even more unbearable than before: the time when she would lock her office, and walk home alone.

  2

  A week later, in May 1940, Holland fell.

  Grace decided it was time to move the remaining children to the countryside again.

  Max responded to the idea with a shrug. An awful fatalism wafted through the yellow corridors. Grace refused to be polluted by it. One could not be fatalistic with children in one’s charge. The headmaster, Mr Cartland, told her he would evacuate Samhuinn to a farm in Somerset; there was enough space for the children from the fifth floor. However, in order to save costs and space, he thought it best if his wife and the school’s nurse took care of all the children on the farm. They would cook, clean, supervise meals and so on. He and a handful of teachers would deal with academic matters. Since all the children at the farm would be full boarders, there was no need to have separate sleeping arrangements for the fifth-floor lot.

  Grace nodded. It was a fair arrangement. There were enough other people in London, or indeed Europe, who needed her help; she would find another job to do. She went back to her office, where she was storing a batch of yellow paint bought to freshen up the hallway. It upset her to sit and look at the paint that would never be used. She went into the breakfast room. Max was there, stacking plates.

  ‘Max,’ she said quietly, ‘it looks like we won’t see your lovely Christmas ornaments this year.’ She told him about the plan.

  He said it sounded sensible. The clattering plates in his hands reminded her of that day with the paperbacks. Clatter, clatter, soft thump.

  ‘Is that all you have to say?’

  ‘It sounds sensible, responsible and efficient.’

  ‘I thought . ⁠. ⁠. I thought you might be a little sad to see the children leave.’

  ‘I would be sadder to see them bombed.’

  She refused to let it go. ‘Some of the children are very sad.’

  ‘They will enjoy the farm.’

  She could not understand this new hardness, this surface that made every comment of hers bounce like a rubber ball on stone.

  The children were downstairs, in class. She picked up a plate, held it with both hands and shook it.

  ‘Max,’ she said with urgent despair, ‘I had hoped you would be a little . ⁠. ⁠. a little kinder. It is sad. Can you not admit that? I know it’s the sensible thing, but I thought . ⁠. ⁠. I thought we had begun to set up something rather pleasant here. Something rather successful. The children were happy here. Inge said something yesterday – it was one of those things she says, but still – she said that if she had to leave this place, she would no longer want to live.’

  ‘She said that?’ He lifted the stack of plates. The way he stretched backwards to balance the load reminded her of more cheerful times, of books and pine cones. ‘If that’s what she thinks, she ought to have stayed in Germany.’

  ‘Max!’ Grace dropped the plate.

  ‘That’s a shame about a good plate.’ His German accent had thickened.

  ‘You can’t mean that.’

  ‘I do. It’s a shame.’ He began to sweep up the shards. She kicked at the broom, and it flew out of his hands.

  ‘How can you? She’s eleven!’

  ‘I am only stating a fact. If she does not want to live, if she has no will to live, if she is unwilling to use this life that has been given to her, then she should have stayed in Germany. She could have given her place on the train to her little brother.’ He calmly picked up the broom and continued to sweep. ‘Or my mother.’

  That afternoon, she let Inge help her punch holes into official letters and receipts, then file the papers into different folders. It was Inge’s favourite activity and seemed to calm her, though Grace usually tried to discourage it and make her play with the other girls instead.

  They were sitting on the floor with two big hole-punchers when they heard a great commotion in the staircase.

  Grace went out to check. A flustered girl came running up the stairs and pushed open every door. It was Doreen, an acquaintance of Grace’s from Jewish Relief.

  When she saw Grace, she cried between deep, panting, exhilarated breaths: ‘There you are! Grace, the train’s here! The train’s here!’

  *

  Grace’s first rush of ecstasy was wiped out by one look at Inge’s face. The little girl was lit up by bright and shining joy.

  Grace frantically tried to shut the door, tried to buy just one minute to warn Inge, tell her that this was not the right train, that she must not expect her parents and her brother to be on this train.

  But Inge, burning with fiery joy, pushed her out of the way, pushed the Jewish Relief girl out of the way, raced down the stairs two at a time and shouted at the top of her voice: ‘Mama! Mama!’

  *

  She could of course have held Inge back. She could have forced her to stay in the office with her. Indeed, she should have held her back, should have protected her from staring longingly at every single person who stepped off that train until the train was empty.

  She could have, and yet she couldn’t. She should have been responsible and sensible, but the force that gripped her was too powerful. Half-way down the stairs she almost trampled over Max Hoffnung. She did not care. She pushed him out of the way, took the last steps two at a time and all she could think was Morten! Morten! Morten!

  *

  Doreen had borrowed a car from someone and they hurled through th
e streets with giddy recklessness, straight to the Friends’ House on Euston Road, where volunteers were already feeding tea and sandwiches to the tired travellers. Grace jumped out with the motor still running. That they should meet again at Friends’ House!

  Men, women, children were flooding in and out of the front door, a thick flow of refugees, helpers, Jews, Quakers, girls with clipboards, a man with a dozen loaves of bread stacked high on a trolley.

  Friends were pouring out tea and listening to stories about the ordeal. When the boat left Holland it came under fire from the Germans. There were tilted heads, rounded mouths, sympathetic interjections: ‘Gosh!’ and ‘How awful.’

  Someone passed Grace a teapot. She poured tea into chipped mugs and looked at faces, faces, faces, so many faces but none that fitted. Her eyes were a question and she was looking for the one face that would be the answer.

  Voices around her told the story in fragments. Holland under fire. A train to Holland, then the boat to Harwich. The boat under fire. Yes, but where was the face?

  A tired, ash-blonde girl of about twenty tapped her on the shoulder and held out an empty mug. ‘Would you mind?’ She was American. An American relief worker, probably.

  Grace could bear the tension no longer. She filled the mug and when she had finished, asked straight out if Morten was on the train.

  ‘Sure.’

  Sure. She pressed her palms against the hot sides of the pewter teapot.

  ‘Morten is here?’

  ‘Uh-huh.’ The girl could hardly speak for tiredness. She moved towards an armchair in the corner.

  ‘He’s here?’ Grace wanted to throw her arms around the American and kiss her dear sweet blonde head. She would remember that voice for the rest of her life, that kind, limp voice uttering that word. Sure. Morten, here! He might be walking in any moment! It couldn’t be possible. She was dreaming. She did what she thought people never did in real life: lifted a bit of skin on her arm with her thumb and knuckle and gave it a hard squeeze. It hurt. He really was here. He was here!

  She grabbed the girl’s hand: ‘That’s wonderful . ⁠. ⁠. you cannot imagine . ⁠. ⁠. well, first of all, welcome to England. We’re so glad you made it. What’s your name?’

  ‘Tipper.’ The young woman closed her eyes when she spoke and rubbed her hand over her face. ‘It’s been a long journey. Morten should be here any minute with the rest.’

  Grace followed Tipper to the armchair. The red lipstick was in the pocket of her dress and she must find an excuse to run upstairs and tidy her hair and rouge her lips before he arrived. She did not give a hoot about what the others thought if they saw her emerging from the bathroom with red lips. Let them think what they wanted, her lover was here! And she would kiss him with bright red lips!

  Then she saw the crowd shuffling and shifting to let someone through. She jumped up but it was only Inge. The child wriggled through the crowd and looked up at every face with earnest grey eyes. Grace felt a sharp pang of guilt and pain and then annoyance, because this was her moment, her moment when she must run upstairs and put on lipstick.

  Tipper carried a bundle of papers under her arm.

  ‘Is that the passenger list? May I see?’

  They went through the names together. Inge’s parents were not there, as Grace had expected. Neither was Inge’s brother. She would tell her later. She would have a quiet word with her. Oh, why did Inge even have to be here!

  ‘Is there going to be another train?’

  ‘Are you kidding? Amsterdam’s burning. We came under fire when we left the port. I was sure we’d never make it.’

  Grace’s thoughts were on her lipstick but it would be callous to leave this girl now. She offered another cup of tea.

  ‘Thanks.’ Tipper eased into her seat. ‘Cake! Swell.’

  She told Grace a little about her work for the American Friends. She and one other American had stayed in Berlin when Britain declared war and all the others left. What a winter.

  The tea revived her and Grace could see that underneath her exhaustion lay one of those practical optimists. She began describing her journey in great detail and it was all terribly brave and interesting, but Grace was beginning to wonder why Morten was delayed and whether he had gone straight to some hostel.

  As soon as there was a suitable break in Tipper’s stream of words she said: ‘You cannot imagine how glad I am that you’re all here. Do you think I should go out and see if Morten is all right? I hope they’re not held up at the station.’

  ‘No, he’s fine. He’ll just be lingering, as usual. You know Morten. Never on time.’ Tipper laughed with an easy familiarity. A tired sunny laugh. Grace felt mildly envious that she knew details that were new to her. Morten, never on time! Well, it was a tiny weakness, hardly worth remembering.

  She stood up. The minutes passed by so slowly and she thought: he must be stuck somewhere or he would come rushing, running to me. And she held tight that image of her standing there and pining for him, stretching towards him, as he stood in Liverpool Street Station with his suitcase in hand, pining and stretching towards her.

  ‘Have they arranged for your lodgings?’ she asked Tipper. It was rude to stand there and think of love when there were dozens of travellers aching for sleep.

  ‘Yeah. We’ll be staying with an American friend, but you know, we’re not planning to hang around for long. Just a few days and then we’re off to Philadelphia.’

  Grace stared at her. ‘The whole group? Morten’s going too?’

  But he’s German. He can’t go. He has to stay here, with me.

  Tipper shook her head. ‘Not the whole group. Just me and him.’ She held out her mug. ‘That tea was good. Any chance I could have some more?’

  Grace filled up her mug and did not even tremble.

  ‘Sounds like quite an adventure.’

  ‘We talked about staying in London but we’ve only got transit visas. And my parents really want us to live with them. They’re in Philadelphia.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘It’ll be a honeymoon. Of sorts.’ She took a sip and flinched. ‘Ouch. Hot.’

  When she flinched, she pursed her lips and the effect was very pretty.

  ‘Congratulations. I didn’t even know. Wartime correspondence . ⁠. ⁠. sporadic . ⁠. ⁠. erm . ⁠. ⁠. wartime, you know . ⁠. ⁠.’ Grace had run out of words.

  Tipper had not. ‘Yeah, exactly, wartime. We barely had time to say our vows. I wore yellow.’ She shook her head. ‘Some wedding party.’ But then she smiled again and Grace could see that in peacetime she would be ever-sunny. ‘The bride wore yellow. That’s what we’ll tell our grandchildren. It’s what I always say, y’know? It’s all really hard now but one day it’ll be a great story for the grandchildren.’

  A good sport, a loving wife, a beautiful mother.

  ‘Right.’ Grace shook her teapot. ‘If you wait here, I’ll go and fetch more tea. One can never have too much tea, don’t you think? That’s what I always say. Tea, tea, tea.’

  She crossed the room and walked out of the back door, round the house and all the way to the bus stop where she waited for five minutes until the bus came that took her home. Only when she sat down did she realize that she was holding her satchel in one hand and, in the other, the empty pewter teapot.

  Swarthmoor Hall

  1

  It had been raining for a solid week when Charlie’s train pulled into Ulverston Station. Wrapped in a stiff coat, with his collar yanked awkwardly over his head against the rain, he splashed through the puddles on the platform towards a dry patch under the station roof. He shook the droplets out of his hair and looked around for a motor car, a horse-drawn cart or at the very least a friendly person with an umbrella. But the station was deserted. He waited for a while, shrank into his scratchy coat and hopped from foot to foot. The wind grew stronger and blew the rain under the roof, soaking his dry patch.

  ‘Sod it,’ he muttered, turned up his collar and plod
ded out into the rain, shoulders raised, chin tucked in like a reluctant ox. His city shoes became heavy with the rainwater. He squelched across the field and kept roughly to the right. There was no path, only a bumpy meadow blurred by rain and fog. Fields and fog to the left, forest and fog to the right. Straight ahead, uphill, a glimmer of light. He speeded up, his cold fingers clamped around his suitcase, which grew more cumbersome with every step. When he had almost reached the top of the hill, he could make out the gloomy, towering outline of Swarthmoor Hall.

  If his father had sent him here in the hope of bringing him closer to his ancestral faith, he could not have failed more spectacularly. The sight of the bleak bastion reminded Charlie of everything he loathed about Quakerism. Those stark, unadorned stone walls, the narrow latticed windows, the plain, sensible wooden doors: it was a house that drew its walls around itself and hunkered down before the wind and rain. And that’s what we do, Charlie thought, we hunker down; for all that talk of striding out into the world and gladly carrying our inner light hither and thither, we’re really happiest when we’re holed up in a cottage with latticed windows where no one comes and bothers us.

  His father would, of course, have countered that Quakers had travelled far and wide, the early Quakers especially, that they had gathered strength from the first meetings at Swarthmoor Hall and then fanned out across the whole world, founded an entire state on the other side of the Atlantic, fought the slave trade, reformed prisons. Yes, Charlie thought, but where are we now? If Quakerism is such a topping religion, then why are we the only Quakers on our street – and by the way, people still think we’re spies? That’s where you got us with your hunkering down and your meekness, our own neighbours think we’re spies!

  The last stretch led him through a splintered wooden gate, an unkempt garden and, finally, to a back door that he attacked with his fists. There was a stench of manure and shuffling and rustling sounds, like animals moving through dry straw. The dull windows gave nothing away. He cupped his hands around his face and brought his eyes close to the glass. A large heavy shape shifted about in there. Cow or horse. He picked up his suitcase, walked round the side of the Hall and tried the front door. It was open and he entered a clammy stone hallway.