I woke unusually early on Saturday morning and lay looking at the ceiling, waiting for either Mam or Leighton to help me up as usual. A glance at the clock told me they were nearly half an hour away from either of them expecting me to wake. For a brief moment I smiled as I considered finding Henri, but it wasn’t our arrangement for me to catch him in his pyjamas, however much I’d have liked to know whether Norwegian boys wore striped shirts to bed or not. Instead I raised one arm stiffly to try and wipe my eyes, only to realise I had to combat the wooden splint forcing my elbow straight.
That was the moment I decided to change my morning ritual for good. I clonked one splinted arm over my waist to reach the other, fumbling blindly until I could unfasten the fabric strap, then released my other arm from the same diabolical contraption. The splints fell with a dull thud to the carpeted floor of my makeshift bedroom. So far, so good, but the harder part was coming next. Digging the heels of my hands down under my back, I pushed with everything I had to sit up. I bit my lip with the strain of it. Bickerstaff was right, my arms weren’t strong enough. But the thought of him and his awful smug face spurred something new in me and I withstood the pressure a little longer, giving one final push.
I was up. I scrabbled to grab at my legs in order to stay sitting up, shuffling until I had a little balance. It was strange to be sitting up in bed alone, but I didn’t have time to dwell on such a tiny victory. Instead I went straight for the larger, heavier splints flattening my knees out, pulling off the straps that always left little red lines across my legs where they were tight against them. After several months of the hellish treatment my skin had become hardened against the pressure, so it only glowed pink for a short time now in the mornings, gone were the ugly purple bruises of the early days. With some agonising shuffles I got away from the splints and left them lying on the bed, swinging my legs around until they hung off the edge.
The bed was quite a low one and my toes grazed against the thin carpet of the converted sitting room. I pushed my feet out to trace a little line along a frayed part of the material with my toe, considering my next move. My wheelchair was parked below the window some three feet away with just clear space between me and it; there was nothing to take hold of or anything to help me get there, and I didn’t fancy crawling on my belly to perhaps only get halfway and be found flailing like a fish by Mam in twenty minutes’ time. I slumped, a little defeated, taking a sip of the water she always left at my bedside.
There was a dark, wooden wainscoting running the whole length of the room that came up to nearly the height of my chest and jutted out three or four inches like a little mantelpiece. On the far side of the room, above the fireplace, Mam had propped a few family photographs up on it which she always made Blod come and dust after chapel on Sundays, but on my side it was clear all the way to the wash basin in the corner. I put down my water and stretched to grip it, testing how good a purchase my fingers could get on it. It had a little lip that curled up at the end which seemed very steady to grip. I put both hands on it to test it a little more.
Bickerstaff had wanted me to find something to lean on to practise standing, had he not? I put my feet into the best position I could get and pulled hard on the wainscoting. For a moment I panicked in case it came away in my hand, but the old house was stronger than I was and it took my weight until I was up. I leaned hard on the wall, shuffling my feet like a penguin until they were straight enough to take more bulk. My knees quivered a bit, but they held. This was as far as I’d ever gotten without falling flat on my face and I was actually a bit sad that no-one was in here to see it. I stood there in my nightie leaning on the wall for a few more moments, pondering if the stiffness of my legs in the morning was actually helping me to stay on my feet. Whatever the contributing factor, I was grateful.
The next step was quite literally waiting to be taken. It wasn’t that far to the corner really, perhaps about three or four paces for a normal person, surely it wouldn’t be too much to bear if I leant on the wall as much as possible? I took a very deep breath and pushed one bare foot sideways a few inches on the thin carpet. I crossed one hand over the other, then brought the remaining hand and foot up to meet them. The ache was considerable, especially in my arms, but the fluttering elation that settled on my chest outweighed it plenty. I had moved on my own, if you didn’t count wall, which I wouldn’t of course.
I shuffled like a crab closer and closer to the basin, but it was such a slow pace that I began to feel really sorry for snails and tortoises and all the other disastrously slow things that I was currently on par with. By the time I made it to the basin and transferred to leaning on the stand, sweat beads clung to my head and my legs were shaking. I realised how long it must have taken me to get there when I heard the door opening behind me, followed by a sudden joyous whooping that could only mean it was Mam coming in.
“Kit! You’re walking love!”
She rushed over to me and put an arm under my torso to keep my back straight; it was only with her warm, solid frame next to me that I realised how much I was shuddering. I turned to her delighted face and let out a sighing smile.
“Well I was awake,” I mumbled, “So I thought I’d just sort of… have a go.”
She couldn’t have missed the quivering wreck I was from the effort, but Mam was wonderful at ignoring things like that. She gave me a little squeeze and then delicately put my chair behind me, settling me back into it with a smile.
“Well you sit yur a minute and I’ll fetch some water for you to wash,” she said, patting me on the shoulder, “I’ll have to watch out eh? You’ll be wandering all over the house in no time!”
I sat breathing heavily as she bustled away, my smile so wide it threatened to split my face in half forever.
***
The news of my independent perambulation spread fast through the contents of Ty Gwyn, which had the unfortunate side effect of totally overshadowing Blod’s second day of celebrations. Though Mam was still frantically preparing cake and afternoon snacks for her party, she kept stopping to question me about what we should report to Doctor Bickerstaff and would I need a walking stick and should we get me some new shoes if I was going to be using them properly at last. The mention of brand new shoes sent Blod over the edge; she stampeded upstairs and her radio could be heard blaring down and filling the hall with jangling notes for the duration of the morning.
“Don’t mind her,” Clive told me with a patient smile, “She’d be more understanding if she had your problems.”
My eyes flicked to Ness Fach, who sat on the kitchen floor giggling and playing pat-a-cake with a very patient Leighton. If my suspicions were anywhere near correct, then Blod had enough problems of her own.
I was granted the sanctuary of a free hour in the little sitting room at the front of the house to rest after my big exertion that morning. Mam promised that I could read or do whatever I wanted in peace until Bampi Idrys arrived for Blod’s party lunch at two o’clock. ‘Whatever I wanted’ sounded extremely appealing. As soon as the door was closed I prepared myself for my usual ritual and though my arms were aching I raised them eagerly up to my forehead.
I was confused when I first found Henri, until I realised he had his hands over his face. His vision was blurry and his shoulders were heaving, stunted breaths were hot and ragged where they raged against his fingers. Wherever he was, it was dark and empty. And he was crying.
Henri, what’s happened?
For once he wasn’t surprised to hear my voice in his head; he had far too many emotions going on inside him for that. He wiped his tears away hurriedly until I could see his vision clearing, uncurling himself from his cramped position. He was in what seemed like a tiny little attic room where everything was brown and grey. The windowless space was lit by a dim lantern sitting on a little box beside the bed he was settled on. Henri sucked in his last sob, wiping his face on an old handkerchief before he replied.
“I’m sorry Kit, I wouldn’t have intended for you to see m
e like this.”
Don’t be silly, I answered, We all cry sometimes. I cried yesterday, just because I was sick of peeling vegetables.
Henri laughed but it was hollow and sad. I could feel him rubbing his palms against his legs; a vein in his neck was throbbing too. He must have been upset for quite some time before I found him.
Whatever’s the matter? I pressed.
“I will show you,” he answered, shaking out his final tears before dabbing his eyes dry.
Henri rose from the bed and brushed himself down; through his eyes I saw his brown trousers were scuffed and dirty, his shirt un-tucked, his shoes covered in scratches. He walked slowly out of the dark room into the rest of the roof space where a dirty white door was ajar. He pushed it open with the swing of one smooth hand, revealing a dark little wash room with a grey sink.
“I shan’t turn on the light,” Henri continued, “You’ll see me well enough.”
Above the worn old sink was a small mirror and, a moment later, there was Henri’s reflection. I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t been imagining what he might look like, running hundreds of debonair faces through my mind, all foreign and interesting and all terribly handsome. Henri would have been handsome, if not for the huge purple bruises all over his face. Cocoa brown eyes stared out of his damaged face, sad eyes with red rings enclosing them from his crying fit. He had dark hair, almost black, that fell about his face like it was due for a cut, under his fringe on one side was a huge gash that had only recently finished bleeding. It had two poorly-done stitches in it; I shuddered to think he might have done them himself.
“Well? Do you see me?”
Gods Henri, who did this to you?
He laughed that empty, humourless chuckle again.
“Who do you think Kit?” he answered.
Of course I knew who. But why? I felt a surge of guilt. Was it because you threatened that officer?
Thankfully Henri shook his head, looking straight at himself with a stare so intense I almost forgot he couldn’t see me. He had high, arching cheekbones that were almost black in the worst parts of the bruising and his face would have been sharply triangular if not for one part of his jaw that jutted out with swelling.
“His name is Kluger,” Henri explained, spitting out the title with such a strong sneer that it hurt his face to pull it, “He’s what you would call a captain, I think. But he was never really here for me.” He hung his head suddenly and I found myself looking into the old sink and its watermarked rings. “It was Mr Hoffman he was looking for.”
The shop owner? I pressed, confused. Why do the Germans want him?
Henri let his face rise back into the mirror’s path, giving me a sad look with his lovely eyes.
“Can you stay a while?” he asked.
I think so, I replied.
Without another word Henri left the wash room and made for a little staircase at the end of the dark upstairs corridor. He was indeed in the attic of the large building; his feet found two flights of stairs before I recognised the corridor near the store room where we had had our first conversation. Henri carried on beyond that space, passing some sad looking women who were smoking. They shook their heads when they saw him; I felt one pat him on the shoulder as he passed without acknowledging them, but he didn’t stop. Henri didn’t stop until he was down in the shop front itself where, like the store room, everything had been overturned.
He surveyed the destruction for the briefest of moments; I had enough time to take in the finest fashions ripped to shreds all over the floor. I saw the brown suit Henri had been finishing; it had been ripped off a model near the till so only half the jacket remained, the other sleeve and lapel lay in torn pieces not too far from it. I could remember so clearly the precision and the concentration Henri felt when he was working on that suit. I was livid at the cruelty of it all, but Henri’s awful emptiness swallowed up my rage. He walked quietly through the destroyed shop and out into the street.
I felt his sore face start to sting in the light spring rain that was failing. Henri pushed his unruly hair back against his head, walking the deserted pavement until he turned to face the shop window. The title of the tailor’s was in Norwegian, but the name Hoffman was clear enough within the words. Below the title someone had taken a tin of white paint and created a huge six point star. The Star of David. I had seen it a few times in London when we travelled through the posher bits. Another message was daubed underneath it.
Henri, what does that painted bit say?
“Protect yourself; don’t buy from Jews,” he whispered, “It appeared yesterday morning, then last night they came to take Mr Hoffman for questioning, just like Mr Bavistock.”
Your English teacher, I mused, What became of him, after the questioning?
“Nobody has seen him since,” Henri answered, “The people who go to be questioned… None of them have come back.”
I’m so sorry. I felt helpless, totally useless and unbelievably guilty. Here I was, sitting in my cosy little room in North Wales looking forward to cake and party food, whilst people like Henri would be all over Europe mourning the loss of friends they’d known. I couldn’t think of anything else to say except to repeat my regret. Henri, I’m so, so sorry. I just wish I could help.
“You’re here with me,” he murmured, “That’s something.”
And they can’t take me away, I added.
Henri pressed his fingers deep into his palms as he stood staring at the painted star. As his vision refocused I saw his full frame, a blurred reflection in the dark window. He was dishevelled, his shoulders hunched and deflated, but he was a broad boy with long arms and legs. His face was too obscured in the window to see his bruises; there was just an outline of his jaw and his ears sticking out a little against his messy hair. I wanted to hold his hand, to tell him that things would be right when England won the war, but I wasn’t sure I even knew that to be true.
“When they came to take him today, I fought against them,” Henri said softly, “My face is a warning to everyone against supporting a Jew. Hoffman was a charitable person, but his widow is not. I think she will turn me out soon.”
Despicable, I seethed, and after you defended him.
He shrugged. “I think it’s practical. I have made myself an enemy to Kluger now. I would cause her too much trouble if she let me stay.”
So what will you do?
“I don’t know yet,” he replied with a sigh.
I’ll come back, Henri. I’ll come back every day that I can. It wasn’t much to offer, but it was all I had.
“I hope so Kit,” he whispered, “I could use a friend right now.”
And that’s exactly what you’ve got, I replied.
Henri took us back to his room and I stayed until his clock ran out my hour, letting him run his gambit of abuse about the Germans and the occupation. When he swore he did it in Norwegian for what he called ‘gentlemanly reasons’, but I agreed with every slur even though I could only guess their meaning. By the end of the time it hurt to let him go, but as I went I felt his aching face break into a smile.
The end of Blod’s birthday weekend meant saying goodbye to Clive, Thomas and Ieuan, which was a tearful affair for Mam, especially since this time they were actually going to England instead of back to the Welsh coast. With Leighton’s help I managed to stand up from my chair to wave them goodbye, watching their tall navy blue figures cut a dash through the muggy spring afternoon as they started the walk to the village. Clive put his arms around his boys’ shoulders as they disappeared down the grassy path and Mam turned away with a hanky to her nose. I watched Clive’s smart RAF hat until it was totally out of view, hoping with pride that he and the boys would be there to bash the Germans and end this war all the quicker.
I was eager to get back to Henri, but my plans were scuppered when Mam received a telephone call from Doctor Bickerstaff saying he had an appointment free that day. She had sent him a message on Friday about my great excursion to the wash basin and no
w the rotten doctor wanted to interrupt my life to see it for himself. As much as I was happy to have taken a few steps, there were far more important things I could be doing, things that I couldn’t justify to anyone, unfortunately. We trundled up over the big hill in the doctor’s nice white car but all the while I could only think of how pleasant and safe things were in the damp spring climate of Bryn Eira Bach compared to Oslo, where perhaps at this very moment Henri would be walking the streets with his battered face looking for somewhere new to live and work. Alone.
Seething frustration filled me up like a kettle ready to boil by the time I was in Bickerstaff’s waiting room. It was always crowded on a Monday with people who had gotten poorly over the weekend and he was late seeing me. Mam didn’t ask about my livid expression, I supposed she was used to that kind of drama having raised Blod; she just read her magazine patiently and occasionally showed me what she thought was an interesting photo. I nodded sometimes, biting my lip, until she got into a very animated conversation with another mother figure that had just walked in and finally left me in peace. When Bickerstaff called me in, Mam was still chatting to her friend, but she gave the doctor a respectful nod.
“I’ll come in when you’re ready, Doctor,” she offered.
He nodded curtly like he always did and waited for me to wheel myself into his room. I came at him so fast that the wheels of my chair flew over the bump between the flooring with ease and he had to jolt out of my way unexpectedly. I pulled up to his desk without so much as looking at him.
“I see you’re feeling stronger, Kit,” he observed flatly. I didn’t answer, since he was never really listening anyway, and I was proved right when he carried on talking. “I have some walking aids that you’re going to try and use.”
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