by Anna Ellory
‘Everyone look. It’s a rainbow. Do you see?’
We all had to say we saw the rainbow before she continued.
‘We have rainbows on my holiday, Bunny. Hani, tell me the colours of the rainbow.’
‘Rood,’ said Hani.
‘Red,’ I interpreted.
‘I know, pretty lady – I speak Hani now.’
I laughed, Eugenia laughed, Wanda dried her eyes, for we could all see the rainbow now.
‘Red makes us cry when it leaks out,’ said Stella and she rattles along without breath. ‘The whip, the dogs, they make everything red. Orange is the sun, it no longer shines bright. The sun is sad, because the people are sad. Yellow is the sand, in my eyes, between my fingers, between my toes. Sand bites all over. Green is very rare, like smiles and photographs. Pretty lady, your eyes are green, they sparkle. Bunny’s eyes are brown. Hani’s eyes leak a lot of love.’
And they do.
‘They say my eyes are blue. I cannot see my eyes.’
‘Your eyes are blue, Stella,’ said Eugenia. ‘Blue like the deepest sapphires, the most brilliant blue of the sky.’
‘Blue air tastes like salt if the wind blows. We are by the sea, a deep, blue, wet sea. Hani, what colour is next?’
‘Purper.’
Stella laughed, repeating her again and again. Hani laughed too and the air suddenly lightened.
‘Purple. The colour of bruises when the red doesn’t come out of the skin, but weeps underneath. Bunny is like a bruise, she cries on the inside.’
Bunny nodded her head, yes.
‘Where is grey in the rainbow, Aunty Wanda?’
‘There is no grey, Stella.’
‘Yes, there is. The rainbow holds all the colours of the world.’ Then to Eugenia, ‘Genia – where is the grey?’
‘The grey is at the bottom, the smallest colour before it blends into white.’
‘Here there is more grey,’ said Stella. ‘The sky, the concrete, the wire, the uniform. The dead.’
‘But we are not here Stella, we are on holiday, on the beach,’ Hani said.
‘Miriam Winter?’ a kindly nurse in a navy uniform asks her as she is about to leave. ‘Can I have a quick word?’ She escorts her into a side room and sits on one side of a sofa and offers Miriam the other.
‘I have some good news,’ she starts. ‘We can transfer your father to the hospice Wednesday or Thursday probably. He’s responding to the antibiotics and I’m sure you saw the tube in his nose, he is on enteral feeding, and the physiotherapy can be done in the hospice too, to help clear his lungs. He’s doing okay.’ She smiles. ‘If you ask me, I think he has something to live for.’
‘He does,’ she says. ‘Yes, he does.’
Two days later Miriam leaves the hospital at the shift change. She walks out of the ward mingled with the nurses and up the silent streets for home. No one around. Not one person. She notices a purple sign illuminated by the street lights. Purper.
‘Abbott, Abbott and Co.’ The white lettering by the door to the left in the window lists:
Residential property
Wills and Probate
Family, Marital, Divorce.
Miriam walks in to a chime and three male faces rise to her entrance. She leaves hours later with a stack of brilliant-white paperwork, which she puts down carefully, like a bomb, on the end of the table.
Maybe she has something to live for after all.
27
HENRYK
The job offered at the school motivated me to look for something. Miriam’s school was the best Berlin had to offer, but Emilie encouraged me to find something at the university. I was, after all, a professor.
A French book in my hand, my new briefcase at my feet, it was my first day. A group of exceedingly smart-looking young men and women sat looking at me and I crumbled. I broke down without saying a word. I didn’t return.
A few months later I caught Herr Blundell in the courtyard after walking Miriam to school.
‘Herr Blundell, is it?’ I called.
‘Herr Winter,’ he said formally.
‘I apologise about how I left your office, you must think me terribly rude. I’m afraid you startled me and I didn’t know what to say.’
‘That’s fine. I’m used to talking about it now, I suppose.’
‘You were mistaken though, I do not know what you went through, not at all.’
‘That’s okay, people deal with trauma differently. I should have been more sensitive.’
‘No, there’s nothing to be sensitive about,’ I pressed. ‘The reason I stopped you today was . . . well, is that job still on offer?’
‘Yes, of course, please call me Peter.’ He extended his hand out to me. And it was ‘Peter’ until his retirement. I was a pall-bearer at his funeral, two months before carrying Emilie’s casket up the same aisle. I worked at the school until my retirement and to all intents and purposes had a full and happy life.
That is, until I thought of Frieda.
MIRIAM
Christmas passes and she thinks of Eva, of freedom and of living a life; her life.
On the day her father is due to transfer to the hospice, Miriam takes four codeine tablets and heads straight for Mum’s room.
The smell of memories overwhelms her, but with some sense of purpose she starts by packing away the dresses. Taking each out she lays them on the bed, and sorts them to go to the charity shop – they are too good to be hidden in a wardrobe forever.
Once Mum’s wardrobe is completely empty and the shoeboxes arranged around her, she opens the drawer and finds a pair of silk gloves. The silk threads soothe her inflamed and volatile skin, so much so that, in her narcotic-induced state, she feels sure she will never take them off.
She also finds Mum’s apron, folded and pressed into a drawer. She unfolds it and places it over the kitchen door. Where it should be.
She takes two more tablets, emptying the pack, and goes to bed, only waking up to a knock at the door. The codeine has yet to wear off and the effect has given her the feeling of a heavy rug across her shoulders.
Like a hug, but better. A hug that doesn’t want to let go. She holds on to this feeling for as long as she can.
‘Hello, Hilda.’
‘I can come back another time. I just have a few things to collect.’
‘It’s okay. Come in,’ she says, although she is aware she is slurring her words a little.
Hilda moves and talks at quick-fire speed. ‘Seems to be responding; stable; physio in the hospital.’ Miriam watches as she deftly collects the deflated air mattress and other medical bits that have littered the room.
‘Dad shouldn’t be in hospital, especially after you know he was in a concentration camp.’
‘I know. Oh, Miriam I am so sorry, if there was anything I could do,’ she says and stops moving.
‘You could have backed me in that meeting. Said that Dad could stay here,’ she says and rubs at a fallen tear as it slides down her face.
‘You don’t look well,’ she says.
‘No. So that’s it, as far as your visits go?’ she asks, and as Hilda is about to walk into the hallway Miriam stops her, not wanting to be alone. ‘You called Axel.’
‘He called me. He said you two had patched things up after the meeting and I needed to get a message to you.’
‘He met me at the hospital.’ Choosing her words carefully, she says, ‘He assaulted me. I spoke to the police and . . .’
Hilda is looking at her cautiously.
‘They call it sexual assault,’ Miriam says, trying the words out and flushing scarlet.
‘I—’ Hilda begins, but Miriam doesn’t let her finish. Her voice slow and methodical, she continues.
‘I trust people, but everyone believes Axel. Not me. He hurt me. He continues to hurt me and no one cares. I am not crazy. I told the police everything. Dr Baum is wrong,’ Miriam says.
Hilda interrupts, ‘Problem is,’ she says, ‘you have a noted medical histor
y of psychotic episodes, paranoia, self-harm.’ She looks pointedly at Miriam’s hands, which are covered in white silk gloves. ‘And your husband has been a registered carer for you,’ Hilda continues. ‘And you were filed as a missing person after you left him in Wolfsburg. It was all on your file. I should have looked.’
‘None of it is true, Hilda. You did the right thing. You helped me to care for my father. You helped me make up for some of the things I have done. I am not mad. I will prove it to whoever listens. I am sorry.’
‘Can I ask you, why do you think Axel is doing this? Because I would really like to believe you, but it doesn’t make sense. Why go to these lengths? What’s the purpose?’
‘I wish I knew.’
‘What are you going to do?’
‘Eva says I should divorce him, but I don’t really know, keep away, I suppose.’
‘Who is Eva?’ Hilda asks and Miriam realises that she has no idea.
‘A friend,’ she says.
‘Any further forward with the letter, in the dress?’ Hilda asks.
‘No. No. I don’t think so. I think . . .’ Miriam rubs the silk glove across her face and is greeted by the faintest smell of aloe vera from Mum’s Atrixo hand cream. ‘I think maybe I am lost. I don’t know anything anymore.’
‘Do you not think you may need some help? I’m not talking medications,’ she says. ‘Just someone you can trust, talk to even?’
‘I can’t go back to Axel. He is a very bad person to me, Hilda.’
The honesty of her statement holds true in the air and Miriam, coming out of her fog a little, feels better. ‘He is a very bad person,’ she repeats.
‘There are other people you can trust, Miriam, not just Axel. What about Eva?’
‘She doesn’t trust anyone, either,’ Miriam says petulantly. But in the back of her mind she thinks, Eva trusted me. Miriam continues, saying sharply to Hilda, ‘I trusted you and you called Axel!’
‘He called me,’ Hilda corrects. ‘I am so sorry, Miriam, really I am. I should leave now.’ Hilda turns to go.
Alone and clearer in thought, Miriam walks to the table and all the letters. She picks one up and places it back down. She paces the house, trying to find some cohesive thoughts. Remembering her harsh words with dismay. This will all end, and soon. No more Eva and soon no more letters, no more Dad. But there will always be Axel . . .
And with Eva’s words in her head and Frieda’s voice in her heart, she completes the paperwork from the solicitor.
She puts the radio on and checks the door multiple times before she trusts herself to sit and pick up a flaking, thin letter, almost brown at the edges, and the counterpart Eva has transcribed, attached.
Henryk
Twenty-five days later, I am told, I have returned to the light. I am held now as I held Hani. Hani is better and she tries to warm me, nothing can warm me now. I am very near death. I can feel it. I cannot write again, I have Hani and Eugenia at my side.
I love you.
Miriam reads back and over again. The previous letter was about rainbows. She looks through the pile, this one is numbered in sequence. She looks to the next for explanation.
A knock at the door makes her jump. She expects it to be Eva. She raises the letter in her hand as a greeting, but she sees two male police officers, in pristine blue uniform.
‘Frau Voight? Can we come in?’
She opens the door wider and drops the letter on the mantel. They smell of men, a smell that conjures the image of a mechanic’s workshop: of denim and wood. They are both holding their flat hats in their hands as they walk in, their heavy boots making imprints on the pale carpet.
‘This is Officer Snelling and I’m Officer Nikolls,’ says the older one. ‘Can we sit?’
Miriam motions to the dining room chairs as she perches on the edge of another one.
‘Our colleague, Officer Müller, advised us of the’ – he reaches into his jacket pocket and pulls out a notebook, flicking through the pages, he removes a pen – ‘attack. The attack you sustained on the twenty-third of December.’
Miriam looks to her feet, clad in tights, her toes covered in silk.
‘We spoke to Herr Voight this morning. What with Christmas and you not answering your phone, we thought we would do this the old-fashioned way.’ He smiles showing large teeth. ‘Herr Voight has an entirely different version of events.’
‘Of course he does,’ she says.
‘Would you be able to go over what happened in your own words?’
‘Do I have to?’
‘We could get a female officer to attend, if you would feel more comfortable. That won’t be until tomorrow, though, I’m afraid.’
She shakes her head.
‘He frightened me.’ She swallows hard as the younger officer, who hasn’t uttered a word, takes out his notebook and makes notes with a scratch of his pencil. Officer Nikolls looks directly at her. She talks to her toes. ‘He twisted my arm and pushed me into the corner, behind a cabinet. He tore my clothes and forced me to the ground. You have the rest?’ Her face feels hot and she looks at Officer Snelling making notes. He nods without looking up.
‘Thank you, Miriam,’ Officer Nikolls says. ‘But I need to tell you that your husband states that at around seven p.m. he received a call from you inviting him to meet you at the hospital. Did you call him?’
She swallows a lump the size of a mountain and runs her gloved fingertips across her lips.
‘He has phone records to prove that a phone call from this address was answered by him and the conversation lasted the duration of three minutes.’
‘Yes, I did. I wanted to find out where my dad was.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘He was meant to go to the hospice, but he didn’t get there and I called Axel because I thought he might know.’
‘Why would you think Axel would know? It says here you have been separated a month, was he in contact with your father?’
‘No. My father is dying. I assumed when my father was missing that Axel had been involved. He’s . . .’
‘Your father was missing?’
‘In the ambulance, they took him to hospital, not to the hospice, as he was unwell.’
‘And the professionals didn’t tell you. Did you try to contact them?’
‘Yes, and when I found out he was at the hospital I went straight there.’
‘Did you inform Axel you were going there?’
‘No.’
‘How did he know where to meet you?’
‘Hilda, Dad’s nurse, told him.’
‘He says you asked him to meet you?’
‘Did I?’ Miriam thinks, what did she say on the phone? She remembers holding it tight and the bite of his smile heard through the phone line. She shakes her head. ‘I wouldn’t have told him to meet me. I am sure.’
‘When we spoke to Herr Voight he said you and he like to partake in “risqué” sexual interactions.’
She sits back, stunned.
‘Sometimes in public areas. Sometimes, quite . . .’ He looks through his notebook again. ‘Rough. He maintains that you did have sexual intercourse, but that it was entirely consensual and initiated by you.’
‘That is not true, he hurt me. He always hurts me.’
‘And we have the hospital report that shows this. However, it is your word against his, so this becomes a domestic dispute. As such, our involvement tends to escalate these situations. And the problem here is that you are husband and wife. It would be hard for a solicitor to make a case when there are previous relations between the two of you. I presume these relations were consensual in the past?’
Miriam nods. ‘But not for a long time,’ she whispers, then louder to the officers: ‘If he were not my husband, you’d call it rape, right?’
The younger of the officers clears his throat, and scratches at day-old stubble on his cheek. ‘Did you clearly say no?’
Like the final nail in the coffin, her shoulders slump back in the
chair, raising her feet off the ground. ‘No.’
‘Try to push him away? Physically hurt him?’
‘I was scared,’ she says quietly and thinks of Dawn’s response. Maybe she did ask for this.
‘Scream?’ suggests Officer Nikolls, trying to be helpful. ‘These would be clear signs, you agree? For your non-consent to this specific interaction between the two of you.’
‘What did you do?’ Officer Snelling looks directly at her and Miriam takes a deep breath.
‘I accepted it, just like I always do. I just lay there and tried to be elsewhere. I wait for it to be over. If I fight it’s worse.’ She stands. ‘But it doesn’t matter. We are married, maybe I did ask for it. I apologise for wasting your time.’
They both remain seated. ‘Our job,’ says Officer Snelling, ‘is to support the community – vulnerable people, like yourself. I think the main issue is keeping distance between you and your husband should you not wish for his assumption to happen again. He mentioned that you have some further challenges, and we have a record of you as a missing person for a time.’
‘Yes, well, I do not wish to waste any more of your time. Thank you for coming all the way out here today.’
Finally, they stand. ‘Cases like this are complex, but unfortunately, in the circumstances, there is no further action we can offer you. Perhaps your doctor could offer you some support, friends maybe?’
She waits for them to move and follows them out without a word.
‘If you have any further questions,’ he says, and offers her a card with his details on it.
‘Thank you.’ As she looks up they are walking down the hall.
She closes and locks the door. She finds the feather on the shelf and places it carefully between the frame before pacing each room.
28
MIRIAM
Miriam runs the water in the bathroom sink and contemplates its still surface, reflecting her image back to her. Dashing the water away, unused, she puts Mum’s silk gloves back on. And back at the table she picks up the next letter to read on.
