He woke with a start when the engine was switched off. He rubbed his eyes and felt the heavy warmth from Marie’s head on his lap. Anno Schmidt opened the car door on the opposite side and, pressing his fingers to his lips, gently slid Marie out and into his arms. The little girl stirred but didn’t wake. Then he gestured for Alfred to get out.
The night was sharp and cold. The first thing Alfred noticed was the smell of smoke that hung in the air all around. He had never been to the city before. The street was quiet and dark, save for the yellow light given off by the hissing gas lamps that lined the pavements. Several of the buildings were adorned with awnings of red-and-white flags, like party decorations, rising and falling in the chilly breeze.
Anno Schmidt, carrying Marie in his arms, began to walk towards the huge red-brick building they had parked in front of. It was four storeys tall and wider than any building Alfred had ever seen. There were no lights on. Schmidt climbed the stone steps to the front door and rang the bell. After a few moments, the door opened and a woman appeared. She nodded at Schmidt and guided them inside, closing the door before switching on a small lamp that stood on a table near the door. Alfred could detect a strong odour of urine and disinfectant.
‘I’ve been waiting an hour,’ the woman said. Her eyes twitched as she spoke, and she sounded angry. Her black hair was scraped back into a bun, revealing a very white section of scalp. Alfred took a step closer to Schmidt. Then the woman turned to the wall, where Alfred saw three rows of wooden handles attached to brown cords. She tugged on one and turned back to Schmidt.
‘The nurse will have to check them first,’ she said.
‘Can’t that wait until morning?’ Schmidt said, keeping his voice low. ‘They’re exhausted.’
‘I’m not having them sleeping in my nice clean beds if they’re full of lice,’ she said. ‘They will be checked first.’
Alfred heard footsteps coming from a dark hallway that led off the entrance area. A stout woman dressed in a white uniform appeared. She ruffled Alfred’s hair and winked at him.
‘The girl first,’ the woman said to her. ‘Then she can be put straight to bed.’
‘Very well,’ the nurse said and held her arms out for Marie. Marie let out a soft murmur when Schmidt handed her over, but remained asleep. The nurse retreated to where she had come from with the little girl slumped against her plump breast. It was the last time Alfred was ever to see Marie.
The woman turned to him. ‘You sit over there and wait,’ she said, pointing to a chair in the corner. Alfred obeyed wordlessly. He was dreadfully tired. The woman and Schmidt disappeared into a side room, leaving the door slightly ajar. He could hear them talking, but couldn’t make out any words. His lids slid over his eyes.
Don’t fall asleep just yet, my dear.
The voice was hushed.
Alfred. Open your eyes.
Alfred didn’t want to open his eyes. They seemed glued shut, too heavy to open.
Come on, Alfred. Wake up.
The voice was joined by another: Yes, wakey-wakey. Not the time to sleep now. Wake up.
‘Leave me alone,’ Alfred mumbled.
Come on, wake up!
Keep your wits about you, boy!
‘No. I’m tired. Leave me alone.’ He screwed his eyes tighter shut. ‘I want to sleep.’
Alfred, you –
‘No! I want to sleep!’ Alfred opened his eyes and immediately felt his heart jump into his throat. The woman and Schmidt had come out of the room without making a sound and were now standing in front of him.
‘Who are you talking to?’ the woman demanded.
Alfred shook his head. He felt sick. ‘No one,’ he whispered.
‘You were talking to someone,’ she said. ‘We heard you. I repeat: who were you talking to?’
Schmidt turned to the woman. ‘Leave him be,’ he said. ‘He’s just lost his parents, for Christ’s sake. He’s tired and confused.’
The woman let out a rush of air. ‘Oh no. I’ve seen this sort of thing before.’ She crouched down so that she was at Alfred’s eye level. She smelled strongly of bile soap, the kind his mother used to get stains out of clothing. ‘You were talking to someone,’ she said, her voice softer than before, but still carrying that edge of fierceness. ‘Don’t be scared, Alfred. You can tell me. Now – is this a voice inside your head? An imaginary voice that talks to you sometimes? Or . . . ’ she paused. ‘Or perhaps more than one voice?’
Before he could stop himself, Alfred gave a little nod. It was a tiny, almost imperceptible movement of his head, but its effect was more powerful than he could have imagined. The woman jumped up and took a step back.
‘The boy is an idiot!’ she cried. ‘I should have known. You can tell by the eyes. Look into his eyes!’
‘There’s nothing wrong with his eyes,’ Schmidt said, sounding very angry now. ‘You know as well as I do that some children have imaginary friends. Ones they talk to.’
The woman shook her head wildly. ‘Oh no no no. You are not leaving this child here. He is an idiot. Take him.’ She grabbed Alfred’s sleeve with two fingers, as if handling something extremely disgusting, ‘you take him now and leave.’
‘Where the hell am I supposed to take him?’ Schmidt shouted.
‘Keep your voice down!’ she hissed. ‘I don’t care where you take him. To the asylum. Yes, take him to the asylum. He’s not staying here.’
And she pulled Alfred by the sleeve of his coat all the way to the door. Schmidt followed her and grabbed her hand, squeezing it hard for a moment. A flicker of pain crossed her face. Then he let her hand drop and touched Alfred’s shoulder.
‘Come on, boy,’ he said. ‘This is no place for you.’
They had hardly stepped out when the door slammed behind them. Alfred heard the bolts sliding shut.
In the car, Schmidt rolled a cigarette. Alfred, sitting next to him in the passenger seat, could see that he was trembling slightly.
‘Where are we going?’ he asked, as Schmidt started the engine and pulled onto the road.
Schmidt blew out a lungful of smoke. ‘Darned if I know,’ he said.
‘But . . . ’ Alfred began.
‘Shush, let me think,’ Schmidt interrupted. After several minutes, he flicked his cigarette out of the window and cleared his throat. ‘Right. I have an idea. But God knows if this is going to work.’ He turned to Alfred and looked at him gravely. ‘And God knows what fate has in store for you.’
They drove in silence for a while. Alfred rested his forehead on the side window and watched the city pass by. The number of buildings overwhelmed him. He couldn’t begin to imagine so many people in one place at the same time.
‘I’ll let you into a little secret,’ Schmidt said, jolting Alfred out of his thoughts. ‘I have a fiancée.’ He looked at Alfred and chuckled quietly. ‘Yeah, surprises me too. And she’s good-looking. Anyway, she has a cousin, works as a housefather at the Jewish orphanage. The one in Pankow.’ He took a right turn at the next junction. ‘That’s where we’re going now. I have no idea if they’ll take you. You don’t exactly look . . . well, I don’t suppose that matters. But it’s all I can think of to do. And he’s a good man, Heinz. You can’t believe what you hear about the Jews. My Magda’s a fine girl. And so are her parents.’
He lapsed into silence, while Alfred recalled what Emil had said about Jews that day at the dinner table. About not being able to throw them very far, or something. He yawned. All he wanted to do now was sleep. And tomorrow – tomorrow Johanna would come and find him and Marie and take them home.
A short while later, Schmidt slowed the car and they came to a halt.
‘We’re here,’ he said, although it sounded more like a question than a statement.
Alfred climbed out of his side of the car. The building in front of him was separated from the pavement by a wrought-iron gate. Alfred looked up at the building, which was the largest on the street as far as he could tell. To the left of the entrance, a leafl
ess poplar tree reached up to the second-storey windows, which were all framed by Juliet balconies with boxes of geraniums. At the very top, just beneath a curved section of roof, he read the inscription:
II. Waisenhaus
Der Jüdischen Gemeinde
In Berlin
Erbaut im Jahre 1912-13.
Schmidt rang the bell beside the gate.
‘I hope someone is awake,’ he said, rubbing the side of his face. They waited for a long while, Schmidt shifting his weight from one foot to the other to keep them warm, or perhaps with nerves. Finally, a light came on in a downstairs window. A minute later, the door opened and a man peered out.
‘Who’s there?’ he called.
‘We’re in luck,’ Schmidt said to Alfred, and then called back, ‘Heinz. It’s me. Anno.’
The door opened more widely and the man stepped out. He hesitated momentarily, squinting in Alfred and Schmidt’s direction, and then hurried down a set of stone steps and unlocked the gate.
‘Come in, come in,’ he said, and added, ‘you can’t be too careful these days.’
The men embraced briefly.
‘I’ve brought you something,’ Schmidt said and nodded in Alfred’s direction. Nadel glanced at Alfred, frowning, and then led them inside.
‘It’s very late,’ he said to Schmidt, once they’d taken off their coats.
‘I’m sorry,’ Schmidt said, ‘it’s a bit of an emergency.’ And he explained the situation to Nadel, while Alfred looked around. In front of him, a large stone stairwell curved up and to the left; to his right, a spacious corridor was dimly lit by four lamps that hung on chains from a high vaulted ceiling. There were two double doors; one marked Speisesaal, the other marked Bibliothek. Apart from Schmidt and Nadel’s hushed conversation, the place was eerily silent.
‘I can’t say that I like it,’ Nadel said finally. ‘The situation is fragile enough already. As you well know, Anno.’
‘I know, Heinz.’ Schmidt sighed. ‘But what should I do with him? I can’t take the poor lad to the asylum. If he’s not an idiot, that would certainly make him one.’
Nadel looked down at Alfred. Then he took off his round glasses and rubbed the top of his nose. ‘Very well, Anno,’ he said in a tired voice, ‘I suppose there’s no harm in giving him a bed for the night. He looks exhausted. But in the morning, I’ll have to take it up with the director. This is not my decision to make.’
Schmidt smiled and took Nadel’s hand in his, shaking it warmly. ‘Thank you Heinz.’ Then he put his coat back on and turned to Alfred. ‘All right, little man. I’ll be off now. You’re in good hands. Just make sure to do as you’re told. Wash your hands before dinner and go to bed without a fuss.’ Then he took Alfred into his arms and hugged him. ‘Be a good boy, Alfred, and no harm will come to you.’
The front door closed softly behind him, and moments later, Alfred heard the metallic clunk of the front gate opening and closing outside. Nadel stretched out his hand.
‘Heinz Nadel,’ he said.
Alfred took his hand and shook it. ‘Alfred Werner.’
‘Well, Alfred Werner, I suppose we’d better find you a bed.’
Day Two
That night, I lay in bed unable to sleep. Although I had closed my bedroom door, I could hear Alfred’s snoring coming from the living room. I wasn’t used to such close company, and it made me feel oddly claustrophobic. I’d only been living on my own for two months, since my father died, but I had got used to it surprisingly quickly.
Just the thought of an extra body emanating warmth inside the small flat made me uncomfortably hot. I kicked the sheets off me and felt chilly instantly. So I slipped back underneath the sheets and turned onto my other side. I felt hot again. Finally, I sat up and checked the time. Five thirty. It was still completely dark outside, but I had to accept that the chances of me getting any sleep were approaching zero, and so I decided to call it a night and get up. Very quietly, I slipped into the living room, not wanting to wake Alfred until I’d had a chance to look through his belongings. I wasn’t being nosey, but given the circumstances, I thought it might be a good idea to try and find somebody to get in contact with, some family member or something. In the light coming in from the hallway, I could make out Alfred’s sleeping shape on the couch. He was wearing a pair of blue flannel pyjamas.
I looked around and spotted his jacket hanging on the back of a chair. I tiptoed over and patted down the pockets. The right pocket was empty. There was something soft in the left pocket, but assuming this was most likely a handkerchief – not a disposable tissue, but rather one of those elderly gentleman’s fabric handkerchiefs, the kind my dad insisted on using despite my hygiene objections – I restrained from putting my hand inside the pocket to find out. The only pocket remaining was on the inside left, and indeed, here I struck lucky: a letter from Brynja addressed to Alfred.
I went straight back to the bedroom, where I switched on my laptop, accessed the Internet and, trying not to feel too guilty about prying into his private affairs, typed in: Gladstone Court Residential Care Home, Franklin Road, Stoke-on-Trent. Listening out for the rhythmic asthmatic rasp of Alfred’s snoring, I dialled the number shown on the screen. Ring-ring, ring-ring, ring-ring. I was about to give up, remembering only then that England was an hour behind, making it shortly before five there and thus unlikely that anyone would be awake to answer the phone, when I heard a very sleepy, ‘Mmm? Hello?’
‘Oh, hello. Good morning. Sorry if I’ve woken you,’ I said. ‘Is this the Gladstone Court Care Home in Stoke-on-Trent?’
‘Yes. Is this an emergency?’
‘Um, no. Not really.’
‘In that case, do you realise what time it is?’
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘I’m very sorry if I’ve woken you. It’s just that I’m calling from outside the UK and I’d forgotten about the time difference.’
‘You haven’t woken me, madam,’ the woman replied. ‘At Gladstone we provide round-the-clock quality care for our residents, which means that there is a member of staff on duty at all times.’
‘That’s good to know,’ I said, keeping my voice friendly, although her tone reminded me of why I hadn’t put my own father into a nursing home. ‘And actually, I am calling about one of your residents. Alfred Warner.’
There was a short pause on the other end.
Then: ‘Are you German?’
‘Yes.’
‘Mm. I thought I detected an accent. Then you must be Alfred’s granddaughter. To be honest, I was never entirely sure he would actually manage to find you. He seems a little . . . confused at times.’
‘Oh, that’s . . . ’
She interrupted me. ‘Yes. Well, you know, we don’t like to use the word “demented”, although between you and me, what’s wrong with calling a spade a spade? It’s not as if it makes any difference. Certainly not to them.’ She sighed. ‘But nobody ever asks me.’
‘Excuse me, Ms . . . ’
‘Clarke. Jocelyn Clarke. And to be honest, Ms Warner, although Alfred isn’t the worst I’ve seen, well, he does upset the other ones, sometimes. Now I know this is something that should be discussed in person, face to face as it were, but seeing as you’re the only relative he’s ever mentioned, and you’re not exactly a frequent visitor, are you?’
‘Ms Clarke . . . ’
‘Yes, well, as I was saying. When Alfred gets back – and when is that exactly, anyway? He was in such a rush to get off, he didn’t fill in the away schedule properly. And that’s precisely what I mean, he just refuses to do as he’s told sometimes.’
‘Ms Clarke, I just . . . ’
‘I mean, a lot of them talk to themselves, that’s quite normal, but Alfred . . . he just refuses to stop, you know? And it’s not just a quiet mumble, he’s having whole conversations – in his room, in the common room, at dinner – and it’s upsetting people. To put it bluntly, Ms Warner, your grandfather’s going to have to leave if he continues with this non-compliant behaviour. It�
�s all written down in our General Terms and Conditions, if you care to look. We have a three-strikes-and-you’re-out policy, and I’m sorry to have to say this, but Alfred’s coming close to his third.’
The next words that came out of my mouth took me by surprise: ‘Well in that case, you stupid woman, consider this his third!’ And I cut her off, at the same time horrified at what I’d just done. I could feel my pulse racing; in fact, I was close to tears. Then I heard a voice behind me.
‘I’m not going back, you know.’
My heart bounced up into my throat and down again. I almost dropped the phone with the fright, and turned around to see Alfred standing at the door, still wearing his blue flannel pyjamas.
‘Jesus!’ I blurted out. ‘You nearly gave me a heart attack!’
‘Sorry,’ he said, and then added, ‘I don’t mean what I said in a petulant way. I’m not being difficult. It’s just . . . I’m not going back, that’s all.’
I put the phone down on the table and walked over to him.
‘Listen Alfred.’ I placed a hand on his arm. The flannel was very soft to the touch. ‘I’m sorry. I – I thought . . . oh, I don’t know what I was thinking.’ And I felt suddenly awful; he probably didn’t have enough money for a hotel, and even then, there was no way of knowing how long his granddaughter would be in a coma. He nodded, or perhaps his head was wobbling involuntarily.
Then he said, ‘Yes, I know. I was just about to mention it. You treat me like a child sometimes. It’s quite infuriating.’
‘Pardon?’ I dropped my hand from his arm, irritated by his remark and the sulky tone with which he’d said it. But he immediately took my hand in his warm, papery hand and squeezed it.
‘Oh no,’ he said. ‘I didn’t mean you. I was . . . ’ He let my hand go and shook his head. ‘Never mind. I was going to say that I understand. Your hospitality and care have been remarkable. Thank you indeed. And Christmas is here, and you will surely have other things, other people . . . ’ He trailed off.
We stood in awkward silence. Finally, I said, ‘Well, perhaps we can sort out a hotel? I’m not sure it’ll be easy to find something, but . . . ’ I stopped when I saw his expression. He looked utterly forlorn.
The Uncommon Life of Alfred Warner in Six Days Page 7
