Alfred tore himself free from the man’s grip and, once more, entered the house. Smoke had now begun to creep down the stairs, rolling down slowly, as if testing the steps one at a time. It was an eerie sight. He took a deep breath and ran upstairs as quickly as he could, although he could feel the lack of oxygen in his bloodstream slowing down his movements. Opposite Amy’s bedroom was the box room. The door stood slightly ajar. James must be in here, he thought, and gently swung the door open. This room, too, was full of black smoke, and Alfred’s first thought was that no one could have survived more than ten minutes in here. He couldn’t see a thing, but just beyond the sound of the fire eating its way through Amy’s bedroom opposite, he thought he heard a slight scratching. Blindly, with arms outstretched, he made his way through the room. The space was, of course, tiny, but he stumbled badly over some toys lying on the floor and was once again overcome by a coughing fit. He tried to call the boy’s name, but his throat was by now too dry and swollen. He swallowed painfully, trying to unstick his tongue from his palate. Then:
Under the bed! Look under the bed! See, you just need to get on all fours. Do it now!
Alfred dropped from his bent over position to his knees and using his right arm, swept the floor in front of him. His hand came into contact with something hard; the leg of James’ bed.
‘James,’ he whispered hoarsely. ‘James, are you there?’
Something touched his hand. He stretched his arm out as far as it would go and then felt James’ smooth, cool fingers. ‘Come on, wee man. We need to get out of here.’
A little fluttering cough came from somewhere in front of him. He’s alive, Alfred thought, and at that moment all his strength left his body in one swift rush.
‘Mr Werner?’ he heard. James’ voice was thick with tears. But Alfred couldn’t move. He rested his cheek on the wooden floor and for one sweet moment, contemplated how nice it would be just to remain lying here, forever, listening to the gentle chiming of the clock downstairs rising up through the floorboards, striking out three o’clock, ding, ding, ding, overcome by the delicious calm induced by the carbon monoxide, which was now flowing through his bloodstream. His swollen eyelids slid shut.
He’s going, he’s going . . . no, Alfred, no!
Don’t panic, we haven’t lost him. He’s still breathing. And it isn’t his time yet.
ALFRED! ALFRED! ALFRED!!!
A movement on the back of his hand pulled him back up into consciousness. A stroke, or a scratch, then a pinch. It was the boy. Breathing shallowly, although he longed to take a deep, deep breath and succumb to the sleep that was beckoning him, Alfred forced himself to stretch out his other arm, until he had clasped the small hand between his own. Then he pulled, and James appeared, pale and shaking, from beneath the bed. It took all Alfred’s strength to get to his feet, but he managed somehow, and hoisted the child under his arm, carrying him down the stairs on legs that threatened to collapse at any moment. Which they did, as soon as he reached the front door. He felt the world around him spin and a second later, fell to the pavement and cracked his head on the stone.
When he came to, he was lying on a couch whose dusty floral pattern was familiar, but he couldn’t place it at once. His right hand was heavily bandaged, and when he put his other hand to his head, felt a bandage there, too. His skull ached. He tried to sit up, but that just compounded the pain. In addition, there was a great pressure on his lungs, as though someone had placed a heavy rock on his chest.
‘Lie back, won’t you?’
Alfred turned his head. It took a second for his eyes to focus, but when they did, he saw Harding, sitting on a chair opposite. He grinned at Alfred and then plucked a cigarette from behind his ear. ‘Cannae smoke this in here,’ he said, somewhat wistfully. ‘The minister won’t let me.’
It dawned on Alfred then that he was lying in the vicarage parlour. ‘I . . . ’ he began, again trying to sit up, and again giving up.
‘There’s some oxygen for ye, if ye need it,’ Harding said and pointed at a gas cylinder standing next to the couch. ‘Dr Cummings brought it. Reckons you’ll nae need the hospital if you’ve some clean air.’ He glanced longingly at his cigarette, but then stuck it back behind his ear.
‘Isobel,’ Alfred said, and immediately began coughing. The cough grated on his throat like sandpaper.
Harding rose from his chair. ‘Here, son.’ He took the mask that was attached to the cylinder by a thin tube and held it over Alfred’s mouth. The air was pure and cold as it rushed into his lungs.
‘Isobel is fine,’ Harding said quietly. ‘A wee bit shaken, but that’s no surprise. She’s asleep upstairs.’
Alfred widened his eyes, the mask still on his face, and Harding understood. ‘The bairn is fine, too. Christ, Alfred, whatever devil rode ye back into that house, I’ll ne’er know.’ He sighed and shook his head. ‘Mrs Fraser’s in a bit of a bad way, though. They’ve taken her to Cumnock, to put her in one of those hyper – hypo . . . ’
‘Hyperbaric chamber.’ It was Drummond, carrying a tray with tea and cake. He placed the tray down and came over to Alfred. ‘She’s in a special chamber to clear out her lungs. But the prognosis is positive.’ He nodded gravely. ‘We shall pray for her.’
‘Quite the hero we have here,’ Harding continued, picking up a folded newspaper from the table beside him.
Alfred took the mask off his face. The oxygen continued to hiss from the cylinder until Harding switched it off. ‘Take a look,’ he said and passed the paper to Alfred. It was the evening edition of the Ayrshire Post. Alfred folded it open and saw, on the bottom of the front page, a small article with the headline: Local Hero Alfred Warner, 23, Risks Life to Save Baby.
‘You seen this?’ Harding asked Drummond.
Drummond nodded and passed Harding a cup of tea. ‘Spelled his name wrong, though,’ he said. Alfred glanced back down at the paper. It was true. Warner, it read.
Harding shrugged. ‘Aye, but ye are a local lad now, ain’t ye?’ He laughed before adding more quietly, ‘And it’s nae a bad thing. To sound less German, I mean. And on the bright side, this should bump you right to the top of the housing list.’
The three men were silent for a while. Then Alfred asked, ‘When can I see Isobel?’
‘You’ll see her soon enough. Let her sleep a while,’ Drummond said. ‘The house, I’m afraid, is beyond saving, but she doesn’t need to know just yet.’ He stirred sugar into his tea. ‘But don’t worry. Ye’ll be staying here with me. Until September, that is. My replacement will need the vicarage then.’
Alfred managed to sit up. The oxygen had helped take the weight off his lungs. ‘There were some men,’ he said weakly.
‘Aye,’ Harding said. ‘McKay heard them. Three of them, he reckons, shouting some filthy, filthy things.’ He paused momentarily. Alfred could see Harding’s teacup trembling on the saucer. ‘It’s shameful. If I ever – ’
‘Let’s leave that to the police,’ Drummond interrupted. His voice was firm. ‘I cannae imagine it were anyone from the village, but . . . ’ he trailed off.
Alfred lay back down, overcome by a sudden weariness. His right hand was throbbing painfully and his lungs began to tighten again. He was leaning over for the oxygen mask, when he saw Isobel standing in the doorway. She was wearing a white nightgown and her hair was ruffled with sleep.
‘Oh Alfie,’ she cried, running over to him and burying her head in his chest.
‘Easy now, Isobel,’ Drummond said. ‘Give the man a chance to recover.’
But Isobel clutched Alfred even tighter. ‘I thought . . . I thought . . . when you ran back into that house – ’ She started crying. ‘Oh God, Alfie. You took so long, I didnae think . . . ’
Alfred began to stroke her hair with his uninjured hand. ‘Shhh, Isobel, it’s all fine. I got out, didn’t I?’
Isobel was still weeping loudly. ‘Never,’ she said, as the front of Alfred’s shirt became wet with her tears. ‘Never do something so stupid again.
I love you, you stupid, stupid man.’ She continued to sob, and presently, Harding excused himself. He gave Alfred a parting wink and then slid the cigarette from behind his ear.
‘I’ll go and make a fresh pot,’ Drummond said, and also left.
When Isobel had finally calmed down, she sat back on her heels and stroked Alfred’s face. ‘I mean it,’ she said. ‘You must promise me never to risk your life like that again. Promise me, Alfie.’
And Alfred, reluctantly and not quite sincerely, promised.
That night, when he was sure Isobel was asleep in the bed next to his, he called the voices. He had a question, something that had bothered him since they woke him to warn him of the arson attack.
‘You’re speaking English,’ he said, when he heard – or rather felt – them arrive.
Of course.
‘But – ’
Or would you rather another language? Á íslensku? En français? Italiano? Πo-pyccxu?
It was pointless to question them, Alfred had long since learned, and yet – he felt a slight tug to his heart at the thought that this final tie to his native country had been severed.
‘No. English is fine,’ he said to himself, looking over to Isobel and listening out for her soft breathing.
Exactly. It makes no difference, really, does it?
Two weeks following the fire, he was declared fit for work by Dr Cummings. The day before he was due to return to his duties, he rose early, leaving Isobel asleep in the bedroom they shared in the vicarage, and took the short walk to Mauchline train station. He boarded a train for Kilmarnock and arrived at the town hall shortly before nine o’clock. In his pocket he carried a deed poll document, signed and witnessed by Harding and his wife, Maggie. Three hours later he boarded the train back to Mauchline. He was now officially Mr Alfred Warner.
Day Four
After dinner on Christmas Day, we went for a walk. My usual route for walks is through the Volkspark, a long narrow park that snakes its way west, towards Wilmersdorf. But Alfred was eager to show me around the neighbourhood he had spent his war years in, and, I’ll admit, once he mentioned this, I was quite keen to see for myself. We set out from Münchener Straße and soon walked onto the main thoroughfare of Grunewaldstraße. Many of the balconies of the tenement houses we passed were decorated with fairy lights, some glowing tastefully in white, others flashing garishly in red, blue, yellow, green. Alfred wandered around a little aimlessly to begin with, as though he was having difficulties getting his bearings. But soon enough, he pointed towards a row of shops.
‘There! That’s it! It must be.’
The shops, together with a café, formed the ground floor of an ugly five-storey building – built in the 1950s, I would guess – which was set back from the road to create a small concrete square. Several wooden troughs, which I knew contained flowering plants during the spring and summer, separated the square from the pavement.
‘That’s what?’ I asked.
Alfred walked towards the square. ‘The pharmacy,’ he said, grinning, ‘it’s still here. And . . . ’ he took a few more steps, ‘the bakery. I used to come here almost every day, did I tell you that?’ But he didn’t give me an opportunity to answer. ‘And this was a tailor . . . ’ (now an electronics repair shop) ‘and a stationer’s,’ (now an Internet café) ‘and next to that a wig maker’ (now a Thai massage parlour). He paused. ‘Well, that was before. It became a women’s hosiery shop when the war started. And there were a few more shops, but I suppose the café took up the space.’ He looked as excited as a little boy who had just rediscovered a favourite toy he’d believed lost for good.
As for me, for the first time I got the uncomfortable feeling that something wasn’t right. ‘But Alfred, you do realise that this building is post-war?’ I said carefully.
He turned slowly to look at me. ‘I may be old,’ he said, ‘but I’m not stupid. This is, of course, not the original building. They must have decided to replace the shop front when they rebuilt after the war.’ Then, without a word, he continued walking and I hurried to catch up with him. We walked side by side for a while. The streets were virtually empty. On Rosenheimer Straße, Alfred stopped and pointed at two little brass plaques inlaid among the cobblestones on the pavement.
‘What’s this?’ he asked.
‘Stolpersteine,’ I answered. ‘Stumbling stones. They’re personalised memorials for the Jews who lived in this building, before they were deported.’
Alfred looked at them for a long time without speaking. Then, again without warning, as though he were out on a walk alone, he set off down the street.
‘When was the last time you were here?’ I asked when I had reached his side.
‘Nineteen forty-four.’ He spoke as though this were self-evident.
‘Seriously? You haven’t been back since?’
‘No. We never visited. Isobel was afraid of flying.’
On the opposite side of the street, a man was engaged in an angry conversation on his mobile phone. We walked on a little, until the man’s shouting had receded into the distance.
‘She passed away last year,’ he added.
‘Oh. I’m sorry.’
After several minutes’ walk, at the next junction, he stopped again.
‘Berchtesgardener Straße is this way, is it not?’
‘Yes, to the left.’
‘May we?’ he asked. ‘I – I’d like to take a look.’
We took a left. Alfred had picked up his speed; it was as though he were in a rush to get somewhere.
‘20, 22,’ he said, looking up at the street numbers on the buildings. Then, ‘Yes, number 24,’ he said, stopping suddenly.
I realised at once what he had been looking for. Set into the pavement in front of us were four brass stolpersteine, rimed with frost:
Hier wohnte
Gustav Isaac Bronstein
JG. 1862
Deportiert 1943
Ermordet in Ausschwitz
Hier wohnte
Margarete Bronstein
Geb. Jacobsohn
JG. 1864
Deportiert 1943
Ermordet in Ausschwitz
Hier wohnte
Hans Rosenzweig
JG. 1905
Deportiert 1942
Riga
Ermordet
Hier wohnte
Klara Rosenzweig
Geb. Süsskind
JG. 1913
Deportiert 1942
Riga
Ermordet
I put my hand to my face. My fingers felt freezing against the warmth of my cheek. ‘Oh Alfred,’ I said. ‘I’m so sorry.’
For a long while, we stood there wordlessly. When Alfred finally looked up, his eyes were wet. ‘They invited some of the boys for kaffee und kuchen one afternoon,’ he said. ‘Did I mention that?’
I shook my head. Truth be told, I was feeling ashamed for having doubted him minutes earlier.
‘Hmm, one forgets so much, doesn’t one?’ he continued quietly, ‘’36 that must have been, or ’37. What a treat! Well, actually, we were scared stiff by Frau Bronstein. I remember us, five or six boys, dressed up to the nines, sitting in a row on an antique velvet-upholstered sofa, like so many birds perched on a wire. In front of us, on a low mahogany table, Frau Bronstein had set out the cake on an ivory-coloured lace tablecloth; each of us had a porcelain coffee cup and saucer filled with hot, black coffee. It was all far too sophisticated for children, of course – the cake too rich, the coffee too bitter – but I suppose the Bronsteins were more used to entertaining adults. None of us dared make a sound as we timidly ate Sachertorte and cream éclairs under the strict gaze of Herr and Frau Bronstein. And then – ’ Alfred let out a chuckle, ‘then one of us, David I think, took a sip of his coffee and sneezed, sending a fine spray of coffee right across the table, covering the cakes, the éclairs, the lace tablecloth. Oh, what a disaster! we all thought, and already, a few of us were on the brink of breaking into hysterical nervous laughter. Bu
t Frau Bronstein placed her cup carefully onto the saucer and said, “Zay gezund”. I don’t believe that woman ever lost her composure.’
He stopped and made a tiny bow.
On the way back to my flat, we walked in silence. Alfred seemed exhausted, so I let him hook his arm into mine. Without really meaning to, I began to count the stolpersteine on the short walk back. There were fifty-eight of them. When we arrived at my building, I took out the keys and held the door open for Alfred. He took a step forward and paused. ‘Julia? I’m afraid I was a little untruthful with you earlier.’
‘Oh?’
‘Yes. I told you that I never brought Isobel here because she was afraid of flying.’
‘She wasn’t?’
‘Oh yes, indeed, the thought of getting on an aeroplane terrified the life out of her. But – ’ he made a waving gesture with his hand, ‘but of course there are other means of transport. The truth is, for the longest time, I was never quite brave enough to return.’
1949
Alfred settled into his seat as the station whistle blew, his new identity tucked safely in his jacket pocket. With him in the compartment was a tired-looking woman in a worn jacket and skirt, a little girl beside her, and another man, dressed similarly to Alfred in a threadbare suit and scuffed shoes. The compartment smelled of stale smoke and sweat, but when Alfred went to open the window, the plump woman told him that it was stuck fast. So instead, he took out the book he had brought with him to read on the train, Middleton’s Gardening Guide, and started reading, trying to ignore the incessant, excited chattering in his head.
Ooh, Mr Alfred Warner. Sounds awfully British.
What’s Isobel going to say? Will she be pleased?
Who knows? He should have told her first.
Why, he doesn’t need her permission!
And so on.
Just as the train was pulling out of the station, the compartment door was jerked open.
The Uncommon Life of Alfred Warner in Six Days Page 18
