§
The first week of term was always a gentle re-entry into the year. He cycled home the first day. Lincoln’s Inn Fields. Old habits, he thought. He wanted to see her, to explain, beg forgiveness. Start again. The gardens were busy with visitors in the last of the summer warmth. He passed her offices, stopped a small distance away, bike propped on the kerb. He leaned against the railings, clips on his trousers, tie tucked in his shirt front, jacket folded in the basket. He pulled out his cigarettes from the pocket and lit one. He could see the office door and a steady stream of workers coming out. Women first, from the typing pool, he guessed, and the tea ladies. He craned his neck. There was no sign of her. He waited, watching. One by one the men in suits and bowlers emerged. He checked his watch. Six o’clock. The café was shutting and people were drifting from the gardens, heading for the Tube or Southampton Row. He’d missed her. Perhaps she’d left work early, or was off sick. Perhaps she’d quit her job, worked somewhere else now. If he hadn’t spotted her by the end of the week, he’d write to the company and ask after her.
§
The Sunday afternoon meeting was packed. John squeezed through the door. Standing room only. The room was hot and smoky. He could see the speaker through the haze but he mumbled into his notes, was hard to make out.
‘Speak up,’ the man next to him called out. ‘We can’t hear at the back.’ The speaker pulled his shoulders up, lifted his chin. Some of the audience had turned to see who was calling out. A fleeting glance before she twisted back and faced the front. Her chestnut hair was flicked up at the ends and secured from her face with an Alice band. She wore the same skirt and blouse as the last time he’d seen her, fidgeted in her seat like the first time they’d met. He focused on her, the slender neck, the contours of her shoulder blades. If she’d spotted him she didn’t show it, didn’t turn round to check if it had been him she’d glimpsed.
The talk was of a week of activism, to end the tests, of the midnight procession to London Airport at Hallowe’en to support the women flying off to lobby the Conference in Geneva. He could go on that, walk side by side with Betty, with the flares and torches. Would he hold her hand? He yearned for her touch, the feel of her flesh, the taste of her mouth. The last four weeks in Wales had left him with a craving he couldn’t satisfy. Now she was here. He had to have her. They’d fly away to Wales, rent that cold, damp cottage and hunker down all winter, safe under the blankets while the hare changed its coat and the snow fell on the Cambrians.
‘…the homeosaurus. Even Betty could lift it.’
He heard her voice. ‘Oh shut up, Nick. A child could lift it.’ He had no idea what they were talking about. ‘The homeosaurus is for the schools and parks. Not parliament, not the vigil. I’ve said that so many times.’
Could he reach over to her, sidle down the aisles and beckon her out? There was an argument going on. Homeosaurus. That was madness. What had palaeontology to do with CND? He should listen, note it down, the week of action, the vigil, the midnight procession. There was an announcement, an emergency meeting of the New Left Club, to talk about the riots in Notting Hill. Tuesday, six o’clock. The meeting began to break up, men and women sauntering down the aisle, some standing in small groups, chatting, others pushing forward, anxious to leave. John moved to the door. Betty was talking to two men, her face animated, angry. She looked as if she was going to cry. She turned, pushed past the chairs, walked fast towards the exit. He stepped forward.
She stopped, raised her hands at him. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘I want to talk,’ he said.
‘I don’t,’ she said. ‘And certainly not now.’
‘Later?’
‘Never.’
She pushed past him and ran down the stairs, stopping at the bottom, turning round. ‘Don’t follow me.’
He reached forward, hand on her arm. ‘Betty, please,’ he said. ‘Please. Hear me out.’ He hadn’t expected to see her here, had no idea how to explain, even though he’d spent the summer talking to her in his head. It was like this, Betty…
She shook him off but he saw her hesitate, face him. ‘Not here. Outside.’ She rushed for the door and he followed her. She sprinted, round the corner, towards Soho Square. It was hard to keep up with her. She went into the square and stopped, bending over like an athlete, catching her breath.
Betty stood up straight and stared him in the face, eyes hard, mouth set. ‘You used me,’ she said. ‘You used and abused me.’ She was swallowing, trying not to cry.
‘Betty,’ he said. ‘No, listen, it wasn’t like that.’
‘Then what was it like?’ She pursed her lips, hissed. ‘Seems to me if someone says “This has to end,” there’s no mistaking.’ She sniffed. ‘I gave myself to you. You were the first. I thought we had a future. Then you just…’ She swallowed back the tears. ‘Chucked me away. Soiled goods.’
He held his face in his hands. This wasn’t how he’d imagined the conversation would go.
‘And now,’ she said. ‘I’m—’ She broke off her sentence, shook her head, pulled down her Alice band, pushed it back up, catching her hair away from her face, turned and walked towards the market cross in the centre of the square. This was his last chance. He ran up, grabbed her, spinning her round. She glowered, pushed his hand away from her arm.
‘You’re what? What were you going to say?’
‘Nothing. Doesn’t matter.’ She stepped out again.
‘You looked upset.’
‘Of course I’m upset.’ She faced him, voice raised in fury. ‘I’m devastated. I’ve never been so hurt, so…’ Her lips moved as she groped for a word. ‘So debased.’
‘Betty,’ he said. ‘It just wasn’t like that. I thought your life could be in danger if you were with me.’
She stared at him. ‘Are you mad?’ She twisted her forefinger on her temple. ‘Paranoid?’
He shook his head. ‘Nothing like that, Betty. It’s a long story.’ He took a breath. ‘You need to know, be aware.’
She stood, arms akimbo. He should never have panicked, never have parted. He could have told her, explained. Between them, they would have worked something out. She would keep a secret, he was sure.
‘Make me aware.’
‘Let’s sit.’ He pointed to a bench. His legs ached, his stomach was knotted. He led the way, one step, two, as if each stride were a mile, the path mountain scree. His feet splayed forward, out of control. He grabbed the arm of the bench, lowered himself onto it. She sat at the far end, sideways, facing him. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, fingers threaded in a cat’s cradle.
‘I told you I was in Germany at the end of the war.’ She raised an eyebrow, yes. ‘Well, something happened that came back to haunt me.’
‘We’re all haunted by the war,’ she said. Her words could have soothed, but her voice had a challenge in it. ‘So what was so dreadful you couldn’t get over it?’
What did she know about getting over things? She was casual, callous almost, as if she had no understanding of the suffering of war, the choices made in the heat of the moment, no way of imagining what it could be like. She’d been a child. Evacuated, most likely. Spent years in the countryside collecting chickens’ eggs and running free.
‘I was in Berlin,’ he said. His voice had an edge, and he was glad. ‘I can’t tell you what we were doing.’ He looked up at her. ‘I’m sorry, even now. Official secrets and all that. It’s not important. All I can say is that I was a translator. Very lowly on the scale of things.’
‘Well,’ she said. ‘You teach German. Makes sense.’
She was staring at the statue of Charles II, at the gravel path, at the grass, threadbare after the summer.
‘My German was formal, pedantic.’
He wasn’t sure, but he thought there was a half-smile.
‘I’m a perfectionist,’ he said. ‘I like to do things well. I wanted to improve it, my everyday German, to become fluent.’ He leaned against the armrest. ‘To be light
-hearted, conversational. To banter. The sort of thing that native speakers take for granted.’
Betty shrugged, eyes focused on the grass. She tucked her hands under her thighs, the fabric of her skirt taut across her legs.
She had done that, tucked her skirt beneath her thighs, stretched it tight. He gulped, swallowing his saliva the wrong way, coughing, his eyes streaming. Betty didn’t look up at him, not once, hostility high as a cliff, hard as rock.
‘I found a teacher,’ he went on. He was trembling, jellied with nerves. ‘Who would be prepared to help with my German, for a hundred marks an hour.’ He smiled. ‘Or five cigarettes. That was the currency in Berlin at the time. Cigarettes. Did you know that?’
The muscles in her jaw tightened and her eyes filled with tears. She sniffed, wiped them with the back of her hand. He couldn’t understand why she should be upset. Very few people here worried about the Germans.
‘So you told me,’ she said, adding, ‘Where is this leading?’
‘This is what I’m trying to tell you.’ How would she understand? He couldn’t tell her the truth. ‘A man was involved.’
‘You’re not making sense.’
He swallowed. ‘No,’ he said. ‘I’m not. Let me start again.’
A pigeon came towards them, pecking at the ground. John flicked his hand, watched it fly off, lazy wings barely lifting it. It landed a few yards away.
‘It was a young woman who gave me lessons.’
‘A young woman?’
‘Yes.’
It sounded so corny now, a young soldier, a young woman.
‘What was her name?’ She stared ahead, without looking at him. ‘Was that the person you bought the clock from? For five cigarettes?’ Her voice was bitter.
‘The clock?’ he said. ‘Does it matter?’
She nodded, brushing her skirt for imaginary crumbs, pleating the hem so it draped in folds.
‘I don’t want to hear any more,’ she said. She was close to tears. Was she jealous? Jealous.
‘Betty, I didn’t love her, not like I love you,’ he blurted out. ‘If that’s what you’re thinking.’
‘You have no idea what I’m thinking. What was her name?’
‘Hear me out.’
‘Tell me her name.’
‘Will you listen if I tell you her name?’
‘Don’t bargain with me,’ she said. Her nostrils fanned with fury. She let go of her skirt and gripped the handle of her bag, knuckles white and bare.
‘Her name was Lieselotte.’
She stared at him, mouthing, Lieselotte.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Berlin: July 1945
‘Why can’t I come?’ Bette pivoted on the kitchen stool as Lieselotte placed the bowls in the sink. ‘Why do I have to be here alone?’
‘You’ll be in the way.’ Lieselotte with her I know better, I’m in charge now voice. ‘See if Greta’s free. Perhaps she’ll stay with you.’
‘Where are you going that I can’t come?’
‘Nowhere secret.’ She flicked a tea towel at Bette. ‘Kurfürstendamm again.’
‘I won’t get in your way.’
‘Bette, will you leave it, please? The Americans haggle and you’d only be a distraction.’
‘But the British?’
‘They’re not so bad. Afterwards I’m meeting that soldier.’
‘The one who wants to learn German?’
‘Yes, Bette.’ Lieselotte smiled. ‘His German is very old-fashioned. Like Großvater’s.’
‘And where are you meeting him this time?’
‘At the Lichtensteinbrücke.’
‘Why there?’
‘It’s quiet.’
Bette swung herself off the stool, padded after her sister into the sitting room. ‘It’s a long way,’ she said. ‘How do you get there?’
‘Walking, obviously,’ Lieselotte said. ‘It’s not so far.’ She bit her lip, added, ‘If you’re not hungry.’
‘What’s his name?’
Lieselotte stood and stared at Bette. ‘I can’t remember. It’s not important.’
It made her nervous, not knowing what went on. Lieselotte had been catapulted into the world of grown-ups, leaving her behind.
‘What will we do with the money?’
‘Oh, Bette,’ Lieselotte said, her voice sharp and cross. ‘It’s not a lot of money and we need to buy food. This is all we have.’
‘I still don’t see why I can’t join you.’ Bette flounced on a chair, crossed her arms, watching as Lieselotte lifted a suitcase from behind the sofa. ‘I won’t be a nuisance. I won’t interrupt.’
‘Stop it,’ Lieselotte said. ‘You’re getting on my nerves. The answer is no, no and no. Understood?’
Bette huffed, scowled. ‘When is Vati coming home?’
‘I don’t know.’ Lieselotte bit her lip. ‘Perhaps he’s a prisoner somewhere.’ She smiled. ‘Come, help me pick which piece to sell this time.’
They chose the Bavarian clock, with its incessant chimes that they had both wanted to suffocate. Bette lifted it out of its wrappings as if it were a hot coal.
‘Are you all right?’ Lieselotte said. ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to get cross.’
Bette shrugged. ‘Are you sure I can’t come with you? I don’t want to be here by myself.’
‘Don’t be silly,’ Lieselotte said. ‘You’ll be fine. Besides, man of house.’ She laughed, mimicking Boris’s Russian accent. ‘You’ve got the gun to protect you.’
‘That’s not a joke,’ Bette said. ‘It’s probably not even loaded. Please let me come.’
‘Go to Frau Weber,’ Lieselotte said. ‘I’m sick of arguing.’
‘But what if something happens to you?’
‘What’s going to happen to me?’
Bette shrugged. ‘I don’t know,’ she said, adding, ‘You’re going to marry this soldier and leave me alone.’
‘Marry him?’ Lieselotte spat the word. ‘Oh, Bettechen.’ She squatted on the floor next to her, pulled her close and cradled her head. ‘Of course not. He’s just a soldier. I’ve no idea who he is.’ She kissed Bette on the forehead. ‘I would never, ever leave you.’ Bette felt her sister’s hands on her cheeks as she pushed her face away. ‘Look at me.’ Lieselotte’s eyes were gold in the sunlight, flecked with bronze and emerald, far richer than her own dull, grey ones. ‘I will never leave you,’ she said again. ‘Do you understand?’
Bette nodded. ‘It’s just that…’ She paused, looking at her sister, fears curdling. ‘Mutti died and left me, and Vati has gone, and if you went…’ She felt a tear, wiped it away fast. ‘What would happen to me?’
‘For a start, nothing will happen, and even if it does, you go and find Oma in Dahlem. Now, I need to get ready. So move.’
Bette sat cross-legged on the bed, watching her sister pulling on the faded skirt and blouse, her socks and shoes. She used to envy boys their shorts and shirts, but now she had to wear them all the time she’d give her eye teeth to dress in a skirt again. She was sick of pretending. Lieselotte sat at the dressing table, brushing her hair, pinning it back with tortoiseshell combs.
‘Those are Mutti’s,’ Bette said. ‘Did she give them to you?’
Lieselotte took a moment before she turned. ‘No, but Mutti wouldn’t want her things in a museum, would she? Be practical, Bette. We can’t be sentimental.’
She leaned forward, dusting her cheeks with powder.
‘That’s Mutti’s make-up. You aren’t allowed to use it.’
‘Bette,’ Lieselotte’s voice snapped. ‘Will you shut up?’ She stood up, frail and beautiful, silhouetted against the light through the window. She took a breath and Bette thought she sucked the air as though it were the last she would ever take. She opened her mouth as if to speak. Shut it. Bette saw her chest rise as she swallowed the air again. Let it out. Whoosh.
‘I’m pregnant, Bettelein,’ she said, just like that, adding, ‘I’ve heard of someone who’ll help. A doctor.’
&
nbsp; ‘How?’
‘There are lots of women like me,’ Lieselotte went on. ‘After the Russians…’ She paused. ‘She helps us get rid of them.’
So matter-of-fact, the way she said it. Bette opened her eyes wide. Greta had said something like that about Waltraud but Bette hadn’t paid her much notice, didn’t understand how you undo a baby.
‘But I need money,’ Lieselotte said. ‘She doesn’t charge much, only what I can afford. Do you understand now?’ She felt the comb with her hand, made sure it was secure. ‘I want to look respectable, Bette. So no one thinks I’m, you know…’
Bette nodded, not quite sure what Lieselotte meant.
‘And also.’ She pulled her skirt straight, stood on tiptoe to look in the dressing-table mirror. ‘The German lessons.’ She spun round. ‘Do I look like a professor?’ She laughed, came over, kissed Bette on the cheek. ‘I won’t be late,’ she said. ‘Finish the soup if you like.’
She placed the clock inside her bag, hung the front door key around her neck and tucked it into her blouse, and for a moment, before she slipped out through the door, she looked happy.
Bette watched from the window as her sister turned the corner. There were a few hours to kill before she returned, and although Greta’s prattling was getting on her nerves, her company was better than nothing and she knew things, like how you get rid of a baby. Bette took the spare front door key from the hook and left the apartment. The steps were still damaged and the plaster not repaired, but she had got used to that, and the people who lived in the Müllers’ old apartment swept the staircase once a day so the loose stones had gone. She’d slipped on them more than once. She crossed the courtyard, knocked on the Webers’ door. There was laughter inside, a man’s voice. Footsteps, the door opened. Frau Weber blinked at Bette, as if she’d been expecting someone else. Her hair was dishevelled, her face flushed.
The Forgotten Page 18
