Josef sighed. He could barely remember what peacetime felt like.
As he approached his street, two German soldiers moved toward him to check his identification papers then, recognizing him, waved and let him pass.
“Good evening, Professor,” one of them greeted.
Josef nodded, thinking to himself, not for the first time, that this was the only good thing about having a niece who was in love with a Nazi.
Josef approached home and on passing Mrs. Epstein’s house stopped to look at it for the first time in months. It had been painful for him at first to see her home, but now he stood and took in all that it was, remembering once again that experience that had so abruptly thrown him into the realities of war. A flashback stung him: The air filled with piano scores raining down on him. One of her shoes lying on its side on the ground. For the first time, he wondered what had happened to it.
She had named her house “Haven,” as depicted by a hand-painted tile above the door. But its green-painted windowsills were starting to peel; the German soldiers had boarded it up; and with its tiny overgrown garden, it had become a sad, empty shell. Josef remembered the music, remembered how her playing made him feel, and he missed it terribly.
As he turned toward his own home, he noticed something on his front step. His curiosity piqued. He rarely got mail at home, never gifts. He picked up the parcel wrapped in brown paper and string. He looked around him, but no one seemed to be about. He put the key in the lock and hurriedly opened the door.
Kat did not come to greet him, probably with Michael, as usual. From a stand by the door he took a small umbrella and tapped on a pipe that ran right up through the house to the attic with a rhythmical code. There was a muffled tapped response; all is well.
Josef placed the package on his kitchen table and cut the string. He was surprised, yet delighted, to see it would be an excellent gift for his young friend. He left it on the table, though, wanting to check on him first and, more importantly, wanting to present it at a moment when Michael most needed it. He extinguished the lights, rechecked he had locked the door, and went upstairs.
As he opened the attic door, he acknowledged how much the dark, musky room had changed. Once a dry, functional space to store the outlived parts of his life, it had been transformed into a bohemian artist’s space. A ramshackle bookshelf was stacked with books Josef had managed to get Michael from his own shelves and the university. Scraps of writing and sketches were pinned across every available space. A crude sitting area had been fashioned from trunks and pillows. The old table now a makeshift desk pushed up into one of the corners, the Rilke book that Josef had given him so long ago was open and propped up against the wall on the desk in pride. A full life crammed into a tiny space, yet full of warmth and frenetic energy.
Michael sat writing in a notebook at his desk, a gaunter version of his earlier self, with the insipid pallor of his skin more than a hint at his two years of captivity, though usually his eyes had the same unmistakable spark. Kat sat comfortably on Michael’s lap. As Josef entered, Michael snarled then ripped the page from the book and flung it on the floor, which was littered with crumpled balls of paper.
Michael jumped to his feet, and the cat leaped down. “It has been a hard day. I am frustrated. I need something to do.”
“Ah,” said Josef, cocking one eyebrow.
“I would do anything,” he implored.
“Anything?” Held repeated, allowing a small smile to creep across his face. “Then I have something for you,” he announced, before turning to go back downstairs.
In the kitchen, from a dusty stack of papers, he pulled out a sheet he had kept for a long time. Returning to the attic, he handed it to Michael.
Michael opened it with a look of curiousity on his face. It was the assignment that he hadn’t completed in Held’s class over two years before.
“Professor, you can’t be serious,” said Michael.
Josef couldn’t help but smirk as he looked around the attic and repositioned a trunk so he could sit down.
“When the war is over, you might appreciate mathematics,” he informed him with some satisfaction.
Michael rolled his eyes. “Fantastic.”
“Would you like tea?”
“No, tea won’t help, thank you. How is it out there today?”
“Ah,” said Josef, “about the same.”
“Why do they keep letting you teach, do you think?”
Josef shook his head. “I don’t know. So many have now been sent to work camps. I mainly teach girls and people who are too sick to be called up. What about your day?”
Michael shook his head. “We have had quite a day, Dantes and I.”
“Who?” enquired Josef, confused.
“Professor, I named your cat a year ago. Do you not remember? I have told you many times.”
“Oh, yes, he is still Kat to me, of course. Remind me—from Dante’s Inferno?”
“No, Edmond Dantes, The Count of Monte Cristo, a novel.”
“Ah.” Not for the first time, Josef considered how different he and Michael were. How he just wanted to call a cat a cat, whereas for Michael the cat could exist both there, and in his imagination as a swashbuckling prisoner who—like him perhaps—would one day break free.
Michael continued, “Dantes and I played tag. We did laps around the room. I think he was trying to tell me the story of his life.”
Josef looked at the cat, who was now curled up in a ball on the camp bed. “Yes, well, that seems to have rather tired him out. No prison break for him today, I think. Anyway, Mr. Blum, I have something I think you might really enjoy.”
“Oh good, more mathematics no doubt.”
Josef brought in the real present for Michael, which he’d rewrapped and left just outside the attic door, while he’d jokingly presented his young friend with the old math equation.
Michael ripped open the brown paper and discovered the small wireless inside. He stared a moment before a large grin broke out on his face. “What…? Where did you…? Where did you get this? I thought these were illegal.”
“Everything seems to be illegal now.”
“You, a renegade? I would never have believed it. How?”
Josef shook his head. “Actually, I don’t know. Would you believe I found it on my front doorstep?”
Michael looked at him and narrowed his eyes. “Interesting. A friend or foe, do you think? Ingrid?” His eyes lit up. “No, maybe it’s another woman.”
Josef shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “Mr. Blum, you’re always a romantic. A very frivolous occupation in such difficult times.”
Michael became animated. “Isn’t wartime the most important time to fall in love? Don’t we need it more than ever? The warm thoughts of my Elke are what keep my heart beating. What about yours?”
Josef stood to his feet, uncomfortable with where this conversation was heading. “Well there is enough excitement out there every day to keep my blood pumping, that’s clear, Mr. Blum.”
Michael grinned. “You always have to change the subject, but I’m always going to try. You need love in your life, Professor. Everybody does. And my name’s Michael, for the hundredth time. Call me Michael.”
Josef rapidly changed the subject and pointed at the wireless. “You must keep it very quiet.”
“Of course.”
“And only listen to it when I am in the house—there cannot be music heard when I am not.”
“Yes, sir.” Michael turned his attention back to the wireless, swiveling the large black dial to search for a station. Finally, scratchy strains of Mozart came through, a piece that had been a favorite of Mrs. Epstein’s.
Josef took a deep breath, the pain and pleasure too hard for him to stand. “Well, if that is all…” he whispered. His throat tightened, and seeing that Michael was engrossed in his new toy, he turned to leave.
The cat jumped down from the bed and followed Josef downstairs, ready for his dinner. As he reached the bottom stair on the landing, a
paper airplane created from the math assignment came whizzing past Josef’s ears and down the stairs in front of him. Josef couldn’t help but smile and shake his head.
Chapter 16
As soon as Hannah opened the front door, she knew her mother was not alone inside. The high-pitched, delighted voice of Eva met Hannah in the hallway. On the coat rack was the usual black woolen coat. Hannah’s heart sank as she looked at the yellow star, so meticulously stitched on by Greta’s hand. It was much more difficult for the Jewish people to move around the city, but Eva had found a gap in the chainlink fence that was just big enough for her to slip through.
“Nobody cares about little girls,” she would state when Hannah and Clara showed their concern.
Hannah closed the door and moved into the sitting room, her suspicions confirmed. Kneeling on the floor next to her mother was their young friend. Two thick black plaits fell way below Eva’s shoulders. She wore a simple gray tunic, also made by Greta. Her brown eyes were wide and round as she intently observed and listened to Clara’s instructions for a new knitting project.
“I see we have company,” said Hannah, trying to be cheerful.
“Why yes,” responded Clara as she lifted her snowy head up to greet her daughter. “Eva is so skilled now.”
Eva’s excited eyes met Hannah’s. “Yes, I’m going to knit another blanket. There are many people now who need them.”
“Well, I think that sounds wonderful,” chirped Hannah as she stoked the fire and moved toward the kitchen to put on the kettle. Hannah’s heart stirred again as she thought about this child’s life. She looked through her cupboards and managed to find a few nuts and a little dried fruit they had saved from Christmas. She bundled them up into tiny packets and stuffed them into Eva’s coat pockets in the hall.
When the kettle had boiled, she poured the water into a teapot and brought a tray into the sitting room. “I think a teacup is in order.”
The young girl’s face lit up with excitement.
Hannah poured tea into three cups and added a spoonful of milk and sugar. She stretched out a cup toward Eva. “Here, Eva, why don’t you sit and drink this tea?”
Eva gingerly took the bone-china cup.” My mamma normally doesn’t let me hold a teacup. I am quite happy with the cup I usually have.”
“Well, you are nearly twelve now,” said Clara. “It’s time.”
“It is?” Eva sat carefully in a chair, spreading out her skirt as she’d apparently been taught by her mamma. Then she crossed her legs, taking the teacup.
“How is your family?” asked Hannah.
Eva’s eyes grew dark. She sipped at her tea as if she was trying to think of the right words to say. Instantly, Hannah regretted asking.
“My younger brother Willem is kind of mad right now,” she finally said.
“I think we’re all a little mad right now,” echoed Clara as she hooked a stitch and looked over the top of her glasses at her young friend.
“Last week they took away both my older brothers, like they did my papa before, even though they are only fifteen and sixteen,” she added quietly.
The three of them sat in the silence and listened as the fire crackled and spluttered in the background. The only other noise was the clock ticking its regular reassurance.
“Mamma cries all the time now.”
Hannah moved to the chair and kissed Eva gently on the top of her head. She whispered into her hair, “These times will pass. Soon you will all be together again, I’m sure.”
“Jan got so mad,” she continued, “that he went out into the garden and took a stick and hit the bushes and the ground hard over and over saying that he was going to kill every German when he grows up. Then Mamma shouted at him in case anybody heard and pulled him back inside.” Eva’s eyes became very grave. “I know I have to be strong because I’m the oldest one at home now, but can I tell you something, Miss Clara?”
Clara stopped knitting and nodded slowly.
“I’m very scared. I don’t think they’re going to bring my papa or my brothers back, and I think that’s why Mamma cries.”
Hannah took a deep breath, and Clara echoed it.
“You always have a place here, you know,” said Clara, the tears catching in her throat. She leaned forward and reached out arthritic fingers to take Eva’s small hand. “You can always come here to be safe. Tell your mamma that too.”
Eva nodded and sipped away at her tea. They sat in a companionable silence.
Eva seemed to want to change the subject. “May I ask you something?”
“Of course,” said Clara. “Anything.”
“That box that you have on the fireplace,” Eva said, pointing to a colorful carved box that had recently been moved there from Clara’s own room. “What is that?”
“That? Well, that,” responded Clara, her tone more cheerful, “is perfect for you to ask about. Hannah, pass that down.”
Hannah placed it on Eva’s tiny lap. Eva put her tea on a side table and stroked the box with her small hands.
“Open it,” encouraged Clara. “It has a surprise inside.”
Carefully, Eva undid the hook and opened the box. Inside was a brightly dressed ballerina. “Turn the key,” added Hannah. “It’s at the back.”
Eva turned the key, and the ballerina erupted into life, pirouetting to a lilting lullaby. The ballerina looked enchanting.
“I’ve had that since I was a little girl.” Clara smiled. “And I think it’s probably time to pass it on to someone like you. Would you like that, Eva?”
Eva smiled, and then her face clouded. “I would like it, but Mamma has told us not to gather anything or take anything home now. Do you think it would be possible that I could keep it here? I think it would be safe then.”
Clara nodded. “Of course you can keep it here. And when it’s time, you can take it and it’ll be yours, and you can pass it on to your children.”
Eva looked down as if she didn’t believe those words, but forced a smile. “Thank you. It’s the best gift I’ve ever had.”
“I have shortbread,” said Hannah, clapping her hands together. “I completely forgot. I had to improvise without butter, but it’s not bad.” She brought three fingers of shortbread from the kitchen and placed them on a plate on Clara’s lap. “Why don’t you finish those up for us, Eva?”
Eva nibbled away and continued to chat about other things. But the heaviness of the conversation was like a mist that had descended, a thick blanket of sadness that had taken hold of the room and tainted the whole atmosphere.
As the clock chimed six, Eva jumped up. “Oh my goodness, I have to leave. Mamma says I have to be home to help with dinner and the little one. Willem is so much trouble now that he’s two,” she said, with a tone that obviously had been borrowed from her mother.
Hannah and Clara laughed at the young girl’s inflection.
She pulled up her dark brown, ribbed tights, slipped on her worn leather shoes, and made her way out into the hallway.
Hannah helped her on with her coat and buttoned it for her. Eva was rooted to the spot.
“Is something wrong?” she asked.
Eva looked embarrassed. “Mamma said we must not use front doors anymore just in case…” Her voice trailed off.
Hannah understood at once. “Let’s use the back door. Follow me. It’s more fun anyway. Your mamma is wise. She knows that back-door friends are the best friends.”
Hannah watched the young girl slip out the back door into the evening, her black, silken braids bobbing behind her, pockets brimming with the sweets she’d find later.
Once Eva left, Hannah made her way out into the garden, absorbed in her own thoughts. In her hands was a bike chain she’d managed to find on the university campus. She hoped it would fit the latest bicycle she’d been building. Walking out into the early evening, she was aware of something not quite right, something amiss. The hair on the back of her neck stood on end, running a chill down her spine. Quietly listening, she
felt she wasn’t alone, but all she could hear was an owl hooting.
She continued down the path to the shed, but as she approached, she knew something was wrong. The doors, usually latched and firmly closed, stood slightly ajar, swinging freely on its hinges, groaning in the light breeze that ruffled the trees above her.
All her senses were on guard. She hoped it was just the wind, or maybe a neighborhood cat. She moved tentatively toward the door and peered inside.
Everything appeared undisturbed. She lifted her hand to turn on the light, but something made her hesitate. There it was again, that feeling she was not alone. She stood frozen, listening to her heart pounding the blood through her ears.
All at once, from somewhere at the back of the shed, she heard someone groan. She was about to turn and run when she caught sight of something, some fabric, and instantly she recognized it. Behind a pile of crates of old parts that her father had kept in the corner of the shed, she saw a foot illuminated by a stream of late-afternoon light. The fabric on the trouser cuff was the khaki color of the Allies.
She was suspicious, but she had heard rumors of downed airmen who sometimes found their way into town. Moving through the room tentatively, she saw him. In the dusky evening light, she could see his face clearly; it was pale, as white as paper. His thin, dark lashes fluttered, his eyelids closed as he breathed rapidly in and out, beads of sweat glistening upon his forehead. As her eyes acclimated to the dark, she noticed something else. He had a gash in his side that was sticky with blood. He’d tied a crude bandage around his waist that was also smeared with dry, caked blood.
She slid down to her knees so as not to startle him, then crawled toward him and took his hand. She felt for a pulse. It was thin and thready. The airman’s eyes flickered before opening sharply, as though he were about to jump into action. He looked afraid, like a wounded animal caught in a trap.
Hannah reached out to him with her voice. “You’re okay. You’re safe,” she said in English, and then in Dutch and finally in German. The man wet his lips hastily with his tongue. As he became more consciously aware, pain stretched across his face and his hand reached involuntarily to the gash in his side.
A View Across the Rooftops: An epic, heart-wrenching and gripping World War Two historical novel Page 11
