The Sugar Men

by Ray Kingfisher

  As soon as she got into her hotel room she collapsed, fully clothed, on the bed and felt herself drifting off to sleep.

  No, that wouldn’t do.

  And, anyway, she’d now recovered. Furthermore, one thing – one realization – kept her from sleeping: it was clear she would have to be a lot stronger than this over the coming week. If a barking dog upset her there was little hope when she got to . . .

  She dismissed the concern with a sigh and slithered her feet over the side of the bed and onto the floor. Yes, courage was needed here. She hung her coat up, popped her head between the curtains to see the street scene outside, then took a few calming moments to peruse the rest of the room. En suite, check. TV, check. Well-worn leaflets on Hamburg tourist traps, check. Mini-bar . . .

  She stepped over to it and opened its clean and shiny bright door, then cast a crooked finger along the row of drinks.

  Mini-bar.

  The word sounded so innocent.

  And so too the sign above it in four different languages: PLEASE HELP YOURSELF!

  That sounded so . . . well . . . helpful.

  She took a final look at the bottles before shutting the door on them.

  Judy.

  She had to phone Judy and tell her she’d arrived safely.

  In the event, telling was pretty much all she did. She told her daughter that, yes, she’d arrived safely; that, yes, she was feeling fine; that, yes, the hotel seemed nice and the room was clean and spacious; that, no, she hadn’t eaten yet but soon would; that, yes, she wouldn’t hesitate to contact someone from the lobby or even an ambulance if she started feeling ill; and finally that she was tired and in a bit of a rush so she would call and have a proper talk tomorrow.

  And she prayed Judy wouldn’t ask whether there was a mini-bar in the room.

  She knew – she’d known for years – that Judy had heard the rumours. And Judy probably knew that she knew. So that was it; if they both knew there was no need to talk about it.

  She ate a small meal at the hotel, had a long soak in the bath, then went to bed.

  She turned out the bedside lamp. Now it was just her and the darkness.

  No, it was her and the darkness and those voices – barked orders, malevolent questions and whispered threats alike projecting themselves from the ether.

  For a split second she tried to visualize where the mini-bar was relative to her.

  No. She was past that – although not past thinking about it. She was safe where that particular form of assistance was concerned – and had been for years.

  And, anyway, was she even still in the hotel room? If not, then there was no mini-bar to tempt her.

  As her eyes became accustomed to the darkness, the scene before her started to reveal itself. Yes, she was still in the hotel room. So, yes, there was drink. But she knew it wouldn’t help. Nothing could help her – she had to let the past flow, not the drink.

  For Susannah the past had always flowed.

  And now, alone in a foreign country – that foreign country – recollections of the past came so easily. The walls of Germanic accents at the airport and within the hotel were now starting to kick all of those fears and sinister memories towards her. She was afraid of those memories – especially the ones that were waiting for their moment to cause trouble. But at the same time she knew that perhaps that was exactly the reason she had come here – to confront them.

  So the voices were there, she might as well accept it.

  She nestled her head deep in the pillow and tried to relax.

  Relax? Maybe.

  Sleep? Unlikely.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  It was on a sunny morning early in 1940 that Susannah and her brother, mother and father prepared to set off on the journey from Berlin to Amsterdam. While their parents packed as much as they could fit into eight suitcases, Susannah and Jacob spent some time having a last play with their friends in Rose Park, telling them they would see them again soon, that it was almost like going on a long vacation and they might even bring something back to show where they’d been.

  When they got back to the apartment Susannah tried to help her mother squeeze the last few items into the two smallest suitcases – the ones Jacob would be carrying. Her mother was very quiet, and didn’t seem to want to look straight at her, preferring either to look down or to concentrate on the job in hand. Then there was that frown on her forehead that had taken up residence two or three days before and refused to move on. She hadn’t smiled at Susannah since then either – well, unless you counted the artificial half-smile that seemed to pass straight through her.

  And Father didn’t seem much better, also speaking only when he had information to convey, such as what the others should do or where they should go. The rest of the morning passed quickly, and in no time they were all standing together outside on those stone steps Susannah had had so much trouble clambering up for her first few walking years. Father checked that all of the suitcases were with them, and took one last look at the exterior of the building. Mother and Father embraced with a tenderness Susannah had seen only once or twice before, and then turned away from the front door in unison. They all tightened their coats against the winter chill, lifted their suitcases – two large ones each for the two adults, small ones for Susannah and Jacob – and started walking to the railway station. Very few words were exchanged between them.

  Susannah had been to the station a few times before, but now there was a different atmosphere – as if the air was bad. In fact, it might as well have been a different station: there were not only more people, but they seemed more pensive too; there were no conversations as such – just the occasional questions and single-word answers. Even at the ticket kiosk there was very little talk; passengers stated their destination and handed the money over, then took the tickets and their change and stepped away.

  A station that had previously whisked the family away on days of joy and togetherness now seemed stark and unfriendly. Today the station layout seemed to positively pull the cold wind in and funnel it along the platform. Mother protected Jacob and Father protected Susannah from the worst of it, but it still seemed to sum up the day. Their last day in Berlin was never going to be one to look back on with any element of fondness.

  Susannah’s mother had shown little emotion during the few days leading up to their departure. She’d had to keep moving because things needed doing, and she’d done those things with a gentle and coaxing efficiency, with no time for sentimentality. However, as soon as the train pulled away from the platform – with nothing for her to do but look and think – her face seemed to contort. She pursed her lips, as if putting all of her effort into the muscles around her mouth, controlling it, keeping it shut.

  When that resolve broke, Susannah initially thought the outburst was a cough, but then there were a few convulsive splutters, and she watched with reflected pain as her mother turned and placed her face against Father’s chest. Jacob’s face took on a quizzical look, and he looked to Susannah and opened his mouth to speak. She narrowed her eyes a little and gave her head the tightest of shakes. They sat, not making a sound, and watched Father curl those long arms around Mother and hold her gently as her head trembled. He kissed her hair, stroked it a few times, and rocked her back and forth.

  Susannah remembered a guard coming into the carriage to check the tickets when most of Mother’s cries had subsided but she was clearly still upset. He ignored her tears – ignored her – and asked Father what the purpose of their journey was. Father replied that they were going to spend a short amount of time with his wife’s mother, who was very ill, hence the grief.

  Susannah remembered knowing that Father was lying but not knowing why, and feeling upset at this because such behaviour was so uncharacteristic of him.

  When the guard left the carriage Father gave Susannah a smile and tousled her hair. She smiled back at him. Then, as he kept a comforting arm around Mother, his face cracked slightly. Susannah could tell that it wasn’t
a real smile.

  By the time they arrived in Amsterdam with their lives packed into eight suitcases, the sun had long since set and the streets shone with lamps reflecting on settled rainwater. It was then that Susannah felt that fluttering in her stomach once more, the feeling she’d had when the fires had happened in Berlin, the sense of fear. It might have been because of the time of day, or the weather, but Amsterdam looked bleak and claustrophobic, with a low, heavy sky.

  Simply not a nice place to be.

  She had the urge to tell Father she wanted to go back home – no, that she desperately had to go back home because she didn’t like it here; she didn’t know why, she just didn’t. But she saw Mother’s red-rimmed eyes and ruddy cheeks and knew that such talk would cause upset, so she kept the words to herself, repeating over and over again inside that one day she would get to go back home. Jacob looked very much the little boy lost – he wasn’t exactly in tears, but his face was full of fearful confusion at the new streets and buildings. Father must have spotted the signs because he took a suitcase each from Mother and Jacob – wedging them under his arms – so that Jacob could hold onto his mother’s hand.

  And Jacob didn’t once let go for the whole of the long walk to the other side of town.

  When they did eventually reach Uncle Paul’s and Aunt Helena’s apartment there was an immediate improvement in morale. There were hugs and smiles all round between the two families, and Uncle Paul went out of his way to tweak Susannah’s ears and tickle the sides of her belly for longer than usual. But throughout all of this she could tell that Father was again using one of those make-believe smiles he had shown her on the train. It was clear to her that he didn’t want to be here any more than she or Jacob or Mother did.

  After hot drinks and detailing of where the local shops and the secret synagogues were – interspersed with some reminiscences of their days in Berlin – they all got up and the new tenants were shown to their room. Although Susannah didn’t take part in the talking, the whole discussion made her feel safe once more; it was normal, as if she could think of this apartment as a part of Berlin that had somehow got lost and turned up in Amsterdam. And she felt even better when she saw the room they were to sleep in. A large mattress lay on the floor along one wall, with two small beds on the other side at right angles to each other. There was nothing else in the room because there was no space; only a passageway threaded between the beds for access.

  Good, Susannah thought, they would all be sleeping in the same room. If anything happened here Father would be within reach and would protect them all.

  ‘How does that all look?’ Father asked.

  Susannah nodded and said, ‘Cosy – just like at home in Berlin but smaller.’

  Her father knelt down and gave her a hug, then did the same to Jacob. He looked up to Susannah’s mother and smiled. And Susannah thought she saw that his real smile had returned.

  That was a good sign. Perhaps they would be happy here.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Aunt Helena said with a slight grimace, ‘but you’ll have to store all of your clothes in boxes here in the hallway; nothing else would fit in the room.’

  ‘Please,’ Father said. ‘There’s no need to apologize. What you’ve done for us is enough.’ Then he stood up and glanced around. ‘Is Reuben out with friends?’

  ‘No,’ Helena said.

  Father peered into the doorway of the other bedroom. ‘But . . . will he be sleeping in your room?’

  Helena looked to Paul for an answer.

  Paul coughed to clear his throat and said, ‘Reuben has gone away.’

  ‘Away?’ Susannah’s mother said.

  ‘He . . . he had the chance to go away. His friend at school – his family, the Berwalds – they said they were going to America. They offered to take him and we thought it best for his future.’

  Helena covered her face with her hand, and very soon her head was quivering and clear droplets were dripping from between her fingers.

  ‘Oh, no,’ Susannah’s mother said, holding an arm around her shoulder, guiding her into the other bedroom.

  Susannah heard her aunt whimper and stammer out the words ‘I miss him’, and then again, ‘I miss him so much’, before the door closed.

  There were a few seconds of awkward silence between Father and Paul, then Paul drew breath and said, ‘I . . . I miss him too.’ Then he plunged his hands in his pockets and bowed his head. ‘But it was for the best.’ It was intoned as a question, as if pleading for support.

  Father looked at his two children and pulled them to either side of his torso. ‘Of course it was,’ he said to Paul with a firm nod. ‘You’ve done the right thing.’

  After that Aunt Helena and Uncle Paul rarely spoke about Reuben.

  The weeks and the months in Amsterdam passed by, and Susannah gradually got used to the cramped conditions of the apartment compared to their house in Berlin. She made new friends at school, and came to accept the evenings gathered around the radio listening to people talking. They talked mainly about the political situation, which she knew was important but didn’t fully understand.

  After two years in Amsterdam, old friends in Berlin were no more than faint memories in another, distant life. The Dutch city had almost become home, and those two years turned out to be two of Susannah’s happiest. She and Jacob were now used to the apartment, the city and their new school; they had found a public park a short walk away where they could play. The climate was a little milder than back in Berlin, and there had been time for a few trips to the coast, which wasn’t far away. Most importantly, Father and (especially) Mother both seemed to have become happier with the passing of time, and that made Susannah happy. The six of them whiled away most evenings – after they had listened intently to the news on the radio – playing cards; Uncle Paul had a book of games and they played what seemed like every game ever invented.

  But in spite of all this, Susannah still hadn’t forgotten Father’s promise that one day they would all return to Berlin. Jacob showed few signs of emotion, but then again he always was more likely to cry when he fell over than when he felt scared. He never mentioned Berlin, apparently possessing a natural toughness that Susannah envied.

  In Amsterdam, between the two of them, Susannah and Jacob celebrated four birthdays.

  These were important as pointers; it was only in hindsight that Susannah realized that each of those birthdays was slightly less joyous than the last, and that the food and presents – even though they were laughable by twenty-first-century standards even at the beginning – had turned to mere tokens by 1942.

  Jacob’s eleventh birthday that year was the last they would celebrate in Amsterdam – in the apartment that was now home.

  Susannah could remember little of their final night there. But the few details she could recollect were all that were needed.

  It was a dry night blessed with a full moon.

  Mother and Father woke her and Jacob and told them to get dressed.

  ‘Are we going back to Berlin now?’ Susannah asked.

  ‘Not yet,’ Father whispered. He kissed Jacob and Susannah, then pulled them both into his chest. ‘But some day we will,’ he said. ‘I promise.’

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  The next morning, after taking breakfast, Susannah freshened up and phoned David. She told him that, yes, she did have a good night’s sleep, and that, yes, she would look after herself, and that, no, she wouldn’t do anything likely to stress her out or make her upset. After that she left for the railway station.

  She joined the queue at the ticket office, but as she got nearer and nearer to the front her mouth started getting dry and her pulse quickened. The voice that came from her mouth when she eventually reached the counter was weak and croaky.

  ‘How do I get to . . . to . . . ?’

  And now her mouth wasn’t merely dry – it was scared to even speak of the place.

  The woman leaned forward. ‘Yes, madam?’

  No, no. This was stupid
, she was a grown woman. ‘I need to get to . . . Bergen-Belsen,’ she said eventually. ‘Or Belsen. Or whatever you call it now.’

  ‘You mean the memorial?’

  The woman said it so matter-of-factly, as if it were a stately home or a theme park or a good restaurant. Susannah had to take a deep breath before confirming that, yes, that was where she wanted to go, and immediately regretted her choice of words; it wasn’t so much that she wanted to go there, more that she had to.

  ‘There’s no station at the memorial site, madam.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Well . . . yes.’ The woman had a puzzled frown on her forehead.

  ‘But . . . there used to be,’ Susannah said. For a split second images flickered into her mind: steam clearing to reveal the hazy shape of those field-grey uniforms – with rifles rested across and shiny black boots below – alongside slavering hounds with piercing stares.

  ‘That’s right,’ the woman said. ‘But that was a very long time ago.’

  More images flashed themselves to Susannah, of wrought-iron gates and of wire fences, tall and striding into the distance. She took a moment to banish them. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I guess it was.’

  ‘The best way to get there is by coach. Do you know where the coach station is?’

  Not quite up to lucid thinking, Susannah half nodded and half shook her head.

  Then the woman darted a hand to her side, to a place hidden from view. Susannah disguised her flinch from the woman’s action with a cough. But the woman’s hand reappeared with nothing more dangerous than a leaflet, which she handed over the counter to Susannah.

  Susannah thanked her, coughed again, then stepped – almost staggered – away and found a seat in a quiet corner of the station to rest her shaking legs for a few moments.

  It had taken all the courage she possessed to queue up here; now she had to do the same all over again at the coach station.