Somewhere Over England

by Margaret Graham

  Heine turned now and looked at the growing crowd standing silently around the speaker.

  ‘It’s all the other things,’ he shouted at Helen, holding her shoulders now. ‘It’s all the other things that are written, all the brown-shirted thugs who kick and push and kill. It’s that maniac Hitler. If they vote for him in July then it is the beginning of the end. There will be no more freedom, no more Germany, just brutality.’

  His breath was full of beer and Helen shouted back.

  ‘You’re drunk. You’re drunk. Why can’t you stop being so serious? We love one another, think of that. This is all just politics. Only politics.’ Fear stirred deep inside her because she was outside his life when he was like this. She could not reach him. She was alone.

  There was silence then between them until Heine held her to him. ‘I’m not drunk, Helen. But you are right. I should think of love more often. You are also right that this is just politics. Please God, that it stays just that.’

  They walked on back to the station now, with the sun lower and the breeze cool and Helen did not want to tell him of the baby, not today, not like this. Perhaps tomorrow.

  Heine held Helen’s arm, feeling her warmth, her flesh beneath the blouse, and loved her. With her he could learn to laugh as he had once done and was beginning to do again. And after all, she was right, it was just politics and he was living in England now. He wouldn’t think of Munich. Perhaps, after all, it had not really been as he remembered it, perhaps there had not been any violence, perhaps the Kampfzeit, the Nazis’ time of struggle, had been just a nightmare he had imagined but his leg ached as they hurried for the train.

  The next morning Helen followed Frau Weber up steep stairs to the attic which ran the width of the large house. The windows at either end let in the light from the fine June day and as they entered Helen breathed in the smell of stored fruit from the orchard which she could see when she peered through the window. The village looked so small, the trees even smaller and she could hear no noise.

  ‘Through that small door is the linen cupboard,’ Frau Weber said, smoothing her hands down her apron. ‘It is there that we keep the winter quilts and over there in that corner is our store for all that we need each year for Christmas. Perhaps you can smell the candles. They are special; they are honey wax.’

  Helen smelt them as she approached the corner; their scent hung rich on the air.

  ‘One day perhaps you can come back to our land for Christmas. I would like that. This …’ Frau Weber paused. ‘This difficulty between father and son cannot go on. Their squabble will die as the politics die. It is just a silliness between them.’ Helen stopped, she could not go where the eaves sloped. It was too dark, like her mother’s cupboard. She turned, holding on to the post, feeling its roughness, wanting cool air.

  ‘Yes, it will pass. You’re right, I’m sure it will pass,’ she said, breathing deeply, watching as the older woman took down a small muslin bag which hung from a hook secured to a beam.

  ‘These apple slices will make a cinnamon tart for you tonight. It is Heine’s favourite, but then you will know that, my dear Helen.’

  Helen eased herself over to the window; it was light here, so light. The window ledge was warm, the grained wood worn smooth. She rubbed her hands along it, pushing the darkness away. A butterfly was beating its wings against the glass and she opened the window, cupping her hand around it, feeling it fluttering against her skin. She opened her hands and threw it out into the windless air, watching as it flew its jagged path to safety.

  ‘Come now, my child. I will take you to the smoke room and then we shall cut some sausage for your picnic. I am glad that you go to the woods. It is good for his soul.’

  Helen shut the window, still looking at the butterfly until it disappeared against the green and brown of the lime trees; only then did she turn and follow her mother-in-law.

  She was glad that today they would be far from other people.

  They drove the motor car to the forest and walked down clearly marked paths. Heine carried the rucksack with two folding canvas chairs strapped to it but Helen knew that she would lie on the ground when they stopped and look up at the sky through the branches of the chestnut, beech, elm, lime and ash. They passed beech trees which had been felled in November and left to bleach. She climbed over a newly hewn pine and her shoes and stockings became coated with sawdust which brushed off easily for it was so dry, and the trees’ scent, so fresh and clean, clung to her hands and clothes. She lifted them to her face and breathed in deeply.

  Heine laughed and kissed her and his happiness loosened his face. He showed her where the plantations of spruce were being grown for Christmas trees and she hoped that one day they would come for Christmas. But she said nothing because she did not want to draw any shade close to him today.

  He reached into the rucksack and pulled out two apples, tossing one to her. She bit into the crisp flesh and juice ran down her chin. He reached forward and wiped it with his finger before taking her hand and walking on again, limping less on the soft ground.

  ‘The Germans care deeply for their forests,’ he told her. ‘In ancient times we stripped our land almost bare but the wind punished us and blew away soil and seed, as is now happening in the middle of America. We learned that we must restore our forests to coax the wind to drop its rain. The forests then held back the water so that it did not rush away and so now the trees have a special place in German hearts.’

  ‘Especially in yours, my love,’ she said as she took another bite, watching his face as he looked at the sawn logs neatly stacked in piles to their right.

  ‘Yes, I have always loved the forest. It is cool, and no matter how many people there are, it is quiet. I love the mythology also. Did you know, my English Helen, that the beech is Wotan’s tree and the oak belongs to the god of thunder? Then there is the raven who has the task of flying through the trees warning both man and beast that the gods are about to ride past and they must flee to their homes and not intrude on holy secrets.’

  ‘And you of course have seen this raven?’ Helen laughed.

  ‘Indeed, everyone has seen the raven, and heard it too. It comes in the form of a storm, with wind blowing and the skies exploding in thunder and lightning. And who stays out to see the gods? No one.’ Heine had lowered his voice and now swung round. ‘Do you?’

  His aims were round her, and he blew into her neck, dug his fingers into her ribs until she pleaded for mercy. They ate their picnic beneath the trees, not at one of the rest-houses, and then Helen lay on the ground, her green skirt and shirt dusty and spiked with pine needles, but she did not care and neither did Heine, for he lay with her. They had not used the canvas chairs.

  He stroked her hair, pulling at the curls which sprang back as they had been.

  ‘I love your dark, dark hair, your dark, dark eyes, your lips, so full, your skin so smooth,’ he breathed into her neck.

  ‘And I love your blond hair, your eyes, your mouth,’ she whispered, looking up at the sky through the conifer branches. The raven was far away today, she thought. Far far away.

  ‘I am having our baby,’ she said into his hair. ‘Will he have blond hair and dark eyes, I wonder?’

  Heine made no movement. She could not even feel his breath on her neck and then he gripped her tightly.

  ‘I should have known. How stupid of me, my precious darling. I should have known.’ He sat up then, looking down at her, his eyes taking in the darkness beneath her eyes, the thickening waist. And then he held her so that she should not see his face, because how could this child, this girl he had married, have a child? It was a miracle somehow, a joy, an anxiety. Would she be all right? Was she strong enough?

  He gripped her tightly, seeing the trees and the shadows that played beneath their branches. He had never thought in terms of a child. Just in terms of Helen. How could he bear to share her?

  She turned to him then. ‘I love you so much.’ She looked into his eyes and saw pleasure, but som
ething else as well. She kissed his lids, his cheeks, his lips. ‘Are you pleased my love?’

  She waited as he turned on to his back, throwing his arm over his eyes. ‘It’s just that it’s such a surprise. And of course I’m pleased.’ He paused then turned and kissed her again with his eyes shut.

  Later they walked slowly back to the motor car. Helen loved the feel of his arm around her. Would it be a boy or a girl, she wondered, able now to think of the baby, now that she had told Heine, now that it was a shared joy. They passed a rest-house and flaxen-haired children were running round the hewn tables and chairs: their parents were drinking beer and watching. Helen turned to Heine who was also watching.

  ‘In December, my love, we shall know our child. We shall hold it and know it,’ she said and he bent down and kissed her.

  Heine’s father kissed her on both cheeks and shook his son’s hand, holding his arm, squeezing it. They sat down at the heavy oak table in the dining-room. It was a dark panelled room which seemed to suck away the light from the yellowed shaded lamps set above the table and on the walls. They ate soup made from locally grown asparagus, though not from their own garden, Herr Weber told Helen. He asked if they had seen the Jagdtrophäen in the rest-houses. The antlers of the buck and the elk, Heine explained when she turned to him, puzzled.

  Herr Weber told of the time he had been Jagdkönig, the Hunt King of the day, but that now he had little time, and at this point Frau Weber broke in.

  ‘Heine has some excellent news, Wilhelm. There is to be a grandchild in December.’

  Herr Weber placed his spoon back in the bowl and pulled down the serviette from his neck. ‘My dear son, this is marvellous news. Quite marvellous. We shall drink brandy after the meal but not the little mother, I think.’ He smiled at Helen and his face was gentle and kind and she saw a look of Heine in him. Flowers filled a large blue vase on the sideboard behind him.

  They ate veal and there was too much for Helen so she sat back and listened to the talk between the father and the mother which she could not understand because it was in German. She looked at Heine who was watching her and she smiled and mouthed, ‘I love you. I love you.’

  And Heine knew that she did and smiled as he drank the dry cool wine, feeling the crystal against his lips, remembering the clear ringing sound the glass had made when he had licked his finger as a child and run it round the edge. In that moment his anxiety faded and all that remained was joy, for she had opened up his past to him through her love and would continue to do so. It was a love which would expand to include the child rather than dividing itself into two.

  The cinnamon tart was good, very good and Helen knew she must learn how to make it.

  Herr Weber had been speaking to his wife and now he turned to Helen but spoke in German until he corrected himself. His wine glass was empty and he reached for the bottle as he began again, this time in careful English. He also refilled Heine’s glass.

  ‘I was saying before I so rudely forgot your language, my dear, that it is important for an English person to appreciate that Herr Hitler is very concerned with the legality of his actions because, of course, we Germans are a very correct race. I am a solicitor after all. His rise to power will only come about through the due process of law. By the vote. Look at the landslide in 1930.’

  Helen looked at Heine. He was holding his glass to the light, turning it round and round in his fingers. She drank some of her own wine.

  ‘I know nothing of politics, Herr Weber,’ she replied.

  ‘Indeed, my dear. Helen is too tired to think of such things.’ Frau Weber intervened. ‘Will you have a little more of the cinnamon tart, my dear? You are eating for two, I think you say in England.’

  Heine smiled at Helen and hoped that his father would not now turn to him but he did.

  ‘Heine, you and I have had our differences but even so you must now see that it was through pursuing the legal line that Hitler won over one hundred seats in the Reichstag.’ His speech was eager, his face concerned. ‘And you must see that he offers us what we need. Law and order, progress, stability. July is going to be a month of greatest importance for us. We expect over thirty-five per cent of the vote, my son. Is that not saying something to you? The people want it, Heine. Six million unemployed, a world slump. Strength is what we need.’

  ‘Yes, Father,’ Heine said for he had promised his wife, his mother.

  ‘A strong man who is mindful of legality.’ Herr Weber paused, sitting up straighter, his hand reaching out towards Heine.

  ‘Yes, Father,’ Heine said but his thoughts replied that until now there was no punishment without law. Will it be the same when your leader is in power? Will there even need to be a crime? Won’t there just be punishment? I can remember Munich too well and I think you do too. That is why you are speaking to me like this. Trying to make sense of it too. I hope so.

  ‘You see, dear boy, there is anarchy on our streets. We need strength to combat the unions, the dissidents. Our young people are leaving as you have done. We will become a land of old people, defenceless against our enemies both inside and out.’

  ‘Yes, Father.’ But silently he groaned. Don’t you know why I left? And can’t you see, can’t you read? What about the solution Hitler propagates for racial purity? What about Lebensraum; living space? What about another war? What about Munich? What about the exhibition which was defiled by your brownshirts because my brilliant photographer friend is a Jude, a Jew? What about my arm which is still stiff from the beating they gave me because I interfered?

  What about the socialist meeting I attended in Munich? what about the iron bar wielded oh so legally by your party members? It broke my leg in three places, Father. How can you excuse that? It was a real question which Heine asked in his mind. One that he had asked his father in January 1930 which was when his mother had sent him from Germany.

  His father’s kind, honest face had been confused, had been desperate because he had not been able to excuse what had happened, but neither could he believe that it was anything more than an aberration. He would not listen when Heine told him it was the norm.

  Heine leaned over to his father now and covered his hand with his own. ‘I love you, Father. Be careful. Be very, very careful.’ He rose. ‘Helen, you look tired, my darling. I’ll take you up to bed now.’

  He turned to his mother and father. ‘Please excuse me from the brandy. I also am tired and I have my family to think of now.’ He smiled at them, at Helen, at his child.

  Helen held him close and at last he slept, but she could not for he had told her about Munich and now at last she understood the reality of politics. She did not want to though. Oh God, no, she did not want to, because she was nineteen and in love and pregnant. She wanted her husband for herself, she wanted the peace of their lives to go on. She wanted the photographs they took, the child they had, the walks, the laughter to be everything. She held him tighter still. How much of his life would it take?

  CHAPTER 3

  In England in August 1932 Heine received a letter from one of his Munich friends telling him that German voters had handed Hitler’s brownshirts an election victory on 31 July and the Nazis now formed the biggest party.

  ‘But he doesn’t have a majority?’ Helen asked because she had been listening to Heine since they had returned to England and now understood the political situation.

  He put down the letter on the kitchen table. ‘No, at least he does not have that.’

  ‘So, there is still hope,’ she insisted, shaking his hand, leaning over and stroking his face. ‘Come on, Heine, you must be brave, you must go on. We must go on.’ Because she had decided that whatever battles had to be fought they would fight them together. She paused. ‘Listen, you were telling me about the changing mood of photography. If you want me to be able to help with the work, we must concentrate.’

  She rose from the table and moved round to him, putting her arm along his shoulder. ‘This baby is getting bigger and bigger. He won’t wait
for something that might never happen. And it might never happen, you know. Hitler can still be defeated – contained. If he’s as bad as you say the German people won’t let him take power.’ She held his head against her. ‘Now, my love, what were you saying about imagery.’

  She felt his hand on her swelling abdomen and then his voice, muffled as he spoke into her body. ‘I try for a greater range of imagery. I like strong direct photographs with the emphasis on design instead of soft focus and tranquil scenes. Now is a time for realism.’ He sat up straight now and used his hands to express his ideas and Helen felt relief ease into her. She had caught his interest, kept him away from the shadows for now.

  He told her that he had been taught to use an overall soft focus to provide atmosphere, to use a sombre tone for mood landscapes, to use soft and subtle nuances of light and shade, but in Munich he had become interested in the ‘New Objectivity’ which he thought had grown out of the harsh reality of the war. He told her that Martin Weiss, his Jewish friend whose photographs had been defiled, considered it wrong to allow the ego of the photographer to come between the camera and subject and, though others thought that this technique was too cold he did not.

  ‘I would want a picture to say something about myself, my views, my feelings, the feelings of others involved,’ Helen said.

  ‘Well, that is another style and a successful one. Perhaps it is as well that we have different opinions,’ he said.

  They walked to the darkroom which had originally been the dining-room. ‘We should have another lesson with the Leica. I have no appointments scheduled for this afternoon so we shall do it then, but now, my darling, let us go through again the procedures of developing and printing.’

  He stood at the door as he waited for her to repeat all that she had learned throughout the last two weeks.