“I say, it’s truly amazing what the Germans have achieved, how far they have developed their country since the War.”
“Even in the East, the GDR?” Nora wanted to know.
“Well, not so much in the GDR, but things are a lot better in the West. I can tell you, there’s a big difference.”
“But weren’t you in Leipzig, which is in the GDR?”
“Yes, that’s where the trade fair was, and that’s where I spent most of my time. But I had the opportunity to visit the West, too. I realized I could see an old acquaintance in Stuttgart. Someone I thought might become useful if things got unpleasant for me in Germany.”
“Oh, that’s interesting,” his wife interjected. “You never told me you’d still got people you knew in Germany. Who is he?”
“You wouldn’t know him, although he’s quite high in German politics. His name is Hans. He’s high up in one of their federal states called Bundesländer.”
“You’re right there. I don’t even know their president or prime minister or any other big shot. But did you actually see him? And did he remember you?”
“Yes, he was surprised to see me. He was surprised that I had survived.”
“How did you know him back in the War?” Nora wanted to know.
“Well, I could do him a few favours back then, I think it was in 1944. He was a judge, and I was assigned to do a few jobs for him. Nothing to write home about, though. I don’t really remember any details. It’s too long ago.”
“But you remembered the man, and he remembered you?”
“Yes. We had a chat in his office in Stuttgart. He explained a lot of things to me, you know, about Germany in general, about the way modern Germany, I mean the Federal Republic, the Bundesrepublik, has dealt with its recent history. They’ve even coined a new word for it, long and typically German. It’s called Vergangenheitsbewältigung. Now, that’s a mouthful for you, isn’t it?”
“It means getting to terms with your past,” Nora explained. “We had it in our history lessons. Mr Jackson explained it to us.”
“How clever you are, my girl,” Mum said. “The things you know...”
“Hans explained how, ever since the student riots of ’68, the political left have gone over the top in blaming almost everyone who happened to be alive during the War. It’s all organized by the Communists, of course. His motto, ‘What was lawful then cannot be unlawful now,’ has become quite a catchphrase, and the Socialists have interpreted it all too seriously, accusing him and many others of our generation of being dishonest. Naturally, many people in Germany who had been there during the War had to re-shape their own past a little, you know, nobody was safe when the Allies took over. Hans explained how he was accused by his political opponents for mendacity and perjury. Of course, everyone had to invent a few small lies. In English we would call them white lies, wouldn’t we?”
“Well, that obviously depends on the gravity of their wrong-doings,” Nora commented. But before she could ask more detailed questions he went on.
“Hans took me to a fine restaurant in Stuttgart, where everyone knew him. We had some very wholesome German food. It was so delicious, I can tell you. If we had restaurants like that in Newcastle, your Mum and I would go out for a meal more often.”
Nora tried to steer the conversation back to the topic of Dad’s old friend in Stuttgart, she wanted to know more about their roles in the War, but he had moved away from politics and went on with his praises for German cuisine. He couldn’t be stopped in his descriptions of the various dishes that were unknown to people in Newcastle.
After this revelation, Dad didn’t return to the topic of the War and the Nazis, and the right moment to ask him more questions had gone.
In the following weeks, Nora didn’t often have time for her interest in history because maths was becoming more and more demanding. She had to do a lot of extra work in order to understand their new topic of equations. While she thought she understood what was being demanded, she just couldn’t transform the practical problem at hand into a mathematical equation. And when she did manage, she had problems to solve the equation. She often forgot that you had to do exactly the same transformation on both sides of the equation. So, she often struggled. She knew she had to concentrate on her maths if she wanted to succeed in her O-Levels, which were approaching pretty fast. This new focus on maths downgraded her history to a lower priority.
Nevertheless, she sometimes remembered what her father had told her about his meeting with his old acquaintance in Stuttgart. She just didn’t have the time and energy to explore more. After all, her father appeared to be quite relieved that his German trip had gone so well. There had been no more talk about his Swiss accent in German or his German accent in English. Nora knew how German accents were caricatured in English cartoons and even in some modern English novels, usually written by authors who didn’t know much about languages but just catered for the general cliché, where every German character mixed up the sounds for “v” and “w” and couldn’t pronounce the “th” sound, something she had experienced more with Americans back in Chicago than with real live German visitors. In fact, to her ears the German accent was better audible in the staccato rhythm and the different intonation, sometimes in inaccurate vowels - for example, many Germans would say “bed” for “bad” - but otherwise it sounded more like an Irish accent. Besides, she wondered why the English always had such a thing about people’s accents, as if it was some serious flaw in one’s character if one had some sort of an accent.
Soon, there was another matter that demanded her attention more fully: Janet’s baby. It was expected to be born any day now. Nora went to Janet’s house more often, sometimes with Debbie, sometimes on her own. Janet told them that everything was as it should be, and the three girls were all looking forward to the arrival of the new human being.
Over the past few months, Janet’s parents had given her every possible support. Things had been negotiated with Jeff’s parents resulting in Jeff’s recognition of his part in the situation. Neither Jeff nor Janet were contemplating a permanent relationship with a view to a future marriage but admitted that the baby was the result of “just a short fling”. Thus, it was agreed that the baby should grow up in Janet’s home and Jeff’s parents were willing to contribute a small sum towards its upbringing. Jeff insisted that the child, once in a position to understand these things, should know him as its father. He was hoping for a girl, while Janet said she would love her child no matter if it was going to be a boy or a girl. Janet’s mother said a boy would be easier, girls were known to be more difficult with their changing moods and their hot tempers.
Janet’s headmaster gave her ample time off and promised to take her back when she was ready after the birth of the baby. He explained to her parents why he was taking this firm stand towards the board of governors and towards all the parents who objected to such “immoral” practice. The reason was that his own sister had been in a similar predicament back in the fifties, and her school had only made things worse instead of helping her. She had been evicted and sent to a home for “fallen women”, a measure which had caused nothing but misery and trauma. It was then that he had vowed that he would act differently if he should ever be in a position to make such relevant decisions.
All in all probably the best of all possible solutions for Janet and her baby, Nora thought. She found that she was looking forward to the baby very much, and of course the situation strengthened the bond of friendship between them.
Soon the time was upon them. It was a cool October evening, and the three girls were sitting in Janet’s bedroom, sipping tea and telling each other what they had read in the papers and seen on TV about Sheik Yamani, their new star in international politics. For quite a while they had all heard about the so-called oil crisis due to an Arab oil embargo, and Nora had read about petrol shortages in several countries. Debb
ie had read that people were banned from using their cars on certain Sundays in many countries, all because of the petrol shortages. And the man behind all that was believed to be Sheik Yamani, the new president of the OPEC, the Organization of the Petroleum Exporting Countries, already founded in 1960, but hardly taken notice of up to now. Sheik Yamani had only recently begun to use oil as a political tool by exercising pressure on the economies of the Western World. The girls admired this courage, as they believed, and they considered the Sheik an extremely good-looking man. Almost every day he could be seen in the news on TV, strutting through a thick throng of journalists, swinging his prayer beads in his right hand, a confident smile on his face, fully aware of how completely he was holding half the world hostage.
“My mother thinks Yamani is a criminal,” Debbie said.
“My parents don’t care,” Nora added. “Dad says things will blow over after a few months and the oil price will drop again. Mum says she’s not interested in politics, and after all we can afford the higher price for a gallon of petrol.”
“My Dad is furious,” Janet said, but stopped immediately. She moaned and placed both her hands on her swollen belly. “I think this is it...”
She stood up to go to the toilet, and they all saw the wetness where she’d been sitting. Nora ran down to tell Janet’s mother to call an ambulance. The waters had broken.
Everything went very quickly. Janet was rushed to hospital by ambulance, Nora and Debbie followed soon after by bus, and four hours later the baby was born. The two friends were allowed, together with Janet’s mother, to see Janet in the Maternity Ward for a quick visit. Janet was utterly exhausted but very happy, with sweat all over her face. After being hugged by her mother, she gave her two best friends a weak smile and wiped away a tear from her cheek.
“It’s a boy,” she breathed.
Ten
It was the year 1986. The month of January started off quite mild, but from about the 18th the mercury dropped and soon the snow arrived. By the 23rd, most of Europe was covered in a thick layer of snow, and England was no exception.
Nora wrapped herself in her thickest winter coat and a stylish woollen scarf she had got from Laura Ashley’s only the week before. She absolutely hated the cold, and she always felt it more acutely than most of her friends, probably because she didn’t have a lot of fat on her bones to keep her warm, not at all like Debbie, who had developed quite a plump figure over the past few years. No, Nora had accepted the fact that most people considered her to be one of those silly young women who nearly starved themselves to death because they wanted to conform to the measurements of the latest fashion model. In her case, it was just her natural shape.
As she was walking through the High Street, heading for the coffee shop where she was to meet a Mrs Thornton, she noted that there were relatively few people around, fewer than normal for this time of day. This was probably because of the cold weather plus the fact that people’s purses were often at a low level in January, with little to spare, so the usual shoppers must prefer to stay at home and warm themselves in their houses.
She entered the coffee shop just as the machine behind the counter was issuing a loud hissing sound as it was being operated by a young man with black hair and a thick black beard. He was dressed in the standard black t-shirt, jeans and a green gardener’s apron with the coffee company’s logo in front.
As she was looking round, she detected a middle-aged woman waving at her from the back of the room. Nora walked up to her. “Mrs Thornton, I presume?”
“Yes, not quite Dr Livingstone,” the woman smiled, indicating a seat opposite her.
“Pleased to meet you in person,” Nora said, the women shook hands, and Nora took off her thick coat, placing it over the back of the chair. “I’ll be with you straightaway, I’ll just get myself a cup of coffee.”
When Nora had her cappuccino and was sitting comfortably opposite Mrs Thornton, the two women prepared the atmosphere with some small-talk before they eventually came to the topic at hand.
“So, you want to do some part-time work for us?” Mrs Thornton enquired.
“Yes, if that is at all possible,” Nora answered cheerfully. She wondered at herself, at her calm absence of nervousness.
“We’re always looking for good translators. Since many of our publications are translated from other languages we need a lot of good ones. Unfortunately, many young language students just don’t come up to our expectations, so we’re looking for experienced professionals like yourself. We’ve had a good look at the material you sent us, and of course at your qualifications and your CV. It’s very impressive. Dr Armstrong, our chief editor, was particularly impressed by the quality of your early translations, you know the bits from Lampedusa’s Gattopardo that you did while still at university.”
“Really? I thought they were youthful exaggerations of what I took for Italianità at the time.”
“Well, Dr Armstrong considered them very subtle and introspective, especially for a young person that you must have been then. Plus, of course, he was glad to see such able work coming from a graduate of his own university.”
“He was at York, too, then?” Nora smiled.
“Yes, indeed. And he often reminds us of the fact that people up north are so much friendlier than down here.”
They discussed more aspects of the work that Nora would be expected to do for this publishing house. She was to work as a translator, a part-time job she was hoping to be able to do from her home. She really needed a proper professional challenge to fill her time and fulfil her intellectual ambitions, especially with George away from home so much and with young Andrew needing her at home. She wasn’t going to be one of those incompetent mothers who neglected their young children by just plonking them down in front of the goggle-box while gallivanting around town all the time. She wanted to combine her role of a good mother with her professional ambitions.
“So it is agreed, then,” Mrs Thornton stated. “You’re ready to start at once, and you’re willing to take on translations from French, German and Italian?”
“Yes, quite so.”
“And the pay is ok for you, at least for the first six months?”
“Yes, that’s okay.”
Mrs Thornton was beginning to gather her things from the chair beside her.
“We’ll send you your contract tomorrow, and once we get it back, countersigned by you, we’ll send you the first text immediately. It’s going to be one of Kleist’s short stories, or novellas, as the experts call them.”
“Is this the Kohlhaas novella?”
“Yes, I think it is. Oh, and by the way, is it okay if I call you Nora?”
“That’s fine by me, I still haven’t got used to being Mrs White,” Nora confessed.
“Oh yes,” Mrs Thornton quickly added, “before I forget it. We’re planning to phase out typewriters. Can you work with a computer? The Kleist text is probably going to be our last text in the old typewritten version. The company is going to give you a Commodore computer for you to use at home, since you work from home, and the texts will come on floppy disks. Is this going to be a problem for you?”
“It shouldn’t be,” Nora replied. “My husband already works with computers at Gatwick Airport. So he has some experience and he’ll be able to help me initially.”
“I’m glad to hear it. Well then, I must be off.”
The women shook hands again, and Mrs Thornton left the coffee shop in a hurry. Then she disappeared from view among the people in the High Street. The town centre of Horsham had become a bit busier during the time Nora spent in the coffee shop.
Nora walked to the car park, squeezed herself behind the wheel - an unusual but necessary effort because she was wearing her thickest coat and it was too cold to sit in her little car without her coat - and started the engine. She was glad she had this new car,
which started even in these cold conditions. When she was younger, especially as a student in York, she’d had a series of what people would call “old bangers”, rusty old wrecks which were cheap but often caused problems. When they moved down south and bought their new house in the outskirts of this charming market town, George got her this new VW Golf. She considered herself fortunate. Not only because George was making good money but because they had such a good marriage and such a lovely home.
Sometimes she would miss Newcastle, York, the North East, the Geordie accent, the sooty smell in the air, the black houses and what she considered a different light up north, but generally she was very happy down here, even though she hadn’t seen very much of the countryside around Sussex. It was such an ideal location, within easy reach of London, near Gatwick Airport - where George worked - and even not too far away from the sea, Brighton, Worthing, Beachy Head and such lovely spots. There was still a lot to explore for her. Once little Andrew was a bit older she would be able to take him for strolls along the coast. That would be wonderful. She smiled to herself.
As she was driving through Horsham she suddenly remembered that she had meant to call her mother about a recipe for apple pie. Her mother had always made the best apple pie, so now Nora was hoping to emulate her mother’s baking skills for her little boy. Andrew was going to be two in March, and he loved his cakes, so an apple pie would be the right thing for his dinner on his birthday.
Back in her new home, Nora took off her thick coat and her boots before she sat down and dialled her mother’s number.
“Hello, my darling,” Mum was delighted. “How are you, and how’s little Andy?”
White Lies Page 16
