Rosa:
I am terribly sorry and absolutely incensed to hear about how Samuel has treated you (how wrong we were about him: he sounds like a first class rogue, and if I were there I would waste no time in breaking his nose for you). My advice would be to forget all about that weasel, put it behind you and take control of things, start your life again. Despite the temptation, which may be strong at times, never contact him; never waste even a single tear on him. And even if one day he were to come begging to you on bleeding knees, never, ever forgive him.
Stay strong and write soon.
Heinrich
When Rosa finished the letter, she raised her eyes to the cracked B & B ceiling and let out a sigh of determination, a sigh of certainty and strength; she remembered her vow to be strong, to never again give in, and her courage began to flow back; no longer would weakness bind her. So she steeled herself, put on her best clothes, which by now were rather tatty, and visited the Central Office for Refugees at Bloomsbury House to ask for assistance in realising her ambition.
Now, before entering, Rosa rests her ear against the door of her new bedroom. Not a sound comes from within. She tries the handle and it swings open. A narrow room is revealed, perfectly symmetrical, as if a mirror has been installed along the centre: two beds are in identical positions on opposite sides, and beside each there is a cabinet, a wardrobe and a small chest of drawers. She is unsure which bed to take until she looks closer and sees some personal effects on one of the cabinets, and a red-and-white sleeve protruding from beneath one of the pillows. She heaves her suitcase and parcel onto the other bed and sits down beside them, catching her breath. The bedroom smells of polished wood and dust; the window looks out onto the cricket ground, smooth as the sea, and the fragrance of the last few chrysanthemums slips in upon the draught. Rosa is glad to be out of the city, London is different now, compared to how she remembered it; the bombs have made it bleak, shot through with a defiant resignation. She opens her suitcase and begins to unpack her clothes into the wardrobe, it doesn’t take long, she will not need most of them anyway, and in her underwear drawer she stashes her painted box. Then she turns her attention to the parcel, which cost twenty pounds, which used up all the money she had left after paying for the B & B. And the salary will only be eighteen pounds a year, seems ridiculous really, board and lodging is included of course, but now she has not a shilling to her name, not a single farthing. She unties the prickly string, peels back the brown paper; on top are several dense-looking textbooks, and underneath is a pile of uniforms which she sewed herself, based on an unlikely-looking sketch and set of instructions. They do not look as bad as she had thought; heavy smocks in a lavender check with puffed shoulders and detachable sleeves, white aprons with shoulder straps. She had been advised to use a dressmaker but couldn’t afford it, and she had an aptitude for sewing anyway, she had been taught by her mother as a child. The accessories she had to purchase from Debenhams; the starched collars to be wrapped round the neck like pieces of tape and fastened with studs, the double-breasted caped coat, the cloak, the woollen gloves, the straw hat for outdoors in the summer. She separates the items, brushes them down, hangs them, leaves a full uniform out to put on. The smock fits nicely, she looks in the mirror to affix her cap, which was provided upon arrival – and then the look is complete. She feels different, official, as if she finally belongs to something. At this stage, of course, it is nothing but an illusion, after all she knows nothing but basic First Aid, yet the uniform is an indication that she has crossed a boundary, if only by a single inch; and it is an expression of what she, in four years’ time, might achieve.
She picks up the sleeves, two tubes of tough white cotton with a configuration of brass buttons and slits at the end. The idea is that they should be attached to the shoulder of the smock, but she has been having some trouble getting the buttons to fit through the slits. Of course, she thinks as she slips one onto her arm, before the four years are up the war will end, and her family will be freed, and she will be on her way back to Germany; I might be able to transfer my training to Berlin, in fact, so long as my spoken German has not deserted me completely. These buttons, how fiddly – she clicks her tongue in frustration, she cannot seem to get the sleeve to fasten properly to the smock, she slides the sleeve off her arm, holds it up to the light, squinting.
Bloomsbury House had been very sympathetic when Rosa arrived asking for help; they had made enquiries on her behalf, ascertained that interviews were held every Tuesday at two o’clock, and all one had to do was turn up, dressed for interview, and join the queue. But her clothes, by now, were hardly smart, and in some cases were practically in tatters, so, swallowing her pride, she wrote to Baron de Rothschild explaining her predicament and asking, politely, for assistance. His response was swift; several days later a Daimler drew up and produced a dapper and waspish governess with instructions to take her shopping. Taken aback, Rosa was driven into town, nervous of touching even the door handles; the governess took her to Selfridges and kitted her out with an expensive suit in navy, and a pair of spotless white gloves. Then Rosa was deposited back at her B & B, and left with a jewellery case containing a string of pearls, a personal gift from the baron. Rosa, in a daze, accepted the present, watched the motorcar roar away into the distance.
The door opens without a knock; Rosa turns to see a hearty-looking girl with hysterical eyes and thick blonde hair stopping in her tracks and covering her hand with her mouth. She too is wearing a nurse’s smock, with angular creases indicating that it has only recently been unfolded – but there the similarity with Rosa’s uniform ends. The girl’s skirts are practically floor-length, her collar so huge that it braces her chin, and her pockets nothing but minute patches, big enough only for a key or a single pen; her dressmaker clearly had a rather different interpretation of the uniform sketch than Rosa.
—Oh, I beg your pardon, says the girl.
—Not at all, says Rosa.
—We must be sharing a room. I’m Betty Robinson.
—Rosie Clark, says Rosa.
They shake hands.
—Where’s your trunk? says Betty. They’re supposed to be outside ready for taking to the attics.
—I don’t have a trunk, I have a suitcase, says Rosa.
—Goodness. Have you managed to work out these darned sleeves yet? I haven’t.
Betty juts out her bare elbows like a chicken.
—Afraid not, says Rosa, I am myself struggling with them.
—I say, you’re not English, are you? says Betty.
—Dutch, says Rosa seamlessly.
—I say, Holland. That’s awfully exciting, says Betty and giggles. I’m only from Croydon.
—Croydon?
—Yes, you know. Croydon.
There is a silence and Rosa clicks her tongue again in frustration as once more the button of the sleeve eludes her.
—Do you want a hand with those sleeves? says Betty. Perhaps it’s easier with somebody else.
—I’m all right.
—Nonsense, says Betty maternally, let’s see.
They move to the window for light, but the wintry sky has turned the colour of porridge, and there is little illumination to be had; Betty struggles with Rosa’s sleeve.
—Goodness, says Betty, your uniform is rather different from mine. Do you think that’s all right? I look like a nun next to you.
—I don’t know, says Rosa. I suppose that we shall find out soon enough.
—I’m a Methodist, says Betty, my father is an organ blower. What are you?
—Well, nothing really.
—I’m used to sharing a bedroom, says Betty, I’ve got three sisters and a brother. How old are you?
—Eighteen, says Rosa.
—I’d have thought you were a lot older.
Betty persists doggedly with the sleeve and Rosa cannot help but warm towards this homely girl, so young, so unspoilt by the darkness of the world; something in her heart is beginning to stir, something sh
e thought was long dead. After weeks in purgatory, watching her savings slip through her fingers at the dismal B & B, waiting for her womb to stop hurting, lying on stained sheets in the communal air-raid shelter while the couple from the next room fumbled in the corner, finally she has something to hold on to, something substantial that she can put between her and the Kremers in Norfolk, something that can protect her from the events of the past; the days with the Kremers are over.
—There, says Betty. Hallelujah.
The interview had been at once terrifying and exhilarating. Rosa, awkward in her new suit, self-conscious in her white gloves, uncomfortable in her pearls, took the underground to Whitechapel and walked from there to the London Hospital, a vast square building stained black with soot, with a huge round clock set like the unwinking eye of a Cyclops below the point of the roof. Dwarfed, she climbed the stone steps, past the row of four squat pillars and into the entrance hall. She managed to stop a passing nurse to ask directions and was looked up and down quite shamelessly before being directed to Matron’s office; there she immediately encountered the queue of prospective candidates, all girls, all wearing identical navy suits and white gloves. She stood amongst the throng, indistinguishable, and was suddenly flooded with a sense of relief, an ecstatic sensation of belonging. But as she watched the other girls chatting easily amongst themselves in clipped tones, her sense of isolation gradually returned; she might look the same as the others, but that, in reality, was window-dressing. She was a German girl in England, and a Jew, her experiences set her aside in a way that nobody could ever understand; none of these girls had ever left England probably, and certainly none of them had been through what she had in Norfolk. Not wanting to upset what little equilibrium she had before the interview had even begun, she took care not to catch anybody’s eye, gazing instead out of the grille-covered windows at the endless range of interlocking roofs, overhung by a cloud of smog through which blunt-nosed barrage balloons lethargically drifted.
Finally she arrived at the front of the queue. By this time she was nervous, her breath was short, her palms were clammy beneath the white gloves; for a moment she considered running, but she steeled herself, set her chin and sought to quell her anxiety, for she had vowed to be strong now and she would not give up without a fight. The black door was so highly polished that she could see her reflection in the paintwork, a reflection she did not recognise at first. A sign hanging above the lintel read, Matron’s Office Please Walk In; should she obey the sign or wait to be called? What had the others done?
—Why don’t you go in? came a voice from behind her.
Rosa turned to see a ginger-haired girl regarding her intently.
—Do you think so?
—That’s what it says up there.
Rosa touched the handle but applied no pressure.
—Go on, said the ginger girl.
She took a breath and opened the door. The room was large with several desks arranged in formation; behind each desk was a lady in a dark-coloured uniform, a stiff white cap perched like a seagull on the uppermost point of her head, from which lace streamers hung down her back. They all stopped what they were doing and looked at Rosa.
—I’m here for an interview, said Rosa awkwardly. It says walk in.
—Don’t be ridiculous, nurse, wait outside.
Rosa shut the door, mortified, and forced herself to stand firm, gluing her shoes to the turquoise floor and clenching her hands by her sides. You idiot, she thought, you idiot, now you’ll certainly be done for. What could have possessed me—
—What did they say? said the ginger-haired girl.
—We’re to wait, said Rosa bitterly, without turning around.
The girl made an inaudible response. As Rosa waited for another few minutes, trying to compose herself, preparing to salvage the interview as best she could, berating herself inside, something suddenly occurred to her, something that gave her, despite the calamity, a sense of hope: the lady had called her ‘nurse’.
A few minutes later the door opened and Rosa was beckoned in, ushered past the rows of desks, ladies and typewriters, and shown into the inner sanctum of the hospital – the nucleus, the kernel – Matron’s personal office.
Matron Alexander was taller and more slender than Rosa had imagined, and somewhat less intimidating. Her uniform was unassuming: a navy smock with a single line of domed buttons down the centre, a white cap and a plain-looking brooch on the right breast. For a moment Rosa was reminded of the final scenes of The Wizard of Oz, where the fire-breathing monster was revealed to be a normal-looking gentleman, but the thought was dispelled when Matron spoke; her voice was like a sabre. She took a note from the top of a pile, laid it symmetrically in front of her and scanned it, lifting a pair of pince-nez to her eyes.
—So, she said, you’re the one.
—I beg your pardon? said Rosa.
—Baron de Rothschild has spoken highly of you.
—Thank you, Matron.
There was a pause while Matron studied her closely.
—Why do you want to be a nurse, Miss Klein? she said abruptly.
—I wish to find peace, Rosa replied instinctively.
Matron looked at her strangely.
—Find peace? she replied. That’s the first time I’ve received that particular answer.
—My father is a surgeon, Rosa compensated.
—A medical family, said Matron, very good.
—And I did some First Aid training in Norfolk.
—Ah, Norfolk, said Matron, a healthy country girl. I appreciate the value of the healthy country girl. Miss Nightingale would have approved.
—Thank you, Matron, said Rosa.
—Full of thanks, Miss Klein. Gratitude becomes a girl in our line of work.
—Thank you, Matron.
Another pause.
—I do feel that the surname ‘Klein’ … not to put too fine a point on it … how about Clark?
—Clark?
—Yes. Rosie Clark. Matron leaned forward over her desk, peering at Rosa’s hair.
—Take down your hair, if you please, Miss Clark, she said.
Rosa fumbled at her hair and allowed it to fall freely.
—You do realise that we cannot accept any nurse with short hair?
—My hair is not short, said Rosa boldly, it is curly.
Matron reached up and pulled at a lock of Rosa’s hair; it extended, then bounced back. Crisply and efficiently she parted it in the middle, drew it back from the ears and wrapped it into a bun on the top of Rosa’s head.
—What say you, said Matron, will the cap fit?
—I think it will, please, Matron.
—Very well.
Rosa’s hair was released and fell about her face; she moved it aside, pushing it back and tucking it behind her ears. Matron reached under her desk and presented a brown paper parcel tied with prickly string.
—Here you are, Nurse Clark, she said, congratulations.
Head spinning, Rosa accepted the parcel.
—Thank you, Matron.
—In there you will find your uniform material and textbooks. You must pay one of the assistant matrons for it – twenty pounds. Now go away and have your uniform made, and report to Merrymeade in two weeks’ time. An assistant matron will give you the details.
—Thank you, Matron.
Matron leant closer.
—Fall at Merrymeade, she breathed, and there will be no second chances.
—Very well, Matron.
—That will be all.
Nineteen miles from Matron’s office, in Essex, in Brentwood, in a cavernous dining room on the ground floor of Merrymeade, with unlit candelabras and huge windows covered in blackout drapes, supper is held. Several of the girls have not managed to affix their sleeves; they are not reprimanded, not yet at least. Everyone’s uniform is slightly different; within days, however, they will be knocked into shape, all skirts will fall eight inches from the ground, and all puffed shoulders will be of the c
orrect height and angle, and each cap will fit snugly around the bun, and every nurse will look indistinguishable from the others, in sartorial terms at least. Amid the cold, the fear of air raids and a tangible claustrophobia, rows of girls eat Oxo-boiled vegetables grudgingly yielded by the Merrymeade garden, slices of mackerel and powdered eggs, which are chewy, sticky, yellow in colour, the consistency of semolina, served scrambled for the main course, and later on reappearing in the guise of a pudding. They sit at long tables, eat from polished plates, try not to drop food on their aprons, whisper to each other nervously; Rosa and Betty sit together, participating occasionally in a conversation concerning prior experience of First Aid, led by the ginger-haired girl, whose name is Maureen and who claims to have dealt with a dead body while she was a junior with the St John Ambulance service in Southwark. Oh dear, mumbles Betty, do you think there will be dead bodies, and she raises another forkful of mackerel to her mouth; this comment is enough to catch Maureen’s attention.
—You’ve got a magnificent bosom, she whispers, you’re halfway to being a Sister already.
—Hardly, says Betty uncertainly.
Suppressed giggles ripple across the table and then fall silent as a lady materialises from the shadows, broad, erect and poised; she is wearing a dusky blue Sister’s uniform and a white frilly cap, from which two long tails of lace hang down her back like strips of flypaper. She sails past on patrol, regarding the girls with a stony look, then settles back in her chair at the head of the table.
The English German Girl Page 29
