Finding Sophie

by Irene N. Watts

  “Like you did?”

  “Yes. I wrote down what he said: ‘It's not an earthquake, not a famine, not a flood, but an explosion of man's inhumanity to man.’ I wanted to help. It wasn't enough, obviously. How could we let it happen?” She sighs and puts her arm around me for a moment. “War and its atrocities.”

  I have a feeling she was thinking about that other war – the First World War.

  “If you don't mind, I'll take my cocoa upstairs with me, Aunt Em.”

  Does Aunt Em realize how mixed up I feel? How can she? I can't even explain it to myself.

  Every time there's been an air raid, every time someone in school hears of a brother shot down over enemy territory, or a father wounded or missing, I feel sad – guilty, too. Sometimes in Assembly when the headmistress says, with a sorrowful note in her voice, that something's been stolen from the cloakroom, or broken, and she hopes the guilty person will do the honorable thing and own up, I always go red, even though it's nothing to do with me. The trouble is, this is to do with me – I was born on the enemy side. Owning up's not going to change that. If only the war would end, if only we could forget all about it. …

  I wish I'd been born right here in this narrow old house with its tiny back garden, almost too small for our vegetable patch, where we grow carrots and brussels sprouts. Where the apple tree's wormy and the blackberries have to be picked from the bush the minute they are ripe, or birds and hungry little boys eat the lot.

  My bedroom's next to Aunt Em's, and there is a tiny spare room next to it, for a visitor or a maid. There isn't a maid, though. There's old Mrs. James, who comes in now and again to give everything a “good turnout.”

  The visitor's room is full of boxes of pamphlets and Red Cross supplies: blankets and patched sheets and secondhand clothes that Aunt Em collects for people in hospital or for blitzed families. She's been a member of the Women's Voluntary Services since 1939.

  I love my room. The ceiling slopes down towards the bed and the window's opposite, set back in an alcove and crisscrossed with tape, in case of splintering glass. Sometimes at night, before I go to sleep, I draw back the blackout curtains. Not for long, though, because I'm afraid I might fall asleep, and wake up in the night and switch on the light and give enemy planes a target to aim for.

  The walls are painted yellow to make the room look sunny. We're lucky to have walls. Incendiaries fell at the other end of the street, homes collapsed, people we know were hurt, and there was a lot of fire damage.

  Aunt Em gave me her old desk – the one she used when she was my age, at her home in Suffolk. There are a couple of little cubbyholes for anything really private. I don't keep a diary – drawing's easier for me than writing. I'm down to my last decent pencil. It's almost impossible to get good drawing pencils. I use mine to the last stub. Wish I still had one of those shiny ones. Can't get them anymore; everything's utility.

  There's a print of Van Gogh's bedroom on one wall. It inspires me. Every line means something – tells me about the artist and the character or object he painted. A simple wooden bed covered with a red quilt, two chairs, bare floors, and shuttered windows. How does he get that quality of light? Uncluttered and complete.

  My other picture is a watercolor called the Post Office, Clovelly. It shows a village painted by English artist Arthur Quinton, who lived in London till he died in 1934. I wonder if Clovelly was his favorite holiday place? The streets are cobbled. Two little girls in long dresses covered by white pinafores and wearing sunbonnets are walking up the hill. Behind them is the sea. There are railings in front of the houses. In London railings were given away long ago for the war effort. There's a striped awning over the post office, which has postcards for sale outside. A man leads a donkey, weighed down by panniers, toward the sea. A fishing boat bobs in the distance. Most nights this picture makes me feel safe and calm.

  Aunt Em teases me because I can go to sleep anytime. She says the first time she saw me in Liverpool Street Station, I was asleep.

  Tonight I can't stop thinking. What if I hadn't been one of the children brought to England before the war? Where would I be? Where are my parents? Does my father have to wear a yellow star like some of those people on the news?

  The last and most important “where” – the one I keep pushing aside and which won't go away – is, where am I supposed to belong? Where am I going to live when the war's over? Here with Aunt Em in my real life? Or with my parents, who are practically strangers, whom I can hardly remember?

  Every time I close my eyes, I imagine I hear my wardrobe doors opening. Inside are rows and rows of dead bodies stacked up – one on top of the other. Skeletons wearing striped jackets, with six-pointed stars sewn over their hearts.

  I get out of bed, make sure the blackout's in place. Then I switch on the light. The Van Gogh looks as if it's shifted a bit on the wall. I take it down. The nail's come loose. I'd better not hammer it back tonight. I put the print on the table next to the cocoa – there's skin on top. I drink it anyway. Can't bear to waste something with sugar in it. Actually, cocoa's not bad cold.

  I sit cross-legged on my bed and look at the clean square of yellow paint – much brighter than the rest of the wall – where the Van Gogh normally hangs.

  A long time ago there was a cream-colored wall in another room. … A little girl sits cross-legged on the floor and looks for hours at a picture of a horse standing on the edge of a yellow cornfield, surrounded by emerald green hedges. The horse is red and tosses its blue mane, flicks its blue tail. The girl's papa gave the picture to her mother when they got married. It hangs on the wall of their living room.

  At school the teacher says, “Draw something beautiful, so that the Führer will be proud of you.” Herr Schmidt always walks up and down between the rows of desks. His breath smells of tobacco. His fingers are stained yellow as though he's been painting. He stands at his table and the pointer makes a singing noise in the air before it hits the edge. When he does that, someone's in trouble.

  “Zoffie Mandel, bring your picture to the front. Turn around and face the class; show them your drawing.”

  The girl curtsies and does as she's told. Her picture is beautiful. No need to be afraid.

  “What is this a picture of, children?”

  “A horse, Sir.”

  “A horse. What color is this horse, children?”

  “Red and blue, Sir,” the class responds.

  Has she done something bad? The colors aren't smudged. She hasn't gone over the lines.

  “Who has seen a red and blue horse before? No one. Good. What color are horses, Magda? Yes. Black. Peter? Brown. Very good. Mathias? White. Excellent.”

  Her arms are getting tired. She needs to go to the toilet.

  “Tell us, Zoffie, what color is your horse?”

  The children scent trouble. They're glad it's someone else and not them.

  “Speak up, I can't hear you.”

  The girl whispers, “Red and blue, Sir.”

  The class explodes into laughter. The pointer sings before it hits the wood.

  “Silence! Hand me your picture.”

  The girl watches him tear it in half and throw it into the wastepaper basket. It is not over yet.

  “This picture is an insult to the Führer. This is a bad picture. Where did you see this horse?”

  “In a frame, Sir, in a room.”

  “What room, may I enquire?”

  Even then, at six, she knows she must not tell the truth.

  “I can't remember, Sir, just a room.”

  “Hold out your hand. Liar!” The pointer sings loudly before it stings her fingers. “Stand in the corner for the rest of the morning. Tomorrow, move your things to the back. Next to Samuel Bermann.”

  More laughter. Fingers pointing. The girl stands facing the wall. She can't hold out much longer.

  After the bell rings for the end of school, some children chase after the girl, chanting, “Zoffie Mandel wet the floor. Zoffie Mandel sits with Jews. She'
s a dirty Jewish …”

  She doesn't know the last word they call her.

  When the girl gets home, she curls up on her bed. Papa built the bunk for her in the living room. He said it was like a bed on a ship. Her own little room inside the big one. She draws the curtains and falls asleep in the half-darkness of her bunk.

  After Mama comes home from work, she tells her what the teacher said. Mama takes the picture down from the wall. There is a big clean patch where the horse used to be. When Papa comes home, Mama shouts at him: “Give it away, burn it. Suppose it's on the banned list? I've told you over and over we have to be more careful. The child talks. What is to become of you? Of all of us? We are a target.”

  “What shall I buy you instead? A picture of the Führer?”

  “Are you deaf and blind?” Mama's voice quivers.

  The girl covers her ears; she does not want to hear her mother crying. She wishes she could hide in the yellow cornfield.

  After supper, Papa goes out. He takes the horse away, wrapped in newspaper, and the photograph of his family, whom she has never met.

  Next day, when Mama comes home, she carries a big mirror in a gold frame. Four fat little gold angels decorate each corner. Papa hangs the mirror on the wall. He's tired from cutting the hedges outside the big houses along the Grunewald pine forest. He lies down.

  “Doesn't the mirror look beautiful, Zoffielein?”

  “Yes, Mama.” The little girl misses the red horse.

  “Listen carefully. This mirror was a christening present from your Grandmother Weiss.”

  “Grandmother? I have a grandmother?” the girl asks her mother. “Why doesn't she come to see me?”

  Mama says, “You've forgotten. I told you about her. She lives far away in Dresden – she can't come to visit.”

  The girl wants to ask, may she send her a letter? Perhaps her grandmother will write back. Papa appears in the doorway, puts his finger on his lips. The girl does not ask any more questions.

  Later, before she goes to sleep, Mama reminds her, “How long have we had this mirror, Zoffie?”

  “A long time.”

  “Good girl,” Mama says. “Do you remember who gave it to us?”

  “The grandmother who lives far away.”

  I reach for my sketchbook. Only two clean pages left. Aunt Em gives me a new one every birthday. As soon as paper began to get scarce, she must have bought a supply of sketchbooks for me.

  I draw the horse, color in the red body and blue mane and tail. Then I rough in the hedges. My green isn't quite the right shade, but close enough. The yellow cornfield gleams like the sun. I sign my initials. S.M.

  Zoffie doesn't exist anymore. I'm Sophie Mandel. I draw the way I want to.

  I switch off the light and go to sleep.

  Friday, April 27, 1945. My fourteenth birthday. Mandy's right, I do feel more grown-up. Lots of girls our age have left school and gone out to work.

  Aunt Em went to the office extra early, so she could finish the new pamphlet on cooking potatoes in twenty-five different ways. They're one of the few foods that aren't rationed.

  She made me the most beautiful birthday card. She used tiny scraps of leftover fabric from the quilts she makes for forces' convalescent homes.

  I'm supposed to go to the butcher's on my way home from school. Good thing Aunt Em left the ration books out. I would not be happy queuing and then not getting anything because I'd forgotten them.

  I hate going to Billy's Best Meats. His real name is William Billy. He always makes me think of the Three Billy Goats Gruff– not the goats, but the troll. Who's that going into my shop? His teeth are very pointed, as if he's been gnawing on bones, sharpening his incisors.

  I may declare myself a vegetarian, then I'd get extra cheese, and wouldn't have to go through this. Nigel's scout troop has an allotment, which is one of the best in London. They grow all kinds of vegetables, and even manage strawberries.

  I queue for twenty-five minutes. Finally there is only one woman ahead of me.

  “Nice bit of rabbit, Mrs. Wilson?”

  “Ta very much, Mr. Billy. A bit of liver'd be nice. My son's home on leave this weekend; liver and bacon's his favorite.”

  “Now that I can't do. There's still a war on, you know. How about a nice bit of tripe? Tripe and onions. Very tasty.”

  “Tell you the truth, Mr. Billy, I haven't seen an onion in the shops for weeks, and my son isn't a great one for tripe.”

  A pause. No one dares to offend Mr. Billy. Tripe is actually the stomach of a large bovine animal, like a cow or an ox. I looked it up in the dictionary one day after they served it for school dinners. Thick gray wobbly stuff, with lines on it. No one touched it. Poor Mrs. Wilson.

  “Seeing it's a special occasion, I'll throw in a soup bone – nice bit of meat on it. One shilling and fourpence, if you please. Next.”

  “Good afternoon, Mr. Billy. Miss Simmonds was wondering …” I hesitate.

  “What did she have in mind then, a little steak?” Mr. Billy laughs uproariously.

  “I don't think I've ever tasted steak, Mr. Billy, and I'm fourteen today.”

  “What kind of world are we living in, I ask you?” This, to the patient woman behind me. “Girls growing up who don't know what a piece of steak tastes like? What are they going to feed their husbands on?”

  I try a smile.

  The lady behind me says, “Should be on the Music Hall, Mr. Billy. Good as George Formby, you are, any day.”

  “Flattery will get you everywhere.” He rubs his hands over his fat stomach.

  I think, it's disgusting what we have to go through just to eat.

  “Mr. Billy, my aunt was rather hoping for some lamb. She was telling me how, before the war, you had the best spring lamb anywhere in West London.”

  Mr. Billy preens. “Times change, my dear.” He goes into the back, returns, and swiftly wraps up a small parcel. “That'll be one shilling and sixpence, please, luv. Regards to your aunt. Sausages for the birthday girl.” He winks at me.

  I cycle home, whistling all the way, and get in just as Aunt Em is hanging up her gray tweed coat. She's had that coat ever since I've known her. It's not that she can't afford a new one, it's that I'm growing so fast she has to use most of her clothing coupons for me. Mrs. Gibson once said, “An English tweed lasts a lifetime.” Mandy said, “Doesn't it depend how long a lifetime is?” She got told off for being cheeky.

  I go into the kitchen and put the kettle on. Aunt Em looks exhausted.

  “You okay, Aunt Em?”

  “Sophie, I can't tell you how much I dislike that expression.” She kisses me absentmindedly. “Happy birthday, darling. How was Mr. Billy?”

  “His usual.” I remove the string of pinkish gray sausages from the wrapping and swing them round my head like a lasso. “Look what I got. Doesn't it cheer you up?”

  “It does, indeed. There is no doubt you know the way to that ogre's heart.”

  I pour Aunt Em a cup of tea.

  “Thank you. I need this. Are you and Mandy on the same shift at the hospital tomorrow?”

  “Sister changed her to mornings this week, and I'm on from five till nine in the evening. I rather like those hours, tidying everything up for visitors, and most people in a good mood.”

  “It's a bit late for you to cycle home by yourself.”

  “I come straight home, you know that.” Mandy and I have been nursing cadets since we were twelve, and it's got us our war service badge in Guides. “Did you have a rotten day, Aunt Em?”

  “I did, rather. Jean Mitchell's husband was killed in action. She got the telegram this morning. I wanted to send her home, and she said, ‘I'd prefer to stay if you don't mind, Miss Simmonds. You see, there's no one there now.’ Her son's just volunteered for the Merchant Navy. Sorry I'm so gloomy. Let me finish this lovely cup of tea and I'll be myself again.”

  “You've got it.” I am given a look.

  “Sometimes, Sophie Mandel, I think I'm sharing my home
with a member of the American forces. Where do you pick up these expressions? Mm, something smells delicious. I'll lay the table.”

  We have two sausages each and fried tomato and triangles of fried bread.

  “You should be working for the Ministry of Food, Sophie, not me. You're a wonderful cook.”

  Aunt Em had made me an eggless birthday cake with white icing, which was a bit runny because you can't get real icing sugar. We're saving the cake until Mandy and Nigel get here.

  “Time for presents,” says Aunt Em.

  There are two this year, instead of one. I open the big one first.

  “Aunt Em, oh, I was hoping for this. Thank you a million times!”

  It is a beautiful new sketchbook, a bit bigger than last year's. “I don't know how you do it.”

  “This is the last one, Sophie. I bought six in 1939, when it looked as if there might be a shortage. Now open your other gift.”

  “What a beautiful velvet box.” I lift the lid. “Aunt Em, is it an identity bracelet? I've always wanted one of those! It looks like real gold. It's got a charm on it.” I falter. It isn't a charm, not exactly, nor a bracelet. Aunt Em has given me a gold necklace and on it is a Jewish star, a Star of David.

  “Let me fasten it for you, Sophie.”

  I go into the hall to look in the mirror.

  I hate wearing anything round my neck. It's choking me. Why would Aunt Em give me this? Religion isn't part of our lives.

  Aunt Em says, “Last week during my lunch-hour walk, I passed by my favorite antique shop – the tiny one almost hidden away in the mews. I bought my little rose-colored carriage lamp there before the war. On an impulse, I went in. The owner remembered me. He was pricing some estate jewelry on the counter. I decided to buy this piece. He told me it was very old – of Persian design. I wondered who it had belonged to.”

  “Thank you, Aunt Em. It's lovely. I'll keep it for special occasions.”

  There is a familiar knock at the door.

  “That'll be Nigel and Mandy.” I'm relieved to get away. I put the necklace back in the box, and into my pocket.

  “Happy birthday, Sophie.” Mandy hugs me.