Finding Sophie

by Irene N. Watts

  Nigel pushes a big tin into my hand. “Many happy returns.”

  “What is it?”

  “Open it. It's from all of us,” Mandy says.

  “Toffee. I don't believe it! However did you …?”

  “We made it, didn't we, Nigel? It's from one of the Ministries' Christmas recipes. It's called honeycomb toffee.”

  “Carrot-based,” Nigel says solemnly.

  “Liar. Don't listen to him, Soph. We saved our sugar ration, and Mum gave us the syrup and voilà!”

  For the rest of the evening we play Monopoly and eat toffee and almost finish the birthday cake. “You must take the last piece home for your mother. Please thank her for the syrup,” I remind Mandy.

  After they leave, Aunt Em says, “I'll do the dishes. You've done more than your fair share, getting supper and facing Mr. Billy.”

  “Good night, Aunt Em. You do spoil me. It's been a wonderful birthday.”

  All evening I'd been conscious of the box in my pocket. I'm not sure why I was in such a hurry to put the necklace out of sight.

  I wish I hadn't said I'd been hoping for an identity bracelet. In a way, it is. In Europe Jews wear a star to identify who they are. Like us carrying identity cards to prove we're entitled to a ration book. It's not the same, though. Hitler hates the Jews more than all his other enemies.

  I'm sure Mother said once that I'd been christened. She'd have told Aunt Em those kinds of things, seeing they were pen friends. Aunt Em's a Quaker and doesn't believe in organized religion. I go to midnight mass at Christmas with the Gibsons, and Aunt Em stays home and greets us with cocoa after the service.

  The little velvet box fits into one of the desk's cubbyholes. I can't think of a special occasion when I'd wear it.

  I breathe in the special newness of my sketchbook. At school we use exercise books that have thin yellowish utility paper. Hopeless for real drawing. This paper is thick and made specially for sketching.

  Five years ago, I, Sophie Mandel, of 16, Great Tichfield Street, London WC1, made an unbreakable rule: THE OLD SKETCHBOOK MUST BE COMPLETED BEFORE I AM ALLOWED TO BEGIN DRAWING IN THE NEW ONE.

  Two pages left. I decide to let my pencil improvise, the way a musician does.

  Twenty minutes later, I look at my drawing. It's of a rather grand brick building. I've shaded the bricks gray, but they should be old rose. There's an arched doorway of thick heavy wood, not the kind that would break easily. Above the arch is a stone tablet inscribed with ancient writing. The windows are high and narrow, like church windows. There's a small courtyard enclosed by a low stone wall. Wrought-iron gates in the center are ornamental. The gates are open. In the middle of each one is a circle and a perfect six-point star….

  Papa comes home early. He holds a handkerchief to his face.

  “Are you hurt, Papa?” Zoffie asks.

  “Your papa was careless; he fell out of a tree. Put your hand in my pocket, Zoffie.”

  The little girl finds a fir cone. “Mm, it smells the way you do when you come home from work – like pine trees. Thank you, Papa.”

  “Where is Mama?”

  “Mama works late on Fridays, Papa.”

  Sometimes on Saturday mornings, Zoffie goes to the shop to help her mama. She picks up pins that are scattered on the floor of the workroom, where Mama does alterations for rich ladies. Mama shortens sleeves and lengthens hems and always talks with a pin between her teeth. They play a game – will Mama drop the pin?

  Papa says, “Let's go for a little walk. Put your coat and hat on; it's cold for November.”

  Zoffie thinks it is a very long walk. They stop outside a big stone house and pass through some pretty gates. There is a side door, and they go in. Papa keeps his hat on. They cross a large hall and stand at the back of a high-ceilinged room filled with people.

  Zoffie sees many candles flickering. On a small balcony, some little girls sit with their mothers. A man sings a song that makes Zoffie want to cry. The men wear long white scarves embroidered with silver and gold. They sway back and forth and sing words that Zoffie doesn't understand.

  Papa bows to a man with a long beard; he stares at them.

  Papa holds the girl's hand tight. “Time to go,” he whispers. Outside it's dark. “Let's hurry, Mama will have supper waiting.”

  Footsteps behind them. They come closer. Papa's breath is loud and fast.

  “Will it snow, Papa?” He doesn't answer.

  “Jacob, wait,” a voice calls out behind them.

  They stop. Papa turns round slowly, gently nudging Zoffie so she stands in front of him. Papa puts his hands on her shoulders.

  “A beautiful child, Jacob. It is good to see you once more. We must leave for Poland next week.”

  Papa puts out a hand. The old man covers it with both of his own. Then he touches Zoffie's cheek with one finger, turns, and goes back toward the stone house.

  “Papa, is that St. Nicholas?”

  “Can you keep a secret?” he asks.

  Zoffie nods.

  “That is your grandfather. My father. He is going away. I wanted him to see you. A long time ago, we had a disagreement.”

  “Were you angry with him, Papa?”

  “We were angry with each other.”

  “What is the palace called, Papa?”

  “It is not a palace, Zoffie. It is a place where Jews go to pray. It is called a synagogue. Now hurry, and remember it's a secret.”

  Mother is waiting for us. “Zoffie, your cheeks are cold like little winter apples.” She puts the back of her hand against my cheek, where Grandfather's finger had touched it. “Quickly wash your hands for supper.”

  Zoffie hears Mama say, “Jacob, your face is bruised.”

  “I got in the way of a small demonstration. It is nothing for you to worry about.”

  “Where were you tonight? I asked you not to go out late. It's too dangerous.”

  Zoffie sees Papa put his arms round Mama. “A little walk, that's all, Liebchen. Even a Jew must have exercise.”

  “Only a crazy Jew goes out on a Friday night. Promise me to be more careful. Go to work, come home. Stay home with us.”

  “I promise.”

  For supper there are sausages and fried potatoes. Zoffie eats two sausages.

  Victory in Europe. V-E Day. Thursday, May 8, 1945. At last it's official: Victory in Europe.

  “We want the king. We want the king.”

  Jammed amongst the crowd of thousands, we wait outside a floodlit Buckingham Palace for the Royal Family to appear. Every time the palace curtains move, the chants get louder. Mandy digs her fingers into my arm with excitement.

  At last the French windows open. The moment we've been waiting for. The king in naval uniform, Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth smiling radiantly, and the princesses standing beside their parents.

  “They're waving at us,” Mandy screams. “Doesn't Princess Margaret look beautiful? She's exactly my age. Oh, I love that little blue hat.”

  “Don't you wish we'd been old enough to join up, Mandy? I could have been a war artist.”

  “Can't hear you!” Mandy shouts in my ear.

  “Good old Winnie,” yells the crowd as Prime Minister Winston Churchill comes out on the balcony. He raises his arm and holds up his fingers in the Victory sign, puffing away at his fat cigar.

  We must have stood and cheered for hours, and then, when finally the balcony's empty again, we follow the crowd into the gardens of Buckingham Palace, where the lake shimmers with the reflection of a thousand lights, and a bonfire sparks into the warm May night.

  Later, carried along by the crowd surging down the wide avenue of Pall Mall and into Trafalgar Square, we're hugged and kissed, jostled and squeezed.

  “This is the most exciting night of our whole lives. Hang on to me, Sophie, so we don't get separated.” Mandy's voice is beginning to sound hoarse.

  We push our way up the steps of the Portrait Gallery. All you can see for miles are people. It's as if the whole of London is s
tanding at the feet of Nelson's Column.

  Words can't begin to describe it. I need to draw it.

  Buildings dark for so long, now bathed in light. Colored streamers, bunting, and flags everywhere. The splash of fountains, and girls pulling up their skirts and wading into the water. A sailor climbs up a lamppost waving his cap at a bobby, who wants him to get down. Couples sit entwined on the massive dark stone lions. Men and women in uniform from around the world: Poles, Americans, Czechs, Canadians, and the forces of the Free French. Our own Tommies and two Highlanders in kilts blowing bagpipes.

  I clutch the pencil stub in my pocket, willing myself not to forget a single thing.

  A snaking line of dancers follows a makeshift band and struggles to keep in time to the conga beat. We run down to join in, matching our steps and voices with the conga line: “I came, I saw, I conga.” On the Thames behind us, ships hoot and blow Victory whistles, drowning us out. The line makes it to Piccadilly Circus before it disperses into smaller groups.

  We collapse out of breath. “I've got to take my shoes off,” Mandy gasps. We find a small space on the crowded steps below the statue of the little winged archer. Eros is still partly boarded up, but his wings gleam.

  “This morning, church bells woke me up. I jumped out of bed in a panic, thinking we'd been invaded, and then I remembered it's V-E Day,” I say. “Can you remember the sound of church bells?”

  Mandy shakes her head. “I'll miss it, you know,” she confesses.

  “Miss what?”

  “The war. I don't mean the killing and the bombs or my dad going to war, but the good part.”

  “Amanda Gibson, there is no good part. I know what you mean, though. The excitement and us being part of something so huge, and the danger.”

  Mandy says, “I don't know how to live in peacetime. None of us knows.”

  “Well, the grown-ups will have to work it out.” Then I look up and see a group of nurses, quite young – first year's. One of them wears her cap rakishly over one ear. She looks straight at me. Pauses, stares, and looks back after her group has moved on.

  People say if you sit in Piccadilly Circus long enough, you're bound to see someone you know. I know the face, but from where?

  “Sophie, you're as white as a sheet. What's the matter?”

  “Nothing. Ghosts.”

  “What?”

  “I saw someone I thought I knew.”

  “For a minute you looked as if you were going to faint. Are you hungry?” Mandy's worried.

  “How could I possibly be hungry after all the food at the celebration tea? I'm going to dream about that trifle. Sponge fingers and jelly and fruit and custard and cream. Where on earth did they get it all? I must have eaten four salmon sandwiches.”

  “I thought Nigel was going to finish the sausage rolls by himself. I felt quite proud of Mum's Victory cake. Real icing and eggs,” Mandy says. “The whole idea of street parties is amazing. It's as if every mother in the land had put something special away just for today. I can't think where your Aunt Em's been hiding that tin of pineapple. Under the bed, where you wouldn't find it.” Mandy laughs. “Mum said it was for us, the children, because we've had to go without for so long. There was plenty for everyone in the street. Old Mrs. Benson ate more than anyone, did you notice?”

  “Aunt Em thinks rationing will go on and on. She said, ‘We'll have to feed Europe now.’ Let's go home.” We both yawn.

  “Pull me up, Sophie.”

  “Come on, then. Bus or tube?”

  “Buses aren't running, luv,” a soldier volunteers cheerfully.

  “Tube's quicker anyway.” I link arms with Mandy.

  The queue goes all the way down the steps. The woman in front of us says to her husband, “Reminds me of the Blitz, waiting for a place to sleep on the platform. All those strangers camped out between white chalk marks, huddled together hoping there wouldn't be a direct hit. People coming off the trains and stepping over us to get home. Thank God it's over.”

  When we reach Baker Street, Mandy leans against a lamppost. “Lovely lovely light,” she says. “Do you think we can find our street? I only know the way in the dark.” She smiles blissfully up at the brightness.

  “Time to go home, Mandy. Good night.”

  “Night, Sophie.”

  When I get in, Aunt Em is sitting by the open window. She'd made tea. “You're wearing your pearls, and your best blouse. You do look nice,” I say.

  “Thank you, dear. Did you have a lovely time?”

  “I don't think I'll ever forget it. Is peace always going to be like this? Like Brighton Pier? It never got dark tonight. Bonfires and searchlights and floodlights and lamplight. I think every light-bulb in London must be on.”

  “Goodness, I hope not. What a waste of energy.”

  “How was your party, Aunt Em? Did you have a splendid celebration?”

  “It was very festive. We all toasted the king after his speech with prewar sherry, and then the six of us did full justice to Mrs. Mallory's dinner. Corned beef carved in very thin slices, and a lovely salad with cucumber and radishes and tomatoes and new potatoes. Mr. Mallory is a wonderful gardener. After all that, we had rhubarb pie with cream from the top of the milk. How I could eat so much after our lovely Victory tea, I don't know.”

  “It sounds very sumptuous. Aunt Em, do you believe in ghosts?” I ask.

  “I don't think so,” she says thoughtfully. “I do think there are times when something makes us remember the past very strongly, and we may think we see or sense someone from that time. Tonight there were ghosts with us in the dining room. We talked about that other war, and Armistice Day in 1918. We thought then that peace would last forever.”

  “It will this time, Aunt Em, you'll see.” I want to comfort her.

  “I can't help thinking of all the men and women who will never come home. One of the guests tonight has a son in a prison camp in the Far East. He was captured in Malaya in 1941. We've still got that war to finish,” Aunt Em says.

  The phone rings. “Whoever can be calling at this hour? It's past eleven.” Aunt Em picks up the receiver.

  “If it's work, say no. Tomorrow's an official holiday,” I whisper.

  “Gerald, what a nice surprise. Good. Yes, we're fine. It is an exciting night. … Thank you. We'll try to come down soon. Love to Winifred. Yes. Good-bye, Gerald.”

  I say, “Love to Aunt Winifred? We're going to see them?” I pull a face and get one of Aunt Em's looks. Then she gives in and smiles.

  “I'll concede, Sophie, that Aunt Winifred is not the easiest person to get along with. I've never quite forgiven her for her attitude when I told her you were coming to stay with me – that air of superiority she had as she said, ‘Well, really, Margaret. I find that rather eccentric. You know nothing about bringing up children. People will think it very odd – a single woman with a child.’”

  “I think you managed beautifully, Aunt Em.”

  “Thank you. Oh dear, the first time you met Aunt Winifred, you were so naughty. It was early 1939. You'd been here about two months. I think you must have taken an instant dislike to Winifred.”

  “Good instincts?” I ask.

  “Sophie!”

  “Well, Aunt Em, she was looking me over as though I were a dog she was going to buy.”

  “You can't possibly remember that. You weren't even eight years old.”

  “I do.”

  “Winifred was upset because she'd heard that if there was going to be a war, she'd have to take in evacuees. It was actually quite funny. She said, ‘I really don't think it's fair. They could send me anyone. Slum children, with things in their hair. Gerald, you're a solicitor. Do something.’

  “Gerald said, ‘I don't think that argument will carry any weight with the authorities who are trying to protect the nation's children.’

  “She was very put out that Gerald disagreed with her.”

  “Then Aunt Winifred asked me if I liked dolls,” I say.

  “Q
uite right. She announced: ‘I've got the perfect solution. I mean, Sophie looks like a dear clean little girl. I can tell the authorities that my sister-in-law and her ward will be using the guest room. After all, Margaret, it would be merely a temporary arrangement, wouldn't it? Should danger arise.’

  “It was then that you surprised me. I didn't even know you had such an extensive vocabulary, or could understand so much English!

  “‘I do not like dolls,’ you said. ‘I have the tummy ache very often. I cannot sleep. I cry all the time.’ Such fibs. You never, well hardly ever, cried. You slept ten hours at least every night, and to the best of my knowledge, had a cast-iron stomach.”

  “Well, mostly I do,” I say.

  “I was both proud and ashamed of you. Uncle Gerald, who is surprisingly perceptive, said, ‘Sophie seems to have settled the question. We'd better get along, my dear. Two and a half hours' drive, at least. Thanks for tea, Margaret.’”

  “Uncle Gerald gave me a shilling when they left.”

  “More than you deserved, young lady.”

  “You would have been bored with a perfect child, Aunt Em.”

  “No danger of that. Good night, darling. Don't stay up drawing too late.”

  “How did you know I was going to?”

  “Like my brother, I'm quite perceptive. I'll come and tuck you up soon.”

  “Good. I don't think Aunt Winifred has tucked anyone up in her entire life.”

  “Sophie, Gerald is my only brother. Let's make an effort.” I kiss the top of her head and say okay and run!

  One of the things I can't bear about Aunt Winifred is that she's always reminding me that I don't belong here. She makes me feel “temporary.” I'm not, I do belong here. It's my home.

  Upstairs I rough in some of the sights: the statue of Eros, the crowds, the face of the girl who had stared at me. No good, I can't do anything justice – I'm too tired. My hair on the pillow smells of smoke from the bonfire in the palace gardens. I close my eyes….

  Mama lets Zoffie carry the string bag with apples home from the evening market. It's cold. Zoffie wears her new red hat and mittens. The street lamps are lit; people hurry home.