‘It isn’t,’ he said quickly. ‘Of course not.’ He held out his hand. ‘How about a deal? Whenever you’re here, we’ll just pretend there’s no war. We can’t go on arguing about it every time we meet. And I do want us to meet. I want us to talk about paintings, and books, and . . . life. There are so many things we can talk about other than war, aren’t there?’
‘Of course there are,’ Miriam said. She took off her thin light scarf, crumpled it into a ball and pressed it into his hand.
In his cell he unfolded the scarf on his pillow and rested his head on it.
Pack My Unwanted Love into Bombs
1
Grace would spend another week or two at Samhuinn. All they were waiting for was the signal from Somerset, the message that the farmhouse was ready.
Max suggested that they give the yellow paint to his landlord, Mr Morningstar, an architect who would use it to brighten up an air-raid shelter or two. Grace agreed. For all she cared, they could use her unwanted yellow paint in air-raid shelters, turn her unwanted love letters into fighter plane fuel, pack her unwanted love into incendiary bombs. She was spent, empty, as numb as a tied-off limb.
Once she thought: my heart is broken. But the phrase was not hers; it was a phrase from a world of actors and poets that had no place for her. Her phrase was: Grace, dear, now what on earth made you think you were so very special to him?
Max carried away the yellow paint. As he passed her he briefly touched her shoulder and said: ‘I am sorry.’
What did that mean? He did not know about Morten, so it meant nothing at all. His sympathy meant nothing to her.
Yet when he came back, a weak current shivered under the numbness and made her put her hand on his arm. ‘And I’m sorry, too. I’m sorry I never asked . . . I suppose I didn’t want to intrude.’
‘There’s nothing you could have done.’
‘Have you heard from her?’
He shook his head. ‘I don’t even know where she is. She’s stopped writing. It’s as if . . . as if my mother has just completely disappeared.’
*
Max emptied his storage room office. Not that there was much to empty. He packed up the pots and crockery in the kitchen, donations mostly. Grace still remembered how she had collected them from Friends’ House. She would continue to use her office for a while; work in the empty building as long as she could. She told herself this had nothing to do with memories of a night on the fire escape.
A parcel appeared on her desk. A rather big parcel. When she opened it she found a wonky Christmas straw star, a folded card and a gilded pine cone. Two books: War and Peace and the Bible. The writing on the card was tall and lean. ‘Two books – in case you still want to practise (though it is not necessary). (It never was.) Max’.
She ran out but the children were in their classroom and Max was out.
‘Oh, Mr Hoffnung, you crazy man!’ she shouted into the empty corridor, and laughed, and laughed some more, and then noticed that it was the first time since the teapot day that she had laughed.
2
Inge’s belongings she packed last.
‘Promise me you’ll read this book. And then you’ll write to me about it.’
A chewed old teddy bear.
‘Hello, Herr Bear. Listen, you will look after this young lady. And please remind her to write.’
Inge watched with her knuckles in her mouth. But when Grace shook the bear and grunted a reply, she smiled. Grace shook it again.
‘Vell vell, Frau Inge, ve are going to a farm, yah?’
She was pulled up short by a sudden concern that Inge might feel mocked, might feel she was imitating her, or her family, or Max. But Inge was still smiling.
‘O Tannenbaum, O Tannenbaum,’ Grace made the bear sing. And because she did not know the rest, she continued: ‘O Tannenbaum, O Tannenbaum.’
‘Wie grün sind deine Blätter,’ sung a voice behind her.
With the bear pressed to her chest, Grace whipped round. Max stood in the doorway, singing. Inge laughed until she began to hiccup, and ran out to fetch a glass of water.
Max put his hand on the hat stand, which was one of those things he liked to do.
‘It means, how green are your leaves. Well, needles.’ He cleared his throat. ‘You once asked me why I celebrate Christmas.’
‘I didn’t mean to pry.’ She stood up.
‘When I was a boy I didn’t even know my mother was Jewish. She went to church with my father and she always decorated our Christmas tree. It was only when the Nazis came to power that she and I were categorized, so to speak.’
‘I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have asked.’
‘No, it was normal to ask. But if you knew my mother, your question wouldn’t be why I celebrate Christmas but why I don’t celebrate it even more. Every year she began decorating earlier. First the flat, then the flat and her shop. First in early December, then in late November, then in early November.’ He let go of the hat stand and coughed into his fist. ‘You see, the last time we decorated a tree together was the night when Gestapo smashed the windows of all the Jewish shops and set the synagogues on fire. We were in the shop in the evening, long after closing time, and we enjoyed decorating the tree so much that we forgot about the time.’
He stopped, then looked into the hallway to ensure Inge was not eavesdropping.
Grace wanted to tell him how sorry she was, how much she wished she had helped him more, how much she wished she had used her Quaker channels to open an exit route for his mother, to find a sponsor for her in England or perhaps in America, instead of thinking only of tracking down Morten. She wanted to tell him how much she wished she had asked him more about his life in Germany, about his family and friends, and about his life in London, too. But there was simply no way now of making up for all those lost moments. She had wasted too many hours, too many weeks daydreaming about her fantasy romance, writing unsent letters to a lover of her invention. It was impossible now to turn round and suddenly show great interest in matters she had never once bothered to ask about. It was impossible to suddenly declare to Max that he and his life were in fact terribly important to her, that they must be great friends. It would sound ridiculous; as if she was once again inventing a deep emotional connection where there was really only a casual friendship.
‘If there is anything I can do to help . . .’ she said, and remembered that she had said this before. He shook his head. Then he reached out and took her hand. There was a sadness about his dark eyes but also, she thought, a certain warmth that made her feel strangely reassured, as if her stumbling words and awkward apologies were not all he judged her by, as if he could see beyond that; as if, in fact, he could see her where others failed to see her. And she thought what an unsettling and yet wonderful feeling that was, to be seen.
‘Mr Hoffnung?’ said a deep voice.
For a moment Grace thought it was Inge play-acting.
She dropped Max’s hand and turned round. A policeman stood in the door. Behind him was Mr Cartland, the headmaster.
‘Mr Hoffnung,’ the bobby said, ‘I must ask you to come with me.’
Max did not show the slightest surprise. ‘One moment, please. My bag is in the other room.’ He calmly moved towards the door but Grace grabbed his arm.
‘Excuse me – what’s this all about?’
‘Good evening, ma’am.’ The policemen tipped his helmet. ‘This gentlemen here’s been reported as an enemy alien.’
‘But he isn’t!’ She refused to let go of Max’s arm. ‘Mr Cartland, surely you can clear this up. He’s . . . if anything, he’s a friendly alien.’
Mr Cartland looked away.
‘And what do you mean, reported? Reported by whom?’ Grace stared at the headmaster. ‘Are there spies in this building? While we were doing all we could to give the children here a home, were people spying on us? Mr Cartland, will you look at me and—’
The policeman interrupted her
. ‘Ma’am, I’d ask you not to be obstructive. The order is to round up all enemy aliens. Are you contesting the fact that your friend is a German citizen?’
‘But he’s—’
‘Please.’ Max shook his arm. ‘Let me go. It’s all right.’
‘But where are they taking you?’
Max turned his head slightly towards the policeman, who seemed to interpret this as a menace and bellowed a rough: ‘Right then, are you coming or is this going to be difficult?’
And Grace suddenly thought, he doesn’t know that this is Max’s way of glancing sideways: and where they are taking him, no one will know, and no one will be there to explain it. She tightened her grip around Max’s arm, but the policemen stepped forward and grabbed his other arm.
Just then Grace saw Inge’s pale little face appear behind Mr Cartland. She was holding a glass of water in both hands. One breath, and then she was gone. Grace let go of Max.
‘Where are you taking him?’ she shouted after them, but they ignored her.
*
Inge was not in her dorm. She was not under Grace’s desk. She was not in the empty kitchen. She was not in the breakfast room.
There were still three long tables in the dining hall. The tall double windows stood open and a warm breeze blew in and swelled the curtains.
She was not behind the curtains.
But there on the wooden floor, right by the open window, was a glass of water.
Grace closed her eyes, folded her hands, clenched her fingers together.
Then she slowly leaned out the window as far as she could. A car disappeared around the corner. She squinted at the street, the pavement. Nothing. Oh dear God, she thought, oh dear, dear God, please. I will do anything you want.
She was about to pull back into the dining hall when she heard the hiccup.
It was to her left. Outside the window, to her left.
She held her breath and then said very slowly: ‘It is all right. Everything is all right.’
Then she looked to her left.
There was Inge, standing on the narrow ledge outside the window with her face to the wall, gripping the old stone ornaments with all her might.
She hiccuped again.
‘It’s all right, my darling. Don’t move.’ Grace tried to see which limb carried the most weight, which hand was gripping the stone tightly, which hand could be stretched out and seized.
‘He is gone?’
‘Yes. Everything’s safe. You’re safe.’
‘I know him.’
‘It’s only Mr Cartland. It’s nothing to worry about.’
‘No. The policeman. I know him.’
Five floors below, the street and the pavement.
‘Don’t worry, my love, he’s a nice policeman. Now hold that gargoyle tightly with your right hand. That’s right. You’re doing really well. And now give me that other hand. Your left hand.’
‘I know him. He arrested my father.’
‘You can tell me all about it when you’re back inside. Now you must give me your hand. Don’t look down. Look at me.’
‘You don’t believe me! He arrested my father, I swear!’ Inge shrieked. Her left foot slipped off the ledge.
‘I believe you. But he’s gone now. Please, Inge, your hand.’
Grace held on to the windowframe so hard that her hand hurt, then leaned out until her other hand touched Inge’s left arm. ‘Your hand. That’s it. That’s it.’
The small hand was in her own. She gripped it. Nothing could happen as long as she gripped it.
‘Now come back to the window. It’s only two steps.’
‘I can’t.’
‘You can.’
‘He’s hiding in the staircase.’
‘Inge, it’s a different policeman. He might look similar, but it’s not the same policeman. It’s an English policeman.’ An urge overcame her to simply yank Inge towards the window. ‘Don’t look down. Look at me.’
‘Then why did he arrest Mr Hoffnung?’
‘He didn’t arrest him. It’s a long story. I’ll tell you when you’re inside.’
‘But I saw him.’
‘It was a misunderstanding. Mr Hoffnung is going to be fine.’
‘You’re lying.’
‘I’m not.’
‘Promise that you’re not lying.’
‘I promise,’ Grace whispered. ‘Now come.’
Inge took two steps along the ledge. Grace pulled her in through the window and clasped her arms around her. The hiccup was gone.
‘You lied,’ Inge said simply. She pressed her wet cold nose into Grace’s neck.
‘I didn’t. It wasn’t a real arrest. They are only taking Mr Hoffnung with them to ask him some questions.’
‘That’s what they did with my father. He never came back.’
‘Mr Hoffnung will come back.’
Though suddenly she was not so sure. Suddenly she was not sure of anything. This little girl, she thought, this little girl knew so much more than she did.
She let go of Inge, who walked to the other side of the room.
‘First they take Mr Hoffnung, then they take you, then they take me and all the other children from the train,’ Inge said. She reached into one of the cardboard boxes. Before Grace could stop her, she pulled out a pair of large metal scissors and took them to her neck.
With a snip, the string came apart.
The scissors clattered to the ground; the grey piece of string floated down slowly.
‘That way they won’t know I’m from the train,’ Inge said.
Trapped Light
‘It follows then that the back of the brilliant must be cut in such a way that when light enters the stone, it does not pass through it but is wholly reflected by its back. It is the diamond cutter’s task to temporarily trap this light inside the stone.’
A Theory of Diamond-Cutting
1
Esther’s willingness to destroy the medal had mollified the Wizard. She could not fault his courtesy, his appreciation for her research. It was only her own mind – her own elastic mind that insisted on stretching back to the past – that prevented her from feeling comfortable in his presence. When he stood behind her, her movements became jittery and unfocused, and once or twice she botched a very simple calculation on the blackboard and had to rub it out.
She asked the medic who had provided the morphine vials to give her a weaker mixture for her sleep.
‘It’s not helping, Essie,’ her husband said one evening. ‘You’re still doing it.’
‘Then let me! There must be hundreds of people who fidget in their sleep. I can’t see why my particular form of somnambulism is so very upsetting to you.’
He sighed and went on polishing an old horse harness he had found heaven knew where. In the morning, he would probably hang it up on the kitchen wall, next to the butter churn, the copper pans and the old Welsh love spoons. There were brilliantly modern architects all over Hampstead, men who built clean lines in steel and concrete, but her husband was not one of them.
‘It’s this house,’ she said, and pulled at her nightgown as if it were a straitjacket. ‘I would sleep wonderfully well in a clean, warm, modern house. We ought to pull it down and build a new one.’
‘If we wait until the end of the war, the bombs might do the work for you.’
‘I wouldn’t mind.’ She defiantly swallowed her nightly mixture. ‘As long as we’re all out when it happens, I wouldn’t mind one bit to come back and find it all rubble.’
Her husband winced. She was unkind, perhaps, but what other woman would tolerate a husband who polished horse harnesses in bed? Admittedly, it was rather endearing, the way he sat on the edge of the bed in his flannel pyjamas and hummed as he rubbed the cloth over the leather.
‘You were going to say something about Miriam,’ she said and yawned.
‘Yes.’ He paused and scratched his head. ‘I suppose you’ve noticed it too.’
She nodded, but could not imagine
what he meant. Was there a problem with Miriam? She had assumed her daughter was busy working at the munitions factory. It had always been this way; it had always been her husband who noticed the red measly spots on the forehead, the best friend who no longer visited, all those tiny signals in a child’s life that other mothers seemed naturally to receive and respond to. It was not that she did not love her daughter. But Miriam’s arrival had so utterly erased Esther’s achievements up to that point, had marked such an abrupt transition from a life that was satisfying and purposeful to one that was dreary and dull, that it was difficult to see the arrival as a blessing and the child herself as endlessly fascinating.
Before she could quite complete the thought, she fell asleep.
*
She used numbers to control and calm herself. When the Wizard trapped her in a corner with some research question, she found that mentally reciting prime numbers or the decimal digits of pi allowed her to keep a perfectly placid face. Then she recited the numbers even when the Wizard was not present. The strain of the long working hours, her restless sleep jolted by air raids, demanded she subject her mind and body to a rigorous discipline. She forced them to march to the rhythm of her mantra.
At some point, ancient words of prayer replaced the numbers. How did she even remember them? They were part of a faith that meant nothing to her. And yet, when she sat in the reinforced basement at night, she recited them in her head:
Who shall live and who shall die,
Who shall reach the natural end and who shall not,
Who shall perish by water and who by fire.
And then she made up more lines:
Who shall perish by fire and who by suffocation
Who by rubble and who by blast
Who by gangrene in a trench
Who by thirst and hard labour
Who in the hull of a torpedoed ship
Who by morphine in a Hampstead kitchen . . .
Before the end of the year, Mrs Morningstar completed a theoretical assessment of systematic bombing that was seen as particularly timely and useful. It formed part of a body of research used to shape Britain’s response to German attacks on Coventry, Birmingham and Bristol. The Prime Minister gave instructions for plans to be prepared for retaliation in kind, and a list of suitable German towns and cities was drawn up. Britain would not be able to send over more than two hundred aircraft on one night, and the view was that destroying the greater part of a relatively small town would have a more devastating impact on morale than destroying a small part of a large city. In a war cabinet meeting in December, the Chief of the Air Staff specifically cited Mrs Morningstar’s paper to reinforce his argument that they should largely rely on fire, and choose a closely built-up town where bomb craters in the streets would hinder the fire fighters.
Of Love and Other Wars Page 16
