The Rabbit Girls(13)
The shop on the corner is full of people, trolleys, food, radio blaring from speakers. Her thoughts swirl, her eyes wander, darting from one thing to the next. Holding an empty basket, she stares at the shelves and finally collects brands that are vaguely familiar. At the counter she picks up a newspaper: ‘Freiheit’, the headline shouts at her. Freedom.
Miriam fumbles for the money and walks away without her change. Taking some deep breaths back outside on the street she takes a step. ‘The first step was hardest’ – she remembers the East Berliner’s words – ‘but they got easier.’ She must keep going.
To see if she can find any answers.
HENRYK
I didn’t have to wait long to see Frieda again. After a turbulent week when Emilie wept in my arms each night, we tried to work out what to do next. Neither of us slept. She had found us a new place, a tiny apartment with an open loft hatch. We weren’t in hiding and yet we had found an apartment which could hide us. Emilie paid six months’ rent in advance and gave her maiden name to the landlord.
To leave Berlin under suspicion meant greater risk. To be caught trying to leave meant certain arrest and, since neither of our hearts were in leaving the only city we had ever called home, we stayed. Telling ourselves that the only way was to wait it out.
We said goodbye to our home, reluctantly leaving the key with Frau Voss, who clicked her teeth in what I hoped was sympathy, but may have been eagerness to ‘care’ for our neglected belongings.
I wasn’t sure we would ever see the house again and I felt empty. With a lot of bags, we moved into the half-apartment where we were safer. Emilie still sobbed, but the tears brought her sleep. I listened as her breathing relaxed, and held her as she slept. I couldn’t rest, knowing they were on every corner and up every street; it only took one wrong turn and they would be after me.
I didn’t know what was next and had no idea, under every eventuality I could imagine, how I would protect her.
Emilie was nervous to continue her work, but she went every day, and she held her head high. Nursing was what she did, it was who she was, and nothing would keep her from her job.
When she left for the hospital I would walk, trying to find a bit of peace, knowing that if I didn’t force myself to leave the apartment, I wouldn’t.
MIRIAM
The bus from Sophie-Charlotte-Platz is full, everyone heading to the centre, bursting with lively talk and cheer. She rolls her ticket between her fingers, shopping in her lap, and allows the conversations to roll over her too.
Her feet echo heavily on the marble floor of the library entrance, the pillars blocking the view of those snuggled into sleeping bags, escaping the rain. She notices the bullet marks on the inner wall, a reminder of the past; untouched. She has never been here before, there seemed no need, what with her father having a library at home.
A wet heat envelops her as she wanders around the library shelves, like walking into an open book. Many people are milling around and she feels a little out of orbit.
A woman in a warm-pink cardigan is at the desk, a long queue forms behind her. ‘And what I am saying . . .’ the woman says hotly, leaning her arms on the counter.
Miriam walks past the desk to study the dark shelves. The building is vast and illuminated over multiple levels; stairs reach around and jut out of nowhere, taking Miriam up and around a different floor, before finding another staircase again. She follows a sign for ‘History’, then ‘Europe’.
There are a lot of books and she feels intimidated by the sheer volume of them. Her eyes jump to ‘Holocaust’ written in large, bold letters. She takes the heavy book and sits at a table close by. Her hands shake and she chews on her inner cheek until she can taste blood before turning the page.
Faces.
People.
She turns each page, scared at what she will find. Scared of what she is looking for. She looks at every one, at every face. Looking for Dad and for Mum. But after a few pages, she feels sick. Each person was a mother or a father, a brother, sister, son or daughter. She has never looked at them this way before and each page she turns makes her feel worse. Her head is spinning, yet she doesn’t look away. Just trying to absorb something that cannot be comprehended.
‘Excuse me.’ A woman appears at her shoulder. The same woman who was at the desk. ‘You’re sitting on my coat.’
Miriam springs up out of the chair, apologising profusely.
‘That’s okay,’ the woman says. ‘Hard stuff.’ She nods to the book on the table.
‘I’m just . . .’ Miriam starts, but cannot finish the sentence.
‘You just come over the Wall?’ the woman asks.
‘Oh no, I . . . I . . .’ Miriam blunders. The woman has cropped hair, white but with some blonde of youth. Her skin is bronzed and she has a hard look.
‘I was one of the first over,’ she says. ‘I lived in Leipzig, I thought I’d see what all the fuss was about.’ She straightens her white top under the deep-pink cardigan and Miriam sees a beautiful red beaded necklace that gets tucked into the top as she adjusts.
‘Fuss?’ Miriam asks.
‘Yes, the West is Best attitude . . .’ The woman wears no make-up but looks strong and healthy. Miriam pales in contrast and pulls at her sleeves, scratching at the skin along her inner wrist as she crosses her arms. ‘Not sure I believe it. This library is built on lies, built on the back of the Nazis’ pillage. These books are stolen from the people.’ The intensity of her gaze makes Miriam look away to the book on the table. She picks it up and puts it back on the shelf.