The Rabbit Girls(15)



‘Would they have stayed together? My parents?’ she probes. ‘They were married before the war.’

‘No. In all circumstances men and women were separated.’

‘My mother never spoke of any of this. She didn’t have a tattoo though,’ Miriam says with certainty.

‘There were other camps. Ones that didn’t tattoo their prisoners. Camps specifically designed for women.’

‘I . . . I don’t know anything about this.’

‘That’s okay. Where is the tattoo?’ she asks.

Miriam looks confused.

‘On his body,’ Eva clarifies.

‘His wrist.’

‘That means it would have been after 1942, they stamped the tattoo on the chest before that.’ Eva sounds so matter-of-fact it makes her head spin.

‘They did?’

Eva nods and pushes the arms of the chair to raise herself to her feet. ‘This is my stop.’

She has learnt more about her father’s past in a short bus journey than she had in her entire life to date. She wants to thank Eva, but cannot find any words, so just looks up at the woman. Her eyes are bright and unframed and Eva, aware she is being studied, smiles and offers her hand.

Miriam in confusion passes her the handkerchief back. Eva pockets it and walks off the bus. She lifts her hand as if to wave from the pavement as the bus blunders on.

One stop.

The palace, and the River Spree is on her left as the bus swooshes by, the evergreen trees painting a striking contrast to the grey canvas around them.





HENRYK

Exactly a week after I left the university I headed to the Palace Gardens. Completely absorbed in my own troubles and weary beyond thought, I didn’t see Frieda until I had almost walked past her. She was sitting on a park bench overlooking the Spree, in the shade of tall evergreen trees, just off the main path. She held a cup in her hand and another was by her feet. She wore a sky-blue dress and her brown leather shoes. Her hair was tied up, plaited, and weaved around itself into a knot. She relaxed into the back of the bench and the pine, the grass and the hint of flowers in the air made me feel dizzy.

‘How did you know I would be here?’ I asked.

‘I didn’t.’ She looked at me until it was my turn to blush.

‘Sorry, I was being presumptuous. That one is not for me, is it?’ I said, indicating the second cup on the floor. She shook her head. ‘My head is a little full and . . .’ I continued, ‘I’m not making sense. I’ll leave you to your . . .’ My words drifted off.

‘That’s okay. Here.’ She offered me the second cup. ‘You can join me, if you like. Felix seems to have forgotten our arrangement.’

I took the cup, the one that hadn’t touched her lips, and she poured coffee from a flask into it. I tried to shake my thoughts into something cohesive. Admiring a beautiful woman was fine, slavering over a beautiful woman like an ape was not. She drank from her cup, her lips full and wide, and when she took the cup away, she smiled as I sat next to her.

‘It’s coffee,’ she said as if I had looked uncertain.

‘Thanks.’ I took a gulp. It was warm and strong.

‘What happened to Felix?’ I asked.

‘He’s off doing his own thing.’

‘You two are a couple though?’

She took a considered sip of her drink and I watched her lips close over the rim again. She took the cup away.

‘You’re staring,’ she said.

I cleared my throat and caught her eye. I watched her lips part as she brought the cup to them again. She smiled, lowered the cup and licked her bottom lip deliberately. She laughed, a boom of pleasure, and caught up in its contagion I laughed along with her.

‘Couldn’t resist,’ she said.

‘Neither could I.’ Then, desperately trying to gather back some clarity, I said, ‘You were talking about Felix.’ I turned away from her to face the Spree and, across the bank, leaves were emerging from skeletal branches. Leaning back into the bench, we were side by side. Close, but not touching.

‘I was? Felix and I look like we are together. We are good friends. But for all appearances, looking like a couple is mutually beneficial.’

‘Why? If you don’t mind my asking?’

‘Parents. Both of ours. So being together keeps our parents’ “plans” at bay.’ I must have looked puzzled. ‘Marriage,’ she clarified.

‘I understand.’

‘Did your parents push you into marriage too?’

‘No, my parents died when I was a boy. They were political activists after the war and were at rallies or marches more than they were at home. Although she never said so, my grandmother was ashamed of my mum, but she loved me. I was born somewhere in their war between love and duty,’ I said, nerves turning my thoughts into speech without pause. ‘I don’t remember them. It was my grandmother who wanted me married, but she wasn’t so keen on Emilie.’

‘Because . . .?’ she prompted.

‘My grandmother was . . . conservative, Emilie isn’t.’

‘Ah, but you married her anyway?’

‘I did. It’s been eight years now and . . . she is . . .’

‘You love her?’

‘Very much.’ The truth made it more bearable, to be saying this to the most intriguing person I had ever met. Sitting next to Frieda didn’t diminish how much I loved Emilie, nor did she cease to exist.

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