The Rabbit Girls(22)

The soloist is still playing and Miriam turns the radio off, cutting the harmony dead.





HENRYK

The memory of Frieda in my coat, the colour of midnight. I know if I can remember, if I can hold on . . . I search for a memory that kept me alive.

It will keep me alive again now.

And among the shadows I find it, as easily as knowing my own name.

Yeats.

The images bounce like the raindrops did as I shook off my coat and hung it over Frieda’s bathroom door.

‘They burnt your books today.’ Frieda passed me a cup of black tea as I sat on the end of her bed, brushing a hand through my wet hair. The bed, which also doubled as a sofa, was the only furniture, aside from the coffee table. The room had been painted a worn rose colour, deep, rusty pink. It felt warm despite being cold.

Her apartment faced east and was part of the central block of flats in the building. With only one window, situated in the bathroom, no natural light also meant no natural heat.

‘And you have ten thousand marks on your head.’ She sat opposite me on the low table, and blew the steam, which climbed like smoke from her cup. Our knees were close, but not quite touching.

‘Ten thousand marks?’

‘Yes. Think you’re worth a bit more?’ She laughed.

‘No. More and you’d hand me in yourself.’

‘Don’t speak like that.’

I touched my knee to hers but she pulled away. ‘My books. All of them?’ It stung, although I knew it shouldn’t.

‘Don’t worry too much, you were in great company. I imagine the clouds will be full of text in the morning. Look up and the world can read your words.’

I sipped my drink and looked into the cup.

‘What’s the matter?’

‘They’re burning Wells and Freud, I doubt anyone will feel the loss of my work.’

‘Sure they will. Look at me.’ I continued to look into my cup. Her knees nudged mine so I almost spilt the contents. ‘It’s just a display, you know. The books, they’ll survive the bonfires.’

I looked up at her then, really looked at her. ‘Emilie has the means to leave Berlin,’ I said.

‘Oh.’ She slumped back. ‘When do you leave?’

‘I don’t. I can’t leave.’

‘You have to.’

‘No, I won’t leave you.’

‘This is your life. Emilie’s life. You don’t have a choice.’ Then, after a pause, ‘Did you tell her?’

‘I told her the truth so that she could leave if she wanted. She won’t. She called me a misguided fool.’

‘She’s not wrong.’ Frieda smiled. ‘In other circumstances, she and I would be great friends. For what it is worth, I agree with her. There’s nothing here for you anymore.’

‘Frieda,’ I said, and she looked up. ‘Now who’s the fool?’

She tipped her head to the side ever so slightly and all I thought about was running a finger along her jawline to her chin to pull her closer to me.

‘You know I have to say it: you have no other choice, Henryk. You have to go.’

‘Does it make you feel better?’

‘Better! What? Telling you to leave, perhaps forever, with your wife? Go and live happily ever after, leave me behind?’

‘Then why?’

Our faces so close, separated by the ribbon of steam. ‘Because perhaps you need to hear it. From me.’

‘Permission?’

She nodded.

‘If I needed permission to leave I would never have stayed. It’s not as clear as that and you know it.’ I placed my cup on the floor.

‘The country is in ruins,’ she said. But as her mouth moved with the words I was looking, really looking, into her eyes and the unspoken connection from before kindled to life. It was a connection that held nothing concrete, just a deep, albeit slightly uncomfortable, recognition. I didn’t understand it, but I knew that this was the force of us.

‘It’s not the country or some misplaced patriotism. I’m staying because I cannot walk away from you.’

‘Yes, you can,’ she almost whispered. ‘If I can walk away from you, then you can walk away from me.’

I smiled.

‘I can walk away. I can,’ she said, more to herself this time.

I’d leant so far in I was squatting in front of her and her breath was hot on my face.

‘Who are you trying to convince?’

‘All these words mean nothing,’ she said.

‘I know, we talk, but—’ I cut myself off. I was at war; I wanted to kiss her lips and work out what I meant through them. But if I did I would lose the contact with her eyes and there was a magic in luxuriating in her gaze. ‘I do love Germany,’ I said for want of other words. ‘The old Germany, I mean.’

She smiled and moved back to take a sip of her drink, then placed it beside mine on the floor. ‘You are just like Yeats.’

She did this so often, catching me off-guard with a remark that must make sense to her, but made none to me. I made a mumbled, incomprehensible sound. I admired the shape of her shoulders and the tilt of her head, her jaw.

She laughed. ‘You confuse the love of your country for the love of a woman.’