The Rabbit Girls(27)

Miriam is about to offer condolences, but she sees the woman from the bus, Eva, sitting at the same table in the chair Miriam had sat in when she was here last week. Wearing a red T-shirt covered by a navy cardigan, and beige trousers, she has thick, black boots that come up to her shins, and her hair partially covers her face, which is lowered, inspecting something through a magnifying glass.

‘Nonna,’ he says triumphantly as they reach a large, round table.

Miriam can see that Eva is poring over pictures and two newspapers that are strewn across the table. She doesn’t look up.

‘Nonna,’ the man says again. ‘This lady would like some help with a letter, in French, she thinks.’

‘Jeff,’ Eva says irritably. ‘I’m busy.’

‘I know, but it won’t take a minute, Nonna. You can help her,’ Jeff says with enthusiasm, despite Eva’s expression.

‘Hi,’ Miriam says tentatively.

‘I’ll leave you to it,’ says Jeff, patting Miriam on the back and making a thumbs-up gesture. ‘Good luck.’

With a sigh, Eva looks up. ‘I know you,’ she says, the words practically bristle from her lips.

‘Yes, I met you the other day, here . . .’

‘Miriam, right?’

Miriam nods.

‘Funny to run into you twice.’ The word ‘funny’ sounds hostile as Eva leans back in her chair.

Miriam, unsure what to say, waits.

‘I don’t believe in coincidences. Who sent you?’

‘Oh, no one. Your grandson . . .’

‘Grandson?’

Miriam turns around to the empty space the man vacated. ‘Jeff?’ she says.

Eva nods. ‘Jeff is . . .’ She leans forward resting her hands on the table. ‘You were talking about your father when we were on the bus.’

‘Yes, and thank you so much for your help.’

Eva sighs.

‘Also, I found some letters and I cannot read them, they are written in French. Jeff offered your assistance to translate them, maybe? I would pay of course.’

‘How much?’ Eva looks at her until Miriam feels beads of moisture form on her top lip.

‘Um, well – you see, there are quite a few.’

‘How many?’

‘Around twenty or so . . .’

‘Fifty,’ Eva says, unmoving. ‘Fifty Westmarks.’

Miriam offers her the letter in her hand, but Eva doesn’t take it, so she places it on the table and rummages in her bag. She pulls out half of the French letters, wrapped in her mother’s handkerchief.

‘I have about the same amount again at home. How quickly can you do this?’

‘I suppose Jeffrey told you that I have nothing to do?’

Miriam smiles.

‘I can do these in a few days for you; you’ll want them sooner?’

‘My father is . . .’ She pauses. ‘Old now, and I think these letters hold something for him that he is searching for.’

‘I’ll do it. I can work on them for you. Write your address here.’ She passes a clean sheet of paper and pencil over.

Miriam bends and with shaking hands writes her father’s address.

‘Miriam what?’

‘Voight,’ she says, and writes her name down under the address.

She goes back into her purse and pulls out two twenty-Westmark notes. ‘I’ll give you the rest . . .’ But Eva waves a hand at her.

‘Come to the library Wednesday. I’ll have some of these done for you, and bring the rest.’

‘Thank you.’

But Eva turns back to her magnifying glass and photos, and doesn’t answer. The letters sit on the edge of the table and Miriam finds it hard to walk away from them. Nothing happened as she had expected. Should she return for the letters? But they are useless if they can’t be read.

The German letters sit on her table at home, she can read them, she’ll go home and try and work it all out that way.

She walks away and as she nears the top step, turns to find Eva unwrapping the handkerchief. Miriam exhales heavily and walks down to the lobby. Jeff is talking to a young boy at a table as she passes.

He stands and comes to meet her. ‘Could she help you?’

She nods. ‘Thank you. You know, I’ve never met a socialist before, she’s quite . . .’ But Miriam cannot find an appropriate word.

‘Socialist? Nonna? Oh no. She still has East habits, you know. She came over with one bag and her old Trabant, but the car’s in the garage. I can’t make the ruddy thing go. You know what it’s like?’

Miriam doesn’t, but smiles sympathetically nonetheless.

‘She thinks the walls can hear, does our Nonna. No one can be trusted, you know the thing. She’ll be fine once she’s settled. Maybe helping you will be just the thing. You need a hobby in later life, that’s what Mum thinks anyway.’

Miriam nods to the boy watching them. ‘Thank you, Jeff. I’ll let you get back to your day.’

‘See you again,’ he calls.

On her return home, a food parcel is in the hallway from the Smyth sisters at number 2. A large pot of something and a few rolls on top. She opens the door and the white feather floats down in front of her to the floor.

Collecting the food, she locks the door and replaces the catches, then steps over the fallen feather before she lifts the heavy, still-warm pot into the kitchen. The smell of stew wafts through the air. She takes one of the rolls and nibbles it as she walks back to the door.