The Rabbit Girls(42)

‘It’s horrendous. I don’t know how you are managing translating them, but I certainly . . .’ A loud bang at the door makes both jump. Miriam sloshes water over her top and Eva looks wide-eyed towards the hallway. Neither of them move.

Another knock propels Miriam into motion. She opens the door to Lionel panting with an enormous bunch of flowers in his arms: red roses with foliage. Expensive.

‘These are heavy,’ he complains. ‘What is wrong with your intercom again?’

‘Nothing,’ she says, and takes them from him. He is right, they topple in Miriam’s arms.

‘Who are they from?’

‘Those stairs . . .’ he pants, holding his hand up to stop her speaking. ‘You’re welcome,’ he says, brushing green leaves from his shirt, and walks away, muttering something under his breath.

‘They look pretty.’ Eva appears by her side, composed. ‘An admirer?’

Miriam shakes her head.

‘Can I help you? Get a vase maybe?’

‘No, thank you.’ Miriam places the flowers down on the kitchen side as if they were an unexploded bomb. She finds the card: Until tomorrow, my wife.

‘Who are they from?’ Eva looks over her shoulder.

Miriam picks them up and squeezes them in the bin, stems snapping as she forces them further and further in. She closes the lid and steps away, brushing her hands together, the plasters on her fingers join themselves together. She collects the bin liner and takes it out to the main bin downstairs.

Eva waits for her return in the kitchen.

‘Can I help?’

While she washes her hands, Eva puts the kettle on.

Miriam winces as she places her hands under the steaming hot water, then washes them with soap. The kettle screams and she looks at it. At the boiling water, thinking of the blistering it could cause to her skin, and the peace she would find after.

Eva takes the kettle off the heat while Miriam rinses, before using a nail brush along the palms and fingertips, ripping off the plasters, rinsing again with water that streams hot. She allows the water to run red before Eva places a hand on her shoulder.

‘That’s enough,’ she says.

‘It wasn’t an admirer,’ Miriam murmurs.

‘I can see, but it’s enough now.’ And she reaches past Miriam and turns off the tap before placing a towel in her hands. ‘May I see?’

Miriam unravels the towel, showing her bleeding fingers, the skin peeled back on her fingernails and the scratches and grazes along her wrists.

‘May I help?’ Taking her by both hands, Eva guides Miriam to the living room and into the high-backed, gold-studded, olive chairs. She dries each hand with a towel, stems the flow of blood and replaces the plasters to Miriam’s muted instructions.

‘What’s tomorrow?’ Eva asks.

‘They want to take Dad away to the hospital, I think. There is a meeting.’

‘What will happen?’

The question is left in the air.

‘The flowers,’ Eva starts, ‘are from your husband?’

Miriam nods.

‘You aren’t together?’

‘No,’ she says. Then a second ‘No’, with more conviction.

‘All terrible things do pass with time, I promise you. Your fingers will heal, and the damage inside will too. You just need time,’ Eva says and collects her bag. ‘I have some more of the French letters here.’ She draws out a bundle. ‘I should be going now,’ she says, looking at the dress and then at Miriam’s hands.

‘Of course.’ Miriam gives her the other half of the letters and a ten-Westmark note. ‘Thank you, and I am sorry you had to see that.’ She nods to the kitchen.

‘Never apologise. Can I perhaps . . . If it wouldn’t inconvenience you, well, perhaps I can call again?’

‘Please, any time.’

When Eva has left, Miriam takes the new letters to her father’s side.

There are so many letters of all shapes and sizes and many more to read. Grateful for something to do with her hands, she picks up the next letter, happy to absorb herself in Frieda’s plight rather than think about her own.





17





HENRYK


I am resting in pieces, but I can hear Miriam.

Her tiny voice speaks, but not to me. I try to listen, to find my centre once more, but I am turning and turning and I lose her words in the dark.

I am adrift. I can feel my toes, I try to move them, but they are too far away. My legs feel confined and strange but they are there. I am lying on a bed. I cannot place where I am, all I know is that I am.

And although I know that Frieda is gone, I also know that she has not faded for me. I must know all that happened, I must know the weight of my crime, the judgement and the sentence.

All that happened to her was because of me.

I hear Miriam again. ‘Frieda,’ I call. But my mouth won’t form the words. Not today. ‘Please,’ I scream, but the scream just reverberates inside my head and spittle runs out of my mouth. I feel it slide down my chin and cool there.





MIRIAM

To not think about tomorrow, Axel or anything other than the letters, Miriam reads long into the night.

Henryk,

The Blockova said I could see the Kommandant. After all this time, it felt useless. I had nothing to say now. The reason I wanted to talk to her had gone now we were in Block 15. But you cannot decline to see the Kommandant if she calls for you.