The Rabbit Girls(8)

The smell of ironing evokes a time, aged ten or twelve, when she was sprawled in the middle of the bed watching the steam rise from clothes as Mum pressed every crease into oblivion.

‘What did you do in the war?’ little Miriam had asked brightly.

‘The what?’

Mum replaced the iron and turned her back to find a hanger from the pile.

‘War, Mum, you remember.’

‘Why do you ask?’

‘We talked about it in school today.’ When Mum didn’t respond in a heartbeat, Miriam’s estimation of the appropriate time to do so, she continued, ‘Anita’s parents fled France for England before coming back and Dieter said that his grandparents were in a camp, like a death camp. Were you a nurse back then too?’

‘Hmm.’

‘We are reading about . . .’ But Mum’s head was low, her fingers playing with the intricacies of a collar button.

‘Please don’t cry, Mum.’ Miriam moved to the side of the bed.

‘I’m fine, love,’ she said, dashing tears away with her thumb. ‘Did you talk with your father?’

‘No – he’s . . .’ He was in his office. She had poked her head in and realised it was the start of an episode as cigarette smoke enveloped him in a cloak of fog. She had kissed his forehead and opened the window before joining Mum in the bedroom. It was best to let Mum find out about the episode for herself. ‘What happened? If you want to say, that is.’

‘I worked at the hospital, helping wounded soldiers back to the front line,’ she offered, busying herself with another shirt. After a long pause, she continued, ‘We lived in a small place not far from the hospital, in an apartment with no windows, it was so small you couldn’t fling a cat in there.’

‘Swing a cat,’ Miriam corrects.

‘Why would you swing a cat?’

‘Why would you fling one?’ They laughed together.

‘Can you go and stir the soup for me?’ She came around the ironing board to the edge of the bed and planted a kiss on her forehead.

‘I thought they were together,’ Miriam says again.

Hilda takes large strides around the bed. ‘I have cared for a lot of survivors.’ She places an arm around Miriam’s shoulders. ‘It is very hard on the families, especially if they didn’t know.’

‘He isn’t Jewish, so why would he have been . . . there?’

‘There are some records, it’s surprising how much you can find out now.’ She gives Miriam a considered look. ‘You can leave your father for an hour or two, you know? It’ll do you some good to get out too.’

The idea of leaving the safety of the apartment makes her mouth dry and she licks her lips with a dry tongue and tries to swallow.

‘I’m sorry, Hilda, but I . . .’ Her words form then change and form again. She thinks, double-checking, rethinking how to say what she wants to say. Double-thinking. Triple-checking. Wringing her hands in her jumper. Her mind jumping from feathers, the grip on her wrist, Frieda, her mother, and finally landing on him.

‘I can’t,’ she says. ‘But thank you, Hilda.’

Hilda looks at her then changes the subject. ‘I think he’s over the worst of it. He needs to sleep it off, but you may find it happens more.’ Hilda looks at him and, as though linked to what she said, both his legs tremor slightly. ‘This may be the way he goes.’

Miriam places her hand over her stomach to stop the fracturing within.

His legs stop shaking, as he mumbles, ‘Frieda.’





HENRYK

A Wednesday in March, it came to be that I was no longer employed by the university. It was a day her seat was empty.

They didn’t tell me at the end of the term, the end of the week or even the end of the day. The head of department, Herr Wager, a formidable ex-officer of the Third Reich, with the scrawny dean of the university, Erik Scholl, by his side, entered the classroom.

‘Apologies, Herr Winter, but your class has finished. You are no longer a member of this faculty. Please collect your jacket.’ He placed an enormous hand on my shoulder and turned me forty-five degrees towards the door.

‘Why?’ I asked, but I supposed it didn’t matter why.

‘Sorry, Henryk,’ Erik said. ‘Only Nazi officials have the required education to teach at this facility now.’ He stood taller as he rubbed the blackboard clean of my writing and started filling it with his own.

I gathered my jacket from the back of the chair. Some students watched with interest, others with pity and many focused on their books as I shut my briefcase.

‘Can I get my things from my office?’

Erik turned his back and started addressing the class. My class.

I was pushed through the doors and into the corridor. Our shoes the only noise as I was escorted to the main double doors. Herr Wager opened them for me, but remained inside.

‘Don’t leave Berlin, there will be questions for you,’ were his final words. And in that moment, I thought it must have been Frieda, she must have reported me.

Two large hands squeezed my arms, leaving their imprint behind. ‘Goodbye,’ Herr Wager said.

A sting lodged in my eyes and throat. And a spike of ice formed across my chest. They would find the books, they would arrest me. I walked away from the university, fear giving my feet wings, and turned the corner away from the entrance, which had just become my exit.