The Storyteller of Casablanca (67)

Tears spring to her eyes and she winces at the sudden harshness of my words. But she seems to realise she’s already made enough of a scene. Madame Habib is approaching and so Kate backs away, reluctantly returning to her place at the quilting table.

As I kneel and blot up the puddle of sweet-smelling liquid with a wad of paper towels, I surreptitiously wipe the hot tears of rage and pain from my cheeks too. Then I tell Madame Habib that I’m going to leave early today as I have a headache. She fusses over me, telling me her husband will gladly drive me home, but I refuse the offer and tell her I’ll take a taxi. I can’t bear to be in the same room as Kate for a second longer.

My hands itch and burn, feeling dirty and contaminated, and I run upstairs to the bathroom on the top floor the minute I get home, washing them again and again, as if that will help calm my troubled mind.

Eventually, I pat them dry on a towel and go through to pick up Grace, hugging her close, the soft weight of her in my arms comforting me far more than I am able to comfort her. She picks up on my distress and begins to fret, pulling away from me as she strains to be put down. Her rejection stings my already bruised nerves and I am suddenly overwhelmed by the urge to shake her violently and scream. I quickly put her down on the bed, horrified and frightened by the powerful impulse. How could I ever feel like that about Grace? I disgust myself. Is it any wonder Tom doesn’t want to be with me any longer?

She reaches for the pink rabbit that sits on her pillow and begins to chew an ear, watching me warily. ‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry,’ I sob. She reaches a chubby hand to my cheek in forgiveness, and then holds up the cuddly toy to share it with me. I lie beside her, stroking her hair until we are both soothed. Then I reach for the sandalwood box of Josie’s treasures and bring them out, one by one, to show Grace, distracting myself from my torment. She chuckles and murmurs at the sight of them, her coos as soft as a turtle dove’s, and I dangle the gold Star of David above her, letting the light catch its angles as it spins slowly at the end of its fine chain.

‘I wish she was here,’ I say. And I mean it with all my heart.

Later, once I’ve fed Grace and she’s fallen asleep, her lashes fluttering on her cheeks, which are as rosy as a sunrise after her bath, I settle myself in the armchair by the window and listen to the evening sounds of the city. The call to prayer floats on the warm air above the background hum of the traffic. As those noises fade, I can hear the soughing of the ocean wind over the rooftops and I turn my head a little to let the breeze caress my cheek. I feel wrung out, exhausted from my anger and my grief and the tears I’ve shed today. But most of all I feel alone.

I reach for the leather-bound journal, hoping to find solace and distraction in the company of the girl I’ve come to think of as a friend. I leaf through the pages, rereading the last section about Josie’s fourteenth birthday in a city stripped to its bones by a plague of locusts in a time of war. Her words make me smile and they give me strength, her indomitable spirit shining through.

Then I turn to the next page of the journal and I freeze.

The words written here aren’t at all what I was expecting to read and I’m unable to take them in properly at first. I read them again, more slowly. My heart pounds in my ears and my hands tremble.

‘No,’ I whisper.

But there’s no denying the words on the page, written in Josie’s looped handwriting, a little smudged here and there. Could she have been crying as she wrote this?

I imagine her, here in this very room, alone and scared.

And I wish more than anything that I could reach out across the years to put my arms around that frightened girl and comfort her in her pain.





Josie’s Journal – Tuesday 30th June, 1942

This is the very worst day of my life. Without Papa, how can we go on? Without Papa, I’m not sure that I want to go on. Every minute seems to last an hour as we watch and wait for him to be returned to us.

It is so hard to write these words, but I know he would tell me to put them down on paper so that they aren’t in my head, and then I might be able to sleep a bit tonight. I don’t think I will ever sleep again, though, not until he is home with us where he belongs.

On Sunday, Felix arrived at our door, having cycled over from the mellah. He was out of breath, gasping to get the words out, and Papa pulled him and his bike into the hall and closed the door behind him. Maman and Annette were in the drawing room, but I’d started to come down to see who was at the door, so I stayed on the stairs and listened.

‘Don’t come this afternoon. The meeting is cancelled. They’re arresting everyone,’ Felix said. Although I couldn’t see his face, it sounded as if he was sobbing.

Papa calmed him down a bit. ‘Take a breath, son. Are you all right? And your parents?’

‘Yes, we’re okay. But the Gestapo have made a move. There are police everywhere. They’ve taken hundreds away.’

‘The others . . . ?’ Papa didn’t mention any names, but I guessed he was referring to the people who were at those meetings he’d been going to.

‘Gone,’ said Felix. ‘I think one or two may have managed to hide, but they’re raiding houses, arresting Jews, anyone they suspect of being in the resistance.’

Papa hushed him then and said, ‘Do you want to stay here? We could hide you and your parents. Of course, nowhere is entirely safe but it would probably be better for you here than in the mellah.’