Page 21 of The Girl with a Secret
“Ah, yes.”
A silence fell on them all, tense and unhappy. Her mother was standing by the pile of their suitcases and trunks, a fur draped over her shoulders, shivering in the damp cold. The weather wasn’tthatmuch worse than Berlin, although it had, apparently, been a cool, damp summer, but her mother seemed determined to act as if it was. Her father had paced the room as if measuring it for a carpet, and now stood, facing the window, his hands on his hips, his handsome face settled into a discontented frown.
Rosa felt like grabbing them both by the shoulders and shaking them until their teeth rattled. Since they’d arrived onthese shores, her parents had been acting as if they were deserving of special treatment, as if a red carpet should be rolled out for them, their hosts counting it a privilege for them to walk on it. She knew her parents had always thought they were important; at least, her father had, and her mother had happily basked in his light. If a month on board theSt Louis, and then an interminable two days in the cargo hold of the crowdedRhakotis, hadn’t shown them that they weren’t, then arriving in England, where Jewish refugees, even doctors, bankers, and lawyers, were unwelcomely plentiful, surely should have.
“So.” The woman from the Fund cleared her throat. “You’ll be sharing this flat with another family.”
“What!” Rosa’s father whirled around, his mouth agape. He looked genuinely astonished by this information. “But it’s barely big enough for us.”
“It has four rooms,” the woman replied stiffly. “There are many British citizens here in London who do not have as much space.”
“Of course, that is… acceptable,” Rosa said quickly, stumbling slightly over the words.
Even she was taken aback by the woman’s news, although she supposed she shouldn’t be. In the two weeks they’d been in England, the poor and precarious nature of their situation had been more than apparent. They’d been sponsored by the Central British Fund for Germany Jewry, as well as the Quaker Relief Association, and so they depended on charity in a way they never had to before.
Her father had yet to procure the funds he’d sent abroad from Germany; he had had them sent to Havana, and getting the money transferred to England had so far been a tangled mess of bureaucratic red tape and intransigence—so many forms to fill in, so many cables to send, so many petty officials to impress, orat least convince. He was hopeful now that he was in London, rather than Southampton, he might make some headway.
“So.” The woman drew herself up. “You have everything you need? The other family should be here in the next few days. And, as I believe you have been told before, you must look for work immediately. The Fund can only pay the rent on this flat until the end of the month.”
“Yes, we understand,” Rosa said quickly, before her father could make some further complaint. They had been issued visas that allowed them to work, although she had no idea what they would be able to do. “We look forward to working.”
“Good.” The woman nodded once, briskly. “Well, then. Welcome to Great Britain.”
As she left the flat, closing the door behind her, her mother’s breath came out in a great rush, and she turned toward her husband. “Fritz, this is impossible. We can’t live here…”
“Well I know it,” her father replied through gritted teeth. “As soon as I’ve managed to get our funds transferred to London, we’ll find somewhere suitable to our station. I’ve been told Mayfair is a good area.”
“Most of the Jewish refugees are in this area,” Rosa pointed out. “Surely we want to stay with our own community?”
Her father made a little moue of distaste before turning away. Rosa didn’t think her father or mother possessed any real faith, and she doubted either of them wanted to associate with the Jews they’d seen so far in this neighborhood—somber, dark-coated Hasidim, with their unfamiliar side curls and bushy beards, so different from their own very lightly worn faith. If it was jolting to Rosa, she imagined it was even more so for her parents.
“Mayfair sounds nice,” her mother said firmly, drawing her fur more closely about her shoulders. She gave her husband a pointed yet pleading look. “You know I can’t abide living like thisfor very long.” She gave a theatrical shudder. “That dreadful ship was bad enough.”
Their two and a half days on theRhakotishadn’t beenthatbad, Rosa thought, and certainly better than most who had been on board. The eleven-year-old freighter had had first- and tourist-class berths for fifty passengers, but the ship had had to hold ten times that number, and its cargo holds had been converted into communal berths.
Fortunately, as a member of the passenger committee once again, her father had been granted a first-class cabin. It hadn’t possessed quite the luxury of their adjoining berths on theSt Louis, but it had been comfortable enough, especially when Rosa had seen what Hannah and Lotte had had to endure on their voyage to Boulogne. The cargo holds had been cramped and airless, with steel bunks along the sides and long tables running down the center. The lavatories, already inadequate, had been up on deck. Many passengers had chosen to sleep on deck, for the stale smell of sweat and unwashed humanity down in the cargo holds had soon become unbearable.
“I know, darling,” her father said, giving his wife a quick, conciliatory smile. “It’s an outrage for someone of your tender sensibilities. Perhaps you need to rest…?”
“Where?” her mother demanded. “The beds are filthy.”
They were hardlyfilthy, although, Rosa acknowledged, in truth, the flat’s furnishings did leave something to be desired. A rickety table, a couple of chairs, a few lumpy mattresses on severe iron bedsteads, and not much more than that. It was far from homely.
“At least we brought our own sheets,” Rosa said, trying to sound cheerful. “Shall we unpack? I could make up the bed for you, Mother.”
After a second’s pause, her mother nodded stiffly, and Rosa went to open one of their trunks. In addition to their clothesand personal effects, they’d brought all their linens and her mother’s full set of Meissen china, packed carefully between layers of paper. The delicate dishes, hand-painted in Meissen’s traditional onion pattern, would look rather incongruous on the rough wooden shelves that comprised their pantry, Rosa thought with a small smile.
“And we could betrulyEnglish,” she continued as she lifted the blue and white painted teapot out of its paper wrappings, “and have a cup of tea.”
Her mother sniffed and said nothing. Her father let out a gusty, discontented sigh.
Rosa suspected she knew what was really bothering them—it wasn’t the flat, or the fact that they would have to share it. It was, in essence, the reality that they really were refugees, and were seen as such in this place. They didn’twantto be refugees—needy, desperate, looked down upon by the general population. Her father had been a man of stature and importance back in Berlin, her mother standing proudly by his side. Neither of them was ready or willing for that to change… and yet it already had.
“I’ll boil the kettle,” Rosa said as she rose from the trunk to fetch the dented, tin kettle from its place on the shelf.
Despite her determined good humor, she was, in truth, feeling more than a little shaken by the abrupt change in their circumstances. While the flat’s rooms possessed gracious proportions and good light, the cooker and water tap were out on the landing, to be shared with other residents, and the toilet and bath were down the hall. After the airy spaciousness of their villa on the Wannsee, it was a step down indeed. Perhaps, she reflected, as she went out to the landing to light the stove and boil the kettle, a house in Mayfair would be better.
As she was waiting for the kettle to boil, a woman emerged from the flat below, carrying her own pot. She looked to be in her thirties, with fair hair drawn back in a bun and her slender bodyswathed in a shapeless dress of worn gray cotton. She started at the sight of Rosa, and then nodded once.
