Page 24 of The Girl with a Secret
“Well, then,” her mother had said, leaning back in her chair, confident that as in all things, her husband could manage this. “You must learn English.”
He’d raked a hand through his hair, the gesture one of anger and impatience. “I don’t want to take the exams again,” he’d snapped, swinging away from them both. “And certainly not in English. Why should I have to?”
Rosa had stared at her father’s taut back and had realized, in an instant, that if her father would not lower himself to take the medical exams, then he certainly wouldn’t apply for a job driving a bus or sweeping floors. Which meant the only person in the family capable of earning a wage, she acknowledged heavily, was her.
And so, the next morning, Rosa resolutely left the flat, wearing a plain navy dress and sensible shoes, in the hope that she could be hired for work. She wasn’t sure what she was suitable for, considering the state of her English and the unfortunate and decided lack of any recognizable skills, but she still had hopes that someone, somewhere, would recognize her intelligence andinnate ability and give her a chance. Maybe a clerical job in an office, typing or filing? She wouldn’t be much good at dictation, not until her English improved, but she knew she couldn’t wait that long to start earning money.
Still, despite those worries, Rosa felt surprisingly cheerful. Although the weather of the last few weeks had been chilly and dull, today was balmy and breezy, the air full of warmth and birdsong, and underneath a pale blue sky, London looked freshly washed and appealing, with its rows of gracious, white stucco-fronted homes, far from the drab grayness she’d been so dispirited by when they’d first arrived.
It was a day for opportunity, Rosa decided, as well as optimism. Never mind that they had no money, that her English was poor, that her mother still sat in that awful chair and her father disappeared to his own devices. She wasfreehere, freer than she’d ever been back in Berlin, hosting her father’s parties and trying to seem so insouciant, all the while fighting a deep feeling of dread, of guilt.
Here she had none of that, only a determined sort of hope. That morning, she’d managed to make porridge and finally learned how to mix the bottled coffee—camp coffee, it was called—with hot water to make a drink that resembled what they were used to, somewhat, if not in its entirety. Her father had drunk it, at least, even if her mother had turned her nose up at it, as she did at so many things.
“I’d buy proper coffee,” Rosa had told her in as conciliatory a manner as she could manage. She’d suspected her mother’s attitude of disgust came not from mere snobbery, but from fear. “But we haven’t got a coffee pot,” she’d explained, “or the money to buy one.”
“Does this country even know what proper coffee is?” her mother had demanded, her arms crossed over her body as she’d averted her head. Rosa had sipped hers in silence.
At least they were still enjoying the relative comfort of the flat by themselves, Rosa reflected as she walked down Haverstock Hill toward the high street and the underground station, her step brisk and her arms swinging by her sides. The family they were to share with had yet to arrive, and Rosa suspected her mother was hoping they never would. Well, she decided, she would take that development in her stride, when and if it happened.
This morning, she intended to buy a newspaper, scour the “help wanted” adverts, and then apply accordingly. Itsoundedsimple, but she already recognized how challenging she would find it all, especially with her limited English. She’d taken to buying newspapers simply to practice reading English, but she had no English-German dictionary and it had started to feel like a somewhat hopeless endeavor, the articles crammed with words whose meanings she failed to grasp. Still, she certainly recognized the urgent need to improve her language skills if she were to get ahead in this country, which she fully intended to do. She thought of attending the classes Anna Gruber had mentioned, but first, importantly, a job.
In a newsagent on the high street, she bought a copy ofThe Times, as well as some stationery and envelopes. She intended to write to Sophie, and Hannah at Henri’s; she would not be able to write to Rachel until she had an address, which Rosa unhappily acknowledged could take months. She’d meant to write sooner, but there been so little to say, at least so little that Rosawantedto say. She didn’t want to tell Sophie about the dreadful days of uncertainty aboard theSt Louis, or the cramped and dispiriting conditions of the boarding house in Southampton, how the stale smell of cabbage had become, for Rosa, the very scent of hopelessness.
But she couldn’tnotsay those things either, she reflected as she sat at a table in the window of a Lyons teashop, nibbling theend of her pen, the blank sheet on the table before her, along with a cup of coffee—proper coffee, not the regrettable bottled stuff. It had been a bit of an extravagance, considering the dire state of their finances, but Rosa had felt it was well worth it. She was going to find a job today, after all.
She gazed out the window at the summer sky fleeced with puffy, white clouds, pedestrians walking along below, everyone seeming cheerful and full of purpose—a mother wheeling a big, silver pram; a businessman with the brim of his hat pulled low. A young woman in a smart dress, nipped in at the waist, her hair in fashionable brushed-out waves, heels clicking on the pavement.
It still amazed Rosa, that she could sit in this teashop and sip coffee, contemplate the world, and feel part of it, as well as completely at ease. True, she didn’t know how they were going to get money; the Quaker Relief Association had promised to pay the rent on their flat only to the end of the month—a date that was coming up all too soon. And true, she was anxious about looking for a job, especially with her limited language ability, but she was still in a country that had no signs on the doors forbidding Jews from entering; she didn’t have to worry about SS officers or Gestapo coming smartly down the street, looking for someone to harass or humiliate. More importantly, she didn’t have to dread them sashaying their way into her house as if they owned the place, which they’d more or less done.
“Herr Doktor, we’ve got another patient for you. Give him some of your magic pills, won’t you? If I didn’t know better, I’d believe those rumors that you Jews practice some sort of witchcraft…”
Even now, Rosa could picture her father’s ready smile, the easy laugh. The way he’d reach for the brandy decanter, pour a glass.
“Don’t question the magic, Untersturmführer.”
As if he was sharing the joke.
The memory made her stomach roil. That couldn’t happen here, not any longer. Not ever again.
She pushed the thought away as she bent her head and put pen to paper.
Dear Sophie,
Well, I told you I’d write once I received your address, although I’m not sure how much there is to say. The voyage back to Europe was pretty dire—none of the jolly mood going over! We’re staying in a flat in London, a rather shabby little place, it’s true, but at least we’re allowed in the shops, and no one asks for our papers.
She regaled Sophie with some of what had happened on board, keeping her tone breezy and light, even though the events themselves had been grim indeed, and finished with a brief description of her situation now.
“More coffee, miss?” The Lyons’ waitress, known by Londoners as a nippy, and dressed in a starched cap, dark dress, and white apron, proffered the pot questioningly.
“Yes, please,” Rosa replied, and signed off the letter before folding it carefully into its envelope. She then wrote a quicker missive to Hannah, letting her know her address, hoping her friend really would be able to collect letters from the café by the Eiffel Tower. Hannah hadn’t known where she and Lotte would be sent after arriving in Boulogne.
With those tasks done, Rosa turned toThe Times, flicking to the back pages, where the employment adverts were.
Rosa’s coffee slowly went cold as she squinted down at the paper, scouring the tiny type of the adverts for various situations, only to realize that, just as she’d feared, very few seemed suitable for a young German woman with limitedEnglish. Many of the clerical jobs specifically requested that only men apply, and those that accepted women still wanted several years’ experience with typing, dictation, and stenography—none of which Rosa possessed, in Englishorin German. As for the other jobs… well, maybe she’d be a maid, after all.
She rested her chin in her hand and took a sip of her now-lukewarm coffee as she gazed once more out the teashop’s window at the busy street. Now, instead of viewing the scene with a burgeoning sense of belonging, she felt acutely conscious that everyone out there was walking as if they had some place to go, something important to do. The man with the bowler hat had ajob, as did two young women clearly dressed for office work. And while just this morning, Rosa had been optimistic that she too would be like them, and find work, now she wondered—and doubted. She had no experience, just an education in another language that had ended at sixteen and a work ethic that was yet unproven. Why would anyone take a risk on her? Did she even want to try? She needed a job, a wage,now, or at least as soon as possible.
“May I take your cup, miss?” the nippy asked, and Rosa blinked up at her, startled out of her reverie.
