Page 47 of The Girl with a Secret
The woman’s face softened. “We’ll be fine,” she stated firmly. “Don’t you worry about us. And drink up your tea. You look like you need it.”
Twenty minutes later, Rosa and her mother were up in their neat and cozy room, two twin beds facing the windows, with a chest of drawers each besides. As they unpacked their few things, Rosa could hear furniture being dragged to and fro upstairs; a group of young nurses had come in as they’d finished their tea and, it seemed, were determined to sort their domestic arrangements to their satisfaction before bed.
Finished unpacking, she stood by the window, watching the moonlight gild the placid sea in silver. The moon had risen high in the sky and reminded her of a silver coin tucked in a pocket, with only a slim crescent visible. After the noise and dirt, the crowds and mess of Holloway, Port Erin felt like a haven of peace. It was certainly a beautiful, if isolated, place, the seastretching in every direction, the whole world seeming as still as a hushed breath. There were, Rosa knew, far, far worse places to be.
And yet, as thankful as she was that they seemed to have washed up on a pleasant shore, Rosa was still dogged by uncertainty, and worse, a terrible sadness. How long would they be here, and what would theydowith themselves? And what about her father—would she ever see him again? How had he fared, this last month?
Her feelings for him were as complicated as they’d ever been; she loved him like the small child she often still felt she was, but she was still so very angry that it was his choices and actions that had led them to this terrible predicament. Even so, she knew she could not wish him ill.
She thought of Peter, too, wondering what he was doing. Had his life changed? Had he discovered what had happened to her—and if he had, what would he think about it? She was afraid to find out the answer. And yet she missed him, missed his wry smile and the familiar glint in his eyes, his dry sense of humor, and most of all, his inherent kindness.
Rosa also thought about her dear friends from theSt Louis. In the frantic rush of moving from train to ferry to island, she had pushed the terrible knowledge of Hitler’s invasion of France and the Low Countries to the back of her mind, but now it rushed to the fore, sickening in its awful implications.Hannah… Rachel.Little Lotte, and poor, dear Franz. What would happen to them all? As much as she might chafe against being treated like the enemy, Rosa knew her circumstances had to be far better than those of her two friends suffering on mainland Europe. What were they feeling now, with the Wehrmacht on the march, the Luftwaffe darkening the skies above them?
She imagined both Hannah and Rachel huddled somewhere, planes strafing the sky above, tanks rolling down the city streets,as they clutched their pieces of emerald and prayed for the day when all four of them would all be together again, safe and reunited.
Rosa slipped her hand into her pocket and let her fingers curl around her own shard of jewel, grateful for the comfort it always gave her. That day would happen, she told herself, even if she could not see a way to that moment from this. Even if, right now, it seemed utterly impossible.
Outside, the crescent moon glided beneath a bank of clouds, and the silvery sea turned into an expanse of black. Still Rosa stood there, gazing out at the darkness, as if she could see all the way to the horizon.
CHAPTER 19
When Rosa and her mother woke the next morning, their little room was awash with sunshine and she could hear seagulls cawing on the promenade out front. For a second, she simply lay there, enjoying the comfort of her narrow bed, the warmth of the sunlight on her closed eyelids, and the unexpected peace of the moment.
She glanced over at her mother, who was just stirring.
“The seagulls and sunlight… it reminds me of when we went to Binz,” she murmured sleepily. “When you were small. On Rügen… an island much like this one, I imagine. You must have only been three or four. All you wanted to do was build sandcastles.” Her mother smiled in memory, while Rosa blinked at her in uncertain surprise.
She suddenly pictured herself on the beach, knees and elbows sandy, face furrowed in concentration as she built her fleeting masterpieces. She couldn’t remember it at all. Had it been a happy time? Sometimes she forgot that there had been happy times, before her father’s affairs and courting of Nazis, before her mother, always so obsessed with her husband, had become so unhappy.
“We could be in worse places, certainly,” Rosa replied as she pushed herself up onto her elbows. In the chink between the curtains, she could see the sparkle of the sea. It did feel like a resort here, and she supposed it was, or had been, judging by the hotels.
After Rosa and her mother had dressed, they went downstairs, to find Mrs. Kneale making them a hearty breakfast of eggs and toast with real strawberry jam, washed down with copious cups of tea. The nurses who had arrived after them joined them for the meal in the little dining room, chattering excitedly over the table; they seemed to view their internment as an extended holiday, with one remarking, with as much seriousness as flippancy, “Why shouldn’t we like it here? We’re fed, we’re housed, and we don’t have to spend ten or twelve hours rushed off our feet, being shouted at by doctors!”
That was true enough, Rosa supposed, but as beautiful as it was, they were still on a tiny island in the middle of the Irish Sea, encased by barbed wire. The holiday feeling would surely be fleeting. And yet… as she mopped up the last of her eggs with a piece of toast, it did, indeed, feel like an odd sort of holiday.
After breakfast, Rosa helped Mrs. Kneale tidy up, and the landlady told her what sights she might like to explore on the island.
“Are we free to do so?” Rosa asked in surprise after she’d been regaled with descriptions of the Great Laxey waterwheel and Milner’s Tower. Despite the nurses’ excitement, she had expected far more restrictions.
Mrs. Kneale looked as surprised by the question as Rosa was by her own assumptions. “I don’t rightly know,” she admitted, “but I can’t see why not. Where are you going to go, after all? We’re over seventy miles from the mainland, you know, in any direction, and it isn’t as if they’ve got enough staff to police you. They can’t lock you up, not when you’re staying in a boardinghouse like mine!” She looked fierce then, as if she’d fight for Rosa’s right to see the Laxey waterwheel, and that made Rosa smile.
“Yes, that’s true,” she conceded. Even so, the idea of being free to go where and whenever she liked had not actually occurred to her. She’d expected Camp Rushen to be like Holloway, only a little bit bigger, but as she wiped the last of the breakfast dishes, she had a sense that that might not be the case at all.
Over the next few days, the intoxicating extent of their freedoms became clearer. They were allowed to go anywhere they liked in Port Erin, but would need a police escort—female police constables had been brought in from London for such a purpose—to go anywhere outside the town. Still, Port Erin was freedom enough, especially as the weather remained warm and sunny, and there were shops to browse and the beach to stroll down, and the sea to swim in.
With a few of the young nurses from her boarding house, Rosa had gone down to the seafront, wading into the water up to her calves, her skirt caught about her knees. One of the women, from Norway, had stripped off her shabby dress—the only clothing she’d been able to bring—and dove neatly into the water, entirely naked. Rosa had never considered herself a prude, and, in truth, she’d felt more envy than embarrassment at the sight of the woman’s pale body gliding easily through the water. Oh, to be so free! To care so little what others thought of you. To feel so unencumbered by the past, by guilt, by memories…
She’d stayed where she was, in only up to her knees.
As the days and weeks passed, the women internees, under the guidance and encouragement of Dame Joanna, organized themselves into industry. Schedules for housework and laundry for each boarding house or hotel were drawn up, and classes were offered, in spinning, weaving, and dressmaking; these were soon expanded to more academic subjects, including English, philosophy, and mathematics. A library was formed, with many local residents donating books, and run by a Jewish internee and former librarian.
After just a week, every internee was offered the opportunity to sign a repatriation agreement; those who were pro-Nazi did so, and were housed separately, at the Golf Links Hotel, which made, Rosa thought, everything operate more smoothly, without the fear of running into a genuine Nazi, for both the Jewish internees and wary island residents alike.
All in all, there was a strange sort of freedom about their lives in Port Erin—time she hadn’t had working ten-hour shifts back in London was now hers for reading, learning, or simply enjoying the summery blue skies that continued all through June and July. She took classes in philosophy and mathematics and read just about every volume she could get her hands on. Sometimes she imagined the conversations she might have with Peter, debating ideas and discussing poetry. She could picture the way his eyes would light up, the small, crooked smile that would curve his lips, and it caused a great ache inside her, like a physical pain. She still hadn’t written to him.
When the weather was fine, she had long walks along the promenade, and with a kindly police escort, even made it to the Great Laxey waterwheel, which was just as impressive as Mrs. Kneale had said.
In the evenings, which stayed light until past ten o’clock, she simply enjoyed the view of the placid sea or read a book, doing her best to live in the silence; the one thing there was notavailable was a wireless. Mrs. Kneale didn’t own one, and none of the internees had access to current events except through the newspapers, which came to the island several days or even weeks out of date.
