Page 48 of The Girl with a Secret
It was through those newspapers that Rosa learned that France had fallen to Germany and had been divided into two zones—the central and north regions of the country, including Paris, were under Nazi rule, while the south, from the Swiss border to Tours and the Bay of Biscay, was under a sovereign rule, at least in name. While there had been no news about restriction on Jews there or in the Low Countries, Rosa feared it was only a matter of time.
In the out-of-date newspapers, she also read about “the Battle of Britain”—how the English Channel and towns on the south coast were being bombed by the Luftwaffe, night after night after night, with devastating losses.
It felt as if it were happening so far away, when all Rosa could see was tranquil, sunlit sea in any direction. They were, she reflected, far safer out here in the middle of the Irish Sea than in London, which hadn’t been bombed yet but surely would be, soon.
That possibility compelled her to finally write to Peter, needing to know if he was still safe, although she hardly knew what to say to him. Had he discovered where she’d gone—and why? And if he hadn’t, could she admit that she’d been interned for the part she had played in her father’s parties? As she sat at Collinson’s Café on Port Erin’s high street, drinking a cup of tea and composing her letter, Rosa found she didn’t have the courage to do so. She wrote a brief note instead, keeping it light and airy, as if this was no more than an amusing detour in the landscape of her life. She wrote in the same tone to Sophie—describing the classes she was taking, and the books she wasreading, and even blaming her father—and her father alone—for why she was on the Isle of Man in the first place.
It felt shameful as well as cringingly cowardly, to write such things without admitting the full truth, but Rosa knew she couldn’t risk losing the best friend she’d ever had. What would Sophie, when her own father had been in Dachau, think about Rosa having drunk champagne with Adolf Eichmann? Or flirted and more—so much more—with SS Obersturmführer Ernst Weber?
And what would Peter think, with his poor, twisted hand that had been ruined by a brownshirt jackboot? Rosa couldn’t bear to think about his reaction. He’d been disapproving enough, when he’d learned who her father was. She could not bear for him to know whoshewas… or at least who she had once been.
Despite all the pleasant and interesting activities available, the holiday mood, just as Rosa had feared, began to wear thin, flaking off like the cheap gloss to an ultimately unappealing proposition. The lack of meaningful work, of current news, of opportunities to visit husbands or have their children join them, all took their inevitable toll. The barbed wire fences that ringed them in every direction started to feel menacing—almost, Rosa thought, as if they were drawing closer.
As the weeks passed and summer waned, women became restless and bored, and arguments blew up like storms over the sea, quick and violent. Mothers who had been separated from their children fell into lethargy and despair. And women who still could not see their husbands, despite learning they were just across the island in Douglas, became frustrated and fractious.
The one person whodidn’t, to Rosa’s surprise, was her mother. After a year of anxious waiting in London, and an interminable month in Holloway, the Isle of Man seemed to bethe making of Elsa Herzelfeld. Always a dab seamstress, she took a dressmaking class and then began to work as a dressmaker, enjoying the challenge of turning the occasional well-worn donations into a beautiful frock or blouse. Her skills were in high demand, and a new color filled her mother’s cheeks that had nothing to do with the rouge she usually wore, a gleam in her eyes that had nothing to do, Rosa realized, with her husband.
“Do you miss him?” Rosa asked one evening in August, when they were getting ready for bed. The nights were starting to draw in, the sun having already sunk between the smooth surface of the sea.
“Your father?” Her mother’s voice was sharp, but also surprised. “Of course I miss him, Rosa. What a question.”
“I know,” Rosa replied quickly, “but…” She found she could not put into words quite what she meant, not, at least, without offending her mother.You’re happier without him. You seem stronger, brighter, with more purpose.
No, she couldn’t say any of that, even if she saw it, day by day, and was glad for it.
Her mother let out a long sigh, her shoulders sagging as she gazed out at the moonlit sea. “I do miss him,” she said again, more quietly. “But… I’m happy here, in a way I never expected to be.” She gave an uncertain little laugh. “What a strange thing, to be happy in a place like this! I suppose it’s pitiable, but I don’t mind. Your father…” She paused, seeming to weigh her words, and Rosa found herself holding her breath, wondering what her mother might admit. “Your father is like the sun, to me,” she said at last. “I find I can’t live without its light and warmth, but… I’m cast into shadow, next to it. I always have been. And I haven’t minded, because… well, because I love him.” She gave another little laugh, this one sounding sad. “But here… here I think I’ve found my own light. And I don’t want to give that up.” Her mother pressed her lips together, looking as if she’d said toomuch. “But I do miss him,” she said yet again, more forcefully. “And I want to see him again.”
It almost sounded, Rosa thought, as if her mother was trying to convince herself.
At the end of August, news finally came that the wives and husbands who had been separated would be allowed to meet, under careful conditions.
Life had improved in other ways, as well; wirelesses were now allowed to be listened to in public rooms of hotels and boarding houses, although only the BBC stations, and the newspapers were more current. More classes were offered in the social hall and even at a marine biology station on the island, and women were able to work, as well—in shops and cafés, or setting up their own businesses, such as her mother’s dressmaking.
Some women kept a piggery, others hens, and yet others made plans to plant a vegetable garden in the spring. Rosa couldn’t help but hope she wouldn’tbethere in the spring, although, as far as anyone could tell, there seemed no plans yet to free the several thousand internees that had quickly doubled the population of the island.
And now, the news that husbands and wives would be able to see each other, for a mere two hours at Derby Castle, a dance hall in Douglas.
“Oh, Rosa, what should I wear?” her mother exclaimed, her hands pressed to her cheeks, as giddy as a girl. “I don’t have anything, and I’ve become so plain. Look at my hair…”
“Mutti, you’re a dressmaker!” Rosa told her with a laugh. “You can make yourself something gorgeous and new. Use one of your old dresses, if you like, or one of mine.” Her mother had thankfully brought Rosa’s clothes with her when she’d firstjoined her at Holloway. “You’ve got to be dressed to the nines,” she insisted, smiling.
To Rosa’s surprise, her mother’s eyes filled with tears, and she grabbed both her hands. “I don’t deserve your kindness,” she gasped out. “I know I don’t.”
Rosa stared at her, taken aback. “Mutti…”
“I haven’t been a good mother to you,” her mother continued in a rush, seeming to need to get the words out. “I don’t think I knew how. And your father… sometimes it felt like he took all the air in the room, all the space in my head. He shouldn’t have, I know that now. I shouldn’t have let him, but… I did. I loved him so much, you see. I still do. And I was ashamed, how he treated me sometimes—the other women… that you knew about them. I blamed you, or tried to, and it was wrong. I know that. I’ve always known that.” Her mother bit her lip, her face crumpling. “What must you think of me, Rosa?” she asked in a soft whimper. “What sort of mother have I been?”
Gently, overcome with both love and pity, Rosa squeezed her mother’s hands. “It doesn’t matter now,Mutti,” she said. “It really doesn’t. And I wasn’t always the best daughter.” It was the first time she’d thought as much, but she realized it was true. Her exasperation and disdain for her mother, for her relentless obsession with her husband, her jealousies and addictions, had bled through her words and actions, like a stain on a cloth.
“You adored your father,” her mother said simply. “How could you not?”
Yes, she’d adored him, Rosa thought, which made her still feel so bitter now. She was glad it was her mother seeing him, and not her; she wasn’t ready to face him, not yet. She didn’t know what she would say—or feel. The months at Rushen had been pleasant, in their own way, but she still resented her father for having to be here at all.
Her mother created the most beautiful dress, snipping away at the green satin she’d worn to board theSt Louisto turn it into an elegant tea dress, nipped in at the waist and swirling about her calves. She eschewed a stole or jewels, wearing a simple necklace of pearls instead. She had no makeup, and she pinned her hair back simply. Rosa decided she preferred her mother this way, elegant yet without fuss, although she did not say so. She simply kissed her cheek and told her she looked beautiful.
After her mother had left with two hundred other married women, to head to Douglas, Rosa decided to go for a walk. Although the air now possessed a chill, the sun still hadn’t quite set, and long, lavender rays of light slanted across the promenade as she walked along, following the line of the barbed wire fence that stood between her and the sea.
They’d erected so many more fences since she’d arrived, Rosa noted. On the waterfront, along the streets, in front of the boarding houses. The Isle of Man had become an island of barbed wire. Everywhere she looked, she could see the jagged bits of wire, closing the world out, closing herin. As pleasant as these weeks and months had been, she was still acutely conscious that she was, to all intents and purposes, in prison, as impregnable a fortress as Holloway had been.
