Читать книгу The Dangerous Places - Louis Golding - Страница 12

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A young woman with a black felt hat and a red hand-bag under her arm was duly waiting at the corner of Szewska Street. Elsie fumbled with her own bag, dropped a piece of paper, or seemed to, bent down, straightened up again. The young woman was already moving away northward, along the line of the gardens. Elsie followed. After a little time they turned to the right, then right again. They walked through the street of the town for some twenty or thirty minutes, but Elsie did not take much stock, either of time or place. If, during that passage through the town, a suspicious patrolman had asked her for her papers, she would not have carried off well the pretence of being a full-blooded German, mistress of the Universe.

To be separated from Mila, two or three days after the great adventure started, was heart-breaking. Yet, if Father Josef decided they must separate for the time being, surely it was the only sensible thing to do? Yes, of course. It was the only thing to do. Was there any chance, when the word ‘Go’ was given, that Mila might be less anxious to leave than she was now? If they got over into Slovakia, and beyond Slovakia into another country, there would still be endless dangers to overcome. Anywhere was still endless leagues from the sea-coast. Would Mila be less anxious to go? She did not believe it. It would not be the thought of danger that would hold the child back. What, then? What are you worrying about, Elsie?

She is a very impressionable child, you know. She probably always was. Father Josef gave his word that no attempt is made to win these children over to his faith. Some priests and nuns will be more fastidious about that than others. But the important thing is what happens inside these children, subjected to these influences ... the deep peace, the incense, the music....

That’s Mila’s affair, not mine. If that’s the way her heart takes her, what right have I to say or do a thing? But if I am to go on without her, I won’t want to go on. I know that. I might as well have gone out like a candle-end, down there in Post Sixteen.

I don’t think it’s going to happen. I don’t think she can stop being a Jew, any more than I did, though God knows we’re very different sorts of Jew. It will be all right, I think. But I hope something will happen soon. Yes, the good priest has it in hand. I’m sure there’ll be news soon. It’s a long way, isn’t it? The young woman’s still walking ahead there. She’s turning again. Oh, at last now, at last.

The young woman went through the doorway of a big house; not yet a slum house, but it would be in time. Elsie waited for five minutes, then she went up after her, to the door marked six, on the second floor. No one was about on the landing. Elsie pushed the door open, and went in. The lock clicked to behind her.

Yanka was waiting three or four yards up the lobby. She had taken off her black felt hat, and her dark hair stood up like two frozen waves on each side of the central parting. She was tall and thin, with large matt eyes like the black felt of her hat. Against her black dress her fingers twined and untwined, like the stalks of pale underwater plants. A thin gold cross hung on her breast.

“Pull the door, please,” the woman whispered. “Is it shut properly?” She spoke in German, with a heavy Polish accent.

Elsie turned and tugged at the door.

“It’s quite shut,” she said.

Then the woman came forward. In a moment she had flung her arms round Elsie’s neck and kissed her hard on both cheeks.

“You poor Jewish thing,” she breathed. “I am so miserable for you all, you poor, poor, sad people. Come.” She got hold of Elsie’s hand, pulled her towards the room at the end of the passage, and opened the door. “This is your home,” she said, “as long as you need it. God bless you! Sit down, please. I have some sort of coffee. That is the first thing I will do. I will make you a cup of coffee. No. First you must see your room. It is through this door.” Once more she took Elsie’s hand in hers, and led her to the inner room. “It is a little hard, I think.” She was feeling the bed, under its old chintz counterpane. “Then you shall have my mattress. Yes, I am younger than you. Oh, you are looking at the holy pictures, and the crucifixes, and the little Madonna here?” The room was crowded with sacred objects. So was the first room, for that matter. “You are Jewish. If I had thought of it, I could have taken them into my room. Whenever poor Mr. Horowitz called me into his room, I used to put my little cross—this same one I’m wearing now, do you see?—I used to slip it inside my dress like this. After all, your religion is your religion, and if you are going to stay nobody knows how long in this room——”

It seemed to Elsie that now at least she must get in a word somehow.

“Please! You mustn’t dream of touching a thing! No, no! This bed, too! You can’t guess how wonderful it is, after the beds I’ve been sleeping on lately! I must be as little trouble to you as possible, I beg you.”

“Really, you are so kind.” It was as if Elsie was conferring a great favour on her by not insisting that she should change the room about for her. “And now for a nice cup of coffee,” she said, as she returned to the other room. “Oh, by the way, what shall I call you? My underground name is Yanka, but I’m Tana Kapinski, as you’ll see from my letters. You have German papers, haven’t you? I should call you by the name on your papers.”

“I’m made out as Lydia Radbruch.”

“Thank you, Frau Radbruch. I wish I had a few grains of real coffee left.” She went over to a small sink and got busy with a percolator. “Whenever poor Mr. Horowitz had a heavy problem on his hands, he’d call me into his office, and get me to make him a brew of my special coffee.” She stopped and sighed deeply. “He used to say not even his wife could turn out a cup of coffee like mine. They’re both dead, done for, burned to ashes. And, I believe, their three children.”

“Excuse me,” asked Elsie somewhat diffidently, “I suppose Mr. Horowitz ... he was your employer at one time?”

“Oh, how foolish of me,” said Yanka. “Of course, how should you know who Mr. Horowitz was? You’re not from Cracow, after all! He was the most wonderful man I ever met in all my life. That’s what he was. The most wonderful man, though he was only a Jew. And his eyes were so blue, like a saint’s. He had a small red beard. His skin was like silk.”

“Yes,” breathed Elsie. She felt a little embarrassed. The young woman was clearly hardly sane about Mr. Horowitz. And it was not very comforting to remember that the small red beard and the silk-like skin had been reduced to ashes in some incinerator somewhere.

“I had hopes that perhaps some day he might even see he must go further on the journey, and enter Holy Church. But no. It was not to be.” Her eyes filled with tears. She had for the moment forgotten that the poor creature to whom she was giving house-room was Jewish, too. “There’s not much pressure in the gas these days,” she said querulously. “But we must thank God for small mercies, mustn’t we, Frau Radbruch?”

“Lydia,” said Elsie faintly. To go on being Frau Radbruch for weeks, months, God knows how long, might become something of a strain ... that among other things.

“Oh, thank you, Lydia!” said Yanka, with something of an effort. “And would you like a little meal now, or later?”

“Later, if you don’t mind.”

“I used to make special cakes for him,” said Yanka, “to eat with his coffee. Ponczki, we call them. You aren’t Polish, are you? You wouldn’t know them.”

“No.”

“He used to break them up and dip them in his coffee. He could sing like De Reszke himself. They asked me several times to their parties. He sang like a nightingale. He was very fond of the aria from Bohème: you know: ‘O suave fanciulla’. Do you know it?”

“Yes, I think I do.”

“It goes like this.” Suddenly Yanka broke into song. Her voice was high and shrill and sweet.

‘Good God!’ thought Elsie. ‘She’s supposed to be alone. And here she is doing a party piece. What will the neighbours think? I wonder how thick these walls are.’

The singing stopped.

“What’s the matter, Lydia? What are you looking so frightened about? Oh, my singing! Please don’t worry. I often sing when I’m alone. I can even sing when I’m typing.”

“Yes, I see,” muttered Elsie. “It’s like company, so to speak.”

“Yes, that’s right. But I’ve got real company now. It may be for months and months. I’m so proud I can be of some help to you. I’ve always loved Jews; even before I met Mr. Horowitz, I would never hear a word against them. Do you take sugar? Oh please, I’ve plenty. He was a terrible sweet tooth, you know. He used to suck bon-bons by the dozen. Mr. Horowitz ... Mr. Horowitz ... Mr. Horowitz....”