Читать книгу Not Welcome - Sue Everett - Страница 10

Hans Scherbel was Lutz’s elder by some ten or fifteen years. He was tall, dark-haired and bespectacled, working as a dentist in his own surgery in London, opposite St Paul’s Cathedral. He also had a surgery at home where he practised in the evenings and at weekends. Hans’ mother, Bertha, was a short woman with thick grey hair, her face traced with wrinkles and creased in perpetual consternation. She wore brown ribbed stockings beneath a tweed skirt, always donning an appropriate hat when she left the house. At home she wore a clean apron tied around her waist, exuding a practical but humourless demeanour.

Lutz had met his great-aunt Bertha and Hans a couple of times previously during the time they lived in Nuremberg but he wouldn’t have recognised them if he had bumped into them in the street. Due to their obligation as relatives, Lutz went to live with them at 10 Ditton Court Road in their single-storey house in Westcliff-on-Sea and was treated most unsympathetically (particularly considering his plight and his youth). His uncle was somewhat more receptive to Lutz’s presence in their home than great-aunt Bertha, who made it very clear from the beginning that she resented his appearance in their lives. Hans demonstrated great fondness for his mother and gladly accepted the responsibility of caring and providing for her. Mother and son preferred to keep to themselves and, except for Hans’ patients, people rarely came to the house.

The house wasn’t far from the beach, and Lutz regularly took himself off for walks to avoid the oppressive atmosphere inside the house. Hans and Bertha preferred to speak German to him, although they had already lived in England for quite a few years; speaking English would have been Lutz’s preference, if only to help him adjust more quickly to his new environment. They rarely addressed Lutz directly and then only if there was an essential domestic matter to discuss. This was disappointing for Lutz, who was used to being asked about his day and his progress. As an only child he was accustomed to being the focus of his family’s attention.

One day, not long after his arrival, his large cabin trunk arrived; it had been sent out by his parents just after he had left Germany. The trunk, which was mainly full of clothes (that Lutz was expected to eventually grow into), was about as high as the coffee table and approximately one by two metres in the other dimensions; there were shelves or layers constructed inside the trunk which was fabricated from some type of brown, wooden fibre – the lid fastened by means of two locks and latches. For some reason Lutz was never able to fathom, his great-aunt was furious with him at its unexpected arrival and insisted it be placed against the kitchen wall next to the dining table. He was expected to sit on the trunk during mealtimes when he would frequently turn his head to look out of the window to the leafy garden, at the rough and twisted branches of the apple tree, for some relief from the cheerless atmosphere inside. He missed his own family all the more for the coldness of this reception.

The night following the arrival of the large cabin trunk, Lutz was alone with his dejected ponderings as he reflected over the happenings of the last few days …

From the moment I arrived I was clearly not welcome in their home – I was an intruder. My great-aunt and Hans shared an exclusive bond, mother and son, not inviting or requiring any intrusion into their well-established domestic intimacy. She only had eyes for one man, her son. My coming had dramatically upset their daily routine. Maybe their established place in the small Westcliff community was threatened by my arrival. I wondered how many other Westcliff families would be harbouring innocent and harmless German refugees. Hans was a dentist and practised for the local population so presumably they would have enjoyed considerable respect and the benefits of some standing in this small seaside town.

Their intolerance towards my presence and their indifference to my physical and emotional wellbeing was totally unexpected, after all they were my relations. I had anticipated a place of safety and the security of familial care. My great-aunt clearly could not bring herself to verbalise her dissatisfaction with this change in domestic circumstances – her barely disguised scorn and derision being directed at me – after all, she did have a family obligation.

I felt vulnerable and was particularly sensitive to her growing and begrudging resentment, especially palpable at mealtimes. Her barely contained animosity was no more apparent than at the arrival of my large cabin trunk which contained clothing meant for all weather conditions and to stand me in good stead for the next few years of my life – clearly my mother expected further growth from my barely average stature.

I will never forget Aunt Bertha’s overreaction …

‘I can’t have this monstrous thing in my house!’ she roared. ‘There’s nowhere to put it.’

‘There’s enough space in my room,’ I ventured.

Her rage was out of all proportion to the slight inconvenience my forwarded luggage imposed, but this inanimate object containing my personal effects and baggage of my life so far bore the brunt of her anger for the duration of my stay in her house.

Although she abhorred the sight of it she insisted it remain in the kitchen continually to be the object of her disgust; maybe the epitome of what had gone wrong in her own life. She demanded that I sit on the trunk at mealtimes, perched lower in profile, silently but gratefully eating the meals prepared by her. It would have been a good opportunity to practise my English but the only communication I received was disapproving looks at my obviously deficient table manners. At these times I was cheered by memories of laughter and chatter, remembering the harmonious evening meals with my own family – everyone interested in each other’s daily happenings.

I could still feel where the cold metal lock on the front of the cabin trunk had pressed against my right calf, aware of all my worldly belongings contained beneath me, my hopes and feelings likewise also locked up inside my bewildered and grieving mind.

The incident with the trunk was the most obvious way in which Lutz’s great-aunt Bertha let her displeasure be known. He felt he wasn’t acceptable to them, that he had disturbed their cosy domesticity.

After Lutz was given refugee status in England, his uncle immediately set about helping him secure suitable employment, not locally, but in a jeweller’s shop in Hatton Gardens in London (renowned then for its gold and jewellery industry and trade). Later he wondered if it was because they didn’t want him to become established in their own neighbourhood. Hans accompanied him on his first trip to London, where their first stop was the US embassy in Grosvenor Square. Lutz registered his application for a US visa, and then they travelled by double-decker bus to 11 Hatton Garden where they met Mr Kaymann of N.K. Watchcase Manufacturing Co. Ltd. Lutz commenced work the next day but his employment was conditional on his impending emigration overseas.

Lutz therefore had limited opportunity to meet local people and made few contacts in Westcliff-on-Sea. Bertha and Hans made no attempt to introduce him to any people of his own age and he was never included in their recreational activities. Neither of them attended the synagogue but curiously there was one regular activity that Hans would insist Lutz accompany him to, and that was the weekly Quaker meetings held every Sunday morning. The Quakers, also known as ‘The Society of Friends’, would seem to have promoted religious tolerance at that time. Lutz found these meetings (comprising about twenty people, mostly men) invariably boring as the two or three hour sessions were mostly periods of con-templative silence broken up by occasional short speeches by those few members moved by the spirit to speak. There was always a lot of shifting about in chairs and the occasional clearing of the throat. Lutz always found the long periods of silence discomfitting and he never understood the attraction these meetings held for his uncle.

Lutz spent his weekends walking alone into town, or if it was fine, along the seashore or promenade (which was only about fifteen minutes from Aunt Bertha’s home). In those days Westcliff-on-Sea was a small, pleasant and quiet seaside resort, situated along a stretch of the Essex coastline, close to the significantly larger and more popular town of Southend. To this day, it still has a reputation as a peaceful, family holiday resort, admired for its pretty esplanade, genteel boarding houses and public gardens. Lutz visited its more exuberant neighbour on one occasion where he was accosted by stall-owners selling vulgar postcards, candy floss, funny hats and cockles and mussels, and probably had a few rides on the water wheel or big dipper at the Southend’s famous Kursaal pleasure grounds.

Westcliff itself comprised a number of small beaches, a combination of sand and shingle, although much of the time there was no sand visible and the high tide left barely any surface to walk on. The weather could be quite windy and the waves, although never high, were sometimes quite rough. In times gone by smugglers stealthily entered the creeks between the mudflats to distribute their illicit cargo at local inns. These mudflats were heavily populated by wildfowl such as ducks and geese, which could often be seen in flocks making their way from the horizon to their breeding grounds. Lutz would sometimes spot a lone heron supporting itself on one leg, standing solitary on the shore.

Westcliff-on-Sea would be a relatively short interlude for Lutz, a time of relative safety and freedom, despite the many slights and inconveniences, that he was not to experience again for some years. However, although Westcliff was a seaside resort, his time spent there was no holiday. As he wandered around town or along the sea front he felt lonely, discouraged and unsettled. This was his first experience of the seaside; he had never visited the coast in Germany and had seen the sea for the first time on his trip from The Hague to Harwich. He would no doubt have appreciated walking along the beach a lot more if he was in the company of friends or family; instead, he was accompanied only by his unhappy thoughts and seemingly distant memories.

Lutz immersed himself in his new work routine; it was fun catching the train to and from London (an hour’s journey) and watching the scenery gradually change from pastoral to industrial on his way into Hatton Garden (and vice versa on his way back to Westcliff). Each evening while walking back home uphill from the tiny Westcliff station, Lutz felt a nostalgic tug of sensate memories pulling him back to the familiar streets of Nuremberg which he used to cycle through in all seasons. Chestnut and beech trees were planted at regular intervals along the nature strip. He noticed the rich earthy colours and sweet decaying odour of the autumn leaves fallen on the footpath in untidy heaps. He watched as the gusting wind scooped up the pile and swirled the scattered remains up into the air around him. Finally, when the trees were stripped bare, and the last evidence of desiccated matter left the footpaths newly exposed, the increasing chill and closeness in the air evoked the unforgettable anticipation of snow.

Lutz’s stop was the suburban train station of Fenchurch Street. He loved to watch the big double-decker buses trundle down the street as he strolled to the shop at Hatton Gardens. At work Lutz learnt new skills in handling precious stones, particularly diamonds (which were crafted into rings). About half a dozen employees worked alongside him, usually in silence, concentrating on the task in hand. Lutz had to focus so diligently on filing the minute glistening gems he was perfecting that he was fearful to converse with his colleagues lest these precious pieces disappear from sight, sent on their way by an inadvertent breathful of words. Lutz always wore a half leather apron with a front pocket designed to catch any errant fragments. After a while he got used to the silence, save for the light tapping sounds of their diamond tools, the squeak of their wooden stools as the workers each shifted their uneasy weight and the patient ticking of the clock while they performed their painstaking work. The highlight of his day was lunchtime, as fortunately for Lutz there was a market nearby which he would often visit to buy chocolate bars.

As the year progressed the days shortened and by winter it was dark by 4 p.m. Since war had been declared in September, not long after he had arrived in England, there was no street lighting, so during the blackout he held a torch in one hand (and often a brolly furled in the other) with which to find his way home to and from the stations. However, war instructions stated that the torch could only be shone downwards so he could only see a metre or so in front of him, which meant he would frequently bump into people walking in the opposite direction. He found particular amusement in colliding with another umbrellaed pedestrian also walking head down brandishing their torch in the drizzling rain – for a moment engaged in human interaction as he connected, sometimes making eye contact, attempting to apologise in his most polite English ‘Sorry, Sir’ or ‘Pardon me, Madam’. For that moment he felt accepted as an equal – a victim of the blackout, a commuter, a member of this big city. At these times Lutz felt that he belonged more on the streets than in the home of his relatives who had reluctantly taken him in. He eventually learnt the English way of keeping to the left.

On the train platform he would read the war notices which said: ‘Careless Talk Costs Lives’ and, more humorously: ‘Be like Dad, Keep Mum’.

In spite of his success in his new occupation, Lutz’s self-esteem was taking a battering. Everything that he had previously taken for granted about security, safety in the heart of his family, acceptance in his homeland, was now proven to be incorrect; everything that was good and nurturing was in the past. The sweetness that had recently been his life had now turned to bitter uncertainty and loneliness. This depressed mood was reflected in the dirty puddles he splashed through on the grey London pavements, mirroring his distorted image – invisible to those walking purposefully around him to a destination where they would be expected, hugged and loved. In fleeing the Nazi threat he had sacrificed a loving and nurturing home for the cold and unwelcoming safety in England.

Lutz spent much of his spare time at the beach which, during the autumn and winter months, was almost deserted. Stepping out onto the soft and welcoming sand, Lutz could feel an exhilaration for life he hadn’t felt since before the recent oppression in his homeland. The air was invigorating, the salt-laden winds healing, the horizon limitless. The return trip past several sea walls took him just over an hour. During this time his mind would be occupied with thoughts of home and the contents of his few treasured letters he had received from his parents, keeping them in his pocket and reading the crumpled sheets repeatedly. Lutz looked for clues within the pages as to their anticipated departure but they seemed peculiarly reticent about this matter. He had written to them a couple of times but hadn’t revealed his own unhappy situation; he could spare them that, they had enough to concern themselves with. However, he had been able to express his feelings of loneliness and misery to Liesl who was sympathetic as, at the age of fifteen, she was working as a maid in Northern England and feeling as homesick as Lutz. They regularly exchanged letters communicating their individual tales of woe. He walked along the beach listening to the lulling sound of the waves that had a restorative effect. The sadness he felt – the sense of loss – didn’t evaporate, but a certain equilibrium returned and he felt soothed.

During this transition period Lutz, an only child, a somewhat innocent lad, had no choice but to rely on his own resources and learn to enjoy his own company – experiencing a level of independence that he couldn’t fully appreciate at that time. In spite of his unhappy circumstances, he could not have expected that this relative freedom would be short-lived.