Finding Sophie (9 page)

F
or years I've been afraid to look at Käthe. It was all right at first, when that nice girl, whose name I've forgotten, twisted Käthe's head back after the Gestapo left the train. It was all right when Marianne was with me, but after that I was afraid to look at Käthe, convinced there'd be a jagged scar where the officer's hands had touched her neck – that somehow it had grown there.

Käthe, my Käthe. You look perfect. There isn't a mark on you.

I hold the doll for a while and then wrap the blanket snugly round her and put her back in her box bed.

That's how I'll think of you, Mama – perfect, without a blemish. I won't think about the damage bombs and broken glass can do. I'll remember you rolling out pastry, or letting me come to the shop to help you, or hugging Papa when he came home from work or upset because you were worried the Nazis might hurt him.

When I give Käthe to my daughter, I'll tell her it was you who sewed the dress. I'll say, “This is a present from your grandmother, the one who lived in Germany long ago.”

I go downstairs and settle down to write to my father. Someone's at the back door.
Mandy?
She'll wonder why Aunt Em isn't here. It's stupid of me not to have told her the truth. I could have said I need time to be alone for a bit.

“Nigel, I wasn't expecting you. I mean, come in.”

“Thanks, I can only stay a minute. Swotting for my science exam. Mother sent me over with a loaf for your tea. She's been baking. Is your aunt back yet?”

“Not yet. Thanks, awfully. I was just going to write to my father. Hard to know what to say.”

“Rotten luck to hear like that, but it's great news about your dad.”

“Somehow I'd never thought about one of my parents dying. To be honest, I didn't think very much about them at all. Do you think I'll be allowed to choose who I live with?
There, I've finally said it out aloud – the thing I'm most afraid of. If I can't go on living with Aunt Em, it means I'll lose friends, country, everything I know. How many times in a lifetime am I supposed to do that?
Got time for a cup of tea?” I put the kettle on.

Nigel perches on the corner of the kitchen table. “You know how we always had these huge family gatherings at Christmas? On Boxing Day, the last one before the war, Uncle Bert asked me in front of everyone: ‘Tell me, son, who's your favorite – your mum or your dad?’ There'd been lots of talking and laughing, and
suddenly all those hot red faces looked at me, waiting for an answer. Asking me to choose. Whatever I'd say, I'd hurt someone's feelings. I was afraid I was going to cry. Mandy saved me. She jumped on Dad's lap and said, ‘Well, I love my daddy to bits.’ They all laughed and I ran upstairs and wouldn't come down again.

“Dad came to my room later and brought me a slice of Christmas cake and the last cracker. I gave it to Mandy. It had a thimble and a paper crown in it. People think kids don't matter, that they don't have feelings. It'll be all right, Soph. I'll see you soon, science calls.”

I return to my letter.

After I finish the letter, I get out my sketchbook and begin a family portrait. First I draw Grandpa Mandel, with his silver and white prayer shawl, the fringes hanging below his waist.
Papa must have told me it's a prayer shawl.
I draw his face in shadow, the way it looked that time in the synagogue. I draw candles flickering round the walls. Papa, his hand on my shoulder, and myself as a little girl, looking up at him. I sketch Mama in her best dress, the one with the big lace collar, and her hair in wispy curls round her forehead. I have no idea what Mama's parents looked like. She never mentioned her father.

When I was small, I wondered what happened to the baby in the cradle in the photo of the Mandels, the photo that Papa had to hide from the Nazis. He told me once, “That's my baby sister in the crib. My mother – your grandmother – died when the baby was only a few months old.” I expect my aunt kept house for Grandpa Mandel when she grew up.

I draw Aunt Em on the next page, with her kind eyes and the little wrinkles round them. She's never tried to take Mother's place, but she's the most perfect aunt anyone could ask for.

O
n Tuesday morning I arrive at school just as orchestra practice ends. Mandy must have spread the word because Sally Jones, who I usually try to avoid, simpers up to me and says, “Sorry to hear about your mother. When are you going back to live in Germany with your father?”

I mumble something noncommittal.

Is the whole world waiting for me to be sent back there?

I sit down on the bench in the cloakroom. For a minute I can't think where I'm supposed to be heading.

“Sophie, come on, we'll be late for prayers.” Mandy pulls me to my feet and drags me down the corridor to Assembly.

“What did Aunt Em say?”

“Nothing.”

“Well, what did you tell her?”

“I haven't.”

“Why haven't you?”

“If you must know, because she's not coming home till this afternoon.”

We sit.

“You mean, you stayed by yourself for two whole nights?” Mandy hisses in my ear.

“Yes.”

“Weren't you frightened?”

“Of what? Charles Boyer looking for my jewelry?”

We stand in silence as the staff file in and take their places on the platform.

Later, as we go into class, I remember I'd left my history notes in the cloakroom.

“Hurry up, we'll be late. You know how Miss Jasper hates that,” Mandy says.

“I didn't ask you to wait, and please stop telling me what to do.”

I walk away from her. Miss Jasper doesn't hear me enter the class. She's writing on the blackboard. I copy the question into my notebook:
HOW DID THE INDUSTRIAL REVOLUTION AFFECT THE WORKING CLASSES IN THE NINETEENTH CENTURY?
Words. They don't mean anything to me.

When the bell rings at the end of the first period, Mandy sweeps past me, talking to Sally. Instead of going to English, I walk into the cloakroom, fetch my hat, and saunter out of school.

I wish I'd stayed home. Joanne Fisher did when her brother's ship was torpedoed, with all hands lost at sea. Anthea Warren
was away a whole week when her father died in a Japanese prisoner of war camp.

Aunt Em will be home soon. What am I going to tell her? How shall I do it?

The moment I get back, I dial the nurses' residence. I badly want to talk to Marianne. A soft Scot's burr informs me that Nurse Kohn left that morning on a leave of absence.

Voices in the hall.

“Aunt Em, you're early. I'm so glad you're back. Hello, Uncle Gerald, Aunt Winifred.”

Aunt Em hugs me, obviously pleased to be home – worn-out with listening to Aunt Winifred, I should think. “Sophie, everything looks beautifully tidy. Did you and Mandy have a nice time?”

Aunt Winifred interrupts before I have a chance to reply. “You must be getting quite excited about going home, Sophie.”

What on earth is she talking about?

“Going home, Aunt Winifred? I
am
home.”

Aunt Em sits down. Uncle Gerald takes his pipe from his breast pocket, turns to me and says, “Would you find me a match, my dear? I must have left mine in the car.”

I hand him the box on the mantelpiece above the fireplace.
Surely he can see it there?

“No, dear, I mean your real home – in Germany with your parents. I expect all you children will be on your way soon. Isn't that so, Gerald?”

I look at Aunt Winifred's carefully marcelled hair, the silly little hat she wears, her slightly caked bright lipstick.

I hate her! I really truly hate her and I think I'm going to tell her so.

“Why are you staring at me in that way, child?”

“Because it's none of your business.”

Aunt Em's shocked “Sophie, apologize to Aunt Winifred at once” is exactly what I don't need to hear at this moment.

“I will not and she's not my aunt any more than you are.”

I manage to get myself out of the room without crying or slamming the door. I hear Uncle Gerald saying, “Must be getting along, Margaret,” as I go upstairs, then Aunt Em's response, which I can't hear, and their footsteps going into the kitchen. I suppose they'll all have a “nice” cup of tea while they discuss how fast they can get rid of me.

And I haven't even had a chance to tell Aunt Em about Mama.

It's ages before the front door opens and closes. Moments later, Aunt Em calls me to come downstairs. She's putting away the tea things. “Would you mind telling me exactly what that exhibition was about?”

“Mine, or Aunt Winifred's?” I feel the teapot; it's still warm. I pour myself a cup of tea.

“I want an explanation, and you will give it to me in a civilized manner.”

“Perhaps you'd better read this first.” I hand Aunt Em Papa's letter, and turn away to drink my tea. When I hear her blow her nose, I wait a few minutes before turning round. She is almost composed again.

“Sophie, my dear. Why didn't you tell me? I would have come home at once.” Her hands, holding the letter, tremble a little. She puts the page on the table between us and clasps her fingers together tightly.

“You've got so tall, Sophie. I wish Charlotte…. Jacob won't recognize you.”

“Aunt Em, please
please
don't send me back to Germany. I'm afraid to live there. I won't know anyone. I can't speak the language. Of course I love my father, but I hardly remember him and he doesn't know anything about me. I thought I belonged here with you.”

“Sophie, Aunt Winifred's words were out of place and premature. No one is going to send you anywhere immediately.”

“Never – I won't go.”

“Listen to me. Don't interrupt, please. I always knew I only had you on loan until it was safe for you to rejoin your parents. I thought you understood that. Didn't I make it clear to you?”

“No. You didn't, Aunt Em. All you ever said was, after the war there'd be letters. Every time I wanted to talk about what was going to happen then, you changed the subject. I'm not a thing to be shuffled back and forth. Doesn't what
I
want matter at all? Don't you want me to stay?”

“What you or I want isn't the point, Sophie. You have a father who loves you and who has lost everything except you. Your parents trusted me and I will never break that trust.”

I'm fighting for my life.

“It's not fair,” I blurt out.

Aunt Em doesn't reply.

Oh, Aunt Em, why can't you try to keep me with you? Why can't you admit that I'm the daughter you didn't have? It's hopeless. You never will. I understand. You can't. I'll just have to go on with my plans without your help.

“Sophie, your mother was my dear friend. I shall miss her very much. I know how hard losing her must be for you. Remember, you have a father who longs to see you and get to know you again. This is what is important. Now let's make plans. It will take time to get a visitor's permit for your father, but I'm sure, in view of the circumstances, the Home Office will cooperate. He won't have recovered sufficiently from his illness to travel yet, but I'll start setting things in motion tomorrow.

“Time for me to unpack. Later on we might start on a list of things to send to Jacob in hospital.”

End of discussion. As usual.

“Aunt Em, I wrote to Father earlier. I'll go and post the letter now, if you don't mind.”

“Do. I'll speak to Uncle Gerald and Aunt Winifred later. Under the circumstances, I shall apologize on your behalf.”

“Thanks, Aunt Em.” I hug her.

“Sophie, you do understand, don't you?”

I pour away the tea – it's stone-cold now. I run the tap so I don't have to answer.

After I post my letter, I wait outside Mandy's gate till she comes home from school. She walks straight past me as if I'm invisible.

“Mandy, I've got something to say to you.”

“Again? I thought you'd finished.”

“I'm sorry. I was awfully rude and I didn't mean it.”

“Yes, you did. You're right. I am bossy. Mum's always telling me.”

“I had a fight with Aunt Winifred.”

“Metaphorically, I hope.”

“It nearly wasn't and then I started on Aunt Em.”

“Do you want to come in and tell me all the gory details?”

“I will, but not today. Aunt Em's a bit upset. I'd better get home.”

“My
Girl's Crystal
just came – you can read it first.” Mandy hands me her magazine.

“Thanks, awfully.”

“I've come to the conclusion that Sally is a stuck-up, big-mouthed snob.”

When I get back, Aunt Em says, “I phoned the headmistress. She agrees with me that you should stay home this week, but she wants you to continue revising for the June exams.”

“Does she know I walked out of school?”

“It was not discussed, so I think you may forget about it.”