Authors: Irene N. Watts
Marianne looked at Mrs. Abercrombie Jones, and was sure she wouldn’t make jokes. The lady noticed Marianne staring. Their eyes met. Marianne smoothed her coat over her knees, and pulled up her kneesocks. She had to make a good impression.
I’ll be good and polite. It’ll be easy to behave perfectly. My English isn’t good enough to answer back yet.
She smiled at Mrs. Abercrombie Jones.
Mrs. Abercrombie Jones cleared her throat. Marianne looked up apprehensively.
Suppose I can’t understand what she says to me?
“I’m dying for my tea, aren’t you?”
“Yes,” said Marianne, hoping this was the correct reply.
“Where did you learn to speak English, Mary Anne?”
“I learn in school.”
“In school? Oh yes, of course, school.” She paused, frowning a little. “You will have to go to school, I suppose. Monday, if possible.” She sighed.
“I like so much go to school,” said Marianne.
“Good,” said Mrs. Abercrombie Jones. She took a small gold compact out of her handbag, and powdered her nose.
Marianne could smell her perfume, like lilies of the valley. Mrs. Abercrombie Jones undid the fur collar of her brown coat, and Marianne saw that she wore a strand of pearls and a pale blue cardigan over her cream-colored silk blouse. Her skirt was of brown tweed.
She’d write Mutti everything, tell her about the smart clothes, and the fine shops, and the statues and parks. But the harder Marianne looked at the passing scene through the taxi window,
the more blurred the city appeared. Mutti’s anxious face kept coming between Marianne and the view. Her mother looked the way Marianne remembered her in those last precious few minutes in their apartment in Berlin. Marianne could still hear her voice, “Everything will be different, Marianne – the language, the customs, the food. You’re bound to be homesick at first. You must try to fit in, to adapt. Be grateful, darling. How kind people are to give a home to a child they don’t know. It may take a while for us to get a visa to come to England. Who knows? You might be the one to find someone to sponsor us; you’re certain to meet lots of English people. All we need is an offer of work, and an address. We must have an address you see, darling, to get a permit. Why don’t you try and see what you can do?”
She’d said it with a little smile, and patted Marianne’s cheek, so that Marianne needn’t take the request too seriously. But Marianne knew she’d been very serious.
Marianne had said, “Of course I will, Mutti.” Now she repeated the promise silently.
The taxi stopped. “ ’Ere you are, Ma’am, 12 Circus Road.”
Marianne was startled; her thoughts had been so far away.
Mrs. Abercrombie Jones paid the driver, counted her change, and gave him a coin. He touched his cap, smiled at Marianne, and drove off.
Marianne looked around for signs of animals. It was just a street. Not a circus at all. She couldn’t even see a dog.
Mrs. Abercrombie Jones pushed open a black wrought-iron gate, and Marianne followed her along a short path of paving
stones to the door. There was a neat hedge around the square front garden and two flower beds.
Marianne had never lived in a house before, except on holiday when she’d stayed with her grandparents in their house. In Berlin, the people she knew lived in apartments.
It was very cold. A maid in a black dress and white apron and cap answered the door. She said, “Good afternoon, Madam,” and helped the lady off with her coat.
“This is Mary Anne.” Mrs. Abercrombie Jones pronounced it like two words, the English way. “And this is Gladys. Gladys has been with us since she was fourteen – isn’t that right, Gladys?”
“Yes, Madam. Welcome,” Gladys said. She had a freckled face and a snub nose. Her smile was real, not just polite.
“Tea in ten minutes, Gladys. Come along, Mary Anne. I’ll show you to your room and you can wash and unpack before tea.”
Marianne couldn’t work out if all these words needed a yes or no, please or thank you. So she said nothing at all, and followed Mrs. Abercrombie Jones.
“This is the drawing room; it looks over the front garden. It gets the sun in summer.” Mrs. Abercrombie Jones spoke loudly to Marianne, as though she were deaf. Marianne understood one or two words, and guessed the rest.
Mrs. Abercrombie Jones opened the first door in the wood paneled hallway, and Marianne just had time to notice a dark pink couch with matching armchairs, several occasional chairs, and a pink and green rug centered on the polished wood floor.
“This is the dining room. The kitchen is at the end of the corridor. Tomorrow you will eat your meals there with Gladys.”
She went up the stairs, her feet silent on the brown wool carpet. Marianne followed. When they reached the landing, Mrs. Abercrombie Jones showed her the bathroom.
“Do you have running water at home?”
This seemed a strange question. Marianne thought it was safe to say yes.
The lady seemed surprised at her response. They passed closed doors. Then more stairs – this time uncarpeted. Marianne’s suitcase felt as heavy as if it were full of bricks. The linoleum squeaked under their feet.
Mrs. Abercrombie Jones switched on the light. “Gladys sleeps next door. Come down when you’re ready.” She ran her fingertips lightly along the window ledge, checking for dust, and went out.
Marianne said “sank you” to her retreating back. Mrs. Abercrombie Jones did not reply.
E
verything was green – light green. Marianne felt as if she were underwater. The bed stuck out from a green painted wall. The heavy cotton counterpane was green and white. A wooden chair stood at the bottom of the bed. Marianne put her suitcase on it, carefully, so as not to dirty the towel that hung over the back of the chair.
Under the window was a small wooden chest of drawers, also painted green, and there was a narrow wardrobe for hanging her clothes. There was no bookshelf, but that was alright. There’d only been room to pack one book – her parents’ early Hanukkah gift to her – and, of course, her precious dictionary.
There was no bedside table or lamp. A green fringed lamp shade covered the electric lightbulb, which hung from the center of the ceiling. A picture on the wall was of a smiling lady in a white dress, sitting under a tree and reading to a small blonde girl.
Marianne drew the thin curtains. It was dark outside, but the light from the kitchen window below gave a glimpse of the shadowy garden. She could just make out one small tree, bare of leaves, and a shed. Marianne shivered and drew the curtains again, to hide the night.
“This is the loneliest place in the world.” Marianne spoke out loud to break the silence.
If I run away, who’d come to look for me? Who’d care enough to find me?
Marianne breathed deeply, forcing herself to be sensible.
Mutti will come soon and get me. I can bear it till then.
Marianne unpacked quickly. She placed the picture of her parents, which she’d put in her shoulder bag at the last minute, in the center of the chest of drawers.
It didn’t take long to put her socks, underwear, and sweaters away and hook her dressing gown on the back of the door. She hung her two skirts, two blouses, and best velvet dress in the wardrobe. There was a mirror inside the door. She looked just the same as she had in Berlin. Somehow she’d expected to look more English. Finally, she picked up her worn teddy bear and held him against her cheek for a moment, before stuffing him under the sheets with her pajamas.
Marianne gave her hair a quick brush, and checked herself again in the mirror. Was it her imagination, or did her face reflect the green of the walls? Marianne closed her bedroom door softly and went to wash her hands and face in the bathroom. Anything to delay the moment of going downstairs.
Voices came from the dining room. The door was ajar.
Am I supposed to knock or just go in?
Marianne stood in the doorway and waited to be noticed.
A dining table and four chairs with carved backs stood in the center of the room. There was also a sideboard, with a radio on one end and a cut-glass decanter and matching tumblers on the other. Two more chairs stood against the wall, which was patterned with wallpaper of green leaves and little bunches of grapes.
Green must be the family’s favorite color.
The other wall, the one facing the window, was dominated by a tall cupboard with glass doors. The shelves were full of china. Marianne tried not to think of the mess there’d be if the Gestapo came in the night and smashed it. Her fingertips tingled as she remembered the feel of the sharp edges of broken plates. She heard again her mother’s urgent whisper: “Careful, you’ll hurt yourself.” Deliberately, Marianne willed herself to return to the present.
I wonder why we don’t have tea at the table. I hope I don’t make crumbs. The fire looks so nice and warm I’d like to curl up in front of it and go to sleep.
Mrs. Abercrombie Jones looked up and saw her. “Come in and say ‘how do you do,’ Mary Anne.”
A man dressed in black, with a stiff round white collar, stood by the mantelpiece, his back to the fire. He was talking to another man, who was smaller and thinner, wearing a business suit. They both stopped talking and looked at Marianne.
Mrs. Abercrombie Jones sat in an upholstered chair in front of a coal fire. Beside her was a tea trolley on which were delicate
china teacups, with a rose pattern to match the large teapot. There was a plate of thin bread and butter, and another of finger sandwiches. A dish of raisin scones and a layered jam sponge were arranged on a tiered silver cake stand.
Nodding towards the small thin man, Mrs. Abercrombie Jones said, “This is my husband, Mr. Abercrombie Jones, and this is Reverend James, who has dropped in for tea especially to meet you, Mary Anne.”
Marianne curtsied and said, “How do you do.” Just the way she and Vati had rehearsed.
The man in black said to Marianne in German, “I like to walk in your beautiful country. I love the Black Forest.” And then he turned to Mrs. Abercrombie Jones and said something Marianne didn’t understand.
Marianne had never been to that part of the country. It was full of Nazis; she’d heard ugly stories.
Who is this man … is he a party member?
He spoke with a heavy accent.
“Wie war die Reise?
How was the journey?” he asked.
Why is he asking about the journey? Have the Gestapo recruited him as a spy?
She thanked him cautiously,
“Gut danke.”
Again the man turned to Mrs. Abercrombie Jones and spoke in English.
Marianne wondered if she should make a run for it, try and find Miss Baxter, but how?
Mrs. Abercrombie Jones smiled at the man and said, “Oh, well done, Vicar. Now do sit down everyone please, and let’s have tea.”
Marianne sat on a small narrow chair and took a sip of the pale brown liquid that Mrs. Abercrombie Jones handed her. This was not the kind of tea they had at home. She was used to drinking it black, with a slice of lemon. She’d never tried it mixed with milk and sugar.
The man who might be a spy spoke to her in German again. In spite of his English accent, she could understand him quite well.
If he asks me about my parents, I won’t say one word. Hitler has spies everywhere. Why did Mrs. Abercrombie Jones take me? She was expecting someone else.
The man said, “Mrs. Abercrombie Jones does a lot of charitable work in our little community. Does your mother work, my dear?”
She’d been right – the interrogation was continuing. Marianne determined to give nothing away.
“Mrs. Abercrombie Jones is the first one in our congregation to offer sanctuary to a refugee. You are a lucky girl.”
What is this word “congregation”?
He’d said it in English.
Is it some kind of political party? He looks very kind, but that doesn’t mean much. It would be like the Gestapo to send a kind-looking spy to fool me.
Mr. Abercrombie Jones said, “May we
please
speak English?” He offered the bread and butter to Marianne.
The grown-ups talked to each other between mouthfuls of cake and sandwiches. Marianne managed to swallow one small triangle of bread, and then was offered cake by the “spy.” She didn’t dare refuse. It was very good cake, but Marianne couldn’t swallow. This was worse even than the day she’d lost her front
door key. She didn’t know whether she wanted to cry, or be sick. Her stomach hurt, the way it always did when she was upset. It hurt a lot.
I want Mutti.
Gladys came in with a plate of jam tarts. A piece of coal fell from the fire onto the brown tiled hearth. Everyone turned to look, and while Gladys dealt with it, Marianne slid the cake off her plate onto her lap and covered it with her handkerchief.
At last tea was over. The adults made good-bye noises and went into the hall.
“Good-bye, Mary Anne.
Auf Wiedersehen.”
“Good-bye,” said Marianne and stood up.
The moment they left the room, she threw the cake into the fire and watched it flare up for a moment. The voices in the hall continued loud and bright. Gladys came in to clear the tea things.
“Mary Anne,” said Mrs. Abercrombie Jones loudly, “go into the kitchen with Gladys and help her with the dishes, then come in and say goodnight.”
Gladys gestured at Marianne to follow.
In the kitchen, Gladys put a tea towel in her hand. She made signs and gestures as she spoke. “I’ll wash, you dry. Put the things on the table. I’ll put them away.” She pointed to the table and repeated “table.”
Marianne already knew that word. She liked the simple way Gladys communicated. Gladys had strong, very red hands. She worked quickly. “All done. Off you go – say goodnight to Mrs. Abercrombie Jones. Go on, then.”
Marianne would have much preferred to go straight up to her room, but it was only polite to say goodnight, and she had an important question to ask.
Marianne knocked on the dining room door.
“Come in.” Mr. Abercrombie Jones put down his paper.
“I must write my mother. Where this house, please?”