The English Girl (27 page)

The sound is shockingly loud in the stillness. Harri is silent, staggers back. Blood pours from his nose and his mouth.

I’m trying to scream out:
Stop it stop it stop it
… But I have no breath, and my voice is blotted up by the night. The man who is holding my wrists slams one hand over my mouth.

The thin man and the man with the scar hit Harri again and again. Harri’s face splits open, more blood spurts. His arms flail. He reaches out in a desperate gesture – as though for something to cling to. I know he is desperately trying not to fall to the ground. Because if he falls they will kill him.

I bite hard on the hand that is pressing into my mouth. The man holding me swears, but doesn’t loosen his grip on my wrists.

The ringleader draws back for an instant.
They’re going to go
, I tell myself.
They’ll stop, they’ll run away. Please God make them run away…

He puts his hand to his belt. I see the flash of a blade, thin, bright, deadly. Harri holds his hand in front of his chest, as though defending himself: the blade slices into his arm. The pain seems to stun him. He lurches, topples, falls. I hear the crack as his head hits the ground, feel it all through my body. His eyes are shut, his body curled up, his hands pressed over his face. He’s moaning.

Don’t let them kick at his head. Please God. I’ll do anything you want of me. But please God, please listen to me. Please. Just don’t let them kick at his head…

A car approaches, slows. I see faces turned in our direction – wide-open mouths, wide eyes. I feel a quick surge of hope: that the car will stop, the people will come to our rescue. I will this to happen, with all the force of my mind. But the car picks up speed, drives rapidly on, the faces at the windows turning away.

But something has shifted; the men pull back. As though they’ve been reminded of the other world out there – the orderly, civilised world where the rule of law still applies. Casually, the ringleader slides his knife back into his belt.

Then it’s as though something occurs to him: I see the thought move over his face, swift as a shadow. As I watch, he unbuttons his flies. I know what happens now: I know he is going to rape me. I steel myself: I am hard, cold, clear; unafraid. I don’t care what he does, if only he’ll stop hurting Harri. Nothing else in the world matters.

But he has no interest in me. He stands astride Harri and urinates into his face.

‘Fuck off out of Vienna, Jew,’ says the man.

The one who is holding me releases his grasp and shoves me towards Harri.

The three of them walk briskly off and disappear into the night.

I kneel beside him. I can smell the sour smell of urine and the coppery smell of his blood. His eyes are shut. There’s a bubble of blood at the side of his mouth, and blood is seeping out of the cut in his arm; it has a black look in the lamplight. I take my handkerchief from my bag and try to staunch the bleeding, but there’s too much of it, and the cloth is instantly soaked. My heart judders, my head is empty. I can’t tell how bad his injuries are; I don’t even know how to tell if he is still alive. I don’t know anything.

He moans, his eyelids flicker.
Thank you, God
.

A man and a woman turn the corner ahead of me. They’re only a few yards away, walking in our direction. They’re respectable-looking, the woman in an expensive Persian lamb coat. But seeing Harri and me, they cross to the other side of the street. I call out.

‘Excuse me. Could you help me?’

I realise I’m speaking in English, as though all the horror has wiped the German from my mind. I call out again, in German. But they turn hurriedly into Lindengasse without even looking at us.

My mind is a haze of fear now – all the fear I didn’t feel while it was happening seizing me, paralysing me. I try to make myself think – to remember where there’s a phone kiosk, so I could call the police. But even if I could remember, I can’t leave him: the thugs might come back. And I can’t abandon him here like this – bleeding, terribly hurt.

Someone else walks past on the opposite side of the street. He looks like a businessman – overcoat, trilby, rolled umbrella.

I stand up, call out.

‘I’m so sorry. But could you please call an ambulance? I need an ambulance…’ I’m shouting as loud as I can. But my voice is frail and shaky and swallowed up by the dark. ‘
Please
.’

The man glances over at me. He shrugs slightly – as though to say he’s sorry, but he really can’t get involved. He walks on.

He will ask someone for help
, I think
. Just round the corner, he will get a doctor or
the police. He will send someone to help us.

The man rounds the corner. Nobody comes.

I kneel beside Harri, pointlessly wipe at his bloody mouth with my sleeve. His skin is so cold. He must be in shock: I remember this much from First Aid lessons at school. I know that this is dangerous. I take off my coat and put it over him. His eyes flicker open but don’t seem to focus. I don’t think he can see me.

‘Harri. My dearest. I’m here. It’s Stella. I’m here with you.’

‘Stella,’ he says, in the smallest voice – hoarse, broken.

His eyes close. He’s drifting into unconsciousness.

Terror sears through me.

‘Harri. Don’t leave me…’

I’m shaking, with cold, with terror.

I hear another car approaching. I feel despair – I don’t turn, don’t even look up. These people, too, will glance at us, then turn and pass on by; no one will help us.

The car stops with a shriek of brakes. There are brisk footsteps.

‘Stella? What’s going on here?’

An English voice. Brisk, familiar, solicitous – the most welcome sound in the world.

I turn, look up.

Frank Reece kneels beside me, puts a hand on my arm.

‘It’s Frank, Stella.’

Spelling out who he is; as though he sees the confusion in my face, understands that I’m dazed, that I might not recognise him.

I take in a great gulp of air, like someone half-drowned, dragged from the sea.

‘They beat him up. He’s hurt,’ I say, in a little shred of a voice.

Frank puts his fingers to Harri’s throat.

‘His pulse is weak, he’s losing too much blood. We’ll get him straight to the hospital – it’s just moments away in the car.’

‘Yes. Thank you…’

He beckons to his chauffeur. I pick up my coat, which I’ve wrapped over Harri. Frank and the chauffeur lift Harri into the back of the car.

‘Get in the front, Stella,’ says Frank.

I do as he says.

Frank climbs in the back seat next to Harri. The car is a big Mercedes. Harri is bleeding all over the car, from the slash the knife made in his arm: his blood is spilling out fast, too fast. Frank pulls off his white silk scarf and ties it round Harri’s upper arm, then holds the arm up vertically. The chauffeur is bald and silent, and drives the car very fast.

I keep saying,
Thank you, thank you
. But Frank is utterly focused on Harri and doesn’t speak to me.

The car screams to a halt outside the hospital doors.

‘Stay here. Hold his arm like this,’ says Frank.

I do as he says.

Frank runs in through the doors – he can move surprisingly fast. I picture him there in the hospital – how he will be giving instructions, taking control.

Two orderlies rush up with a trolley and lift Harri out of the car. Frank takes my arm. We follow the trolley.

The brilliant lights of the hospital dazzle, after so much time in the dark, and the smell of antiseptic makes my throat ache. They wheel the trolley ahead of us, towards some heavy doors.

A nurse steps forward. Starched, immaculate, stern.

‘And you are…?’

‘I’m his girlfriend,’ I say.

‘You have to wait here. You can’t come through,’ she says.

But I can’t leave him. I put my hand on him. His eyes are shut, but I feel the slight pressure of his hand on my hand. His lips move, he’s trying to say something. I bend low over him. I can’t let him go, I have to hear what he says.

‘You have to let us through, fräulein,’ the nurse says briskly.

Frank reaches out and peels my fingers away from Harri’s hand. I watch them push the trolley through the heavy doors. He’s gone. A sudden choking fear assails me, seeing the doors closing on him.

Frank puts his arm around me. His touch and his tweedy smell comfort me, and the fear begins to recede.

‘He’s safe now, Stella. They’ll look after him. They know what they’re doing. You don’t have to worry,’ he says.

The room is spinning around me. He steers me to a chair. He sits beside me, leaning forward, his elbows on his knees. His freckled hands are together, his fingers touching in mock-prayer. He’s silent for a moment.

‘Stella, my dear. Tell me what happened,’ he says then.

I tell him. He listens quietly, now and then pushing his hand abstractedly through his shaggy grey hair. His vigilant eyes are on me.

‘What will they do to him?’ I ask.

‘They’ll obviously need to stitch up his arm, and he may have a bit of concussion. He was semi-conscious – I think he could hear what we said – and that’s a very good sign. He’ll have a pretty bad headache, but I’m sure he’ll be all right.’

‘Do you really think so?’

‘Yes, I really do.’

I feel a little stronger.

‘Now. I could give you a lift home, Stella, but I’m guessing you’ll want to stay for a while.’

‘Yes.’

‘Tell me – is there anything else at all I can do for you?’ he asks me.

I think of Eva.

‘Could you take a note to his mother? She’ll be so worried.’

‘Of course.’

I have the theatre programme in my handbag. I tear off a blank page and write her a note:
We’re at the hospital. Harri was attacked in the street, but he’s all right
… It’s what you say when you mean,
He’s alive
. I add,
I’m afraid his glasses got broken. Could you bring his spare pair?
I give Frank Eva’s address.

‘Well, the best of luck,’ he says.

‘Thank you,’ I say. ‘Thank you so much for everything. How can I ever thank you?’

He doesn’t answer. The words are there between us, drenched and heavy with meaning. In spite of all my vast gratitude towards him, I feel a slight stirring of fear.

‘Stella, my dear – while you’re waiting,’ he tells me, ‘I think you should clean yourself up.’

I look at my hands – they are covered in blood. I hadn’t noticed. And there’s blood all down the front of my coat, where I laid it over Harri. I stare at it helplessly.

‘My coat…’

‘It’s a bit of a mess. The blood won’t come out. I’m afraid you’ll need to throw it away. Why don’t I lend you mine for the time being…’

He stands, starts to take off his overcoat.

If I borrow his coat, then I’ll have to return it, I’ll have to see him again.

‘I’ll be all right. Really,’ I tell him.

‘Well, if you’re sure. Goodbye for now, Stella,’ he says. ‘I think you’ve coped quite admirably. You’ve been extremely brave.’

But I know that’s not true. I couldn’t protect Harri. I love him so much, but my love was useless, I couldn’t keep him safe, couldn’t stop it happening.

In the Ladies’ Room, I fold up my coat and put it in the waste-bin. I peer at my wild reflection. There are bloody smudges on my face, where I pushed back my hair with my hands. I wash my face with carbolic soap, welcoming its stinging scent, wanting to wash all the smells of the night from me, the rank stench of urine, the blood.

Then I wait in the antiseptic gloom of the corridor, playing games with myself, games of intense seriousness, like the ones that Marthe plays. If
these
things happen in
this
way, then Harri will be all right … If there’s an even number of tiles between the floor and the ceiling … If I can see three red things without turning my head … If that door swings back before I can count to twenty …

The door bangs as the nurse comes through. I jump up.

‘How is he? Tell me.’

‘He’s conscious, but he has concussion,’ she says. ‘No internal injuries, we think. We’re keeping him in for the night.’

‘Will he be all right?’

‘He should be fine,’ she says. ‘He was lucky.’

That’s one word for it.

‘Can I see him?’

‘Not yet. You’ll have to wait till we’ve finished stitching him up.’

I sit down abruptly. I’m suddenly weak as a ragdoll. And it’s only now, knowing that he will live, that I cry; and having started, can’t stop, the tears leaking between my fingers and falling onto my skirt.

I keep thinking how nearly it could have been different, how easily I could have lost him – the blade half an inch to the right, slicing through an artery; the car passing a few seconds later; Frank going a different way home. I feel undone by the unbearable randomness of being.

I’m still weeping when Eva comes – her hair flying, her coat unbuttoned; running down the corridor.

‘Stella, my dear. How awful for you.’

The lines are deep in her face. She looks older.

I feel so guilty. This was my fault, because Harri and I went out together. She must be so angry with me – for putting her son in such danger.

‘He’s going to be all right. The nurse just told me,’ I say.

I stand, and she puts her arms around me. I’m glad I thought to discard the coat, so she can’t see her son’s blood.

‘Oh Stella. Thank God you were with him. Thank God he wasn’t alone.’

But I think: If I hadn’t been with him, if we hadn’t gone out, if I hadn’t suggested going home through the Volksgarten, if we hadn’t been on Stiftgasse at exactly that time, it wouldn’t have happened.

‘We went to the ballet,’ I say, disbelieving. ‘We were coming back from the ballet.’

It was only a couple of hours ago. I can see the remote pure loveliness of it in the margin of my mind, the images floating away from me.

‘Thank you for sending the Englishman. I liked him. He gave me a lift, he was very thoughtful,’ she says.

She sits down. We sit there together, smoking. I tell her what happened, and everything the nurse said.