Authors: K.C. Finn
Tags: #young adult, #historical, #wwii, #historical romance, #ww2, #ya, #europe, #telepathic, #clean teen publishing, #kc finn
The Mind's Eye (13 page)
“
Well? Do you see me?”
who did this to you?
He laughed
that empty, humourless chuckle again.
“
Who do you think Kit?” he answered.
Of course I knew who.
But
why?
I felt a surge of guilt.
Was it because you threatened that
officer?
Henri shook his head, looking straight at himself with a stare so
intense I almost forgot he couldn’t see me. He had high, arching
cheekbones that were almost black in the worst parts of the
bruising and his face would have been sharply triangular if not for
one part of his jaw that jutted out with swelling.
“
His name is Kluger,” Henri explained, spitting out the title
with such a strong sneer that it hurt his face to pull it, “He’s
what you would call a captain, I think. But he was never really
here for me.” He hung his head suddenly and I found myself looking
into the old sink and its watermarked rings. “It was Mr Hoffman he
was looking for.”
The shop owner?
I pressed,
confused.
Why do the Germans want
him?
face rise back into the mirror’s path, giving me a sad look with
his lovely eyes.
“
Can you stay a while?” he asked.
I think so
, I replied.
another word Henri left the wash room and made for a little
staircase at the end of the dark upstairs corridor. He was indeed
in the attic of the large building; his feet found two flights of
stairs before I recognised the corridor near the store room where
we had had our first conversation. Henri carried on beyond that
space, passing some sad looking women who were smoking. They shook
their heads when they saw him; I felt one pat him on the shoulder
as he passed without acknowledging them, but he didn’t stop. Henri
didn’t stop until he was down in the shop front itself where, like
the store room, everything had been overturned.
He surveyed
the destruction for the briefest of moments; I had enough time to
take in the finest fashions ripped to shreds all over the floor. I
saw the brown suit Henri had been finishing; it had been ripped off
a model near the till so only half the jacket remained, the other
sleeve and lapel lay in torn pieces not too far from it. I could
remember so clearly the precision and the concentration Henri felt
when he was working on that suit. I was livid at the cruelty of it
all, but Henri’s awful emptiness swallowed up my rage. He walked
quietly through the destroyed shop and out into the street.
I felt his
sore face start to sting in the light spring rain that was failing.
Henri pushed his unruly hair back against his head, walking the
deserted pavement until he turned to face the shop window. The
title of the tailor’s was in Norwegian, but the name Hoffman was
clear enough within the words. Below the title someone had taken a
tin of white paint and created a huge six point star. The Star of
David. I had seen it a few times in London when we travelled
through the posher bits. Another message was daubed underneath
it.
Henri, what
does that painted bit say?
“
Protect yourself; don’t buy from Jews,” he whispered, “It
appeared yesterday morning, then last night they came to take Mr
Hoffman for questioning, just like Mr Bavistock.”
Your English teacher,
I
mused,
What became of him, after the
questioning?
“
Nobody has seen him since,” Henri answered, “The people who
go to be questioned… None of them have come back.”
I’m so sorry.
I felt helpless,
totally useless and unbelievably guilty. Here I was, sitting in my
cosy little room in North Wales looking forward to cake and party
food, whilst people like Henri would be all over Europe mourning
the loss of friends they’d known. I couldn’t think of anything else
to say except to repeat my regret.
Henri,
I’m so, so sorry. I just wish I could help.
“
You’re here with me,” he murmured, “That’s
something.”
And they can’t take me away,
I
added.
his fingers deep into his palms as he stood staring at the painted
star. As his vision refocused I saw his full frame, a blurred
reflection in the dark window. He was dishevelled, his shoulders
hunched and deflated, but he was a broad boy with long arms and
legs. His face was too obscured in the window to see his bruises;
there was just an outline of his jaw and his ears sticking out a
little against his messy hair. I wanted to hold his hand, to tell
him that things would be right when England won the war, but I
wasn’t sure I even knew that to be true.
“
When they came to take him today, I fought against them,”
Henri said softly, “My face is a warning to everyone against
supporting a Jew. Hoffman was a charitable person, but his widow is
not. I think she will turn me out soon.”
Despicable,
I seethed,
and after you defended him.
“I think it’s practical. I have made myself an enemy to Kluger now.
I would cause her too much trouble if she let me stay.”
So what will
you do?
“
I don’t know yet,” he replied with a sigh.
I’ll come back, Henri. I’ll come back every day that I
can.
It wasn’t much to offer, but it was
all I had.
“
I hope so Kit,” he whispered, “I could use a friend right
now.”
And that’s exactly what you’ve got,
I replied.
back to his room and I stayed until his clock ran out my hour,
letting him run his gambit of abuse about the Germans and the
occupation. When he swore he did it in Norwegian for what he called
‘gentlemanly reasons’, but I agreed with every slur even though I
could only guess their meaning. By the end of the time it hurt to
let him go, but as I went I felt his aching face break into a
smile.
Blod’s birthday weekend meant saying goodbye to Clive, Thomas and
Ieuan, which was a tearful affair for Mam, especially since this
time they were actually going to England instead of back to the
Welsh coast. With Leighton’s help I managed to stand up from my
chair to wave them goodbye, watching their tall navy blue figures
cut a dash through the muggy spring afternoon as they started the
walk to the village. Clive put his arms around his boys’ shoulders
as they disappeared down the grassy path and Mam turned away with a
hanky to her nose. I watched Clive’s smart RAF hat until it was
totally out of view, hoping with pride that he and the boys would
be there to bash the Germans and end this war all the quicker.
I was eager
to get back to Henri, but my plans were scuppered when Mam received
a telephone call from Doctor Bickerstaff saying he had an
appointment free that day. She had sent him a message on Friday
about my great excursion to the wash basin and now the rotten
doctor wanted to interrupt my life to see it for himself. As much
as I was happy to have taken a few steps, there were far more
important things I could be doing, things that I couldn’t justify
to anyone, unfortunately. We trundled up over the big hill in the
doctor’s nice white car but all the while I could only think of how
pleasant and safe things were in the damp spring climate of Bryn
Eira Bach compared to Oslo, where perhaps at this very moment Henri
would be walking the streets with his battered face looking for
somewhere new to live and work. Alone.
Seething
frustration filled me up like a kettle ready to boil by the time I
was in Bickerstaff’s waiting room. It was always crowded on a
Monday with people who had gotten poorly over the weekend and he
was late seeing me. Mam didn’t ask about my livid expression, I
supposed she was used to that kind of drama having raised Blod; she
just read her magazine patiently and occasionally showed me what
she thought was an interesting photo. I nodded sometimes, biting my
lip, until she got into a very animated conversation with another
mother figure that had just walked in and finally left me in peace.
When Bickerstaff called me in, Mam was still chatting to her
friend, but she gave the doctor a respectful nod.
“
I’ll come in when you’re ready, Doctor,” she
offered.
curtly like he always did and waited for me to wheel myself into
his room. I came at him so fast that the wheels of my chair flew
over the bump between the flooring with ease and he had to jolt out
of my way unexpectedly. I pulled up to his desk without so much as
looking at him.
“
I see you’re feeling stronger, Kit,” he observed flatly. I
didn’t answer, since he was never really listening anyway, and I
was proved right when he carried on talking. “I have some walking
aids that you’re going to try and use.”
fetch them without awaiting a response, because there wasn’t even a
question about having to do as I was told. It was one of the things
I resented most of all about my illness, above any of the pain and
the inconvenience it brought, the fact that I had to just sit there
and put up with the people around me. If there was ever a
motivation to learn to walk, it would be that walking was the first
step in learning to run away. If I could run away now, I could hide
somewhere and find Henri, but instead I was stuck with Bickerstaff
and his constantly disappointed expression.
The doctor
returned with two tall wooden structures that had grips about a
third of the way down and padded rests at the very top of them.
They were long, triangular things that ended in a point where they
met the floor. Bickerstaff leant them against his desk then offered
me his hands.
“
Up you get then, chop-chop,” he said in that expectant
way.
could have jerked myself up to show him how annoyed I was, but my
attempt at a haughty leap only resulted in me failing the first
attempt to rise. The second time I took it slower, standing and
locking my knees as best I could. I looked down at the floor,
colour creeping into my face. I had someone who needed me to be
there for him, and here I was performing like a circus monkey
instead for the beastliest ringmaster in Christendom.
“
This soft part of the crutch rests under your arm,”
Bickerstaff said, shifting one of the walking aids under my left
arm, “Lean on it whilst I get the other.”
one crutch under each arm propping me up where I stood. I felt like
a heavy washing line drooping between the two. Bickerstaff put my
gloved hands on the grips where I took hold of them with a vicious
tightness; he nodded approval more to himself than to me, standing
back and making some space between us.
“
Let’s see you walk then,” he urged, “Use the aids one at a
time to help you get your feet forward.”
turned out, were not the problem. The huge wooden structures were
wickedly heavy, heavier even than the splints that bound my limbs
at night. I struggled to get the first one forward even a few
inches before I brought my foot to meet it, then the other crutch
snagged on the lino for ages before I was able to haul it up level.
I managed about four of these awkward movements before the pressure
under my arms was too much to stand. I felt bolts of electricity
shooting down from my shoulder to where my fingers gripped the
handles of the wood, my eyes burning with tears from the
strain.
“
Your arms are still shocking,” Bickerstaff snapped, “This
really isn’t good enough Kit, you’ll never strengthen your legs
without your arms for support.”
for his file like he was just going to leave me standing there in
agony. I swallowed the heavy lump in my throat, bit back my tears
and let my frustration get the better of me.
“
I think you ought to start being a bit nicer to me, Doctor,”
I began, my breathing sharp.
me without looking up. “Oh? Does that mean you’re going to start
making better progress for me?”
“
I know about you,” I said, narrowing my eyes on the top of
his blonde head.
“
Know what exactly?” he asked, still not looking.
“
About you and Blod… and Ness.”
slow, surreal process when Doctor Bickerstaff next let his big blue
eyes meet mine. His face was much younger when he wasn’t scowling;
his mouth was limp and open slightly as he studied my face. I hoped
that the pain of leaning on my crutches was showing, adding to the
anger in my burning eyes and gritted teeth. He didn’t bother to
deny anything, so I knew my suspicions were close enough to the
truth.