Wednesday Morning 3 a.m.

Peter Gibson fled, the curses and obscenities chasing him, cutting through the cold night air as he staggered into the alleyway, his breath sobbing gasps and his lurching, stumbling escape ending as he fell, crashing, into a pile of wooden pallets at the back of the Bloodline Tattoo Parlour and the second hand shop that plied their trade alongside the cheap booze outlets, the betting shops and the sex joints of the High Street. He collapsed, sprawling, crashing his face on the icy concrete waiting, expecting them to come and finish their work; he could go no further, he was seventy two years old, and could fight and run no more; he was spent. Face down, his fingers clawing the concrete his body and brain expecting another kick in the ribs or the flash and the slice of the knife, he could still hear their drunken blasphemies as they searched. Slowly, painfully and as silently as his gasping lungs would allow he managed to drag himself beneath and behind the pallets – a place of safety on such a night – and then he passed out.

The minutes passed. Silence. He opened his eyes, his head throbbing and his body racked with pain. An icy sleet beginning to fall from the winter sky and worm its way into the gaps between the pallets. The cold had already started to eat into his senses and his extremities had already given way to numbness. Hypothermia – he knew what it felt like. All he wanted to do was to sleep, escape from this place, the cold, the pain, the beating, the fear. He pulled his coat around him trying to exact some small comfort and tried to blow warmth into his frozen hands but breath didn’t come, instead his body rattled with a choking cough and he tasted blood in his mouth. Silent, cold and frightened, in a pain filled drunken haze he lay, closing his eyes to shut out the world but at the same time subconsciously straining his ears, listening for any sign that they were still there, waiting to finish him off.

“Fog's rollin' in off the East River bank, Like a shroud it covers Bleeker Street, Fills the alleys where men sleep........” The words of a long forgotten song from happier days drifted into his subconscious. He tried to place it. A different time, a different life .......1965.......University Folk Club.....Simon and Garfunkel, Bleeker Street........ a track, the track, from his first LP, Wednesday Morning 3 a.m., played on the old Dansette record player bought as an extravagance from his grant and against his mother’s advice when he went to University. He could still hear his mother’s scolding words........ “You’re supposed to be there to bloody well work not spend all your time listening to pop music” ........ Bleeker Street.....still the best song that Paul Simon ever wrote on the best LP that Simon & Art Garfunkel ever made....he had listened to it endlessly with the girl as they lay on his college bed....... the girl, what was her name? He tried to remember but his numbed, alcohol rotted brain could come up with no answers – all it registered was the pain and the cold. He knew only that he had been happy then, the world was young and ready to conquer....so much to see.....so much to do.......where did it all go wrong? “Voices leaking from a sad cafe, Smiling faces try to understand, I saw a shadow touch a shadow's hand, On Bleeker Street.......” More, long forgotten words from the long lost anthem tiptoed into his head. In the distance he could hear the city, the thump of rock music seeping from the clubs. Peering through the lattice of pallets where he slumped he could just make out the glow of the city lights and the shadows they cast in the alleyway. Where did it all go so wrong.... ......what was the girl’s name.... where was she now? But try as he might his saturated brain could provide no answers ....and he was starting to feel drowsy. And then he fell into a troubled unconsciousness.

When he woke the city was quieter. A light covering of snow powdered the ground and the pallets. What time was it? He could no longer feel his body and he knew that he was in serious danger of dying of cold, freezing to death. He lay, unsure of what to do. Should he chance it? Had they gone, forgotten him after the drunken brawl, the flashing knife, the broken bottle jagged and lethal. He remembered now. The fight over the bottle of cheap sherry that had been passed around amongst the down and outs under the railway arches; suddenly a drink and drug fuelled night reminiscing around a fire blazing in a rusting dustbin had exploded into violence, out of control, murderous. A push, a name, an accusation, a smashed bottle, a knife and suddenly he was running, pursued by a drunken mob while a man lay sprawled by the fire blood oozing from a jagged, gaping rip in his cheek, a broken sherry bottle lying in the dirt beside him.“I am just a poor boy, Though my story's seldom told, I have squandered my resistance, For a pocket full of mumbles, such are promises, All lies and jests, Still a man hears what he wants to hear, And disregards the rest........” more words again.....from another time seeping into his mind.

The snow powdered him. Above, stars twinkled in the winter sky and he remembered..... Carol, the girl. His past, began to tumble into view......University, the job as a junior reporter......1968... London...thought he had made the big time, Fleet Street...... the swingin’ sixties, drugs, sex, rock and roll, flower power, easy money, the high life.... but then the gambling, the bribes and backhanders for a good story and then the missed copy deadlines and the poorly composed copy thrown back by red faced, foul mouthed sub editors....and then inevitably, the sack. A move back to a provincial paper but the drink and drugs had a hold..... one night stands with girls met in seedy pubs, money lost on stupid ventures, the rows, the bills, the house repossessed ...... and then she left, Carol left and took the baby ..... Joanne ...... she’d be married now, middle aged he guessed........ maybe I’m a granddad. Maybe. And he sobbed.....all so long ago, another life, all gone and he felt very afraid – very alone in the dark with no-one to turn to. He lay, eyes tear filled with self pity, regret, fear and inbuilt rage looking up at the twinkling winter stars.

What was that song....”Still a man hears what he wants to hear and disregards the rest....?” He concentrated but he was losing the battle to think, it was all so very hard.....and he felt so drowsy, so very drowsy. And then it suddenly came; Simon & Garfunkel, “The Boxer” ..... 1970. He had bought Carol the Simon & Garfunkel LP Bridge Over Troubled Waters for her birthday and they had sung track endlessly in harmony with the booming speakers of his first proper stereo system as they decorated their first home.....before his world, their world - had fallen apart. Cheap bed sits followed, squats, doss houses and then the streets. And the song came again in the darkness; it could be his story, was his own story: “When I left my home and my family I was no more than a boy, In the company of strangers, In the quiet of the railway station running scared, Laying low seeking out the poorer quarters, Where the ragged people go, Looking for the places only they would know”. And he wept, he was old, afraid and alone.

He tried to move but his joints had stiffened. Somehow he pushed himself up onto his elbow but as he did so a violent pain shot through his ribs and he screamed out. Instinctively he put his hand to his side and then saw the dark patches on his fingers and on the white powdery snow: blood - a black pool spreading on the snow powdered concrete. He panicked and put his hand to his side again. It came back sticky, black, blood covered. He slumped back putting his hand protectively but uselessly over the gaping knife wound......and his eyes, now slightly out of focus, looked up at the stars ..... so drowsy....so sleepy. The song, creeping, worming into his dying consciousness.... the story of his world, his song, his life; a life slipping away into the snow behind scrap pallets in an alleyway; a life oozing through his fingers and into the dirt: “Asking only workman's wages I come looking for a job, But I get no offers, Just a come-on from the whores on Seventh Avenue, I do declare there were times when I was so lonesome I took some comfort there”. And he suddenly began to shake uncontrollably, his breath coming in gasps as he silently mouthed the words from a life time ago:” Then I'm laying out my winter clothes and wishing I was gone, Going home where the New York City winters aren't bleeding me, Leading me, Going home....”.

In the distance the sound of police sirens. They hadn’t come when he needed them, when they had circled him and beaten and kicked his body and when the blade had pierced his side. The police were nowhere when, terror filled, he had scrambled and staggered away from the railway arches pursued by the rest of the drunken pack and he had collapsed behind the pallets......and, now, here he was, his life blood oozing away, a no-one in the night, human refuse like the fish and chip papers, drug needles and betting slips that lay around him; tomorrow’s newspaper story........a story he might once have written but now he would be the story: a beaten, knifed, unknown elderly vagrant dead in an alleyway behind the city centre. And his eyes clouded, everything very distant, silent. Deep within he could hear his heartbeat, erratic and as the blood flow to the brain slowed the words came again.......”In the clearing stands a boxer and a fighter by his trade, And he carries the reminders of ev'ry glove that laid him down or cut him till he cried out, In his anger and his shame I am leaving, I am leaving", But the fighter still remains......”.

And Peter Gibson, one time whizz kid Fleet Street reporter, one time life and soul of the party, one time Mr Know It All, one time husband and father to a wonderful wife and beautiful daughter, one time son of proud parents cried a last cry of fear and rage and shame under the twinkling winter stars. Flakes of snow settled; a white translucent shroud shielded him as life’s candle flickered and slowly died ....” Like a shroud it covers Bleeker Street........ On.... Bleeker Street......Bleeker Str........Blee.......” And overhead, without any fuss, and one by one, the stars dimmed and went out as Peter Gibson’s eyes died and his spirit fled into the cold night air and he lay under the wooden pallets behind the Bloodline Tattoo Parlour, the second hand shop, the cheap booze shops, the betting shops and the sex joints on the High Street.

Recalled to Life.

The suburbs sped by. Occasionally she caught a glimpse of a long forgotten place name as, almost silently, the train glided through suburban stations entering one of the world’s great cities. The last time she had travelled this route the train had rattled on the tracks and over the points, a smell of steam in the air. But modern trains were so quiet and now it seemed she was almost creeping back into this place that had once been so much of her life but where she had in fact spent so little time. And even that so long ago. The journey had been long – a life time one could say - but now she was here and wondering should she have come? Her thoughts were suddenly jolted as the train, still speeding, flashed through a station. People were standing on the platform and she briefly caught the station’s name, too fast to read but somehow registering in her brain - Charlottenburg . She had once lived here her subconscious told her – indeed had always lived here – until......... . And she felt the tears well up inside her again. Her sister had always teased her – she was “Charlotte aus Charlottenburg".......her sister had giggled and it had somehow stuck. She strained her tired eyes again trying to catch some long forgotten building or park but it seemed all changed. Or maybe, she was just a silly old woman, she had simply forgotten. She watched the city glide by, now passing skyscrapers and tall office blocks. And then suddenly the train lurched slightly, and she felt the brakes go on. The high speed, international train was reaching its journey’s end; her journey’s end. Her life journey’s end.

Travellers began collecting their coats and bags, crowding the aisle as they raced to get home or meet connections. She still sat. The train announcer, in a strange and yet so well known language, told them that they were coming into the station.  She strained, peering through the window into the distance as the train slowed. The platform at last coming into view as they glided under the great arched station roof. Slower and slower. So long. It had been so long. A life time. More. Still she tried to catch a first glimpse, her heart pounding in her chest, her breath caught in her throat.  As the train halted and passengers picked up their belongings and hurried for the door she still sat. She looked across at him and no words were needed. He put his hand across the table top and touched her gloved fingers.  The carriage began to empty and she sat gazing at the platform, now filled with hurrying people, and thought back to how she had come to be here – after all these years......... .

v

It was her great grandson, Michael, who started it. Teenage Michael with his loud music, his  i-pads and his computers. On a wet, dismal Christmas holiday afternoon as the wind and rain whipped across the Yorkshire Dales she had stayed at her granddaughter’s home for Christmas. “You can’t be alone for the first Christmas without Granddad”  the family had said and so she had packed her suitcase and made the short trip to her granddaughter’s. She would stay for a few weeks, through the worst of winter, and be looked after, glad for the company and faces she knew. The TV had been on, a Christmas game show, no-one really watching; she had sat half flicking through a magazine while Michael looked at the screen of his i-pad. Her granddaughter, Michael’s mother, prepared dinner in the kitchen while Michael’s father carved the last of the meat from the turkey carcass.  Then, just as she was dropping off into one of the afternoon nods that she seemed to need more frequently these days Michael’s voice: “Gran you were in the war weren’t you?  She looked up: “Yes dear, why?  Michael looked up from the computer screen, “Oh it’s nothing, but we’re studying World War 2 for GCSE at school and I have some homework. Did you know anything about this Gran?”  She smiled, adjusted her glasses and stood up, “Let me see what you’re doing” and she walked over to him, still a little disorientated from her nod, and sat on settee by his side. He touched the screen and, as if by magic, it lit up and she was suddenly looking at a grainy, flickering, black and white film showing children, many in tears, carrying cases. In the background she could make out waving adults and yes, soldiers, herding the youngsters towards a train. By now she was wide awake and frighteningly engrossed, unable, almost, to watch but also unable to tear her eyes away from the flickering screen. She realised that her hand was in front of her mouth and she was struggling to catch her breath. And then, as the camera panned, she knew, and her heart froze, trapped in the moment. The signs on the walls, the great flags and banners......each bearing the dreaded black symbol that she still feared.....and unable to hold it in any longer she half whispered, half gasped and without thinking,“ I’ve been there, I was there”. Michael looked up, “What did you say Gran?“  And then the words came again – and then the tears “I was there, I was there”.  She had suddenly been swept back by a few seconds of old film to another time, another place, another life. 

“Anyone like a cuppa”, her granddaughter appeared at the lounge door “or maybe a glass of sherry Gran?”  But then she saw her grandmother hunched up sitting by her son, her body throbbing as the sobs came. Michael, not knowing what he should do simply looked at his mother for help. “Michael, what’s wrong with Gran?  The woman hurried across the room, her hands still covered in baking flour and sat on the arm of the settee by the old woman and took her hand. Michael, silent, embarrassed by this womanly show of emotion and not wanting to watch sat silent pressing buttons on his i-pad. He was not part of this, an intruder, unwelcome at this display of affection between the two women. The room was silent apart from the low laughter of the TV game show and of the now quiet sobbing.  And then, like a torrent, the words and the tears came; memories and emotions pent up for a life time came gushing out to the 15 year old and his mother. Michael’s father appeared at the kitchen door, carving knife in hand. “What’s the mat...! “ – he never finished; a look from his wife told him this was not yet for him. It was deeply personal, there would be time for explanations later. Relieved he stepped back into the kitchen and the cold turkey but even there he could pick up the main points.  Words, places and names long forgotten burst forth among the Christmas baubles and the TV game show. Tears for a lost life and lost years filled the Christmas air. Tears for a husband, Joe, whose death, three weeks before Christmas she was still mourning. “Michael go and make a cup of tea – make Gran’s strong with two sugars” Michael like his Dad, relieved to have a reason to leave, leapt up and ran to the kitchen. In the weeks and months to come Michael’s speed in leaping up to  make  that cup of tea became the stuff of family legend, never before had he shown any inclination to do anything in the kitchen! Michael’s mother hugged the old woman to her, almost squeezing the sobs out of her and as the emotion slowly eased and as the cup of tea warmed her she had told them. Her granddaughter sitting silent, unmoving, squeezing her hand through her own wet handkerchief while Dad stood in the kitchen doorway, carving knife in hand hearing a story that was new to all of them, a tale that Lottie had kept to herself all her life. And Michael, the brash teenager,– sat by his gran, his great gran, mouth wide open and unable to comprehend the tale he was hearing from this wrinkled old woman who he had always known – but it now seemed had never known - until now. She had told them in between bouts of tears. Perhaps Joe’s recent death, perhaps the emotion of Christmas, perhaps the realisation of her own mortality – but whatever, something of which she had never spoken to anyone – except Joe, and he had been sworn to secrecy - came pouring forth.

Yes, it was Michael that started it. Later that night she sat in bed thinking and writing the little diary she still kept as she had done all her life. She was calmer now but still shaken by the outpouring of her emotions and then there had been a gentle knock at her door. It was Michael. With the openness of youth, he wanted to know more – names, places, dates. He had even brought a little note book. And as he  sat on the edge of her bed he was flicking buttons on his little computer......she saw words that meant nothing to her but that she half recognised from reading the newspaper - Facebook, Twitter, Google................ . The minutes passed, Michael intent on what he was doing, asking the occasional question. Almost an hour passed, Lottie was nodding, hoping that Michael would soon go. But then......just as she felt herself beginning to nod off her heart almost stopped. There, on the brightly lit little screen in front of her was a faded black and white photograph of two girls smiling happily back at the camera. Two girls both with neatly plaited hair and summer dresses. Behind them trees and, parkland and couples – ladies with parasols and smartly dressed gentlemen walking in the sun. Her hand was again at her mouth as she pulled her dressing gown around her and climbed out of bed and stumbled to her handbag. Fingers trembling she rummaged around until she found it. Something that she had carried with her every single day for nearly 80 years.  Silently she placed it alongside the computer screen – they were mirror images. A crumpled, faded old photograph from her handbag and its double on the brightly lit screen. It was Michael who broke the silence – “Is that her, is that her, Gran – is it Alexandra?” Dumbly, she nodded. “And, Gran....... is that you?”. Again the stiff nod........and then the tears.  And through the sobs, she whispered to herself “The Tiergarten....our birthday in 1939.....we had lunch at a restaurant in Unter Den Linden”. Michael leapt from the bed and ran. “Mum, Dad, I think I’ve found her”. Come here”. And so, in their dressing gowns they had gathered around the bed. Michael explained – “Gran, I think she is alive” – this was only posted a few weeks ago. It looks like it was her son or grandson or someone that posted it. He pressed more buttons and then almost shouted .......Yes, she is still alive. Look she’s mentioned here – Alexandra - on her grandson’s Facebook Christmas post! He’s written it in English and he mentions two sisters who were separated before the war. He’s been trying for several months to find his grandmother’s sister for her. He’s been posting on Facebook and Twitter asking if anybody knows you.”

And the old woman looked and sobbed.........

So, here she was. Six months later – at the end of a long train journey, one could say the journey of her life: York, London, Harwich, Hook of Holland...... and now Berlin where it had all begun. She had sat with Michael at Liverpool Street station in London as they had eaten their McDonald’s burgers together before boarding the train for Harwich and then, as they sat she had seen them: statues. Statues of children outside the shop. Her burger had fallen from her fingers as she pushed back her chair and almost flew outside tears streaming down her face gazing at the bronze group of children, looking slightly old fashioned in their pre-war dresses and suits and with their battered suit cases. Through the tears she read the inscription below the statues: “Children of the Kindertransport. In gratitude to the people of Britain for saving the lives of 10,000 unaccompanied mainly Jewish children who fled from Nazi persecution in 1938 and 1939.Whosoever rescues a single soul is credited as though they had saved the whole world. Talmud.” These statues were her story, as she had once been a lifetime ago. Michael had joined her and as she sobbed uncontrollably he, without embarrassment, had put his arms around her. He had gazed at the statues over his great grandmother’s shoulders and he read the words of the inscription; suddenly his school history lessons made sense, suddenly they took on a totally new dimension. This was history made real. And now, here she was, her journey almost at an end, here they were, the two of them sitting together across a railway carriage table, across the generations, across wars, across nations both sitting in an almost empty carriage at the Berlin Hauptbahnhof with the cleaners already moving into the carriage.

And as she sat, motionless, looking at him she remembered how, after that Christmas holiday afternoon, only a few months ago, Michael had set about it with a crusading zeal. In the days that followed he had come again, every hour, it seemed, to check some detail or other. For weeks through late winter and spring Michael had – what was it he called it? - “Surfed the net”, scribbling down names, places and dates in a hard backed note book he had  bought specially in WH Smith's. Occasionally he would ask her questions – how to say certain words, what others meant. He had even bought a German/English dictionary at Smith's on the same day he bought the note book. He had shown her the Facebook posts and the replies and then there had been that first email from her, Alexandra..... Alex. She would never forget that day when Michael brought his little computer to her and said “Look Gran – it’s from her” She looked at the screen – filled with writing. “What is it, Michael?” she dumbly asked.”It’s an e-mail” he replied – “a sort of electronic letter. It’s from her.....I contacted her great grandson by Facebook  and he’s got Alexandra to reply to me....to you, I mean.”  And she read, haltingly at first trying to remember the long forgotten German words and grammar. The words swam before her eyes and she found herself continually looking at the name at the bottom.....”Alex”.

And then the first phone call. Even now after several more calls she still found it difficult to speak of it. Two 86 year old women – twin sisters, separated by war for 76 years – each trying to remember the words of a long lost language; she striving to recall her half forgotten birth language, her sister trying to piece together English words and phrases learned at school so long ago. But they had managed and by the third phone call she was chattering away to her sister in long forgotten German; the years, it seemed, were slipping away.  Until now each thinking the other dead,  they were, what was it Dickens had called it in A Tale of Two Cities? – that’s it “Recalled to life.” She remembered that book from across the years – their father had read it to them in German just before she left in 1939 and the phrase had stuck with her. When she had at last learned English it was one of the first books she read in her new language; bought for a few pennies in an old second hand shop in the Yorkshire village where she had then lived. And now she, they, really were “recalled to life”.

She reached out across the train table separating them and without thinking squeezed Michael’s hand. It warmed her when she felt the boy’s hand squeeze back. She looked at her great grandson, too choked to speak, but he spoke for her “Don’t worry Gran, you’ll be fine, just go for it”.

“Just go for it” – yes she would. Taking a deep breath she stood and gathered her belongings; her coat, her old battered suitcase – she had to bring that one – and last of all the brightly coloured  silk scarf, faded now but still red, yellow and green. It was the first grown up scarf she had ever owned – and she treasured it. Her mother had given each of the girls an identical brightly coloured scarf to wave as the train left the station so that they would be able to pick each other out in the crowd of waving children and parents.  Her mother had worn a bright red coat for the same reason. And it had worked. As the Kindertransport had slowly chugged out of Berlin’s Hauptbahnhof, its windows filled with tiny waving arms and hands, she had been able to see her tall father with his brown homburg hat, her mother in her red coat and her sister’s brightly coloured scarf waving in the crowd until the station had finally disappeared from view.

She put on her coat. Feeling in the pocket she took out the label and looked down at it. Yes, it was there. Crumpled now, the brown cardboard faded but the copper plate writing clear: 536: Charlotte Saltzmann: 10 Jahre alt 20 Februar 1939: London, and at the side of her name a large yellow Star of David.  It was the name label she had worn all those years ago. She looked at the number and the name – how she hated being called Charlotte – she insisted on Lottie just as her sister had always been Alex. Alex had been given a label too – number 535, but her label had never been used on that journey. How Lottie had hated the frightening black symbol in the corner of the label - the swastika. But  her eyes were constantly drawn to it despite her efforts to look elsewhere. With trembling fingers she took the frayed cord and tied it to the top button of her coat. Her mother had tied the label to her lapel as they stood on the platform on that far off day - the last time that she saw her mother, her father – and her sister, until now. Lottie stood erect, the label in place; perhaps it was an act of defiance, victory or was it personal pride but she was determined to return to this place exactly as she left it a lifetime ago.

Michael put his rucksack on his back. “Let me carry your case gran.”  She looked at him. “Thank you Michael but no – it’s part of my return. I will arrive as I left.” The little case was heavy. She smiled to herself. It had been lighter all those years ago, they had only been allowed to take a very few things but now she returned with all the stuff that goes with age and possessions; an old woman needed her creams and potions and changes of clothes. Michael had kindly stuffed lots of her things into his own rucksack. Such a good boy. She looked at him, so grown up now, she was so proud of him. At first when there had been talk of meeting her sister again everyone had wanted to come. But she knew this was for her, this first meeting, and so she had insisted that she would return “home” alone – back to where she had come from. There would be time for her sister to visit her in England – yes, lots of time. And she had resisted flying to Berlin – “No”, she said, “I’ll go by train, as I left” – for Lottie it was a kind of closure. And then, a few days later, as she lay in bed wide awake in the early hours thinking of all that had happened she had had another thought. No, she would not go alone, she would like Michael to be there. After all, she reasoned, it was him who had started it all and the more that she thought about it the more she was convinced it was right. “This isn’t only about the past” she had told the family over breakfast – “it’s about my future, your future - and Michael is the family’s future”. Michael was beside himself with excitement.

So, later that day Lottie had visited Michael’s school to see the Head Teacher to request time off for Michael to go with her. The Head had listened politely but explained that time off was only given in the most exceptional circumstances and he wasn’t sure if the latest government regulations permitted  “a holiday with his granny, especially when Michael’s GCSEs were so close”  as adequate reason for absence from school.  At that she had risen. “No, Mr Swift” she had curtly replied “it’s not a holiday it’s the start of the rest of my life, and I think the start of the rest of Michael’s life too. Thank you for your time Headmaster, but I have to go. The local radio and TV are coming at 4 pm to interview me and Michael about the trip. I would have liked to have said how helpful your school had been but I fear I must say you will not allow the trip.”  That settled it - the Head Teacher, looking rather sheepish, coughed and then smiled, “Oh no, no, no, you misunderstand Mrs Stevens. He coughed again and choosing his words carefully said “Hmmm... of course Michael can go, I’m sure that I can use my discretion on this one. Please tell the local media that we all look forward to Michael telling the whole school about it when he returns.....and if the radio and TV want to interview me then please give them my phone number. I would be delighted to show them round the school and say how much the school wished to support this marvellous venture”.  And as she had walked out of the Head’s office she smiled to herself – she hadn’t lost all her marbles yet! She hadn’t lost the old touch! All those years of being a doctor’s receptionist had paid off – she could still make excuses, bend the truth and think on her feet and all without blushing! “Not bad”, she thought “for an 86 year old! Wait till I tell Michael – he’ll love it”.  And he did – “Gran you’re one cool dude” he had exclaimed as they stood in the kitchen, later that afternoon, he towering over her, hugging each other.

They stepped down from the train, the platform almost empty now and she peered towards the barrier in the distance. And yes it was there; the red, yellow and green scarf already waving to her as it had done all those years ago. She put down her case and waved back – two identical brightly coloured scarves waving but this time they were coming together not speeding apart.

As they walked the length of the platform towards the barrier she remembered so clearly, as if it was yesterday. A tear trickled down her face as she recalled being told that she and her sister had to leave their parents and the only world they knew: Berlin. It wasn’t safe anymore for people like them Vater had said.  Her father, a solicitor by profession, using sympathetic contacts in the Berlin police force, had managed to arrange two places on the Kindertransport to take Alexandra and Charlotte to England where they would be looked after by a distant relative in London. Mutti und Vater would follow them in a few weeks as soon as they got their own papers. But then, a few days before they were due to travel Alexandra had fallen from the park swing and broken her leg – with a heavy plaster dressing up to her thigh she was unable to travel and her place was reallocated. Alex had come to the station in a wheel chair pushed by Vater. She would come to London on the next train a week or two later their parents had promised. “Her place is already arranged and by then  the cast will be off” Mutti had said. But it was never to be. As Europe tumbled towards war the  scramble for places on the Kindertransport became an overwhelming flood and Alexandra’s place was lost in the panic. Alex never came. Mutti und Vater never came. Europe was in turmoil. After the war Lottie had tried to find them but Germany was split into east and west. Berlin was split; it was almost impossible to get information out of Berlin or Germany. She had tried the various refugee and repatriation groups and organisations but in the end accepted the advice – it was certain, she was told, that her parents and sister had been taken in one of the purges against Jews in Nazi Germany. And in the end Lottie had accepted it; moved on, married, had children, looked to the future...... but for all these years she kept her thoughts and memories in a closed box at the back of her mind. Until last Christmas when Michael had said “Gran you were in the war weren’t you? - and she had looked at that grainy piece of black and white film on his i-pad.

Lottie and Michael continued down the platform, the suitcase in one hand, her other arm resting on Michael’s. Her handbag slung across her shoulders and chest. She could now see her sister more clearly. The little suitcase was heavy, pulling on her arm but she would not give it up. She had to bring it, to carry it; it was one of the defining parts of her life – perhaps the defining part of her life. She rested, put the suitcase down. How the world had changed. Now there were bright advertising hoarding not great red and black banners with swastikas looking down on them. When last she trod this place she had looked around in fear; grey clad soldiers had lined the platform barking orders to frightened children. Yelping dogs, teeth bared prowled with their grey uniformed masters – since then Lottie had always had a fear of Alsatian and Doberman dogs. She remembered climbing into the carriage and pressing her face to the window trying to spot her parents and sister in the crowd at the barrier. Yes, there they were and she had squeezed her arm through the narrow sliding window and waved the scarf. Then they were moving and her family, her life until then had disappeared in the distance. Until, now.

She remembered it all as she stood there, Michael at the side of her, suitcase by her knee. She recalled the journey in 1939 through Germany and then Holland. For hours it seemed they had sat unmoving as the train was directed into sidings while stern faced soldiers with guns searched and inspected their papers. She remembered the stop in the middle of the night just after they had crossed the border. She knew they were in a different country because of the station signs. As the train stopped they had been shepherded onto the platform and taken to the toilets. Then to a series of long trestle table where Dutch ladies and men spooned hot soup into cups and bowls for them. She had sat on her case sipping the soup and tearing at the rough bread she had been given. Remembering Mutti’s last few words: ”It will be a long journey Charlotte so make sure that you eat. And don’t forget your manners”. So, when she took her empty cup back to the trestle tables she leaned across and said to the lady who took it from her “Danke”. The lady had smiled and felt in her apron pocket and pulled out a small bar of chocolate which she thrust into Lottie’s hand. Lottie smiled, thanked her again and ran back to the train, the case banging against her thin legs as she ran.

And the train had rumbled on through the night and into the next day. She had tried to sleep but sleep would not come. As the train journeyed through the darkness she had heard some of the younger children crying. She, too, felt like crying but Mutti had told her to be brave. All would be well and they would all be together soon in England. And she had believed her. At last the train ground to a halt. Another check by soldiers? But no – this time there was a platform and the children were being led off in a long crocodile. She gathered up the little case and followed until she was standing in a long line in a building. Men and women in uniform were checking papers in the early morning light. She showed hers and it was stamped and the woman at the desk pointed to a door. She walked though and looked up at the sign above: “Hoek van Holland/Harwich” and out into the open air. In front of her were other children all walking in the same direction – and in the distance a ship. England. Lottie remembered it all as she stood on that Berlin platform looking towards her long lost sister, now clearly visible.

And as she walked the last yards Lottie remembered arriving in England and being met by an elderly couple, Mr and Mrs Sachs, distant relatives of her mother. They had taken her to their house – her new home, and had kindly lavished things on her as she waited for her sister to arrive. The weeks passed. She received two letters one from her sister and one from her mother and father explaining that there were no more Kindertransports. But she should not worry they would be there soon. But then the letters had stopped and at the end of that summer as she walked down the street she heard a newspaper seller shouting something about war: “War with Germany. Read all about it”. Her English was still limited so she didn’t understand it all but deep down she knew this was bad news. She asked the Sachs’ when her mother, father and sister would come but as the weeks passed their answers became ever more embarrassed and vague. Mutti and Vater and Alex never did come. And then the bombs started falling on London.

Lottie was evacuated out of London to a village in the Yorkshire countryside and the war dragged on.  She was put into the care of Mr and Mrs Fisher – Ron and Hilda - a middle aged childless couple who took her in and poured the sort of affection that they would have done had they had children of their own. They rented a little smallholding raising a few sheep and hens. Ron doing a bit of carpentry and other odd jobs for locals and Hilda taking in ironing and doing some daily cleaning at what she called “t’big ‘ouse”  on the edge of the village. About six months after arriving in Yorkshire she returned home from school one day to find Ron and Hilda standing on the doorstep waiting for her. They took her inside and sat her down. Hilda brought a piece of homemade cake and a glass of milk. And, grim faced they told her. She was alone in the world. They had received a telegram informing them that Mr and Mrs Sachs were dead – a direct hit by a bomb on their house in the East End of London. And worse was to come. A few weeks later they received a letter from some government department saying that Charlotte was to be put into a home, an orphanage. Lottie didn’t really understand all this, but she did understand it when Ron put his arm round her shoulder, squeezed her, and said “Look Lottie, you ain’t got no-one now. Bit like me and Hilda, see. We ain’t got no-one neither. So we was thinking, like. We don’t want you to go to no orphanage. How would you like it if you stayed ‘ere, like, as our real daughter. Like, we’d be your new Mum and Dad. We’ll go and see about getting you adopted, do it all legal and proper. Is that alright”  Again, Lottie didn’t really understand all of it but she loved the Fishers and through the tears she nodded her head.

And so it was done. A few months later, Charlotte Saltzmann, who had briefly been Charlotte Sachs became Lottie Fisher. Lottie attended the village school and learned English quickly, albeit with a Yorkshire accent. Later she transferred “t’big school”, as Ron called it just outside Harrogate. She didn’t excel but did well enough to make Ron and Hilda proud and when she left school she got a job back in the village. By now the war had just ended and a new GP, Dr Stevens was opening a surgery in the village. Part of what Ron explained was part of this new  “Elf service thing”. Lottie got a job there as a clerk and spent her days filing records and occasionally answering the telephone. And after being there for three years she was made Doctor’s Receptionist. Oh, how proud Ron and Hilda were - Ron was buying drinks all round at the village pub that night; his daughter a doctor’s receptionist! And it didn’t end there – three years later Lottie Fisher, Charlotte Sachs and Charlotte Saltzmann as was, became Mrs Lottie Stevens, wife of the respected young GP Joseph Stevens. Since then she and Joe had had over 60 years together, always in the same area of her beloved Yorkshire where she had at last found a home and a family. Until, that is, Joe, her Joe, had passed away suddenly just before Christmas. They had raised three children of their own, four grandchildren, and one great grandchild – Michael. Yes, Lottie remembered it all. She had lain in bed at night for weeks getting all the names and events in order, rehearsing her story for she knew she would have to tell it many times – and in German too!

Of course, her sister had tried after the war to find Lottie. In April 1939 Alex had returned home after school one day to find their house empty and in a mess. Her father and mother had been taken. She was looked after by neighbours and as the world tumbled into war she seemed to be passed around from family to family as more and more Jews were herded onto trains. Somehow she survived the months and years. Then the Red Army had marched into Germany and with the ending of the war Alex found herself trapped behind the “iron curtain”, living in the rubble of Dresden, then part of East Germany. She had tried so many times to find her sister, writing letters to England asking of Charlotte Salzmann or maybe Charlotte Sachs but all to no avail – no one knew of Charlotte Salzmann or Charlotte Sachs  for she no longer existed – she had become Lottie Fisher and then Mrs Joseph Stevens - Lottie Stevens. Alex meanwhile, had done well for herself. A bright girl she had attended Dresden University and become a teacher. She had married, had a family and when at last the Berlin Wall came down she had moved back to Berlin where she was now standing to welcome her long lost sister at the barrier where they had parted a lifetime ago.

The years had passed and now only a few steps to go. Lottie could see the smile and the tears on her sister’s face. She could see her sister’s family standing around her. And she could see reporters and a TV crew pointing their camera at her and Michael as they approached the barrier. She, they, her and Michael, would be on TV – German TV - after all! She couldn’t resist looking at Michael – he smiled and she knew that he was thinking exactly the same thing. She, he .....yes they were both..... what was it he called her? Yes, that was it, “Cool dudes”.

And then Lottie stopped. She knelt down and flicked up the two rusted clips that held her old suitcase together. She opened the lid.  And she took out the old battered book: A Tale of Two Cities by Charles Dickens, bought in a Yorkshire second hand book shop for a penny a lifetime ago. She opened the faded and well thumbed pages and hesitantly, through tears and laughter, read the opening lines: “Chapter 1 – Recalled to life... . It was the best of times it was the worst of times, it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness...........”. And, leaving the case open on the floor with Michael standing by it, she ran as fast as her old legs would carry her, clutching the scarf and the book, towards her sister. Recalled to life indeed.

Tony Beale November 2015

Girl on a Train: Just Another Refugee?

She pulled her coat more closely around her. It wasn’t cold but she needed to feel the security that it offered. Her rucksack was firmly wedged between her feet, its strap clutched in her hand – she must not lose its precious contents. Besides her an older woman, sat nodding – already falling asleep before the train had even set off and despite the clamouring noise of the station announcer and the other passengers.

She had been lucky. First in the carriage. She knew the train would be full; she could not stand all the way. Once past the barrier she had walked as fast as her tired legs and aching back would allow. Other travellers were simply getting into the first carriage they came to. She knew better. She knew how to find an empty seat. As she looked through the window she smiled and idly thought to herself; “rush hour” – it’s the same everywhere. She knew, for she had spent much of her short working life travelling in big cities. She knew all the tricks – how to use her elbows to push through a crush, how to use her heels to stand on the toes of a man who might try to grope her in the crush, and yes, while others scrambled into the first carriages they came to she knew it was best to walk to the far end of the train, the furthest from the barrier, to find an empty seat.

The carriage filled up. People standing now. It was going to be a long, hot journey – but she had a seat. Her back ached these days and she was tired. She looked around her. Here was all life – old, young, babies, men, women, families all thrown together. Across the aisle a young woman, shielded by her husband, was feeding a baby. The older woman at her side opened her eyes and smiled. She offered the girl a sweet. Smiling, the girl took it and thanked her. The two of them sat silently sucking their sweets watching the people hurrying past, peering into the carriages looking for space. And then, slowly at first, the train began to move and the platform began to glide by. A huge cheer rang through the train as the young men, who seemed to fill the carriage, slapped each other on the back, punched the air with their fists and laughed. They stood there as if part of the crowd at far away Stamford Bridge, the Nou Camp or Old Trafford – places they would probably only see on SKY or their smart phones - their football shirts emblazoned with their footballing gods: Messi, Van Persie, Rooney  ....... . But for the moment they, like her, were homeless, flotsam from the troubles of the middle east and further afield and now flooding into Europe to find a new home, a new beginning - economic migrants, asylum seekers, refugees from bombs, terror and poverty - all seeking a fresh start on the gold paved streets of northern Europe. She, too, was a refugee, but different from most of those who filled the narrow aisle of the carriage - for she had money, she had a passport, she was "legitimate" - an "ordinary traveller" - but she too was escaping her past and making a new life with what little remained of her family - for her own sake and for the sake of the unborn child in her belly. The train began to pick up speed; faster and faster as they left the station and slid out into the city landscape. She watched as tall city buildings, offices, flats slowly gave way to the suburbs where there was more greenery and then, at last out, into the countryside. She let out a long sigh – she was on her way. At last. Soon she would be “home” – it felt strange to think that – for she had no home.

She reached down into the bag and found the plastic bottle of water and took a sip. It was slightly warm and she offered it to the woman besides her. Her companion shook her head. She smiled and pulled out a bottle of her own. As the girl put her water back in her bag she quietly, secretly, peeped into the rucksack to check that her precious package was still there. It was.  Safe and sound. She smiled, pulled the bag closed, wrapped her ankles around it and grasped the strap firmly between her fingers. And then she closed her eyes, they were already drooping – it had been a long day and she was tired. In a matter of seconds she was asleep.

When she woke up the sun was low on the horizon, already evening. She looked at her watch. She had slept for almost an hour. Around her those lucky enough to have a seat were dozing, the young men, many of them unshaven were talking in whispers, sitting on the arms of seats, bedding down in the narrow aisle or just standing, swaying silently looking out of the window across the fields and forests or at the occasional village that flashed by. Already lights were going on in the houses; pinpricks against the darkening sky. Someone was humming a tune. Further down the carriage a baby cried. She looked at her watch again. Seven hours the timetable had said. It would be early morning, after two o’clock when she arrived.  But no matter. She would soon be with what was left of her family. And then a meal, maybe a shower and perhaps a long sleep. And then she fell asleep again.

When she woke all was dark, torch lights were piercing the darkness. The train had stopped. There was movement in the carriage. Men in uniform pushing their way through holding out their hands. She rummaged in her bag and her hand clasped the two precious passports. She pulled them ready to hand to the soldier. He took them, flicked them open to the photographs and peered at her face as she sat there in the half darkness of the torch light. She knew that she was one of the lucky ones – how ironic it was after the last four months to think that. But she knew that she was indeed lucky; she held her own passport issued by the Palestine Authority but also another and this with the priceless, gold legend “Bundesrepbulik Deutschland: Reisepass” – a result of her marriage. How grateful she now was to Dietrich – unknowingly - he had left her with this chance of a new life when he married her. She had automatically become a German citizen on marriage as would her unborn child who she could even now feel kicking in her belly. The soldier smiled and said "Danke Fraulein" and handed back the documents which she stowed away deep in her bag. The German passport gave her status and commanded the policeman's respect and for that she was grateful. These passports were her very life lines. Lose them and she was a non-person adrift in the world.  The train sat in the sidings for what seemed an age and then after an hour or so it began to move again. The moon was high now and her sleep had refreshed her. She sat wide eyed watching the dark fields slip by.

She calculated that they were probably in Austria. Occasionally they passed  a neatly tended station and she caught a few words of German – a language that she spoke with moderate ease – on advertising hoardings.

The older woman sitting beside her wore a traditional hijab, and had fallen back to sleep, resting her shoulder on the girl. The hijab had slipped exposing the woman’s hair. The girl gently pulled it back into place; it would not be seemly for this older woman to be seen by these young men without the head covering. The girl had never worn a hijab. From her earliest days, as the daughter of a university professor at the University of Palestine in Ramallah, she had been brought up in the western tradition. Ramallah, in the occupied West Bank, was a quiet, laid back university place and cultural centre, where western lifestyles, dress and ideas were common. Her family were Muslims but rarely visited the mosque. As she sat in the half light a tear ran down her cheek as she remembered the sun, the olive groves and the quiet seclusion of the University Campus which had once been her world. A life which, less than four months ago, was ripped apart. She and her elder sister, Fae’da, had lived a cocooned life – their father quietly getting on with his teaching and his research, her mother  serenely running the house. As the girl had grown and attended the University herself she went out into the world more but still mixing with other young, western dressed Palestinian men and women. Life was good. At 22 she had left University with a good degree in foreign languages: English, French and a little German and at about the same time her sister had married a fellow student, Aneed, who had just qualified as a doctor. Within a year they had gone – he had taken a post at a German hospital near Munich - and she was left alone in Ramallah. Her language skills, however, were prized. She landed a job with a company exporting fruit to Europe and beyond and so she travelled: London, Paris, Milan, Oslo – wherever she was sent: discussing sales, setting up contracts. Once she managed a brief few days with her sister and brother in law in Germany. She got used to the western life style – hotels, airports, western food, the evening rush hour on trains! On her twenty fourth birthday she met her husband. Dietrich a young German teacher and relief worker for the United Nations posted to Palestine to help in the densely populated ghettos and with the never ending violence between Arab and Jew in the Gaza Strip. Dietrich was involved in setting up educational programmes for Palestinian teenagers and had come to her birthday party as the friend of a friend. She had been entranced by this young man; they had “clicked” immediately. Within a year they were married and within another six months she was attending the University Hospital being told that she was pregnant. They were overjoyed as were her parents. Life was good – even here in Palestine. She lived a privileged life – seeing the day to day problems and shortages of the people but never herself exposed to them; isolated and cosseted in her university and western enclave.

But then the world crashed into her life. A week after she had announced that she was 3 months pregnant her father arranged a celebration. The first grandchild – there could be no finer reason to celebrate. An expensive meal was booked at a local restaurant; old friends and family alike invited. For once they would leave their quiet University life and celebrate into the night. They might even break with custom and have a few glasses of champagne. “On such a day, Allah surely would not deny us that little pleasure!” laughed her father. And they all laughed with him. The laughter, however, did not last.  On that fateful evening, just as the sun was setting and the muezzin was calling the faithful to worship from the distant minaret they walked the short distance to the restaurant, smiling and chattering. Then, she suddenly remembered; she had left her mobile phone at home and was expecting a call from Amsterdam – the final decision on a new contract she had agreed to supply olives to a chain of Dutch supermarkets. With a smile she waved to her family, her husband and friends and trotted back towards the flat that she shared with Dietrich. Having recovered the phone she set off back the restaurant.

As she strode back to her flat and sixty kilometres to the west, a helicopter gunship rose into the evening sky from the Tel Nov Israeli military air base near Rehot. It momentarily hovered, and then swept east towards the occupied West Bank and Ramallah. Inside the gunship First Officer Benjamin Radnitz checked the sixteen digit coordinates again: 0345 7088/2565 3889. Satisfied, he punched the numbers into the on board computer: 0345 7088/2655 3889. “Done” he muttered through his mouthpiece. The gunship travelled along the border being careful not to intrude into the occupied West Bank and so that it remained out of the reach of Hezbollah ground to air rockets. “Twenty seconds and good” announced the second officer. “Ten.....Five....Three...”. There was a slight jolt as the Nimrod missile detached from the belly of the gunship and the crew watched as it wobbled away on its preset course towards Ramallah, the coordinates guiding it to the building identified as where four high ranking Hezbollah officials – terrorists – were, according  to the latest Israeli intelligence, gathered. The Nimrod disappeared in to the distance, its fiery tail like a shooting star in the darkening sky, its own onboard computer circuits making minor adjustments to its preordained course which would send four terrorist enemies of Israel, to oblivion.

She heard the whistle of the Nimrod just as she turned the corner and saw the restaurant in the distance. She knew exactly what it was. Palestinians were used to the sound and she threw herself against a wall. The whistling grew to a scream and then a brilliant explosion sent fire and rubble everywhere. She was thrown to the ground as dust, bricks, plaster, wood and bits of metal showered down on her. As she lay face down, her new dress already ruined and pin pricks of blood seeping out from a thousand little shrapnel wounds there was silence. Then the screaming began. She crawled to her feet. The dust was clearing. The restaurant had gone – just a pile of rubble and smoke. The call of the muezzin silenced. She stumbled towards the restaurant, to her family. There was nothing, just a pile of smashed wood plaster and stone. She stumbled through the detritus; personal possessions, smouldering wrecked furniture, bloodied limbs, broken crockery and smoking table cloths mixed with clothing, pools of water, and above all the stench of burning flesh. Her family, her husband were gone. It was then that she screamed; her demented bellows mixing with the sirens of emergency services already cutting through the Ramallah evening air.

In the days after she had sat in shocked silence watching the TV. Israel, grudgingly admitted responsibility but was brazenly defiant. The raid had been, what did they call it? - “a legitimate action” against “proven killers”. But “a very regrettable computer failure” meant that it had “misread” the coordinates. They would be taking this “unfortunate matter” up with the suppliers of the software. When she heard this she broke down – horrified at the lies that could so easily pour from the mouths of politicians and generals. It was never broadcast that First Officer Rabnitz’ minute error in punching in the numbers was the computer failure. She didn’t understand high politics but she was well versed enough to know that computers do not make mistakes – it is only those who operate them that make errors. But it was easier, and safer for generals and politicians to blame the computer for targeting the restaurant rather than the Hezbollah hideout. And such is the delicate diplomatic balance that operates, even between Israel and Palestine, that no one, not even the Palestinian Authority questioned this explanation by the Israelis. What did the Israeli spokesman call it?... “unfortunate and regretted collateral damage”.  Yes, she thought that it is – my mother, my father, my husband, my family and my friends......me and my baby.....we are just small, unimportant damaged pieces in the great game of war and peace. And the world will move on and then she cried again. Later, as she listened to another Israeli spokesman, again defiantly reject world opinion, she remembered a French book read long ago when she was French studying at University. What was it? Then it came to her – it was something said by Albert Camus. What was it Camus had said?.....”Every wrong idea results in bloodshed – but it’s always the blood of others”. And she had sobbed for the blood of  her family and her husband now gone and for her safe cocooned world now violated. She wept for her husband and her unborn child – who were just “regretted collateral damage”. And she wondered how much more callous was it possible for mankind become?

So here she was, speeding through the night in a foreign land. Her German passport gave her the right to access Europe freely and to a place where she could find a safe place for her unborn child to grow. She looked at her watch wondering if her sister had already set off for the railway station in Munich? People were already wakening, some sub conscious awareness reminding them that their journey was nearing its end. There was yawning and a rubbing of eyes. She heard the quiet voices of the other refugees – many with so little compared to her – no sister to go to, no prized German passport, short of money, few skills. Syrians, Jordanians, Iraqis, Iranians, their voices mixed together in the cramped early morning carriage. The whole world it seemed was on the move.  She felt again the kick in her belly and smiled to herself; yes she was lucky: her family had been modestly well off so she had money and her qualifications and business contacts meant that some kind of job would be possible. And above all, her baby was alive and would live – so she, too, must fight for life, look forward  and live for the future. Trying not to wake the sleeping woman by her side, she bent down and picked up the bag. There were the two precious passports. Besides them, safe in a leather wallet, her personal belongings: credit cards, bank account details, photographs of her lost family. Three priceless letters: one from a German Human Rights lawyer in Wiesbaden explaining that he represented Dietrich’s family and was seeking reparations   on behalf of them and their unborn German grandchild. A second letter from the Israeli Department of Justice which, while it did not admit responsibility and “subject to certain caveats”, hoped that a “satisfactory understanding” might be arranged between Israel and her unborn German child. And a third – from the United Nations expressing their grave concerns about the incident that had taken her family and husband. Their employee, it noted, had full diplomatic immunity whilst working in Palestine and they were currently working with the German government in Berlin and with the Israeli government in Jerusalem to ensure that “commensurate reparations for her and her child’s loss and an acknowledgment of guilt” were forthcoming. She knew that the latter requirement would never come and nothing in the end could replace Dietrich but she could, and would, somehow start again. She held the little parcel; it contained her life, and passports to her future. She had to start again – and she would.     

Tony Beale: November 2016         

"Cold Innit?"

                                                    

He paused, the bus was already disappearing into the distance. Putting the key into the lock, he hesitated and withdrew it, unsure that he could face going in. The early winter wind whipped up the street and flecks of rain peppered his face as he stood looking at the uPVC door. Then, pulling his coat around him, shoulders stooped, he turned and, carrying the black bin liner, walked down the street, head bowed against the wind. Already brightly lit in the gathering afternoon gloom, the Tesco Local was open for business, as he knew it would be until 10 o’clock. How often, he thought, had he looked down from the bedroom window and grumbled about who on earth went shopping at 10 o’clock at night! Crossing the street he entered the store, its warmth immediately misting up his glasses.

A minute or two later he stood at the check-out passing over the two tins of soup, a tin of baked bean, a sliced loaf and a two pint bottle of milk.  Taking out a £10 note he didn’t take in the inane chatter of the young shop assistant: “Cold innit?” she smiled through bright red lipstick. “You got anything nice planned tonight? Bake Off’s on telly – you watching it – I love it – don’t you” she rattled on. Numbly he shook his head. “ Not partying then... you got your Reward card, darlin'?”  Again, he shook his head. Numb. “What am I doing here?” a voice screamed inside him. He held out his hand and took his change and asked if he could have a carrier bag. “Oh you’ve to pay 5p for them nowadays, you know – you bin in prison or somethin’?” laughed the inane voice and the red lips “Now I’ll have to ring it in again - you should’ve told me before”. In a daze he feverishly rifled through the change in his palm trying to find 5p – anything to get away from this idiot girl. To his dismay the small coin slipped from his cold fingers and he found himself scrabbling on his hands and knees to retrieve it. At last, his hands trembling, he put his shopping into the bag and thankfully turned away. “Have a nice night - see ya later” the red lips called from behind. Glad to be free of the girl and her mindless, incessant, rattling voice, his body bent against the wind and scudding rain, he crossed the street, the carrier bag and the bin liner banging against his legs as he moved.

Again, the door.  He knew that he had to do it. Couldn’t stand there like a fool. Putting the shopping down he turned the key. The house felt cold and damp as he knew it would. It had been locked up while the weather had suddenly turned cold – pleasant autumn days abruptly replaced by early winter’s chill. He went into the kitchen and flicked the switch on the central heating boiler and then stood, leaning against the working surface still covered with Monday’s unwashed breakfast bowls and tea cups. Mechanically he put them in the sink; he’d wash them up after he’d had a sit down and a cup of tea. He knew that the central heating would take a little while to have any effect so he walked into the lounge and switched on the gas fire – turning it up to maximum. In the kitchen he put the kettle on and emptied the cold tea bags from the tea pot and swilled it with cold water. He was just about to put two new tea bags in the pot when he stopped, gripped the edge of the working surface and looked out of the kitchen window into the back garden, his heart hammering. Rain was already streaming down the glass. And as he looked out into the deepening gloom a tear ran down his cheek. He shook his head, wiped his eye and put one of the tea bags back in the caddy. He took down a mug from the rack and put a single tea bag in the cup and waited for the water to boil, his hands, knuckles white, tightly gripping the edge of the working surface as he waited.

Carrying the mug of tea and the bin liner into the lounge he sat down and sank back – the warmth of the gas fire already filling the room. With a heavy sigh he put the mug to his lips and sipped, wrapping his fingers around the warm mug. Then he put his hand into the liner and took out the sheets of paper, his eyes scanning but not taking in the words. “Is that it” he thought to himself “is this what it all boils down to – a bin liner and a few words churned out by a computer?” He laid the papers down on the coffee table and rested his head back and closed his eyes; the warmth of the tea and the fire making him feel drowsy after three sleepless days and nights. Outside the daylight was almost gone, rain ran down the window and cars already had their head lights on and wipers swept their windscreens.

When he woke up it was dark. As he struggled back to consciousness his mind filled with a jumbled mixture of confused scenes, he was momentarily disoriented, unsure if he was in the middle of some dream or nightmare. He sat up, the half mug of tea was already cold and he had no idea of the time. The gas fire still threw out its warmth. Robert stood up to switch on the light and stumbled over the bin liner. Cursing, he switched on the light and, his eyes momentarily blinded by the brightness, looked at his watch.  Ten to seven – had he slept all night? Picking up the TV remote he switched it on. The familiar smiling face of the local news presenter was talking of the latest win by United.  Satisfied that he had only slept for an hour or so Robert again looked at his watch and did a quick calculation. He would do it soon – but not yet. What was done was done. It couldn’t be undone. “Best let them get their sleep” he thought – “no sense in waking them up too early, there’s nothing they can do now”.

Turning down the fire he carried his cup, the liner and the papers into the kitchen which, the central heating having done its work, was now warm. He lay the papers on the table and smoothed out the creases; he’d need them he supposed, although he wasn’t quite sure of what had to be done. He tipped the contents of the liner onto the working surface but with lurching heart immediately knew this was a step too far, so scooping them up he stuffed everything back; that was for another day. Picking up the liner he carried it upstairs and put it on the single bed in the spare room, and silently closed the door. Then he stood in silence on the landing – unable to face the evidence of the last three days.

Back in the kitchen Robert put his shopping away. He knew he should eat and half thought of beans on toast but just as quickly dismissed the idea and so the beans and bread, too, went in the larder. And he stood alone, silent and unsure of what to do. A few feet away in the lounge the TV presenter reminded millions that following Eastenders and in thirty minutes time “The pavolovas will be in the ovens and there’s chocolate cake to die for as the Great British Bake Off reaches its thrilling climax!” while in Robert’s kitchen Monday’s dirty cups, cereal bowls lay in the sink. He turned on the hot tap and when the water ran warm sprayed washing up liquid onto the pots. He put the washed pots in the crockery basket on the draining board and was about to leave them when a voice deep inside chided him: ”No, Robert, dry them so they can go away”. And Robert leaned on the sink and smiled and cried at the same time; but obediently, he took the tea towel and carefully dried each item and stacked it in the cupboard where it belonged. Closing the crockery cupboard door he turned and sat down at the table. He was surrounded by the everyday things of the kitchen - but now, it all seemed useless, frozen in time. This was her place, and without her it was lifeless; just bits of wood, plastic, metal, and electrical gadgetry. What was he to do with it all? This was her kingdom where she was queen and  spent so much of her life and where she was happiest. It had been so throughout their marriage. Now it was lifeless, soulless, bereft of its life blood. Robert felt an intruder, an alien, in this place.

He looked again at his watch: nearly half past seven. Again, the mental calculation – it would be breakfast time. Helen would be getting the kids ready for school, Jim would already be off to work. Robert knew that he had to do it. He also knew that Helen would be distraught and angry that he hadn’t rung her before. But it was all so sudden. When Jenny had collapsed after breakfast and the paramedics had arrived the whole world had turned upside down. Everything happened so fast. He had been at the hospital for three days and nights while she fought for life after the massive heart attack. He didn’t know what time it was or what day even. He’d forgotten to take his mobile phone - but anyway, he never used it, hardly knew how to use the damn thing. Helen had bought it for him two Christmases ago – a “pay as you go” she said. “In case of emergencies now you’re both getting a bit older”.  But he’d never really taken to it, often forgot to put any money on it so it wouldn’t work – too much bother. And anyway he had few enough friends to ring – it was Jenny who did all the ringing and talking on the phone. “What do I want a mobile phone for” he’d asked himself.......and anyway he’d never have been able to ring New Zealand on a mobile - not in the state he was in. Yes, Helen would be angry with him for not ringing sooner – that was for certain – and he knew that she would be right to be angry; deep down he knew that he should have contacted her. And Robert wept; tears of loneliness and self pity – knowing that he could, and should, have done better.  Jenny, he knew, would have expected him to contact their only child and so far away.

Robert looked at his watch and heaved himself out of the kitchen chair. He walked across to where the phone hung on the wall and took it out of its cradle. He adjusted his glasses so that he could see the numbers written on the piece of card pinned to the kitchen notice board by the phone. The card was squashed in between a shopping list, a couple of 1^st class stamps, some special offer coupons and the other minutia of life.  Squeezing his eyes together he read the 13 numbers written in ball point in her handwriting. He knew that she knew the numbers by heart – never needed to use the card. Always rang Helen every week – sometimes twice a week; talked to the two grandkids without fail. Asked how they were doing at school and talked to Helen for hours – women’s talk. He remembered how he had grumbled at the cost – and again, a tear of regret, or was it guilt, ran down his cheek. Peering at each number he slowly and deliberately punched them into the key pad and then waited for the clicks and the sound of a connection. Seconds passed, an eternity, he almost put the phone down, and then suddenly it was ringing and almost instantly there was Helen’s voice – as if in the next room. “Hi there.....Hi...Hello...anybody there?” said the voice from the other side of the world. Robert’s throat was suddenly dry – he didn’t know how to say it. “Hello – is that you mum?” - already a tinge of anxiety creeping into her voice.......”Mum....you there?” And it was then that Robert sobbed uncontrollably.....his cries echoing through the thousands of miles to the other side of the planet and as his sobbing slowed it all tumbled out. “No love.... it’s your dad...........I’ve got a bit of bad news for you love......it’s your mum you see......I’ve just got back got from the hospital with all her things.....and, some paperwork they gave me....and  I’ve put the bin bag in your bedroom on your bed and shut the door......she’s had a heart attack y’see love....and.....and.....”

Tony Beale March 2017

The Face Looking back From The Mirror

He gazed into the mirror, the reflected face was familiar but for the life of him he couldn’t remember to whom it belonged. The room reflected in the glass was also unknown; was he in a hotel?  He ran his hand along his cheek, watching the reflected hand as it moved and felt the stubble of his whiskers and from the recesses of his mind a voice seemed to whisper, “You need a shave”. As his hand moved he saw the ring – somehow he knew that it was a wedding ring, but who was he married to?

He turned away from the mirror which hung over a chest of drawers. In front of him was a single bed and in the corner an easy chair and a TV set. On the wall were several large, framed photographs depicting smiling men in bow ties and women in glamorous gowns. He had an uneasy feeling that he should know these people but although he stared at them, there was no spark of recognition. He took the three steps across the room to the set of book and photograph filled shelves. He looked at the spines of the books. Again, there was something vaguely familiar about them but he couldn’t put his finger on what it was. Picking up one of the framed photographs he held it to the light from the window so that he could see it better. It was, he knew instantly, a wedding photo – black and white – two smiling unknown people standing arm in arm. He picked up the other photo - a group of people – a family group, two older people, some younger and three or four children. Who were they and why were they in this room? What was this room? Where was everybody? Where was he?

The photographs still in his hand, as he looked out of the window. A lawn lay below with a garden seat with two strangers sitting on it – should he know them? Was it his garden? What were these strangers doing in his garden? He shook his head – it all looked so familiar and yet so unknown; he turned and walked back to the chest of drawers. At the side of the drawers, by the wall mirror, was a tall CD rack filled with CDs. On top of the chest was a CD player, its digital display blinking: 16:23. He pulled open one of the drawers, it was neatly filled with socks and handkerchiefs; he opened another drawer – underwear. He moved along the wall to where there were two doors in the wall and slid one open. It was a built in wardrobe and inside the man vaguely recognised shirts and trousers hanging on the hangers. Were these for him, he wondered?  Returning to the drawers he put the two photographs down and looked closely at the CDs. He knew what these were but their titles seemed completely new. He pulled one out of the rack and opened the box, the silver disc immediately catching the sun’s rays making a rainbow effect.  He instinctively knew that the disc had to go into the CD player but had no idea how to do this. He looked at the tiny controls, the buttons and dials – he pressed one to no effect. Then he turned one of the dials; no effect. He pressed another button and immediately the room was filled with the crashing sound of heavy rock music. Instantly, without thinking the man’s fingers automatically shot back to the dial and spun it back – the music died. And he stood there – hopelessly confused. What was happening to him in this strange place where nothing seemed to make sense?  His mind tried to grapple with this unknown place and the things that he didn’t know. 

Picking up the photographs he sat on the bed gazing in front of him. At the side of the bed stood a digital clock, its numerals telling him that it was 16.27 and under the digits flickered Tues. 14 May.  “Soon be time for tea”, the man caught himself thinking. “I wonder what we’ve got? Can’t smell it cooking ....maybe Pam’s at the shops”. He looked around. In the far distance he could just hear the occasional voice. He called out “Pam, is that you, love? What’s for tea – is it sausages, it always is on Tuesday?” Silence. He gazed in front of him, waiting for Pam to return from the shops.

Spotting the CD player again he stood and peered at the controls. Taking the CD which was still lying on top of the drawers he read the title: Robert Schumann: Lieder Op. 12, 13, 25, 42.  Barrowdale (Piano) & Davies (Soprano). There was something familiar about this but he couldn’t think what. He read the words on the front of the player: EQUALISER, PLAY, OPEN, CLOSE, VOL, TUNER, FM, AM, PRESET, ..... and then dabbed his finger at PLAY. Nothing. He pressed it again and held it. Nothing. He pressed EQUALISER. Nothing. OPEN – nothing.  His frustration mounting he feverishly pressed other buttons and then, as if by magic, little blue lights came on and the screen lit up. How had that happened? Had he pressed the right button – and, if so, which one? Somewhere deep down a voice said “Take it slowly” – so starting on the left he pressed each button in turn until hey presto! - a little drawer magically opened and without thinking about it the man expertly dropped the silver disc into the drawer. But what to do now? He was just about to start pressing buttons again when, of its own accord, the drawer slid silently shut swallowing the CD and on the little screen above the drawer came a list of numbers, 1-16 and the words PRESS PLAY. He obeyed and pressed the PLAY button but all was silent. Instinctively knowing that he should be hearing something he concentrated – he knew he had to do something, but what? Then in a flash it came to him and he slowly turned the dial labelled VOL and as he did so he heard a sound that he knew as clearly as he knew his own voice. He stood transfixed, his lips silently mouthing the words coming from the woman’s voice on the player.

The song ended, but even before the next one began the man was quietly singing its words as he sat  on the bed, tears streaming down his face. He listened, the voice gently ringing in his ears; he knew these songs so well, but from where? He knew this woman’s voice like his own but who was she? The woman, he knew, was singing in German and he quietly sang with her, he too, in German.  Then, in a break in the singing, when only a piano was playing, he fell silent his fingers moving as they played an invisible piano, anticipating and replicating every note the piano on the CD played.

He was still sitting “playing” and quietly singing the words in unison with the CD when, ten minutes later, there was a gentle knock and a woman slipped into the room. She kissed the man on the cheek. “How are you Dad” she asked “What part of your murky past are you reliving today! Are you ready?”  She smiled, walked over to the drawers and picked up the empty CD box and carried it back to the bed where she sat. “Oh, that’s nice”, she said, “I always liked this recording – you and mum at Snape  in 1960.” The man looked confused – “Me and Mum? What do you mean – whose Mum? What’s Snape?” The woman, smiling, put her arm around him. “Oh Dad, what are you like, what are we to do with you! We have this conversation every day!” She held up the CD box so that he could see the picture: a man and a woman, a piano lit by a spotlight and the title David Barrowdale (Piano) Pamela Davies (Soprano) at Snape Maltings. Schumann Lieder. “That’s you and mum when you were young, Dad – you were a concert pianist and Mum sang in all the opera houses. Look, all your CDs are on the shelf. And look at the photo on the wall behind us – that’s you and Mum with Benjamin Britten at that Snape Maltings’ recital” The woman walked to the shelf and picked more CDs – “Look, that’s you doing the Rach. 2 with the Phil, and here’s Mum at La Scala, and, oh, my favourite, Mum when she played Butterfly at Covent Garden and you conducting. “Don’t you really remember any of it, Dad?”

David looked at the CD boxes and then at the woman and then, hardly audibly he muttered “Who are you..... where am I.... where’s Pam? Is it sausages tonight? I think today’s Tuesday and it’s always sausages on Tuesday.” The young woman smiled, but in her smile there was a tear as she hugged him tightly and didn’t want to let him go as she whispered in his ear “I’m your daughter, Clara, Dad. Don’t you remember? You and Mum named me after Clara Schumann, the wife of Robert Schumann, you both so loved his music; that’s what we are listening to now”. Clara stood up and walked over to the shelves and pulled out a large album. “Look – these are the old programmes and reviews of you and Mum”. David looked at the faded mementos: he read the words but had no understanding: New York Met, Royal Albert Hall, Covent Garden, La Scala.... . He looked at Clara – “But where’s Pam” he asked “it’s Tuesday, is she cooking sausages?” Clara looked at him and gently smiled. “Pam’s dead, Dad. Mum died almost ten year ago”. A tear ran down David’s face as he looked forlornly at Clara; “I want to go home now”, he said. Suddenly he stood, “I’m going home, I’ll be late. It’s sausages on Tuesday. I’ll be in trouble if I’m late. Don’t want the sausages to go cold. Where’s my coat”?

Clara sighed, she knew that she had to go with the flow. “That’s fine Dad. Oh! Look at the time, it’s almost five, we’ll be late.  Let’s get your tie on. Can’t go out looking like that! What will Pam say?” David stood while Clara buttoned his shirt and expertly tied the bow tie brought from the chest of drawers. She ran a comb through his whispy hair and held his jacket for him and then stood back looking at him. She smiled, kissed him on the cheek and said, “You’ll do”. And the two of them, arm in arm walked through the door and into the corridor.

v  

Fifteen minutes later Clara stood at the back of the communal lounge with the manager of the care home for retired musicians. Every seat was filled – as always. Each Tuesday and Friday at 5 o’clock for six years her father had given a tea time recital to the other residents before they all sat down to dinner. David Barrowdale’s recitals were high spots of the week. He sat, at the piano, again in a world that his crumbling, long lost, mind knew so well. Clara never knew (and suspected that neither did her father) what he would play; today, she recognised Bach’s 48 Preludes & Fugues, so much part of her childhood - she had listened to them daily while growing up as David, like all concert pianists, had played the “48” for his daily practice. But at other care home recitals he might play one of the great piano concertos or some Chopin or Mozart – whatever flitted through his far away mind until Clara or the manager gently intervened. For an hour David was again centre stage, inhabiting a world that made sense to him, his fingers flying across the keys, his body moving with the music; all thoughts of sausages and going home gone. And afterwards Clara would eat with him in the dining room, and then, as they did several times each week, they would play the CD player and quietly relive his past. She would show him the photographs, always hoping that some spark would register but knowing that it would not. She would talk about him and Pam, and her brother and about David’s grandchildren and he would smile and nod but say little, while his fingers – as they did each time they sat listening to the CDs - played the invisible piano, perfectly in time and tune with the long lost pianist on the CD.

Tony Beale May 2017