Finding Sophie Page 4

  Mama rolls pastry and slices apples. “Apfel kuchen für Papa.” Very carefully Zoffie layers the apple slices, then Mama gives her a handful of raisins to sprinkle over them.

  “When is Papa coming home?” Zoffie asks.

  “Soon.”

  The apple pie is ready; it had cooled. Mama and Zoffie wait. Then they eat supper.

  A soft tap and a voice at the door. “Frau Mandel, let me in.” It is Frau Wiege from upstairs. “There is burning, looting in the streets.” She whispers something, and goes out hurriedly. Mama locks the door.

  “What is burning, Mama?”

  “Leaves, grass.”

  “The leaves are finished, Mama, it's winter.”

  “And some are left. It's your bedtime.”

  “Mama, when is …?”

  “No more questions, Zoffie.”

  There are noises in the night: breaking glass, shouting and laughing, tires screeching in the street outside their apartment. The air is full of smoke.

  In the morning, Mama says, “No school today. You can come to work with me.”

  Mama's shop is beautiful, not like next door. The glass is smashed there. Herr Eckstein is scrubbing the pavement. He does not look at them.

  Mama hurries Zoffie into the back room. She begins her search for pins. When the lady who owns the shop comes in, Zoffie hides under the table.

  “Good morning, Frau Mandel. I am sorry to bring you bad news. You are a good worker, but there have been changes. I am sure you understand. You need not finish out the week. Here. …” She gives Zoffie's mama an envelope.

  Papa does not come home again that night.

  Next day, very early, they hear Papa's key in the door.

  “The Gestapo let me go – this time. I am a Jew with an Aryan wife. My employer says the work I do is ‘essential’; it can be done only by someone like me.”

  “For how long is gardening essential?” Mama asks, and pours Papa his coffee. She does not smile.

  “I have not eaten since the ninth.”

  “Two days?” Mama cuts more bread. “Later we'll talk. Not now.”

  “Zoffie,” Papa says, when he finishes breakfast. “What shall I draw for you?”

  “A garden. Papa, we baked you an apple pie. Where were you?”

  “In a garden like the one I'm drawing for you. It's called a maze – a labyrinth.”

  “Where are the flowers? Why are the paths going round and round in circles?”

  “It is a crazy garden – a kind of puzzle. People go into the labyrinth. Some stay and go round and round forever. Some are lucky and find the way out.”

  “Let me draw, too.” Zoffie draws labyrinths for the rest of the day.

  That night I dream of Nazi soldiers chasing a girl round and round a garden. They follow her into a labyrinth. Someone starts a fire.

  I wake up and call out a name – Marianne.

  I hardly ever remember my dreams, and I haven't seen Marianne in almost seven years.

  We'd eaten our sandwiches and lay in the long, sweet-smelling grass on top of Parliament Hill. The three of us had cycled all the way to Hampstead Heath, and I was almost asleep.

  Mandy, who's incapable of staying still for more than one minute, tickles my neck with a blade of grass. “Let's do something.”

  Nigel mumbles, “Too hot.”

  “You know what she's like. We may as well give in graciously. I'll agree to anything as long as I don't have to move,” I say.

  “How about best thing/worst thing?” Mandy says.

  “No point doing best thing because we're bound to say it's V-E Day.”

  “Worst thing's more fun,” says Nigel.

  “It's got to be the worst thing we've ever done that we've not told each other before,” I say. “One minute thinking time. Go.”

  “I'll start,” Nigel says. “I was very young, you understand …”

  “Oh, get on with it, twin …”

  “I'd got a new penknife for cubs and Mike Rivers –”

  “Mike – the worst boy in the street – the one Dad said you weren't supposed to play with?” Mandy exclaims.

  “I'm not sure that this story's going to be suitable for our delicate sensibilities,” I add.

  “Do you want me to tell you or not?” Nigel says severely.

  “Mike got hold of a piece of alder wood, which is easy to carve. I said, ‘Let's make a pipe.’ I carved the bowl, scooping out the wood to make a little cup. Then we cut down a piece of garden cane, made a notch in the side of the bowl, and twisted the cane into it. We found some oak leaves and stuffed the pipe and lit it. We had a really good smoke, except for the coughing.”

  “That's it?” I say. “Every little boy in the country smokes at some time, and that's the worst thing you ever did? Pathetic!”

  “I expected something awful. It's not good enough. I hoped for better from my twin,” Mandy says.

  “Put it this way,” says Nigel, trying to reestablish his authority, “that's all I'm prepared to confess at this time.”

  Mandy sticks her tongue out at Nigel and says, “I'll go next. When we were evacuated and I was at Mrs. Kingsley's in Kent, she sent me out one Saturday morning for a loaf of bread. She gave me two shillings and told me not to lose the change. It was early; the loaf was still warm – it had just come out of the oven. I was starving, as usual. The bread smelled so good, I thought, ‘If I pick off a tiny bit of the crust, no one will notice.’ I broke off a tiny piece, and it tasted wonderful. I still don't know how it happened, but next time I looked, I'd eaten half the loaf.

  “I started to cry. I didn't know what to do. I wanted to go and tell Nigel. Then I had an inspiration: ‘If I finish all the bread, I can tell her I lost the money. Anyone can fall down and lose two shillings.’ I convinced myself that I'd fallen on the path down to the village, scraped my knee, and seen the coin roll away before I could catch it. I even rubbed dirt on my knee. So I went back and said, ‘I'm very very sorry Mrs. Kingsley, I lost the money. I'll write Mummy and she'll send you some more.’

  “She gave me a spanking and sent me up to bed for the rest of the day. She didn't give me anything, not even a drink. I could smell her cooking tea, something with fried onions.”

  “Old witch,” Nigel mutters. I have a feeling if he'd been with Mike Rivers, he'd have said something a lot worse.

  “What's the verdict?” Mandy asks.

  “She was an awful woman and she ill-treated you, so the lie was out of fear,” I comment.

  “Still, it was a lie and stealing. In fact, a premeditated act,” Nigel says.

  We consult. “The punishment is, you have to write a letter to her, explaining what you did, and enclose a postal order for the amount you stole, and tell her how she drove you to it,” I say.

  “By the way, what did you do with the change?” Nigel asks.

  “I threw it away, so the lie would only be a little fib. I love the punishment. It'll get rid of my guilt.”

  “Mandy,” I say, “you can't mean that. I mean, about feeling guilty. She stole. The government and your mother paid her to take care of you and she starved you. Actually, for a child of eight, I think it was rather a brilliant way out of the situation.

  “Now I'll tell you my evil deed. It happened about three years ago. Miss Merton was teaching us gym. She was at least sixty even then because all the young teachers had been called up for the war effort. I hated going to class and that morning I'd forgotten to bring my gym blouse. She told me I'd have to participate in my vest and knickers. So I told her I hadn't brought my blouse because I had an awful headache and a stomachache and I was hoping she'd excuse me. She said I'd better go home and bring her a note next day.

  “I couldn't believe my luck, and decided I'd do some sketching. There'd been a raid the night before and I thought, ‘If London keeps getting bombed, there'll be no record of any of the great buildings left.’

  “I started close to the school. First I drew Nash Crescent, that lovely curve of house
s near Albany Street. Then I cycled to the Royal Academy of Music. I thought I'd have time to draw the BBC before lunch too. I'd just got the outline right when I felt a tap on my shoulder. A policeman was looking down at me. ‘I'll take care of that, Miss,’ he said, and removed my sketchbook and began to leaf through it.

  “‘It's all right,’ I explained, ‘I've got permission to be absent from school.’ I thought Miss Merton had changed her mind and sent a policeman to find me, and I'd be punished for missing school.

  “‘Fond of drawing important landmarks, are you?’ he said. ‘I think you'd better come along to the station, young lady, and tell the sergeant about what you've been up to.’

  “I had to wheel my bike while he walked beside me. I couldn't think what all the fuss was about. It's not as if I'd been stealing, or anything like that. He took me into the sergeant's office. I was allowed to sit down while they conferred. I thought I'd better apologize, so I did and said I'd never do it again.

  “The sergeant looked at my sketches and asked, ‘Who put you up to this?’

  “I got confused at the question, so I told him the truth – that I'd forgotten to bring my gym blouse to change into, and that I hated gym anyway, had pleaded a headache, and was sent home.

  “He demanded my name and wrote it down. Then he wanted to know my age and place of birth. The looks on their faces when I said Berlin, Germany made me feel like a criminal. He wanted to know if I lived with my parents. I was a bit frightened by then, so I said I was an orphan, and I lived with my guardian, who worked at the Ministry of Food.

  “‘Who told you to tell this story if you're caught?’ he asked, and he and the constable kept giving each other meaningful looks. Honestly, I didn't know what he was talking about. I mean it's not as though I'd deliberately planned to forget my gym blouse.

  “Then he said they'd check my statements, and my drawings were confiscated. I was just going to ask him not to do that because they were important, when he pointed his finger at me – you know the way they always show on the posters when they issue a warning to the public about something. He said that the enemy was everywhere, and I wouldn't be the first child who'd been recruited as a spy. He said any drawing or photograph that might give information to the enemy was a major offence. ‘I want the truth,’ he said. He was really stern and I had visions of being locked up for years. I wondered when they were going to take my fingerprints.

  “I said, ‘Please, Sir, I am telling you the truth: I'm not a spy. I'm a refugee from the Nazis. Drawing's my hobby.’ I promised him I'd never miss gym again, even if I had to take it in my vest and knickers. I prayed they'd believe me.”

  Nigel's shoulder's shook with laughter and Mandy was rolling on the grass and howling. A woman walking her dog made a wide berth round us. “Hooligans,” we heard her say.

  “I think it was the vest part that convinced them. The sergeant told the constable to escort me back to school. ‘If you were a few years older, young lady, you would be interned as an enemy alien. As it is, you may well be taken into protective custody. I hope I have made myself clear?’

  “I didn't dare speak after that, and just nodded.

  “The constable took me right inside the school and made sure I went into the office. I told the secretary that I hadn't felt well and had permission to go home, but that I now felt very much better, and please would she tell Miss Merton that I was back for my lessons. Can you imagine if I had to ask Aunt Em for a note?”

  “Old Miss Merton, who's almost senile?” Mandy says, wobbling her chin in imitation of the gym teacher.

  “This is definitely the worst thing I've ever heard you do, Sophie,” Nigel says. “I can see the sergeant's point. You could have been passing on information.”

  Nigel and Mandy whisper for a few minutes. “We think a suitable punishment would be to give up your sweet ration for a month, then buy some chocolate for Miss Merton, and write a note telling her how much you appreciate all she's done for the school, and how you've always loved her lessons.”

  “That would be another lie, and awfully cruel,” I say.

  “No appeals, not even on the grounds of being a foreigner who didn't know any better.”

  The game is almost turning into something unpleasant. For a moment, Nigel has seen me not as his best friend, but as an alien – a foreigner. Is this what peace is going to be like?

  Mrs. Gibson is cooking spam fritters for supper, with mashed potatoes and runner beans from their garden. There is a lovely smell of baked apples.

  “Nigel's doing dishes tonight, Mum,” Mandy says, looking meaningfully at her brother. “He offered, didn't you, twin?”

  Mrs. Gibson is just pouring the last of the custard over Mandy's helping of baked apple, when a voice booms from the hall: “Anyone home?”

  “Dad!” The three of them fly out of the kitchen and I just manage to save the jug from tipping over. I'm mopping up a few drops of custard that have dripped onto the table when Mr. Gibson, or rather Corporal Gibson of His Majesty's Transit Corps, puts his kit bag down in the corner.

  “Hello, young Sophie, you've grown again. How's your aunt?”

  “Fine, Sir. Thank you. It's awfully good to see you.”

  “Sit down, Dan. I'll make you some bacon and eggs, all right?” asks Mrs. Gibson.

  “Perfect, luv. Good to stretch my legs under my own kitchen table. Seven days' leave. Surprised you, didn't I?”

  Mandy stands behind his chair and twines her arms round his neck. Mrs. Gibson is putting what looks like a month's ration of bacon into the pan.

  “Thank you very much for the delicious supper, Mrs. Gibson. I'd better get on home. Good night, Mr. Gibson.”

  Nigel follows me into the hall. “It was a great day, Soph. See you at the dance on Friday.”

  Everything's all right again.

  It takes me only five minutes to cycle home from the Gibsons'. Their happiness at being together again reminds me how few relatives I've got. For years there's been only Aunt Em. Her parents died in the influenza epidemic of 1919, or I'd have “adopted” grandparents the way Aunt Em's my “adopted” aunt.

  How did she get through such an awful time – losing her parents, her brother, and her fiancé? She must have loved him an awful lot to have never got married.

  Supposing it wasn't a lie that time I told the police I was an orphan? If it was true, would Aunt Em adopt me? Not that I want to be an orphan. I'm not wishing away my parents, or anything. They're safe. Parents don't die without their children finding out. I'd know something like that.

  At birthdays and Christmas, Aunt Em always says she's certain my parents are thinking of me, that once the war's over letters will start arriving.

  At breakfast this morning, Aunt Em reminded me again that it won't be long before we hear from Mama and Papa. She said if there's too much of a delay, she'd get in touch with the Red Cross. I was hoping we could talk about what would happen when letters do start arriving. Will Aunt Em and I go on as before? When you've lived in a place more than half your life, it's pretty devastating to think about changing.

  Aunt Em seems to avoid talking about the subject, and I don't want to make an issue of it. I'm a coward.

  “Wasn't it heaven getting two days off in the middle of the week, Sophie? Tomorrow's the Victory dance. Have you got your costume ready?”

  Mandy and I are in the school cafeteria, at lunchtime on Thursday.

  “Mum's helping me finish off a witch's cloak from the upstairs blackout curtains. She says she's only too pleased to get rid of them! I still need a hat, though.”

  “I requisitioned a piece of cardboard from the salvage box. Thought the war effort could spare it. I'll make it into a coned hat for you, and we can paste stars and symbols on it.”

  “Thanks, Sophie. How about your costume?”

  “Mine's easy. I'll go as an Impressionist artist – you know, wearing a beret. Aunt Em found a sort of Russian-looking smock in amongst the Red Cross things in the spare room. It's
got very wide sleeves. I'll wear her spotted scarf tied in a floppy bow round my neck. That should do. I've got a pair of black woolen stockings too. I may die of heatstroke, though. Which reminds me, what are you wearing under your cloak?”

  “Mum's come to the rescue again. She got a blue full-length slip; if I knot the shoulder straps it'll fit me. Bother, there's the bell. Biology, next. If Miss Carter asks me to dissect an earthworm, I shall refuse on the grounds of animal rights,” Mandy declares.

  “I think she looks a bit wormy herself,” I add.

  On Friday night, we get to the dance at 7:30 and the room is already packed.

  “Great decorations, Sophie,” Mandy says.

  “I can only take half the credit – Nigel did a lot of ladder-climbing too.”

  The kitchen committee has put colored cotton strips of red, white, and blue bunting to cover the tables, and there are jugs of homemade lemonade, as well as an urn of tea and platters of sandwiches, with little flags stuck into the bread: meat paste, fish paste, and Marmite. There are several plates of biscuits too.

  We'd painted the lightbulbs in different colors – green, red, and blue – so the old rec room would be romantically transformed.

  Nigel looks very dashing as a pirate with a patch over his eye. I am a bit concerned about his feet, stuck in huge Wellington boots. Mandy says other than the waltz, not too much progress has been made with the dancing lessons.

  We all wear numbers pinned to our backs so that the prize committee can judge our costumes more easily as we dance.

  The M.C. (who is Reverend Peter's curate) announces a general “Excuse Me” dance. Vera Lynn's voice drifts enticingly through the loudspeaker.

  Mandy is dancing with Reverend Peter at the far end of the room, and Simon and I circle slowly under the blue lights.

  Nigel is talking to Stanley, a newcomer. I don't like him – he's already made some nasty comments about people and then laughed them off as a joke. I notice that Stanley's wearing jodhpurs and riding boots, and carrying a crop.

  Nigel comes over and takes my hand. Simon shrugs his shoulders in exaggerated disappointment. Everyone is having fun.