The German Girl Read online

  He shook his head. ‘No, Inge – you’re right. I must speak about it. I can’t bear to – but I must, somehow. Because when I go – when my memories do – so will she… so will they.’

  Ingrid blinked. They?

  ‘I just don’t really know where to start.’

  ‘Why don’t you start at the beginning. Why were you speaking German as a child?’ She assumed that was the case, as when he’d been speaking it to her, he’d sounded very young…

  He stared at her, almost as if in shock that she couldn’t know this, but of course, he’d spent a lifetime keeping these things buried. ‘Because, once a long time ago, it was my language.’

  Ingrid blinked. ‘German was your language – what do you mean?’

  He stared out at the forest, but what he was looking at existed only as some inner landscape.

  He sighed, rubbed his hands through his hair, and looked at her. ‘I mean that a long time ago, I was German.’

  4

  Ingrid gasped. ‘You’re German?’

  He flinched, as if he’d been slapped. ‘No.’

  ‘No?’ she asked.

  ‘I used to be – or at least a long time ago, I – well, we thought of ourselves as German – until they took our citizenship away from us.’

  ‘Who did?’ she asked, confused.

  ‘The Nazis.’

  Ingrid blinked. ‘They took away your citizenship?’

  He sat down. He’d forgotten he was making coffee, but Ingrid didn’t remind him.

  He stared at her for some time, and Ingrid worried that he’d lost track of what he was saying, until he shook his head. ‘Inge, it wasn’t just our family who lost their citizenship, they did that to millions – those they deemed undesirable, like disabled people, gay people, those with the wrong political beliefs, gypsies – and people like our family, Jews, you see.’

  Ingrid stood up in absolute shock. ‘W-we’re Jewish?’ she cried.

  Morfar put his head in his hands again and nodded.

  Suddenly everything became horribly clear and all those horrid stories she’d heard over the years changed, as it hadn’t all happened to some unknown outsider… it had happened to them.

  Morfar stood up, looking anxious, stressed. ‘I know, it’s huge. I should have told you and your mother. It just… there were times when it was easier to forget.’

  He started to pace around the table, banging his head with his hands, becoming wild, agitated.

  ‘Just tell me what happened. Tell me, Morfar,’ she said, coming to gently remove his hands from his head, her heart jack-hammering inside her chest. He resisted at first, and she had to pull as hard as she could, till suddenly they went slack and he blinked up at her as if surprised to find her there. There were red impression marks still on his cheeks.

  ‘Tell you what?’ he asked, looking suddenly confused, his eyes glassy, unfocused.

  ‘Morfar?’ she said softly.

  He frowned, and his anxiety from before seemed to misdirect in his sudden confusion. ‘What are you doing here, Marta? För fan i helvete, we aren’t even blood – you’re my son-in-law’s cousin, that’s nothing to me, really! You don’t need to come into my house like this and take over, I am not some frail old man, I don’t need you!’ he shouted. Then he seized her by the arm and marched her towards the door. ‘Go, and don’t come back here, until I invite you in – though I’d have to be an absolute idiot to do that.’

  ‘Morfar!’ cried Ingrid, tears pricking her eyes. ‘It’s me – Ingrid – it’s not Marta!’

  ‘Pah, you children – you all think the same, you all think that “old” means decrepit. I have shoes older you, some wiser too – out, out, out – I’ll see you some other time.’

  Ingrid stood. ‘No, Morfar, you haven’t even had something to eat.’

  He scowled, then made his way to the counter, hastily carving up some bread that she had brought the day before, and shoving a chunk into his mouth. Crumbs flew everywhere. ‘Happy now? Will you just leave?’

  She nodded. ‘I’ll see you tomorrow.’

  He frowned. ‘Are you deaf? I just said come only when I invite you – and that’s not likely to be any time before I die – then, well, you’re welcome to come dance over my body for all I care – but for now, get the hell out!’

  Ingrid’s lips trembled. I will not cry, she told herself. I will not cry, she silently repeated.

  ‘I’ll go, I’ll see you later, okay?’

  He closed his eyes, sighing deeply.

  When he opened them, she was gone.

  Ingrid didn’t go home. She walked to the frozen lake, and listened to the song of the ice. It was loud, like a beating heart. For some the noise was eerie, but for Ingrid it had always been a comfort, reminding her of her childhood out here in these wild northern woods. She’d always figured that was because her roots were here – dating back thousands of years. But now she had to configure a new aspect to her identity: she was part German? Jewish? How had he kept this secret from them all these years?

  She sat on a rock, Narfi close to her side. She was dressed in thermal gear, but it was still cold. Snow was beginning to fall. Up above, the sky was bathed in purple light. It was beautiful, and otherworldly, but her thoughts were centred on the small red cabin in the distance. He’d been so close to telling her everything, before the light in his eyes had seemed to change once more. It was frustrating, and desperately sad. Narfi put his head in her lap, as if he understood the ache in her heart, and she ran her mittens along his furry back.

  ‘Let’s go, boy, it’s too cold for this,’ she said, shivering. Then she stood up and started walking.

  It was some time before they finally arrived home, cold and exhausted – but not long after that, Ingrid fell asleep on the sofa, though sleep didn’t last long. Her dreams were full of the events of the day, which quickly turned to nightmares, and she tossed and turned. Dreaming of children and parents forced to wear yellow-starred badges. Twins. Trains. Lists of names of people destined for concentration camps. She woke up in a sweat, heart pounding. Her grandfather’s tear-streaked face filled her thoughts. It took some time before her heart rate slowed to normal. She spent the rest of the night awake and staring at the ceiling.

  Thinking. Thinking of Morfar hiding this secret from them for so long. Why? Why hadn’t he shared it with them – it was so much to bear alone – too much to try and take in, too, even now. How could he have borne it all alone?

  Inge woke in the morning to find thick new layers of snow had fallen overnight.

  There were deep shadows beneath her eyes from her restless night. She took her time on her walk through the woods towards the small cabin, all the while trying to summon her courage for when she saw him. But when she got there he wasn’t home. His snow boots were gone, as well as his binoculars.

  She paced up and down his tiny cabin, filled with fear. There was over fifty hectares of forest bordering the cabin. Until recently, the person who’d known every inch of it better than anyone was Morfar, but now one wrong turn and he could be lost, without food or water and prey for animals. She ran outside, eyes wild.

  The sound of a snow plough over the road made her pause.

  She waved her arms to get the driver’s attention. It was a neighbour who worked for the forestry department. He was a short man in his late fifties with a stocky build, grey eyes, and a serious expression, named Martin.

  ‘Martin, please help!’ she called. ‘Morfar’s gone into the woods. His binoculars are missing!’

  Martin frowned, and looked at her like she was mad. He knew her, of course – she’d been coming to the hamlet every summer since she was a child. ‘Jürgen will be fine – no need to worry, he knows these woods like the back of his hand.’

  Ingrid frowned – was everyone in denial about him?

  She shook her head briskly. ‘Not anymore. He’s getting old – he gets confused now; it’s early dementia. He might not realise where he is and I’m really worried.’ />
  He nodded. ‘I heard about that but every time I see him, he seems fine.’

  Ingrid just stared at him, fighting her annoyance. ‘Well, it’s when you spend a long time with him that you can see he’s not himself – he gets muddled.’

  He nodded. ‘Okay. I’ll put a call through on the radio – we can get a lookout going for him. We have a system in place in case children or animals get lost.’

  She remembered. There had been a time some years ago when another of their neighbours’ visiting relatives had got lost; it had taken several hours, but they’d found her, thankfully. ‘Thank you. Should I come with you?’

  ‘No, don’t worry. Besides, with these drifts he couldn’t have got very far – and since it’s stopped snowing we should be able to track him fairly quickly.’

  She felt relief flood her senses. ‘You think so?’

  He nodded. ‘Though there’s the—’ He broke off, then shook his head. ‘Don’t worry. I’ll come by as soon as I know. You’ll wait here in his cabin?’

  She nodded. ‘Of course.’

  She knew what he was going to say – if Morfar had tripped or fallen the risk of dying from exposure in these freezing cold conditions was strong. She couldn’t think of that.

  She went back inside the cabin, and felt lost. It felt wrong to be here without Morfar, like she was intruding, which in a way, she was. She knew it couldn’t be easy for him, such a private soul, to suddenly have people barging in, prying into his personal affairs, forcing him to do things against his will. Growing up, there were times when they wouldn’t see him for a couple of weeks straight. He liked his own space. It was why he’d never remarried. Her grandmother had died just after her mother was born, so he’d raised her mother by himself. Jonna always said it was strange – in a way, it was as if he had never been married at all…

  She made a cup of coffee and tried to calm her nerves. It didn’t work.

  ‘He’ll be fine,’ she told herself. ‘They will find him. Besides, Morfar knows these woods.’

  Narfi raised himself off the wooden floor to look at her, his head cocked to the side in concern. She blew out her cheeks. ‘I know, boy. I’m sorry.’

  Her eyes fell on the mounds of scattered clutter.

  Well, there was something she could do to take her mind off things. She tied her hair up with a band on her wrist and got to work. The cabin was a museum of old things. Magazines, article clippings, sketches and hundreds of copies of newspapers. And everywhere there were stacks of unframed paintings. Forest scenes, animals, but landscapes, mostly. Some were unfinished, as if he couldn’t quite capture what he wanted to. She put these to one side. She turned to stack some of the newspapers and magazines together, bumping over an old box that was covered in dust at the bottom of a massive pile of clutter. She opened it and frowned. Inside was a hefty stack of sketchbooks. She knelt down on her haunches and opened one. There were beautiful pencil drawings and watercolours. Some were of her as a child, in the forest and her mother. Many of these went back years.

  She sat and looked through all of them. It took hours. He’d kept a kind of illustrated diary over many years. She remembered him sketching when she was a child; he always had a notebook in one of his jackets, and a chewed pencil. Though she also remembered that he never showed anyone his sketchbooks, whipping them away when someone asked for a closer look. There were ones that showed the changing landscape of their village, Stjärna, over the years. Others were just of the wildlife – but when she picked up a handsome leather book, her heart skipped a beat. It had gold initials etched into the leather. J.S. She frowned, wondering what the S stood for. A middle name she didn’t know about, perhaps?

  Inside, the sketches showcased an entirely different landscape, full of canals and city life. And as she flicked through the pages, she gasped aloud, as she found a watercolour sketch of a young girl who looked almost uncannily like Ingrid, except her eyes were slightly bigger, and violet. She was lying on her stomach, staring intently at a large textbook, her blonde hair parted in the middle like curtains around her face.

  Beneath the sketch, it said simply: Asta.

  This was Asta.

  Ingrid sat down on her haunches and stared. No wonder he got them confused.

  There was a sound from behind, and she turned to see Morfar standing in the kitchen. His binoculars in his hands.

  ‘Morfar!’ she cried, standing up quickly, the sketchbook clutched to her chest. ‘Oh, thank God, I was so worried!’

  He looked furious. ‘What am I to do with you? I can’t believe you sent out a search party for me, like some lost child, för fan i helvete. It’s not like I haven’t lived here for over forty years – I could find my way back to this cabin in my sleep!’

  ‘Yes, but, Morfar, you know that you have a… condition.’

  He looked ready to explode. ‘A condition? Pah, I’m so tired of this rubbish, where every little thing must have some stupid label – the only condition I have is old age where I have forgotten more things than you have yet to learn! It will happen to you, too, you know? And suddenly everyone will treat you like an idiot.’

  She sighed. ‘Maybe, but you could still get confused and lost.’

  He started swearing again, and Ingrid said in German, ‘Just stop that.’

  He blinked. ‘What did you say!’ he replied in Swedish. He was furious. ‘You dare speak to me in that language – here in my house?’ His eyes fell upon the mess she’d made. ‘What have you done here, why are you going through my things? This is absolutely ridiculous, Inge – you’re actually worse than Marta, at least she doesn’t snoop! I can consent to the occasional bit of help but this—?’

  Ingrid bit her lip, ashamed of herself. ‘Morfar, I’m sorry – I just wanted to tidy a bit, that’s all – I wasn’t looking, but I bumped over the box… and that’s how I found this,’ she said, and handed him the sketchbook.

  All the anger that had taken sudden hold of him seemed to dissipate, and he suddenly stooped, like his knees couldn’t support him anymore, and he took a seat at the kitchen bench.

  He held the sketchbook open to his drawing of Asta, and touched it, his hands shaking. There were sudden tears in his eyes. Then he glanced up at Ingrid. ‘I haven’t looked at this in years,’ he breathed, touching the sketch with a gnarled, shaking finger. Tears smarted his eyes. ‘No wonder I keep muddling the two of you – you look so much like her. Especially now that your hair has grown.’

  Ingrid took a seat next to him. ‘This was Asta – your twin?’ she said.

  He sighed, closed his eyes and nodded. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Morfar, please will you tell me about her?’

  He took a deep breath. Then, at last, he nodded.

  ‘We lived in Hamburg, a city with more canals than Venice – did you know that?’

  She shook her head; she hadn’t known.

  ‘We lived deep in the heart of the old town. My family had lived there for centuries and if Hitler hadn’t decided otherwise, that’s probably where we’d all be now.’

  Ingrid blinked, realising that he was probably right – that she might not have even been born.

  He picked up the sketchbook again, and his hands traced over the initials. ‘It was a present from my parents, when I was ten. J.S. For Jürgen Schwalbe. That was our surname – before I changed it after the war. It means swallow, like the bird.’

  He let out a low, hollow laugh.

  Ingrid frowned. ‘What is it?’

  ‘My father used to say that the two of us were like our namesake – you know that swallows seldom rest, they spend most of their lives in flight?’

  Ingrid nodded. He’d told her that once before, in the summer when they followed a flock as they made their nests in the forest.

  ‘I sometimes think that with a name like that, it’s no wonder our family spent most of our lives on the run. They say that a swallow can cover over two hundred miles a day, and when they land, it’s only briefly. They always return to their n
ests, it’s what drives them. Except of course we became birds without a nest to return to.’

  5

  Hamburg, 1933

  The twins arrived back at the apartment on Helman Straße, covered in mud, leaves and twigs. They were laughing, and holding onto each other’s backs for support. ‘Did you see ol’ Polgo’s face?’

  Asta giggled, her violet eyes sparkling. She raised a hand to imitate him waggling a finger at them. ‘If I ever find out who your father is, you horrid brats, I’m going to send him my condolences!’

  They both broke down into more raucous laughter.

  ‘He loves us, really. Imagine how boring it would be to transport people across the canal every day without the occasional visit from a Schwalbe?’ said Jürgen.

  ‘Or two?’ said Asta.

  ‘Or two,’ Jürgen agreed, with a grin.

  ‘In any case,’ added Asta, ‘Frederick needs us. It’s a public service we’re doing.’

  ‘Exactly, the city relies upon us.’

  Frederick was a stuffed gorilla, and the company mascot on Polgo Hausman’s small water taxi. He sat in the window, visible to all who looked down at the Zollkanal from the grand Brooksbrücke bridge.

  The twins made it their solemn duty to change his outfit every morning, and there were a few Hamburgers who looked forward to what they came up with – even though Polgo vowed he would skin them alive if he ever caught them. So far Polgo had yet to catch them in the act.

  The latest outfit had consisted of their mother’s old brassiere and a shift. It was too good to pass up, and they waited along the riverbank to get a glimpse of Polgo’s face, which was a picture.

  ‘Our best yet,’ said Jürgen.

  ‘Saucy Frederick,’ said Asta.

  Which elicited several more giggles.

  The pair hadn’t countered on Polgo’s apoplexy, though. ‘You little heathens! I am running a respectable business!’ he’d screeched, leaping from the boat and wading across the canal towards them, as the pair ran, laughing, along the stretch of the towpath, skidding on a mud bank, and slipping away into the vast network of bridges that crossed the city. He was no match for them.