Chapter Twenty-Seven
The fishmongers’ stalls were packed up for the day, leaving the familiar aroma of salty fish in the air. Elsa looked at the clocktower in the distance as she walked briskly through the market square. She had enough time to return home and prepare a meal before she went out again.
The harbour market was quieter now that many of the customers had wandered away.
A tram arrived at the far end and she began to run to catch it, dodging rain puddles and discarded newspapers blown about by the breeze.
She reached the other side and breathlessly climbed onto a waiting tram.
It was crowded and she was forced to stand, but at least she could still see out of the window.
A new crane had appeared in the distance, its long metal arm swinging majestically through the air.
It was a welcome sight. The authorities had finally begun to clear the damaged buildings beyond her street so rebuilding could take place.
Five minutes later she disembarked and began the short walk towards her flat.
As a teenager, she had never envisaged that she would live in an area like this, on a neglected working-class narrow street, where crowded housing was the norm and the air was constantly tainted with smoke from coal-burning stoves.
Yet the east side of Altona district, nestled between Holstenstrasse train station and the river Elbe, had become her sanctuary.
It was affordable and the inhabitants had too many troubles of their own to pry into her business.
Elsa lived quietly and appeared respectable.
They accepted her on face value and did not judge.
A teenager called Hilda and her little sister were dressed in shabby clothes and sitting on the wet stone steps four houses down from her own.
As Elsa approached them she noticed their baby brother was with them, sleeping peacefully in his older sister’s arms. Elsa knew their father collected scrap iron and rags, but their mother was usually around.
‘Mother’s got a new job. She’ll be home in a minute,’ explained Hilda when she asked.
‘I’m giving the little ones some fresh air.
’ The chimney smoke prompted Elsa to suggest they could come back with her — she was sure she could find something for them to play with — but the teenager refused.
‘Mum won’t be long. Besides, you have a visitor. ’
Elsa was in mid-search of her handbag trying to locate her door key as Hilda spoke. She looked up at Hilda. ‘I do?’
The girl nodded up the street. Elsa’s gaze followed. A man stood outside her building — and he was watching her.
‘What did he say to make you think he is looking for me? There are six families in that house.’
The man threw something away — a cigarette?
— and began to slowly walk towards her. The way he walked seemed familiar, but his body did not.
He was well-proportioned, strong, with muscular limbs that showed beneath a rain-drenched coat.
A trilby covered his head and brows making it difficult to see his features from so far away.
‘Hilda,’ she asked again, this time a little more urgently, ‘what did he say to make you think he wants to see me?’
‘He didn’t say anything. He just showed me a picture of you.’
Time seemed to change, bringing the past forward with lightning speed to lay out as a carpet at her feet.
She could not stall it, hide from it, come to terms with it.
It was here, now, and yet not the same. The man she had once known had been far thinner and travel weary, constantly vigilant to prevent discovery.
This man was well dressed, with a confident stature.
His clean-shaven face had lost its pallor, and his cheeks were less sculpted than the one she had once kissed, but on his face was a genuine smile of recognition and warmth and it was almost too much to comprehend.
The exhausted, half-starved man with the stubble of growth clouding his jawline had stayed in the past with the bad memories.
This new incarnation was a surprise and her shock must have shown.
His smile faltered as she gasped and dropped her key. She fell to her knees to retrieve it.
‘Elsa? It’s me.’
He crouched down on his haunches, his elbows resting on his thighs. ‘Elsa?’
She dared to look up. His face was more handsome than she remembered and she wondered if she had ever really known Sam at all.
She tried to speak but nothing sensible came out so she reached for her key instead.
He offered his hand and she clumsily grabbed it.
They stood up together as if in some strange new dance. She immediately let go.
‘I can’t believe I’ve found you,’ he said, his smile returning. She felt oddly exposed under his gaze and straightened the collar of her coat.
‘It is a surprise.’ They fell silent. The moment for enjoying a spontaneous, friendly embrace had been missed, already gone in a flash to leave only awkwardness in its place. She tucked a strand of windblown hair behind an ear. ‘How did you find me?’
For the first time his confidence faltered. She couldn’t blame him. Her reception was bordering on cold indifference, which was the opposite of what she was feeling inside. If he knew the truth, it would shock him to the core.
‘I have a friend who knows someone in the Red Cross. They found out you were working in Hamburg. I have been here, asking around, ever since I got the news.’
‘That couldn’t have been easy.’
‘No, it wasn’t.’
He looked up at the four-storey building. ‘Your home is impressive. As tall as the ones in the centre of London.’
She wondered if he was being kind or naive. ‘I’m not the only one who lives here.’
He looked at her. ‘I didn’t think you were, Elsa,’ he said gently. ‘Can I come in?’
She nodded, suddenly feeling a little shy. She was glad that he’d asked, yet she’d been dreading he would. ‘I have to go out again later because . . . I have something to . . .’
She turned the key in the lock and opened the door, hoping he didn’t notice that her explanation had trailed off.
The dark, damp hall with walls of peeling paint was enough to temporarily divert his attention and she led the way to the stairs at the rear.
He followed her in silence as she climbed the three flights of steps to the two rooms she rented at the top.
They were small but tidy, with a view of the bombed area that badly needed rebuilding.
Her possessions were few. The larger room had a table and two chairs, with a little two-ring burner for cooking.
Two saucepans and a frying pan were tucked behind a curtain under the burner, and two washing up bowls, one for washing dishes and another for washing clothes, were hidden under the small dining table’s tablecloth.
At least, she hoped they were hidden. She pulled the tablecloth a little lower on one side just to make sure.
‘It’s small, but at least I no longer share with another family.
Would you like something to eat? I have a little soup.
’ She found a saucepan and turned to show him, catching a glimpse of disappointment on his face.
‘It’s only temporary. I’m saving up for a better place.
There aren’t enough houses to go around.
The people who live around here are nice.
Kind. Generous.’ She pressed her lips together and forced a bright smile.
‘It’s good to see you again.’ The gentleness in his eyes told her he didn’t need her explanations.
‘It’s good to see you, Sam. You look . . . so different. I didn’t recognize you at first.’
‘I hope I don’t look different in a bad way.’
She shook her head. ‘No, not in a bad way.’ Definitely in a good way.
‘I don’t think eating raw cabbage would suit many people.’ He tilted his head. ‘You look well, Elsa.’
His compliment, and the way her name rolled off his tongue, resulted in a surge of heat brightening her cheeks. ‘Thank you.’ She returned to the can of soup and, as she wondered if he felt as strange as she did at seeing him again, began to open it. ‘Did you recognize me?’
‘I would recognize you anywhere.’
The lid of the can suddenly gave way and splashed into the soup.
She glanced up to see if he’d noticed but she didn’t feel any better when she realized he was looking around her room.
She rescued the lid, poured the soup into a pan and fiddled with the cooking ring, while silently praying that the temperamental thing would work.
‘Why aren’t you in Bremen?’
‘I was offered work in Hamburg. My mother, sister and aunt died during a bombing raid so I had no reason to stay.’
‘I’m so sorry to hear that.’
How many times has she heard that before? But hearing it from Sam meant so much more.
‘They needed translators here, to translate accounts of what the Nazis did to the Jews. I volunteered.’
‘For the Nuremberg trials?’
She shook her head. ‘No. I was too late for that. The accounts I worked on were in case of future trials . . . and for historical documentation. I didn’t do it for long.’
‘Why not?’
She thought of the many harrowing accounts she’d translated and her eyes began to smart.
‘I don’t think there are many people who could do that job for long.
’ She turned to look at him. ‘I didn’t know about what they were doing, Sam.
Perhaps I should have — the signs were there.
But no sane person can comprehend such systematic torture and killing of men, women and children.
It is not comprehensible or believable .
. . but it happened. I did not witness it, but the testimonies cannot be denied, ignored or forgotten.