Cambridge reading Greats, then Brewers’ Green and the girls and Ben. And now you , Ailsa!
Ashamed of her ignorance, Ailsa let the moment go by when she could have asked why the Serafins, Jews in Jerusalem, had been driven out of their own city. And why, now that the state of Israel existed, they couldn’t return. Israel had opened the gates for massive immigration, Ailsa knew that : a thousand Jews a day were flocking home to the Holy Land. From the ends of the earth. The ancient Exodus was at last reversed. The remnant of Europe’s persecuted Jews could find a place to lay their heads. So why not the Serafins?
Mona was describing a white veranda: when you stepped out in the morning before the heat got up, its cool tiles were delicious under your bare feet. Her window at Qatamon had looked out on an apricot tree and an orange tree. Our tabby and her kittens basked in their shade. Ailsa felt saturated with the light and colour of Mona’s memories and with their sadness, as if they constituted a dream of her own.
The cat had been called Petra. A fat, overfed creature, purring like a motor.
We had to leave her there. Under the tree. But I never speak about this .
That meant: don’t ask questions. I will tell you what I can. Mona said the women of her family had been strong people. Obliged to be. Resourceful and flexible and inventive. They’d had to learn other languages and customs, transplanting themselves in different soils. Every new language clashed against the others until you absorbed it and each in turn seemed to be Mona’s first language, or equal first. Or they bled confusingly into one another. Tower of Babel in here, she said, tapping her head, confusion of tongues. That’s how it is with nomads.Never a dull moment. All the borders in the world seemed to run through her like rivers.
But Mona was happy now again. Radiantly happy. She had a pal from a golden time. No mention was made of the piano. What had that been about? Something to do with being a refugee, Ailsa thought. She was squiffy and had to be helped into her bunk.
Next day Mona’s bunk was empty. They’d all been sick as dogs in the Bay of Biscay but things were calmer now. Ailsa, with a pounding headache, went over to Mona’s bunk and turned down the sheet. Nightie gone. Wash-bag gone. She’d been taken . Who had taken her? Don’t be silly, of course she hadn’t. Ailsa slowly began to dress and made her way up on deck.
Sky and sea were dazzlingly blue, the breezy sun warm on her face and arms. A handful of hardy folk had already clambered out of the misery in the ship’s belly and lay on deck chairs soaking up the sun. It was another world, a holiday place. One could dimly see grey-green land over the sea-shimmer. And a white-coated waiter approaching with tea and biscuits.
The German woman lay fast asleep on a deck chair, pale hair tucked under a scarf, a cardigan draped round her shoulders. Ailsa sat down beside her, sipped sweet tea, nibbled a sugary biscuit. The quiet was bliss; the fresh air tonic. A book lay open on Hedwig’s lap, its pages whispering as the breeze turned them over one by one, unread.
When Hedwig yawningly awoke, Ailsa couldn’t resist exercising her beloved German: ‘Guten Morgen, Frau Webster. Ein richtig schöner Tag, nicht wahr?’ Hedwig’s eyes were puffy. You’ve been crying, Ailsa thought, as herneighbour hoisted herself up in the chair and removed her sun glasses for a moment, to rub her eyes.
‘Guten Morgen, Frau Roberts. Sie sprechen also Deutsch?’
‘Kleines Bißchen.’
Hedwig came from Hamburg. Her husband had met her in the ruins. He had saved her from bad things. Taken her to safety.
She did not look as though she felt safe. It came out that the ladies in her cabin, all but Frau Irene White, had treated Hedwig as if she were personally responsible for the swastikas on the sheets. Hedwig had never been one of them , she was blameless, surely that was clear? She was a British
Ashamed of her ignorance, Ailsa let the moment go by when she could have asked why the Serafins, Jews in Jerusalem, had been driven out of their own city. And why, now that the state of Israel existed, they couldn’t return. Israel had opened the gates for massive immigration, Ailsa knew that : a thousand Jews a day were flocking home to the Holy Land. From the ends of the earth. The ancient Exodus was at last reversed. The remnant of Europe’s persecuted Jews could find a place to lay their heads. So why not the Serafins?
Mona was describing a white veranda: when you stepped out in the morning before the heat got up, its cool tiles were delicious under your bare feet. Her window at Qatamon had looked out on an apricot tree and an orange tree. Our tabby and her kittens basked in their shade. Ailsa felt saturated with the light and colour of Mona’s memories and with their sadness, as if they constituted a dream of her own.
The cat had been called Petra. A fat, overfed creature, purring like a motor.
We had to leave her there. Under the tree. But I never speak about this .
That meant: don’t ask questions. I will tell you what I can. Mona said the women of her family had been strong people. Obliged to be. Resourceful and flexible and inventive. They’d had to learn other languages and customs, transplanting themselves in different soils. Every new language clashed against the others until you absorbed it and each in turn seemed to be Mona’s first language, or equal first. Or they bled confusingly into one another. Tower of Babel in here, she said, tapping her head, confusion of tongues. That’s how it is with nomads.Never a dull moment. All the borders in the world seemed to run through her like rivers.
But Mona was happy now again. Radiantly happy. She had a pal from a golden time. No mention was made of the piano. What had that been about? Something to do with being a refugee, Ailsa thought. She was squiffy and had to be helped into her bunk.
Next day Mona’s bunk was empty. They’d all been sick as dogs in the Bay of Biscay but things were calmer now. Ailsa, with a pounding headache, went over to Mona’s bunk and turned down the sheet. Nightie gone. Wash-bag gone. She’d been taken . Who had taken her? Don’t be silly, of course she hadn’t. Ailsa slowly began to dress and made her way up on deck.
Sky and sea were dazzlingly blue, the breezy sun warm on her face and arms. A handful of hardy folk had already clambered out of the misery in the ship’s belly and lay on deck chairs soaking up the sun. It was another world, a holiday place. One could dimly see grey-green land over the sea-shimmer. And a white-coated waiter approaching with tea and biscuits.
The German woman lay fast asleep on a deck chair, pale hair tucked under a scarf, a cardigan draped round her shoulders. Ailsa sat down beside her, sipped sweet tea, nibbled a sugary biscuit. The quiet was bliss; the fresh air tonic. A book lay open on Hedwig’s lap, its pages whispering as the breeze turned them over one by one, unread.
When Hedwig yawningly awoke, Ailsa couldn’t resist exercising her beloved German: ‘Guten Morgen, Frau Webster. Ein richtig schöner Tag, nicht wahr?’ Hedwig’s eyes were puffy. You’ve been crying, Ailsa thought, as herneighbour hoisted herself up in the chair and removed her sun glasses for a moment, to rub her eyes.
‘Guten Morgen, Frau Roberts. Sie sprechen also Deutsch?’
‘Kleines Bißchen.’
Hedwig came from Hamburg. Her husband had met her in the ruins. He had saved her from bad things. Taken her to safety.
She did not look as though she felt safe. It came out that the ladies in her cabin, all but Frau Irene White, had treated Hedwig as if she were personally responsible for the swastikas on the sheets. Hedwig had never been one of them , she was blameless, surely that was clear? She was a British
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