Somewhere Over England by Margaret Graham

she was still outside his pain.
    When Christoph was nearly four months old the Enabling Act was passed in Germany allowing Hitler, rather than the President, to rule by decree.
    ‘It sets him above the law, you see,’ Heine said, his voice flat, his eyes dark, and Helen wondered what Herr Weber must be feeling but Heine would not write to him; he would only pace the flat, leaving work unfinished so that Helen felt she must work until midnight in the darkroom to complete his assignments for him after she had put Christoph to bed.
    When Christoph was nearly six months old books were burned in the streets of Germany, unions were harassed and in London the blossom bloomed and Helen printed and developed films and delivered them because Heine did not have time. He was too busy writing letters to Munich and meeting friends in dark pubs.
    When Christoph was seven months old he reached forward and pulled Helen towards him and laughed but Heine did not notice because opposition parties had been ousted from the Reichstag in June and a month later Hitler announced plans to sterilise imperfect Germans. Helen took a Leica and carried out two of Heine’s assignments and the results were as good. And so, increasingly, she took over his workload too and did not mind because she had told herself that she would join the battle if that would help this man she loved so much.
    In August her mother came to stay and Helen had to take her out to photograph damage caused by the gales which had hit England, and that night, when the wind blew again and the thunder roared and her mother was asleep, she crooned to Christoph and told him of the raven who was warning them to stay in in case they saw the gods go by. She looked up and smiled at Heine when he came home wet and cold.
    ‘Did you see the gods going about their holy business, mydarling?’ she whispered, lifting her face for his kiss. Knowing that for her he was the god.
    He laughed. ‘Only one of your English coppers getting very wet as he paced his beat.’
    Helen made him tea and he sat by the gas fire which plopped and spluttered, cupping the drink in his hand.
    ‘Your mother is asleep?’
    ‘My mother would sleep through a deluge of ravens,’ she said softly. ‘Christoph has not woken since nine and I have finished trimming the hotel photograph. Did you have a good meeting?’ Helen sat down on the worn carpet in front of the fire. The heat was comforting. She clutched her knees, seeing the dust lying on the mantelpiece, on the hearth.
    ‘Yes, we are trying to find firms that will sponsor those that are going to have to leave Germany if it goes on and on. So far in America and to some extent here we have been fortunate. But there is a great deal to do and unemployment is a problem in both countries. I think the time we have and the dissidents have and the Jews have, is short.’
    He put his mug down on the table and leaned back, his hands clasped behind his head.
    ‘Oh God, it’s the studio portrait tomorrow, Helen. I know I said I would do it but I can’t. I have to be at the Embassy by ten. Darling, can you?’
    Helen nodded, laying her head on her knees. Yes, she would do it, as she did so many others. She would have to tell her mother that Heine was out on another assignment again. It seemed easier to lie than to try and make her understand that some things were more important than making a profit. And they were, in this case they were, because people were being saved and Heine’s eyes were no longer dark, his steps were no longer heavy. At last, he had told her in the spring, he felt as though he was doing something again, actually helping people threatened by Hitler’s regime.
    In September one of his Munich friends arrived at their flat with no money and few clothes but many bruises and cuts because storm troopers armed with revolvers and piping were roaming the German streets looking for Jews and Communists and liberals. He told them of a concentration camp which had