Somewhere Over England by Margaret Graham Page A

been opened for these ‘dissidents’.
    ‘It is at Dachau,’ he said.
    Helen made up the bed for Isaac in the spare room and listened to his story and cried. That evening they ate a stew which she had padded out with vegetables and she told them that Christoph had said ‘dada’ and that Heine really did need to make sure he arrived at the art gallery promptly at ten tomorrow because they were leaving up the paintings until he arrived. They particularly wanted him because he had produced such fine work for the catalogue last year. She said nothing when he explained that he had other more important things to do; just nodded and smiled at Isaac and handed him more rice. She had overcooked it and it clung to the spoon in a lump; so white against the old stained table spoon.
    That night in bed she told Heine that he must do tomorrow’s assignment because she could not, she was already booked to cover the meeting at Whitechapel. Her voice was calm but high as she told him that they would have to earn more money if the bills were to be paid and there was Isaac to feed now. He became angry and told her that she was being trivial; there was a vast problem, or was she too much of a child to see? His voice was tight but low, because they were not alone in their flat, were they?
    Headlights flashed across the ceiling and walls from the passing traffic and Helen watched as the brass picture frame over by the door glinted, caught by the lights of one car and then another.
    Her voice remained calm as she answered but the effort made her hands clench. She breathed slowly.
    ‘Is it childish to deal in reality?’ she said. ‘If we are to help your friends we need to work to pay for it or our child will suffer. You prefer reality. You told me.’ She pointed to the glinting frame which held the photograph he had taken of London Bridge. ‘You have used no soft focus there, Heine. There is no place for it in our lives at this moment. We need to eat, and in order to do that we need to work. We both need to work. You have responsibility to your family as well as your friends.’
    That night she did not sleep but lay on her side, tense with anger and disappointment, aware that he was not asleep either; but she could not touch him, she could not bridge the distance between them because suddenly she was tired. So tired and the sun of their German honeymoon seemed too far away.
    That morning they dressed without speaking and neither looked at the other’s nakedness. Her tiredness hung heavily on her. In the kitchen she poured his tea, watching the tea leaves fill the strainer. Still they did not speak. She fed soldiers to Christoph, then watched as Heine went to the studio and returned with his cameras.
    He stood in the doorway, leaning against the doorpost, his eyes watching Christoph as he dropped his toast on the floor and smeared butter all over his face. His shrieks and banging were the only noise between them.
    Helen leaned back against the sink. It was cool across her back. She looked at the brown lino which was worn in the far corner, the strands of hemp showing through.
    Heine spoke. ‘You are right, my little wife. I’m sorry.’ He blew her a kiss and she watched him as he left and thought, I am not a little wife, I am an adult.
    In December 1934 Christoph was two. In 1935 conscription came into being in Germany, Hitler took possession of the Saar, and Helen’s house became even more full of frightened, thin young men. Her mother no longer came to stay because it was not proper amongst so many foreigners and there never seemed to be the time to try and make her understand how necessary it was. How it would not last for ever because Hitler would fall. Surely he would fall?
    But her mother should have known it was necessary, Heine told Helen. There wasn’t time to make him understand that the distance between mother and daughter was still too wide to discuss such things.
    There were camp beds in the sitting-room and the spare