she pulled out a road map of England, and another of East Anglia, a walking map of Suffolk, and another, barely used, of the nearby Fens. She took down her father’s leather-bound atlas from its shelf and, with barely a thought, hurriedly ripped out several of the pages. She opened up the desk drawers. They were all in a mess as if someone had already been rummaging, the identity cards, ration cards, and her father’s bank statements gone.
She could hear the car’s engine coughing several times and stopping, then coughing again as he tried to start it. She gathered the maps and torn pages up inside her dress and hurried across the hallway into the sitting room. DO NOT GIVE ANY GERMAN ANYTHING. DO NOT TELL HIM ANYTHING. HIDE YOUR FOOD AND YOUR BICYCLES. HIDE YOUR MAPS. She pushed the piano stool aside and scrambled under the piano; then, taking a hair clip and bending it open, she got down on her hands and knees and slid it along the edge of one of the floorboards until she felt some resistance. She could hear him still in the garage, the car coughing and choking. She fumbled with the clip but it kept flicking out of the crack. She straightened it and tried again. Her mother had twenty pounds in cash hidden. I know it’s daft, she had said, but it makes me feel better, if anything should happen…
Outside now, it had gone quiet. He’d give up with the car before long and come back in. She fiddled desperately with the hair clip, but her palms were sweaty and the clip kept slipping from her hand. Then, with a delicate click, the tiny catch her father had fastened unhooked, and with the tips of her fingers she managed to prize the broken floorboard up. She lifted a few folded bits of paper out of the hole and checked, but her mother’s money was gone.
Before marriage and a family, there was Eva’s father to contend with. His daughter being a musician was something to be proud of. But a future son-in-law? Pah! He had made it quite clear that music was a profession delicate enough for women, but any man participating in it must surely be of questionable character. Germany hadn’t been made in the music halls after all, but in the trenches, in the thunder of battle. With the exception of Wagner and a few traditional folk songs, he pronounced, music had done nothing to cajole the German people and was, at best, a passable distraction on a Sunday afternoon—and only then when there was nothing better with which to occupy the soul. It would certainly not make Germany great. Or a son-in-law worthy.
He had only recently signed up again, feeling like so many others that it was his duty and privilege. In those first few weeks of the training he had felt a camaraderie with other men that he had never experienced before—the sense that together they were on the cusp of something great, something worth fighting for. And in the months preceding the war he proved himself to be an elite soldier. He had a level of awareness matched by few and could tune his ears to the slightest sound, while his ability to remain undetected out in the field had brought him to the attention of the NCOs. None of this mattered to Eva’s father though, who still branded him a “musician”—and no amount of hobnail boots or cross-fire action, or even his later Brandenburg training, was likely to change that.
He climbed out of the car and looked around the garage for a petrol can. In the corner, piles of black sheeting lolled about on a workbench, cloth sacks sagged against the wall, pot-bellied with potatoes, and tatty spiderwebs drooped and dripped from the overhanging beams. He dragged aside cans of paint, a toolbox, a scuffed water bucket, and the sleeping coils of a hose, but there was no petrol.
That first afternoon, they had walked about the Tiergarten and eventually found themselves back at the same picnic spot. She had lain on her back, her hand drifting across the grass and picking the heads off daisies, casually flicking them at him.
She could hear the car’s engine coughing several times and stopping, then coughing again as he tried to start it. She gathered the maps and torn pages up inside her dress and hurried across the hallway into the sitting room. DO NOT GIVE ANY GERMAN ANYTHING. DO NOT TELL HIM ANYTHING. HIDE YOUR FOOD AND YOUR BICYCLES. HIDE YOUR MAPS. She pushed the piano stool aside and scrambled under the piano; then, taking a hair clip and bending it open, she got down on her hands and knees and slid it along the edge of one of the floorboards until she felt some resistance. She could hear him still in the garage, the car coughing and choking. She fumbled with the clip but it kept flicking out of the crack. She straightened it and tried again. Her mother had twenty pounds in cash hidden. I know it’s daft, she had said, but it makes me feel better, if anything should happen…
Outside now, it had gone quiet. He’d give up with the car before long and come back in. She fiddled desperately with the hair clip, but her palms were sweaty and the clip kept slipping from her hand. Then, with a delicate click, the tiny catch her father had fastened unhooked, and with the tips of her fingers she managed to prize the broken floorboard up. She lifted a few folded bits of paper out of the hole and checked, but her mother’s money was gone.
Before marriage and a family, there was Eva’s father to contend with. His daughter being a musician was something to be proud of. But a future son-in-law? Pah! He had made it quite clear that music was a profession delicate enough for women, but any man participating in it must surely be of questionable character. Germany hadn’t been made in the music halls after all, but in the trenches, in the thunder of battle. With the exception of Wagner and a few traditional folk songs, he pronounced, music had done nothing to cajole the German people and was, at best, a passable distraction on a Sunday afternoon—and only then when there was nothing better with which to occupy the soul. It would certainly not make Germany great. Or a son-in-law worthy.
He had only recently signed up again, feeling like so many others that it was his duty and privilege. In those first few weeks of the training he had felt a camaraderie with other men that he had never experienced before—the sense that together they were on the cusp of something great, something worth fighting for. And in the months preceding the war he proved himself to be an elite soldier. He had a level of awareness matched by few and could tune his ears to the slightest sound, while his ability to remain undetected out in the field had brought him to the attention of the NCOs. None of this mattered to Eva’s father though, who still branded him a “musician”—and no amount of hobnail boots or cross-fire action, or even his later Brandenburg training, was likely to change that.
He climbed out of the car and looked around the garage for a petrol can. In the corner, piles of black sheeting lolled about on a workbench, cloth sacks sagged against the wall, pot-bellied with potatoes, and tatty spiderwebs drooped and dripped from the overhanging beams. He dragged aside cans of paint, a toolbox, a scuffed water bucket, and the sleeping coils of a hose, but there was no petrol.
That first afternoon, they had walked about the Tiergarten and eventually found themselves back at the same picnic spot. She had lain on her back, her hand drifting across the grass and picking the heads off daisies, casually flicking them at him.
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