simple tedious tunes of the English hymns, sung loudly off-key by the staff and a few patients. Not music, she thought, surprised that she still remembered. Then the chaplain arrived, pale in his off-white vestments; and the chapel creaked with the give of dark hassocks.
It was back on the ward that the tune came back to her. Oh slowly, slowly, she sang under her breath, and filled up the rest of the verse in her own language: a stream, a man on a horse, a tall castle. She was sewing two buttons back on her overall. The rain thrashed against the long windows. The lines of the ballad circled in her head.
‘Here,’ said the attendant dramatically: ‘What’s this? ‘
She was standing directly in Narcisa’s light.
‘You hear that?’ the woman said, to anyone who might enjoy listening, diverting attention from their own misdemeanours. ‘The Boche here is singing. Trying to, any road.’
Boche was clear enough, and not the first time. Narcisa laid the overall on her lap. Her shoulders were cold in the ill-fitting petticoat.
‘Come on, Boche,’ the woman called, her narrow eyes glistening, her arms akimbo in the grey uniform. ‘Let’s have another chorus. How’d it go?’ She sang a few bars in a squeaking comic voice. The red-haired woman from the ironing-room tittered.
‘How does a Boche know an English song, eh? Perhaps she’s a Boche spy, eh? What do you reckon?’
Narcisa sat still. She understood enough. The attendant began again: In Scarlet Town, where I was born. Her voice cracked on Town . ‘Don’t you know the words yet, Boche? Suppose we teach her.’
Her face was pink; her breasts pushed against her apron. She leaned forward and pulled the sewing off Narcisa’s lap; the needle caught against the palm of her hand. Two or three drops of blood fell on the fabric. ‘You wicked girl,’ she said, ‘you’ve spoiled your uniform. Now they’re going to have to scrub it out.’ She leant forward and rubbed the cloth on Narcisa’s cheek.
The patients watched. Narcisa’s back tensed with the effort of sitting still. ‘Go on then, sing,’ the attendant said. ‘I’m ordering you.’ She sang a verse through herself in her high harsh voice.
An old woman caught Narcisa’s eye and nodded. Did she mean it was better to give in? But silence was always better, that was what she had learned: you said nothing, and hoped they got bored with you.
She remembered the woman scrubbing the corridor, on her hands and knees, singing to please herself. What were the words? Something about love, no doubt.
The attendant was standing too near, leering down at her. Why was she staring? There had been another attendant who did that - no, she would not remember what had happened. She pushed her chair back suddenly and stood, so the woman was off-balance and teetered backwards.
She began to sing, the first thing that came to her.
‘ Du holde Kunst..’
The strength of her voice surprised her; it reached to the far end of the ward, where she saw a woman sit up in bed, and another, limping, stop and turn round. Now they will be certain I’m German, she thought grimly. In the crowded ward no-one spoke, just for that moment; the attendant was leaning against the window-sill; someone up by the door was nodding to the rhythm. I must make this last, she thought, singing in German about a better world, eine bess’re Welt, putting all her force into it, anger perhaps though the tune was slow and sweet. They waited for the second verse to start. She could all but hear the piano accompaniment, her Aunt Apolonija who had taught it to her; she paused for the few bars. Her voice was not good any more, how could it be? Oh god I am going to be punished for this, she thought, carried up with the swell: ‘ ich danke dir dafür..’
The attendant slapped her hard across the face.
She heard herself make a sound, loudly, as if the
It was back on the ward that the tune came back to her. Oh slowly, slowly, she sang under her breath, and filled up the rest of the verse in her own language: a stream, a man on a horse, a tall castle. She was sewing two buttons back on her overall. The rain thrashed against the long windows. The lines of the ballad circled in her head.
‘Here,’ said the attendant dramatically: ‘What’s this? ‘
She was standing directly in Narcisa’s light.
‘You hear that?’ the woman said, to anyone who might enjoy listening, diverting attention from their own misdemeanours. ‘The Boche here is singing. Trying to, any road.’
Boche was clear enough, and not the first time. Narcisa laid the overall on her lap. Her shoulders were cold in the ill-fitting petticoat.
‘Come on, Boche,’ the woman called, her narrow eyes glistening, her arms akimbo in the grey uniform. ‘Let’s have another chorus. How’d it go?’ She sang a few bars in a squeaking comic voice. The red-haired woman from the ironing-room tittered.
‘How does a Boche know an English song, eh? Perhaps she’s a Boche spy, eh? What do you reckon?’
Narcisa sat still. She understood enough. The attendant began again: In Scarlet Town, where I was born. Her voice cracked on Town . ‘Don’t you know the words yet, Boche? Suppose we teach her.’
Her face was pink; her breasts pushed against her apron. She leaned forward and pulled the sewing off Narcisa’s lap; the needle caught against the palm of her hand. Two or three drops of blood fell on the fabric. ‘You wicked girl,’ she said, ‘you’ve spoiled your uniform. Now they’re going to have to scrub it out.’ She leant forward and rubbed the cloth on Narcisa’s cheek.
The patients watched. Narcisa’s back tensed with the effort of sitting still. ‘Go on then, sing,’ the attendant said. ‘I’m ordering you.’ She sang a verse through herself in her high harsh voice.
An old woman caught Narcisa’s eye and nodded. Did she mean it was better to give in? But silence was always better, that was what she had learned: you said nothing, and hoped they got bored with you.
She remembered the woman scrubbing the corridor, on her hands and knees, singing to please herself. What were the words? Something about love, no doubt.
The attendant was standing too near, leering down at her. Why was she staring? There had been another attendant who did that - no, she would not remember what had happened. She pushed her chair back suddenly and stood, so the woman was off-balance and teetered backwards.
She began to sing, the first thing that came to her.
‘ Du holde Kunst..’
The strength of her voice surprised her; it reached to the far end of the ward, where she saw a woman sit up in bed, and another, limping, stop and turn round. Now they will be certain I’m German, she thought grimly. In the crowded ward no-one spoke, just for that moment; the attendant was leaning against the window-sill; someone up by the door was nodding to the rhythm. I must make this last, she thought, singing in German about a better world, eine bess’re Welt, putting all her force into it, anger perhaps though the tune was slow and sweet. They waited for the second verse to start. She could all but hear the piano accompaniment, her Aunt Apolonija who had taught it to her; she paused for the few bars. Her voice was not good any more, how could it be? Oh god I am going to be punished for this, she thought, carried up with the swell: ‘ ich danke dir dafür..’
The attendant slapped her hard across the face.
She heard herself make a sound, loudly, as if the
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