over. They had taken a taxi back the night before, Phillip having drunk four more Scotches after Otto left, and the taxi driver had asked her, in a strong Yiddish accent, why she didn’t find a man who would look after her, instead of the other way around: “Believe me, it’s the secret to happiness for every woman. I’m an old man, I know what I’m talking about.”
Rolf stood when she and Phillip entered—that was how she recognized him. His brown hair was already receding, and there were dark circles under his eyes, visible even behind his glasses. Louisa introduced the two men; Rolf shook hands with them both. “Please sit down,” he said, gesturing to the booth from which he had emerged. They sat facing him. “Would you like to see the menu?” He handed it to Louisa. “I can recommend the Reuben sandwich.” They both said that was what they would have. Then they were silent. Rolf folded his hands on the table. The waitress brought coffee and took their orders. When she had gone, Phillip pushed his cup aside and, as though remembering that Rolf distrusted charm, said brusquely, “So tell me: when do you think the war will start?”
Rolf did not even blink. “I don’t know. Soon. But the Americans will refuse to fight, and who can blame them? It’s not their mess.”
“Well, the English may not fight either,” Phillip said. “The government is handing out gas masks, and they’re buildingmore airplanes, but people seem to think it’s to stop a war, not fight one. We’re about to run a piece from a fellow who was in Newcastle a fortnight ago. The shipwrights’ union is on double shifts, but nobody tells them why. ‘Hitler wouldn’t dare fight us,’ they told him. It’s what they all believe.”
“What about Churchill?” Rolf asked.
“He’s still seen as a warmonger. Anyone who says war is inevitable they call a warmonger.”
Rolf removed his glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Otto said you wanted to know about the refugee committees.”
“That’s right. I thought I might do a piece on them while I was here.”
“What sort of information are you looking for?”
Phillip took out the handsome little notebook he had bought for the trip and began with the questions he’d asked Otto the night before. In fact, Congress had recently lowered the quotas for German Jews, Rolf told him, without any sign of emotion; he gave the figures for 1934, 1935, 1936, and 1937; he explained the most recent criteria for admission, and described how the committee set about finding sponsors. Louisa remembered her father, back in the old days, when men from the veterans’ organization would come, and they would talk about getting fresh milk to ex-soldiers in the TB clinic. Sometimes there would be other matters under discussion, nothing to do with the veterans; once, half asleep on the sofa, she had heard them make arrangements for somebody’s kitchen maid, who was pregnant with the coalman’s child. There had been something very comforting about it, the sense that all would be put right, the grown-ups were looking after things.
“I think I should meet with some of the refugees themselves,” Phillip said. “Get their personal stories. Can you arrange that for me?”
“If you like. You mean to write about them?”
“People ought to know what’s going on.”
“Nobody wants to hear such stories. Yesterday I met with a woman whose nose had been broken so badly she could pull the cotton wool up through the top as well as down through her nostrils. She showed me.” He looked over at Louisa. “I’m sorry. Your parents are still there, aren’t they?”
She nodded. “But Phillip says he’ll apply to get them out after we’re married.” She turned to Phillip, waiting for him to confirm this, but he was just biting into his sandwich.
“Mine are still there also. My father still thinks it will blow over, the Nazis will come to their senses.”
“It’s strange, my mother was the only
Rolf stood when she and Phillip entered—that was how she recognized him. His brown hair was already receding, and there were dark circles under his eyes, visible even behind his glasses. Louisa introduced the two men; Rolf shook hands with them both. “Please sit down,” he said, gesturing to the booth from which he had emerged. They sat facing him. “Would you like to see the menu?” He handed it to Louisa. “I can recommend the Reuben sandwich.” They both said that was what they would have. Then they were silent. Rolf folded his hands on the table. The waitress brought coffee and took their orders. When she had gone, Phillip pushed his cup aside and, as though remembering that Rolf distrusted charm, said brusquely, “So tell me: when do you think the war will start?”
Rolf did not even blink. “I don’t know. Soon. But the Americans will refuse to fight, and who can blame them? It’s not their mess.”
“Well, the English may not fight either,” Phillip said. “The government is handing out gas masks, and they’re buildingmore airplanes, but people seem to think it’s to stop a war, not fight one. We’re about to run a piece from a fellow who was in Newcastle a fortnight ago. The shipwrights’ union is on double shifts, but nobody tells them why. ‘Hitler wouldn’t dare fight us,’ they told him. It’s what they all believe.”
“What about Churchill?” Rolf asked.
“He’s still seen as a warmonger. Anyone who says war is inevitable they call a warmonger.”
Rolf removed his glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Otto said you wanted to know about the refugee committees.”
“That’s right. I thought I might do a piece on them while I was here.”
“What sort of information are you looking for?”
Phillip took out the handsome little notebook he had bought for the trip and began with the questions he’d asked Otto the night before. In fact, Congress had recently lowered the quotas for German Jews, Rolf told him, without any sign of emotion; he gave the figures for 1934, 1935, 1936, and 1937; he explained the most recent criteria for admission, and described how the committee set about finding sponsors. Louisa remembered her father, back in the old days, when men from the veterans’ organization would come, and they would talk about getting fresh milk to ex-soldiers in the TB clinic. Sometimes there would be other matters under discussion, nothing to do with the veterans; once, half asleep on the sofa, she had heard them make arrangements for somebody’s kitchen maid, who was pregnant with the coalman’s child. There had been something very comforting about it, the sense that all would be put right, the grown-ups were looking after things.
“I think I should meet with some of the refugees themselves,” Phillip said. “Get their personal stories. Can you arrange that for me?”
“If you like. You mean to write about them?”
“People ought to know what’s going on.”
“Nobody wants to hear such stories. Yesterday I met with a woman whose nose had been broken so badly she could pull the cotton wool up through the top as well as down through her nostrils. She showed me.” He looked over at Louisa. “I’m sorry. Your parents are still there, aren’t they?”
She nodded. “But Phillip says he’ll apply to get them out after we’re married.” She turned to Phillip, waiting for him to confirm this, but he was just biting into his sandwich.
“Mine are still there also. My father still thinks it will blow over, the Nazis will come to their senses.”
“It’s strange, my mother was the only
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