A Parachute in the Lime Tree (12 page)

News of the night’s bombing raid had not yet made it to the paper, which was full of the innocence of the day before. There was a picture of some golf club members down in Waterford, bent double in their plus fours, planting potatoes on the section of the course they’d dug up for the purpose. He hoped it would not come to that at Portmarnock. He looked for Bobby’s horse in the results of the Laidlaw Plate but it wasn’t placed. In amongst the advertisements for Guiney’s anniversary sale and the Bracer that Builds you up, he found Elsa Frankel.

The report gave her address as Stamer Street but it didn’t say which number. He knew Stamer Street; the houses were tall, narrow, red brick. He might have to go knocking on doors until he found her. But what would he do then? He didn’t think she was the type of girl you would ask to a dance. The cinema, maybe? He’d noticed that the new picture with Nelson Eddy and Jeanette MacDonald was on at the Metropole. It had a romantic sort of a name, something to do with the moon. Maybe she would like that. He didn’t know if
there was opera on at the Gaiety or if there was, how much it cost to buy a ticket. He wasn’t sure the opera was up to much, anyway. He’d heard they had some awful fellows singing the leads now that there were no Italians coming over to fill them. It might be safer to stick with the pictures. The idea of finding Elsa Frankel was such an appealing one and the day so fine that Charlie decided the pericardium could wait another day.

The unexpected sunshine had him full of the joys. When he reached Stamer Street he marched straight up to number 1 and gave it sharp little rap. The man who answered the door had his shirt open to the top of his vest and a drip of lather on the end of his chin. Charlie came straight to the point. ‘I’m looking for a girl called Elsa Frankel,’ he said.

‘So why’d you come here then?’ the man replied and closed the door in his face.

He worked methodically through the numbers. He’d got to number 9 when a man emerged from one of the houses he’d already tried. ‘I hear you’re looking for the German girl, the one who’s living with Bethel and Hilde,’ he said and pointed Charlie in the direction of number 17.

As Charlie approached the house, the sound of a gramophone wafted across from the other side of the street.
I dreamt I dwelt in marble halls
. The sound was faint and cracked but the voice was unmistakeable. It was Margaret Burke Sheridan, the opera singer his father worshipped, the one they all referred to at home as Maggie from Mayo.
But I also dreamt, which pleased me most, that you lov’d me still the same. The Bohemian Girl
. Charlie took this as an auspicious omen, and it fortified him as he made his way towards Elsa’s house.

When he got closer, he passed two women who were standing in the street with their shopping baskets, speaking a strange guttural language he couldn’t place. He could tell they’d noticed him but they pretended they hadn’t. Just then, the
girls who had been with Elsa the other day at the Feis came bounding through the door of number 17. If he hadn’t stood aside they’d have crashed right into him as they raced down the steps and went skipping off down the road.

He’d already had his foot on the bottom step but now he changed his mind. The moment had passed and his courage failed him. He imagined her in the hallway, putting on her coat and getting ready to leave the house herself. It was probably an awkward time. And anyway, he’d come on a whim without announcing himself or even thinking out what he would say. He walked away in the direction of town. Instead of trying to catch the end of his lecture he went back to his digs. He wanted to do this properly and he decided a letter to her parents would be the proper way.

Mrs Curran left a letter on his side plate at breakfast a few days later. She busied herself at the sideboard, waiting for him to open it, but he took it off to his room and sat down on the edge of the bed to read it.

The next Thursday, the two men sat together in the front parlour of the house in Stamer Street. The tall, narrow room was dominated by a large lithograph depicting bearded men in flowing gowns, so ancient and knowledgeable they might be prophets. There was that much in the picture, what with garlands of leaves, inscriptions and a whole menagerie of beasts, that Charlie found it hard to tear himself away from it. In fact, the whole room, lined with heavy carved furniture so dark it was almost black, was as crowded and richly decorated as the print. Every surface was laid with fine embroidered cloths and there were huge bolts of cloth piled up beneath the sideboard.

‘Right then, Byrne,’ said Abrahamson, rubbing his hands together heartily. ‘You’d like to visit Elsa.’

‘I would, Sir.’ He slid the posy he’d brought with him onto the floor, not quite sure what to do with it.

Bethel cracked the knuckles of one hand, then the other. He looked at Charlie, sizing him up. ‘She’s an only child, Byrne,
from Berlin originally. The father was a professor of some kind, back in the day. Of course, that’s all changed now.’ He seemed distracted a moment. ‘Things got very hot for them in Berlin, so they had to get out of there, went to family in Amsterdam. Elsa was the lucky one. And now, with Holland occupied …’

‘But couldn’t they just come over here?’

Abrahamson looked straight at him. ‘It’s not for want of trying. We’ve had people onto it ever since she arrived. In fact, it looked like we might be getting somewhere until this time last year, and the Germans blasted their way into Holland. I’d say that’s put the kibosh on it, for the time being anyway. No, Byrne, right now my main priority is Elsa herself. It was tougher for them over there than either of us can appreciate. It’s up to me to make sure she doesn’t suffer like that again.’ He looked levelly at Charlie. ‘You might be aware that, even in Dublin, there’s people only too happy to make problems for a Jew.’

Charlie had never met a Jew before, much less made problems for one. He didn’t know what he was expected to say.

‘If our friend Esther had her way we’d have Elsa up at Dublin Castle filling in forms. Becoming Official, whatever that means. Sure you wouldn’t want to be taking any risks with officialdom. She’s grand where she is.’ He leaned over and gave Charlie a brisk pat on the leg. ‘I’m just telling you all this, Byrne, so you’ve the bit of background. So you know the score.’

Charlie nodded, swallowed.

‘As for how much you should talk about the war and all that, it can be hard to know how to handle it, sometimes. There’s been no word from the parents this last while, you see. Not a dicky. Elsa is like you or me on the surface of it but life’s not easy for her.’

There was a break in the conversation and for the first time Charlie could hear the sound of a piano in the next room. Bethel seemed unaware of it, his eyes on the carpet. Charlie looked down to try and see what was engrossing him. He
seemed to be following the intricate path of one of the boughs on its tree of life pattern. Charlie began to rack his brain for something to say. ‘It’s hard lines, being far from home,’ he said at last. The longer the statement hung there, the more foolish he felt.

Bethel looked up and gave him a half smile. ‘It is,’ he said, nodding slowly, ‘but it’s hard to get your head round, isn’t it? People scattered, like that. Not able to live with their own people in the place they were born.’

Charlie felt inadequate, suddenly, in the face of so much turmoil. His own upbringing seemed impossibly dull and self-satisfied by comparison.

‘That’s a miserable state of affairs, Byrne. Living somewhere you’ve no real love for because it’s not safe for you to be anywhere else.’

‘So I’d imagine,’ Charlie said quickly. ‘You don’t feel that yourself, Sir, I hope?’

Bethel looked taken aback and Charlie hoped that the question didn’t seem too personal.

‘Sure I’m Dublin born and bred.’

Charlie felt clumsy, embarrassed. He felt his face redden.

‘But you’re right, of course, for all we’re born and bred, we’re always set apart a little bit. In these times, now, we have our worries, sure we do. Between you and me, Byrne, I’d say we’re on some list already, somewhere in Berlin. If it came to it and there was a German invasion, we’d be in the soup.’ Bethel seemed to be thinking aloud now. ‘Don’t know where we’d go if that happened. Not many places left when you boil it down. My own father, now, he left Kovno fifty years ago. From there, he went to Konigsberg, then onto Halle. Leipzig, Magdeburg, Hanover.’ He reeled off the placenames like a well-worn litany. ‘They stayed there a month or so with some relatives, then off on the road again. On again, to Amsterdam this time. He used to say sometimes that maybe he should have stayed in
Amsterdam. He liked the size of the place and the canals. But he travelled further. Antwerp, though I don’t know why, and then back to Rotterdam, where he got the boat to England. A place called Hull, a port over there on the east coast. Then Leeds, then Manchester. They stayed in Manchester a long time. Some of the family still live there but our side came over to Dublin and we’ve been here ever since.’

Charlie nodded, eager to show interest, but he could see the posy on the floor out of the corner of his eye and he was worried the flowers would have wilted by the time he got to see Elsa, whenever that might be. Bethel seemed to detect Charlie’s impatience. ‘But none of this is why you came visiting,’ he said briskly. ‘So, Byrne, you’re a medical student, then. You liking that?’

Charlie wondered whether he should bother pretending but Bethel didn’t wait for an answer anyway. ‘In this house now, it’s music, music, music.’ That seemed to cheer him up. ‘And not just Elsa, either. She has my own two at it as well now.’ Charlie laughed along with him, wondering whether he would get to see Elsa today at all.

Hilde nudged open the door with her shoulder. She laid a tray of tea on one of the heavy sideboards, gave Charlie a brief smile and nodded over at her husband.

‘Elsa’s ready for us, now,’ Bethel said. He began pouring the tea, and placed a cup and saucer on the arm of Charlie’s chair. It was all very like how his grandmother had described courting in the old days. He uttered some inanity or other and slid himself forward onto the edge of the chair in preparation. When he ran his hand around his chin, he remembered the little nick he’d made that morning, trying to shave without a mirror.

Elsa was even smaller than he remembered. A smile flickered across her face and was gone almost before he could catch it. Charlie gripped the arms of the chair to lever himself out of it and almost knocked over the teacup in his haste. Avoiding
that disaster, he managed to trample on the posy. He could tell that Elsa had taken all this in but she didn’t say anything. No one said anything for a moment.

‘Elsa, this is the Charles Byrne fellow I told you about. The boy who tracked you down from the Feis Ceoil.’

He didn’t like ‘boy’. He didn’t much like ‘tracked down’ either. It began to dawn on Charlie that he really had no pretext for being there, and his cheeks flared.

‘Do you remember I told you Mr Byrne here has a bit of an interest in music himself?’ Bethel said.

Put kindly enough, thought Charlie. ‘I’m in the Rathmines and Rathgar,’ he said. ‘We could do with an accompanist.’ It must have been the need to explain his presence; some urge to justify himself. Anyway, it was out before he could stop himself.

‘It’s light music, Elsa,’ Bethel put in. ‘An operatic society. Amateurs. Sociable fellows.’

Charlie nodded, wondering how he was going to get out of this.

‘They probably need someone to help out at rehearsals. Would that be it?’ Bethel asked, clearly trying to help him along.

‘It would.’

Bethel poured the tea and for a moment the room was quiet but for the clink of teaspoons.

‘That piece you played at the Feis,’ Charlie said. ‘Is there any chance you could give us that again? When you’ve had your tea, would you play it, maybe?’

She gave him a quick smile, and after that he could barely keep track of what Bethel was saying about the spring this year being the worst he’d ever known it. When the tea was done the three of them trooped next door to the piano.

As she’d done at the Feis, Elsa twisted the knobs on either side of the stool to trundle it up to the right level for her. When she turned back to the piano, her body slackened. She took a long breath and began to play. She seemed unaware of anything
but the music. He didn’t recognise the piece she played but the melody sang out like the song of a bird. He found himself trying to interpret the expression in her shoulders, just as he’d tried to read that elusive look on her face the first time he saw her. When Hilde put her head round the door, Bethel got up and left the room while Elsa was still playing.