The Other Me (12 page)

I never said goodbye. I close my eyes, tasting the thick and greasy layer, remembering that I sometimes found the print of her lips on my cheek after she’d kissed me goodnight.

‘Klaudia.’

I jump, opening my eyes. My father stands behind me. He stares at my face in the mirror. It occurs to me that he must have wished for a daughter that looked like his wife, feminine and small with glossy dark hair. Mum said that before she was pregnant with me my father could span her waist with his hands.

I feel caught out. My heart beats faster.

He ignores the lipstick on my skin and sighs. ‘Isn’t it time that you went back to your studies?’

‘I’ve taken… leave of absence.’

‘You need to return to university life.’ He frowns. ‘There’s nothing more for you to do here.’

‘I’ve deferred for a year,’ I say quickly. The lie slides out of my mouth like a tongue.

He looks startled. ‘Why?’

‘I just want to be at home,’ I tell him. ‘So that I can be here for you.’ The words feel awkward.

He moves his head as if a fly is bothering him. ‘I don’t need a nurse maid.’

I begin to protest, but he speaks across me. ‘You’re making a foolish choice in my opinion. But if you’re staying, then you’d better look for a job. It’s not healthy to mope about all day.’

My mother used to stand between us, softening edges, interpreting and explaining. I don’t know how to talk to him. He moves aside to let me leave. As I go, heat glows in my cheeks, as if I’m guilty of something.

I am guilty. I always will be.

I stride out along the pavement, avoiding dog shit, overtaking dawdlers and young mothers gossiping across their prams. I know where I’m going. A few minutes later, I’m turning into Mercers Road.

Kelwood High looks exactly the same. The playground is deserted. The school day has already begun and pupils will be inside sitting at their desks. I stop and stare through the wire fence. Looking at the brick building makes me remember the itch of socks at my knees and the claustrophobic grip of my top button and knotted tie. Tall windows hold dark shadows. I think I hear the murmuring of trapped voices.

Shane Stevens was expelled after he and his crowd of followers attacked a group of Asian pupils; Shane broke someone’s jaw, knocked him unconscious. A year after that, my father retired. But it’s not easy to get rid of a reputation. A new girl came into our class in the Lower Fifth. She’d sat next to me, glancing across anxiously, eager to make friends. I’d wanted to smile. She didn’t know me. But she’d find out soon enough. There was no point. It occurred to me then that my life would be so much better if I could simply begin again, be someone different.

Eliza was the person I’d always known I could be.

I haven’t contacted Meg since I waved to her in the departure hall at the airport. I can’t just disappear out of her life as well. I need to tell her who I really am – explain why I lied. I turn away from the bulk of school buildings and wire fencing and walk in the direction of home with my hands deep in my pockets. There is a cold wind, despite the blue sky.

I could write to her. Writing it down will mean I can choose my words carefully. It will give me space to explain. As soon as I have the thought, it becomes urgent that I act on it immediately. I go past the Guptas’ shop. I haven’t been in to buy anything since my father told me not to. But it doesn’t make any sense. If I’m going to send a letter to Meg, I need stamps.

The familiar bell jangles above me and Mrs Gupta glances up from behind the counter. She nods. ‘Klaudia. We haven’t seen you for a long time.’

She opens the till stiffly, with the expression of someone who has been misused. But then her face softens. ‘I’m sorry for your loss,’ she says quietly. ‘Your mother was a lovely person.’ As I hold out my palm for my change she takes my fingers and squeezes.

My throat is suddenly tight. Her kindness is too much to bear. I wanted to talk to her about Mum, but now I need to leave before I break down in tears.

At home, I shut myself in my room. I must write before I lose my nerve. I find a pen and paper and sit at my desk, head in my hands, thinking. I make several false starts, wasting paper, crumpling sheet after sheet, ripping each one into shreds and dropping it in the bin. In the end, after lots of crossings-out and re-writes, I manage something that will have to do. I worry that it sounds too plain, too cold. But I don’t want to beg or make excuses.

Dearest Meg,
 

I should have written before to thank you for having me to stay in Paris. I’m sorry. But after I left you something happened to change everything. I found out that my mum had been killed in a car accident. I know that this will seem very odd, as I’ve always told you that both my parents are already dead. But I lied to you. I am so sorry.
 

My real name is Klaudia Meyer. I was ashamed of who I was while I was growing up, because my father is German and he was in the army in the Second World War and he did some terrible things. My mother forgave him. But I was teased and bullied all my life for being his daughter. The daughter of a Nazi. Since the war he’s become very religious. I was brought up a Methodist. For years he was the caretaker at my school, so there was no getting away from him. I suppose that coming to Leeds gave me an opportunity to run away from all that, to start again. It was my chance to dance and to be the person I wanted to be.
 

I’m not crazy. I was just desperate, and unhappy.
 

I know I shouldn’t have lied to you. Nothing excuses it. But I am still your friend. I will always be your friend. Underneath the lies, I’m the same person. I hope more than anything else that you can forgive me. If you can, please write to me here, at my home in London. I will wait for a message. I can’t bear to lose you. But I will understand if you don’t want to see me again.
 

With all my love,
 

Klaudia.
 

My hand shakes when I sign my name. What if she can’t forgive me? I push away the fear. I have to take this risk; otherwise I’ve lost her anyway. I don’t know how much it costs to send a letter to France, so I put two first-class stamps on just to make sure, and seal the envelope.

Then I scribble a note to Cosmo. I can’t leave him to wonder what happened to me any longer. It isn’t fair. I keep it short. I don’t put in any endearments. But they sound inside my head. Darling Cosmo. Dearest Love.

Cosmo, I’m so sorry I didn’t meet you on the third like we’d planned. Things have changed for me and I’m not coming back to Leeds now. Please don’t worry about me. I’ll contact you when I can and explain. But meanwhile, don’t wait for me. It would be better to forget me.
 

Eliza
 

I reread the note, hearing how awkward and abrupt it sounds. But I can’t explain it properly. Not yet. Maybe Meg’s response will give me the courage. If she forgives me, perhaps it will make it easier to tell Cosmo the truth. I walk to the end of the street to the post box. I push both letters quickly through the dark opening. They fall inside and it’s too late to change my mind.

My father is standing in the kitchen staring out into the garden. The kettle begins to boil and he turns. He starts when he sees me.

‘Do you want a cup of tea?’ I try and sound cheerful, walking over to the cupboard and taking out two cups.

We sit across the table from one another. I fail to find anything to say. Silence stretches between us. He frowns into the bottom of his cup, clears his throat. ‘Have you started to look for a job?’

I shake my head.

He twists his mouth. ‘You can’t stay at home and do nothing. I live on my pension. If you are here for this academic year then you must contribute.’ He taps his long fingers on the table.

I know he’s right. I want to pay my way, but I can’t because I’m broke. I’ve just sent the last of my money to Lucy to cover the rent and told her I wouldn’t be coming back. Giving up my life in Leeds means no more Voronkov. I need to find classes here. But I can’t afford them. And a part of me thinks I don’t deserve them – not after I let Mum down.

‘You must keep up with your studies too. Don’t get behind. Get a temporary job in a shop or restaurant,’ he adds.

I wonder what he would say if I told him that the only job I’ve ever wanted is to be a dancer. But he knows already. ‘Dancing is not a career,’ he told me years ago. ‘It is a frivolous hobby for silly girls.’

ERNST

1933, Germany

It’s a beautiful April evening. Clusters of daffodils gather under the trees, bright as fallen suns. Doves coo from the poplar branches. Soon, I realise, the swallows will be back, darting from under the eaves of the barn, flying in airy loops above the house.

I’m off to the lake. Mrs Meyer is expecting perch for supper. Otto is furious because he’s been made to stay behind and mend the orchard fence.

It’s good to be on my own. It’s always me and Otto, stuck together as if we’re twins; whereas, actually, there is probably about a year between us. We don’t know our real birth dates. He’d been a tiny baby when we were found. I’d been older, able to stagger about on plump legs. He’s taller than me now though. One night those bony knees of his cranked out another half inch of cartilage.

I pick a switch of willow on my way past the pond and whip the tops of grasses, thrashing the air as I walk. Over the dyke, the windmill is turning slowly, white sails cutting a softer path through the sky. The rod and tackle box that’s slung across my shoulder bumps against my hip. I like the measure of my own stride, the way I step as I please, stop and start, grow slower or faster. I don’t enjoy marching in a troop. Being forced to go at the same speed as the rest. It’s a relief to be just me, alone with the meadows and singing birds, the sunlight and the wind in the trees.

There isn’t another person at the lake. The soil is churned up with animal prints by the water’s edge. I walk further along the bank, finding a patch of firm ground. I keep my back to the fields, so that I’m facing the dark expanse of forest across the water. I like to be able to keep my eye on its borders. You never know what might rush or creep from between its trunks. Branches and leaves rise in dense banks of green, different shades, darker and lighter. There used to be wolves in the forest. There’s still wild boar though – even more dangerous, people say. I don’t like the rustling depths of the trees, the impossibility of seeing anything properly once you’ve stepped inside.

I bait my line and cast off. The air is colder, the sun beginning to drop below the trees. I wait, hunched inside my jacket. Sometimes there’s the splash of a perch rising. I stare at the surface, my hands on the rod, fingers alert for any tremble of movement. The lake is deep. There are eels under its calm: dark snakes writhing out of the muck at the bottom. We’ve caught some big ones in the past. I wouldn’t like to be in the water with their muscular bodies pushing close, snouts full of sharp teeth.

A twig snaps. I raise my head, heart jumping at the sound of someone approaching. I spot them before they see me. Two people walking together, heads down, talking. As they come closer, I recognise them. It’s Daniel Baumann and his sister. I can’t remember her name. Daniel and I were friends at school. But even though they’re not Orthodox, he and his sister moved to the Jewish school in the next town a couple of years ago. Daniel used to split his break with me, tearing apart a
Brötchen
speckled with poppy seeds, halving boiled eggs, munching one side of an apple then handing me the rest. We were good at the same things, both liking science and nature studies. I haven’t spoken to him since he left, even when I see him in the town. I am embarrassed, afraid of what people will think of me talking to a Jew. I avoid looking at him, not wanting to see disappointment or resentment in his eyes. Their father is a doctor. But we’ve never stepped inside his surgery. Never needed to. Mrs Meyer sewed up Otto’s leg, the time he’d cut it open on a scythe.

They haven’t spotted me yet and I have the instinct to crawl into the long grasses and hide. But the rod and tackle spread on the ground would give me away. I stand up, straightening my jacket.

I see them notice me, the small shock of it registering in the flexing and twist of their shoulders. The girl slows, pulling at her brother’s sleeve. And I know they want to avoid our meeting as much as me. Daniel falters, then puts his shoulders back and walks towards me, purposeful, resigned. Light bounces off his round glasses, hiding his eyes.

‘Daniel,’ I nod.

I stare at his sister. She’s pretty. Curling brown hair falling across her shoulders. She has skin like milk. But she is a Jew.

Daniel takes his sister’s arm. ‘You remember Sarah?’ The words are stiff and formal.

‘Of course.’

We stand for a moment and the silence is like a muffling up of the air; it seems to press closer, so that I can’t catch my breath.

‘I’m fishing.’

I flush. Why am I stating the obvious like some stupid oaf? I can’t think what else to say.

‘We come here to get away from things,’ Sarah confides. She smiles and inclines her head along the path. ‘There’s a deserted cottage…’

Daniel digs her in the ribs. She winces and closes her lips, frowning.

‘It’s OK,’ I say quickly. ‘I won’t say anything. If it’s a secret.’

She gives me another quick smile, looking at me from under her lashes and my chest swells.

‘We have to get on.’ Daniel pushes his glasses up his nose. I can’t bear the coldness in his voice. But there is nothing I can do to change the way things are. I stand aside, watching them walk along the path and around the river. Gnats spin in the viscous air around them. Daniel keeps his back straight, his head up. Sarah leans close, her arm linked through his, pressing against his side, chattering on. I wish I could hear what she’s saying. I watch the soft curves of her bottom, how it moves under her thin cotton skirt.