The Other Me (15 page)

Spring brought disorder to the garden. I’d found Mum’s trowels and secateurs stored in a basket, her old apron folded inside. Her gardening gloves were tucked in the pocket. Since then, I’ve begun the task of clearing the flowerbeds, even though I’m not really sure what I’m doing.

I concentrate on pulling out a mass of writhing weeds that cling just under the earth, coiling around the roots of other plants. The weak sun makes a patch of warmth on my back as I dig metal prongs into the earth. It’s harder work than it looks. I put the trowel down for a moment to ease my aching arm, stretch my shoulders. I have begun my dance practice again, starting every morning with
pliés
, my hand resting on the back of a chair, imagining Voronkov’s critical gaze on me. It’s difficult to drag myself out of bed and put my body through the torture of stretching when my heart is heavy. But I keep seeing Cosmo in the cafe, hearing his voice as he asked, ‘What about your dancing?’

I’ve amassed a whole pile of pungent greenery. I hope they really are weeds. A flutter of wings cuts across the light, and I look up to see a magpie landing heavily in the branches of the apple tree. My father appears on the lawn, clapping his hands. The bird takes off on a lazy spread of black and white.

‘Magpies,’ my father says. ‘Nothing but pests. Stealing other birds’ nests.’

‘Oh.’ I wipe my forehead with the back of my wrist. ‘I thought that was cuckoos. Aren’t magpies thought to be omens? One for sorrow. Two for joy.’

‘Superstitious nonsense.’ He comes over, stands next to me looking down with hands on his hips and he nods approvingly.

‘It’s looking much better,’ he says. ‘Your mother was a natural gardener too.’

I push myself upright, unsettled by the unexpected praise. I brush damp soil from my knees. ‘Thanks.’ I take off the heavy gloves. ‘I was just finishing up. Need to get ready for work.’

‘How are you getting on?’ he asks. ‘What kind of restaurant is it?’

I look down at the gloves, pretending to pat them into shape. I hadn’t thought that he’d take an interest. I’d told him that I’d got a job as a waitress because I knew he’d disapprove of me being behind a bar. He and my mother never touched alcohol. ‘Oh, nothing fancy.’ I swallow. ‘But I like it there. It’s good to be busy.’

‘Yes,’ he nods, eyebrows pulling together. ‘It was a mistake to take such a long break from your studies. But it can’t be helped now.’

I want to tell him that I’m not going back to Leeds. That I’d dropped out of my degree ages ago. I want to be honest with him, but I know he’ll be angry and I’m not ready to argue with him. Neither of us is ready for that – not when we haven’t recovered from the shock of Mum’s death, not when we are just beginning to get on better.

When Scarlett invited me round to her place for a drink before work, my first thought was that I couldn’t go. Cosmo would be there. But I’d reasoned that we’d meet again at some point. I couldn’t put it off for ever. So I accepted Scarlett’s invitation, and allowed myself to imagine a fantasy scenario where he’d magically know about my false and complicated life. All the confusion cleared away without any pain. The luxury of it unfolded before me like a Hollywood movie, in soft-focus colours and weeping strings. And I saw him so clearly inside my head, his face full of forgiveness as he placed his finger on my lips and kissed me.

By the time I’m in the shower, soaping away earthy smells, I’m still lost in my daydreams, caught up in remembering the feel of Cosmo’s mouth on mine. Wrapped in a towel, I pull out different tops to wear with my jeans, holding them up to my chest in the mirror: the pink sleeveless blouse, or my favourite washed-out green halter-neck? He always liked me in that. I stare at my reflection. What am I doing? This is not a fantasy, or a film. I’ve behaved appallingly. He’s never going to forgive me. I rub my fist into my eyes, pushing at sore eyeballs, scattering eyelashes.

On my way to the train station, the sense of trepidation lodged in my belly weighs me down, makes my steps sluggish. Now I’m praying that I won’t bump into him. I have no idea how he’ll react. I don’t even know if Scarlett’s told him I’m coming.

Aseema Choppra is crossing our street, pushing a buggy. She stops to bend down, making shushing noises to a toddler. The child is wailing, snot seeping from flared nostrils.

I pause, looking at the crying child. ‘Is he yours? He’s… lovely.’ The boy’s wide, watery gaze doesn’t move from my face. ‘You’re married? I didn’t know. Belated congratulations.’

She runs a hand across the folds of her tunic, and the
tilaka
between her eyebrows glares at me like a fiery third eye. ‘It isn’t really my business. But as you’re here, I wanted to talk to you about Mrs Gupta.’ She tightens her lips, and places her hands on the handles of the buggy.

‘Sorry?’ I wonder if I’ve misheard her.

‘She’s upset. Your father is avoiding her. She says you’ve only been in the shop once since you got home.’

‘Well… yes,’ I admit.

‘I think your father is being unfair. Mrs Gupta was a good friend to your mother. What happened was a tragic accident. It wasn’t Mrs Gupta’s fault.’

‘Of course it wasn’t,’ I reassure her. ‘Look, I appreciate you trying to help… but my father has suffered a terrible loss. I think it’s up to him where he chooses to shop.’ I am firm. ‘It’s nothing against the Guptas. It’s not personal.’

She tightens her hold on the buggy. ‘If that’s your attitude.’

‘I can’t force him to talk to Mrs Gupta.’ I raise my chin. ‘I think he deserves some peace. He’s grieving.’

Aseema’s mouth turns down. She has never liked me, not since school. She always presumed there was something between Shane and me.

I watch her walk away, her shoulders straight, head up. She glides rather than walks. Even with a buggy to push. Her plait hangs down her spine, longer and glossier than I’d remembered.

I know that Aseema is close to Mrs Gupta, but even so, she has over-stepped the bounds of neighbourly concern. I’m glad that I defended my father. Whatever he did in the war, he loved Mum, and she loved him. It feels good to be on his side for once.

ERNST

1933, Germany

Three SS doctors have come to school. They sit in the gymnasium at trestle tables. We file into the fusty, boy-smelling hall class by class, going up in alphabetical order when our names are called. When it’s my turn, I stand with head down, enduring it like one of the cows at milking time, toes curling inside my socks, while the unsmiling men in white coats instruct me to turn this way and that. I try not to breathe through my nose; the stink of rubber from mats piled in the corner makes me feel sick. The men weigh me and check my height. The thinnest one measures my skull with silver pincers, peering down his nose while he clamps the metal arms either side of my forehead. The metal is sharp against my skin. They have a chart with glass eyes embedded in it. One of the doctors holds the chart next to my head, checking which one matches my iris; he reads out a number and the thin one writes it down. We all know blue is good. Brown is bad.

Winkler has already given leaflets to the German Youth boys telling us what the Aryan race looks like. Otto enjoys reading bits aloud. ‘An Aryan is tall, long-legged and slim.’ He scans the words, as if he needs to be prompted by the text. But he can recite it off by heart, like a poem. ‘The race is narrow-faced, with a narrow forehead; they have a narrow, high-built nose and a prominent chin. The hair colour is blond.’

There are posters on the club house wall. One is of a fat man with a bulbous nose and drooling mouth groping a slender, fainting German girl. We spend extra time studying this particular poster, as the girl has such a tiny waist and pointy breasts. Another shows two men with bushy beards and hooked noses running away with Aryan babies stuffed under their coats. A caption screams:
beware the baby-eating Jews!
Semites are well-known cannibals. The last one is an illustration of ugly women in headscarves, cackling like witches as they steal food from innocent blond children. I stare at the pictures, reminding myself that these cartoon creatures are Jews. But it doesn’t seem real. I’ve never seen a real person that looks like any of them.

I’ve seen quite a few people that come close to the Aryan ideal, including my own face in the mirror. And then there is Otto, standing inches taller than me, whose shoulders are broader, whose nose is finer, and whose chin is firmer than mine. He looks exactly like the picture on the leaflet. He could have been the model for it. Right at the beginning, Winkler picked my brother out as a perfect representative of the Volk community, a warrior throwback from the lost continent of Atlantis. ‘You are the future of the Third Reich,’ he’d said, his hand resting on Otto’s broad shoulder. Otto fought hard to keep a stern expression. But I could tell by the twitch at his mouth, the light in his eyes, that he could hardly contain his excitement.

Wherever we are, Hitler keeps an eye on us. There’s a portrait of him in our classroom as well as in the club; the school portrait is even larger, and it’s been positioned where the crucifix used to be. Every Monday, under his gaze, we have lessons in racial purity.

Sister Engel drums her fingers on the desk and looks across at us, most of us in our German Youth uniform, with the new flag on our collars.

She rises in her rustling robes and stands by the blackboard.

‘The Master Race is not an accident,’ she says. ‘It must be preserved with careful breeding.’ She squints at the back row of desks. ‘Can anyone tell me what eugenics are?’

Karl’s hand shoots up. ‘Racial science, Sister.’

She nods. ‘Very good. From the Greek word meaning “good origins” or “good birth”.’

She stares out over the class, her hands folded before her. ‘Now, Gregor Mendel’s Principles of Heredity were developed through the study of eugenics.’ She tilts her head to one side. ‘Can anyone tell me what these principles consist of?’

Karl is reaching for the ceiling, half out of his chair, face flushed. ‘They tell us that when two races mix, the lesser race will be… dominant in their children. The higher race is…’ he frowns, ‘re… re…’

‘Recessive,’ she finishes. ‘Yes. That is correct. Which means the lesser race will weaken and destroy the higher race. And we must never let that happen. We must keep our race pure.’

She writes the words
Gregor Mendel
and
Principles of Heredity
on the board in her sloping letters.

‘Of course we know that the highest race is Nordic.’ She smiles. ‘Who can tell me what its traits are?’

Everyone shouts at once: ‘Born leaders!’ ‘Great warriors!’ ‘Intelligent!’ ‘Physically strong!’ ‘Blond!’ ‘Pure blooded!’

She’s holding up her hand. ‘Indeed. The Nordic race is born to lead, which is why it’s the master race.’ She smiles at us. ‘Can anyone tell me what the other races are?’

As we shout out names, she writes them on the board: Dinaric. Falic. Ostic. Ost-Baltic. Slav. Negro. Semitic.

She underlines Semitic with scrawling lines, pressing so hard that her chalk snaps in half. ‘This race comes at the bottom of the list,’ she says, ‘because it is the lowest. In fact, the Jews are subhuman. Think of them as parasites. Something we need to stamp on, otherwise,’ she shakes her head, ‘they will defile us, pollute our blood and turn Germany into a mongrel nation.’

She wipes the chalk off her hands and pushes her glasses further up her nose. ‘To quote from our own Führer in his wonderful book,
Mein Kampf
,’ she clears her throat, ‘a nation which, in an era of racial poisoning, commits itself to nurturing its best and highest racial elements must, one day, become master of the world.’

‘Heil Hitler,’ we chorus, raising our arms.

Lessons used to start and finish with a prayer. Now there are no more prayers, except for short ones about protecting the Fatherland and the Führer. As we file out into the corridor, I hear the crackle of the radio. The principal keeps it on all day, for when the Führer makes a speech. Then a loudspeaker alerts nuns and teachers to listen with their pupils, and we drop what we’re doing and sit in silence. I can’t help wondering if he is angry all the time, or just when he gives speeches.

Otto and I are lying in the long grass by the lake. Mrs Meyer has sent us off to find wild garlic and cuckooflower, and we’re resentful of this unnecessary task. Since joining up, our lives are even busier. Between farm duties, school and the German Youth, there’s hardly time to chew on some sausage and bread before falling into bed exhausted.

Mrs Meyer can’t see us here, flopped on our stomachs with a wilting, aromatic pile of garlic stalks beside us. We’re splitting grass stems to make whistles; some of our attempts sound more like trumpet blasts and others farting raspberries. Our loud voices ring out in the still air, provoking and boasting. I’m glad. It will alert Sarah and Daniel, in case they’re near. Our careless human sounds shatter the cool mystery of the forest. Without raising my head to look at it, I sense its louring presence beyond the wide, rippling surface of the lake. When I’m outside its borders, I always feel that something is watching me from between those dense lines of trunks and tangled branches. Being with Otto makes me feel safer. He doesn’t believe in anything he can’t see.

‘You know, you and I, we don’t have to do everything the Meyers tell us,’ Otto is saying, carefully splitting a grass stem with earthy fingers. ‘They’re old and past it, no use to the Fatherland. It’s us that are important. We’re the ones who matter.’

‘So are you going to throw them out?’ I tease. ‘Take over the farm?’

He spits in disgust. ‘I’m not going to be a farmer.’ He rolls onto his back and stares up at the blue sky. ‘I’m going to be a soldier in the SS.’ He turns his head to squint at me. ‘It would be fun to turn them out though, wouldn’t it? I’d like to see their faces.’

‘What about Bettina and Agnes?’

‘Bettina can stay,’ he smiles. ‘She’s a pain. But she’s pretty. She’s growing tits. Did you notice? You can see them through her cotton blouse.’