The Other Me (26 page)

A crowd of German soldiers and civilians have gathered further down the road. We amble over to see what’s going on. Some SS stand in a half circle watching while the Ukrainian Auxiliary Police herd a group of women onto a truck. One of the women is heavily pregnant and carrying a toddler on her hip. As she struggles to get into the truck her foot slips, overbalancing her; the child grabs at its mother’s hair in fright. A policeman curses and gives her a hard shove and she stumbles again, staggering on loose stones. Undone by her belly and the weight of her child, she falls: straight down like a tree, one hand out to break her fall, the other clasped around her screaming child.

They sprawl in the road together, the child’s face contorted in a wail. I see the bare skin of the woman’s legs exposed, a torn stocking around her ankle. An SS soldier steps forward and takes hold of the child by its arm; with one casual movement he flings it into the truck, limbs splayed, body arching. There is a muffled thump, like the slap of meat on a counter. The mother cries out and grabs the soldier by the ankle. He looks down, a fleeting expression of surprise on his face. He raises the butt of his rife and brings it down on her head.

I lurch forward before I can think, my hands out to help the woman. Her face turns to me and I see the blood running into her eye and the gaping circle of her silent mouth. I think of Mrs Baumann. Sarah. My legs are shaking.

The soldier places himself between her and me. He smiles, ‘Get back to your duties. Nothing to be concerned about here.’

‘But, what… what had she done?’

‘Just a Pole going to a work detail.’ His voice is polite. Final.

Damaske is waiting for me. He shakes his head. ‘Come on. Nothing to do with us.’ He takes a deep drag on the stub of his cigarette and throws it on the road. ‘I don’t know how those SS sleep at night.’

I don’t look back at the truck. The milky coffee in my belly is curdling, bile rising into my mouth, and I swallow hard.

KLAUDIA

1996, London

I’ve been trying to imagine what it must have been like for my father in that submarine as it rolled towards the bottom of the ocean, with his short life flashing before him. No wonder he found Jesus after that. I think of how young my mother was when she met him: a child still. And him the older boy, tall and handsome, surly and brooding as a blond Heathcliff, transported to her Welsh mountains.

It’s too hot to sleep again. I twist from one side of my narrow mattress to the other, trying to get comfortable, kicking away my covers. I feel uneasy; something is out of kilter. Not right. Not just the things that worry me every day: Meg and Cosmo; my lies. Something else. Something hidden. I concentrate, willing it to come up out of the darkness. I sense it shouldering its way through the shadows into my memory. And then I have it, suddenly. The medals. I press my fist against my teeth. How could I have forgotten?

I wake to the distant whining of a small engine below. A thump and bang. The vacuum cleaner is on downstairs. I sit up, yawning, and swing my legs over the side.

I stagger along the hall, pulling on my dressing gown. Pushing open my father’s door, I enter quietly. I can hear the roar of the machine through the floor. I open my mother’s drawer. Her cardigans are folded in neat piles. I push my fingers to the back. There is no silky scarf bundled around metal objects. I frown. It was years ago that I found them.

I close the drawer and search the others, rooting through fabrics, sifting through scarves and belts, checking Mum’s jewellery box. I get down on my knees to look under the bed. I pull open the wardrobe and my father’s drawers. He has few clothes and it doesn’t take long to see that there are no medals behind or underneath them. I look through his bedside cabinet, finding a pair of spare reading glasses; earplugs; a biro; a jar of Vicks; and a small heap of loose coins. I sit on the bed and put my hands over my eyes, pressing hard until sparks flare. Did I misremember? Did I imagine them? I was only a child, and I was confused and scared about who my father might be. I had no information and so I made things up. Perhaps I made the medals up too. But I weighed them in my hands, saw the details of raised emblems, frayed ribbon and those etched swastikas.

My father is vacuuming in the living room, wearing one of my mother’s aprons. Up close, the noise makes me wince. My head is sore, as if I’ve spent a night drinking. He doesn’t hear me as he stalks around the room, pushing furniture out of the way and thrusting the nozzle into corners, chasing up dust and cobwebs. The plastic end clashes with a wooden skirting board. He switches off the machine and picks up a can of polish.

‘Klaudia,’ he nods, waving the can towards the kitchen. ‘I’ve left some breakfast on the stove for you. Then come and help. The house is a mess. Your mother wouldn’t like it.’

I blink stupidly. My father has made me breakfast? Such an ordinary, domestic gesture, but it feels monumental. He has a pair of reading glasses propped, forgotten, on his head. He sprays a burst of polish onto the portmanteau and begins to rub fiercely.

The stench of fried meat overpowers the smell of polish and I follow the trail into the kitchen. I uncover the dish and prod burnt sausages with a fork. Liquid grease bursts out, trickling in thin streams. I put one of the least charred onto a plate with a piece of toast, pouring on a generous dollop of ketchup to disguise the taste.

As I am chewing slowly, between large gulps of hot tea, my father comes into the kitchen, hands on his hips. I feel my throat closing. I have a sudden urge to retch. But he is watching me. With a concentrated effort, I force the food down.

Satisfied, he picks up a duster and leaves the room. I push the plate away and put my head in my hands. Everything he told me makes sense. How else could he have ended up in a remote Welsh farm straight after the war? He was locked away from all the fighting, hauling hay bales, not pointing a gun. The medals I found might have belonged to a friend. It doesn’t matter. Anyone can buy war memorabilia.

And the photograph? It had to be someone else. The name was a coincidence. But I remember the familiar profile in grainy print and bite my lip. I get up and follow my father into the living room. He’s clutching one of the wooden disciples, a yellow cloth in his other hand.

‘So you mean you were never at the Eastern Front?’ I ask from the doorway. ‘You never went to Russia?’

He looks surprised. ‘No. I told you. I was in a U-boat. And then I was captured.’

He flicks the bottom of the ornament with the duster and replaces it carefully. ‘It’s my brother, Ernst, who was at the Front. He was the one that went into the Wehrmacht.’

The club is busy. ‘Three Cool Cats’ is playing. I move from one customer to another, handing over drinks, scooping change out of the till. Between the shapes of people I catch glimpses of the mural, remembering the mermaid, and her face that was my own. The way she’d swum towards me, her eyes steady and hopeful. Cosmo’s absence is a bruise. I’ve been trying not to prod the spot, not to think of him. But everything is different now. I feel taller, lighter. Knowing that my father wasn’t the one who pulled the trigger, knowing that he wasn’t involved in the horrors in the Ukraine and Russia and Poland, it’s as if a rope has been taken from my wrists, a gag from my mouth.

I need to find out from Josh or Scarlett exactly where Cosmo is in Rome. I’m going to take a weekend off work, get on a plane and find him. The thought of it makes my palms sweaty. But I have to do it.

Josh is leaning across the bar. He looks worried and he’s beckoning to me. I hurry over, concerned, because Josh never loses his cool. He’s shouting over the music. I can’t hear. I put my hand up to my ear and he tries again. I feel his breath, words vibrating against my cheek, the buzz of his voice a ticklish sensation.

‘Scarlett’s just phoned,’ he repeats, even louder. ‘She’s ill. Food poisoning. She said you could do it.’

Stunned, I shake my head.

He beckons again and I follow him into his office. The noise of the club retreats behind the swing of velvet.

‘I can’t let the crowd down, Eliza.’ He paces around his desk. ‘Not at such short notice.’ He opens his palms, appealing to me. ‘Look, I trust Scarlett. If she says you can do it, then you can.’

My pulse is jumping at my throat. ‘No. You don’t understand…’

‘Please.’ He ruffles his fingers through his shock of curly hair. ‘Pick a costume. Just walk about on the stage and smile. You don’t have to take anything off.’

I put my hand to my mouth. I hear Scarlett’s voice.
Your body knows what to do.
We’ve practised different routines. We’ve discussed costumes. Talked as if I will be stepping onto that stage and performing. But it was always a date in the future – something just out of reach.

Josh is staring at me with a desperate look. He fiddles with the neck of his shirt, smoothing the collar, and I notice his bitten nails. I can’t let him down.

‘OK.’

He lets out a huge sigh and grabs me, kisses my nose. His lips are damp. ‘Thank you. Thank you.’

‘But tell them I’m just the cover,’ I tell him quickly. ‘Don’t let them have any expectations…’

The curtain has already fallen behind him.

Josh’s cramped office is empty. The telephone silent. Beyond the red fabric comes a muffled mutter and hum and the crooning of Peggy Lee. I taste the bile of fear in my mouth. The thought of walking out there and standing on stage is making me want to retch.

I need to find a costume. Scarlett’s crammed clothes rail is squeezed between the filing cabinet and the doorway. I touch the lace on a corset. The fabric is rigid with bone, speckled with sparkling sequins. As I slip it from the hanger, the brittle edges rub against my hands like the scales of an exotic reptile. It’s a struggle to do up on my own. Then I roll on white fishnet stockings, and drape a sheer white scarf around my neck. Scarlett’s feet are bigger than mine. I will go barefoot. I don’t intend to take anything off except the scarf; I’m never going to be the kind of girl who’s happy to appear in public in nipple tassels.

Outside in the smoky, crowded room, I stumble when someone steps in front of me.

‘Eliza.’

Cosmo blocks my path. His gaze travels downwards, taking in what I’m wearing, or not wearing. I can’t speak. He slides his hand to hold mine. Our fingers entwine. He tugs, and I follow, as he pulls me back into the office, folds of velvet sliding across us.

He lets go of my hand. We stare at each other.

‘I thought you were away…’ I struggle to push words out. ‘In Rome.’

The fact of him here, when in my head he’d been in Italy, has unravelled me.

‘I was.’ He pushes his hands into his pockets and takes them out again. ‘I’m back for a couple of days. I wanted to see you.’

My heart is thundering.

‘You’re about to go on?’ His eyebrows shoot up. ‘I always hoped you’d do it.’

My lips waver around the shape of a smile.

‘I’m ashamed of myself.’ He rubs his nose with his knuckle. ‘I owe you an apology.’

‘Apology?’

He rolls his head from side to side as if his neck is stiff. ‘Just hear me out, Eliza. Please.’ He wrinkles his brow. ‘I need to do this. Last time… I was childish. Going off like that. It was rude. I worried later, about you getting home when it was so late. Then I got on a plane without telling you. There was no excuse, even if I was disappointed. But the truth is I’m not good with rejection.’ He’s speaking quickly, not looking at me.

I try to interrupt. I can’t bear the irony. It’s me that should be apologising. But he continues, rushing his words.

‘When I was a kid, I was never good enough. I didn’t want to be a doctor like my parents. I wasn’t into science like my brother and sister. But I still wanted to be like them.’ He shrugs. ‘It made me feel useless when I failed science exams, when I was afraid of blood. They thought it was funny. But I took it all as a rejection. Over-sensitive, you see.’

‘No.’ I jerk my head up.

A laugh ignites inside me. All the misunderstandings piling up behind us. The confusion and muddle. And it’s so simple really. I love him.

The laugh stays inside. ‘Please don’t. You have nothing to explain, nothing to be sorry for. It’s me…’

But he’s still speaking, and I recognise the determined look on his face, his need to tell me something. ‘Eliza, I know there are reasons for you pushing me away. You were trying to tell me something before, and I lost my temper. Whatever it is, I’m here now and I promise I’ll listen.’

We’re standing next to Josh’s messy desk in the cramped space. I’d only have to take one more step and I’d be able to reach up and slide my arms around his neck.

The noise of the club presses into the office: music and the muttering of an impatient crowd. I blink. Remembering.

‘I’m supposed to be on stage… I have to go.’ I look behind him towards the curtain.

‘I’ll wait.’ Cosmo stoops and kisses my cheek. ‘Good luck…’ He pulls back. ‘Am I allowed to say I’m proud of you?’

I raise my hand and caress my cheek, put my fingers where his lips have been. My heart stutters. He’s holding up swags of red velvet. I look through into the dark club. Sound swells around us: a choppy sea pulling us apart.

My mouth is dry and I moisten my lips. ‘Cosmo,’ I turn back. ‘You’re right. We need to talk. There’s so much to tell you.’

Out in the crowd, I push through customers to the bar and ask Josh to put ‘Harlem Nocturne’ on. I’m not looking at people as I make my way to the stage. My legs are shaking. The music has started and I can feel the attention of the place turning towards me. I climb the steps.

The chatter in the room has quietened. I blink in the spotlight. Someone makes a shushing sound. I can hear the clink of glasses. Then Josh must have turned the track up because everything else is swallowed inside its lush rhythm.

I stand, frozen. The hammering of my heart drowns the song. I close my eyes against the glare. An uncomfortable murmuring starts, a shifting of feet and someone’s nervous laughter. I remind myself that Cosmo is there, somewhere in the faces, watching me. I can still feel his lips on my cheek. I lift an arm, moving my hip to the left, moving into the music.