A Small Person Far Away. Judith Kerr
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could still come with you,” said Richard. “I could get a flight later today or tomorrow.”
“No, no, of course not. I’m really all right.” She kissed him. Then she took her passport and ran. “I’ll write to you,” she shouted back to him.
She knew it was stupid, but she felt that she was leaving him for ever.
Once on the plane, she felt better.
She had only flown twice before and still found it exciting to look down on a world of toy-sized fields and houses and tiny, crawling cars. It was a relief to be out of it all and to know that Berlin was still some hours away. She looked out of the window and thought only of what she could see. Then halfway across the North Sea, clouds appeared, and soon there was only a blanket of grey below and bright, empty sky above. She leaned back in her seat and thought about Mama.
It was curious, she thought. Whichever way one imagined Mama, it was always in movement: the blue eyes frowning, the lips talking, Mama clenching her hands with impatience, tugging her dress into place, dabbing violently at her tiny snub nose with a powder puff. She did not trust anything connected with herself to function properly unless she kept tabs on it, and even then she always felt it could be improved.
Anna remembered how, during one of her visits from Germany, Mama had once brought Konrad round to her digs for lunch. Anna had cooked the only dish she knew, which was a large quantity of rice mixed with whatever happened to be on hand. On this occasion the ingredients had included some chopped-up sausages, and Konrad had said, politely, how nice they were. At once Mama had said, “I’ll find you some more,” and to Anna’s irritation she had snatched up the bowl and rootled through it, to toss a succession of small sausage pieces on to his plate.
How could anybody so obsessed with the minutiae of every day suddenly want to stop living? Not that Mama hadn’t often talked about it. But that was in the last years in Putney when she and Papa had been so utterly wretched, and even then it had not seemed like anything to be taken seriously. Her cries of “I wish I was dead!” and “Why should I go on?” had been so frequent that both Anna and Papa had soon learned to ignore them.
And the moment things improved, the moment the endless worry about money was lifted from her, her enthusiasm for life had returned – both Anna and Papa had been surprised how quickly. She had written long excited letters home from Germany. She had gone everywhere and looked at everything. She had translated so well for the Americans in the Control Commission that she had soon been promoted – from Frankfurt to Munich, from Munich to Nuremberg. She had wangled lifts home on American troop planes to arrive with presents for everyone – American whisky for Papa, nylon stockings for Anna, real silk ties for Max. And she had been thrilled when at last the British Control Commission had decided that Papa, too, should make an official trip to Germany.
Hamburg, thought Anna. Did the flight to Berlin pass over it? She peered down at the flat country which showed every so often through gaps in the cloud. It was strange to think that somewhere down there might be the place where Papa lay buried. If Mama died, she supposed she’d be buried with him. If Mama dies, she thought suddenly with a kind of impatience, I’ll be the child of two suicides.
There was a click as something was put down on the folding table in front of her, and she became aware of the stewardess standing nearby.
“I thought you might like some coffee,” she said.
Anna drank it gratefully.
“I was so sorry to hear of the illness in your family,” said the girl in her American voice. “I do hope that when you get to Berlin you will find everything better than you expected.”
Anna thanked her and stared out at the brilliant sky and the melting clouds below. But what do I expect? she thought. Konrad had only told her that Mama’s condition was unchanged, not what that condition was. And in any case, that had been last night. By now… No, thought Anna, she’s not dead. I would know if she were.
As the time of arrival approached, she tried to think what it would be like meeting Konrad. One thing, it wouldn’t be difficult to find him, because he was so tall and fat. She’d see him over the heads of the other people. He’d be leaning on his walking stick if his back was giving him trouble as it so often did, and he’d smile at her with his curiously irregular features and say something reassuring. He would be calm. Anna imagined him always having been calm. You’d have to be calm to stay on in Germany under Hitler as a Jewish lawyer defending other Jews, as he had done.
He had even remained calm when they sent him to a concentration camp. By being calm and unobtrusive, he had survived several weeks, until his friends managed to get him out. Nothing too terrible had happened to him, but he would never talk about what he had seen. All he would say was, “You should have seen me when I came out,” and he would slap his paunch and grin his lopsided grin and say, “I was thin – like a Greek youth.”
He would certainly have made sure that Mama had the best possible treatment. He was very practical. Anna remembered Mama telling her that in England he had supported a wife and two daughters by taking a job in a factory. The daughters were grown up now, but he seemed not to care too much for any of them and seldom went home.
“We are now approaching Tempelhof airfield,” said the stewardess, and all the lighted messages about seat belts and cigarettes flicked on.
She looked out of the window. They were still quite high and the airport was not in sight. I suppose all this is still East Germany, she thought, looking down at the fields and little houses. They looked like anywhere else and presumably would have looked just the same under the Nazis. I only hope we land in the right place, she thought.
The last time she had landed in Berlin had been with Richard. They had arrived at short notice, to tell Mama that they were getting married. It had been a curious, edgy visit, even though she’d been so happy – partly because she so hated being in Berlin and only partly because of Mama. Not that Mama had been against the marriage – on the contrary, she had been delighted. Only Anna had known that for years Mama had secretly dreamed of her marrying someone quite different.
In Putney, when Papa’s health was failing and everything seemed hopeless, Mama had had a kind of running fantasy about this marriage. It would be to a lord – a very grand kind of lord with a big estate in the country. Anna would live with him at the castle, and Mama would live at the dower house (there always was a dower house, she had explained to Anna). There would be an apple-cheeked housekeeper to cook muffins for Mama to eat in front of the fire, and on fine days Mama would ride about the grounds on a white horse.
Of course she hadn’t meant it. It had just been a joke to cheer them both up and, as Anna had frequently pointed out, Mama couldn’t ride. Even so, when she told Mama about Richard, she knew that somewhere in her mind Mama was regretfully relinquishing the image of herself prancing about on this great bleached beast, surrounded by grooms or hounds or whatever she’d imagined for herself, and it had made Anna nervous.
Another thing that had made her nervous was that Mama did not really understand Richard’s work. She got most of her information about England from Max who, as a rising young barrister, seemed to her a more reliable source than Anna with her art, and Max had told her that he did not have a television set, though they were considering buying one for the au pair girl. This had made Anna nervous of what Mama might say to Richard, or even when Richard was anywhere near, because Mama’s voice was so loud.
It was silly because Richard was quite able to take care of himself. But she had been grateful to Konrad for steering Mama away from dangerous subjects. As soon as Mama got started on literature or drama (she tended, in any case, only to quote Papa’s views, and not always correctly) he had looked at her with his nice, ugly smile and said, “It’s no use talking about these things in my presence. You know perfectly well that I’m illiterate.”
The plane tilted to one side. Anna could see Berlin, suddenly close, above the wing, and the airport beyond it. We’ll be down in a minute, she thought, and all at once she felt frightened.
What would Konrad tell her? Would he blame her for not having written to Mama