That Stranger Next Door. Goldie Alexander

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СКАЧАТЬ rarely talk about the Holocaust, at least not in front of us children, as if they're embarrassed that it ever happened; as if they're almost responsible for it themselves. But like a giant golem it always lurks in the background. A photo taken in Auschwitz Camp shows a group of children seated cross-legged on the ground. One girl looks so much like me she could have been my twin. I'm sure she didn't survive, not when so many people were shot and gassed.

      Would I have been as brave as Anne Frank? Or would I have crumpled under so much terror?

      Still busy shoving forks and knives into drawers and plates into cupboards, I pictured what was happening in the next room. I knew Leon would be in his favourite place under the table playing with his toy train; Papa would appear to be relaxed, his bald spot shining under the overhead light; Zeida would be hiding his thoughts behind his iron-grey beard and grumpy manner. But Mamma's face would be tight with worry, even though Papa would keep assuring her that 'What happened in Europe will never happen again.'

      CHAPTER 2

       Ruth

      All weekend I kept an eye on next door. But when the blinds remained drawn and no one came out, I wondered if the woman might have left.

      But why move into a flat and then not live in it?

      It was all very mysterious.

      Sunday afternoons, once a month, Mamma always visited Mrs King. She didn't get home until well after five, and she looked exhausted.

      I asked, 'Why go when you don't enjoy it?'

      'Our family owes our being here to her husband,' she replied slowly, hanging her coat on the hallstand. 'Without his guarantee, we would have been sent back to certain death.'

      'But aren't her politics different from ours?'

      Mamma turned and said ruefully, 'They certainly are. She went on and on how the Russians and the Chinese are all wicked and that's why our boys are fighting in Korea now, and how our unions are all run by communists.'

      'Is that true?'

      'Not at all.' Mamma's face turned fierce. 'Some unions are dominated by Irish Catholic members. Lots of people get socialism and communism confused.

      'You know Ruth, after living through two world wars and the Depression, I believe unions are there to look after poor people and workers.'

      She would have said more, lots more, only my grandfather came into the hall wanting his glass of tea. Zeida sipped it Russian style, weak and black. If I didn't make it exactly right, he'd accuse me of being lazy. I wasn't lazy, just sick of running errands for him when he never, ever, thanked me.

      I thought about telling him to get it himself but then he'd hold it against me for months, if not years. So I filled the strainer with leaves and poured boiling water through them into a glass and handed him the jar of sugar cubes. Of course he knew what I was thinking, but for once I didn't get ticked off.

      Then I took my book onto the back landing where I could watch who came in and out.

      A blind shot up. I saw a woman- no, two women. One was tall and thin. I recognised her as the woman who left in the car with those two men. The other was about my height, five-six, full bodied with light brown hair worn flat on her head, curling around her ears. She wore a white blouse and a grey suit buttoned up in front.

      Then a little wind sprang up. I heard snatches of conversation but they weren't speaking English. One phrase leapt out from the others, however: Sah-dee-tsah.

      Because Mamma and Papa often spoke Russian when they didn't want me to understand, I knew this meant 'please sit down'.

      So that stranger next door was Russian.

      Who was she?

      CHAPTER 3

       Eva

      Two men took me to a 'safe house' where they insisted no one could find me, and so far they haven't. At least not yet. Several days have passed with nothing to do except observe the weather: grey skies, light rain, and an occasional outburst of sun. I watched an endless stream of trucks, trams, cars and bikes. Every so often the rattle of a horse-drawn cart reminded me of home. Each time a car pulled up outside, my heart leapt into my mouth, only slowly subsiding when I realised it had nothing to do with me. Though my days drifted slowly by, and I had nothing to read - no books, newspapers, or magazines, at least I was comfortable.

      Those past few days were becoming a blur. How I had waited for some assurance that those men would find me a safe haven. I'd already spent eighteen hours in a gloomy windowless room with strong overhead lights, a long scratched table and just enough chairs for two nameless interrogators, an interpreter, and the elderly stenographer. Everyone, apart from the stenographer, smoked, and soon the fug was so dense my eyes wouldn't stop watering.

      After telling them everything I knew, the men fell silent. What was going through the older one's mind? I couldn't tell. His bloodshot eyes and unshaven cheeks reminded me of a bulldog, as if too much food, drink and cigarettes had swelled his face to grotesque proportions. Though he was never openly hostile, always sat still, too still, I would have hated to be alone with him. Once, when he handed me a pen, his touch sent shivers down my spine. The younger man, though less hardened, was more fidgety, though still focussed on everything I said.

      Their silence went on for so long, I wondered if they truly realised what peril I was in. Or if they even cared? I did my best to convince them I had more to divulge, anything to make them reconsider my situation. Nor did I admit to understanding any English. Better to make the interpreter repeat all their questions in Russian, thus giving me time to consider my answers. I could have mentioned that I know some German and Italian, but in the end I didn't. They were never unkind, they must have realised any aggression on their part would only silence me. But their faces gave nothing away, remaining always neutral. Again I had to remind them how integral I was to their investigation, how dangerous my situation was, and above all, that I had nowhere else to go.

      They bundled me into the rear of a car and we drove north through empty streets to a motel; a two-storey brick building, with a deserted car park beside it. I was ushered up a concrete staircase to a corridor open to all weathers. Halfway along, as the wind buffeted us with spiteful fingers, the bigger man paused to unlock a door. The men only spoke English, so without our interpreter we resorted to gestures. The younger man pointed to the bed saying, 'Sleep. We watch room.'

      'Sleep.' I blankly repeated as if I didn't understand. Not that this bothered them, because they left right away, slamming the door behind them. I heard their car drive away.

      The small room had two single beds, with faded-red chenille covers, and between them a table with a broken lamp. Tattered floral curtains covered the window. There was no wardrobe, just a horizontal rod with wooden hangers. Another door led into a tiny bathroom with a toilet, washbasin, and a shower lined with broken tiles. It was all so dirty and neglected I knew the motel had been chosen because no one would look for me here.

      I removed my hat and shoes, and still in my coat, collapsed on the bed closest to the window and tried to empty my mind, even sleep a little. I must have dozed off, because I was woken by a loud knock, and sat up in shock; heart in my mouth. Who might have found me? I refused to open the door until I heard the young man who had brought me here, say, 'We have food.'

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