That Stranger Next Door. Goldie Alexander

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      I unlatched the chain and opened the door. On the other side was also a woman, hair in curlers, cigarette between her lips.

      I unleashed the chain and took the tray. Under a grubby tea towel I found a plate with two pale sausages, a pile of greasy chips doused in tomato sauce, two slices of tasteless white bread, and a mug of milky tea. Previously, those men had brought me ham and tomato sandwiches, but anything I tried to eat had stuck in my throat. Suddenly ravenous, I wolfed down the tray's contents and wished there was more.

      Then I took a shower, under a thin spray of lukewarm water, dried myself with a worn towel and, having no fresh clothes, pulled on what I'd worn these last two days.

      Totally exhausted, I climbed under a thin blanket to lie on rough sheets. Sleep, when it finally came, was fractured by dreams of being chased into dark alleyways. Twice, just as a hand grabbed me, I woke with my heart banging in my chest.

      The last dream, I was in my village running by peaked haystacks; my sister Anushka, behind, calling out: Wait, wait for me. I woke, with wet cheeks, wishing, so wishing this was real.

      I spent the rest of the night staring into the dark.

      Next morning the two men came for me. Stubble-cheeked and smelling so strongly of sweat and cigarettes, I realised they must have slept in their car. They shepherded me into the back of it, and we drove back to the same building.

      The same elderly stenographer and Elizabeth, the very serious translator, were waiting for us.

      At least half a foot taller than me, and thin with brown hair pulled tightly into a chignon, Elizabeth told me this time, very proudly, 'I have a university qualification as an interpreter in Russian, Polish and Swedish.'

      I nodded. Given my circumstances, I couldn't afford to be less than polite, but her accent was so bad it made me wonder which university had been this generous.

      As before, everything we said was carefully recorded. The questions never stopped, not even after I had given them everything I did know, plus a little more to keep them happy.

      I never did find out the men's names, only that the older regarded anyone who didn't speak English with enormous suspicion.

      He kept asking Elizabeth, 'You sure she understands?'

      Once they felt they'd wrung every bit of information out of me, and it had all been gone over at least three times, it was well after midnight. I was bundled back into their car and this time driven south to an apartment in a busy street on the first floor above a shop called a milk bar. The younger man leaned over to open the car door for me.

      Before I climbed out, Elizabeth grabbed my arm, and for the first time I felt a hint of compassion from her. 'Eva, you'll be safe here,' she assured me. 'But it means you must never go outside, and never tell anyone who you are. Everything you need is here. I'll come in a few days to make sure you're settled.'

      The men took me up a wooden staircase into the flat where I could hide, they told me, in relative safety. They made such a clatter going up the stairs we must have woken the entire neighbourhood.

      The younger man said, 'Eva, this flat was recently renovated and refurnished. We're sure you'll be very comfortable here.'

      He led me into the kitchen, opened cupboards to show me jars filled with tea, sugar, rice, flour, then into the bathroom to a cupboard stored with soap, towels and sheets; finally to the main bedroom where a suitcase sat on the bed. He pointed, saying, 'Open it.'

      Inside, I found a wallet with fifty crisp new pound notes, a carton of Craven A cigarettes, three blouses, a skirt, three changes of underwear, a pink woollen dressing gown, three sets of stockings and a girdle, slippers and some lace-up shoes. Everything was new and functional, but chosen with no imagination or style.

      Back in the sitting room, and hall, I looked for a telephone. There was none. It seemed that the wireless would be my only communication with the outside world. It was wonderful to listen to music, but what other use did a radio have when my English was so poor?

      CHAPTER 4

       Ruth

      This morning Leon jumped onto my bed and bounced on me until I agreed to wrestle him back. Only when he was nearly suffocating under the blankets, could I get him back to his own room.

      Sometimes I got fed up with having to look after him. It was no one's fault; Mamma and Papa worked sixteen hour, six-day weeks, so there was only me. Maybe if Leon wasn't so independent it would be easier. Last week in the park - where admittedly I was deep into a novel - he took off without me noticing. It took me ages to find him and I was so angry, I yelled at him. 'Do that once more, I'll tell Papa and he won't let you come here again.'

      Then, of course, all the thanks I got for taking him to the park was him sulking all the way home.

      After school today Mamma had arranged to take me and Leon to visit the Feldensteins. She came into my room to ask why I wasn't dressed to go out?

      'Mamma, I've too much homework,' I wailed. 'Can't you take Leon without me?'

      Mamma's hat was already on and she was pulling on her gloves. 'But Daisy will be expecting you.'

      'Yeah, well.' I shrugged. 'I'm sure she won't miss me.'

      Mr Feldenstein has pots of money and all Daisy could talk about was shopping, and how the saleswomen looked down on her, and how she bought stuff she didn't really want just to see their faces change from nasty to 'can't help you enough'. I didn't think she had any other friends except me, and I guess that's really hard, so I should be kind to her. But last weekend my best friend Nancy Bloom loaned me her copy of Rebecca and she wanted it back as she'd promised it to someone else as soon as I could return it.

      Back at Elwood Central, Nancy and I were never apart. But these last two years, what with her attending a co-ed University High, and me at the girls-only St Margaret's, our lives were utterly different, though we phoned each other at least four times a week.

      Something she mentioned last time we spoke was, 'Did you know that women teachers in state schools have to resign if they want to get married?'

      'Really?' My eyebrows shot up. 'What happens to the men?'

      'Suppose for them it's okay.'

      'That's not right,' I murmured.

      'Sure it is,' Nancy said in her 'mother-sensible' voice. 'But there's nothing they can do about it, is there.'

      Nancy was always accepting stuff I would fight to the death to change. If I questioned anything too much, she'd act as if I was doing my best to throw her entire world into chaos.

      I said, 'Can't being married be a secret?'

      'Maybe. But things never stay secret, do they?'

      The second tram I have to take to school was packed with St James Catholic College boys, thankfully too busy jostling each other to notice me. But there were no spare seats so I stood opposite a man holding The Argus and read it upside down. Still lots about Evdokia Petrov.

      Further down the page I read: 'New Australian mobster chases wife with a knife.'

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