A Small Person Far Away

  At least this still looked the same. There were the rowan trees, now quite bare, and there was the place where the sandbox had been. There was even the lamppost, unnoticed by her before, which Max had once climbed in a game of pirates. She stood looking at it all for a long time. Someone had played here once, she thought, but it did not feel as though it had been her.

  At last she became aware of the wind in her back and her feet which were almost frozen. Well, that’s over, she thought without knowing exactly what she meant by it. She turned and walked briskly back up the street, a young Englishwoman in a thin tweed coat. It was really cold, as though it might be going to snow. In the Königsallee she found a cruising taxi, and asked the driver to take her to Konrad’s office.

  JRSO – the Jewish Restitution Successor Office – was housed in a brand-new building not far from the Kurfürsten Damm. There were two receptionists, one American and one German, presiding over a mass of forms and pamphlets which explained how to claim restitution for anything of which you might have been robbed by the Nazis, including your nearest and dearest. A few people sat round the walls, waiting for appointments. There was a plan showing the various departments, and arrows pointing the way to go.

  She noticed that the mention of Konrad’s name was received with respect, and it was not until she was actually going up in the lift that she remembered about his secretary. Christ, she thought, I suppose she’ll be there. What on earth will she say? Somehow, she imagined a whole gaggle of girls – I might not even know which one it is, she thought – but when she opened the door to his outer office, there was only one. She was sitting behind a typewriter, talking to a man in a shabby coat, and seemed relieved at the interruption.

  “Guten Tag,” she said with the formal bow of the head that even women practised in Germany. “Can I help you?”

  She was only a few years older than herself, thin, with a slightly spinsterish quality, her face plain but not unpleasant. Was this Mama’s deadly rival? Anna introduced herself, and it was clear at once that she was. The girl tensed up and said stiffly, “I believe I spoke to you the other day on the telephone.” Then she said, “I am glad that your mother is better,” and added, “it has all been a great worry to Dr Rabin.”

  It appeared that Konrad was not yet back.

  “He had to go out unexpectedly to attend a meeting,” said the girl, apparently believing it, and Anna settled down uncomfortably to wait, while the girl went back to the old man in the coat.

  She had never been in Konrad’s office before, and while the man mumbled what sounded like a long list of names, she took in the filing cabinets covering the walls to the ceiling – Abrahams, Cohen, Levy, Zuckerman, read the labels on the drawers – the piles of letters on the girl’s desk, the sound of typing through a half-open door.

  “I know,” said the girl in her slight Berlin accent. “But there is really no need. You gave Dr Rabin all this information earlier this morning.”

  The old man seemed troubled but insistent. He had a big brown envelope and kept putting a shaky hand inside it to feel for something.

  “It’s the spirit, you see,” he said. “The names – well, they’re just names, aren’t they? Name, age, last-known address – I thought they ought to see…” He lost touch with what he was saying, and Anna saw that his hand with its bony knuckles and wrinkled skin now held a sheaf of ancient photographs.

  “It’s the faces,” he said. “You can’t understand without the faces.” He suddenly put the photographs on the desk in an untidy spread, disarranging a pencil and some papers. The girl drew back slightly.

  “My cousin Samuel,” he said, pointing. “He was an electrician with the Post Office. Age 36. Last-known address Treblinka. My brother-in-law Arnold, 32. My young niece Miriamne and her brother Alfred—”

  “I know, Herr Birnbaum.” The girl was clearly put out. “But you see, it isn’t necessary. As long as we have the information on the forms, there is no problem about compensation.” Her hand moved towards the photographs, wishing to return them to him, but did not quite dare. “We have all the facts we require,” she said. “The matter is being dealt with.”

  Evidently she liked things tidy.

  The old man looked at her with his tired eyes. “The gentleman I saw this morning—”

  “He’s not here,” said the girl, but he went straight on talking.

  “I think he understood. Please—” He touched one of the pictures with his hand. “I should like him to see.”

  The girl hesitated. Then, perhaps because she remembered Anna’s presence, she gathered them up in a pile. “I’ll put them on his desk,” she said.

  He watched her while she opened the door to the inner office and put them inside. “It really isn’t necessary,” she could not help saying when she returned. You could see it had upset her. But the old man’s face had spread into a quavering smile.

  “Thank you,” he said. “I shall be easier now.” He still seemed to feel that he had not properly explained. “It seems the least you can do,” he murmured, “that they should be seen.” Then he clutched the empty envelope to his coat and shuffled out of the door.

  The girl glanced at Anna after he had gone. “He was here for an hour this morning, talking to Dr Rabin,” she said, perhaps fearing that Anna had thought her impatient. “And it isn’t even Dr Rabin’s job. There is a special department to deal with people like him, but he was so insistent…” She adjusted her hair in its neat bun which did not need adjusting. “Dr Rabin always helps people,” she said. “But they wear him out.”

  “He’s a very kind man,” said Anna.

  The girl lit up at once. “Oh, he is,” she said. “He certainly is.” She was clearly bursting with examples of Konrad’s kindness but, realising that Anna was hardly a suitable confidante, picked up some papers on her desk. “If you’ll excuse me, I’ll get on with my work.” She put a sheet into her typewriter and began to type.

  Anna watched her surreptitiously – the broad, competent hands moving efficiently across the keys (Mama could never type like that, she thought) the tidy blouse, the earnest, dutiful expression. She reminded her of someone, but she could not think who. It was hard to think of her as a rival to Mama, and yet, she thought, if one were very tired…

  “Dr Rabin may have gone straight out to lunch,” said the girl. “Would you rather come back later?”

  But before Anna could answer, the door opened and Konrad stumped in. He looked startled at the sight of her, but quickly recovered his balance.

  “I’m glad you’ve come,” he said in what she supposed must be his official voice. “I wanted to speak to you.” He added, “I see you’ve met my secretary, Ilse.”

  Ilse was already disposing of his coat and stick. “Did you have an interesting meeting?” she asked, as though it really mattered to her.

  He avoided Anna’s eye. “Quite interesting,” he said, and plunged quickly into the list of messages which she had noted down for him. He sighed at her account of Birnbaum and his photographs. “All right,” he said. “I’ll think of something to do with them.” Then he looked at his watch. “Time you went for your lunch. And perhaps you’d ask them to send us up some sandwiches. Oh, and Ilse, afterwards you might like to have a word with Schmidt of Welfare. I met him in the lift just now, and I was talking to him about the arrangements for your mother—”

  Anna did not listen to the details, but whatever arrangements Konrad had suggested, they were obviously very welcome.

  He waved Ilse’s thanks aside. “Off you go,” he said. “And don’t forget the sandwiches.”

  She paused for a moment at the door. “Ham?” she said, blushing a little and smiling. It was clearly a joke between them. He did not catch on for a moment. Then he laughed loudly. “That’s right,” he said, “ham,” and she went.

  Once in his office, he waved Anna into a chair and sank into his own with a sigh. “I’m sorry,” he said. “It’s been a difficult morning. As you can imagine.” He absently
fingered the photographs on his desk. “You needn’t worry about your mother,” he said. “I’ve calmed her down. I’ve told her that, whatever happens, I’ll take her away for a short holiday within a fortnight. She was quite happy with that.”

  She felt a great sense of relief. “What about Erwin’s illness?” she asked.

  “Oh—” He gestured impatiently. “Hildy rang me this morning in a great state. It seems they had to call the doctor last night, and he mentioned that it could he hepatitis. It probably isn’t. Erwin sounds better already. But of course I’ll have to cope with his work, and Ilse threw a small fit – about that and other things – and then poor little Birnbaum… I’m afraid it all got on top of me.” He had picked up one of the photographs and showed it to her. A small, dark-eyed face, faded and blurred. “‘Rachel Birnbaum, aged six.’ No wonder he’s a little crazy.”

  “Did he lose all his family?”

  He nodded. “Fourteen relations, including his wife and three children. He’s the sole survivor. The thing is, he doesn’t want compensation. We’ve already sent him quite a large sum. He just put it in a drawer.”

  “What, then?”

  He raised his eyebrows ironically. “He wants them to understand what they’ve done,” he said. “Only that.”

  There was a knock at the door of the outer office, and a boy appeared with sandwiches. Konrad divided them between two paper plates with a napkin on each.

  “Well, now,” he said as they began to eat, “I’ve got your ticket. Your plane leaves at nine tomorrow morning. I’ll drive you to the airport, of course.”

  She was taken aback. “But Mama – are you sure Mama will be all right?”

  “I told you.”

  “But what about—?”

  “If you mean the business of the Professor’s pills which I so stupidly alluded to on the phone, I’ve persuaded her that she told me about it herself.”

  “And she believed you?”

  He nodded, almost regretfully. “Oh yes,” he said. “She believed me.”

  She felt confused and not entirely reassured.

  “It’s all right,” he said. “Forget you ever told me. It didn’t matter anyway. You’ve made me feel less guilty, and for that I’m grateful.”

  “And you’ll look after her?”

  “Of course.”

  “Because without you—” She still was not quite sure.

  “Without me, she can’t carry on. I make her feel safe.” He sighed. “I make everyone feel safe. Her. Ilse. My wife and daughters. For heaven’s sake,” he said, “I even make Ilse’s mother feel safe.”

  She laughed a little, uncertain what to say. “What will you do about her?” she asked at last.

  “Ilse’s mother?”

  “No.”

  “Look,” he said, “I can only do my best. I’ve found her another job. With more pay. She starts in a fortnight.”

  “And she’ll be content with that?”

  He was suddenly on the defensive. “It’s as I told you,” he said. “I can only do my best.”

  After they had eaten, he got a file from one of the drawers and said in his official voice, “You know of course that your family will be getting compensation. I advised your mother on the claim – perhaps you would like to see.”

  She had known, but forgotten, and now it seemed somehow incongruous. The file had Papa’s name on it, and he saw her looking at it.

  “I met him once, you know,” he said.

  “Really?” She was surprised.

  “At a refugee function in London. Of course I didn’t know your mother then. I admired him very much.”

  “Did you?” she said, touched.

  “He was so witty and interesting. And the things he knew. And his enthusiasm – just like your mother. They were very good together. Both emotionally and intellectually,” said Konrad ponderously, “I have never been in their league.”

  “But Konrad—”

  “No,” he said, “I haven’t, and I know it. I have no feeling for nature, I’d rather see a Western than opera any day, and these days especially, I get tired.”

  “But she loves you.”

  “I know,” he said. “I make her feel safe. And that’s the most confusing thing of all because, as you may have noticed, I’m really a rather unreliable fellow.”

  Somehow the words “unreliable fellow” sounded very odd, pronounced in his refugee accent.

  “You’re not,” she said, smiling to make it all into a joke.

  He only looked at her.

  “But you will look after her?”

  “I told you,” he said, and opened the file.

  They looked at the papers together. There were claims for her and Max’s interrupted education and a string of things for Papa: loss of property, loss of earnings – he explained it all, why he had claimed in this way rather than another, and how much money they could expect to get.

  “Is there nothing for Mama?”

  He bristled slightly, thinking that she was criticizing. “She claims in your father’s name,” he explained. “As his widow, all this money will come to her. It should help her quite a bit. Why? Should there be something? Is there something she should have claimed for that she didn’t tell me?”

  “I don’t know.” She felt suddenly silly. “Loss of confidence?”

  “Nu,” He threw up his hands. “If one could claim for that, we’d all be claiming.”

  He insisted on coming down in the lift with her to get her a taxi, and as they went out through the big glass doors of the building, they met Ilse coming in. She was carrying a Thermos flask and looked flustered when she saw them.

  “You’ve already eaten,” she cried. “And I’d got you this. It’s from home – they filled it up with coffee for me across the road.”

  “Wonderful,” said Konrad. “I’ll drink it in a minute.”

  “You need it, this weather,” said Ilse. “I’ve got some sugar in my pocket. And I know where I can borrow a proper china cup.”

  She smoothed the Thermos with her hand, looking house-proud and faintly self-satisfied, and Anna suddenly knew of whom she reminded her. Apart from being so much younger, she looked remarkably like Konrad’s wife.

  It was even colder when she got out of the taxi at the hospital, and she had to wait a few minutes before seeing Mama.

  “Sister is with her,” said the nurse, and when she finally went in, she found Mama sitting up in a chair. She was wearing the flowered dressing-gown she had bought soon after going to Germany and was making some kind of a list. Even though it was only early afternoon, the day had become very dark, and in the light of the table lamp Mama looked frailer than she had done in bed.

  “They want to move me to the convalescent home next week,” she said. “And then I’ll be going away with Konrad. I must organize my clothes.”

  “So everything’s all right.”

  “Oh yes.” But Mama still looked jumpy. “It was just this silly business of Erwin’s illness. And Konrad – I do realize all this has been a great strain on him. And of course he’s having a lot of trouble with the German girl. He’s found her another job, you know.”

  “Yes,” said Anna.

  “He’s booking our hotel this afternoon. It’s right up in the mountains. We’ve been there before – it should be lovely.”

  “That’s good.”

  “And the sister thinks I should practise getting up a bit, especially as I’m going to the convalescent home.” Suddenly her eyes had filled with tears and she was crying again.

  “Mama – what is it, Mama?” Anna put her arms round her, finding her somehow smaller than she used to be. “Don’t you want to go to the convalescent home? Isn’t it all right?”

  “Oh, I think it’s quite nice.” Mama blinked and sniffed. “It’s just – the thought of the change. Of moving again. The sister says it’s got a ping-pong table,” she said through her tears.

  “Well, you’ll like that.”

  “I know. I’m j
ust being silly.” She rubbed her eyes. “I think this kind of poisoning – it is a kind of poisoning, the doctor said so – it leaves one rather confused. Do you know, Konrad was talking about something I once told him, and I could remember absolutely nothing about it. I mean, I couldn’t remember telling him. Anyway –” She sniffed again – “It didn’t really matter.”

  “I’m sure it didn’t.”

  “No. Well, anyway, I’d better have some things washed and cleaned.” She wrote something more on her list. “I thought I’d ask Hildy.”

  “Mama,” said Anna, “when you come back from your holiday – if you’re still not quite all right, or if you just suddenly feel like it – why don’t you come to London?”

  “To London?” Mama looked alarmed. “What should I do in London? Anyway, I’m coming to London at Christmas, aren’t I?”

  “Yes, of course. I only thought, if you suddenly got fed up—”

  “Oh, I see. You mean, if things don’t work out with Konrad.”

  “Not necessarily –”

  “If things don’t work out with Konrad,” said Mama, “I’m certainly not going to hang round your and Max’s necks.”

  There was a pause. Anna could see something drifting slowly down outside the window. “I think it’s trying to snow,” she said. They both watched it for a moment.

  “Look, Mama,” she said at last. “I’m sure everything will be fine with Konrad. But if by any chance it weren’t, it wouldn’t be the end of the world. I mean, you’d still have Max and me, and your job if you want it, or you could easily get one in another part of Germany. You’ve done it lots of times before.”

  “But it would be different now.”

  “Well, it’s never quite the same, but – look, Mama, I’m not a child. I do know what it’s like.” Suddenly she remembered with great clarity how she herself had felt, years before, when she had been jilted by a man she loved. “You think that your life is finished, but it isn’t. It’s awful for a while. You feel that nothing is any good, you can’t bear to look at anything or to listen to anything or even to think of anything. But then, especially if you’re working, it gradually gets better. And you meet new people, and things happen, and suddenly, though life perhaps isn’t as good as it was, it’s still quite possible. No, really,” she said, as Mama seemed about to interrupt, “for someone like you, with an interesting job, and no money worries, and us—”