Free Somewhere Over England by Margaret Graham Page B

stairs, into the sitting-room, wrenching his coat off, calling out to her that they must now sell the flat as they had talked of doing. It was time to buy the cheaper flat near Stepney and send the balance of their capital to America with Claus, the refugee they were sheltering. He had held her as though he needed support, his hands cold, his face pinched. Chamberlain has not opposed Hitler, he had groaned into her neck before moving past her to the desk, picking Christoph up from the floor, holding him on his knee as he searched for the sale agreement in the large compartment. He had scattered papers on the floor as Helen watched.
    We must do as we agreed, he had said, his hands shaking. Hitler will never believe that anyone will stop him. There will be war, but when?
    Helen remembered nodding, feeling the chipped gloss paint of the door frame, watching, wondering how much longer peace would remain. Wondering whether England would allow the Weber family to remain in its midst once war was declared or would its people be like some of the neighbours they had danced with at the Jubilee – those who had no longer stopped to talk as the Munich crisis had deepened?
    She had watched her husband as he scanned the papers he had prepared for partnership with Claus. There might not be war, she remembered saying. Russia has sided with no one yet, but Heine had not heard. She had run her hand up and down the paintwork again. She would sandpaper and paint and the smell would take thoughts of war away, for a moment at least.
    Claus will take our money to America when he goes in April, Heine had said, turning his head, talking to her over his shoulder. He will establish the studio that will support us too. We will go to America if we have to; if war comes and Germans are really not welcome here. But only if you can bear to leave, my darling.
    She watched now in her smaller kitchen as Heine put the letter from his father back into the envelope, his face set.
    ‘Is it bad news?’ she asked, coming to him, holding him against her, wondering when Claus would be back from the ticket office, when Joseph would wake. He had arrived from Germany only last night, carrying just the ten marks refugees were allowed to take but a firm in the city had been persuaded to sponsor him and so he had been allowed entry. He had cried for his Jewish parents who would not leave their house because it would be confiscated and they would be aliens with no pride, with nothing. He cried for his parents who thought the whirlwind would pass. Would it pass, she wondered. What would Russia do?
    ‘When do you need to collect Christoph?’ Heine asked. ‘It’s band after school today, is it not?’
    ‘We have time. Tell me what is wrong.’ Helen looked at the clock. She had one hour until four.
    ‘Father has written, after all these years he has written. He would like us to go and see him before it becomes impossible. He would like to see his grandson and so would Mutti.’
    ‘I’m so glad,’ said Helen, speaking carefully because Heine’s face was still set and she did not know whether he cared for his father at all. Whether he could forget that they stood on opposing sides. ‘But is it safe?’
    ‘Oh yes, it is safe enough because he has vouched for us with officials. He is a Nazi Party member, do you not remember?’ But Heine’s voice was not bitter as it usually was but quiet, thoughtful.
    He pushed her back and looked into her face. ‘I promised you after that night when you re-arranged the darkroom’ – he grinned now and she did too – ‘I promised you that you could always trust me to look after you. I have tried to do that, but now I have something to ask of you.’ He took her hand. His cuffs were frayed and a thread of cotton drifted on to her green flowered overall.
    He looked away now at the clock. Helen checked too. There was half an hour.
    ‘You have done so much for me and my countrymen. I have to ask you to do one last thing. Father