Free Living with Strangers by Elizabeth Ellis Page A

that we find out what happened. Accessed by a series of bridges, the old city of Lübeck is an island. We walk by the waters that surround it – the river paths, the harbours, the pools sectioned off for swimming. Tireless in spite of his age and failing health, Jakob takes us through endless narrow streets, past salt lofts – he calls it the
white gold
that helped the town to prosper centuries before. He leads us up from the harbour to the tailor’s shop where, after the war, he finally found work.
    In the centre of town, there’s extensive building work, new shops and houses already completed, some still in progress. We come to a standstill outside a vast church, built largely of red brick, its twin spires glinting green in the sunlight.
    ‘I want to show you something,’ Jakob says, ‘we have to go inside.’
    I look at Josef, then from Saul to Jakob, confused that we’re to be taken into a church. I’ve attended church services occasionally with Molly but the last time Saul went to the synagogue was for Oma’s funeral. Although we sat Shiva for her afterwards in the schoolroom – a whole week of no friends to play, no music, no proper food – since then religion has played no great part in our family life.
    Jakob leads the way in, walking slowly round the cavernous spaces. Ornate and colourful, gilded arches lift our voices so that it seems we’re not talking to each other but to the sky. Then we stop. At the back of the church is a small chapel, dark and gloomy, lit only by a spotlight and a single candle. On the ground, lie the remains of two bells, huge and wounded, sunk deeply into the broken stone flags.
    Josef and I look in horror. ‘Whatever happened?’
    ‘It’s part of the story,’ Saul says. ‘I’ll let Jakob explain. I think he wants you to know, that’s why he’s brought us here.’
    And there in the church, with Saul interpreting, we listen as Jakob quietly relates the events of the night that not only brought down the bells but took his sister too.
    ‘Reine and I came here to Lübeck in 1938. We tried to stay in Berlin – it was our home after all – but so much was happening, our family was already torn apart. We had other family here, Christian cousins from our mother’s side, and they agreed to help us, but in some ways it was no better than Berlin. Not long after we arrived, in November, we were caught up in the violence and riots of Kristallnacht – the madness was everywhere. I don’t know how we survived, how we avoided deportation. As far as possible, we kept hidden – kept the curfew. The following year, with Germany at war, we heard little news. We had only rumour and stories and fear to tell us what was happening to your Opa and indeed to so many of our friends back at home. I cannot speak of guilt – we did what we thought was right. We made a life here and our cousins took a great risk. But there was another danger too.’ Jakob sighs and rubs his forehead. Then he continues slowly, in English.
    ‘One night in 1942, about a week before Easter, Reine insisted on going to visit a friend. She stayed the night because the friend was taken ill and Reine didn’t want to leave her alone. That night a huge bombing raid began. Buildings fell, others caught fire right across the city. It was chaos. Sometime after midnight, the house she was in collapsed – with both of them inside. Our own house, just a few streets away, didn’t have even a broken window.’ Jakob is clutching the brim of his hat, turning it slowly round. His hands shake a little. ‘How is that? How did God allow this?’ He seems lost for a moment, somewhere in the spring of 1942.
    I turn back to look again at the bells. Even at twelve, I can see the complex irony of what we’ve just witnessed, the futile devastation wrought on both sides by the war. Meetings in the schoolroom begin to make sense – no wonder Saul has taken up the mantel for peace.
    By the time Jakob leads us out of the church, it has