Part III

20 December 1938

It’s a crisp afternoon and Erna has come to see me.

‘How are you?’ she asks, watching me warily.

‘You know…’ I shrug.

She smiles. ‘I have something for you.’

My heartbeat quickens as she takes the envelope from her pocket.

‘Is it?’

‘Yes.’

She hands it to me.

‘Thank you,’ I breathe, putting it quickly into my skirt pocket.

‘Visit me soon,’ she says, buttoning her coat. ‘You need to get out more.’

I fetch Kuschi from the kitchen, pull on my warm coat and, fingering the letter in my pocket all the way, walk down to the river near the allotments. It seems like a fitting place to read it. I sit on the still frost-covered bank and pull out the envelope, smoothing the creases with my fingers. Erna’s address, written in Walter’s neat script. My heart dips and twists, as though it were the real person here, in my hands. I look at it for a long time before I allow myself to tear it open.

*

My Darling Hetty,

Well, here I am. I’ve arrived. I’m safe, which I suppose is a good thing. But I’m also numb and empty. Of course, I miss my parents horribly, but there is also a massive, Hetty-shaped hole inside me, which I doubt can ever be filled.

It is strange to be here, to put it mildly. As you know, my English consists of only a few words. It is a baptism of fire and I shall have to learn quickly. Anna and her family speak only English to each other at home – they are so keen to be English that German is forbidden. But they have been kind and welcoming. The very first thing her father did was to attend to my fingers. I needed surgery, which I have now had. They had to amputate my badly injured finger but the other two are saved, although misshapen. So, my hand is still bandaged up. I suppose I will learn to manage with four fingers on that hand. It could have been much worse.

So, I can hear you ask, what is life like? Well, we live in a small town south of London. The people dress a little oddly – there is a certain frivolity and carefree abandon in their clothing which I hadn’t expected of the English. Their manners are somewhat strange. I must remember not to click my heels and be too upright. The English are more tactile than us. There is much clapping of backs and handshakes as well as a good deal of nodding and smiling, but I’m sure I will get used to it soon enough. They are friendly, on the whole; a little suspicious, perhaps, but being unable to speak their language is rather a barrier so I am determined to learn fast. Truthfully, everything is utterly confusing, strange and new. I try my best, but some days I feel as if I’m a small child, wading through treacle. I try to be brave. Thinking of you makes me more so.