Living with Strangers (19 page)

‘I should come with you.’ Paul checked his mirror and pulled onto the dual carriageway.

‘I’ll be fine,’ I said. ‘It’s better this way. Besides, Molly and Saul need you just now. They rely on you.’

‘I guess.’

‘Thanks for this, Paul – for taking me. You’d make a fine chauffeur.’

‘My lifelong dream.’

I looked across at him as he stared grimly through the windscreen. ‘It’s hard, isn’t it?’ I said. ‘But something’ll turn up. I always found it did – in the end.’

‘It’s different now though, Maddie, you can’t just walk into jobs any more. Too many people want them – whatever they are.’

Shut away abroad with my own concerns, I’d missed the crumbling economy here, the unrest, the strikes. ‘What would you like to do – given a choice?’

Paul changed gear to overtake a three-wheeler in the slow lane. ‘I’d like to run my own business.’

‘Really? Doing what?’

‘Selling sports equipment.’

‘You mean, open a shop?’

‘Probably. It’s just an idea I’ve had recently, since I realised the tennis wasn’t going anywhere. It’s four years since I left school – my CV’s a bit empty.’

‘Have you talked to Molly and Papa?’

‘I don’t like to – not just now. There’s enough going on.’ He looked across at me then and grinned. ‘Long lost family members – that sort of thing.’

I watched a sign for the airport flick past the window. ‘It’s odd, isn’t it? Less than a month ago I was living another life – no knowledge of any of this.’

‘What made you come back – was it Dad?’

‘Not entirely. Maybe that helped. I’d been ignoring it all for too long. Having a child, it makes you see things differently.’

‘And do you think Josef will come back too – assuming you find him?’

‘I’ve no idea, but I have to try, for all our sakes.’

Paul dropped me at Departures. ‘Good luck,’ he said, ‘see you Friday.’

‘Thanks Paul, I’ll see you soon.’

I’ll see you soon.
New patterns were forming, a life of skilful avoidance broken. Now other, stronger threads were spun, out of sadness and joy, out of Saul’s mortal illness and my duty as a mother to reconnect.

The queue to check in was long and slow. I waited, turning constantly to look for Chloé, so rarely did I go anywhere without her. In the departure lounge I bought coffee and a paper but, in spite of being alone, was unable to engage much with the news. I needed a plan, to have some idea of what I would do when I got to Lübeck. Uncertainty began to scratch away the conviction I had held when Saul and I discussed this trip, my optimism wavering as I realised that, yet again, Marie Claude was right. Even if Josef had actually gone to Lübeck the improbability of tracking him down was almost too great to contemplate. In a fit of panic, I wanted to leave, to fetch Chloé and go back to France, to forget all this and carry on as before. Yet I also knew this could never happen now; it was too late and I was not that person any more.

My flight was delayed by an hour. I sat making lists of places I should visit, where I should start. Saul had given me a map and an old guidebook. I had booked into a small hotel for the four nights of my stay; how much of the place I would remember from our previous visit remained to be seen. Tourist information might be a good place to start, then a trawl through every coffee shop, bar and guesthouse I could find.
Don’t bother with the big places
, Alex had said,
nothing grand – that’s not his style. He’ll be in a back room somewhere, drawing pictures.
How much faith Alex placed in my quest was concerning; he too perhaps, clutching vainly at thin air. But the responsibility I was charged with now loomed larger than ever. Failure was not an option.

*

In Hamburg I missed the train I was scheduled to catch. I sat on a cold platform, fielding memories of our wait long ago, watching Uncle Jakob emerge from the smoke, his shoes shining, his hat and suit in perfect order. No one dressed like that any more.

When it came, the train was full. I had to stand by the doors, crushed between heated bodies, reminded of my London commute. At Lübeck, most people got off. I simply followed the flow, over the bridge, towards the old town. Then on the skyline, I saw the twin spires of the Marienkirche – the church Jakob had taken us to, the one in the photo, the sight that had convinced me where to come.

My hotel, when I found it, was tucked away behind the old hospital. Saul remembered it because we had stopped there for a drink and sat outside at wrought iron tables beneath crumbling brickwork. The brickwork still crumbled; the inside too, had laid untouched for decades. I rang the bell at reception and waited, trying in my head to keep French away from my carefully rehearsed German phrases.

When she appeared, the receptionist watched indulgently as I floundered with the language, then handed me the key and answered in perfect English, ‘Welcome to Lübeck, your room is on the second floor. The bathroom is at the end of the corridor and breakfast is from seven until nine. Have a pleasant stay.’

I had brought the photograph Alex had sent to Molly; it was the only recent image we had of Josef. I showed it to the receptionist and she smiled.

‘He’s very handsome,’ she said, ‘no wonder you want to find him.’ But she was unable to help further except to suggest one or two hostels where he might have chosen to stay.

The hotel had no lift. Wearily, I dragged my bag up two flights of stone stairs and found my room next to the fire escape. It was small and musty; the window looked out over red tiled rooftops where city lights began to appear as dusk fell. I unpacked my few belongings and lay down on the bed. This at least smelt fresh, the quilt crisp and folded neatly sideways.

I must have slept for a short while, because later I woke hungry and in the dark with church bells sounding eight or nine. I went down to enquire about something to eat but there was no one around, the bar and restaurant attached to the hotel were empty and closed up. I set out across the square to where a group of diners braved the elements in a chilly courtyard. They wore thick coats with rugs over their knees; it looked a lot more inviting inside.

At a table near the bar I ordered fish soup and sipped a large schnapps while I waited. Its welcome heat bit my empty stomach – I’d had nothing to eat since a small meal on the plane. I wondered about home – whether to phone. How strange that seemed – to know they would be anxious about me; how odd it was to think of Chloé there with them. How very strange too, to think that if my intuition could be trusted, then Josef and I were on the same continent, maybe even in the same town, for the first time in fifteen years.

There was still no particular plan. I had scoured faces since arriving, searching every feature, even on the train. Where I sat now, my head snapped up whenever the door opened. Two hundred and ten thousand people lived here, was I going to search through them all in three days?

Warmed by the soup and the schnapps, I paid the bill and left, walking for a while to the old city gateway at the north end, then back past the harbour to the hotel. I phoned home when I was sure Chloé would be sleeping.

Molly answered, relief in her voice. ‘So, you’re alright? You found the hotel?’

‘Yes, I found it. It’s cold here, but otherwise fine.’

‘And you’ve had something to eat?’

Such solicitude. ‘Yes. I’ve eaten. How’s Chloé?’

‘She’s asleep. Sophie sang to her – she liked that.’

‘And Papa?’

‘He’s sleeping too.’

‘Ok, good. I’ll phone in a day or two unless… unless there’s any news.’

‘We’ll be here.’

I slept deeply, undisturbed. The shutters here were dense and the room stayed dark and quiet. The smell of coffee drifting up the staircase woke me at about eight-thirty. I washed and dressed quickly and caught the tail end of breakfast – tempting in spite of the faded gloom of the surroundings. Other guests sat quietly in couples or alone with newspapers among their breakfast debris. I helped myself to fresh rolls, ham, cheese and exquisite coffee – a remembered taste, from Jakob’s house. It was ten minutes from here, and perhaps the best place to start my search. I could then retrace the steps we’d made that summer – all of them if need be – convinced now that Josef was somewhere near.

I had worked out a route – or series of routes – which would take in almost every street. Armed with this and the list of accommodation, I found Jakob’s house round the corner from the hotel. It had changed little; the same pot sat on the pavement, now filled with twisting stems of wisteria. I stood outside the house for many minutes, tempted to knock and ask, to show the photo in the vain hope that Josef might have come here too. But I knew the house had been sold after Jakob’s death and that Lenchen had moved away further north.

I realised the house was near the synagogue, and remembered how Jakob had been unable to go there for seven years, how he and Reine had kept hidden, had denied who they were. I thought of Molly’s words too:
another reason why he left Berlin.
Jakob had had a lifetime of denial – at least Josef had been spared that.

I set off to walk my first route. By lunchtime I had covered a quarter of the old town, calling at every inn and coffee house, bringing out the photo, meeting the same response. At each one I left my name and the phone number of the hotel, just in case. At the last place, I bought a sandwich and more coffee and took a seat by the window. Many of the streets here were cobbled, uneven and hard on the feet. My shoes were inadequate, lightweight things. I wished then, ruefully, for the hated sensible shoes Molly had made me wear as a child. They may have damaged my soul, but they never damaged my feet. I had to make do with buying plasters and a thicker pair of socks.

The afternoon trek took in another quarter of the city, this time in the south-east. I remembered the bomb damaged areas here, many of them now reconstructed – dull, grey buildings at odds with the beauty of the old. The place where Aunt Reine had died now housed a small supermarket with a sweet shop next door, selling marzipan. I took many photographs. I had to document what I was doing, needed a testament to the fact that even if this trip proved fruitless, I had at least tried.

By six o’clock, I had managed the designated area and returned limping to the hotel in need of a long bath. Afterwards, I ate a light supper in the restaurant and set off again, this time in the rain, to revisit one or two of the pubs and cafés that had been empty during the day. Now crowded with students, it was easy to pass from table to table, peddling my picture like a hopeful hawker. In one bar, the manager stopped me and asked what I was doing. With my old cagoule and wild, wet hair he must have thought I was peddling more than hope.

Many students were helpful, prompted by the chance to practise their English. They offered advice on where to go, suggested places where Josef might choose to be. I had already tried the YMCA by the cathedral, another was on my schedule for the following morning.

In one bar a group invited me to join them, intrigued by my search, plying me with beer and questions about England. Although I explained I had been living in France for the past seven years, this simply prompted a new wave of interest. An hour later, I gave my contact details to one of the girls and left, finding my way back to the hotel with a very light head.

By lunchtime on the second day, I had scoured the third quarter, enquired in another string of bars, cafés and hotels, sought out the tourist information centre and bought some new shoes. I slumped in yet another restaurant and stared miserably out of the window.

What on earth was I doing? Even if I were sure Josef had come here, the size and scale of what I alone could do, would never be enough to find him. I should have taken Alex up on his offer – or Paul. That way we could have covered twice the ground and I would now have someone to sit with, to share this with – this despair that was seeping in with the spring rain, the damp pavements, my sore feet. I had come here for many reasons, all of them sound – for Saul, for Molly, even for Alex, propelled by the need to set it all straight again. But most of all, I’d come to fill up the gap in my heart, the flimsy, fragile space left empty all these years.

I opened the menu, but then had to leave. I couldn’t read a word on the page.

The rain was heavy now; relentless, slicing across the streets and springing up at angles from the rough cobbled ground. I walked at random, abandoning the plan. I couldn’t see much in any case; the map was wet and falling apart. I took a long road by the river and walked for an hour, soaked through. Then, coming back into town as the rain finally began to ease, I stopped in the small square by the city hall. I had reached the church, the Marienkirche. I went inside and took off my wet coat. There was a service in progress in the central nave; around the edges tourists ambled with leaflets and guidebooks. I followed, finally stopping beneath the south tower and the chapel with the broken bells where Jakob told us what had happened to his sister. There was a book there now, a memorial book for all those who had died on that night in 1942. I leafed through the pages and found Aunt Reine’s name. Jakob would have liked that. Did he know, I wondered?

When the service had finished, I walked slowly back down the central aisle. Then looking up, high into the vaults and beyond, to where light was breaking through as the sun reappeared, I knew this journey had not been in vain. Whatever the outcome, even if I did not find Josef, I had done what I could. We would all have to accept that and move on.

*

Back at the hotel, earlier than the previous day, I rang the bell at reception and asked for any messages.

‘I’m sorry,’ the girl said, ‘maybe tomorrow? But don’t give up,’ she added as I started up the stairs, ‘not yet.’

That evening was clear and sunny, deep puddles reflecting the red brick town houses and tall, copper spires. I found my way back to the bar in the student quarter, for company if nothing else. The same group, more or less, sat at the same tables. They called me over and I went to join them, staying longer this evening, thankful for the noise, the clamour and the warming swirl of alcohol. I thought of all those other moments – at the Moorhen, the Union bar, in London, in France – the table awash with ashtrays and glasses, moments that could lift any weight by pretending, just for a while, that it wasn’t there at all. Though no one had any further information – Josef had not, by some miracle, been spotted across the street or in a doorway – there was a promise to keep asking, to support this search for as long as I needed.

I spent most of the evening deep in conversation with a student from Alsace. As well as German and passable English, he spoke French too. It was a relief among all this recent uncertainty to hear it again; a link with my other life, my grounding force. He talked of a party that was happening somewhere or other later, but I turned him down. I also declined his offer of taking me back to the hotel, though not without some regret. It had been a long time since Jean-Luc.

I left them all around midnight and promised to return the following evening, unless I had found what I came for. And less than twenty-four hours later, I would return, just to thank them for the fruits of their labour.

*

The next day, in spite of a hangover, I was up early and at breakfast before seven. The room was empty; I sat at a small table by the window and took out the map and my list. Most of it I had crossed off. In the preceding days, I had walked the city perimeter, except for the one small section when I had lost heart. There remained half a dozen small lodging houses beyond the city confines and the river walk to the north-east. After that, I would simply recover old ground. This was the last full day and time was running out.

A girl came in from the kitchen and offered me coffee. I helped myself to a small breakfast and took paracetamol to calm the thumping in my head.

The day was fine again and thankfully warmer. Just as my shoes had been unsuitable, so too were the rest of my clothes, acquired for a softer climate, an earlier spring. I had considered buying another jumper, but my money was running short, even with Saul’s contribution. Eating out was costly here.

I headed down to the harbour to walk the last piece of the perimeter and the few remaining streets. That would take until lunchtime, then I would cross over and cover the stretches beyond the city wall. My feet had recovered a little, the headache reduced to a dull knot between my eyes. I stood by a footbridge and leaned over the railings. Seagulls cried overhead, wheeling in arcs hopefully among the rows of moored vessels. The smell of seaweed and rotting fish rose up from the jetty; somewhere on the ring road, the traffic churned – a distant, faint concerto.

I am unable to remember details of what happened next, of the exact moment I became aware that Josef was standing beside me, a few feet away, even before he spoke, before I had seen him. I simply turned and he was there, hands in his pockets, the photo made flesh.

I hung onto the railings, opened my mouth but nothing came out.

He took a step closer. ‘Maddie?’

I nodded rapidly. I looked away, then down at my feet, then up again expecting him to have gone – but he was still there. This moment, held close for so many years, was at last brought into the sun. I clung to the railings, not trusting my knees. I stared at him. ‘Hey,’ was all I could manage.