Remember Me (7 page)

T
wo weeks later, Marianne heard from Ruth.

One week later Marianne received a postcard from Czechoslovakia. The pictures were of the gleaming spires, medieval roofs and turrets of Prague – Vati had always told her it was one of the most beautiful capitals in Europe. She didn’t know anyone there. The card was printed, and undated. It said:

D for David. It’s from Vati. He’s safe! Why has he disguised his identity? Isn’t Prague free?
She was glad, though, that he was being so cautious. There were spies everywhere. Now, he’d surely come to England. How clever of him to give the Nazis the slip.

Marianne wished she could ask him how he crossed the frontier. It was like a miracle. She twirled around the room in stocking
feet. Linoleum was wonderful for sliding. And she had to keep warm somehow. No heat reached the bedroom at all.

Marianne huddled back down on her bed and read Vati’s card again. She thought of the last time she’d seen him. She could smell the onions frying, see her mother’s flushed cheeks, feel her own cheek pressed against the rough texture of Vati’s jacket as he hugged her good-bye after supper.

The last time she’d seen him was when he was on the run from the Gestapo. The pit of her stomach felt as empty as it had then, that awful moment after he left again to go into the cold night to hide goodness-knows-where.
Oh, Vati, I hope you’re warm and happy now. I hope you know how much I love you.

“Mary Anne, where are you? Gladys needs help with the silver,” Aunt Vera called.

Marianne went down into the kitchen and attacked each piece of cutlery as if she could make all the bad people in the world disappear by polishing them away.

Gladys said, “If all refugees work like you, there won’t be any jobs left for us.” She smiled, but Marianne was hurt. It seemed if you were a refugee, whatever you did was wrong.

That evening Aunt Vera said, “I see someone sent you a card from Prague. Do you have friends there?”

“My father.”

“Oh, I see. Is he on holiday?”

“Beautiful place,” said Uncle Geoffrey. “Medieval city, cobbled streets, and all that. That glass decanter set was made in Czechoslovakia.”

Marianne looked at them.
Holiday? Don’t they realize what is happening?

“Mary Anne, are you listening? Answer the question.”

“Sorry,” said Marianne. “No, not holiday. He’s running from Hitler, like me.”

“Well, that’s hardly the same thing. Have you finished your homework?”

“I have ten more words to learn for the spell test.”

“Spelling. Run along then, goodnight.”

Three weeks later the newspaper headlines declared:
NAZI TROOPS MARCH INTO PRAGUE
.

Uncle Geoffrey said, “They just let them walk in. What do you expect? Foreigners – no backbone.” He made the word “foreigners” sound like a disease.

Marianne borrowed books about Czechoslovakia from the library. There was one with a street map of Prague. She wanted to imagine the places where her father might hide. There were castles and cottages in the countryside. Someone might help him.
First Austria, now Czechoslovakia – where will the Nazis go next?

That night Marianne woke up and found herself at the top of the stairs. She didn’t know how she got there. The next night
Gladys found her wandering again, and helped her back to bed. Afterward, she didn’t remember anything about it. Gladys told Mrs. Abercrombie Jones next morning.

“What’s all this nonsense I hear about you walking about the house in the middle of the night, Mary Anne? Are you ill?”

“No, Aunt Vera, I’m quite fine,” said Marianne, realizing that for once Aunt Vera was not angry.

“Too much tea, Gladys. From now on, Mary Anne is to drink nothing at all after six o’clock.”

That night Marianne put books in front of her bed, so that she’d fall and wake herself up. But it didn’t work. She told Bridget about walking in her sleep.

“We’ll just have to try harder to get a visa for your mother. Look, I’ve typed up ten more copies of our advertisement,” she said.

Marianne replied, “Thanks, Bridget, but you see it’s no good looking for a job for a couple anymore. The Nazis have taken over in Czechoslovakia; it’d be hard to escape.”

“If he can get out of Berlin, he can do anything,” Bridget said comfortingly, but the next day she changed the words on the advertisement, so that there was no longer any mention of “gardener / handyman.”

E
very evening after tea, Marianne spread a double sheet of newspaper on the scullery floor and cleaned the household’s shoes. Sometimes yesterday’s paper was so interesting that she’d still be there an hour later. Last week there was a story about a famous film star, and Aunt Vera had come in and stopped her reading “such rubbish.”

“No wonder you walk in your sleep. I forbid you to read the paper from now on. Finish the shoes and go to bed.”

Shoes were a constant problem for Marianne. She wore her Wellingtons most of the time. In school she changed into brown plimsolls, like the other girls.

The Wellingtons were made of black rubber and came to her knees. The boots reminded her of the Gestapo. All the children wore them. In spite of wearing two pairs of socks, her feet were still always freezing.

Marianne rubbed her feet together to stop them itching. She had developed big red bumps on her heels and toes. Chilblains, Gladys called them. They were a fact of life in England, like porridge for breakfast. When her feet warmed up, they got hot and itchy and swollen. Her fingers were red and cracked, too. Gladys told her to leave the dishes for a few days to give her hands a chance to heal.

If Marianne complained to Aunt Vera, she knew she’d be told not to fuss, so she said nothing. She discovered that if she slid under her icy sheets at night and went to sleep before she got warm, her feet didn’t keep her awake.

The shoes she’d brought from Berlin were getting awfully tight. They hurt her toes and she couldn’t straighten them.

Last Sunday on the way to church, Uncle Geoffrey, who hardly ever noticed her or made personal remarks, said, “Mary Anne, you’re hobbling about like an old lady. Put your head up, shoulders back.” Before she had a chance to explain that her shoes pinched, the vicar was greeting them. Aunt Vera didn’t refer to the incident and Marianne didn’t like to ask for new shoes.

Tomorrow there was a jumble sale. Marianne decided she’d donate her outgrown shoes. The sale was for a really good cause – for the Spanish villagers who’d been bombed by the Fascists.

Next day she put her shoes in the box marked
JUMBLE
. On Friday, school finished an hour early, so they could all go to the gym. Marianne had sixpence to spend. Perhaps she’d be lucky and find a pair of shoes to fit her.

The gymnasium was crammed full – students, teachers, parents, and relatives. One table was doing a huge trade serving tea poured from a big metal urn, at a penny a cup. Marianne made her way to the used-clothes stall. Next to it was a table with secondhand books. She’d just take a quick look. Bridget’s birthday was next month. Arthur Ransome’s
Swallows and Amazons
was lying at the back of the table, half covered by a Latin dictionary. Marianne picked it up. It was in really nice condition, and only cost twopence. She leafed through it quickly, and came to the part where the children got a telegram from their father:
BETTER DROWNED THAN DUFFERS, IF NOT DUFFERS WON’T DROWN
.

The first time she’d read that, she couldn’t find a translation for “duffers.” Now she knew it meant ‘someone useless.’ It was the kind of thing her father might have said to her in his joking way. Wasn’t she like Roger and Kitty and the others? All alone, and she was making decisions as best she could. She
had
to buy the book for Bridget’s birthday. They’d both read the library copy, and Bridget had said, “I’d love to have my own.” Bridget had become such a good friend, always doing things for her. This could be something Marianne could do to please her. Sometimes Marianne worried that when Bridget went to grammar school, she’d find another best friend, that things wouldn’t stay the same between them.

“Are you going to read the whole book before you buy it?” Her math teacher was smiling at her.

“Sorry, Sir,” said Marianne and gave him a threepenny bit.

“How much change would you like, Mary Anne?”

“One penny, please,” she replied.

Teachers could never resist a chance to teach, even after school.

Mr. Neame said, “Well done,” and handed her the book and the change. That left fourpence. It didn’t seem much to buy a pair of shoes. Even the worn-out ballet slippers were sevenpence.

“What are you looking for?” the woman helper at the shoe stall asked her.

“Walking shoes, size, um … three (that was the size of her Wellingtons) … or three and a half. Thank you,” Marianne said.

“There’s a big box of shoes under the table; I haven’t had time to price them yet. Have a look and see if you can find what you want.”

Marianne rummaged through them, finding nothing in her size.

“How about this pair? They should do you, nice leather, and only a bit scuffed. They’d soon brush up. They’re hardly worn. Let you have them for ninepence.”

“Thank you, but I’ve only got fourpence left.”

“Sorry, dear. I don’t think I can let them go for that. Tell you what, if I haven’t sold them by the time we close at 7:00
P.M.
, I’ll let them go for a bit less. Come back then.”

Marianne did some quick calculations: she had fivepence at home, but she needed stamps and toothpaste. She stood there undecided.

Mr. Neame called her over. “Mary Anne, is there a mathematical difficulty I can help you with?”

Suddenly Marianne felt the whole gymnasium go quiet as if, at that moment, everyone was listening.
How can I explain that I have no shoes, that there’s no one to tell what any mother would know?
She could feel herself blushing.

“It’s … that I did not bring enough money to spend, Mr. Neame. It doesn’t matter, thank you. I must go now.” Marianne started to edge away.

Mr. Neame said, “Do you know what a short-term loan is, Mary Anne?”

She shook her head.

“Suppose you want to buy a shop, but don’t have quite enough money to pay for it. You could borrow the money from a bank, and sign a paper to promise to pay the debt by a certain date. Now, how much do you need for your purchase?”

Marianne thought,
He’s a kind man. He does not use the word “shoes,” and he is pretending that we are having a math lesson.
She said carefully, “I have fourpence here, and I have fivepence at home, but I’m saving it.”

“If you want to buy something, as it is for a good cause, I am prepared to make you an indefinite loan. I am sure you will repay me as soon as you can. Do you think your parents would approve?”

“I think so. One day they’ll come to England,” said Marianne.

“I’ll be happy to meet them,” said Mr. Neame. “Here is sixpence.”

“Thank you very much, Sir,” said Marianne, and gave him one penny change. She handed over her money to the woman behind the shoe table. Marianne put her purchases in her schoolbag, and walked out of the gymnasium. She told herself she had nothing to feel ashamed of. Marianne ran all the way back to the house. The shoes might have sold if she’d waited till seven, and she did need them.

Gladys opened the door. “You’re to wash your hands and brush your hair and go into the sitting room. There’s someone to see you,” she said.

Marianne knocked at the door.

“Come in, dear,” said Aunt Vera.

Dear? She never calls me that. This must be someone pretty important.