Siddy had spotted on the second level. “This has a good view of the door,” she said, as she sat down.
The place was overlit, as such places always are, and it made the gloom outside seem like black night and the interior almost as bright as a stage. Siddy stubbed out her cigarette in the cherry-red ashtray.
“You’re looking good, Vi,” she said.
“You too,” I said, but it wasn’t the truth. The bright light showed lines in her face, and her ash-blonde hair was a little shaggy and needed cutting. “Sid—” I was going to ask her why she’d called me, but she held up a hand.
“The trouble is,” she said, pulling out another cigarette, “that we hardly know each other. I didn’t realize until I saw you. I thought, well, I suppose I thought, ‘She’s my sister, who is closer than your sister,’ but the truth is that almost anyone is closer when there’s been such a gap. I should have thought. You haven’t really known me since I’ve grown up. I’ve seen you act, but I don’t really know who you are, now. The last time we really talked I was in my nonsensical ‘in love with Comrade Stalin, what can we do to help the Dear Workers’ phase. How can you even take me seriously?”
“Are you in trouble?” I asked.
“I’m in trouble, you’re in trouble, the whole country is in trouble or haven’t you noticed?” Her match flared briefly, then she shook it out and dropped it into the ashtray.
“You’re right that we don’t really know each other beyond a shared past that seems a long time ago to me, but if you’re in trouble I’ll try to help,” I said.
She drew deeply on the cigarette, and put her head back, exhaling, showing her long throat like a sacrificial animal. Then she leaned forward and put her hand on mine. “Promise you won’t tell anyone what I asked, whether you agree to help or not?”
I nodded. “Nope to die,” I said, in our childhood formula.
Siddy smiled. “Good old Fatso, Viola I mean.” She looked at me for a moment. “Where do you stand politically?”
“Oh come on, Siddy!” I said, drawing back.
“By which you mean you’re an actress, politics is boring, let the Bolshies and the Nazis bash the hell out of each other, it’s what they both deserve, thank God for the Farthing Peace?”
I tried my coffee. It was dishwater, which was what I’d expected. “Something not very different from that,” I said, noncomittally.
“And this latest nasty business, with that bloody worm Mark Normanby rewriting the unwritten constitution and sliding us close to outright fascism here, that doesn’t alarm you at all?” She tapped ash off her cigarette impatiently and drew on it again at once.
“Actually I think it’s a lot of silly hysteria, but if there are Jewish and communist terrorists going around blowing people up, then I suppose the innocent Jews and communists must expect a certain amount of trouble. Is that what this is? Are they after you for being a communist? Don’t they know who Pappa is?”
“Don’t you see how terrible it is that it makes a difference who Pappa is?” she asked, passionately. “Everyone should be equal before the law.”
“Well if you want to be equally going off to some camp,” I said. “But surely they can’t imagine you’d blow people up?”
She leaned forward to me across the table. “Oh yes I would. I’ve visited Pip in Prague. I know what really goes on in those camps. They aren’t prisons. They work people to death, on starvation rations. They are slaves, and when they get too weak to work they kill them with poison gas. They keep records, endless efficient relentless Germanic records.”
“You can’t really believe all that guff,” I said. “Isn’t it all like the stories about the Germans spitting Belgian babies on their bayonets in Pappa’s war? Just propaganda? They make them work in the camps, yes, but all those stories about the showers with stone soap and poison gas are just to make you
The place was overlit, as such places always are, and it made the gloom outside seem like black night and the interior almost as bright as a stage. Siddy stubbed out her cigarette in the cherry-red ashtray.
“You’re looking good, Vi,” she said.
“You too,” I said, but it wasn’t the truth. The bright light showed lines in her face, and her ash-blonde hair was a little shaggy and needed cutting. “Sid—” I was going to ask her why she’d called me, but she held up a hand.
“The trouble is,” she said, pulling out another cigarette, “that we hardly know each other. I didn’t realize until I saw you. I thought, well, I suppose I thought, ‘She’s my sister, who is closer than your sister,’ but the truth is that almost anyone is closer when there’s been such a gap. I should have thought. You haven’t really known me since I’ve grown up. I’ve seen you act, but I don’t really know who you are, now. The last time we really talked I was in my nonsensical ‘in love with Comrade Stalin, what can we do to help the Dear Workers’ phase. How can you even take me seriously?”
“Are you in trouble?” I asked.
“I’m in trouble, you’re in trouble, the whole country is in trouble or haven’t you noticed?” Her match flared briefly, then she shook it out and dropped it into the ashtray.
“You’re right that we don’t really know each other beyond a shared past that seems a long time ago to me, but if you’re in trouble I’ll try to help,” I said.
She drew deeply on the cigarette, and put her head back, exhaling, showing her long throat like a sacrificial animal. Then she leaned forward and put her hand on mine. “Promise you won’t tell anyone what I asked, whether you agree to help or not?”
I nodded. “Nope to die,” I said, in our childhood formula.
Siddy smiled. “Good old Fatso, Viola I mean.” She looked at me for a moment. “Where do you stand politically?”
“Oh come on, Siddy!” I said, drawing back.
“By which you mean you’re an actress, politics is boring, let the Bolshies and the Nazis bash the hell out of each other, it’s what they both deserve, thank God for the Farthing Peace?”
I tried my coffee. It was dishwater, which was what I’d expected. “Something not very different from that,” I said, noncomittally.
“And this latest nasty business, with that bloody worm Mark Normanby rewriting the unwritten constitution and sliding us close to outright fascism here, that doesn’t alarm you at all?” She tapped ash off her cigarette impatiently and drew on it again at once.
“Actually I think it’s a lot of silly hysteria, but if there are Jewish and communist terrorists going around blowing people up, then I suppose the innocent Jews and communists must expect a certain amount of trouble. Is that what this is? Are they after you for being a communist? Don’t they know who Pappa is?”
“Don’t you see how terrible it is that it makes a difference who Pappa is?” she asked, passionately. “Everyone should be equal before the law.”
“Well if you want to be equally going off to some camp,” I said. “But surely they can’t imagine you’d blow people up?”
She leaned forward to me across the table. “Oh yes I would. I’ve visited Pip in Prague. I know what really goes on in those camps. They aren’t prisons. They work people to death, on starvation rations. They are slaves, and when they get too weak to work they kill them with poison gas. They keep records, endless efficient relentless Germanic records.”
“You can’t really believe all that guff,” I said. “Isn’t it all like the stories about the Germans spitting Belgian babies on their bayonets in Pappa’s war? Just propaganda? They make them work in the camps, yes, but all those stories about the showers with stone soap and poison gas are just to make you
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