Read Online Living with Strangers by Elizabeth Ellis - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Elizabeth Ellis
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and I hover impatiently waiting to pack, trying to help Molly, who washes and irons and deals with Paul’s indignation at not being allowed to come too.
The suitcase that Oma left me is beautiful dark brown leather all kitted out with brushes and bottles inside. Apart from her cello, it was the only luggage she brought to England from home. It stills smells faintly of her, of Chanel perfume and cigarettes. I imagine it going with her as she travelled with the orchestra across Europe’s capital cities – Paris, Vienna, Prague. It once even crossed continents when she went to play in Boston. So much carried within that old and battered rectangle.
When we finally leave for Germany, on a warm evening in late July, the whole family comes to the station, even Adam, shamed into a show of family solidarity by a few sharp words from Molly. Sophie strains in the pushchair and Paul, placated by promises of a trip to the zoo, terrifies us all by hopping up and down on the edge of the platform. It is a veritable
Grosser Bahnhof
– Oma would have been proud. We board the train amidst a flurry of rapid hugs and hasty goodbyes. I watch them retreating, my family suddenly reduced, a disparate little group. This journey we are making will venture into the past and help part of Saul to heal, but that day on the platform is almost the last time our family will ever be together again.
*
It’s not an easy journey. The heat on the train is unbearable, the crossing unseasonably rough. On the boat, Saul finds some seats and stores our cases, then wedges himself into a corner where he stays for the rest of the journey, reading the paper and drinking a small black coffee. Josef and I, flushed with Coca Cola and chocolate, explore the decks until, like most of our fellow passengers, we’re overcome with sickness as the boat heaves and thumps its way across the North Sea, issuing wave after wave of acrid diesel fumes. I spend a wretched hour in the toilets, the contents of my stomach simply adding to the overflowing basins. Years later, I would wake up sometimes on the floor of a strange bathroom, in a house belonging to some unknown person whose party I’d crashed. At other times it would be a strange bed that greeted my returning consciousness, along with sour breathing beside me and grimy sheets. But the boat that night, aged twelve, is the nearest so far I have come to squalor.
The Hamburg train is cooler and I doze on and off, waking at dawn with an acid mouth and a stiff neck as we cross the border into Germany. At Cologne, Saul brings us breakfast. I watch anxiously as he disappears into the crowd on the platform, fearful that the train will leave without him. But he reappears ten minutes later waving rolls and fruit, boarding the train with time to spare. Clearly he has done this before.
By mid afternoon we reach Hamburg. Gritty and light headed, Josef and I wait with the luggage whilst Saul wanders up and down, scanning faces. Then coming towards us, picking his way against the stream of passengers, is an elderly man, tiny in stature and the image of Oma. He’s wearing a dark overcoat and a black hat, his shoes are shining. Josef takes hold of my arm as we stand there watching his approach. Saul moves towards him, holding out his hand. We hang back, see their long earnest handshake and hasty embrace, before Saul beckons us over and we go to join them.
‘Jakob,’ he says, ‘these are my children.’ He speaks in German; it’s been many years since he’s done that – not since Oma died.
Jakob greets us warmly, clasping each of us by the hand – overcome, I think, because he seems to be crying and I don’t know where to look. Josef and I smile politely and mumble a
Guten Tag
then we all follow him out of the station to the waiting car.
*
Jakob’s house, near the centre of Lübeck, is like a picture postcard. Roses round the front door, trail out of an earthenware pot on the pavement. The four of us sit close together in
The suitcase that Oma left me is beautiful dark brown leather all kitted out with brushes and bottles inside. Apart from her cello, it was the only luggage she brought to England from home. It stills smells faintly of her, of Chanel perfume and cigarettes. I imagine it going with her as she travelled with the orchestra across Europe’s capital cities – Paris, Vienna, Prague. It once even crossed continents when she went to play in Boston. So much carried within that old and battered rectangle.
When we finally leave for Germany, on a warm evening in late July, the whole family comes to the station, even Adam, shamed into a show of family solidarity by a few sharp words from Molly. Sophie strains in the pushchair and Paul, placated by promises of a trip to the zoo, terrifies us all by hopping up and down on the edge of the platform. It is a veritable
Grosser Bahnhof
– Oma would have been proud. We board the train amidst a flurry of rapid hugs and hasty goodbyes. I watch them retreating, my family suddenly reduced, a disparate little group. This journey we are making will venture into the past and help part of Saul to heal, but that day on the platform is almost the last time our family will ever be together again.
*
It’s not an easy journey. The heat on the train is unbearable, the crossing unseasonably rough. On the boat, Saul finds some seats and stores our cases, then wedges himself into a corner where he stays for the rest of the journey, reading the paper and drinking a small black coffee. Josef and I, flushed with Coca Cola and chocolate, explore the decks until, like most of our fellow passengers, we’re overcome with sickness as the boat heaves and thumps its way across the North Sea, issuing wave after wave of acrid diesel fumes. I spend a wretched hour in the toilets, the contents of my stomach simply adding to the overflowing basins. Years later, I would wake up sometimes on the floor of a strange bathroom, in a house belonging to some unknown person whose party I’d crashed. At other times it would be a strange bed that greeted my returning consciousness, along with sour breathing beside me and grimy sheets. But the boat that night, aged twelve, is the nearest so far I have come to squalor.
The Hamburg train is cooler and I doze on and off, waking at dawn with an acid mouth and a stiff neck as we cross the border into Germany. At Cologne, Saul brings us breakfast. I watch anxiously as he disappears into the crowd on the platform, fearful that the train will leave without him. But he reappears ten minutes later waving rolls and fruit, boarding the train with time to spare. Clearly he has done this before.
By mid afternoon we reach Hamburg. Gritty and light headed, Josef and I wait with the luggage whilst Saul wanders up and down, scanning faces. Then coming towards us, picking his way against the stream of passengers, is an elderly man, tiny in stature and the image of Oma. He’s wearing a dark overcoat and a black hat, his shoes are shining. Josef takes hold of my arm as we stand there watching his approach. Saul moves towards him, holding out his hand. We hang back, see their long earnest handshake and hasty embrace, before Saul beckons us over and we go to join them.
‘Jakob,’ he says, ‘these are my children.’ He speaks in German; it’s been many years since he’s done that – not since Oma died.
Jakob greets us warmly, clasping each of us by the hand – overcome, I think, because he seems to be crying and I don’t know where to look. Josef and I smile politely and mumble a
Guten Tag
then we all follow him out of the station to the waiting car.
*
Jakob’s house, near the centre of Lübeck, is like a picture postcard. Roses round the front door, trail out of an earthenware pot on the pavement. The four of us sit close together in
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