smile irrepressible. He’d doff his hat and nod charmingly at everyone, though Trudy, who hated being interrupted, would deliver him a stern look in return. ‘I promise I won’t stop, I can see you’re all verrry busy. However, I brought a little something for the workers.’ And he might produce a box of honey cakes and once, extraordinarily, a bag of oranges – and then, of course, Audrey or Isabel would have to make him a cup of tea and he’d chat away to whoever would listen.
Stephen might walk through and ask his opinion on a book jacket or the latest Katharine Hepburn film – Berec was a great fan of Hepburn – but if there was a rush on he’d down his tea quickly and depart. Isabel was quickly becoming his clear favourite, and she’d hurry to let him out, even though the street door was kept on the latch during the day. Occasionally he’d ask her to accompany him to a poetry reading or, once, to supper at the home of some refugee friends.
‘Myra cannot accompany me – a migraine, the poor lady – but you will like Gregor and Karin, I think.’
The flat she was taken to in a gloomy street off Bloomsbury Square was poor beyond her experience, being a single large room, where the bed was screened off from the living area by two Army-issue blankets on a rail. Karin, a shy middle-aged woman, too thin for her shapeless dress, disappeared and returned soon after bearing a steaming tureen containing an aromatic stew, mostly made of vegetables, which they ate with hunks of greyish bread. The conversation was conducted half in English and half in Czech, which was all Karin could speak. Berec had extracted from his pocket a bottle of sweet-tasting liqueur. This made Isabel’s throat burn, but imparted such a deep sense of relaxation she feared she’d fall into a swoon.
She and Karin didn’t say much, though Gregor translated any English for Karin, who nodded and smiled, though she never looked happy. Maybe she never would, it occurred to Isabel, who experienced a sense of floating above the table round which they all sat, surprised to be seeing herself here in this place with these people, when such a short time ago her knowledge of the world outside the family home and school had been through books. Of course she knew all about refugees from the newsreels and her father’s newspaper, but she’d never actually had a meal with any before, or listened to such passionate conversations about politics or seen such despair in a woman’s eyes. Berec had explained to her that in Czechoslovakia, before the war, Gregor had trained as a doctor, but here his qualifications were not recognised and he’d only been able to get manual work. He was well known as a Communist, too, but at home he’d fallen out with his own party and there was no returning for him.
Now Berec was patting her shoulder and saying, ‘My poor Isabel, please forgive me. Gregor and I, we would talk all night. It’s time to go, yes?’ They said their goodbyes and walked arm in arm through the freezing night to the nearest bus stop, where Berec saw her onto the right bus, instructed the conductor to look after her, and kissed his fingertips in farewell.
Dear Berec, she thought, smiling at him as the bus bore her away, what a warm and generous friend. She felt perfectly safe with him. Safe and free to be herself. She thought that, despite his perpetual lack of money, Myra must be a very lucky woman. Sometimes she wondered about him, what exactly had brought him to England early in the war. She’d read his poetry collection, the one dedicated to Penelope, a translation from the Czech, and had been moved by the ones about exile, but some of them were dark, very dark, about violence and death, and she’d skipped over these, not wanting to know. He never spoke to her of these things. Like her, he tried to put the past behind him.
As the days and weeks passed, Audrey, too, was becoming a little friendlier. At first she was sharp with Isabel and
Stephen might walk through and ask his opinion on a book jacket or the latest Katharine Hepburn film – Berec was a great fan of Hepburn – but if there was a rush on he’d down his tea quickly and depart. Isabel was quickly becoming his clear favourite, and she’d hurry to let him out, even though the street door was kept on the latch during the day. Occasionally he’d ask her to accompany him to a poetry reading or, once, to supper at the home of some refugee friends.
‘Myra cannot accompany me – a migraine, the poor lady – but you will like Gregor and Karin, I think.’
The flat she was taken to in a gloomy street off Bloomsbury Square was poor beyond her experience, being a single large room, where the bed was screened off from the living area by two Army-issue blankets on a rail. Karin, a shy middle-aged woman, too thin for her shapeless dress, disappeared and returned soon after bearing a steaming tureen containing an aromatic stew, mostly made of vegetables, which they ate with hunks of greyish bread. The conversation was conducted half in English and half in Czech, which was all Karin could speak. Berec had extracted from his pocket a bottle of sweet-tasting liqueur. This made Isabel’s throat burn, but imparted such a deep sense of relaxation she feared she’d fall into a swoon.
She and Karin didn’t say much, though Gregor translated any English for Karin, who nodded and smiled, though she never looked happy. Maybe she never would, it occurred to Isabel, who experienced a sense of floating above the table round which they all sat, surprised to be seeing herself here in this place with these people, when such a short time ago her knowledge of the world outside the family home and school had been through books. Of course she knew all about refugees from the newsreels and her father’s newspaper, but she’d never actually had a meal with any before, or listened to such passionate conversations about politics or seen such despair in a woman’s eyes. Berec had explained to her that in Czechoslovakia, before the war, Gregor had trained as a doctor, but here his qualifications were not recognised and he’d only been able to get manual work. He was well known as a Communist, too, but at home he’d fallen out with his own party and there was no returning for him.
Now Berec was patting her shoulder and saying, ‘My poor Isabel, please forgive me. Gregor and I, we would talk all night. It’s time to go, yes?’ They said their goodbyes and walked arm in arm through the freezing night to the nearest bus stop, where Berec saw her onto the right bus, instructed the conductor to look after her, and kissed his fingertips in farewell.
Dear Berec, she thought, smiling at him as the bus bore her away, what a warm and generous friend. She felt perfectly safe with him. Safe and free to be herself. She thought that, despite his perpetual lack of money, Myra must be a very lucky woman. Sometimes she wondered about him, what exactly had brought him to England early in the war. She’d read his poetry collection, the one dedicated to Penelope, a translation from the Czech, and had been moved by the ones about exile, but some of them were dark, very dark, about violence and death, and she’d skipped over these, not wanting to know. He never spoke to her of these things. Like her, he tried to put the past behind him.
As the days and weeks passed, Audrey, too, was becoming a little friendlier. At first she was sharp with Isabel and
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