eight

HE WAS at the beginning of a story of which he already knew the ending.

In fairy-tales collected by the Brothers Grimm, the innocent and the pure in heart always seemed to triumph, even after much fear and suffering: Hansel and Gretel outwitted the witch and escaped; the seven little kids and their mother destroyed the wolf; the three sisters in “Fitcher’s Bird” overpowered even death itself to defeat the murdering magician. But he could still remember the mounting desolation with which he read some of the Hans Christian Andersen fairy-tales when he was little. He had read them over and over again, hoping that this time the ending would be a happy ending, but the endings never changed: the little match-girl died entirely alone, frozen to death on New Year’s Eve, surrounded by burned-out matches; the little mermaid melted into foam after bearing her suffering bravely; and the steadfast tin soldier and the ballerina perished in the flames of the stove, leaving only a little tin heart and a metal sequin behind. He had been unable to put them away and forget about them. He had been drawn, compulsively, to read them with engrossed attention, and had wept as he found himself realising what the inevitable and unchanged end of the story would be.

IT WAS raining again outside, and the wind blew in strong gusts. The sea was only a slightly darker grey than the sky, dull, reflectionless, possessed of great depths. The curtainless windows rattled and swam, and the empty playing-fields were drab and distorted. Low black clouds rolled heavily across the sky, like smoke from a burning city.

In the 1930s, though the school, then as now, had been a boys’ school, the Ferry House had been turned into a house for a small number of refugee German girls, sisters of boys in the school, or girls on their own, and the school’s youngest boys, who had previously slept there, had been transferred to the main building. He had learned this from the letters, never having known it before.

He looked around the bare white walls of the echoing, bare-boarded bedroom, and thought of Lotte Goetzel, Hedwig Grünbaum, Anna Kahn, Stefanie Peters, and all the other little girls, lying in bed, pictures and postcards on the walls, listening to rain falling, and thinking of their families in Berlin, writing the letters that he was now holding in his hands.

In July, 1938, Lotte Goetzel had rejoined her parents in Berlin, after being at Southwold for two terms, and had not returned to the school.

Berlin-Charlottenburg 2
9th August 1938

Dear Mr. High,

Growing difficulties make it impossible for us to send our daughter back to Southwold. We have now lost all our business and it is impossible for us to pay the fees any longer. We know no one who can help us. Lotte was very glad to see her family, friends, and her little dog here, but we know she will miss the kindness she was shown in England. She was very unhappy in a strange land sometimes, but we know how much you tried to make her feel “at home.” We think it, perhaps, was too early to separate the child from home. As she is such a shy, quiet girl, we were really afraid that she felt so homesick so far away from us. You may think this is sentimental in us, but I think, as a father, you will understand our feelings. It would be our wish to give her in your school if we could, but perhaps it was too early. She is only 12.

We are leaving Germany, and going to Holland. I have good hope of a position with a firm in Amsterdam. There is a Jewish school for children from Germany, and we hope to give Lotte a practical education so that she may be able to earn her own money by her hands, wherever she goes, with what the future may bring for us. All our furniture is packed and waiting to be sent away, but we do not know whether it will be possible to take it with us.

We thank you with all our hearts for all you have done for Lotte. She sends a letter for you.

With many good wishes for you and your school,

Peter and Aline Goetzel

Dear Mr. High,

I am so sorry that I did not say goodbye properly to you and Misses High. I was too unsure. Thank you for the nice report.

The sea was rough when we crossed, and most of the passengers were sick. Hanno Weiler and I were not. Hanno looked after me very nicely. His mother and father kindly took me home from Hamburg, on their way back.

I am now hier in our house, and it is going to be sold. It was very exciting to help to get everything ready, and empty all the cupboards. A lot of lovely old things we found, where we never knew from. It was great fun.

Grossvater is going to sell his farm and come with us to Holland. It is a big adventure.

Mutti and Vati like the school foto very much. Vati has put it under glass, and all my friends like it.

Love to you and Misses High,
Your affectionate pupil,
Lotte Goetzel

I send you a foto. Please keep me in good memory.

The little dark-haired girl stood at the edge of an empty field, holding a small Scotch terrier, smiling up at the camera. She wore a headband in her short hair, and was wearing a pinafore dress, with a brooch in the shape of a swan.

In October a postcard had come from the Goetzels saying that they were safe in Amsterdam, and that was the last communication the family made with the school.

Anne Frank and her family had been German refugees in Amsterdam.

Some years ago, when they had been in the Netherlands (Jo had been seven, and had told all his friends at school that they were going to Never Never Land), they had visited the Anne Frank house in Amsterdam, where the secret hide-out of the Frank family and their friends was preserved, where they had hidden for two years before being found and sent to Auschwitz and Bergen-Belsen. Corrie had a blurred memory of darkness, and echoing bareness, and, above all else, a little section of the wall where the remains of some pictures and postcards stuck there by Anne Frank had been preserved. The memory he retained more than any other was a postcard of Princess Elizabeth and Princess Margaret Rose. That single postcard had brought the dead girl very close to him. On another wall were pencil lines where the parents had marked the heights of their children as they grew towards adulthood, month by month; and a map where pins showed the advance of the allies through northern France, nearer and nearer with every week that passed.

In spite of everything, she had written, less than three weeks before she and her family were taken away—his father had talked about the visit to the Anne Frank house in a school assembly, before he became headmaster, and read from her diary—I still believe that people are really good at heart. I simply can’t build up my hopes on a foundation consisting of confusion, misery, and death. I see the world gradually being turned into a wilderness. I hear the ever-approaching thunder, which will destroy us too. I can feel the sufferings of millions and yet, if I look up into the heavens, I think that it will all come right, that this cruelty too will end, and that peace and tranquillity will return again.

On television, a few weeks ago, a Dutch woman journalist, a sympathiser with Red Phoenix, had been interviewed about her comments on the current trials of terrorists in West Germany (the same terrorists, now imprisoned, for whom Red Phoenix were holding the Berlin schoolchildren hostage), and the interviewer had mentioned Anne Frank’s name in response to a remark about the Palestine Liberation Organisation. The woman had laughed, not sarcastically or ironically, but with genuine amusement, and called the diary her “least favourite work of fiction.” “This figure of six million dead Jews,” she had said, “must have been chosen, I suppose, for some cabbalistic significance, and everyone knows it has little basis in factual accuracy. It is a hoax. Surely you have read the books that prove this? It is a fiction sustained by Zionist propaganda to attempt to give some historical justification for the acts of Jewish military aggression against the Palestinian people. Some Jews did die in the war, of course, but so did millions of Poles and Russian civilians—and the figures here are not open to question. People always die in war.” The programme had ended with her laughing face, amused and incredulous at the interviewer’s naïvety, like a bright young lawyer defending a war criminal. When the film of The Diary of Anne Frank had been shown on television, all the characters speaking with American accents, a boy in Jo’s class had written: “It was in black and white. It was about a girl who was hidden from the Germans in a small room, and she wrote a diary about it, but at the end the Germans found her and her friends. It was a long film, but there wasn’t any fighting in it. It was set in the nineteenth century.”

Always, as he worked through the confused and decimated contents of the files, through 1933, 1934, 1935, 1936, he had been aware of 1939 ahead of him, and of what was to happen in the years that followed. He knew that when one day in 1939 was reached, a door would close forever on these people, and they would never be heard of again.

There were fragments, as he moved—like an archaeologist piecing together the broken bits of bone or pottery in a destroyed and long-forgotten city—through the final files of 1939, badly burned many years previously, the remains of photographs, postcards, and letters, blackened and charred at the edges, falling into ash, crumbling away like documents in a tomb exposed to the light of day: the final letters of those people in Berlin, Leonie Matthias, Nickolaus Mittler, Mrs. Viehmann, and all the others, as the doors closed, one by one.

MRS. VIEHMANN, the mother of Kurt and Thomas, was one of the parents he had come to know best.

The last letter he had found from her had been posted on the twenty-seventh of June, 1939. It had no address, was typed—all her other letters had been handwritten—and was unsigned. In pencil, Mr. High’s secretary had written “Mrs. Viehmann” at the top.

Dear Mr. High,

I am ashamed that it is so very long a time, and we have not written to you, and we wished to do it long ago, but you must certainly know what horrible things have happened here in the time since. I have not told you, but my husband is imprisoned since the 10th November. You will, I think, know the events of that time. I have not told my children, and beg you not to tell them, because they will be so frightened and anxious, that they will not be able to learn anything at school, and it would be of no use to concern them, because they can do nothing at all to help us, as, it seems, I cannot myself. I now type all my letters, and write to both my children in the names of myself and my husband, and so they do not realise what has happened to their father. I want, also, so awfully much the money for the posting. I would be grateful if you could excuse me, that I beg you to give the letter enclosed to my sons.

I would be very happy if you should have the kindness to write to me, and tell me what you think about my children, and how they progress, especially Kurt and his future, as soon he will leave the school. Although we have to live now for the day alone, my husband and I cannot help thinking sometimes of the future. Our children now, even more than before, are all our future, and all that happens there. I have not the hope that we shall be able soon to discuss the matter of Kurt’s career with you in England, because even if my husband is free from the prison, and receives a permit for England, then we have to wait for our papers here in Berlin. That will last many months, and we hear so from our friends who try. I have already a permit for domestic work in England, and I do all things possible to deliver my dear husband, but events are stronger than I am.

Kurt, I think, wishes to be a surgeon, but do you think this is possible that he can be educated to a profession, without the money? Rudolf, I know, had to leave school early and begin work of a practical kind, because of the times in which we live. Many years are needed for study. We feel great sorrow that we cannot care for our sons as we would like to do, and must be obliged to ask for the help of friends so many miles away. (Help, dear Mr. High, that has been so willingly given to us.) We would be grateful for your advice in this matter. Kurt may have to go to America later, but it may last years since he must wait until his turn.

Thank you for telling me when Thomas was ill. I beg you, when the boy is ill, please continue to let me know. Do not be too careful of me. I am more quiet when I know. Thomas is still, I think, unhappy in his heart, although he does not say so in his letters. Please forgive him and understand him, Mr. High. He is young, but he has known much, the torture of the last years and the separation from his home and his family, the things which hurt us who are grown-up, and even more a child. He has a great need for affection which we gave him with all our hearts when we were with him, and could hold him in our arms. If the noisy and lively surroundings of the other boys, as is usual and natural in a school, seem to make him sad, it is because our house was always quiet, and my son, after all this time, must still remember this. For me, as a mother, it is difficult to ask you to do what I should do myself, but please, Mr. High, could you speak kindly to our son so that he may become more cheerful inside? I hope you will be pleased with him. Your last observation in his school report, and the school photograph, filled our hearts with the utmost joy. Our sons are very well-looking, both, and seem so tall.

Thank you for all the good things you do for our boys.

All is incertain, but we look forward impatiently to the chance to come to England, and be with our boys again. We have still hope that the police will return our passports. I hope you and Misses High are in good health.

Excuse me, for troubling you so much.

Affectionately yours,
The mother of the boys
you called “gifted”

THROUGHOUT July and August, the postcards from Nickolaus Mittler had arrived at the school. Every week, there was a new one, carefully and neatly written, each view on the front chosen to be different.

Berlin-Charlottenburg
27th June 1939

Dear Mr. High,

Would you be so very kind and write to me what is the matter with the permits for me and my big brother to come to England? Are the applications for the permit in the home office already? I wish to give as little trouble as possible, but I worry because my parents have the permission to come to England, and they wait only for the permits for us.

Yours respectfully,
Nickolaus Mittler

Berlin-Charlottenburg
3rd July 1939

Dear Mr. High,

Could you please send me a certificate, stating that you are admitting me and my big brother to your school? The authorities here in Berlin state that we must produce this document to show that we are really going to come to your school, and then they will allow us to have passports. This document must be authenticated in England. Please send this to me signed by the authorised department. Do you need any other documents? We have our photographs, and doctor’s certificates.

Yours respectfully,
Nickolaus Mittler

Berlin- Charlottenburg
9th July 1939

Dear Mr. High,

Thank you so much for kindly sending me the certificate. The Berlin passport office now says that the certificate must be made out in German, not in English. The passport office also says that your signature must be authenticated by the police of your district. Thank you so much for your trouble. I am sorry to be a nuisance. When we have the permits we will need to wait more weeks before we can get the passports, but we wait hopefully. When we get the passports we will go to the British Passport Central Office for a visa. Then all will be ready to start for England.

Yours respectfully,
Nickolaus Mittler

Berlin-Charlottenburg
15th July 1939

Dear Mr. High,

Please would you not be indignant if I once more am compelled to write to you. The British Consulate here requires a letter from you in which you confirm that me and my big brother are to be accepted into your school. The Consulate must know from your letter that a guarantor has been found for the paying of the school fees in England, and then it will grant the permission for us to enter England. I beg you to send me this letter. What cloathings will we need for the school?

Yours respectfully,
Nickolaus Mittler

Berlin-Charlottenburg
21st July 1939

Dear Mr. High,

Thank you very much for the letter you kindly sent me. I took the letter to the British Consulate of our city, but I beg to inform you that the letter did not contain the guarantee that someone had been found to pay my fees, and the Consulate demands this before it will give permission for us to enter England. What we need is only a form! I shall not forget all your endeavours to help us. I am so sorry to force your amicability so often. I shall try to repay all you are doing when I come to England. We have bought our cloathings ready.

Yours respectfully,
Nickolaus Mittler

AT THE END of August, 1939, Leonie Matthias, who had written often from Berlin for the Jewish agency “Elternhilfe für die jüdische Jugend,” asking for help for new children, or making enquiries about the progress of children who had been received into the school, wrote from a city many hundreds of miles away from Berlin. Elternhilfe had been closed down by the German authorities on the tenth of November, 1938, and she wrote as a welfare worker in another children’s relief organisation.

“Since the events of last November, a very large number of Jewish schoolchildren are gathered here, and we are trying, with every means at our disposal, to ensure that there can be some way in which their higher education may continue. Could you possibly agree to accepting a few more children? I would take as much trouble as I did from Elternhilfe to ensure that the pupils I recommend to you would fit in well with your school. Please give my best wishes to the children I know in Southwold. Has Stefanie Peters settled in well? I would like to hear how they are all progressing. I had a very nice letter from Kurt Viehmann the other week.

“I hope you do not mind if I enclose a photograph of an eleven-year-old girl, Ruth Martin, an only child whose parents owned a farm in Saxony. Her uncle managed to emigrate to America, and he is trying to raise a financial guarantee for her. Her parents hope to go to America, also, in the near future. She is a very nice, friendly little girl, and I am sure that she will fit in very well. She has started to learn English, and is making good progress.”

Ruth Martin’s photograph had been removed from an album. There were little patches of blue paper at each corner where it had been pulled away from the page on which it had been glued, and on the back someone had written, in pencil: Unsere Ruth an ihrem elften Geburtstag.

Everywhere, in the final file, were the photographs of children.

He found himself looking at the photographs, searching for death in the children’s faces, afraid of the feelings inside himself, trying not to think of the future, trying not to visualise what he knew was deep inside his head.

From November, 1938, onwards, the photographs, letters, and school reports had flooded into the school in greatly increased numbers as parents tried to find somewhere to send their children—far too many of them for it ever to have been possible for more than a very few of them to be offered places. The vanished children smiled in all the photographs as their parents waited for someone to decide whether they would live or die. Some photographs, like Ruth Martin’s, were taken from family albums; others seemed to have been taken specially for the application, the child’s eyes showing an awareness that the attractiveness of his smile was the most important thing in the world to his parents.

…These two little boys have all their papers in order, and could leave Berlin immediately, if there were a school available for them in England, and if someone could guarantee their payments for them…Elise is ready for travelling since a long time, but she is waiting still for her permit from the “Home Office”… Sehr geehrter Mr. High, Frau Clara Werth gab mir Ihre werte Adresse, da ich beabsichtige, meine Söhne nach England zu geben. Die Jungen sind vor allem in Sport und Musik sehr begabt und singen sehr schön. Meine Kinder sind Halbwaisen, der Vater war Bankvorsteher. Da wir jüdisch sind…Lucie is thirteen, and can draw nicely, and plays the piano very beautiful. She wishes to be a nurse and help the ill people, because she is a gentle girl who would like that everybody should have his place in the sun. Whatever I say about her, you will say that it is only the mother talking, but I will tell you something of the nature of my little girl so that you may see freely for yourself. One time I brought home Lucie from school, and at the door was a beggar with a child, who, I confess, I did not remark then, but Lucie did. I talked with my friend who was waiting in the house for me, and we was always disturbed by Lucie, who always would try to call me aside, and anger me. I sent her from the room, but when my friend went away, Lucie ran back in and begged for food for the beggar. The beggar was gone away and she returned weeping, and was not to be moved to eat her supper. This is the kind of child she is, and I implore that you will accept her in your school…I am told that you accept German boys in your school. I have a grandson of fourteen…Dieter ist ein ausgezeichneter Schüler. Er ist gewandt und mutig und beweist im sportlichen Kampf Fairness und…I am very sorry to have to tell you that Emmy and Doro Werth were not evacuated from Germany in time to escape the war. They were to have come across in a children’s transport in the second week in September in time for the beginning of term. When we realised how extreme the danger was, it was too late to advance the date of their leaving, and all the German trains had been reserved for the exclusive use of troops for days before the war actually started. Walter, I know, will have realised that his sisters have not made it in time…

HAND in hand, the little boy and the little girl stood at the edge of the dark pathless forest, in which the wild animals were waiting to tear them to pieces. The boy looked back towards his home, but the adult gripped his arm and pulled him away.

Corrie had seen, in school history books, some of the photographs of what had happened within that dark forest, facts to be learned by children for examinations now, like the date of the Battle of Hastings, and what the Magna Carta was. Before he moved up from the infants’ school to the junior school, he had decided that the date of the Battle of Hastings and the meaning of the Magna Carta were questions that he was bound to be asked, and he had learned them carefully, confident of impressing everyone with his erudition. On his first day at junior school, a teacher had approached him and opened her mouth. He had thought that the long-awaited moment had come, and that she was going to ask him for the date of the Battle of Hastings, but all she had asked him was his name and what class he was in. He had sat down in his place and eagerly awaited the opportunity to answer a question about the Battle of Hastings or the Magna Carta. Eight years had passed since then, and he was still waiting for someone to ask him for the date of the Battle of Hastings. But, even if no one ever did ask him, he still knew the answer.

The S.S. man stood with his sub-machine-gun, his face impassive, a man doing his job, rather bored. The little boy wearing the cloth cap, his short coat reaching to above his knees, stood with his arms in the air, as he had been told, his face frightened and bewildered. He was about six or seven years old. Women and other children were all around him, being rounded up. A woman just behind him, a young housewife in a headscarf, holding a heavy bag in her left hand, was only able to lift her right arm in surrender, a band with the Star of David around the top of her arm, like the black band of mourning that people sometimes wore after a death in the family. Beside the little boy was a woman, both hands raised, looking back at the face of the man with the sub-machine-gun, as if memorising what he looked like. She had a battered zip-up bag over each arm, like the full shopping-bags of a woman returned home to her family in the evening after taking a bus from the city centre.

It was a picture he had often studied. There were no bodies, no blood, and only one gun was visible, but to him it was the image of war, the most horrifying photograph he knew of the Second World War. He thought of the Ingmar Bergman film his father had ordered for the Film Society, the two women alone on the lonely island, the nurse and her patient, the actress, who had retreated into total silence, studying that same photograph.

THERE was a newsagent’s shop in Lowestoft where he was not known, and which he always visited on his infrequent journeys there on the bus, to go to the cinema, or just to walk around, away from Southwold. The women’s magazines, and the comics for children—frames in war comics where immense German soldiers screamed in agony as flames from flame-throwers hit them full in the face, as a grinning British private shouted, “Try that for size, Fritzy!”—were at the front of the shop, opposite the counter, covers forward on sloping stands. At the back of the shop, in the far corner, where he always went, trying to appear casual and offhand, was the section labelled “Adult Publications.” Adult meant sex. Adult meant filth. Adult meant brutality and excitement. That was what being an adult meant.

He stared at the photographs in the magazines he took from the revolving stands, at the genitals of the naked young men to compare them with his own, at the naked women with their legs wide open, pinned out like Biology illustrations—clitoris, vagina—their fingers pushing down on themselves, holding themselves open like imperfectly healed wounds after an operation. They were like beggars in a distant land, the edge of a desert, thrusting mutilations into the faces of tourists, the only way they had of making money.

The same racks which held pornographic magazines also held American magazines with crudely drawn covers of tall S.S. officers beating near-naked women with leather whips; and thick paperbacks about concentration camps and war atrocities. Fascinated but appalled, avid and disgusted, he gazed at them, unable to avert his eyes, the intensity of his gaze only equalled by the intensity of his gaze between the legs of the naked women in the photographs, their faces contorted into expressions of mock ecstasy, their tongues protruding from the corners of their mouths like women who had been strangled.

On the outside covers of the paperbacks were reviews from obscure newspapers in American cities, always ending in exclamation marks, always in block capital letters. Inside the books he found himself staring absorbedly at the photographs of what lay at the end of those long railway journeys, those many, many trains converging from all over Europe on the concentration camps, and the extermination camps, those places with clumsy, uncouth names far away in the east, in Poland: Majdanek, Treblinka, Chelmno, Sobibor, Belzec, Auschwitz. With compulsion and dread he stared at the heaped masses of skeletal bodies, long thin arms and legs like the pale twisted roots of heaped and rotting vegetables lying crushed beneath the earth, and brought to light, mouths open as if screaming, stomachs fallen away beneath the jutting ribcages, the impenetrable thicket of limbs; stared as he turned the books at different angles, trying to recognise human faces, trying to see the expressions on them, the hideous things that had once been men, women, and children.

THEY had names. They had faces.

He held their letters in his hand, he recognised their handwriting, he knew their names, he saw their faces, he had shared their most private hopes and fears, he knew who had not managed to leave Germany in time. He knew the obscenity that lay ahead for these families, parents and children, walking together hand in hand in that darkness, carrying their possessions in suitcases and in rucksacks from family camping holidays.

Some things were not to be thought of. Some things were not to be endured. In nearby countries, only a few years earlier, in the lifetime of his mother and father, millions of people had been humiliated, robbed, degraded, and murdered, the populations of entire cities.

If Hitler had completely succeeded, would the Jewish people have become a lost and legendary race, cloaked in mysteries and myths, like the Babylonians and the Assyrians, as distant and strange as the Old Testament people in an illustrated children’s Bible? Opposite the English translation of The Children’s Haggadah, sections of the book had been printed in Hebrew script, like the carving of forgotten alphabets on fragments of stone in museums. This year we sit at the table half glad, half sad, here, far away from our own land; but next year we hope to welcome a joyous Seder in the land of Israel. This year we are still as unhappy as slaves in many countries, but next year we pray to be a free and happy people.

HE HAD been sitting in the bare room for a long time.

Before he closed the door of the inner room in the bedroom, and turned the key on the returned and neatly sorted files, he looked at the photograph on the front of the final postcard from Nickolaus Mittler, the sepia faded and cold—as in all the other postcards—like a picture of something from long, long ago.

Friedrichsbrücke und Nationalgalerie, Berlin. (Friedrich Bridge and National Gallery, Berlin.)

He was looking at a scene which was like a model he had once seen in a museum, a reconstruction of Imperial Rome, stone statues dark against the skyline, naked and draped figures of gods and goddesses, columns and colonnades stretching into the distance. The bridge—the same bridge that had been visible in the distance in the aerial view of the cathedral—crossed the river in three shallow arches, with figures as tall as three-storey houses holding lamps in the shape of torches high into the sky, two on each side of the bridge, above the foundations between the arches. Four tall columns, one at each side of the approaches to the bridge, were surmounted by colossal eagles about to soar into flight. Beyond the bridge, on the far side of the river, lining its bank as far as another bridge in the distance, a row of tall columns rose straight up, like an illustration in an art book of the five orders of architecture, shafts, capitals, and architraves enclosing a columned building with a pediment, like the Acropolis or the Capitol, the great national temple, rising above its surroundings, floating above the trees, the columns, and the river. The whole scene was like a triumphal way through a pagan city, along which slaves were to be led into perpetual bondage.

Victory was everywhere in the immense city, stretching away across the plain to the forest and the mountains: on the column in front of the Reichstag, huge, winged, holding aloft a wreath for the victor in her right hand; above the Brandenburg Gate, the trees of Unter der Linden so large and close together in the boulevard that the street seemed like a long narrow park between solid walls of buildings; in the soaring eagles on the Friedrich Bridge—everywhere was victory, victory, victory.

The whole city was depopulated, all its people vanished. There had been no human figure in any of the photographs on the postcards from Nickolaus Mittler. The massive buildings, larger than any human scale, were there for ever, more solid and important than the ephemeral figures, tiny and fragile, of men, women, and children holding hands to stay together. The streets of the great deserted city stood out in sharp relief in the cold light of early morning or late winter afternoon. The columns of shadows were long, stretching away and narrowing into the distance.

The same shadows stretched out across the empty playing-fields outside the window.

Scientists had now invented a bomb which could destroy human beings but leave buildings undamaged. The body’s cell structure disintegrated, the molecules came apart.

JO’s COPY of Emil and the Detectives was a Thomas Nelson school edition, a reprint of 1942.

The English schoolchildren in their evacuated school read about the adventures of Berlin schoolchildren as the bombs rained down on Berlin from the English planes. On the Contents list it said: “III. The Journey to Berlin Begins: 26.” Corrie thought of the boys in Nollendorf Square, saying good night to each other and shaking hands like grown-up men who are very serious about something.

He had flicked the pages of the book over, and looked at the page open in front of him, the illustration on page thirty-nine of Emil’s nightmare on the train: Emil running for his life past the skyscraper two hundred storeys high, pursued by the horses, and the train, and the engine-driver with the whip. “The city was so large, and Emil was so small.”

He wondered whether Emil Tischbein was a Jewish name, and where the little boy from the small country town who loved his widowed mother would have been in 1942. Emil, Mrs. Tischbein, Grandmother, Pony Hütchen, Aunt Martha, Uncle Heimbold, Gustav, the Professor, little Tuesday, Gerold, Friedrich the First, Arnold Mittler and his little brother: where would they all have been, what would have happened to them all, caught in the flames as the book burned?

BENT over in the quiet room, Nickolaus Mittler carefully and painstakingly wrote at the table near the window, filling the postcards with his best handwriting. He was absorbed like a figure in a Dutch interior, bowed over a letter or a musical instrument, his inner feelings possessing him more completely than his surroundings.

He needed more time.

He needed the future to approach more slowly.