Because Mutti had been born in Germany she was officially an ‘enemy alien’, and every enemy alien in the country now had to be officially assessed and categorized according to the risk they represented to the security of Great Britain. The three categories were A, B and C.
Category A aliens were considered a serious threat and were to be locked up in internment camps; category Bs were not to be locked up, but they faced restrictions on where they could live and what they could do; category C aliens were not considered dangerous at all and were free to continue their lives as normal.
In the next village, there lived a nice old couple called Mr and Mrs Miller (they had changed their name from Müller to Miller when they moved to England from Germany). Mr Miller was a writer and his wife was a musician. They had disagreed with a lot of the things that had started to happen in Germany and it had become too dangerous for them to stay there. They had decided to leave and start a new life somewhere else before it was too late. Their tribunal had taken place just a few days before and they had been classified as category C, so they were free to return to their home.
‘There is nothing to worry about,’ old Mr Miller said to Mutti, as the four of us stood on the sunny steps of Dover Magistrates’ Court that morning. ‘This is a good country – a free country. They will see the truth in you.’ He smiled warmly, and so did Mrs Miller, her face crinkling up like tissue paper.
The three magistrates sat on what looked like wooden thrones, side by side behind a long table.
‘Three Wise Monkeys,’ whispered Mags. I shook my head at her, but she was spot on, as usual.
1. Sir Alan Darsdale, sitting on the left, deaf as a post and half-asleep in a dusty ray of sunshine, was Hear No Evil.
2. Mr Gibbons, in the middle, peering suspiciously at Mutti through his spectacles, was See No Evil. His eyeballs were inflated into ping-pong balls by the thick lenses.
3. Mrs Baron sat on the right. Her arms were folded and her lips were pressed together in a benign and professional smile. For the time-being at least, she was Speak No Evil.
Mrs Baron began proceedings. ‘Another straightforward case, I’m sure we all agree,’ she started.
Mutti turned her head towards Pa. He tried to smile at her, but she couldn’t smile back. Her hands were white, twisted together tightly in her lap.
‘Mrs Angela Smith—’
‘Mrs Angela Zimmermann Smith,’ Mr Gibbons corrected.
‘Thank you,’ Mrs Baron continued. ‘Born in Munich but moved to England in 1922 when you were eighteen – is that right?’
‘Yes.’ Mutti nodded, standing up quickly. ‘Your Honour.’
‘And you came here because . . .?’
Mutti hesitated for a moment. ‘I was supposed to go to Paris to study art, but my family’s savings were no longer enough . . .’
‘Ah, yes, we’ve all heard the stories – wheelbarrows of money just to buy a loaf of bread – that sort of thing?’
‘Yes. So it was decided that I would come to England instead – to work. My mother’s cousin ran a small hotel here – Mrs Fisher.’
‘Of course – we all remember Mrs Fisher. The flowers in the village church haven’t been the same since she passed away . . .’
There was an indignant ‘Hmph!’ from an old lady called Bertha Daley, sitting at the back. She had taken over floral responsibilities at the church just a few months ago.
‘I met Frederick, and we married not long after.’ Mutti smiled at Pa. I could feel him wanting to reach out and squeeze her hand. I wanted to as well.
‘And you registered as a German national when you moved here?’
‘Of course – as soon as I arrived.’
A pause while Mrs Baron checked the paperwork in front of her. ‘Yes.’
A different voice now – it was Mr Gibbons: ‘Do you still have family in Germany, Mrs Zimmermann Smith?’ He squinted at her through his glasses.
‘Both my parents have died,’ Mutti said, her voice a little quieter.
‘Eh?’ shouted Sir Alan Darsdale.
‘Both my parents are dead now,’ Mutti said more loudly, her voice catching a little.
‘Ah,’ said Sir Alan Darsdale, and nodded, his eyelids starting to close once more.
‘But there are . . . cousins, I think?’ said Mrs Baron. She was looking at a piece of paper.
‘One cousin. Max,’ Mutti replied. ‘But we are not in touch.’
I noticed that Pa gripped his knees so tightly his knuckles had gone white.
Mrs Baron pushed the piece of paper over to Sir Alan Darsdale, who snored at it. Mr Gibbons then read it, holding it up close to his face. He stared hard at Mutti and his ping-pong-ball eyes looked bigger than ever.
‘Where does your cousin live?’ he asked.
Mutti paused for a second – just a second. ‘In Berlin,’ she said, then added, ‘I believe.’ Someone behind me inhaled loudly and whispered something.
‘And when was the last time you had contact with him?’
Mutti paused again. ‘I have not seen him for many years,’ she said at last.
‘Really?’
‘Yes,’ Mutti said. ‘Not for many years.’
Mrs Baron paused and then said, ‘Is there anything else of which the court should be aware?’
‘I don’t think so . . .’ Mutti began.
But then something happened.
‘There is something else, I’m afraid,’ said Mr Gibbons, and he held up a folder of papers. Sir Alan Darsdale jerked awake. This was most irregular. ‘Apologies to my fellow magistrates for the lack of formal procedure,’ said Mr Gibbons, ‘but this only came to my attention immediately before the session.’ He frowned a little and looked at someone sitting at the front of the court – a tall, thin man in a very smart pinstriped suit, who stretched his legs out in front of him and folded his arms across his chest. The man’s face was craggy – the wrinkles and worry lines that marked his forehead were so deep they almost looked like scars. He cleared his throat – a dry little sound that sounded a bit like the cough of a fox – and he nodded, almost invisibly, to Mr Gibbons.
Mr Gibbons then whispered something to Mrs Baron and pulled the documents from the folder. He leafed through the pages, showing her one after another.
Mrs Baron grew very pale. Her hand moved towards her mouth.
The same documents were then shown to Sir Alan Darsdale, who said nothing but raised his bushy white eyebrows until they almost met the curls of his magistrate’s wig.
Sir Alan Darsdale cleared his throat. ‘The court will take a brief . . .’ he announced loudly, then muttered, ‘What’s the wretched word?’
‘The court will adjourn for a few minutes,’ said Mrs Baron, and I noticed that her voice had changed.
Automatically, my hand reached for my sister’s. She placed her other hand quickly over mine.
As soon as the three magistrates left through the rear door of the court, the room erupted with noise. I looked around. Everyone was chattering, their eyes alight with the melodrama of the moment. I thought perhaps I was going to be sick.
‘Pa?’ I said. But he was having a silent conversation with Mutti.
What’s happening? her eyes said to his.
I don’t know, I don’t know, said his in reply.
I had never seen Mutti look so white and small. She suddenly looked terribly young, younger even than me. I noticed that a policeman who had been sitting in the front row had stood up and was now hovering a few feet behind her, watching her warily, as if she were a wild animal, or a bank robber with a gun.