Letters From Prague (30 page)

‘It's like a prison camp,' said Harriet. She knew she was staring, but could not help it. The sun was low now, and longer shadows stretched across the ground: the figures behind the wire fence – pacing, smoking, waiting – had in this thickening afternoon light a timeless quality: everyone who had ever waited, far from home, with dwindling hope. A few other women in headscarves were walking up towards the gate in the middle of the fence, returning from the shops. Every now and then they looked round, as if they were checking something.

‘It is something like a prison camp,' said Dieter, ‘but what are we to do? And the truth is, they are safer behind that fence.'

‘How long have they been there?'

He shrugged. ‘A year? Two years?'

Harriet said: ‘Would you mind very much – do we have just a few minutes – I'd like to get out.'

‘And do what?' asked Christopher.

‘Just – I don't know. Be here.'

‘I really don't think that's a very bright idea. Dieter?'

‘I have a few minutes,' said Dieter. ‘But it is wise if we all go.'

‘That does feel like sightseeing. I'm sure I'll –' She looked at Marsha. ‘Or do you want to come with me? Stretch our legs before we go home?'

‘It isn't
home
,' said Marsha. ‘Why do you keep calling everywhere home?'

‘Oh, Marsha –'

‘What?'

Harriet got out of the car. Dieter and Christopher followed.

‘You will accompany us?' Dieter opened the door on Marsha's side. She came out slowly; he locked all the doors. They walked past the last two blocks of flats, and over the rough dry ground.

Much later, when she relived, over and over again, what happened next, Harriet realised that it was then, almost as soon as they left the car, that she had the uncomfortable feeling of being watched, or followed. Marsha was lagging behind. Harriet turned, to chivvy her along; she held out a hand, which was ignored; she became aware of a group of youths, standing quite still on the path between the blocks of flats. They wore jeans and black T-shirts: she noticed some kind of white decoration; she felt, as she had felt in Marzahn, a prickle of unease at being stared at, but she was concentrating on Marsha.

‘Come on, please. We won't be long.'

Her English voice carried over the open ground.

One of the youths said something; another drew on a cigarette and threw it to the ground.

Harriet gave up. Christopher and Dieter were a few yards ahead by now: they stopped to let them catch up, and turned round.

Was it then that Dieter was recognised, or had they seen his car?

Harriet hurried to join them. She turned again to wait for Marsha; the youths had gone. Long shadows followed them over the grass as they continued walking towards the hostel ahead, its outline growing darker as the sun sank low. Beyond were a few trees. The women with their shopping were going through the iron-framed gate in the wire. There were greetings; the gate clanged shut again; then it was quiet.

‘Scheiber!'

Footsteps behind them; the rattle of a chain.

Later, much later, Christopher translated the brutality which followed.

‘Scheiber! What are you doing here?'

Dieter swung round; for a moment, Harriet was frozen. And then they were surrounded. A gang – how many, how many? Six, eight, more? – with a dog on a chain, straining and panting.

‘Marsha –'

She was beyond them, rooted to the spot, white-faced.

‘Marsha! Christopher, please –'

He was beside her, he made a move forwards. At once the dog on his chain leapt forward, snarling, and he recoiled. Harriet felt fear dissolve her as one of the youths thrust a fist beneath Dieter's chin.

‘You put my father out of a job and you walk up here like it's nothing? You are taking your friends to see this rubbish that we live with?' He jerked his head towards the hostel, and Harriet, in her terror, took in the white decoration on his T-shirt: the German eagle, scrawled with a swastika. ‘These people that are living off us? Receiving the same as my father?'

Dieter was pale. He stepped back, away from the fist, and was grabbed by the collar. From behind the fence of the hostel came the sound of voices, doors closing, a bolt slammed shut. The youth spat on the ground.

‘They are scum, they are shit, they are cowards.'

Dieter said, his voice shaking: ‘My friends are nothing to do with this – there is a child here – will you please –'

‘Please
what?
You would like to walk freely here? You would like to drive up in your Volvo and show them the sights and drive away again? You would like to be able to lock your factory gates when we come to visit?'

Other youths running towards the scene from the flats were shouting.

‘Mum!'

‘Marsha –' said Harriet, shaking. ‘Please – my daughter – I must –'

The youth swung towards her. ‘You are from England?'

‘Yes.'

‘You are visiting this rich shit Scheiber? You are a piece of rich bitch shit yourself, I think.'

Christopher moved towards him. ‘That's enough. Let us go.'

The youth spat again, and it landed at Christopher's feet. ‘You would like to fight your way out?'

The youths running up over the grass drew near; one of them knocked into Marsha and sent her flying. She fell to the ground and scrambled up again.

‘Mum!'

Panic and fury swept over Harriet: she heard herself screaming:
‘Let me through!'
and lunged towards a gap in the circle. It closed. She thought in despair we shall die here, and no one will know. As if she were drowning, she saw in a swirling film before her Karel in a sunlit basement; Marsha, a baby, held in her arms; saw Martin walking away, and Hugh beside her, and Hugh and Susanna, Christopher –

Then everything happened at once. A punch, a groan. Fists flew, the circle broke apart, the dog on its chain was barking hysterically.

‘Run! Run!'

She ran, but Christopher was ahead of her, panting, stumbling over the ground towards Marsha. Sirens sounded, lights flashed, cars roared over the grass. Christopher grabbed Marsha and flung her over his shoulder.

‘Run!'

The cars screeched to a halt, doors were flung open, armed
Polizei
were everywhere. Christopher was racing after Dieter, towards his car. Harriet heard the horrible sound of metal dragged across metal, and breaking glass. She saw people running away from Dieter's car, yelling, and she heard Marsha, sobbing wildly:

‘Let go of me! Let go of me! You're not my father! Let me
go!
‘

Marsha lay in the high iron bed, and Harriet sat beside her. It was late, it was dark, and the shutters were closed; a lamp on the bedside table made the room shadowy and soft. Marsha glared at Harriet from the pillows.

‘You drag me around as if I was a
suitcase.
It doesn't matter what I say, I have to come, I have to do what you want, I have to listen. You keep on saying it's just for now, it's just for today, and I just want to see this, and I must just show you that, this is a statue of Marx, and this is a statue of someone else, and do you know what happened in 18 this and 19 that, and now I'm not going to talk to you at all because I'm talking to
him
, and we can't take a kitten to
Prague
, oh no! And then you drag us all into that horrible place and we were nearly
killed
–' She began to cry again.

Harriet held her hand and listened. She stroked her face, and wiped her eyes, and said she was sorry, over and over again. After a while, Marsha slowed down, and stopped crying.

Harriet said: ‘Darling Marsha, how can I make it better?'

Marsha yawned.

‘Would you like a hot drink?'

‘Don't go.'

‘Okay.' Harriet leaned back in the wicker chair, and closed her eyes. Bright lights flashed before her, the voices of the
Polizei
were curt and demanding, Dieter was shaking, looking at his car. The tyres were slashed, and the windscreen shattered; long, ugly scars ran over the paintwork. Marsha, incoherent, was in her arms, Christopher had lit a cigarette and was trying to calm things down.

‘An unprovoked attack – we were just visiting – no, no purpose …'

A police car took them back to Prenzlauer Berg; Dieter stayed to supervise the removal of his car.

‘I am so sorry,' said Harriet. ‘What can I do?'

He shook his head, his face blue-white in the revolving light of the van beside them. ‘It is insured, it is not a problem.'

Of course it was a problem, but she could only say again: ‘I'm sorry,' as the
Polizei
radioed for a breakdown lorry. They left him standing at the roadside.

Harriet, leaning back in the wicker chair, hearing Marsha's breathing grow steady and slow, saw all this over and over again. She saw the circle of youths with their swastika T-shirts close round them, heard the slavering dog, the angry voices, and Marsha's voice, from outside the circle –

‘Mum! Mum!'

‘Harriet?'

Someone was knocking at the door: she jumped, and her eyes flew open.

‘Harriet?'

‘Ssssh!'

She looked at Marsha. Marsha was sleeping. Thank God. She crossed the room slowly, her limbs like lead. I am in a state of shock, she thought distantly. That is what happens to people on occasions like this.

I have never known an occasion like this.

She opened the door.

‘How are you?' Christopher asked.

‘Sssh!'

‘Sorry.' He had a bruise on his right cheek; he was enormous, he was occupying every inch of the square of landing at the top of the stairs. ‘How is she?' He was whispering now. She nodded towards the bed; he looked over her shoulder. ‘Good. And you?'

‘Okay.'

They went on standing there on the threshold, he looking down at her, she looking up.

She said, as she had said in the speeding
Polizei
car: ‘I was a fool.'

‘Stop saying that. None of us were very bright.'

Behind them, Marsha stirred. Harriet jumped. ‘A brandy?' he asked her. ‘Would that help?'

She shook her head. ‘I don't want to leave her.'

‘I'll bring you one up. Yes?'

‘No. I'm a bit – I think I'll just unwind, thanks. Please tell the Scheibers again – I'm so sorry.'

‘You've told them – come on, now. It's all right.'

She looked at his bruised face. ‘What about you? Are you all right?'

‘Terrific.' He touched his cheek. ‘Could've been worse.'

‘Don't. Would you do one thing for me – would you phone our hotel? Otherwise they'll think we've done a bunk.'

‘You have done a bunk.' He put a hand on her shoulder. ‘I'll phone them now. Sleep well.' He bent down and kissed her on the cheek – just a touch, so light from someone so heavy – and turned to go.

She said, filled with emotion, ‘Thank you for rescuing Marsha.'

‘I'm afraid she didn't enjoy it much.'

‘She was very frightened.'

‘Mmm. Goodnight.'

‘Goodnight.' Harriet closed the door behind him. She stood in the middle of the room with her hands pressed to her face. She stayed like this for quite a long time, trying to collect herself, breathing deeply, listening to the quiet tick of the clock on the chest of drawers. She remembered standing in the middle of the bedroom in Brussels, the afternoon of their arrival, feeling uncertain and new; remembered Marsha tired after a long journey, dropping things on Susanna's perfect drawing-room carpet. She had settled in so quickly, after a shaky start, but then she was with her family, loved and cared for and made to feel special. Which she was. And now –

Harriet took her hands from her face and walked slowly up and down the bare floorboards. Thinking, pacing – like the man in the refugee hostel behind the wire. The wall had come down, but they were shut out of everything –

‘They are shit, they are cowards – You are a piece of rich bitch shit yourself, I think …'

‘Run! Run!'

‘Let go of me! Let go of me! You're not my father!'

She went over to the bed and looked at her daughter, listening to her breathing as she had listened on their last night in Brussels, thinking of Christopher Pritchard, flying to Prague, wondering about him and Susanna.

Well. Now she knew. All that unhappiness, all those years ago.

And now?

‘Never again.'

His face in the candlelight yesterday evening swam before her, she saw him a few minutes ago, standing in the doorway, taking up every inch of space, looking down at her, kissing her cheek – just a brush, just a touch.

She sank down into the wicker chair and stretched her legs out before her. She thought: this man is a potential danger to my brother, whom I love. I think that's true. He is potentially dangerous, still, to Susanna, whom I care for. No matter what he has said, I think that is also true. He has ideas I do not agree with, a past which I do not begin to come to grips with. More than all this, he threatens and disturbs my daughter, who has been my life, who is my first responsibility in everything.

And yet. She craves her father. That is clear to me now. I am not enough.

The wicker chair creaked as she leaned forward and turned off the bedside lamp. A thin pencil of light from the buildings beyond the hotel garden came through the shutters – as afternoon sunlight had shone, spinning with dust, through the half-closed shutters in the hotel dining room. Was it really only yesterday? She had sat opposite Christopher then, wanting to stretch out her arms and embrace the moment –

She thought: I am not enough for Marsha, but I must be enough. This man is an unknown quantity, still, and she dislikes him deeply: she has made that clear. I have been unforgivably selfish these last few days. She has made that clear, too.