Somewhere Over England (6 page)

His father’s kind, honest face had been confused, had been desperate because he had not been able to excuse what had happened, but neither could he believe that it was anything more than an aberration. He would not listen when Heine told him it was the norm.

Heine leaned over to his father now and covered his hand with his own. ‘I love you, Father. Be careful. Be very, very careful.’ He rose. ‘Helen, you look tired, my darling. I’ll take you up to bed now.’

He turned to his mother and father. ‘Please excuse me from
the brandy. I also am tired and I have my family to think of now.’ He smiled at them, at Helen, at his child.

Helen held him close and at last he slept, but she could not for he had told her about Munich and now at last she understood the reality of politics. She did not want to though. Oh God, no, she did not want to, because she was nineteen and in love and pregnant. She wanted her husband for herself, she wanted the peace of their lives to go on. She wanted the photographs they took, the child they had, the walks, the laughter to be everything. She held him tighter still. How much of his life would it take?

In England in August 1932 Heine received a letter from one of his Munich friends telling him that German voters had handed Hitler’s brownshirts an election victory on 31 July and the Nazis now formed the biggest party.

‘But he doesn’t have a majority?’ Helen asked because she had been listening to Heine since they had returned to England and now understood the political situation.

He put down the letter on the kitchen table. ‘No, at least he does not have that.’

‘So, there is still hope,’ she insisted, shaking his hand, leaning over and stroking his face. ‘Come on, Heine, you must be brave, you must go on. We must go on.’ Because she had decided that whatever battles had to be fought they would fight them together. She paused. ‘Listen, you were telling me about the changing mood of photography. If you want me to be able to help with the work, we must concentrate.’

She rose from the table and moved round to him, putting her arm along his shoulder. ‘This baby is getting bigger and bigger. He won’t wait for something that might never happen. And it might never happen, you know. Hitler can still be defeated – contained. If he’s as bad as you say the German people won’t let him take power.’ She held his head against her. ‘Now, my love, what were you saying about imagery.’

She felt his hand on her swelling abdomen and then his voice, muffled as he spoke into her body. ‘I try for a greater range of imagery. I like strong direct photographs with the emphasis on design instead of soft focus and tranquil scenes. Now is a time for realism.’ He sat up straight now and used his hands to express his ideas and Helen felt relief ease into her. She had caught his interest, kept him away from the shadows for now.

He told her that he had been taught to use an overall soft focus to provide atmosphere, to use a sombre tone for mood landscapes, to use soft and subtle nuances of light and shade, but in Munich he had become interested in the ‘New Objectivity’ which he thought had grown out of the harsh reality of the war. He told her that Martin Weiss, his Jewish friend whose photographs had been defiled, considered it wrong to allow the ego of the photographer to come between the camera and subject and, though others thought that this technique was too cold he did not.

‘I would want a picture to say something about myself, my views, my feelings, the feelings of others involved,’ Helen said.

‘Well, that is another style and a successful one. Perhaps it is as well that we have different opinions,’ he said.

They walked to the darkroom which had originally been the dining-room. ‘We should have another lesson with the Leica. I have no appointments scheduled for this afternoon so we shall do it then, but now, my darling, let us go through again the procedures of developing and printing.’

He stood at the door as he waited for her to repeat all that she had learned throughout the last two weeks.

‘You must understand the principles, you must have knowledge,’ he told her as she protested.

And so she explained how black and white films contain light-sensitive crystals which darken after exposure, and how development is required to make the image visible.

‘The longer the exposure the greater darkening of the crystals,’ she added. ‘Development is required to make the image permanent and visible.’

‘Good girl.’ Heine moved into the darkroom showing her the wet and dry areas, the enlarger, the processing equipment, the dryer, pausing at the print finishing area. There was still some work left to do on the photographs he had taken last night at the introduction of the trial floodlighting of some London buildings. He told her how he had concentrated on the traffic chaos because it was important to see a situation from an unusual angle.

‘You can help me,’ he said, setting the working surface at thirty degrees. ‘I want to get them delivered to the magazine office at lunchtime, then we can spend the afternoon in the park with the camera.’

‘Remember Mother is coming to stay for the weekend. She will be arriving tonight.’ Helen settled herself on to the stool, peering at the photograph of black cars and angry drivers. She reached for the trimmer from beneath the bench, confident, sure, eager to begin work, work that she could share with him. She eased her back which ached more each day as her child grew within her.

‘My love, how could I forget that your mother comes?’ Heine shook his head but his smile was visible in the dim red light of the room. ‘Every time I go into the spare room I am reminded of her.’

Helen laughed and had to put the photograph to one side. ‘I know, she has certainly staked her claim, but how could I say anything?’

She pictured the dressing table with her mother’s brushes, her photographs, her pots for hairnets and pins. She had stayed on their return from Germany after Helen had written to ask her, saying she was to become a grandmother and they would like to see her. It had seemed impossible to do anything else. Her mother had turned the spare room into a replica of her own bedroom, saying as she did so that it was as well to be comfortable since she would be spending so much time here, especially now there was a grandchild on the way. She had been brisk but not unkind and Helen had remembered Frau Weber’s soft arms and wondered if there would be a future after all for mother and daughter.

Christoph was born on 1 December and Heine looked down at his son and marvelled at the perfect fingernails, the perfect feet and the softness of his skin, the lightness of his hair, while Helen looked at her husband and saw love in his eyes for his son and wondered if her father’s eyes had been the same.

When Christoph was nearly two months old, on 30 January, Hitler became Chancellor of Germany, and while Helen held the baby, stroking skin she could hardly feel, kissing hair which was gossamer fine, she reminded Heine that all was not bad in the world. Hadn’t the British Prime Minister ordered a review of the Government’s policies on unemployment after the marches and riots? Hadn’t Roosevelt won the United States elections with a landslide and promised a New Deal? Hadn’t two of his photographs been taken by an American magazine? And after all, in Germany it might all pass.

‘And look,’ she said, ‘Christoph is smiling, I’m sure he’s smiling. Here, hold him and see for yourself.’ She pushed the baby towards Heine who took him and looked but did not seem to see, and Helen touched the fine crocheted shawl, feeling its pattern, its warmth. ‘I’m sure he’s smiling,’ she said again, touching her husband’s hand, feeling him at last lift hers and put it to his lips, but despair still remained in his eyes and Helen knew that she was still outside his pain.

When Christoph was nearly four months old the Enabling Act was passed in Germany allowing Hitler, rather than the President, to rule by decree.

‘It sets him above the law, you see,’ Heine said, his voice flat, his eyes dark, and Helen wondered what Herr Weber must be feeling but Heine would not write to him; he would only pace the flat, leaving work unfinished so that Helen felt she must work until midnight in the darkroom to complete his assignments for him after she had put Christoph to bed.

When Christoph was nearly six months old books were burned in the streets of Germany, unions were harassed and in London the blossom bloomed and Helen printed and developed films and delivered them because Heine did not have time. He was too busy writing letters to Munich and meeting friends in dark pubs.

When Christoph was seven months old he reached forward and pulled Helen towards him and laughed but Heine did not notice because opposition parties had been ousted from the Reichstag in June and a month later Hitler announced plans to sterilise imperfect Germans. Helen took a Leica and carried out two of Heine’s assignments and the results were as good. And so, increasingly, she took over his workload too and did not mind because she had told herself that she would join the battle if that would help this man she loved so much.

In August her mother came to stay and Helen had to take her out to photograph damage caused by the gales which had hit England, and that night, when the wind blew again and the thunder roared and her mother was asleep, she crooned to Christoph and told him of the raven who was warning them to stay in in case they saw the gods go by. She looked up and smiled at Heine when he came home wet and cold.

‘Did you see the gods going about their holy business, my
darling?’ she whispered, lifting her face for his kiss. Knowing that for her he was the god.

He laughed. ‘Only one of your English coppers getting very wet as he paced his beat.’

Helen made him tea and he sat by the gas fire which plopped and spluttered, cupping the drink in his hand.

‘Your mother is asleep?’

‘My mother would sleep through a deluge of ravens,’ she said softly. ‘Christoph has not woken since nine and I have finished trimming the hotel photograph. Did you have a good meeting?’ Helen sat down on the worn carpet in front of the fire. The heat was comforting. She clutched her knees, seeing the dust lying on the mantelpiece, on the hearth.

‘Yes, we are trying to find firms that will sponsor those that are going to have to leave Germany if it goes on and on. So far in America and to some extent here we have been fortunate. But there is a great deal to do and unemployment is a problem in both countries. I think the time we have and the dissidents have and the Jews have, is short.’

He put his mug down on the table and leaned back, his hands clasped behind his head.

‘Oh God, it’s the studio portrait tomorrow, Helen. I know I said I would do it but I can’t. I have to be at the Embassy by ten. Darling, can you?’

Helen nodded, laying her head on her knees. Yes, she would do it, as she did so many others. She would have to tell her mother that Heine was out on another assignment again. It seemed easier to lie than to try and make her understand that some things were more important than making a profit. And they were, in this case they were, because people were being saved and Heine’s eyes were no longer dark, his steps were no longer heavy. At last, he had told her in the spring, he felt as though he was doing something again, actually helping people threatened by Hitler’s regime.

In September one of his Munich friends arrived at their flat with no money and few clothes but many bruises and cuts because storm troopers armed with revolvers and piping were roaming the German streets looking for Jews and Communists and liberals. He told them of a concentration camp which had been opened for these ‘dissidents’.

‘It is at Dachau,’ he said.

Helen made up the bed for Isaac in the spare room and listened to his story and cried. That evening they ate a stew which she had padded out with vegetables and she told them that Christoph had said ‘dada’ and that Heine really did need to make sure he arrived at the art gallery promptly at ten tomorrow because they were leaving up the paintings until he arrived. They particularly wanted him because he had produced such fine work for the catalogue last year. She said nothing when he explained that he had other more important things to do; just nodded and smiled at Isaac and handed him more rice. She had overcooked it and it clung to the spoon in a lump; so white against the old stained table spoon.

That night in bed she told Heine that he must do tomorrow’s assignment because she could not, she was already booked to cover the meeting at Whitechapel. Her voice was calm but high as she told him that they would have to earn more money if the bills were to be paid and there was Isaac to feed now. He became angry and told her that she was being trivial; there was a vast problem, or was she too much of a child to see? His voice was tight but low, because they were not alone in their flat, were they?

Headlights flashed across the ceiling and walls from the passing traffic and Helen watched as the brass picture frame over by the door glinted, caught by the lights of one car and then another.

Her voice remained calm as she answered but the effort made her hands clench. She breathed slowly.

‘Is it childish to deal in reality?’ she said. ‘If we are to help your friends we need to work to pay for it or our child will suffer. You prefer reality. You told me.’ She pointed to the glinting frame which held the photograph he had taken of London Bridge. ‘You have used no soft focus there, Heine. There is no place for it in our lives at this moment. We need to eat, and in order to do that we need to work. We both need to work. You have responsibility to your family as well as your friends.’

That night she did not sleep but lay on her side, tense with anger and disappointment, aware that he was not asleep either; but she could not touch him, she could not bridge the distance between them because suddenly she was tired. So tired and the sun of their German honeymoon seemed too far away.

That morning they dressed without speaking and neither looked at the other’s nakedness. Her tiredness hung heavily on her. In the kitchen she poured his tea, watching the tea leaves fill the strainer. Still they did not speak. She fed soldiers to Christoph, then watched as Heine went to the studio and returned with his cameras.