‘The window in the basement. It is not locked.’
I had checked it myself. Either he was lying, or …
‘Who are you?’
‘Josef Wolffe. Zu Ihren Diensten.’
‘I’m afraid I don’t speak German,’ I said.
‘You are alone.’
It was more of a statement than a question. I didn’t reply. Life continued on the street outside as we stood there, figuring one another out. Friend or foe?
‘Whatever you’re looking for, you won’t find it here.’
Every muscle in my body was tense. He simply nodded, as though this entire situation were commonplace. He looked around the shop, taking his time, then looked me over. What did he see?
‘I come here, sometimes. To read.’ He nodded towards the small pile of books that still remained on the bottom shelf. My books.
‘This is my home. You have no right to be here.’ I didn’t feel very commanding, standing there in old rags, emaciated from years of undernourishment and my hair falling out. ‘I want you to leave.’
He nodded to himself, as if having come to some decision, then he unbolted the front door. I rushed over and locked it behind him. When I heard the engine of a motorbike fade away, I finally let out the breath I’d been holding.
I slowly climbed back upstairs, feeling my way in the darkness, my legs threatening to buckle beneath me. I collapsed on the floor of the attic with relief and tried to quieten my shallow breathing; listening for that old familiar sound, the reassuring presence of my books around me. Perhaps I imagined it, but I thought I could hear a soft wind and gentle pats, like snow falling against the window. In the gloom I spotted a book with Little Women on the spine. I closed my eyes and I was in Concord with Jo Marsh and her family and even the thought of it brought warmth to my skin. The words were working a magic spell to give me refuge and reawaken my soul – to the person I was before all the badness happened.
The next evening there was a knock at the front door. I Ignored it, yet the knocking persisted. No one knew I was here. I was weak with exhaustion and hunger, but I heaved myself up to the attic window and looked down on to the street. There was a motorbike and standing in front of my shop was Josef Wolffe, the German soldier, with what looked like a large pine branch and packages under his arms. He was stamping his feet, trying to stave off the cold. He couldn’t see me inside, for all was dark, but I could see him clearly. The light stubble on his jawline, his eyes scanning the street.
I hesitated for a moment, then walked wearily down to the door and opened it.
‘You should not be alone. Es ist Heiligabend. Christmas Eve.’
He stepped inside and left the packages and the giant tree branch in the middle of the floor, then went back outside. All I could do was watch, as he returned with a box and closed the door after him. He squatted down and, opening the box, took out candles and lit them. He looked for somewhere to place them and I gestured towards the stairs. I was too tired and hungry to argue. Then he opened another package which had food – bread, cheese, meat. I went and grabbed the bread out of his hand and began ripping pieces with my fingers and shoving it in my mouth. I was like a wild animal, my eyes wide, my jaws chewing rapidly. I sat on the last step, still wrapped in my blanket, and watched as he unwrapped more items. A bottle of wine. Apples.
Neither of us spoke a word. He wandered around the shop and found an empty crate, which he turned upside down and used as a seat beside the stove. He snapped the branch into small twigs against his knee and used the old paper to start a fire. The wood was too new to burn well, but the flames instantly made me feel warmer and the smell of pine was sweet and comforting.
He ate also, but sparingly. He peeled the skin off the apple and gave the carved flesh to me. He opened the bottle and handed it to me. I’m not sure how long it was before I spoke.
‘Why are you here?’
He looked up from under his blonde hair.
‘I am a prisoner of war,’ he said with a flourish, as though he were announcing that he had royal blood. ‘The Irish government are very kindly detaining us at one of their camps in Kildare.’
‘But, if you’re a prisoner …’
‘Why am I not in prison? Because we are permitted to leave during the day. I am completing my studies at Trinity University.’
‘You can’t be serious?’ I tried to laugh but the muscle was stiff from lack of use.
‘Ireland is a neutral country. We are something of a nuisance for them.’
I ate some more cheese and helped myself to another cup of wine. He seemed pleased that I was accepting his charity.
‘I didn’t know it was Christmas Eve,’ I said.
He was sitting quietly, carving something out of a piece of wood. He didn’t look up. It was strange, being in someone’s company yet not being required to talk. I leaned back against the wall and for the first time since I had arrived, looked at my old shop. What had gone on here since I left? Who had emptied it? Where was Matthew? What should I do now? I felt myself growing drowsy with the food and the warmth.
Sleep came quickly and deep. I dreamed of my father, taking me to Christmas Mass as a little girl, and the strains of ‘Silent Night’ filling the vaulted space of the church.
I woke up with a start. Music. There was a record playing. I scanned the room and saw that Josef was still there, the Victrola on the floor beside him playing the carol that was in my dream. He was leaning back against the wall, his eyes focusing on an invisible memory that softened his face. Perhaps he was dreaming of childhood too. Then, almost inaudibly, he began to sing. Stille Nacht, heilige Nacht. It was the most beautiful thing I had ever heard. His low voice, breaking in parts, was so full of tenderness that I thought I would cry. The crackling of the record was all that was left as the violins faded away.
‘Happy Christmas,’ I said, stirring him from his reverie.
His eyes widened briefly and when he looked at me, he gave me a half-smile. ‘Frohe Weihnachten.’
After a moment’s pause, he got up and with a curt bow, turned to leave.
‘Fog,’ he said, his back turned to me.
‘I’m sorry?’
‘You are wondering how I ended up here. Fog. And engine problems.’
He turned back and lit another cigarette.
‘We took off from Bordeaux. It was the end of the summer, last year. Six of us crew flying a Condor for weather reconnaissance.’
All of that time I was wasting away behind barred windows, the world had been at war.
‘We had to ditch somewhere along the south coast. Policemen found us. Took us to the internment camp and I have stayed there since.’
‘I see.’
‘It’s not so bad. You see, we have much freedoms.’
‘You were fighting for that madman Hitler?’
He blew cigarette smoke skyward and grunted bitterly. ‘You think we had a choice?’
I shook my head. I didn’t know. I thought of Lyndon then. The rumours about the shootings for cowardice.
‘I suppose all Germans were conscripted.’