In the beginning, she lived for letters. She would ask Mrs. Cohen, by the fire in the drawing room in the morning, from the safety of her perch beneath the piano in the afternoon—how long does it take for a letter to travel from Vienna to Leeds?—so persistently, so often, that Mrs. Cohen threw up her hands, exasperated. “Several days, as I’ve said many a time before. It takes what it takes, child. What more can I say?”
Rose got through those first dizzying weeks, when she felt as if she were sleepwalking round the clock, when her English was nearly nonexistent, when she was too numb to cry, by imagining what she would write home. From the fat committee ladies who greeted her and Gerhard when they came off the boat in Harwich to Mrs. Cohen, who said to her, “there, there,” even when she hadn’t been speaking, from the disgusting kippers—and why would anyone ever put milk in tea?—to Mr. Cohen, whose wire spectacles were small and eyes even smaller and whose favorite sweater was a scratchy red cardigan, the exact red of Herr Soutine’s bellhop’s uniform, Rose wrote about it all. She hoped Mutti would be pleased that she remembered the painter’s name.
Those first letters she got back, plain pale envelopes filled with tissue-thin purple stationery—a burst of color in this world of browns, a vital heart—these letters written with her father’s dark fountain pen in her mother’s elegant hand, meant everything to her. “Ah, my beautiful Rose,” her mother wrote, “Papi and I are so glad to hear that you are settling in so nicely. Have you seen any black cats in Leeds yet? Here at home, everyone asks after you and Gerhard. How we all envy your England adventure!” She went on to tell her how Swibber the butcher had broken his arm and now cut meat in the most awkward manner, and how Oma had moved into the flat too, so they were all cozy and together for the winter. “Mr. and Mrs. Cohen sound like fine people, and you must remember to show your gratitude and be obedient every day, as I know you will.”
Rose wrote back immediately, told her mother about Margaret and school and the English poetry she was learning. She said Leeds was nothing compared to Vienna; she wrote that she slept with her mother’s scarf every night and she couldn’t stand the full skirts that were all the rage among the girls.
February brought a deluge of rain, a request from Mrs. Cohen to be called Auntie Aida that Rose pretended she didn’t hear, a card from Bette saying she had married a boy from Munich, and a letter from Mutti telling Rose they had moved again. Now she and Papi, along with Oma and Tante Greta and Onkel George, were sharing quarters with the Fleishmans and the Weitzs from downstairs. “Do you remember the Fleishmans? Their Walter was in Gerhard’s form. Mrs. Fleishman is hard to forget. She is a big woman with snapping dark eyes. She used to be a dancer when she was young and is still very vain and particular about nearly everything: her corsets must be washed out twice before wearing; we should not ingest meat during a full moon (as if there were meat to be had) or drink water during our meals as it impedes digestion! Whenever I find her too draining, I remind myself that you and Gerhard would get a great laugh out of her.”
In March, Rose won third place in the annual Tennyson recitation at school. In April, as if to celebrate the lengthening days, she began dreaming in English. The gaps between the letters she wrote home widened. She was so busy in school, she told herself, but she was also venturing forth. Sometimes she would ride the bus alone into town to Schofields on the Headrow. The department store was nowhere near as grand as the Gerngross back home, but she still loved exploring it. In the ladies’ department, she would quietly take note of the inventory, thinking, Mutti would admire that shimmery blouse with the bow. She would despise the checkered skirt. One time, she wandered into the café and saw ladies in evening gowns and elbow-length gloves sashaying and weaving among the tables. “Bloody fashion show, gets in my way,” a waitress whispered to Rose. Then she added: “But it can be quite grand, I will say.” Not as grand as some things I know, Rose was tempted to say.
June brought a letter from her mother talking about quotas and gardens and admonishments. “I walked by the walled garden behind the hospital the other day and spied in. It was bursting with color. I could see all the berries—goose, currant, even your favorite, straw.
“We haven’t heard from you in three weeks, my sweet little mausi. Your father and I hope that means you’re focusing on your SCHOOLWORK. Your last description of Mary made me laugh, and made me hungry for more. Is she really as menacing as you say?”
And then, in September, war was declared, and the letters stopped arriving.
Mary was wrong. It wasn’t a letter but a postcard this time, dated “Sept. 5, ’39,” more than three months earlier. “My dearest mausi,” her mother began, “please know your Papi and I are well. I fear that with the outbreak of the war we will not be able to write for some time and so I am routing this letter to Cousin Hedy in Holland with the hopes that she can get it to you. We hope to join you and Gerhard before long, but until then, we will be thinking of you constantly and always. You have done all you could. We are very proud of our brave girl.”
Rose lay back on her bed. She clutched the card in her sweaty right palm, and balled up a fistful of Mutti’s silky scarf in her left. Her head felt prickly, her eyes achy hot. Her mother was wrong. Rose hadn’t done everything that she could. Gerhard had; her brother had bicycled to some of the larger estates in the county, presenting himself at the front door and asking if the household could use a hardworking married couple. Rose was terrified by the prospect, but she promised that she too would ask. Then she had an idea.
“Let’s go to your house,” she said to Margaret one Saturday after the cinema. “You have the latest Peg’s Paper, don’t you?”
Once there, Rose excused herself to go to the toilet. But instead, she took the stairs down to Margaret’s father’s study. She knocked, timidly at first, then harder.
“Yes?” The voice sounded exasperated, but Rose couldn’t back out now. She opened the door to find Margaret’s broad-shouldered father behind his desk. “Margaret is upstairs.”
“I know,” she said. She dug her fingernails into her palm. “You know my parents are still in Vienna.” She flung the words out, her eyes trained on the ocean of papers in front of him. “They would do anything to be here, with us. But they need to be sponsored—”
“Rose,” Dr. Bradford said, removing his thin glasses.
“There is so much they could do. My mother,” Rose said, trying to imbue the words with confidence and ease, “is a fine cook. The cakes she makes! And my father is a whiz at numbers. His books are impeccable. Might you know of any positions that could be suitable for them?”
“It’s an awful situation. Simply horrid.”
“Or any positions, suitable or unsuitable. Any positions at all,” she said. She feared she sounded desperate, but she was desperate. Dr. Bradford knew so many people. He must be able to help.