Rose looked away from the vast city lights and down toward the water. It coursed fast, dark silvery movement that she could sense more than see. She felt a thrumming inside of her. Her hands gripped the icy railing.
Her parents were dead. She knew this to be true. But how could there be no evidence? How could she possibly live in a world where there was no proof? And if no one knew about them, what would happen to her? Her life here in England wasn’t meant to last. It wasn’t meant to be permanent. What would she do now?
Her head felt too heavy for her body, and she wanted to rid herself of this weight, this awful heaviness. Why was it better that she had survived? Rose thought of the soldier from VE night, the way he had touched her, as if she were his for the taking. She wished he had. She wished he had done every unseemly thing he had wanted. Her tears stung her raw cheeks and she thought, no, no, she didn’t want him to touch her at all, she didn’t want anyone to ever touch her again, she couldn’t help her parents, they were dead, she knew that Gerhard was right, but he was so wrong. She and Gerhard didn’t deserve to be here. How could they be here, with bodies to enjoy and lives to live?
The water glittered and beckoned, strangely inviting on this brutal night, and even the thought of falling seemed tempting—tumbling, erasure, blackness. But Rose’s hands remained curled on the cold railing. She knew she could never do such a thing, even though she hated herself for it. Why did she deserve to live? she asked herself as she walked off the bridge, steadily, quietly, alone.
“You’re ill,” Margaret clucked at her the next morning. “You stayed out too late,” and Rose did not disagree. Margaret kept the kettle on. Margaret made her cup after cup, and they listened to It’s That Man Again on the BBC. By the afternoon, Rose was feeling, if not better, then at least more like herself. She got dressed. Gerhard had called on the shared telephone line and asked to meet her for supper at the White Tower in Fitzrovia. It was his last night before the army would claim him again. And who was she to say no?
“The White Tower, it’s supposed to be one of the best restaurants around,” Margaret said as she helped her get ready, crimping her hair, applying beetroot juice on her lips for color.
“You look quite becoming,” Margaret said. Rose considered the phrase. She was nearly eighteen. What was she becoming?
By the time Rose reached the end of Charlotte Street and hurried inside the White Tower, unspooling her scarf, it took her a beat or two to spot her brother, though the restaurant, with its green walls and red-beaded lampshades, was less than half full. Gerhard was seated with a woman that Rose did not know, a young fair-headed beautiful woman.
“Hello,” Rose said, and Gerhard popped up out of his chair, nearly knocked it over.
“Oh, hello!” he said with nervous energy, as if her presence were a surprise. He reached for her, stuck out his hand, laughed again, and clasped her shoulders in an awkward hug. “So nice to see you!”
Rose stared. Why hadn’t he told her? Why was he acting so strangely?
“May I introduce you to Isobel. Isobel, this is my sister, Rose.” Rose could have sworn Gerhard blushed while saying it.
“Rose,” Isobel said, extending a slender hand. “It is ever so nice to meet you. I’ve heard so much about you.”
Rose nodded dumbly. Isobel wore a dark wool skirt and a pink sweater with black silk trim. Her shoulder-length hair was tousled but shiny, a slight messiness that managed to signal expense.
“Do you love Greek food?” Isobel said as they took their seats. “I adore it. Absolutely adore it. We both do.” She turned significantly to Gerhard.
“I’ve never had it before,” Rose said truthfully, looking at her brother. He liked Greek food?
“Moussaka, that’s what you must have,” Isobel said. “You simply must.”
Rose nodded. Whatever moussaka was, she would have it. The portraits of mustached soldiers, staring grimly down at her from the walls, were no match for the force of Isobel’s words.
Isobel said she had grown up in Yorkshire, but didn’t speak as if she were from the north. She was an only daughter after a trio of boys. “Even my father—or especially my father—was relieved when I was born.” She asked Rose about her flat and Margaret, living in London. She didn’t bring up the factory. She smiled easily. She touched Gerhard’s hand often.
Rose asked: “How long have you two known each other?”
“About a year,” Gerhard said.
“More than a year,” Isobel said with unmistakable pride. “Sixteen months, nearly a year and a half.”
“I see,” Rose said as she forked off some of her dish. Was that aubergine? It was too soggy to identify, too laden in sauce. “Most of the time while Gerhard was away?”
“Yes,” Isobel said quickly. “I’m so proud of him. My officer.” She laughed, as if she had made a joke.
Rose continued to pick at her dish, saying nothing.
“Gerhard says that you live in Holborn,” Isobel said. “How do you like it?”
Rose shrugged. “It’s all right.”
“She and Margaret are wonderful roommates together,” Gerhard said. “I wouldn’t be surprised if they lived together for years to come.”
“Well, there’s a lovely thought,” Rose said, shaking her head at Gerhard.
“One of my brothers lived in Holborn for a time. On Macklin. I quite liked it. It has its charms.”
“Yes,” Rose said. “I suppose it does.” She wound a strand of cheese on her fork, drew it through a puddle of tomato sauce.
“If you’ll excuse me for a moment,” Isobel said, and pushed back her chair. Gerhard jumped up to help her.
As Isobel walked away, Gerhard leaned down to Rose and whispered: “Why are you being so curt with her? Would it kill you to be kind?”
“You could have told me she was coming,” Rose said, her eyes remaining on Isobel, watching her navigate between tables to the back of the restaurant.
“I’m sorry,” Gerhard was saying. “I was nervous.” And that’s when Rose realized: Isobel was wearing real stockings. They were perfect, the seams beautifully straight, not a darn in sight. When she saw the real thing, it made her despair. What was the point in trying to imitate them? She could never come close.
“How does she have money for real stockings?” Rose asked.
“What?” Gerhard shrugged uneasily as he sat back down. “She’s wearing real stockings?”
Rose shook her head, exasperated. Of course he hadn’t noticed. And that’s when she understood that Isobel came from significant money, and it was nothing Gerhard would talk about it.
“Who cares about her stockings?” he continued. “She’s a wonderful person. You have to give her a chance. Please.” He said this with un-Gerhard-like eagerness. “I really like her.”