A Parachute in the Lime Tree by Annemarie Neary Page B

America.’
    Aunt Hanne’s friend explained that, though it was Ireland, it was a part that England still owned. Elsa was lucky, she said. There was lots of open space in Ireland to grow good wholesome food. As for music, many people had a piano in the house. It should not be impossible for Elsa to keep up her music.
    The day of the journey was one of scuffed goodbyes. Aunt Hanne said she wouldn’t be coming along to the port. ‘You mustn’t take offence,’ she told Elsa. ‘It’s just there’ve been so many, that’s all.’ Papa was unwell again. There was dread in his eyes but he seemed unable to express it. He got out of bed butMama decided it would all be too much for him and sent him right back again. He clutched Elsa’s hand a moment, then slowly shook his head and walked away. As for Mama, she talked all the way to Rotterdam. Aunt Hanne had told her about the wedding of a distant cousin whom neither of them had ever met. Now, Mama discussed it as though she had seen it all with her own eyes: the Bruges lace in the girl’s dress, her shell-pink roses. Uncle Rudi said not a word, his eyes fixed firmly on the road.
    Later, Elsa sat next to the porthole. She rubbed at the glass with her sleeve to see out better but the haze and grime seemed to be on the outside. She imagined them on the quayside, their eyes straining in the morning glare then settling on someone in the same shade of blue. Nearby sat a girl of ten or so in a crinkly dress. She was sobbing, crunched up like a bonbon in its wrapper. For fear of being infected with such hopelessness, Elsa turned her back. When she could stand it no more she went up on deck but the girl’s misery followed her like a fog. She knew she should have offered some comfort but somehow she was unable.
    As she watched the flat coast slip under the horizon she began to cry herself and once she started, the tears tripped over one another. She tried to be quiet, to avoid setting anyone else off. She kept her shoulders set firm as a rack but soon she was howling into the North Sea. She leaned over the rails and shook her face back and forward into the sharp sea wind, tears smarting on her cheeks. When she had cried herself out, she walked along the deck, and there she noticed others, wailing just as she had done. Some were no more than babies. One tiny boy sat with his face pressed into the barrier, his thin arm reaching for the retreating coast. ‘Mama,’ he kept shouting. ‘Mama.’ Elsa tried to touch his shoulder but he pushed himself further into the rails and so she let him be.
    In her head were girls who hadn’t crossed her mind since the day she left school in Berlin. She could see her old classroom,that haze of heads in the rows in front of her, blonde and off-blonde. Gerda must be an accompanist all the time now. She’d be pleased with that. Even Marti can’t have been too sad. Marti, with her loose blonde curls and her way of laughing with her teeth joined perfectly together.
    ‘After all,’ Mama said once, ‘her father’s made a fortune out of the boycott. They’re doing well now. You can’t expect Marti to be sorry things are as they are.’
    The arrival at England took her by surprise. When she awoke, children were crowding around each porthole, the little ones hopping up on tippy toes to see better. When they docked at Harwich, there were lots of people, bright flashes. They seemed welcome.
    ‘Here, Miss. A little smile for England. And again. Come on, little lad. Lift teddy up. Show him the camera.’
    Elsa caught sight of the little boy she’d noticed on deck the night before. He came and sat next to her. Silently, he slid his hand into hers. When the women with papers came to divide the children into groups, they seemed confused by Elsa and the little boy. They conferred in whispers. Eventually, someone gently prised the little boy’s hand out of Elsa’s. He went off with a woman whose hat had cherries on the brim. He didn’t cry but his eyes