It had seemed like a good idea that morning, asking if he could visit Erika, but as Kit walked slowly up Ladbroke Grove after school, he began to have reservations. He'd never been to Erika's house on his own, nor without an invitation, and Erika didn't seem the sort of person you just dropped in on.
But he was curious about the missing brooch, and he didn't want to go home and think about Gran. Adjusting his backpack, he picked up his pace, and soon turned into Arundel Gardens. He was glad Erika lived on the north side, where the houses were stuccoed and painted in colors-the plain, cream brick houses on the south side of the street never seemed as inviting. Sometimes he imagined that the more exotic houses in Lansdowne Road, with their bright colors and almost Moroccan feel, had bled a bit into the north side of Arundel Gardens, like paint running.
The afternoon was warm, and by the time he reached Erika's door he was sweating, the wool of his school blazer scratching his shoulders beneath the straps of his bag. Slipping off the heavy pack, he let it sag from one hand as he rang the bell. He always brought home more books than he needed, but somehow he didn't like to leave things behind.
The buzzer echoed inside the otherwise quiet flat, but there was no reply on the intercom. Kit shuffled his feet and swung his pack, suddenly aware of the distant sound of a dog barking, and nearer by, a car door slamming and the wail of a child. The spring pansies in Erika's basement window box were looking faded and leggy, and the small yard was unswept.
He'd almost made up his mind to go when the door swung open. Erika looked out expectantly, and Kit could have sworn he saw a flicker of disappointment before she smiled and said, 'Kit! What a nice surprise.'
'You shouldn't answer the door without checking to see who it is, you know.' The words came out involuntarily and he flushed, hearing the rudeness.
But Erika merely nodded. 'You're right, of course. It's just that I was expecting-I thought it might be Gemma. Do come in. I'll make you something cold to drink.'
As Kit followed her into the flat, he realized for the first time that he was looking down at her. He suddenly felt large and gawky, and deliberately pulled in his elbows, afraid he might knock a book or an ornament off the hall shelves.
In the sitting room, there were books and newspapers scattered about, and three empty cups on the table beside Erika's chair. Having been taught early on by his mum to pick up, Kit stacked the cups and saucers and carried them into the kitchen. 'I could help with the washing-up,' he offered when he saw the worktop and the tiny sink.
'Oh.' Erika stood still, as if she'd lost her bearings. 'I can't seem to settle to anything.' She frowned. 'But I'm certain I have ginger beer in the fridge, and some ice cubes in the freezer. The glasses-'
'I'll get the glasses.' Kit knew where they were kept. When Erika didn't protest, he very quickly put the drinks together, even adding a sprig of mint from a pot on the kitchen table. The window overlooking the garden was open and the soft, warm air blew in like a caress. Thinking of the unexpected disorder of Erika's sitting room, he said, 'Can we sit outside?'
'Oh, of course.' She wore a heavy blue cardigan, the buttons misaligned, and hugged it to herself as if she were cold.
Kit led the way through the French doors onto the small terrace that overlooked the communal garden. Pulling out one of the white wrought-iron chairs so that it faced the sun, he said, 'Sit here. It will warm you.'
Erika complied, then looked up at him with a glimmer of a smile. 'You're quite bossy, you know.'
'That's what my mum used to say,' answered Kit, taking the chair opposite.
'You never talk about your mum.'
'No,' he said, and found to his surprise that he could. 'She quite liked it. Me managing her. She used to call me
'I can see why.' Erika cradled her drink, then sipped. 'I like the mint.'
'My mum grew it in the garden. We always put it in our summer drinks.' He pushed away the thought of long summer evenings in the Cambridgeshire garden that ran down to the river. 'Was your father really a jeweler?'
'Oh, a jeweler, yes, but so much more. He was an artist. And a bit of a magpie.' Erika gave a surprisingly throaty laugh. 'He loved bright things.' Sobering, she added slowly, 'I sometimes think it was a good thing he didn't survive the first years of the war. He would have hated what Berlin became, what Germany became in those years. He liked his creature comforts, my father.'
'He-' Kit hesitated, not sure how to go on.
'Oh, he died in a camp. In 1942, as far as I was able to learn.'
'And there wasn't anyone else?'
When she shook her head, wisps of white hair came loose from her smooth knot and danced round her face. 'No. Just the two of us. My mother had died when I was younger.'
Kit nodded and they sat quietly, sipping their drinks, shared knowledge lying easily between them.
After a bit, Kit said, 'What was it like, Berlin before the war?'
Erika smiled. 'I always think of flowers. Our garden was full of flowers in summer. Red and pink geraniums, petunias, roses. My father was a very social man, and entertaining was good for his business. Summer seemed one long round of garden parties, shimmering dresses, laughter, the scent of cigarette smoke on the night air. But-' She gave a small sigh, then added more briskly, 'But I was a child. And I'm sure if I had been older, I would have realized that even then it mattered that we were Jewish.
'My father was tolerated because he made beautiful things for the wealthy, and even after Hitler came to power in 1933, the elite were reluctant to give up their luxuries. And my father was an optimist. He always wanted to believe the best of people.'
'But how could he? When such terrible things were happening?' asked Kit.
Erika gazed out into the communal garden, her eyes focused on a young woman playing with her child. 'After Kristallnacht not even my father and David could ignore the danger, although in David's case, it had been stubbornness, not optimism, that kept us in Berlin.'
Crystal Night. Kit had read about it in school, first with interest, because the name had intrigued him, then with growing horror as he realized what it meant. But somehow he had failed to connect Erika with that terrible tale of violence and destruction.
'The Night of the Broken Glass,' Erika said softly. 'November tenth, 1938. The windows of thousands of Jewish shops and homes throughout Germany and Austria were smashed, Jews were beaten and killed, and over thirty thousand Jewish men were taken to concentration camps. It was called, literally, crystal-glass night, because most shopkeepers' windows were made of more expensive crystal, rather than ordinary glass.
'It's considered politically incorrect to use that term now in Germany -it's felt it romanticizes what happened.' She shook her head. 'But for those who lived through it, we never forgot the sound of hammers smashing crystal. To this day I can't bear to break a glass.' Pulling her cardigan a little closer, she sipped her drink. The few ice cubes had melted, diluting the liquid to a gold as pale as the afternoon sunlight. 'But that's enough of such talk for
