Out of the Ashes. Vicky Newham

Shen.

      ‘Bad news, Ma’am, I’m afraid,’ she said. ‘Indra Ulbiene was ten weeks pregnant and she’s had a miscarriage.’

      Shit. The poor woman. ‘So, her husband is dead and it looks like he might have been having an affair. And now she’s lost her baby?’ I kicked at the linoleum. Occasionally, the news we had to convey was good but most of the time it wasn’t. ‘Where’s the silver lining in this situation?’

      ‘I know, Ma’am.’

      ‘Is she conscious?’ Questions were circling in my mind. ‘Does she know she’s lost the baby?’

      ‘Yes, the medical staff have told her. We’ve not said anything to her about her husband yet. I think she knows he’s dead but we were waiting for you. She’s extremely distressed. They’ve got her sedated. She was asleep when I left the ward a few minutes ago.’

      ‘Thanks, Shen. I’ll speak to Rosa Feldman first then. Give Indra a bit of space. It’s the least we can do to help her.’

       *

      When I arrived on the ward, colour had returned to Rosa’s cheeks and her facial expression was resolute. She was sipping a mug of tea, and a half-eaten breakfast tray was on the side table.

      ‘You look better than when I last saw you,’ I said. ‘Thought we were going to lose you. How are you?’

      ‘Fit as a fiddle and ready to go home.’

      I recognised the determination in her voice.

      ‘Those stock boxes won’t unpack themselves and all the while the shop’s closed, I’m losing customers.’

      I wanted to steer Rosa away from the shop so I asked her about the flash mob.

      ‘When everyone began dancing, it took me back to the tea dances Józef and I used to go to after the war.’ Her eyes glistened as tears formed.

      It felt uncaring to cut off her reminiscences, and whisk her onto interview questions, so I listened for a few moments while she talked, mentally noting anything that might be relevant to the investigation.

      ‘There are hardly any Jewish families left in Brick Lane now. The Blums, from the bagel shop, were the last to move out. Golders Green, Józef said.’

      Aware that Rosa could tire quickly, I directed her attention to the arson. ‘Thinking back to the last few days, have you noticed anything suspicious or unusual? People you didn’t recognise?’

      ‘I don’t think so.’

      ‘Anyone acting suspiciously or anything out of the ordinary?’

      ‘No. But to be honest, I’m so busy in the shop, the days shoot by and I don’t notice much. Just boxes of stock and dust.’

      ‘What about arguments? Anyone been rowing recently? Neighbours had fallouts?’

      She paused to think back. ‘Sorry. I’m not much help, am I?’

      ‘Did you recognise anyone in the street or at the flash mob?’ Having lived in the area for so long, if anyone would recognise locals, it was Rosa.

      ‘No.’

      ‘The ward sister said you’ve mentioned black masks. Can you tell me about these?’

      ‘They all had them. Black bandana things. Tied round their neck, and when they joined the dancing, they pulled them up over their nose to just beneath their eyes.’ She shuddered. ‘They looked really sinister.’

      ‘How well do you know Simas and Indra?’

      ‘Only to say hello to. I try to be neighbourly.’ Rosa was pensive, nodding gently, as though she was sifting through her experiences and opinions. ‘Actually, now you mention it, they had rows. I’d often hear one of them shouting and slamming the front door.’ She seemed distressed by the memory. ‘But it’s not my business and you can’t get involved in other people’s lives.’ A wistful look spread over her features. ‘I can’t believe the husband was in the . . . ’ Her voice croaked and broke off.

      ‘Sorry to upset you. Can we call anyone for you? Get someone to help with the shop?’ Uniform had told us that Tomasz and Agnieszka had come to the hospital.

      She shook her head, her fingers under her nose as if she was holding back a floodgate.

      ‘Tomasz arrived at the shop earlier. He was very worried about you. Would you consider staying with him until you’re back on your feet again?’

      ‘He’s very kind. Always has been. I’m very lucky with both my children. But Bethnal Green’s too far away.’ She sighed. ‘And I don’t want to put anyone out. My children have their own lives.’

      ‘If your son wants to help, why not let him?’ I voiced the question gently, realising that it was a sensitive subject.

      Rosa shook her head. Determined. ‘He’s extremely busy . . . ’

      I paused, trying to decide whether to press her. I got the impression that not wanting to put people out wasn’t the real reason.

      ‘I’ll be right as rain in a day or two.’ She smiled bravely.

      ‘What about your daughter? Would you consider staying with her?’

      ‘Oh, no. It’s all arranged. She’s popping back later to take me home to the shop.’

      ‘Is that wise? You’ve had a nasty scare.’

      She shook her head. ‘Agnieszka and Olaf have a tiny terraced house and three children. They don’t have room for an old lady. I’ve made my mind up. I’m going home to the shop.’

      There was pride in her features, and a reluctance to ask for help. I recognised it from Mum. A dogged refusal to accept limitations and change, and the need for help. But it was hard to know when pride became stubbornness. ‘Are you sure the shop is the best place though? It’s so damp and cold.’

      She sighed. ‘I know but it’s my home. All my memories are there and it’s where I feel safe.’

      Her face took on a wistful look and I felt desperately sad for her. ‘Would you mind if we contacted your daughter?’

      She frowned, then shrugged in resignation. ‘If you want to.’ She was trembling now. ‘For years I had nightmares. My mother was pregnant with me when the Nazis resumed deportations from Warsaw to Treblinka. The Jews in the Ghetto mounted an armed resistance. There were twenty-seven days of bombs, blasts and gunfire while they fought the Germans. My brother was eight. He made the mistake of smiling at an SS officer, who ordered one of the Judenrat officials to shoot him. When the man refused, the SS officer shot him and my brother straight through the head.’

      ‘Oh, Rosa . . . ’ I gasped.

      ‘My mother nearly miscarried, but I made it and was born in 1944, the year of the Warsaw Uprising. It was when Christian Poles rose up against the Germans. My parents escaped from the Ghetto, and we lived outside the city with a Polish family that Dad knew from his old shop. They say you remember things from in the womb. Sounds, words, voices. For me, it’s blasts and gunfire.’ The expression in her eyes was haunted. ‘And my mother’s sobbing.’ She looked away for a few moments. ‘I used to have the dreams regularly, even when the war was over and when we arrived here. Once we settled into life in Brick Lane, they receded. I haven’t had them for years, apart from the occasional one. The fire at the soup shop yesterday . . . ’ she was shaking her head, ‘ . . . brought it all back.’ She coughed, and I heard her chest wheeze. ‘There was a woman on the ground in front of me. The cracks and bangs were so loud, I tripped over her.’

      Much as she seemed to want to explain, I could see it was distressing her, talking about Poland, and I wanted to move the conversation onto happier times. ‘When did you come to live in Brick Lane?’

      ‘Nineteen forty-eight. I was four.’ She released a sigh.