Somewhere Over England by Margaret Graham

walked in the air which was so cold it hurt her lungs, Helen felt the tension knot in her shoulders but pushed it away because it was Christmas and she was happy. She kicked at the ice which had chipped and protruded up into the road. Frau Weber took her arm.
    ‘Come, Helen. Do not be left behind, they miss you.’
    Helen looked up and waved as Heine and Chris called.
    ‘Yes, I was just thinking,’ she said, smiling at Frau Weber.
    ‘There is much to think of these days,’ Frau Weber said as they walked along down the alley into the centre. Heine and Chris carried the red ball which had been in his stocking from Father Christmas. It showed up clear and shining against the snow, the grey buildings with icicles hanging like witches’ fingers from the eaves. Would her own mother have wanted to hurry to join with everyone else? She knew she would not. She would have tried to hold her back and would not forgive her when she pulled away. But that was all in the past. She could not hurt her ever again. This was Christmas and she was far from England.
    As they reached the men, Helen smiled and looked at her mother-in-law; the daylight showed up the lines around the eyes, the hair which was almost white. She looked fragile, strained, her skin almost translucent. Did she know of HerrWeber’s activities? It never seemed safe to ask. There were many people in the city centre, walking, nodding, and Helen moved to look into the window of the toy shop where the shelves were now half empty. She turned to call to Chris and saw an old man slip and fall in amongst the milling crowd. She moved to help but Heine caught her arm.
    ‘Leave him,’ he said, pulling her round, back to the shop.
    His hand was tight on her arm and she stared at him and then twisted round again. Chris was staring as the old man struggled on the unsanded ice near the road. He was still on the ground, his black coat and hat smudged with white. His earlocks too.
    ‘Are you mad?’ Helen said. ‘Let me help him.’
    Chris was looking across at her now, his face puzzled. Helen looked at Herr Weber, at his wife. They did not move to help but turned away as though they had not seen, but they had seen because Herr Weber’s face was white. Those in the square did not help either but passed either side. Still the old man could not rise.
    ‘He is a Jew. If we help him Father could be in danger. There is too much to lose, too much work yet to be done.’
    Again Helen looked at the old man and then at Heine. She looked at Chris then and saw him move to help but he was only six and not strong enough.
    ‘Let go of me, at once,’ she said to Heine. ‘I do not bring up my child to pass an old man who has fallen, or is he just a fragment?’ Helen turned to Herr and Frau Weber who were standing with their backs to them, looking in the window. ‘Move on, don’t be seen with us. I shall try to protect you.’ Her voice was quiet but firm.
    She followed Chris, lengthening her stride, holding his arm, talking, and then Heine saw him nod and throw his mother the ball which she missed. He saw its redness against the black of the old man’s coat, saw it land by his leg, saw Helen’s hand reach for the ball, saw Chris stand on his other side, shouting for his ball. And then the man was up, walking away quickly. Too quickly for him or anyone else to have seen what had happened in the crush. The Webers had no need to fear.
    Helen held her son’s hand as they walked towards him but she could still feel the thin arm, the smell of poverty, thecultured voice which had said, ‘
Danke
,’ while she had said, ‘I’m so sorry. So sorry.’
    She stood before Heine now, her face gentle. ‘I was the only one who could go. Chris and I were the only ones who could go and there was no possible way we could have walked on. It was our gesture. Do you understand?’ She didn’t touch, just stood there and waited, still feeling that thin arm.
    ‘I love you,’ Heine said and kissed her,