The Report by Jessica Francis Kane Page B

impossible to lift them off one by one.”
    The work suited Laurie’s manner and physique. He had a penchant for seeming to understand even when he didn’t—this reassured his witnesses—and he was good at asking a lot of questions until he did. He held his hands in front of him, often touching his fingertips together in the shape of a vaulted ceiling. If he was at a loss for words, he sometimes rubbed his neck as if he had a sore muscle. The four prominent lines running in parallel across his forehead tended to knit themselves in consternation during the hardest interviews but always unraveled for a joke. From his clothes and background, he knew they expected academic pretension, and he hoped they were surprised when they got conversational warmth. He wanted them to know that he, like they, had not left the city at the start of the war. This was certainly a mark in his favor.
    “When you arrived, were other officers and wardens already working there?”
    “Two constables, I believe. I didn’t see any wardens.”
    “That was at your end?”
    “That was at my end.”
    “That was the lower end, inside the shelter?”
    “Yes.”
    “You came by way of the emergency exit?”
    “That is correct.”
    “And you saw no wardens in tin hats?”
    “No, sir. It was very dark, though.”
    “And when you got to the bottom of the stairs, was there difficulty removing the people?”
    “There was terrible difficulty in extricating the bodies.”
    “Why was that? Why couldn’t you just take them away one
by one?”
    “It is rather difficult to explain. The only way I can describe it . . .” The witness stopped a minute. “If we imagine my fingers as being about two hundred and fifty people, they were just like this.” He interlaced his fingers with a punch, then twisted and turned his wrists until it looked like he might be hurting himself.
    “I see. They were all wedged up like that, were they?”
    “It was impossible, sir.”
    “And the pile shifted forward from the bottom step, onto the landing, I imagine?”
    “No, sir. No one was on the landing.”
    “You are an officer at Bethnal Green Station?”
    “That’s right.”
    “Had you or any of the other officers ever anticipated anything like this happening?”
    “No, sir. We’ve had a little trouble, ordinary trouble, but nothing like this.”
    “What is the sort of trouble you have had?”
    “It is a very mixed crowd, sir, all nationalities here, so just the ordinary sorts of clashes. There are the blacks, the Yiddish people, Maltese, Chinese, every kind down there, and when you get a crowd of that description, you are bound to have a little disorder.”
    “I see. Have you found much difference in the behavior of the different races?”
    “Not particularly.”
    “One is as easy to control as any other?”
    “Most of the time, sir.”
    “And yet a mixed crowd like that has clashes.”
    “In my experience, sir.”
    Laurie remained poised but friendly, engaging but not eager. He was taller than many of the East Enders, but because he was thin, they could tell themselves he lacked strength. This was far from true, but unimportant. During breaks, he walked the streets and studied the poor condition of the dwellings. He’d already taken note of the worn and mended clothing, the blue and gray best clothes the Bethnal Greeners wore to come before the inquiry. He didn’t expect to be invited in, and he wasn’t, but he knew that many families of multiple generations lived in no more than two or three rooms, sometimes with boarders. To Laurie, this proof of their already cramped lives made the crush even crueler.
    “In your opinion, did the different races or nationalities or creeds or denominations we have here play any role in it?”
    “No, sir.”
    “No difference in behavior, then, that you’ve noticed?”
    “Well, I do know that it is necessary for the Jew to wail. I didn’t know that before.”
    “I see. How long have you lived in Bethnal