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It all started up in May’s and my room at Elysium Hall. We were done with detective things, but we still wanted to talk. It was the only proper conversation I was ever able to have in that room, and it was only because Eric was around.
We somehow got onto the topic of family. May was complaining up and down about hers; how her father was in Hong Kong, and her sisters were annoying, and how the entire world was going to collapse because she wasn’t surrounded by the comforts of “The Big House”. Eric and I had gone silent.
Back then I used to wonder about Eric a lot. I knew he was German, but that only gave me more questions than it answered. Questions that I didn’t think Eric was going to want to answer. Questions that I didn’t think I was going to want the answers to.
Someone needed to break the silence that was brewing in every inch of the room other than May’s bed, and I suppose that person was me, because I had started crying and I had only just noticed. That’s the thing about when a parent dies, the grief never numbs, but it starts to feel so normal you forget there ever was a numb, and then you just start crying about it without even knowing that you are, because sometimes you’re just so sad and so repressed, that you don’t even notice when it starts to show on the outside.
Eric broke the silence next;
“Do you want to talk about your Da? It’s okay if you don’t, I get that it hurts, I just don’t think you have anyone to talk to, and talking to Lottie always helps me when I’m sad.”
I had very little sense at this point, and no idea who on Earth “Lottie” was, but I think I managed to get out a nod before I collapsed into my crossed arms once again.
“Do you have any pictures of him that you want to show?” he asked, slowly moving from May’s bedside to mine.
I reached into the very back of the bottom drawer of my bedside table. I know Granny isn’t checking, and Ruth would’ve said something by now, but I keep my photo of Da there just in case.
It’s a picture of him and I in costume, framed in some ornate, silver thing, that it doesn’t really fit in, which I found lying around the house. The photo was taken as reference for a poster, so it had been carefully coloured in by Da. He’s holding me up firmly, my arms around his neck like I’m hanging on for dear life. I was so small then, with my chubby cheeks, sparse freckles and hair almost as short as May’s. I didn’t even have my glasses yet! I look so full of life. So does he, that’s why I picked this photo out of all of the ones I used to take on tour with me.
Just looking at Da again was calming me down, but I was getting distracted. I showed the picture to Eric, and he showed it to May.
“He looks nice,” he said, “what was he like?”
“He was wonderful,” I said, tearing up again, happier this time, “he was like if wonderful was a person. He just wanted to spread joy, and theatre, and all of the best things that make people happy! He used to put me on his back so I could reach up and touch the dressing room ceiling, and he used to let me wear my costumes everywhere, because I never felt happy wearing normal clothes! And he took me and Mam and The Company everywhere, even when it wasn’t to do with theatre. It was like he had a secret file with all the best places all across America and Europe!”
I was delighted just to be talking about Da, the way things used to be. It always makes me feel, just for a split second, like I can forget that he isn’t alive anymore, but then I get scared, because I might get sad again, so then I switch the subject, and I say something stupid.
“So, Eric, what’s your family like?”
The second it came out my mouth I prayed I hadn’t said something wrong. I prayed I hadn’t said something so horrifically wrong as when May said I should be grateful because I was surrounded by family. I prayed I hadn’t brought back images like the ones I had seen in newspapers. I prayed that I hadn’t brought back anything worse.
I prayed that Eric had someone to go to at the end of each day, to tell him that one day it would be okay, to tell him that he was okay. I prayed that Eric hadn’t come to England alone. And I prayed that I was just letting myself spiral like I always do.
“Mama and Lottie and I live in our flat in London at the moment. It’s really small, sharing beds small, so we get into a lot of fights, especially Mama and Lottie, but we all know that we have to stick together, so it doesn’t really last long.”
I quietly sighed, but I felt like there was more. That the ugly things were still to come.
"Is Lottie your sister?” I asked.
"She’s my twin sister,” he took a deep breath before starting to speak very quickly, “No, we can’t feel each other's pain. No, we can’t literally read each other's thoughts, if it ever seems like we can, it’s because we’ve known each other for longer than we’ve known anyone else. No, we–”
“I know,” I whispered, “what’s she like?”
“She’s smart,” he started, “she wants to be a doctor when she grows up. And she’s pretty odd. She can be explosive too, a lot like Mama. She even sounds American when she gets mad.”
“Your mother is American?” I asked.
"She’s spent most of her life there,” he said, “but she was born in Ethiopia.”
“What does she do for work?” I still felt like there was something Eric was yet to tell me, but I didn’t want to press.
“When we first came here she cleaned houses.”
“And now?”
He hesitated. “She runs a nightclub.”
“So music?”
“Yeah.”
“That sounds fun.” I just love to hear about when people partake in the arts, it doesn’t even have to be theatre, these days I just long to hear about someone being creative.
“And um…” Eric reached into the pocket of his shorts, unfolded the photograph inside, and carefully handed it to me. “There.” I could tell this was something important.
It was a casual photo, probably taken on something portable, of a man. He was probably in his forties, sweet and charming, but still showing age. He had pale, freckled skin, and fair, probably blonde, hair, which looked like it hadn’t quite been fixed up properly after a few nights of product. He wore a breezy polo shirt and trousers, and stood in front of the Arc de Triomphe, with a few other tourists scattered in the background. I had no idea what on earth this picture had to do with Eric.
I knew he could see the confusion on my face, so he rotated his fingers to motion turning a photograph around. The back read, in looping, cursive handwriting, Hans Schlossbauer, 12/7/1936, and then underneath in something much more rudimentary, Ich glaube, das war das Bild von Papa, das Sie gesucht haben! Lass mich wissen, falls du noch etwas von diesem Tag haben möchtest - Lotte :)
I didn’t speak much German at the time, but I knew that Eric’s full name was Hans Erich Schlossbauer (making Hans on his own an obvious candidate for a father), and that Lotte could easily be a German version of Lottie, especially with the small, smiling face beside it. I also know what Papa means.
“It’s okay,” Eric said, as soon as I looked up, “you don’t have to lie to me. I know I look nothing like him.”
“I don’t know. You both hold your hands out in front of yourselves like this.” I replied, a giggle seeping in through my leftover tears as I tried to imitate the way Eric always clutched his hands over his chest.
A giggle started to leave him too, “I never noticed that I did that. It’s probably all I’m going to think about now.”
“I’m sorry.”
“It’s fine.”
Then I asked the big question, “is he… gone?”
“He’s in prison. They're just arresting all the Germans, for what the Nazis are doing,” he cried, “even though they knew Papa’s story! Even though they knew how much he fought for our family! He doesn’t have a strong enough accent for them to recognise him on that alone, we– we tried our best to be English! They had to have recognised him. They had to have recognised him because he was famous. They knew!”
That was first I had heard of anyone in Eric’s family having been famous, it took me by surprise. I never knew whether I should have changed the subject then. Instead I just said the first thing that came to my mind;
“I hope he doesn’t– you know… I hope he doesn’t go while he’s there.”
I know it’s a weird thing to say, I hope your dad doesn’t die, and could tell by Eric’s face that all I had done was make him consider the possibility.
I don’t think it was the first time either. But I needed to say it for myself. I needed to say it, because, as awful as this sounds, I was thinking the opposite.
I can hear him crying in the other room.
Eric is so happy. I want to be happy for him.
I am happy for him.
I’m sad for myself.
I feel so stupid, and horrid, and selfish. One of my best friends has finally had his moment of hope, after so many years of losing it. After so many years of being scared of things I could never even imagine, and all I can think about is myself. And Da, and the lonely, little island that I sit on every day because I cry myself a river every night, and the way that it’s so much easier to survive on an island with another brain and pair of hands. But Eric has a two-way ticket, and I don’t, and I never will. And now I’m on a smaller island, and I can’t even remember why.
I want to scream. I want to cry and bite and punch people, just like May’s brain does whenever she can’t get what she wants. I want to throw myself against a wall, because I want to throw Eric against a wall, because he’s happy, because of something he can’t control, because I don’t understand why he gets a happy ending but I don't, and I never do, and I never will!
I don’t know what I did to deserve this, but I must’ve been horrible. Maybe there is just some inherent sin to my character. Maybe I’m just not a good person. I’m sorry.
I see Eric coming over out of the corner of my eye. He’s noticed, and all I want to do is apologise out loud.
"Sorry–”
“It’s okay,” he says, “It’s not anyone’s fault, just something that happened.”
I hold my skinny arms out and down to Eric’s shoulders and he puts his pudgy hands on my back.
“I don’t deserve you,” I mutter.
"Pardon,” Eric breathes, concern in his voice.
“I DON’T DESERVE YOU!” I scream. I fall to the floor.
Eric looks scared now, I feel bad about that.
“YOU DESERVE TO BE HAPPY! I WANT YOU TO CELEBRATE! I’M RUINING EVERYTHING!” I scream through my manic tears, everyone is looking at me now.
“It’s okay, it’s okay,” he sputters, before recalibrating himself by my side, “I want to celebrate, I just want to celebrate when you can too. I want to give you a moment, I’ll have plenty.”
“You’re a saint,” I whisper, he seems taken aback by that. I’m trying not to think about what Eric’s ‘plenty of moments’ mean.
“I’m really not,” he says, “I just don’t want my friend to be sad. You’re my friend, Nuala.”
“You’re a saint,” I whisper again, calmer. I mean it a lot more this time, but I’m not out of the haze.
“Okay. Do you need another moment?” he asks, “Do you want me, or do you want to be by yourself?”
“I think I can come back with everyone, I might just be a little bit quiet,” I mutter. I feel so embarrassed, I can’t hold myself together in the best moment of Eric’s life, and he’s giving me so much grace.
“Okay.” He stops to help me up. “That’s good. Do you want me to tell everyone what happened, or do you want to leave it?”
“You can just tell them quietly, I don’t really want to hear it.” I feel so selfish, but I also don’t. Eric is making everything feel more okay, making me feel more okay about myself.
He really is wonderful.
By the time everything feels a bit more normal, Hazel has gone to another room. Gone to another room to have her own moment of confused grief and joy that I’ll never get.
I’m with everyone. Daisy is suggesting we throw a party. Eric thinks that’s a bit much. May is trying really hard to convince him. I think she wants cake. I’m just sitting there, sulking quietly. I don’t feel much better but I try.
I try for Eric.
I want to think about him, and I want to be happy for him.
All I am is sad for myself.
I’m sorry.