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badly hurt. He could hear Helen, he could feel her hand and he must not let go, no. He must never let go because she was sanity in this world which was around him again and which was reaching out, engulfing him, suffocating him.
    He started to return through the crowd, turning from the man who spoke of a Germany that had been betrayed in 1918 from within. Who spoke of the armistice which meant that the war was not at an end for Germany. Heine pulled Helen along too but there were more people now. He pushed, twisted and turned, always moving towards the thinning edge that he knew was there. He could still hear the voice, even though he did not want to.
    ‘Germany will regain its lost territories. Herr Hitler will endunemployment, end despair. End the contamination of the Aryan race by the
Juden
traitors. You voted for us in 1930, you gave us a National Socialist landslide in the Reichstag elections. Vote for us again so that we can restore law and order. Restore economic stability. Cleanse our nation.’
    But they were through now, there was room to breathe, there was light, and Heine moved quickly, still holding Helen’s hand until he could no longer hear the man who told people what they wanted to hear. Yes, that was the danger; jobs, stability, pride – but at what cost? Dear God, surely they would not gain more power? Surely to God, that could not happen?
    Heine turned now and looked at the growing crowd standing silently around the speaker.
    ‘It’s all the other things,’ he shouted at Helen, holding her shoulders now. ‘It’s all the other things that are written, all the brown-shirted thugs who kick and push and kill. It’s that maniac Hitler. If they vote for him in July then it is the beginning of the end. There will be no more freedom, no more Germany, just brutality.’
    His breath was full of beer and Helen shouted back.
    ‘You’re drunk. You’re drunk. Why can’t you stop being so serious? We love one another, think of that. This is all just politics. Only politics.’ Fear stirred deep inside her because she was outside his life when he was like this. She could not reach him. She was alone.
    There was silence then between them until Heine held her to him. ‘I’m not drunk, Helen. But you are right. I should think of love more often. You are also right that this is just politics. Please God, that it stays just that.’
    They walked on back to the station now, with the sun lower and the breeze cool and Helen did not want to tell him of the baby, not today, not like this. Perhaps tomorrow.
    Heine held Helen’s arm, feeling her warmth, her flesh beneath the blouse, and loved her. With her he could learn to laugh as he had once done and was beginning to do again. And after all, she was right, it was just politics and he was living in England now. He wouldn’t think of Munich. Perhaps, after all, it had not really been as he remembered it, perhaps there had not been any violence, perhaps the
Kampfzeit
, the Nazis’ time ofstruggle, had been just a nightmare he had imagined but his leg ached as they hurried for the train.
    The next morning Helen followed Frau Weber up steep stairs to the attic which ran the width of the large house. The windows at either end let in the light from the fine June day and as they entered Helen breathed in the smell of stored fruit from the orchard which she could see when she peered through the window. The village looked so small, the trees even smaller and she could hear no noise.
    ‘Through that small door is the linen cupboard,’ Frau Weber said, smoothing her hands down her apron. ‘It is there that we keep the winter quilts and over there in that corner is our store for all that we need each year for Christmas. Perhaps you can smell the candles. They are special; they are honey wax.’
    Helen smelt them as she approached the corner; their scent hung rich on the air.
    ‘One day perhaps you can come back to our land for Christmas. I would like that. This …’ Frau