He looked ready to explode. ‘A condition? Pah, I’m so tired of this rubbish, where every little thing must have some stupid label – the only condition I have is old age where I have forgotten more things than you have yet to learn! It will happen to you, too, you know? And suddenly everyone will treat you like an idiot.’
She sighed. ‘Maybe, but you could still get confused and lost.’
He started swearing again, and Ingrid said in German, ‘Just stop that.’
He blinked. ‘What did you say!’ he replied in Swedish. He was furious. ‘You dare speak to me in that language – here in my house?’ His eyes fell upon the mess she’d made. ‘What have you done here, why are you going through my things? This is absolutely ridiculous, Inge – you’re actually worse than Marta, at least she doesn’t snoop! I can consent to the occasional bit of help but this—?’
Ingrid bit her lip, ashamed of herself. ‘Morfar, I’m sorry – I just wanted to tidy a bit, that’s all – I wasn’t looking, but I bumped over the box… and that’s how I found this,’ she said, and handed him the sketchbook.
All the anger that had taken sudden hold of him seemed to dissipate, and he suddenly stooped, like his knees couldn’t support him anymore, and he took a seat at the kitchen bench.
He held the sketchbook open to his drawing of Asta, and touched it, his hands shaking. There were sudden tears in his eyes. Then he glanced up at Ingrid. ‘I haven’t looked at this in years,’ he breathed, touching the sketch with a gnarled, shaking finger. Tears smarted his eyes. ‘No wonder I keep muddling the two of you – you look so much like her. Especially now that your hair has grown.’
Ingrid took a seat next to him. ‘This was Asta – your twin?’ she said.
He sighed, closed his eyes and nodded. ‘Yes.’
‘Morfar, please will you tell me about her?’
He took a deep breath. Then, at last, he nodded.
‘We lived in Hamburg, a city with more canals than Venice – did you know that?’
She shook her head; she hadn’t known.
‘We lived deep in the heart of the old town. My family had lived there for centuries and if Hitler hadn’t decided otherwise, that’s probably where we’d all be now.’
Ingrid blinked, realising that he was probably right – that she might not have even been born.
He picked up the sketchbook again, and his hands traced over the initials. ‘It was a present from my parents, when I was ten. J.S. For Jürgen Schwalbe. That was our surname – before I changed it after the war. It means swallow, like the bird.’
He let out a low, hollow laugh.
Ingrid frowned. ‘What is it?’
‘My father used to say that the two of us were like our namesake – you know that swallows seldom rest, they spend most of their lives in flight?’
Ingrid nodded. He’d told her that once before, in the summer when they followed a flock as they made their nests in the forest.
‘I sometimes think that with a name like that, it’s no wonder our family spent most of our lives on the run. They say that a swallow can cover over two hundred miles a day, and when they land, it’s only briefly. They always return to their nests, it’s what drives them. Except of course we became birds without a nest to return to.’
5
Hamburg, 1933
The twins arrived back at the apartment on Helman Straße, covered in mud, leaves and twigs. They were laughing, and holding onto each other’s backs for support. ‘Did you see ol’ Polgo’s face?’
Asta giggled, her violet eyes sparkling. She raised a hand to imitate him waggling a finger at them. ‘If I ever find out who your father is, you horrid brats, I’m going to send him my condolences!’
They both broke down into more raucous laughter.
‘He loves us, really. Imagine how boring it would be to transport people across the canal every day without the occasional visit from a Schwalbe?’ said Jürgen.
‘Or two?’ said Asta.
‘Or two,’ Jürgen agreed, with a grin.
‘In any case,’ added Asta, ‘Frederick needs us. It’s a public service we’re doing.’
‘Exactly, the city relies upon us.’
Frederick was a stuffed gorilla, and the company mascot on Polgo Hausman’s small water taxi. He sat in the window, visible to all who looked down at the Zollkanal from the grand Brooksbrücke bridge.
The twins made it their solemn duty to change his outfit every morning, and there were a few Hamburgers who looked forward to what they came up with – even though Polgo vowed he would skin them alive if he ever caught them. So far Polgo had yet to catch them in the act.
The latest outfit had consisted of their mother’s old brassiere and a shift. It was too good to pass up, and they waited along the riverbank to get a glimpse of Polgo’s face, which was a picture.
‘Our best yet,’ said Jürgen.
‘Saucy Frederick,’ said Asta.
Which elicited several more giggles.
The pair hadn’t countered on Polgo’s apoplexy, though. ‘You little heathens! I am running a respectable business!’ he’d screeched, leaping from the boat and wading across the canal towards them, as the pair ran, laughing, along the stretch of the towpath, skidding on a mud bank, and slipping away into the vast network of bridges that crossed the city. He was no match for them.
They were still laughing when they heard a strident voice calling their names inside the apartment.
‘Twins! Come here, now!’
They immediately stopped laughing, and started hatching an excuse, something that would explain where they’d been. ‘Shall we say we were set upon by robbers again, Küken?’
‘No, we used that with the cook and it got so complicated last time, I didn’t even blame her for telling on us.’ They shared a laugh. The lie had indeed got so convoluted that it was like an adventure tale – pirates, robbers, missing gold… it had been thrilling. Until the cook lost patience and chased them around the apartment with her rolling pin. Jürgen started to giggle. ‘If I catch you I will put you in my pie!’
Asta’s eyes danced. ‘Frau Fisher is not like Mother, who is too smart to be fooled for long. We’ll need something simple. We’ll say Tookie escaped and Herr Wilhelm offered us a reward to find him.’
Jürgen shrugged. It was boring, but it would probably work. He frowned. ‘And we rolled in the mud—?’
‘Because… he had a paw stuck in some ropes by the river…’
They nodded together. It would do. Well, until their mother asked after Herr Wilhelm’s toy poodle.
They shuffled inside, towards the sound of their mother’s voice, the perfect excuse ready in place.
‘Where have you been?’ she demanded. She was a small woman, with dark blonde hair, and fierce black eyes which seemed almost to snap at them.
‘We – you see, Herr Wilhelm’s dog—’ Jürgen began.
Their mother held up her hand. ‘On second thoughts, I don’t want to hear it – especially one of your long, winding tales. Not after what has happened today.’