A Meeting of Minds

How Pauline Boty met & painted Christine Keeler

        The blonde woman replaced her telephone receiver into the cradle. She stands alone in the sitting room of a rundown studio flat situated in London’s west end. The flat had been recently purchased by her theatrical agent husband for her to use as an artist’s studio. The blonde stood smoking a cigarette reflectively, slowly turning over in her mind the syntax of a recent telephone conversation. It had been an unexpected conversation, and she was left with a tingle of excitement at a meeting now due to take place. The feeling had started to grow during this conversation with her husband and had caused a knot to grow in the pit of her stomach. Now that the conversation was over she was left with the notion of proceeding down a road for which there had no route map.

‘Darling,’ her husband had said, his smooth educated voice rising slightly with his own sense of pleasure, ‘I’ve got her to sit for you,’ theatricality adding, ‘I didn’t really have to work for it, apparently she already knows about you.’

‘Oh really?’ she had found herself asking, ‘I wonder where on earth she could possibly know me from?’

            ‘Well, darling,’ said Clive his voice warming to his favorite subject of the media, ‘apparently she had heard you on the Public Ear, who would ever have thought of that?’

The blonde could not tell whether her husband’s surprise was that this particular woman would listen to an über BBC Home Service arts programme, with a rather small and very exclusive audience, or that anybody should have listened at all.

She had found herself taking the defense about Public Ear knowing that Clive views regarding what her called the ‘great unwashed’ in modern British society always made her feel uneasy.

‘It does have a very loyal audience Clive darling,’ her voice had been strained with a flash of annoyance.’

Despite these comical comments, Clive had at first been keen on the idea when he had heard they were looking for a new face for the opening programme. He had persuaded his wife to take part in that first programme because unusually for the male dominated television world in the early 1960’s, a female face was being considered to front the project. She had proved to be so successful that the BBC had asked her back more than once, although this had later cooled after the more extreme of her paintings had been exhibited.

The programme had at first been described as ‘iconoclastic’ by the weightier of the Sunday papers. Clive, of course, had hooted with laughter at the review, saying it meant that no bugger actually had listened to it. Now it apparently appeared that Clive had managed to find at least one person, not in their immediate circle of friends, who had tuned in, maybe not to the first programme, but at least at some point. How strange though the Blonde women that it should have been Christine Keeler of all the women in London. Although she never considered that this particular women, whom she had wanted to sit for her, would be a fan of such an arty programme. Pauline wondered if this was due to her own snobbery, or because she listened to Clive’s family and over educated friends.

The blonde reflecting that her own family were not exactly doyens of the arts scene, they had even objected to her attending St. Martins Arts School. Even now, after finding some fame, if not fortune as Britain’s only female Pop Artist, they were still completely in the dark as to the importance of her work to the world of Pop Art, still finding the success of this new genre of art impossible to understand.

‘Yes Pauline darling, I know all about the audience figures,’ Clive had then said, breaking into her thought, tetchily adding, ‘The point is darling, that she knows about your political views and about the art you produce.’

 

Pauline wondered what this woman did really think about her art, or even the art scene as a whole. Perhaps she would want to talk about the arts in general way, not just making polite conversation, but showing a real knowledge and interest. Strangely perhaps, this had never crossed her mind earlier, even when the idea had come to her about using Keeler as a sitter, for the painting she had been planning about the Profumo Scandal.

             ‘Mind you,’ Clive had continued, his voice now trampling over her thoughts again, with a sigh the blonde tuned her husband back in to her head. At this point the conversation he was adopting his business tone, ‘she still asked for twenty bloody quid, I call that downright brassy.’

‘Brassy,’ was Clive’s favorite word for anything he thought of as common, uneducated, or even working class, part of the great world of the unwashed, as he liked to say. This word, Pauline was sure had its deep dark roots in Clive’s public school education.

‘All sitters get paid Clive,’ now it had been her turn to get tetchy tone in her voice, adding, ‘There is no need to negotiate my sitting rates, I can manage my own rates quite nicely, thank you Clive.’

Pauline had felt her voice beginning to rise and stretch in her annoyance, why had she felt the need to defend this woman? Maybe it was a reaction to how she had felt when her husband, like all the men in her, life felt that they should be able to have women under their personal control. Like the puppets on that new television series from America ‘Stingray’ that had been all over the newspapers recently, all had want to be the one to pull her strings. Even at St Martins, her fellow students, mainly being an all-male crowd, had liked to act towards her as big brothers would do to their little sisters. Well, thought the Blonde, she was her own boss, that she’d made clear from the beginning of her second term. Pauline Boty, she thought, was a match for any man, painter or otherwise and that included her own husband.

‘Yes darling, I do know all about models,’ Clive had answered primly. Pauline wondered how exactly, he had got to know about them.

‘Anyway she will be with you around three o’clock today, sorry for the short notice, darling’, his voice relaxed now again, happy to be in control again, adding, ‘but that was the best I could do,’ adding, ‘Oh, don’t forget to watch out for the Special Branch,’ finishing the call with a brief ‘Cheery ‘O’ the receiver gone dead.

Now sitting alone and smoking another cigarette, this parting remark started to play on her mind. There had been a piece in the papers about the poor cow still being followed whenever she went out. There I go again, thought Pauline, why is Keeler now ‘a poor cow,’ I’m starting to sound like Clive.

 

 ***

In a different part of the same London skyline, another woman, this time with striking red hair, was also considering a recent telephone conversation. She sat quietly smoking a cigarette watching as the smoke curled idly towards the living room ceiling. Finishing her smoke, the women got up and peered out of the front windows of a small mews flat. Outside was quiet and still, hardly a soul moved. The only sign of life like came from the two regular plain clothed detectives who were still keeping a not too inconspicuous eye on the flat.

The ‘Profumo Scandal’ had been over now for some months, and the redhead had spent some of that time in prison for perjury. Upon her release she had described the experience to her parents as it being much like school which, she had also hated. Now however the world had moved on and the busy new Labour government of Harold Wilson had far more important issues before it, but still the policemen had remained.

Any idea of the government was quite abstract for the red head, it belonging to a new jumble of faces and names most of which she could never match up. However brief her passing fifteen minutes of fame she had still enjoyed for a brief time ‘being somebody.’ In her life, as far back as this redhead could recall, she always had wanted to be ‘somebody.’

 

Turing her thoughts back to the telephone conversation, she realised that she hadn’t liked the man who had introduced himself to her as Clive very much. All Home Counties accent and brought up in a cosy atmosphere of old money and good education. There hadn’t been much money or education in her background. She had been brought up in a caravan with a single parent of a hard working mother and a lay-a-bout of a stepfather. Escaping their misery while was still in her late teens, she only found another, in the arms of pimps, losing a baby before turning twenty. Consolation from that experience had come only with her belief that any half cast bastard born into class conscious Britain would never have had much in life.

Escaping again, she had found herself in a London still recovering from the Second War. Working in a series life destroying topless clubs, the redhead soon grew tired of being pawed at by their drunken clientele. By the time she met Ward her mind was already resolved to chuck it all in. When Ward had offered her a way out, she hadn’t thought twice about it, grabbing at this escape ladder with both hands. Of course, it hadn’t turned out to be the different life she had been searching for. Ward had turned out to be no more than an upmarket pimp, who was soon busy introduced her to his upper class wealthy clients. Being embarrassed by her accent, forced Ward to pay for the redhead to have elocution lesions and gradually over time she had become a different person. The new Christine had risen one day, out from the ashes of her former self, even as she had lain dead beneath her own feet. 

Gradually, and with Ward’s help, Christine had caught brief glimpses of that new person which, not just he, but the redhead had wanted to become. This experience had left her wondering why men, no matter what background they came from, had to mould their woman into an image. The angel, or the a tart, beloved mother figure for their children, or their slut in bed, men always had to be in control of the lives of their women. Well now, she had been no angel in her life, but over time Christine had grown to hate those rich men as much as the low-life’s she had met in the strip clubs. That’s why Christine hadn’t liked that man who had called himself Clive she wasn’t going play the tart for anyone not anymore. Sighing, the redhead stubbed out her cigarette, moving away from the window.

***

 

The watchers below saw her shape disappear into the gloom of the flat, turning back to their murmured conversation, each one inclining his head slightly towards the others, as if in prayer. Their years spent huddling in back alleys and doorways had left each with his particular remedy for extreme cold or heat. Almost silently the voices audible only to each other, they returned to their conversation.

             ‘I telling you Frank’, the smaller man said while lighting a cigarette automatically cupping his heavy hands around the naked flame, ‘She is a right goer, the Sund’y papers said she’s up for anything’, he was grinning at his taller thinner companion. 

 

***

The sun was getting low in a washed out wintery sky over her flat in London’s fashionable West End. Pauline looked around the studio lighting yet another cigarette, two plumbs of smoke exiting her nose moving up towards the cloud of smoke that hung over her head. Looking out of her studio window on to the bustling street below, she caught sight of a man cleaning a car outside one of the Georgian town houses opposite. Like the building she was look out from it too had been converted into flats by, what had seem like press-gangs, of Irish labourers. Frowning at the sight of a car outside a house were see was sure none were owned, Pauline thought of her husband’s words about policeman and spies. Standing on tip-toe right in front of the window and turn her head as far as it would go around to the right, Pauline could get a look down the other end of the street. As she did so her blonde hair fell over her face covering up one eye. Pushing the hair back she could see two GPO men setting up a sort of a tent on the pavement. 

Just in that moment, as she was trying to connect these images to the thought of something sinister that had buried itself in her memory earlier, her telephone rang. In the still silence of her studio the shrill noise made her jump, and the cigarette fell from her hand that had been supporting her weight against the wall. Ordinarily this would not be an issue except on occasion the cigarette fell onto her new cream rug, ‘Shit’, she exclaimed grabbing the telephone receiver and the cigarette end at the same time managing to both speak into the ear piece and burn her thumb on the still lit cigarette.

Turning the receiver around the correct way, and stubbing out the offending cigarette Pauline heard the ‘pips’ of a call box then as the money was excepted came the words, ‘Hello, Hello!, can you hear me?’ It was a female voice which, she failed to recognise.

            ‘Yes, hello’, bellowed Pauline down the line, anxious now to know who this strange voice belonged too.

            ‘Alright you don’t need to shout for god’s sake, I’m down the road from your flat, not in Outer…,’ was the rather grumpy reply. ‘Hello is that Pauline?’ said the voice adding, ‘it’s Christine’.

Instinct now took over in Pauline and years of a good middle class upbringing and education took hold, even without her realising this at the time.

‘Oh, hello Christine’, she answered without a clue who this women was, but not wishing to give offence.

‘Look, can you tell me your address again please, when I took it down from your husband the other morning he said it so quickly, that I afraid I just sort of scribbled it down without really bothering looking at it’, the middle class accent was fighting with an underlying Northern burr, but as yet had not quite gained the upper hand

For Pauline recognition had final dawned, ‘Yes of course Christine, I’m so very sorry, he really is the limit isn’t he?’ Not waiting for an answer she rushed on with her address.

‘OK, pet…um, I mean, yes…thank you Pauline, very much I’ll be with you presently,’ Christine said quickly replacing the receiver, hoping to gloss over her nearly calling a famous artist ‘pet.’

Something about the telephone conversation hid away in Pauline’s brain, waiting to raise its head, the funny little clicking after Christine had hung up. 

Pauline absently wondered were Christine had picked up a phrase like presently, the word came from her Father’s generation, not their own.  Then looking again at the burn hole in the new rug she quickly discontinued from that train of thought. Imagining Clive’s reaction was not hard, Pauline knew he would not be at all happy about her burning a hole in one of his High Street Ken’ boutique purchases. Bugger she thought, you are a clumsy cow, wondering if she could just paint it white to blend the hole in?

Lighting yet another cigarette she blow a smoke ring which gave her such a childish pleasure she thought of Peter Blake and how had taught her how to blow smoke rings when they were student’s together at St Martins. Pauline was still close to Blake, looking upon him as the founder of the Pop Art movement in Britain which, she herself now belonged.

Laughing to herself, out loud she said, ‘Oh bugger you Clive and your ridiculously expensive rug, what’s it doing in my studio anyway?’

            She supposed it was Clive’s idea that an artist should be surrounded by beautiful and expensive things in their studio, providing inspiration no doubt. Well, bugger him, and bugger all the bossy men in her life for that matter too, she would do just as she pleased. Blowing another satisfactory big smoke ring, she then padded off to find some white paint. 

 

***

Sometime later, Pauline was uncertain exactly about the time as she had lost herself in a fight with the expensive rug, the bell went down stairs. Collecting her winkle-picker shoes she slipped each one in turn on as hopping toward the mirror to check her make-up. Here Pauline found that somehow, during the fight with the rug some white paint had got itself attached in her hair. Still picking the paint of stains of her blonde hair she opened the front door to be confronted by a slightly built woman wearing a head-scarf and dark glasses. The women stood quite still taking in the sight of Pauline, with her hands still raised to strands of hair. The idly wondered if the blonde facing her had nits. After both taking each other in, without a word Pauline stood to one side and the other women still wearing her scarf and dark glasses moved slowly past her into the rather ramshackle old hall. They walked back up the creaking stairs into the studio together without breaking their mutual silence. Once inside the flat Christine took off the head scarf, glasses and removed the cigarette from her mouth. Shaking the flaming red hair she was rightly infamous for with one hand, she offered the other out for a formal handshake saying, ‘Pauline Boty I presume?’

            ‘Christine Keeler I suppose’, said Pauline they awkwardly shook hands each not used to such displays of formality. Both women stepped towards each other the ice having been broken and exchanging kisses on each cheek just like the French. Laughing at their shared joke the women immediately became friends with each other. Pauline grabbing two wine glasses pouring into each a generous splash of last night’s house plonk from Oddbins, and started the story about an expensive rug, a cigarette burn and a tin of white paint.

A Night in the Life of... (a poem)

Epigraph : Out of every one hundred aircrew,

twenty seven survived their tour of operations.

The afternoon heat now gone, darkness

descends heavy like a blanket. Shaking,

I climb into flight boots, their roughness

soothes taught nerves. Smiles fixed, faking

gayer moods. A taste of bile in throats,

eyes staring, minds a'racing, our silence

drown out by engine noise. I watch spokes

going a'round, as we are drive out. Violence

in the air, the lighting that binds together.

Our aircraft rises out of darkening gloom

like the ancient colossus battling doom.

The air inside feels heavy on my chest, lungs

bursting, pulse a'racing, heavily breathing

I clamber into position. All now come together

within the skin of our machine, none can

have a selfish thought. Here we make our

stand, 300 Spartans holding the pass, we

soar over a sea glinting as made from glass.

On nights like these minds drift like clouds

caught swirling in the sharp searchlights,

to those who dwell in darkened shelters

a'waiting our bombs. Our aircraft weightless

now as death falls from her belly, descending

on our foe, now trapped in Dante's hell below.

At these moments my thoughts are speared,

he who pays the piper calls the tune.* Fear

strikes at my heart, that I too one day will,

be made pay the piper, for sins I commit still.

Job done, we turn for home, our thoughts

begin to roam, to those who a'wait alone.

In rooms brightened by dawn's rosy fingers,

a whispered prayer said each night, touching

our beloved pictures by candle light. Sleeping

but alert for sounds that precede our drone,

telling them we are safely home. Throughout

                        the ghostly ball, bombers moon** shined on all.

 

Glossary

*The Unknown Warrior by Gilbert Keith Chesterton

**This term refers to a full bright moon which illuminates

the earth like daylight, making it easier to find the target.

On such nights mass raids would take place, taking

advantage of the conditions. However this brightness

worked by ways.

Zoya Anatolyevna Kosmodemyanskaya one of the most revered heroes of the Soviet Union.

Extracts of a letter to Nicholas Jones

The following are extracts, which until recently were held in state archives within the walls of the Kremlin. They follow the short partisan career of Zoya Kosmodemyanskya, I hope they contribute to your studies of my country.

     I have attempted a brief summing up of Zoya life and death at the end for you, because her fate only finally became known long after these extracts were written.

***

Extracts of a Memo

20th January 1942

… as to your instructions, I have completed a report on subject Kosmodemyanskya, Zoya from Partisan Unit 9903. Find enclosed are the pages of a letter Kosmodemyanskya wrote to her brother Alexander an army private.

     I am sorry comrade that her letter is incomplete, German artillery destroyed much of the command post two days after she had written her last letter.

            Now, you order me…

***

The remaining pages from Zoya’s letter to Alexander

My name is Zoya Kosmodemyanskya I’m eighteen years of age. I serve the Motherland fighting against the fascist invaders in a Partisan Unit. Tomorrow, two comrades and I will set out on a very important mission. If I don’t return, please will anyone finding this letter, which I leave here at the Command Post, send them to my brother Alexander. I will write the address at the end.

      My dearest darling Shura   I wish to spend this night before my mission writing to you my love. I have missed my little brother so much; my eyes fill with tears just to think of your handsome face. I can’t tell you much about my mission, but I hope it will make you proud of your sister.

      I’m going to tell you our story my angel, and send it to you with all my love. You will have this present to carry within your heart, as you in your turn will serve our Motherland. Ready as I’m to lay down my life for the Motherland, so that we can be free of these terrible German’s who slaughter our comrades; I wish to have this time alone with you my darling angel. Before I die, I hope to kill as many Germans as I can, and so must you too my Shura. We must each send as many as we can to hell, for none surely can go to heaven.

      Do you remember my darling, how our Grandfather foretold before his terrible murder, that two angels would be born in our village? I’ve told that story so to you many times, so that you will understand just how special we both are. I believe we are those two angels’ my darling, who must now rise up, and battle the forces who wish to suppress, and murder our people.

      When our family journeyed to Moscow from godless Siberia, how happy I was that we went to school together. Do you remember sitting on my lap after school, I would read, stroking your lovely black hair, and telling you of those heroes in my books? I told you then, that the death of such great heroes always leads to the triumph of their just and moral cause. So it will be with us my darling, we will be the heroes who’s deeds will lead our people back to the path of final victory.

      Do you still have my notebooks, which I gave to you when I left to join the partisans? All my thoughts regarding these heroes, who we met on our travels through those wonderful books, are in my notebooks. How high we flew my true darling, soaring through skies, spreading our angel’s wings over so many different lands, you alone were my fellow traveler.

      Mother and Father never understood that we should never have run to Siberia. Father was always so timid and afraid, that in the end, Mother was afraid too. They are both afraid of the shadows from their past. When I told Mother, I was leaving school to join the partisans, how she wept. However, I told her ‘Mother …

***

Extracts Memo

…the following is an account of the subject in question one Kosmodemyanskya Zoya, including her training and any missions that she was orders to carry out. Under the command of a Major Zhuravlëv, a school for saboteurs and partisans was set at Kuntsevo in October 1941, on the western outskirts of Moscow. The subject Kosmodemyanskya was among the first of the volunteers, she was a student before her arrival at Kuntsevo. The subject had been an active member of Komsomol since 1938, and was in her final year of State School No. 201.

      Kosmodemyanskya received five days training in demolition, some small arms and unarmed combat training. The subject joined Partisan- Reconnaissance Unit No. 9903.

      At the beginning of November 1941, Kosmodemyanskya crossed over the front on her first mission in a group of twelve. The group were unfortunately ambushed by a fascist patrol, although some of the group were killed and some others [defeatists who are now being sought by the NKVD] fled, Kosmodemyanskya carried out the mission with the remainder of the group.

      On 21 November a group of three, containing Kosmodemyanskya again crossed the front; their mission was to burn buildings occupied by the fascists, which were being used as stables for horses and billets for soldiers in the village of Petrishchevo. One group member completed his task and got away to the forest. It now appears that Kosmodemyanskya was only partially successful in her task, and was then captured. The third member of the group is now being sought by NKVD as it appears he either fled or may even have informed on his group.

       Kosmodemyanskya seems to have been interrogated through the night, and then executed the following morning. The village has now been recaptured and the local NKVD proceeds with their investigations at the time of writing.

      One last point comrade, it now appears that Kosmodemyanskya said a few words before the fascists hung her; we are in the process of finding witnesses of this action, as well as any photographs the fascists took at the time.

     

***

Extracts of a Letter Written to Nicholas Jones

I will sum up the evidence then, and add what I can from later investigations.

       Zoya was caught, because she had been betrayed by one of the other two group members, he confessed later and was shot by the Soviet NKVD. She was severally beaten, so badly in fact that two German soldiers left the room in disgust at the fellows’ actions. Giving her name only as Tanya, she refused to give any further information. Later in the night two women from the village also abused her for burning down their houses, they too were later shot by the NKVD. Nothing you will find was left to chance in the creation of a national hero.

       In the morning Zoya was marched to the centre of the village, the Germans had had hung a sign around her, with the word ‘Arsonist’ written on it. A gallows was erected and the German soldiers took photographs of the event, some of these where found by the NKVD on a dead German officer in Smolensk later in 1943.

       The eyewitness, whom the NKVD found at the village, said that Zoya had told the Germans to surrender. Her last words were ‘You can’t hang us all!’

       The story was printed in Pravda   at the end of January 1943; complete with pictures of the dead girl whose name at that time was still Tanya. Later identified as Zoya, by her brother Alexander she was made a Hero of the Soviet Union, the first women to be so honored. Russian soldiers took pictures of Zoya with them, into the Battle of Berlin in March 1945.

      Zoya was reburied in Novodevichie Cemetery and later generations of Soviet children honored her name.

      In 1943 a Soviet film was made named Zoya, it deals with the last days of her life, as well as some untrue portrayals of her family. Her brother Alexander, who was killed in 1945 fighting in East Prussia, was also made a Hero of the Soviet Union.

      After Soviet area finished, it became known that Zoya had done little damage to the German forces and may even have been mentally unstable. An old general long retired from the KGB, said her exploit was of no military value, and her life had been wasted.

A Tale Of Two Sisters

Short story I originally wrote for a BBC writing competition. The story had to have a symmetrical feel to the begin & the end. It's set in the London of the swinging 1960's.

Chapter 1: The Park

Looking up, I watched the clouds drifting over, blown by the wind from left to right. Some moved leisurely as if out on a quite Sunday stroll, smaller clouds although still fluffy and white darted about like little dogs let of their lead. As the wind picked up grey clouds started infecting the white with their colour, like paint being mixed on an artists’ pallet.

Sitting up I tuned my ears back to the girl lying next to me and although I had daydreamed throughout much of her story it was well known to me. Her father, a successful advertising executive, was still away in the United States leaving her mother and sister to manage running the house on their own. This I knew to be untrue as did most of her road, who had watched behind twitching net curtains as the Police arrested her father for wife battery. I mulled over whether to tell her this, but decided to leave her be for the moment. Turning to look at her, the sun briefly shone through picking out her profile and making a halo of her blonde hair. The oval face possessed a favorite feature, a dimpled chin, as I like a girl who possesses some masculine of features. The girls’ best assets however were her legs, which were long shapely and tanned. Looking at her naked thighs blossoming out of her mini skirt, I noticed goose bumps starting to appear as the autumn wind blew coldly over us. I wondered where her legs had got their tan this year, as a holiday without her father’s income would have been impossible, and why I wondered had she tanned her legs and not her face. Lighting two cigarettes, I put one into the girls’ mouth hoping to shut her up for a moment. Drawing deeply on her fag, she exhaled two plumes of smoke from each nostril and carried straight on with another story, this time about her big sisters’ boyfriend. Thinking about the big sister, who I had only seen from a distance and so had not had the chance to form a mental picture yet, I wondered who was the better looking.

The girl and I got up as she complained about the cold ground and sat on one of the park benches. Peering around the park in the gloomy light of dusk, I watched several dog owners walking their various mutts around the parks’ central water fall, which was now switched off for the winter. The park being a hangover from the Victorian days of council planning had neat rows of now empty flowers beds laid out like a cemetery. Losing interest in this view I started to think about the girls’ big sister. I didn’t know many facts about her, apart from, she was older than me by a year or two and two she made a lot of sexual noise with her boyfriend once they had crept up to her bedroom after a night out. I had now discovered that their old dear was so spaced out on some downers given to her by the doctor, that there was no real need to creep about the house anyway. Making a mental note to nick some of these the next time I was round their house, I suggested a coffee at the local café which at least was warm and had a jukebox.

Chapter 2: The Café

            Once in the café the girl started to brighten up mainly due to the amount of attention her legs were attracting. Most of the patrons’ at this time of day were the unemployable, dossers and tramps. They all gawped at the sight of so much naked flesh on display, licking the slack lips lustily of their open mouths. This made me feel uncomfortable, but my companion lapped up all this attention and actually seemed to enjoy the effect her skirt was having on these lowlifes.  She was starting to make me feel sick.

Sitting down, I glanced around at an interior that had not changed since the cafe had opened just after the war. It had been owned by an ex-soldier and his war bride wife, who had decorated the place very patriotically using pictures of Churchill and all that old rubbish. Now the ex-soldier was dead leaving his wife to run a place which she had grown to hate, alone. As her hatred had grown, so the café interior had gradually got darker, now the walls and ceiling were totally nicotine brown and the lino was chipped, cracked and missing in places. As our coffee arrived, I got up and put ‘Green Onions’ by Booker-T and the MG’s on the jukebox. This tune had become the unofficial Mod anthem of that year, as the group being American where thought cooler than some of our home grown bands. Sitting back down, the girl contemplated me as she smoked another of my cigarettes.

“You’ve been very quiet all afternoon, what’s the matter, you going off me?” She stubbed out her cigarette and pushed the glass ashtray towards me.

“I’ve got a lot of things on my mind,” I replied, distracted by the music now flowing out of the jukebox, “Work and such,” I continued lamely.

Eying me with a sullen expression, the girl finished her coffee with two large gulps, grasped her coat then stomped off out of the café. The randy old farts watched as her legs disappeared out of the door. Turning to see my reaction, each one avoided any eye contact with me, so quickly went back to stare glumly at whatever the waitress had put in front of them. I continued to sit quietly smoking and enjoy my music. With the tune over, I got up to pay and realised I still had the girls’ purse in one of the zipped pockets of my Parker. I now had to get the purse back to her house, before going to watch my beloved Fulham play our greatest rivals Chelsea at their manor, ‘The Bridge.’

Chapter 3 Big Sister

I knocked on the stained wooden front door, which had a boot mark in the middle of it, like someone had tried to kick it down. The door was opened slightly by the big sister. She peered through the small gap with a badly bruised and half closed swollen right eye.

“Christ” I said, “What the hell happened to you?” I followed this up with, “Sorry I just couldn’t help it.”

The big sister opened the door wider and sucked on a cigarette. Her left eye was also badly swollen, probably from crying and mascara had run down both of her cheeks.

            “You had better come in,” she said in a strained voice, made horse by crying. Moving back into the hallway she turned and retreated into the darkened house. Taken aback, I did as I was told and closing the door behind me followed after her into the kitchen. We both sat down at the kitchen table which was littered with the detritus of a night boozing and smoking.

            “Look,” I said, “you do know who I ‘am, you’ve not mistaken me for someone else?”

            “No I remember you,” she replied stubbing out her cigarette into an overflowing ashtray, “you’ve been going out with our kid sister.”

I hadn’t been going out with the girl, but this was not the moment to argue about it. The big sister was in some sort of shock, staring glassy eyed passed my left shoulder towards the hall and front door. This gave me the creeps, so getting up I poured fresh cold water into the kettle and put it on the stove to boil. After opening most of the kitchen drawers, I found the rubbish bags and put the contents littered on the kitchen table into one before tying it up carefully. I took the bag out the back door and into the yard. I then washed up the ashtrays and dirty glasses leaving them on the sideboard to drain. I felt better moving about focusing my attention on something rather than sitting still. Setting a cup of tea in front of the big sister, I put two big spoons of sugar in it telling her to drink it, which to my surprise she did.

            “Thank you,” she said looking better, she even managed a half-smile.

Smiling back I gave her my handkerchief to wipe the mascara off her face.

            “I’ll ruin it,” she looked at the pure white cotton now streaked with black.

            “It’s a shame to cover up a pretty face with makeup and tears,” I said.

I meant it as well, apart from the bruising and her swollen eyes she was quite a looker.  Her eyes were a sort of green colour that I hadn’t seen before and she had the same small dimple on her chin that the girl had. All of this made for an appealing combination, even the bruises were starting to look sexy. So stretching out my hand I gently caressed her unbruised cheek and gave her my version of a winning smile. Dabbing at her face with my handkerchief, she took hold of my hand giving it a squeeze.

            “Why did you come here today anyway?” she asked turning my hand over to look at the time on my wrist watch. “Aren’t you going to watch the football today?”

            “Yeah, maybe,” I hesitated, “but I would like to know you’re going to be OK before going.” As I was talking I took out the purse placing it on the table between us. “Your sister stropped of out of the café this afternoon leaving her purse behind.”

She ignored the purse and still holding my hand, the big sister got up from the table leading me back through the hall and up the stairs to what must have been her bedroom. The room had been completely smashed up. Glass and other debris lay all over the floor, bedroom cupboard doors had been ripped of hinges and clothes thrown out and some had been ripped to shreds. The big sister offered no explanation. Instead, still leading me by the hand took me over to her bed and sat me down. Bending over me she tilted my chin gently upwards and kissed me, sliding her tongue into my mouth as I kissed her back. She started to remove my clothes and then hers all the while kissing me with her eyes tight shut. I didn’t say one word and neither did she.

Afterward, I lit two cigarettes putting one of them in her mouth she took a long pull on it and as she exhaled, said “Just like in the movies.”

The front door slammed downstairs, I looked at the big sister. “It’s OK I’ve locked my door. Feet came hurriedly pounding up the stairs, the door handle moved downwards and then a rap on the door. “Can I come in please,” said the girl.

The big sister put her finger to her lips, as I quietly got dressed. After putting my Parker back on, she motioned to me to hand her a dressing gown and slippers. Footsteps moved away from the bedroom door and I heard another door slam shut.

Treading carefully over the glass toward the door she said, “That’s the bathroom door, get out of the house now and I will see you tonight outside the cinema at eight,” giving me a big wet kiss on the cheek, adding, “if that’s OK with you?” giving me a proper smile for the first time.

I motioned that that was indeed OK, slipping out of the room and then out of the house thoughts racing around my head. Walking away, I looked up at the sky for the second time that day and wondered if those same clouds would bring Fulham as much luck, as I’d had this afternoon.

            

Sophie Scholl: A Great German Woman

Inspired by two radio programmes both based on collections of letters. One was an adaptation of letters written by Vincent Van Gogh, the other letters written by John Betjeman. I also obtained a novel entitled Sophie Scholl, The Real Story by Frank McDonough from my local library.

                                        Sophie Scholl: A Great German Woman

A Radio Drama for Women’s Hour

Cast List
Sophie Scholl: a young German girl
Hans Scholl: her older brother
Inge Scholl; Sophie’s older sister
Werner Scholl; Sophie younger brother
Gestapo Interrogator
                                     

                         FADE UP A LONE GERMAN VOICE RECITING THE LORDS PRAYER

                                      FADE UP JANGLE OF KEYS IN A LOCK

GESTAPO INTERROGATOR:  Come with me, if you please, Prisoner Scholl.

                                      FADE UP THE ECO SOUND OF WALKING

SOPHIE SCHOLL: (NARRATING) Having followed this short neat man every morning for three days, walking behind him, though darkened prison corridors; I wondered what sort of man he really is. My only discovery is a silver framed picture, which he keeps proudly on his desk. My Gestapo interrogator has a son, who is serving on the eastern front. The son’s face reminds me of my darling Werner; both are desperate to appear older than they really are. I wondered if like Werner, my Gestapo man’s son is also the family joker.

                                      FADE UP LAUGHTER & GENERAL FAMILY NOISE

WARNER SCHOLL: I’ve just climbed up the statue of justice outside the courthouse. You should have seen me; I nearly fell off twice trying not to laugh. When I was quite at the top, I blindfolded the eyes of justice with the Nazi flag.

                                      FADE UP GUN FIRE & SHELL BURSTS

WARNER SCHOLL: Letter to Sophie December 1942
Dear Sophie, thank you the homemade cake. Send my love and thanks to Mother for my new socks. I will try to write a longer letter soon, but at present, the fighting is very hard going. I send my love to all the family, and prey God keeps you all safe. Don’t worry about me as I ‘am well thought with in my squad.

                                      FADE UP HEAVY DOOR BANGING & KEY LOCKING

SOPHIE SCHOLL: (NARRATING) There had been another inmate with me in this cell. Yesterday she was moved out quite suddenly. I’ m left feeling bereaved without this companion, who I hardly knew. My thoughts wander around now that I’m here alone.

                                      FADE UP SOUNDS OF A SUMMER MEADOW

SOPHIE SCHOLL: Diary entry summer 1932
How I love our beautiful German landscape. Sitting alone in this lovely field, I’ m feeling very close to the beating heat of my country. Out walking yesterday, I found myself in a small wooded glade. Hugging each tree in its turn, I told them how important they are to my Germany. There really can be no country in the whole world like my own.

                                       FADE UP COMPLETE SILENCE

SOPHIE SCHOLL: Diary entry autumn 1932
I have been reading the bible in my spare time lately. I feel God is close around me in all the wondrous beauty of nature. When I pray I feel myself unburned of the worries of life.

SOPHIE SCHOLL: Diary entry summer holiday 1933
There is a very bad atmosphere in our holiday cabin today. I hoped this holiday would bring us all back together, but it just seems to have had the opposite effect. Father is terribly upset that his daughters have joined the Young Girls League (Jungmadel). I told him that we didn’t really have any choice in the matter. Our Führer has made it a law for all young girls to join. If I don’t I won’t be allowed to take my school exams. Father is short sighted at times, I feel.

SOPHIE SCHOLL:    Diary entry spring 1934
This year I will go camping (twice), hiking (once) and have just come back from a scouting trip. I fell in love with my German landscape all over again. I was reminded how beautiful it all looked in the spring sunshine. The only down side to all these wonderful activities away from home is that afterwards we have to sit around a campfire in the cold of the evening singing very solemn Nazi songs. I would much rather be tucked up in my lovely bed.

SOPHIE SCHOLL: Diary entry summer 1934
Now that I’ m fourteen I must join the League of German Girls (Bund Deutscher Madel). I get the sense that I will greatly enjoy the independence, which will come with being just that bit older. I will spend even more time away from Mother and my chores. All this is of course, providing Father will let me join the BDM at all.

SOPHIE SCHOLL: Diary entry autumn 1934
Hans has joined the Hitler Youth without asking Father for his permission and has already learned how to give the perfect Hitler salute, which also failed to impress Father. Hans does look very handsome in his uniform and I think that father may be jealous of how well Hans has done within the HJ. He is already quite the envy of his own school friends as well as mine

SOPHIE SCHOLL: Diary entry autumn 1934
Hans came home overjoyed today, as he has already been made a Squad leader (Fahnleinfuhrer) and put in charge of one hundred and fifty younger boys. Hans and father had yet another row over the HJ. Afterwards I took Father on a long walk and he tried to explain his pacifist views. He is horribly out of touch with modern Germany I feel. Father said to me, ‘Sophie, can’t you see where it will all end?’ I could not listen anymore to my own father, and I told him that his anti-Hitler views were made up lies.

SOPHIE SCHOLL: Diary entry Christmas 1934
It has come as quite a shock that Annelise and Luise will not be allowed into the BDM. As both are Jewish, neither is allowed to join. I said to Father, ‘Luise has blonde hair and blue eyes and looks far more the Aryan than I do with my dark hair and dark eyes.’ He told me that I wouldn’t have to give up their friendship if I didn’t want. Following his advice, I have invited them both around for tea on this Sunday.

SOPHIE SCHOLL:  Diary entry spring 1935
I’ m still wearing my new uniform as I write this; I have been parading around Ulm all day catching sight of myself in shop windows. The BDM uniform is made up of a brown coat, white blouse, black tie complete with a swastika pin. We also have to wear a navy blue skirt and white stockings. A black scarf tops it all off. Completing my new brand-new look I have had my haircut short in a more ‘boyish’ style. I was very impressed that the BDM has all classes of folk in the squads. I just hope that I will be a good member and help those girls from these different social classes.

                                      FADE UP FANFARE OF TRUMPETS & MALE VOICES

HANS SCHOLL:   Letter to Sophie Nuremburg September 1935
My dearest Sophie, we are stationed in a vast tented city which is located in a Zeppelin field. So far, all has gone quite satisfactorily and the Ulm troop has performed very well. I am struggling however with some anti-intellectual troops from the cities. Now I’m mixing with troopers from other social backgrounds I feel a huge chasm exists between them and us. There is no place here for a sensible conversation, there is only rowdy, brutal and frankly stupid behaviour. Worse still, this seems to be actively encouraged by the other squad leaders. I suppose that this makes me some sort of snob and not a true believer. Conforming my actions and speech has left me feeling quite demoralised.

                                      FADE UP COMPLETE SILENCE

SOPHIE SCHOLL:   Diary entry summer 1935
I went for a long walk today with Hans who has just back from Nuremberg. When Hans left on that special train for the rally, he was proud to have been chosen to carry the HJ flag for his Stamm [600-member group]. Now however, he has become very depressed. He talked about the endless drills, marching and roll calls, which left him, exhausted. Added to this, the vulgar jokes and brutish behaviour have succeeded in turning him off the HJ. Taking hold of my hand, he said, ‘I feel completely disillusioned with Nazism now that I know what real Nazi activists are like.’

SOPHIE SCHOLL: Diary entry spring 1936
I should be feeling proud and happy that German soldiers have taken back the Rhineland. Instead, I feel numb with anger because today on of my favourite teachers has been dismissed from school just because he is not a Nazi. When Father came home, I asked him if Adolf Hitler knows about the concentration camps. He said, ‘How could he not know?’ A girl a school has been given a terrible time by some of the teachers. Her father has been sent to Dachau concentration camp. His only ‘crime’ is to belong to the Social Democrat political party.

                                      FADE UP SOUNDS OF THIRTIES MUSIC

INGE SCHOLL:    Letter to a friend summer 1936
Yesterday, Sophie and I went to a local dance hall. My sister is very good dancer and attracted a lot of attention. I felt quite jealous of Sophie who can get up and dance with almost any partner. We both must have danced with five or six partners, although most of mine wanted me to ask Sophie to dance them, which of course made me angry. One of Sophie’s school friends, who had been watching her dance, said in a very loud voice, ‘that Sophie’s dancing was quite indecent.’

SOPHIE SCHOLL: Diary entry summer 1937
Hans and Inge are just back from Munich were they visited the House of German Art. The exhibition is supposed to show the superiority of Aryan Art but most people ignored it and opted to view an exhibition of banned art. Hans described the paintings of the Dada and Bauhaus movements as ‘very stimulating.’ He said that the, ‘Nazi paintings looking dull and lifeless in comparison.’ I can’t say I’ m struck by modern art, but I can’t see it now as it’s been closed.

                                      FADE UP COMPLETE SILENCE

SOPHIE SCHOLL:   Diary entry autumn 1937
I had tried to read a poem by Heinrich Heine today in my BDM meeting. My BDM group leader overhead me and told me off in front of the whole troop. She even tried to take the book away from me. I said to her, ‘whoever did not know Heine did not know German literature.’ I’ m starting to dislike my BDM meetings anyway, I don’t have anything much in common with the other girl’s anymore.

                                      FADE UP MORE SOUNDS OF THIRTIES DANCE MUSIC

SOPHIE SCHOLL: Diary entry summer 1937
Today I was invited to Annellies Kammerer’s House. Although she is my friend of course, the main purpose of my visit involved her huge gramophone collection. I find that Annellies can by very annoying and I have to hold my tongue or we would fall out all the time. I spent a very happy afternoon however, playing her gramophones loudly and dancing around her dining room. This was soon forgotten, when a young man named Fritz Hartnagel came to call. He was introduced to me and although Annellies got very jealous, we managed a long conversation. I discovered he is four years older than I am. This is good a point although he is also a graduate of Potsdam military academy, which is not so good, as I fear he must be a Nazi. At present, he is stationed in Augsburg and he has promised to take me out when he is next on leave. I said my goodbyes to Annellies, who was sick with rage, and came home.

                                      FADE UP COMPLETE SILENCE

SOPHIE SCHOLL: Diary entry autumn 1937
This has been a terrible day for the whole family. We were all at home except Hans when the Gestapo started pounding on the front door. After father had opened the door me, Inge and Werner were all arrested. Then we were taken to Gestapo headquarters all the way to Stuttgart.

INGE SCHOLL: Letter to a friend autumn 1937
After we reached Stuttgart, the Gestapo put each of us in a separate cell. I told them that I was a BDM squad leader and had nothing to hide. It appears that the Gestapo mistook Sophie for a young boy; this was due to her stupidly short haircut. The senior Gestapo officer became very apologetic and released Sophie and I at once. Poor Werner though, was held overnight and apparently interrogated about Hans.

SOPHIE SCHOLL: Letter to Fritz  Hartnagel autumn 1937
Hans has been arrested by the Gestapo. I don’t really understand the charges that Hans is being held on. He is now being held at the Gestapo headquarters in Dusseldorf. Hans has told father that most of the boys from his troop have also been arrested. Father has told me that these boys are, ‘all accusing each other of terrible sex crimes under Gestapo interrogation.’ I feel so helpless in this matter. Please Fritz will you help Hans if you can.

                                      FADE UP SOUNDS OF JOYOUS CHEERING

SOPIE SCHOLL: Diary entry spring 1938
German troops have marched into Austria today. I feel no joy however, at this news. Stupidly I wrote to Fritz telling him about Hans being arrested. Now I feel terribly guilty, as I’ m sure there is nothing Fritz can do to help Hans. I have had a horrible time at school lately. Girl’s can be so horrible, especially if they are pro-Nazi girls. I have also been stripped of my squad leadership at the BDM and charged with disloyalty, just because Hans is my brother. I will never forgive the Nazis for this putting my family through this terrible ordeal. I now see that there is a clear choice between doing what the Nazis want and having one’s own viewpoint on life. A person just can’t have both anymore.

                                      FADE UP COMPLETE SILENCE

HANS SCHOLL: Letter to Sophie summer 1938
Now that my ordeal is over my dearest sister, I can thank you for all your love and support. Thank you too for all the handmade gifts you sent whilst I was in prison. I’ m left with a great feeling of bitterness over the whole affair. Since my release and my coming back to barracks, I have taken to keeping a white rosebud in my pocket. I take this out from time to time and remind myself how greater God’s works are over that of man.

SOPIE SCHOLL: Diary entry spring 1939
I fear that war coming due to Adolf Hitler’s foreign policy. I have asked all my trusted male friends who may be conscripted never to kill anyone. All have agreed.

SOPHIE SCHOLL: Diary entry spring 1939
I have lately been greatly inspired by the writings of Thomas Aquinas. I have discussed these feelings with Hans. I told him that I particularly found the view that barbarians can never prevail against God’s truth as particularly uplifting. Hans said ‘that Aquinas had the view that the state should serve the individual, not the other way round, and that is how a country must be run.’

SOPHIE SCHOLL: Letter in Inge September 1939
The time that I have managed to spend with Fritz has been wonderful. We have been to the Baltic coast and then across to the North Sea coastal area. Yesterday we went to Worpswede spending the sunny day on a pleasure boat. The art on view here is wonderful, but Inge what astounded and inspires me is the natural landscapes. All the colors and tones used by a loving creator for our benefit. Inge, war is now upon us, please don’t tell me it’s all for the sake of our Fatherland. I find it all too monstrous. Looking out at this lovely view I try to remind myself the Adolf Hitler with never conquer the bright sunshine or destroy our dark mountains.

    FADE UP A LONE GERMAN VOICE

RECITING THE LORD’S PRAYER

On The Last Day

On The Last Day

Genre: Fiction based on real events.

A girl sits looking towards the rooms’ only window. The room is bare apart from this table and chair. Its walls are white washed, and the floor is made of rough stone. The girl’s hands are clasped together, and she is resting her elbows gently on the pot-marked surface of the table. Through the window, which is barred, she can see the clouds moving across a blue sky.

Her dark eyes are shining and bright. The narrow mouth moves slightly as she whispers. ‘Dear God please hear this last prayer from your most faith servant. My name is Sophie Magdalena Scholl; I ‘am twenty two years of age, and about to be executed by guillotine.’

These words hardly break the silence within the room, ‘on this day I feel love for all those who would do me harm lord. Please forgive them, just as I have forgiven my dearest brother whose blunder has lead us into the shadow of death. I pray for my beloved family and for my country. Please lord keeps them safe from harm, and in your love.’

Getting up from the table, the girl walks toward the high window still in prayer. ‘I have been in this prison for only two days lord but in that time I’ve been brutally interrogated and tried in the so-called People’s Court. There was no jury to sit in judgement on my actions, just one man. Our Nazis government saw fit to bring the President of the People’s Court to Munich. Judge Roland Friesler traveled from Berlin especially to sit in judgement on Hans, Christoph and myself. This ungodly regime wanted Friesler to pronounce the death sentence in person having found us all guilty of treason. You are the only one who can sit in judgement on us lord, and I know you will find us all blameless. Friesler ranted and spit hate at us like a mad man throughout the trail. My only regret is that my poor parents were in court to witness such shameful actions.’

The girl searches the sky for any sign of her god before continuing her prayer. ‘You gave me the strength and courage O Lord to stand on my broken leg in front of Friesler and boldly look into those evil eyes. With this courage, I was able to ask him, ‘‘you know as well as we do that the war is lost. Why are you so cowardly that you won’t admit it?’’

The girl smiles slightly at the memory of the effect those words had on the judge. For the penultimate time in her life, she cries and continues with her prayer.

‘Those words made him shriek at me like the demon we all knew him to be. He said, ‘’you are a traitor both to your country and to your führer and for that you will all be guillotined.’’ As the tears start to drip down from her face onto the stone floor, the girl finishes her last prayer.

‘Lord I ‘am not a traitor to my country, I love Germany will with all my heart. It is to this Nazis government that I have been treasonous. These Nazis have poisoned the good out of the people of Germany making them turn against one another. Please lord find an end to this terrible war before my country is destroyed. The evil men who run my country will drag us all to the gates of hell itself before they are finished.’

Looking up at the clouds passing the sun, the girl says, ‘Amen’. The window is high up in the wall of her prison cell but she wants to get a last look at her last day. Keys rattle in the lock and the cell door swings open.

***

In a cell, much the same as Sophie’s, her brother Hans Scholl stares out of his window watching a flock of birds which are flying in tight formation over to the east where the park is situated. They remind Hans of the bombers flying in tight formation, which he’d seen flying over the cities of Russia. As grey eyes searched the sky, he wished that he knew the names of the different birds better so that he could fix this last view of the world in his mind. Turning away from the high window, he retreats into the gloom of the cell.

Looking at Christoph sitting calmly at the table praying Hans is reminded of his beloved Sophie. The thought of his sister invades his mind, and Hans feel certain that like Christoph, Sophie will be praying too. The effort to keep calm is impossible unless you are very religious like Christoph or very spiritual and good like Sophie. As for himself, he cannot stop his mind returning to events now over forty-eight hours old.

For the thousandth time Hans told himself that, he had been a fool to allow Sophie to help with the distribution of the White Roses leaflets at the University. It had been bad enough that she had been with him working in that borrowed artist’s studio where the printing of the leaflets was carried out. Sophie in her quite brave way had volunteered to help him with the leaflets, when it had been reasoned that they were too heavy for one individual. By the time their arguments were over, he had had to except her help, and they both had had to rush over to the university. Hans admired had always how she fitted into the printing and posting group. Now he felt he had used her unselfish approach to either work or danger against her.

After running to the university, they had still arrived too late for their task. However, there was no choice now, as neither could leave the leaflets were they were. Sophie had taken one of the suitcases, heavy with the newly printed leaflets. Working against the ticking atrium clock, with the taste of fear in their mouths, each one had raced up flights of stairs and down empty corridors. A memory of Russia floated through Hans and for a second the fear he felt had almost overcome his body. Each sibling had chosen opposite sides of the atrium staircase, and had caught glimpses of the other as they worked their way up almost to the very top. Taking care not to been seen from the classrooms, each had completed their tasks just as the lunch bell was to sound.

Overcome with a mixture of fear and relief they had narrowly escaped colliding into each as they both had hurtled round that final corridor. Looking down each sibling could see the neat piles of leaflets ready to be read. It was then, just as they were so close, that disaster had hit. One of the suitcases was not quite empty, and they could not carry the case through the lunch period with leaflets still inside.

Sophie had whispered, ‘quickly up to the top floor!’

They had both charged up that final flight of stairs, and put the remaining leaflets on the top balcony overlooking the atrium just as the bell sounded unleashing both students and masters from their respective classrooms. Sophie had then pushed this final pile of leaflets with the very tips of her fingers, and launched them into the air. As the leaflets floated down on to the heads of those now below, each sibling had paused for a few fatal seconds.

This great gesture of deviance, had Hans late concluded, been what had alerted the caretaker. Always the ardent Nazis, this little man proved to be the undoing of the siblings. The movements of the floating paper caught up in the spiral rays of light, which shone through the glass roof of the atrium, had killed them. Hans stopped remembering that moment, as keys jangled in the lock and the cell door lurched open.

***

The three stand in a tight circle, a last silent embrace. It is against the prison rules but by a miracle, a kindly warder has allowed them this last brief moment together.

Sophie is lead away out to the courtyard. She looks up at the sky again admiring the deeper blue of late afternoon. Half the courtyard is now cast in shadow but she keeps herself in the brightness of the sun. Immersed this light she feel translucent. Reaching the end of her walk the world seems to have stopped. No sound reaches her ears except her own breathing. Passing through another door Sophie is presented with another white room, another a stone floor, but this room has a crucifix. A tall thin man dressed in black, and wearing a top hat. He is standing by the guillotine. Making the sign of the cross, she walks forward.

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