The Daughter's Tale
Page 6
Hilde in turn saw in Amanda a terrifying, emotionless calm; she seemed as light as someone who no longer existed or has departed heaven knows where.
“How do you feel?” Hilde’s voice was soft and sad.
Hearing her friend, Amanda returned to the present.
“As though they had lined us up in the darkness in front of a firing squad. You can’t see who is shooting, who is attacking you. You hear the sharp, penetrating whine of bullets, but you’re still standing. It doesn’t matter how often the bullets have pierced you. You stand there until gravity overcomes you. On the ground, all of us are in a straight line, riddled with bullets, eyes wide open. They can’t kill you. And you’re still there, because nothing and nobody can distance you from your suffering. How do I feel, Hilde? I don’t feel.”
They embraced silently, without tears. An embrace like an island. An embrace no one saw apart from the neighbor lurking at her second-floor window.
Up in the sky, the full moon refused to disappear with the dawn. Amanda stared up at it, her eyes brimming with tears.
“What a stubborn moon.” She sighed.
She clutched her throat as if it were a wound. She had died when they took Julius, yet now she continued to wither away. How many more deaths await me? she wondered.
As Amanda was climbing into the car, she stumbled against a soldier marching by. What did she care? The girls were already in the back-seat, and Hilde was double-locking the Garden of Letters, closing the door on a wonderful era. Amanda clambered into the car, which moved off as the girls frantically waved goodbye. Hilde remained standing in the doorway of the bookstore for a few seconds, then headed off in the opposite direction, her eyes filled with a cold fury. They saw her walk slowly away but not turn the corner, as if both she and the car were suspended in time. Then Amanda watched as Hilde became a dark shape that gradually faded. She took a deep breath so that in the vertigo of their flight she could retain the essence of her friend in her memory.
“In Havana we won’t have to wear coats,” Lina whispered. “There’s so much sun that sometimes night never arrives. Can you imagine that?”
Viera smiled, her gaze fixed on her mother’s tear-filled eyes.
“We’re going to an island where it’s always daylight, always summer,” Lina continued excitedly.
“Why hasn’t Uncle Abraham had any children? Perhaps he doesn’t like them . . .” Viera interrupted her.
“Uncle Abraham doesn’t have children because he works so hard.”
“Then he won’t have time for us,” said Viera, still staring at her mother’s absent eyes, her agitated breathing, trembling lips, and drooping eyelids, the way she was opening and closing her fists, containing her despair. “Mama,” was all she said, trying to rouse her from her lethargy.
Amanda was wracked with doubts. She should have never followed the instructions of that barbarian who had belittled her in her husband’s office. He had done all he could to save his son, even handing him over to a doctor from an inferior race so that his heart would keep pumping, and now she had to leave with her daughters. What kind of a mother was she, to let herself be duped by a man whose only aim was to remove her and her daughters from his absurd idea of a nation?
“Mama!” shouted Viera.
“What are we doing here?” Amanda finally reacted. “Where are we going?”
“To Cuba, Mama. Uncle Abraham is waiting for us,” Lina told her, not very convinced.
At that instant, Amanda’s face cleared and she smiled at them. The girls breathed a sigh of relief, but Lina was still unsure. She sensed that her mother had made a decision that would change them forever, a decision she could not yet define. Maybe she had decided it was too risky to send them on their own to an island where the summer was scorching hot; or possibly it was her mother who would leave on the boat to see if Uncle Abraham really was happy to receive them. Maybe it would be her and Viera who ended up on the farm in France, surrounded by sheep as they waited for the rescue signal from their mother. Lina had her suspicions, but the immediate future was cloudy, she wasn’t able to decipher it.
Lina tried to count her heartbeats, Viera’s, and her mother’s, to synchronize those silences that were needed to repel fear, as her father had taught her. If only we could go together . . . she fantasized. When the captain sees we are two little girls on our own, he’ll ask Mama to travel with us. He’ll find a cabin for the three of us, with an enormous porthole. How could you abandon them, Madam? Can’t you see they’re just little girls? There’s no way I’m going to allow it. Look, here’s your landing permit, and you can have the best cabin on board. See how happy your girls are. Ready to disembark in Havana. You’ll see what a beautiful city it is.
10
The port at Hamburg was chaos, in the midst of which rose the enormous black, white, and red ocean liner like a huge mass of floating iron. They got out of the car with their suitcases and made their way through the crowd. Amanda tried to get her bearings among all the people rushing in different directions. A band was playing a discordant farewell song; orders were being shouted, goodbyes called out. Viera and Lina gazed in wonder at the size of the boat that was to take them to their uncle’s island.
Amanda was struggling to identify those in the crowd who were leaving, and those who like her were staying behind. She joined a line that led the chosen ones to a checkpoint before they could climb the swaying, slippery gangway.
At the end, three soldiers were slowly scrutinizing documents and stamping them. Yes, all her papers were in order, she had the girls’ passports . . . She knew something was missing, but couldn’t pinpoint what it was.
In front of her stood a man and a woman aged about fifty who had no luggage and were dressed in dark suits. They turned and smiled.
“We’re the Meyers,” the woman introduced herself, noticing Amanda staring at her.
“Frau Meyer, my older daughter is traveling alone,” said Amanda, without either Viera or Lina hearing her. “I am Amanda Sternberg,” she said after a pause, forcing a smile.
The woman drew back and looked at her severely.
“We have no choice.”
The woman still didn’t understand. The man ignored their conversation.
“Frau Meyer, please, please look after my daughter,” Amanda went on. “There’s no one else I can entrust her to. My brother will be waiting for her in Havana.”
As the line edged forward, Frau Meyer glanced down at the child, who was still enthralled by the band playing muffled military marches.
“Her name is Viera,” said Amanda, pointing to her. “She is older, she’ll be able to manage it, she’s going to be six. Lina is still very small; she’s only four.”
The woman nodded silently. A gentler light had come into her eyes. Amanda understood her earlier rejection. Frau Meyer must have silently questioned her as a mother: how could she bring herself to abandon her daughter to two strangers? But she herself was boarding the ship out of despair, and Amanda’s situation was doubtless even more desperate.
“I don’t think you’re doing the right thing,” she said, “but I’ll do all I can to make sure your child doesn’t feel completely alone.” Her tone of voice was firm; it was as if she wanted to rebuke Amanda, but felt unable to do so when, like everyone else in the port, she and her husband were fleeing the ravaging barbarism, leaving behind all that they knew.
The officer took the Meyers’ documents and stamped a red “J” on their passports. Next to him, another officer asked Amanda for her papers. She handed him Viera’s passport and landing permit. With the “J” stamped on it, they headed for the gangway. The Meyers stepped to one side, making room for Amanda to say goodbye. They had no one in Hamburg to bid farewell to.
Viera and Lina couldn’t understand what was going on. Their mother had made her decision at the last minute; they still thought they were leaving Germany together to begin their island adventure.
Amanda bent down to her elder daughter. She want
ed her to listen, to understand, to at least forgive her. Taking a small purple jewel case from her handbag, she lifted out two gold chains bearing the Star of David. She picked out the one with Viera’s name, put Lina’s back in the case, and dropped it in her bag once more.
“Viera, you’re older.” She looked her daughter in the eye as she hung the chain around her neck. “I don’t think Lina would survive the trip.”
Viera’s lips began to tremble. Her eyes filled with thick tears.
“Mama!” she begged.
Lina was still staring fascinated at everything going on around her in the port: the waves breaking against the liner’s prow, the swaying gangway, and the out-of-tune band that was still drowning out the shouts of goodbye.
“I’ll always be with you, day and night, from afar,” said Amanda, taking out the botanical album and tearing from it a handful of yellowing pages. “Listen to me, Viera. I’ll keep these sheets. I’ll write to you every morning on them while we’re apart. The day the pages are finished, we’ll meet again. I promise.”
The three of them hugged and kissed each other.
“Mama loves you. We’ll always be together. Your chain and mine will unite us. It’s a gift from your papa,” she said, touching the Star of David. “Look, Viera, Frau Meyer is waiting for you.”
The little girl turned away from her mother, walked to the bottom of the gangway, gritting her teeth and making her way up the ramp, eyes downcast. Her heart was not pounding; she wasn’t afraid. There was no need to count the absurd heartbeats.
Amanda looked for the ebony box in her suitcase, folded up the pages from the botanical album, and put them inside.
Lina stared at her mother despairingly. There were no questions she could ask: for the first time ever, she did not know what to say. Frau Meyer turned, her eyes now filled with compassion, and gave them a compassionate smile. She had understood.
What have I done! Amanda screamed silently, her face contorted but without sighs or tears. As she watched her elder daughter disappear into the void, giving her the chance to be saved, she was suddenly filled with doubts. She was condemning her younger daughter. Although she was protecting her from the unknown, she was exposing her to the torments that were bound to come. Opening her eyes, she etched the details on her memory. It was May 13, 1939. Eight o’clock at night. Lina clung to her mother, unable to comprehend why she had been forced to remain on dry land.
What did I put in Viera’s suitcase? What was the last thing she ate? Will she be cold? She could catch a fever in the high seas. Yes, there were several dresses, two pairs of shoes, but her clothes will soon be too small for her. My God! She wanted to stop time, to shout for her daughter to be brought back to her—but the ship’s horn made her realize it was too late. The liner began to pull away from the quay; on the main deck she could make out the anxious faces of those who were fleeing. She couldn’t see Viera or the Meyers. She imagined Viera alone in her first-class cabin, unpacking her small leather suitcase, smiling. Yes, she was smiling, Amanda told herself.
Taking hold of Lina’s frozen hand, she turned her back on the boat, the Meyers, and her daughter.
Fall of 1939
My little Viera:
The days here grow grayer and grayer. Every morning the sun struggles to rise: sometimes it succeeds, and other times it fails, staying hidden in the clouds.
I have had no news from Uncle Abraham, but these days the mail is not a priority. I’ll have to be patient a while longer.
I was waiting anxiously to hear from you, and checked the mailbox every evening until a few days ago the first letter I sent you was returned to me. I’ll include it with this one, and this one with all the others they send back, because Mama will never give up, you can be sure of that.
We are at war. The world is at war, but fortunately we are protected in this village, on a farm, far from any big city. I don’t think we will be found.
Your sister Lina is growing, and her French is more fluent by the day. You should hear her, she sounds just like one of the locals.
We’ve started attending a church, although I want you to know that I light a candle for you every night and clasp my Star of David as if it was yours. I can feel you on every one of its points in the palm of my hand.
By now you must be speaking Spanish, or at least a few words of it. I want you to write to me in your new language. I’m writing to you early in the morning, because I know that is when you would be going to bed. Get some rest, my little Viera, and every morning let the sun be your guide.
We will never stop thinking of you, even if on this side of the world day never dawns.
All my love,
Mama
The Refuge
Haute-Vienne, France, 1939–1942
11
Claire Duval feared oblivion. First her mother, then her father, and finally her husband had all disappeared into a thick fog of confusion, closing the door on their past. Eventually all three of them failed to recognize her, lost the ability to speak, spent their time gesturing blankly; in the end they gave up moving and curled up like newborn babies, returning to the seed.
She cherished the image of her husband, Jerome Oliver, a noble man with kind eyes who loved exotic plants and had dedicated his life to the study of botany. But he became irascible and violent, devoured by the most desolate old age, bedridden, his body full of sores, decaying by the minute. Jerome responded to the pain with a fixed, icy smile that made Claire shudder even to recall it. Yet she forced herself to do so, to remember every detail, to relive both radiant and bitter times, to find her way through labyrinths, in hopes that these memories would not haunt her dreams. Claire was afraid of dreams. They were the only thing she permitted herself to forget.
Recently she had been having recurring nightmares. She would wake up in a sweat, and try to erase the cloudy messages that told her she was putting her daughter’s life in danger. She would open her eyes and wake up shivering, in the grip of fear. It had all started the day she received the letter from Julius Sternberg asking a favor she felt obliged to grant. She had agreed to take in his wife, the daughter of one of her husband’s best and oldest friends.
It was her Christian duty, she thought, and repeated it to herself until she was weary, trying to convince herself she was not making a great mistake. She could not abandon Amanda, and yet she also had to protect her own daughter. She could still remember her husband sending antique French botanical albums to the Garden of Letters in Berlin. The two plant-loving men had enjoyed a long correspondence. Following the death of Amanda’s father, Jerome became overwhelmed with sadness, and gradually succumbed to a loss of memory. Dementia took its toll, and after his death Claire devoted herself entirely to raising her young daughter. Now, by helping Amanda, she felt that she in turn was repaying a debt she owed her husband.
She got out of bed that May morning and breathed in the warm air, a sign that summer was not far off. After praying silently, she filled the window box by the front door with violets and gathered a bouquet of wildflowers: baby’s breath, stems of early wheat, astilbes, gorse, dried lavender. These she placed in a bouquet on the table as a welcome for Amanda, whom she knew only through short letters and friendly references. She would try to help her recover from the anguish of being abandoned, from the pain of having sent her two daughters in a ship filled with tormented souls to an island lost in the ocean.
Peering out from the front door moments later, she could see a wavering shadow in the distance.
“Danielle!” she called out loudly. Alarmed, her daughter ran to her.
“Maman, you never told me Madame Sternberg was coming with someone else.”
Putting her arm around her daughter’s shoulders without saying anything, Claire began to stroke her hair.
Spring was at its height. Reds, oranges, yellows, and greens were winning out over the retreating gray. The woman and child coming toward them in heavy overcoats seemed to be dragging along an unseasonable winter.
“Danielle, this is Madame Sternberg, Amanda. And . . .” she hesitated, as though waiting for confirmation: “. . . and this is her daughter.”
“Lina,” the newcomer clarified, looking down at the ground. “Viera traveled alone on the boat.”
For a few seconds, the two girls peered curiously at each other, exchanging shy smiles. In a matter of seconds, they hugged, and Danielle took Lina by the hand and disappeared into the house with her.
Amanda turned and looked back, as if wondering if anyone could have followed her. A fleeting fantasy went through her mind: her daughter had escaped from the boat, jumping into the cold waters of the river in Hamburg, and swimming to the shore, determined not to be separated from them.
“But Viera can’t swim,” she said to herself.
“Time goes by quickly, you’ll see,” said Claire soothingly. She led Amanda into the dining room, filled with the sweet smell of cream and cinnamon from the welcome cake she had baked.
“All I can do is wait,” said Amanda, spreading the loose pages of the botanical album on the table. “Viera is older. I gave her the book, but tore out these pages when we said goodbye. I’ll use them to keep in touch with her. When they’re finished, we’ll meet again.” She smiled ironically. “That’s what I promised her. Have you ever heard of a mother who didn’t keep the promises she made to her daughter?”
“Viera will be fine,” Claire replied. She got up and came back with a cup of chamomile tea with a star anise clove floating in it. “What you did was for the best.”