Oh Gran, oh Gran, however did you endure? The tears started again, and Justine returned to the bedroom, lay down on the bed, weeping into the pillow. All she wanted at this moment was to wrap her arms around Gabriele and hold her close, and tell her how much she loved her.
But that was not possible. Nor could she speak to her. Gabriele and Anita were on the plane to Bodrum.
THIRTY-FOUR
Justine remained on the bed, trying to rest. Exhausted from weeping, she felt as though she had no tears left in her. The first pages in her grandmother’s black leather book had truly shocked and stunned her. She had been flabbergasted by what she had read, and was filled with innumerable questions that only Gran could answer.
She could not conceive how her grandmother had managed to endure such enormous pain and loss at so young an age. Or how she had survived what must have befallen her later on. Justine was well versed in history, and knew about the Second World War and the Holocaust. She could now only wonder, and agonizingly so, about Gabriele’s life during those evil times in Nazi Germany. That she had escaped death was surely something of a miracle.
What had the young Gabriele done? Who had helped her? How had she evaded arrest by the Gestapo? Or hadn’t she? Had she been in one of the death camps? And lived. What had happened to Gabriele’s parents? Her great-grandparents? And what about Erika? Had Gran’s little sister survived? How had Gran managed to get to England? When had she gone? What role had Gabriele’s beloved auntie Beryl played in her early life? On and on… so many questions scurried through her head, were unanswerable at this moment in time. Only after she had spoken to her grandmother would she know the entire story, and she needed to know it all now.
Justine’s eyes fell on the black leather book on the coffee table. It was like a magnet, enticed her. After staring at it balefully for a while, biting her lip, she finally went over to the coffee table, picked it up and sat down in the chair. She leafed through the pages she had read before, until she came to where she had left off. Her eyes were glued to the page.
In the end we decided against the motorbike. There was the problem of my suitcase. It was too big. More importantly, Markus was reluctant to leave Anita alone in the flat. I agreed with him. We were living in dangerous times. Who knew that better than I? Jews had a price on their heads. Better that Anita came with us.
Out on the street we quickly found a taxi. I told the driver to go to the Tiergartenstrasse. When we were settled in the back, Markus asked me how my mother knew the Russian woman. She met her with Arabella von Wittingen some years ago, I told him. Arabella is married to Kurt von Wittingen. You’ve met the prince, I added, he’s a sort of roving ambassador, a consultant to Krupp, the armaments king. Oh yes, I remember him now, Markus replied.
I continued to explain: My mother and Arabella went to school in England together. Roedean, near Brighton. She was born Lady Arabella Cunningham. She’s the daughter of the Earl of Langley from Yorkshire. They stayed close after leaving Roedean, I finished.
Your mother is English, I keep forgetting that, Markus said. She comes from London, Anita reminded him. I know, he replied, peered at me in the dim light of the taxi. You lived in London a lot. Pity you didn’t stay there permanently, he murmured sympathetically.
It is a pity, I replied. I wondered why we hadn’t. I knew that answer. Frequently my father conducted the Berlin Philharmonic Orchestra. Whenever they wanted him for a series of concerts, he went back. He was a brilliant musician. Some people said he would be appointed permanent conductor one day. Not now, I thought, and shrank down into my coat, fear taking hold. Shivers ran through me. I wondered where he was at this moment. My lovely father. Dirk Landau. Who loved us all so much. Tall, fair of colouring, gentle. A good man. A man who wrongly believed Jews were safe in the Fatherland.
I snapped my eyes shut. Swallowed hard. I tried to hang onto my equilibrium. I must be brave. I must get back to Arabella. At the Schloss in the forest. I had just spent the weekend with them. I would be safe there. And they would help to find my parents. If anyone could do that, it was Prince Rudolph Kurt von Wittingen. A great aristocrat. A well-connected man, my mother always said.
Markus asked, Isn’t she a princess? Yes, I answered. Irina’s a Romanov. Her mother Princess Natalie was a cousin of the late tsar.
Nodding, Markus said, Nicholas. Assassinated in the Russian Revolution. In 1917. I nodded back. That’s when they left Russia, I answered. They roamed around Europe. Refugees. With nothing. They settled in Berlin. Ten years ago. Recently Princess Natalie married. Her husband is a Prussian baron. Now they have a home at last. On the Lützowufer.
Peering at me again, Markus frowned, said, You told the driver to go to the Tiergartenstrasse. I know that. I gave him a hard stare and continued, We’ll walk from there. Anita looked at her brother. It’s not far, Markus, she said. After this Markus became quiet. We all did. I was pushing down the sobs that constantly rose in my throat. Where were they? Mummy, Papa and Erika? Were they still together? Or had they been separated? That’s what they did sometimes, the Gestapo. They separated families. Oh my God, not that, I thought, shivering.
A tear slid down my cheek. Erika was only eight. She would be afraid if she’d been taken from our mother. I felt the trembling starting inside again. Anita reached for my hand. She held it tightly. I thought I was going to choke on the tears in my throat. Anita squeezed my hand. I squeezed back. Whatever would I do if I didn’t have Anita and Markus?
We got out of the taxi at the Tiergartenstrasse. Markus paid the driver, carried my suitcase. I led them down that lovely street near the park. We left it at the intersection between the Hofjägeralle and Stülerstrasse, making for the Lützowufer. As I glanced at the Landwehrkanal I thought of another friend of my mother’s, who lived in an apartment overlooking the canal. Renata von Tiegal.
Eventually we were on the Lützowufer. I led Anita and Markus to the house where Princess Irina Troubetzkoy lived with her Romanov mother and her stepfather, the Herr Baron.
The house was in total darkness except for one window next to the front door. I knew this was the small office on the ground floor where the baron’s secretary worked. Markus lifted the heavy brass knocker, banged it several times. Almost immediately the door was opened. It was Princess Irina herself who stood there. Her burnished red hair was a fiery halo around her head in the light from the foyer. Opening the door wider, she beckoned us inside. Immediately locking the door, she looked us over. Then she pulled me into her arms. It will be all right, she told me in her perfect, slightly accented English. I hope so, I murmured.
Releasing me, she turned to Markus and Anita. I introduced them to her. She smiled at them, said, Let us go into the drawing room at the back. We can talk there. She led us through the shadowy foyer, down the corridor. I knew the drawing room. I had often been there with my mother.
Princess Irina told us to be seated. She went over to a round table where there was a pot of coffee, and cups and saucers on a silver tray. Would you like a hot drink? she asked, turning to look at us, adding that it was a cold night.
We all said yes, and thanked her. She poured, asked who wanted milk and sugar. I carried the cups to Anita and Markus. The four of us sat drinking the coffee near the fire, warming ourselves in front of its blaze. After a short while Irina looked at me, asked, What happened, Gabriele? I told her everything. How I had been staying with the von Wittingens for the weekend, being a companion to the children, Diana and Christian, looking after them. She seemed to know this. I then explained that the prince’s chauffeur had brought me back to Berlin earlier today, dropped me off near my home. And that I had found the flat empty. I told her everything Mrs Weber had said to me… and that the Gestapo had taken my family.
When I had finished, Princess Irina nodded, her face grim. She looked at me and then at Markus. Slowly she said, Last week something savage and evil was released in this city, the power of the Nazi thugs. They came out in force. Kristallnacht, that’s what t
hey’re calling it… Crystal Night. Because of the broken glass, I’m sure. What a pretty name for such a foul and brutal assault. Only they would think of that. Windows broken in Jewish homes, in shops, cafés, restaurants and in the synagogues. So many people killed. No, let me correct myself. So many Jews killed. It’s an outrage. This government is a band of gangsters, murderers. Their savagery is a sign of the times.
The princess paused, looked at Markus and Anita, asked softly, Are you Jewish? They both nodded. She said, You must be careful, be discreet, don’t draw attention to yourselves—
The shrill ringing of the cell phone on the bedside table made Justine sit up with a start. She jumped out of the chair, ran to grab the phone, immediately brought it to her ear. ‘Hello?’
‘It’s me,’ Joanne said. ‘Do you have a minute or two to chat?’
‘Yes, I do,’ Justine responded, keeping her voice as steady as she could. ‘You sound odd, Jo. What’s the matter?’
‘Bad news, I’m afraid. Daisy has come down with an ear infection.’
‘Oh my God!’ Justine exclaimed and sat down on the bed.
‘The doctor doesn’t want her to go to school.’
‘So what you’re saying is that you won’t be able to come next week. That’s it, isn’t it?’
‘It is, Justine. And we’re so sorry and disappointed. Richard will be calling you later. He had to fly to Washington earlier today. A meeting about a boutique hotel there. Anyway, those are the facts. Daisy can’t travel for the next couple of weeks. Richard is worried about Gabriele. He knows how upset your grandmother is going to be.’
‘She will be, and so will Anita. It was going to be a big family reunion. But what can you do?’
‘Richard wants you to come up with another date… when we can come to Turkey,’ Joanne said. ‘In June.’
‘I understand. But I’m not sure what Gran’s plans are,’ Justine said.
‘Okay. Listen, are you all right? You sound as if you have a cold.’
‘That’s right, I do.’ Justine seized on this explanation, not wanting to confide in Joanne at this moment, to tell her about the black leather book and its shattering contents.
The two friends chatted a few moments longer, then said goodbye. As Justine walked back to the chair, the phone she was holding in her hand began to ring again. ‘Hello?’ she said.
‘It’s me, Justine,’ Gabriele said. ‘I just wanted you to know we landed in Bodrum and Anita and I are now at the hotel.’
‘Gran, oh, Gran!’ Justine cried. Immediately the tears started, and she began to weep. ‘Gran, I love you so much. I want you to know that. How on earth could you bear the things that happened to you? I wish you were here; I want to put my arms around you, and hold you close. I want to love and protect you always, Gran.’
‘Oh, Justine, don’t cry. I knew the fragments, the scenes from my life would upset you, but I also needed you to know the truth, darling.’
‘Now that I know some of it, I’ve so many questions for you, Grandma.’
‘I can’t answer them now, lovey, I’m about to have a meeting with the clients. Anyway, you’ll have all the answers soon, if you keep on reading. I shall call you tomorrow morning to see how you are. And make sure Ayce makes supper for you. Promise me you’ll eat.’
‘Yes, I will, I promise. I love you, Gran.’
‘And I love you too, Justine. Very much.’
THIRTY-FIVE
Justine was about to pick up her grandmother’s book when there was a knock on the door. ‘Come in,’ she called.
Ayce popped her head inside, and announced, ‘I have brought tea, Miss Justine.’
‘Thank you, Ayce,’ Justine replied, beckoning her to come forward.
Ayce did so, placed the tea tray on the coffee table in front of Justine and, with a smile, left the bedroom. After pouring a cup of tea, adding lemon and sweetener, Justine took a few sips, and then picked up the book, anxious to keep reading.
She found the exact place where she had left off quite easily, and scanned the page, her eyes settling on the words:
…don’t draw attention to yourselves.
They both nodded. We talked for a while longer. Princess Irina spoke about the danger in the streets, especially at night. Rising, going over to a small desk at one end of the room, she sat down in the chair, writing on a pad. When she returned, she handed Markus a piece of paper, asked him to telephone her once they were safely home. This is the number here. I have also put down the number of the von Wittingens’ Schloss. I want you to have it, the princess added. I am taking Gabriele there for a few days.
Anita threw me a look of dismay mingled with worry. I said, I will be in touch, I promise. The princess looked at her and said kindly, Perhaps you will be able to come and visit. I shall ask them if you can, Anita. Maybe at the weekend.
This last comment brought a quavery smile to Anita’s face. I loved Anita. She was my best friend. We had known each other since childhood. I had helped her cope with her grief when her beloved father died five years ago. Now her mother was in Turkey looking after her sister. A widow who was ill. Anita missed her mother. A lump came into my throat as I automatically thought of Mummy. I wanted to weep. My heart clenched. I could not help wondering if she was all right, what her terrible fate might be. I was glad I was sitting down. I felt weak.
It was Markus who suddenly stood up and, turning to the princess, he gave a small bow. I think we must leave. Thank you, Princess Irina. You have been most kind. Anita also thanked her. I hugged them both. Whispered to Anita that I would see her soon. Together we walked to the front door. Once they had left, the princess turned the key in the lock, bolted the door. She said, We will go to the kitchen, Gabriele. We must both eat. Keep up our strength.
I followed her down the corridor. She explained that the staff were off this evening. That her mother, Princess Natalie, and the Herr Baron were visiting his estate in Baden-Baden. Then she remarked that they might remain there indefinitely. She said her stepfather, an anti-Nazi, anti-Fascist aristocrat was of the old school. That he believed Hitler was going to lead Germany into an unnecessary war with England. Perhaps all of Europe. He thinks Hitler will destroy Germany, she suddenly announced. He says the dictator is a madman, a megalomaniac. I tend to agree with him, Gabri.
I remained silent. But would remember those words. Once in the kitchen she quickly busied herself. A soup was brought out of the cold larder, put on the stove to heat. She asked me to fill the kettle with water. To make tea. I did, carried it to the stove. She returned to the larder, brought out smoked salmon, ham and cheeses from the refrigerator. I felt a pang when I saw the name Harrods on the door of it. Mummy loved to go shopping there. My mother, my father, my sister. Where were they now? At this moment? I was filled with fear. Trembling overcame me. I couldn’t keep a limb still. I hoped the princess didn’t notice. I held onto the edge of the table. Took hold of myself. I must be strong. I must endure. I had to look for them, find them, rescue them. I must save them at all cost. My beloved family. Part of me.
Justine closed the black leather book, leaned back in the chair, tears trickling down her face. Fumbling in her pocket, she found a tissue, wiped her damp cheeks, took several deep breaths. How brave her grandmother had been when she was a young girl. A child really. Fourteen. So vulnerable, all alone, fearful…
Glancing at the clock on the bedside table, Justine saw to her surprise that it was almost six o’clock. Four in the afternoon in London. Michael had called her early this morning, said he would be in touch again tonight. She wanted – no, needed – to speak to him. But she knew better than to disturb him when he was working. She must be patient, must wait.
Placing the book on the coffee table, she picked up the small tea tray and carried it downstairs to the kitchen, where she found Ayce.
Justine said, ‘Please don’t make any dinner for me tonight. Tell Suna I’m not hungry. I’ll have one of those mixed salads you make for lunch, Ayce. The chopped sa
lad.’
Ayce nodded. ‘Missy Trent say fruit too.’
Justine smiled. ‘Yes, my grandmother would say that. Okay, fruit as well and hot lemon tea, but that’s it.’
Ayce looked pleased, nodded. ‘What time supper?’
‘About eight o’clock, please, Ayce. Not before.’
Justine needed to breathe in the fresh air, to be outside, to stretch, to walk, to think clearly. Once she left the yali, she set off towards the tulip gardens, and experienced a sudden sense of enormous joy when she saw the blankets of flowers in all their glorious, brilliant hues… reds, pinks, parrot-yellow, purple and orange.
What a spectacular sight they were, growing here at the edge of the sea. And perhaps that was why they were there. The flowers were food for the soul; they renewed the spirit. Gabriele’s doing. Her gran knew about the damaged soul.
Anyone reading Gabriele’s words in her black leather book could not fail to be moved, touched in the same way she herself had been.
But because of her very personal involvement, she had also been chilled to the bone. The words had seared into her brain; she would never forget what she had just read. Not as long as she lived.
She wanted to rush back inside, to start reading again, but she just couldn’t face the heartache this would cause her. She knew she must pace herself with the memoir, have moments of respite.
Already Justine was an emotional wreck. That little fourteen-year-old girl was her grandmother, and Gabriele’s suffering had been horrendous. And Justine was quite certain there was much worse to come…
Now, following the pebbled path, she walked along the edge of the tulip beds, heading for the garden seat that faced the Bosphorus. Their seat now. Hers and Michael’s. She shook her head, blinked a little, took lots of deep breaths. How good it was to be out here in this beautiful garden with its tulips and flame-coloured Judas trees, the lilac-blue wisteria… and beyond the pink-tinted, golden horizon where the sun was slinking down, disappearing behind the distant rim.
Letter From a Stranger Page 25