Letter From a Stranger

by Barbara Taylor Bradford

  I felt a hand on my arm. I opened my eyes. Looked up. The woman who had helped me was kneeling down next to me. On the floor. Her eyes were full of sadness and compassion. Her face kind. Can I get you anything? she asked. I shook my head. In my mind I silently shrieked. Yes! Yes! Yes! Get me my mother. Get me my sister. Get me my father.

  The woman stood up. Came back a moment later. Gave me a clean handkerchief. To wipe my tears. I inclined my head. I could not speak. Silently I handed her the lists of the names of those who had been murdered in the death camps.

  LONDON 8 SEPTEMBER 1945

  I have come back to this welcoming house. Full of love and warmth. I am here in aunt Beryl’s arms. I am here with my mother’s younger sister. The closest I can ever be to my mother again. Lovely aunt Beryl. She is calm, kind, loving. Uncle Jock is a quiet man. Compassion and understanding are written on his face. They take me up to my room. Allow me to be alone… to think, to rest, to grieve. And slowly the memories are coming back… I hear Papa’s violin. His music echoes in my head. Mozart. Rachmaninoff. Liszt. Schubert. I hear my mother’s lilting voice, her fine soprano. They are here with me now. I can see their faces. Erika with her golden curls and shining green eyes. My handsome, elegant father standing by her side… and Mummy next to him. Her pale blonde hair framing her face… a golden halo, full of light.

  Now I know they will never leave me. There is no such thing as death in my lexicon. As long as I’m alive they will live on in me. And they will be with me all the days of my life. And even after that.

  Justine sat back in the chair. She still held the book in her hands. Her face was damp. More tears had fallen at the end. A deep sigh escaped her. She was glad her gran had written this memoir …fragments of her life, the life she had lived long ago. And had had the courage to do so. She understood how painful it must have been for Gabri to dig deep into the past, into her memories. Into her soul.

  As she was about to close the book she saw a small slip of paper attached to the endpaper at the back. It was stuck down with a piece of tape. There was something written on it, in her grandmother’s handwriting. She peered at it, read: Dear Justine. In the safe at the end of my walk-in closet you will find a black leather envelope briefcase. I think you will be interested in the contents. Here’s the number for the safe: 17-95-9911. Gran.

  Justine put the book down, took the slip of paper and went to her grandmother’s bedroom. Within minutes she had opened the safe, found the briefcase, and brought it back to her own room.

  Opening it, she pulled out an envelope. Pale blue paper. Green ink. Faded slightly. Birth Certificates had been written on it. She looked inside. There was a copy of her grandmother’s birth certificate. And of two others as well. One was her great-aunt Beryl’s, the other one her great-grandmother’s: Stella Goldsmith, it read.

  She sat holding them for a moment. Then put them down. In the briefcase there was a black notebook. Justine looked inside. She quickly read some of the pages. And immediately understood. This had belonged to great-aunt Beryl, and it listed all of the money she had given to Jewish charities over the years. Hundreds of thousands.

  Placing this with the birth certificates, she pulled out a packet of clear plastic folders, wondering what they were. A label had Beryl Goldsmith McGregor on it. As she shuffled them she realized they contained a collection of newspaper clippings. One slipped out of her hand, fell to the floor. She bent down to pick it up. And glanced at the headline as she did:

  GENOCIDE.

  Justine’s eyes widened, and horror swept over her as she stared at the headline, then dropped her eyes to the photographs. ‘Oh my God!’ she cried out loud. She was stunned by the graphic pictures of the most unspeakable evil, depravity and inhumanity. Naked people, living skeletons, emaciated, hairless and hollow-eyed. Piled on top of each other. Thousands. And thousands. She could not bear to look. Turning her head, she noticed the date on top of the front page of the Daily Express. Suddenly her eyes blurred with tears and all she could actually read was May, 1945.

  FORTY-NINE

  ‘Why did you come back early, Gran?’ Justine asked, looking at Gabriele intently. ‘I hope you were able to get all that work finished. That there’s no problem with your clients.’

  ‘We did, and the clients are happy. And I came back because I was worried about you. Every time we spoke on the phone you were in tears. I began to think I’d done the wrong thing, writing those fragments, the bits and pieces of my life. And I certainly wished I hadn’t given the book to you.’

  Justine leaned forward, focused her blue eyes on another pair of blue eyes that were the identical colour. She smiled. ‘I’m glad you did. I couldn’t put it down. I hurt for you, suffered along with you, and I cried for you. I triumphed with you. I also longed to put my arms around you, to tell you how much I’ve always loved you.’ She stood up, went to sit next to her grandmother on the wicker sofa under the pale blue wisteria tree on the terrace of the yali. ‘Reading your notebook has made me realize what a terrible world you lived in then, and that we still do now. It’s made me appreciate everything I have and what I’ve achieved. And I know how lucky I am. It also told me who and what I am. Because of you, Gran, how you brought me up, and—’

  ‘Your father had a lot to do with that,’ Gabriele cut in. ‘Tony was a good man. He helped to give you and Richard all the right values.’

  ‘So did you. You’re the most extraordinary woman I’ve ever known. I am so happy I belong to you, Gabriele Landau Hardwicke Saunders. And should I add Trent?’ Justine gave her grandmother a pointed look.

  Gabriele shook her head. ‘Trent is a pseudonym, just a name to hide behind. A “stage” name, if you like.’

  ‘I’m also pleased that I have your genes, your blonde hair and blue eyes. Thank you for that.’ Justine smiled at her, loving her so much.

  ‘Very Aryan looking, aren’t we?’ Gabriele shook her head. ‘Irina was always drilling that into me.’

  Justine said, ‘What a wonderful friend she was to you.’

  ‘She certainly was…’ Gabriele’s voice trailed off; she studied her granddaughter for a moment. ‘I know you were surprised when you found out you were Jewish. Does it bother you, darling?’

  Justine’s blonde brows drew together in a frown and she threw Gabriele a puzzled stare. ‘Of course it doesn’t bother me! Why would it? I’m your granddaughter and that’s all that matters.’

  Gabriele was silent for a moment, thinking how blessed she was to have this amazing young woman in her life. There wasn’t a bad bone in Justine’s body. Nor a prejudiced one. She was an honest, straightforward, loving young woman with intelligence, perception and humanity. Who could ask for more?

  ‘You’re staring at me, Granny.’

  ‘Please don’t call me Granny, Justine. It makes me sound so old. I much prefer Gran. And I was staring at you because I was marvelling that you are part of me.’

  ‘And very much like you, Gran. I need to ask you a couple of questions… Please don’t be apprehensive. I’m not going to ask you to dig into your past. But I would love to know more about your friends from your wartime years. Princess Irina Troubetzkoy, for one. What happened to her? Did she remain in your life?’

  Gabriele smiled. It was a smile that illuminated her face, filled it with radiance. ‘She did. We had been so close in those terrifying years, that kind of bond always holds.’

  ‘Did she ever get married?’

  ‘No she didn’t. But she could have. She had many admirers, many proposals. She was beautiful, glamorous, and men found her most alluring,’ Gabriele replied, suddenly seeing the young Irina in her mind’s eye, remembering so much.

  ‘So why didn’t she marry any of them?’

  ‘I used to wonder that myself, Justine. I didn’t find out until the Fifties. One day in Paris she told me that Sigmund Westheim had been her one great love. Not that they were involved. There was no affair. He was married to Ursula. They were just friends. But she was in love with
him.’

  ‘I understand. It is one of those awful things that can happen between men and women. It’s so sad, unrequited love.’

  ‘She did actually enjoy her life,’ Gabriele went on. ‘She was very popular socially, always in demand. And she did eventually have Maximilian in her life.’

  ‘Do you mean the Westheims’ son?’

  ‘That’s right. Irina saved his life, you know, and the life of Theodora Stein, a friend of the family who acted as Maxim’s nanny. Irina managed to get three exit visas for the Westheims. In 1939. From Admiral Canaris. Sigi wouldn’t go, he wouldn’t leave his mother and two sisters behind in Berlin. But Canaris could not always produce the exit visas just like that. In the end, Ursula took Maxim and Teddy out. She sent them to England, to live with Teddy’s aunt. Then she returned to Berlin to be with Sigi. A fatal decision, as you know. Maxim grew up in London. Teddy was like a mother to him. He is a brilliant man and he became very successful. You would know him today as Sir Maxim West.’

  ‘The international tycoon! Wow! He’s gorgeous as well as clever, Gran.’ Justine looked impressed. ‘Imagine that!’

  ‘He is and always was good looking. Somewhat like Michael in appearance, wouldn’t you say?’ Gabriele murmured, smiling at her.

  ‘Yes, that’s true. But what do you mean about Irina and Maxim? I’m not following you.’

  ‘After the war, Teddy went back to Berlin to look for Maxim’s parents, Ursula and Sigi. She couldn’t find them. She did manage to find Irina. It was a fluke. And through the princess she learned what had happened to Sigi and Ursula; to my parents and the von Tiegals. They were a close-knit group, along with the von Wittingens and Dieter Müller and Louise. Anyway, Teddy went back to London, gave Maxim the tragic news. When he grew up and became successful he went to Berlin to see Irina. From that moment on he took care of her financially. The old baron had left her some money when he died, but not much. Maxim invested that for her, and added to it. He treated her like family.’

  ‘What a wonderful thing to do. And did you continue to see Irina?’

  ‘I did. When I lived in London she came to visit me. Sometimes we met in Paris. Or Berlin. But Irina was a bit like Anita. She didn’t want to travel. She felt safe in Berlin. Just as Anita is a stay-at-home, and feels safest in Istanbul.’

  ‘I can understand that, Gran. What happened to Arabella? She was the last of the Roedean girls, wasn’t she?’

  Gabriele’s face changed slightly. ‘She was, yes. She moved between Zurich and Munich for a while. However, she was never really herself again. And then, in the early Fifties, Dieter stumbled on a strange story. Germans, mostly civilians, who had been arrested by the Russians when Germany surrendered, were finally being released from Lubyanka Prison in Moscow. There was talk amongst them about a German, an aristocrat, who was kept in solitary confinement. They said he had been there since 1945. His age and physical description fitted Kurt.’

  ‘And was it Kurt von Wittingen?’ Justine asked, her curiosity aroused more than ever.

  ‘We never found out. The Russians denied there was any prisoner at all. But naturally what it did was give poor Arabella hope. Which was fatal.’

  ‘I can imagine. Did she become confused again?’

  ‘Worse than that, Justine. Deranged. Diana had a difficult time with her.’

  ‘And you never found out anything? Whether it was Kurt or not?’ Justine’s intense gaze was focused on Gabriele.

  ‘Not exactly. The world did learn about a Swedish diplomat called Raoul Wallenberg—’

  ‘But of course, Gran! I’ve heard all about him. He rescued people, mostly Jews, got them out of Hungary. He was a bit like Admiral Canaris. He was considered a great hero, wasn’t he? Didn’t he die in Lubyanka?’

  ‘Supposedly,’ Gabriele answered quietly. ‘He had been arrested on suspicion of being a spy for the Americans. In 1945. Or so it went. The Russians denied he was ever there. There were so many different stories at the time and, later, no one knew what to believe. However, I believe that Kurt von Wittingen was never taken by the KGB. Or in Lubyanka Prison. I think the prisoner was Raoul Wallenberg. Irina and I always felt Kurt had been killed in the last-ditch fighting in Berlin. And that very simply his body was never found.’

  Justine nodded, her eyes full of sorrow. ‘How terrible for the von Wittingens. Never really knowing the fate of Kurt.’

  ‘Oh, I think Diana and Christian believed the same as us. Well, they led us to believe this. And Arabella became very ill in the Eighties. She died in 1990.’

  ‘And Diana and Christian?’

  ‘Neither of them married. They’re devoted to each other and live at a small Schloss called Wittingenhoff in Bavaria.’ Gabriele turned her head, looked at Justine, finished, ‘They’re very devoted to me. I hear from them all the time. And sometimes I meet with Diana in London, or Berlin. We go back so far, darling – why, we were children together.’

  ‘I know you were, Gran. And do you still go to Berlin? Or does it hold too many bad memories for you?’

  ‘It does in a sense; on the other hand, part of my life was lived there.’ Gabriele sat up straighter on the sofa, looked at her granddaughter. ‘Can you imagine, I was actually in Berlin on November the ninth, in 1989, when that dreadful wall came down. The following evening I met up with Maxim, Irina, Teddy and Anastasia, Maxim’s former wife, whom he eventually remarried. The whole week was like a huge street party, something special to be a part of.’ She leaned back against the cushions, looked off into the distance, remained silent.

  ‘Gran, what happened with Gretchen? Did she ever show up?’

  ‘No. But I still think about her and little Andreas. They might be alive. She had become odd. I often thought she’d killed the child and herself. I just don’t know. A mystery. But it haunts me. I told Anita about it years ago and she agrees with me. It was all very strange.’

  Justine watched her, thinking how beautiful she was for a woman about to celebrate her eightieth birthday in June. She reached out, took hold of Gabri’s hand, squeezed it. ‘You’re looking so sad, Gran. She died, didn’t she? Irina.’

  Gabriele nodded, thinking again how perceptive Justine was. ‘Yes, she did. But she was ninety. Imagine that. She died in her sleep in 2001. Just slipped away peacefully. In Berlin. Which, despite everything, was a city she had always loved. And after all she’d lost and suffered, she did live a grand life, and she was beautiful right to the end. I still think of her. And quite often.’

  ‘However did the two of you manage in that hole?’ Justine wondered aloud, trying to imagine that.

  Gabriele laughed, ‘Our little abode, she always called it. We managed because we had to, Justine. We were scrupulously neat. Kept our few bits and pieces in the wine racks. And in the silver cupboards. We shared the food and water. We were controlled. And we gave each other a lot of privacy. It was two cellars, you know. We were often a bit irritable, but we stuck it out. Through a great effort on our parts.’

  ‘I liked the sound of Dieter Müller when I was reading the notebook. Is he still alive?’

  ‘I’m afraid he died in 1996. He was the same age as Irina. He made a big success of his newspaper. It is now run by his two sons.’

  Gabriele took out a tissue and blew her nose, patted her eyes. ‘All this talk about my old friends is making me far too sad,’ she said, and then smiled. ‘Dieter felt so responsible for us. He thought if he didn’t look after us properly he’d be letting Kurt down. He was a good man.’

  ‘I felt that when I was reading your notebook, Gran. And I’m sorry if I’m making you sad. Just one more question. Okay?’

  Gabriele nodded. ‘Just one.’

  Justine said, ‘Peter Hardwicke was my grandfather. How did you meet up again after you left Berlin?’

  ‘I’d given him auntie Beryl’s address. He came calling. We started to date. Eventually we got married. We had a daughter, your mother, and things worked for a few years. But everything went wrong. He was nice
, but weak. He had a domineering mother, very snobbish. They were bigoted. Difficult. She never liked me, thought I wasn’t good enough. We sort of drifted apart …I think that’s the best way of describing it. My aunt Beryl always thought he wasn’t good enough for me. Oh dear. Families!’ She laughed. ‘I never thought of divorcing him, you know, because of your mother. Then he died suddenly of congestive heart failure. I was sorrowful, and yet I remember having a sense of liberation.’

  ‘So it wasn’t the great marriage Mom has always maintained. The fabulous love match?’

  ‘No, it wasn’t, Justine. Now, enough of the past. Let’s go in and have tea. I’m sure Anita’s chomping at the bit to see you. And no doubt Mehmet’s gone to town on the preparations. It’s going to be a fancy Ritz tea once again, knowing Anita.’

  Justine rose, waited for Gabriele to stand up on her own, not wanting to be chastised for helping her grandmother. She saw Michael out of the corner of her eye, and waved to him, her heart leaping.

  A moment later he was hugging Gabriele and then kissing her cheek. Against her ear he said, ‘I’ve missed you, babe.’

  She laughed. ‘You’ve only been gone an hour.’

  ‘It seemed like a lifetime.’

  FIFTY

  Anita was waiting for them in the gold room. As usual she wore a lovely silk caftan and as she hurried towards them she did so in a swirl of blues and greens. ‘There you are, my darling!’ she exclaimed the moment she saw Justine. ‘Gabri’s missed you! I’ve missed you! I can’t tell you how easy you are to get used to. You’re positively addictive.’