by Diana Finley
Dr Khan’s house is a modest two-storey building of sandstone blocks around a cool courtyard. It is the height of summer, and Anna is shown to a table in the courtyard, shaded by two drooping olive trees. The child, Shafia, is brought to meet her by her mother Rahima. Shafia smiles shyly at Anna. She is small for her age. Anna gestures to her to sit beside her, and says slowly in English, ‘Come, Shafia, sit here.’
Shafia’s smile broadens and she whispers, ‘yes.’
Rahima places a tray of tea on the table beside Anna, and gestures for her to help herself. They start with greetings: hello, good afternoon, how are you? My name is Anna, what is your name? Shafia is a quick learner. She works eagerly at the homework Anna leaves for her to complete before her next visit. Dr Khan and Rahima are delighted with Shafia’s progress.
After two months of lessons, Anna notices a disturbing itching. She consults her own doctor. To Anna’s horror, he tells her she has body lice, and provides a lotion to be used for a week, day and night. Her clothes and bedding have to be boiled.
‘Why didn’t you tell me you were going on a bus? What do you expect travelling with local people? I can’t believe you’d be so naive.’ Jakob has little sympathy.
‘They are good people, just poor.’
‘Why are you so secretive, Anna?’ he complains.
She dreads having to explain to the Khan family that her husband is not happy with her travelling so far to the lessons, but in the event, Dr Khan himself tells her he feels it would be safer for her not to come any more. He has many Jewish patients who value his gentle, polite manner and his medical expertise, but he has been warned off by Arab nationalists who consider him a Jew-lover, disloyal to his own people. Dr Khan is concerned that Anna herself may be regarded with suspicion, and does not want to put her at any risk. Anna finds it hard to believe that any of the friendly, hospitable people, such as those who welcomed her on the bus, could really wish her any harm. She is deeply pained by Shafia’s sad, disappointed face, when she explains that she cannot come again.
* * *
In September 1939, despite all Anna’s objections, Jakob insists on making the journey back to Vienna. Anna and Yael pack his small case with warm clothes for the imminent winter in Europe. What little money can be spared is sewn painstakingly into the linings of his jackets. Yael brings him a gold necklace and earrings belonging to her grandmother. Jakob shakes his head.
‘Yael, I can’t …’
‘Jakob, you must. Bribes are all that might keep you alive.’
Somehow Jakob makes his way back to Vienna. Anna receives a short letter from him a few months after his arrival. The remaining family members are alive and in reasonable health. He writes cryptically of ‘shortages’ and the ‘necessary move’ to a different part of the city. This letter is followed by total silence for a year and a half. Anna is nearly mad with anxiety, her life suspended. Then out of the blue a brief note arrives, posted in Italy, from Fritz Henkelmann, Jakob’s Roman Catholic former school friend. It reads:
‘Dear Anna, Sincere condolences. Jakob, mother and grandmother have all passed away. Artur transported. Bless you. Fritz H.’
More than two years later Anna learns that Jakob, his mother and grandmother had been transported by train to Auschwitz. The women died in the gas chambers immediately after arrival. As a fit young man, Jakob was selected for work duties in the camp, and survived for many months. Weakened by starvation, he died of typhus, probably late in 1941 or early in 1942.
Anna is inconsolable, wild with grief. She does not know what to do with herself. What is she doing here, alive, alone? What future is there?
‘It is all my fault.’ She looks at Yael. ‘I didn’t even love him, not as I should have.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ Yael responds fiercely. ‘Did you bring Hitler to power? Did you build the death camps? Did you force Jakob to return to Austria? No, you tried to stop him.’
Yael pulls Anna to the window. Outside, as often, a gaunt, haunted-looking man, a neighbour, is on his knees in the central square, tending the flowers. Anna has greeted him often and received a polite nod in response. Otherwise he has never spoken.
‘What do you see?’
‘I see old Boris, in the garden …’
‘“Old Boris”. He looks like an old man, doesn’t he, but actually he’s younger than me. Let me tell you about Boris. The Nazis made him watch while they put his young sons in a barrel stuck with nails and rolled them down a hill over and over again, for their own amusement and entertainment. He’s lost his parents, his wife, and his children, and why? Because he committed the crime as a Christian of marrying a Jew, and allowing his children to be brought up as Jews. He was a doctor – a paediatrician – but he refused to experiment on Jewish babies for the Nazis. So they tortured him and killed everyone he loved. That’s what they do, Anna. It wasn’t his fault. Jakob’s death isn’t your fault. Now you can do one thing only, like the rest of us. Like Boris. Live! Live as best you can. It’s what Jakob would have wanted.’
Anna is desperate for news of her father. It is only years later that she discovers that Artur, ever resourceful and a natural survivor, bribed a guard to turn a blind eye, and escaped by jumping from a train. After a long and perilous journey on foot, he made his way over the border to Yugoslavia, where he was helped by partisans. He eventually reached England, exhausted, with nothing but the clothes he was wearing. He was offered refuge by Quakers, given food, clothes and shelter, and in time was reunited with his youngest daughter Margaret and her family.
* * *
Slowly, time passes and some of the acuteness of pain is blunted. Anna settles into a routine, and eventually even a degree of contentment. After several years in Palestine, she is still not acclimatised to the extreme heat of summer. During the hot weather, she leaves the house in the relative cool of the early morning and walks to the city centre. During the long lunch hours she sits in a shady park reading, or studying to improve her English and Hebrew.
On one occasion, a colleague at work, a manager in the menswear department, asks her out for a drink. Anna agrees to meet him the following evening, but then regrets her decision.
‘I’ll have to tell him I’ve changed my mind, that I can’t go.’
‘Why not? What’s he called? Is he hideous or what?’ asks Yael.
‘His name is Ariel Fiedler, and no, he’s not hideous – he’s quite good-looking. But I feel nothing for him. I wouldn’t know what to say to him.’
‘Nonsense! Are you going to live like a nun for the rest of your life?’
‘Probably.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous! He’s just asked you to join him for a drink, not a wild night of passionate lovemaking.’
‘Why don’t you go instead?’
‘Because he hasn’t asked me – he’s asked you.’
Rachel has been watching Anna and her mother’s exchange.
‘He probably likes you because you’re pretty, Anna,’ she says. ‘You should go out with him. Maybe you’d have a nice time.’
‘There you are,’ says Yael. ‘Out of the mouths of babes!’
* * *
One evening, Yael brings home a length of fine black material and some pieces of cream cotton and lace.
‘Look here, turn it to the light. See how it gleams when the sun shines on it.’
Anna looks, and touches. ‘Where did you get it? How did you pay for it?’
‘Now don’t you turn into Jakob! I got it in the market, and I bargained for it. It’s for you. Are you going to go on wearing your work dress for ever? Have you looked at it lately? I’m surprised Maya hasn’t said anything.’
It is true. The black dress Anna was once so proud of is now irreparably old and faded, the fabric rough and pilled. How is it that she has worn it for so long without noticing? She picks up the new material and strokes its softness, seeing in her mind the exact cut of the new dress, how it would fit her waist, skim her hips and then hang crisply to the hem
. The treadle, which has lain unused in the kitchen cupboard for two years, is soon heaving and whirring by the window.
After work, Anna begins attending an evening class in shorthand and typing. She loves it. She buys a second-hand typewriter on which to practise. She and Rachel have fun setting each other silly sentences or nonsense words to type. Anna’s fingers quickly learn to interpret the letters automatically, as a pianist’s interpret written notes. The appearance and growth of text in response to her unconscious tapping seems almost magical.
The British Army has advertised for shorthand typists. After all her time at Spinney’s, Anna feels the need for a change, a new direction. The new dress will do just as well in a different job. She is interviewed by a brisk but not unfriendly female officer.
‘Your speeds are quite impressive, Mrs Wiener, but your English is not yet perfect, is it?’
‘No, but I do understand almost everything. And I am continuing to study English, and Hebrew.’
‘Hebrew won’t help much here. You do realise that not all your countrymen will approve of you working for the British Army?’
‘Yes, I understand.’
‘Very well. You could begin next week.’
Anna’s new responsibilities are to provide administrative support for four senior officer instructors in the Training sector. The office is large and light, and contains four desks, the condition of each reflecting the personality of its user: Major Hamilton-Thomas’s is stacked with papers in meaningful piles, Major Blythe’s as obsessively neat as a parade ground, Lt Colonel Hampson’s as untidy and tousled as a rook’s nest, and Colonel Lawrence’s ordered with careful logic. They are friendly and welcoming, and always appreciative of her contribution. Anna enjoys the light-hearted and very masculine banter, at first just between the men but gradually including her too, even though she does not always understand the subtleties of their humour. She comes to know and like all four men, but after a time she becomes aware in particular of Colonel Sam Lawrence. His eyes seem to follow her round the room, not in a predatory way, but with great interest.
Chapter 7
1946
London musters one of its foulest days of enveloping yellow-grey smog for their departure, as if wanting to squeeze them bodily from its streets. Anna is quite willing to be expelled, but in the station gusts of steam and smuts add to the vile air and she worries about Ben’s breathing. She pulls his little scarf up to cover his nose and mouth. He immediately yanks it down with a happy chuckle, thinking she is playing peekaboo with him. Constance shakes her head and laughs. She has accompanied them from Surrey to Waterloo. Anna is grateful for that. She and Constance have finally come to a tentative understanding of one another, Constance as close to extending friendship as she can be.
‘Did you think that wretched porter looked reliable? He seemed a bit slow-witted to me. I hope to goodness he’s put your luggage on the right train. Anna, are you sure Sam knows what time you’re due to arrive?’
‘Yes, of course. Really, Constance, don’t worry. You know what he’s like about organising me. I’ve enough instructions to fill a book: exactly where to be and at what time; what to eat and what not; even what to tip the taxi driver!’
‘Such a long journey. Benjamin will be very tired, and you too, poor girl, by the time you get there.’
‘He’ll go to sleep on the train. Anyway, it’ll be worth it to be with Sam again.’
‘I bet he can’t wait to see you both.’ She pauses and looks at Anna. ‘It’s not going to be easy though, is it? Living in Germany, I mean. Have you thought about it much?’
‘I’ve thought of little else these last few weeks. Sometimes I’m terrified. I guess it’ll help that I speak German.’
‘Yes, I wasn’t just thinking of how you’ll get on with the Germans. Army life is strange too. Some of those army wives are a pretty rum lot.’
‘Sam said some of them expect to take on their husband’s rank themselves!’
‘Exactly, and you’ll be Mrs Brigadier. They may not like a … foreigner … in that position.’
‘Mmm. Well, I’ll just have to do my best. You know I’m not used to these British social hierarchies.’
‘Well, I don’t suppose they’ll appreciate your socialist ideals much either, darling. I’d keep quiet about all that.’
They embrace with genuine warmth. Constance kisses Ben.
‘Goodbye, little sweetie. We’ll miss you.’
Ben smiles uncomprehendingly and waves his hand. Anna’s throat contracts and tears prick her eyes. To her surprise, Constance’s large blue eyes are swimming too. She sniffs and dabs at them with her handkerchief.
‘Do write and let us know how you get on,’ she says stiffly.
* * *
The house, built around the turn of the century, stands large and solid, surrounded by an expansive overgrown garden. The walls have once been rendered white, but now the surface is patchy and stained in places. In the centre, a massive oak front door is guarded by two pretentious columns. To one side, tall windows punctuate the walls, which descend in stepped sections from the roof to a ground-level room. On the other side, the house rises more sharply to three storeys. The steeply angled tiled roofs of traditional German style look in good condition. A driveway curves symmetrically with rampant trees and shrubs beyond, swaying wildly in the wind. The frontage has an air of gracious living, now faded and worn. Great flakes of sleet sting their necks and faces, melting wetly on contact with their skin. She takes a deep breath. Sam holds her firmly round the waist.
‘All right?’
‘Yes,’ she says. ‘Into battle.’
Inside, Ben squirms in Anna’s arms, impatient to explore. She presses her face into the soft, warm tufts at the back of his neck, absorbing the comfort of his smell, then puts him down on the floor. He immediately crawls away, and then sits up uncertainly. Looking round and realising he is in unfamiliar territory, he heads rapidly back towards his father.
‘Da-da, da-da.’
Sam crouches down to him.
Anna gazes about the spacious hallway. Black and cream tiles cover the floor. Most are in good condition, only a few chipped or broken, and the surface looks scrubbed clean. The ceiling is high and domed, encrusted with decorative plasterwork, stained from cigarette smoke but otherwise undamaged. A broad staircase branches into two at the first landing, each sweeping round and upwards. The deep maroon carpet looks scarcely trodden. The wooden banisters are polished to a rich chestnut shine. Anna frowns. After Palestine’s functional simplicity, its determined egalitarianism, and England’s dreary shabbiness, who still lives in such opulence?
Reading her face, Sam turns to murmur in her ear. ‘Senior party official …’
She nods bitterly. Of course. Why should they not take over the house? Retribution is fine. She believes in retribution. The vanquishing forces claim their rights in requisitioned property. A searing aggression towards all Germans rises in her, a hatred pounding at her head like fever. Let them lose their homes, let them lose everything, let them suffer.
Sam strides onwards, Ben in his arms. A narrow passageway at the side of the hall leads to a large kitchen. They open the door and step inside. Three faces turn towards them, anxious, searching. As Sam and Anna approach them, all three stand up. Anna pauses, denying them her attention. Let them wait. She takes stock of the room. It is light and warm. A large black stove dominates one side, logs stacked neatly beside it. A wooden drying rack hangs above the stove, several towels dangling from its rails. Wooden cupboards span the other wall, and two large white sinks stand beneath the window. All the walls and woodwork are cream, freshly repainted.
Anna turns slowly to look at the people in the room, now watching her apprehensively. They have been sitting around a large scrubbed wooden table in the centre of the room. Nearest to Anna is a small solidly built woman of indeterminate age. She wears a frayed grey dress, heavily mended, with a pink apron tied at the waist. Her thin hair is cropped short an
d of a faded reddish colour, peppered with grey. Her face is almost colourless, the skin stretched over broad Slavic cheekbones. Her eyes are dark, alert and shining. As Anna approaches her, the woman looks straight into her face with an openness and directness she can’t help liking, despite the hard knot of rage clutching her heart.
‘Frau Selma Rausch,’ Sam says, as though announcing guests at a formal ball. ‘A nanny for this young man.’
Anna studies the woman for a long time and Frau Rausch holds her gaze unflinchingly. Will she share the care of her son with this woman? Will she trust the life of her child to this German woman? Hesitantly, reluctantly, Anna holds out her hand. Frau Rausch looks at the hand before her, and then clasps it eagerly, shaking it vigorously and smiling.
‘Willkommen, Gnädige Frau, willkommen!’
Who does she think she is, welcoming me to my own house? Anna’s anger is not easily relinquished, but the woman’s face is so frank and so full of undisguised pleasure that slowly, the lump in her chest softens and she returns the smile, just faintly. She finds herself patting the woman’s hand. Frau Rausch’s smile widens in response. She nods her head and pats Anna’s hand herself.
Anna withdraws her hand and moves on to greet the next figure, a tall, painfully thin woman with white hair screwed into an untidy bun. A bleached overall hangs loosely over bony shoulders. Her worn face looks as though the skin has somehow been sucked inwards until it clings tightly to the fragile bone structure, creating an intricate delta of fine wrinkles. Her expression is impassive, distant, her eyes listless. She looks barely alive.
‘Frau Helga Stammel – known as Maggi,’ says Sam. ‘Our new cook. It’ll take all Maggi’s imagination to make something edible of the rations.’