by Annie Murray
Evidently their family lived in an apartment in Charlottenburg. As he describes it – and Annaliese too – they must be rather grand houses not too far from the Fasenenstrasse Synagogue. They had big stairwells, the stairs winding up and up, and the inside was quite ornate with heavy furniture. (They don’t live like that now. The apartment in Haifa is very simple.) They also had a house meister and a maid and cook. Now they just have Elena, a Christian woman who comes to clean the apartment! Apparently when Gerda and my father were courting they used to meet after work on a street called Kurfürstendamm for coffee and cakes. The Germans seem to like their coffee and cakes!
Since my last visit, Hermann has been talking a lot about someone he met in one of the camps. It’s obviously preying on his mind. He does not mention what his connection is with this man except it is obvious he must have been in the British Army which went into Bergen-Belsen. He remembers the man’s address from the time as if he is reading it from a piece of paper, and says he meant to write to him after he arrived in Israel, but never did. I asked him why he does not write now but he avoided the question. Often when I ask him anything direct his gaze drifts away towards the window as if he has not heard what I said. I have to be very careful – he is so fragile. But he has spoken of this man several times now. I know it is a very big thing to ask you, Mum, but I wondered if you would perhaps write to this address for me and see if he is still there? His name is Anatoli Gruschov. I know that is a Russian name, but he was definitely in the British Army. Perhaps we could even meet him one day?
Anyway, things are going well here otherwise. Gila says I am beginning to look like a Sabra so I must be doing something right!
With very much love to you both. I will write again soon!
David xxx
Frances watched over the top of her spectacles as Edie folded up the letter. Edie looked across and smiled. She had read it through several times.
‘His friend Gila seems to be getting a lot of mention,’ Frances remarked. ‘I wonder if our David is having his heart stolen away by this fierce Sabra!’
‘Well,’ Edie said non-committally. ‘He’s only going to be there for another two months.’
‘What an interesting letter.’
‘Yes—’ Edie was barely listening. After a moment she took the letter and went out into the garden. It was evening and there were birds singing. She took a deep breath of blossom-filled air. Reading David’s letters from Israel had been tough at first, especially when he found his father and aunt. But abiding by her decision that she had to let him go where he needed to go, she wrote to him and said that she would like him to share his experiences with them, not feel he had to hide away his discovery of his family for fear of hurting her feelings. Tears in her eyes, she wrote, struggling for every ounce of generosity she could muster:
There is more than one way of being a mother or a father. I have always known you were not my flesh and blood and I understand that you need to find out where you came from – I’m sorry if I have made it difficult for you. I was so frightened of losing you. But whatever happens, you’re my boy and I will always love you. The kind of mothering I have given you is the sort made of all the time we have spent together, all the memories we have collected and the love we’ve shared. I know that you value this and you always will.
She was quite surprised at herself writing all this down. They were a household which didn’t normally go in for outpourings of emotion. Still, she thought, sealing the envelope. You can spend your whole life not saying things, and then it’s too late.
Standing in the garden, she thought about David’s request that she write to the Russian man. For some reason she felt resistant towards doing it, but she knew this stemmed from the old jealousy of all these people David was associating with now. And increasingly she trusted David’s judgement. He hadn’t just danced to every tune the Leishmanns played, had he? They had wanted him to go to an Orthodox kibbutz in the Negev desert, but David had said that felt ‘too much’ and had chosen a secular kibbutz for himself. And all she had to do was find out if the Russian man still lived there – that wasn’t much to ask, was it?
The same evening she dropped a little note of enquiry into the post to the London address at the bottom of David’s letter. She only put in the barest explanation of the connection with Hermann Mayer in Israel. After all, this Mr Gruschov had most likely moved on years ago anyway.
Forty-Six
Edie had a reply from Mr Anatoli Gruschov almost by return of post, written on pale blue paper in a beautiful copperplate hand. The letter confirmed that he was still residing at his address in Wimbledon and that he did remember a Hermann Mayer from his brief time in Bergen-Belsen. The letter was very courteous, but concise to the point of curtness.
‘Well,’ Edie held it out to Frances. ‘That’s short and sweet. I’ll send it on to Davey.’
Frances read the note. ‘I’m surprised he even remembers Hermann Mayer – or any names. Think what it was like – thousands upon thousands all in a desperate state.’
Edie decided that now they were sure of the address, if either David or his father wanted to pursue it further it would be up to them. But before she had even got round to sending Gruschov’s note to them, the next day another letter arrived.
Dear Mrs Weale,
I hope you will forgive me for troubling you again. When I received your letter I was rather surprised and replied instantly and in too much haste. You do not explain the exact reason for your inquiry, but I am assuming you have some personal connection with Hermann Mayer. When I encountered him in the Bergen-Belsen camp he was in a most pitiful condition. Now I have had time to reflect on this painful period I wonder what news there is of him and feel it callous of me not to have enquired when I wrote to you yesterday.
I wonder if you would do me the great honour of calling on me? I am now working again so it would only be feasible for me on a Saturday or Sunday. It would be a great delight to welcome you to my house and to spend some time in your no doubt charming company.
Let me know a date at your convenience.
Yours sincerely,
Anatoli Gruschov.
‘What a blooming cheek!’ Edie exclaimed on reading it. ‘Didn’t he notice my address? Does he seriously expect me to go trekking all the way down to London to see him? He sounds a bit of a case!’
‘Actually,’ Frances contradicted her. ‘I think he sounds rather nice. Gentlemanly. And rather melancholy. Perhaps he’s lonely.’
Edie was just about to retort that if someone was lonely then maybe they needed to ask themselves why, when she remembered that lately she had felt increasingly lonely herself. That didn’t make her barmy or dangerous to know, did it?
‘He might think it rude to invite himself to visit us.’ Frances looked thoughtfully at Edie. She had long been concerned about her, always cooped up here. She was a young woman still – she ought to get out and about!
‘May I make a suggestion? How about buying yourself a ticket for a very early train on Saturday – or the one after? You could spend the morning looking round a gallery – there are all those marvellous paintings down there that you’ve never had the chance to see. Think of that as your main reason for going – and you could go and see Mr Gruschov afterwards and get a train back in the evening. How about that? And David will be delighted, since he asked you specially to find out.’
Edie looked up, astonished, shaking her coppery locks back from her face.
‘You seriously think I should go?’
Frances smiled. ‘Go on – for goodness sake, treat yourself to a day out.’
It suddenly became ridiculously important what she was to wear that Saturday. Persuaded by Frances, Edie dropped a line to say she would come a week on Saturday if that was convenient, and Anatoli Gruschov wrote a very courteous reply by return of post to say that he would be honoured to welcome her. Beforehand, Edie planned to visit the National Gallery, a thought which made her tingle with excitement. What a
very grand thing to do!
‘It’s not as if I’ve got a wardrobe full of things to choose from, is it!’ she said to Frances. ‘I just feel everything’s a bit drab.’ She stood in front of her cupboard, looking at her three summer dresses. They all looked even more faded and unexciting than she remembered. She’d had two of them for years. ‘And it might be cold when I set off.’
‘Well,’ Frances said. ‘Go and treat yourself to a frock as well. You can always wear stockings to start off with. After all – what are you saving your money for? You can’t take it with you!’
So the first Saturday she went into town and had a wonderful time trying on dresses and wondering why she didn’t indulge herself more often. She had still not broken the scrimping, make-do-and-mend wartime attitudes, even though they were no longer strictly necessary, as well as the simple Quaker tastes by which she was surrounded. But that afternoon she rediscovered the pleasure of buying something new and feminine. She found a pretty dress, cream with large sage green leaves all over it, and a full, flowing skirt. That shade of green looked lovely on her, setting off her eyes and hair, and the sleeves ended just above her elbows: long enough to hide her scar. At the waist there was a white belt, and to go with it she bought a pair of little white shoes with bows on the front, some sheer stockings and a white cardigan with three-quarter length sleeves. Togged up in front of the mirror at home in her whole new outfit she already felt better. She brushed her hair out and pinned it up, leaving the shorter strands at the front round her heart-shaped face, and smiled at herself.
‘I s’pose you’re not so bad,’ she told her reflection, with a wink. She was so excited at the thought of the art gallery! She had been concentrating so hard and for so long on being David’s mother, she had almost forgotten there were any other aspects of life.
The following Saturday in fact turned out very warm, and it was mild when Edie set off at seven into the quiet morning street, dew on the grass and the heads of roses in the front garden. She enjoyed the novelty of all of it – the journey down to London and learning how to use the Underground, the pleasure of stepping out into the sunshine in Trafalgar Square with its lions, the pigeons fluttering across it. But she eyed the grand frontage of the National Gallery with some trepidation. Was she really allowed just to go in there and walk round for as long as she liked? But, once inside, she was completely absorbed for the rest of the morning, wandering the long, stately galleries, feasting on the sight of picture after picture. When she came out again it was as if she had woken up from a dream, and her heart thudded at the thought that now she had to go and see the stranger in Wimbledon. Why on earth had she said she’d go? She found a Lyons Corner House and sat down for lunch, suddenly exhausted. Until she’d had a rest and a bite to eat she couldn’t go a step further!
Anatoli Gruschov’s house was one of a line of suburban brick villas in a featureless Wimbledon street. By the time Edie arrived it was three o’clock, she felt tired and sticky and the soles of her feet were burning in the heat.
She stood in the porch with her cardigan over her arm. There was nothing at all distinctive about the place except that it had a rather run-down look. The windows were not very clean, the paintwork desperately needed attention, and blown into a corner of the porch was a gathering of leaves and litter, the scruffiness of which increased her sense of misgiving. What on earth was she doing here?
No point in giving myself time to get any more nervous, she thought, and rattled the dull knocker, which had obviously not been polished for years. She jumped violently a moment later as the latch rattled. From the dark hall emerged a man of middling height, with a magnificent head of wavy hair of a pewter grey and liquid brown eyes which twinkled at her out of a wide, amiable face.
‘Ah!’ he exclaimed, holding out his hand. When Edie took it it felt warm and strong. ‘You must be Mrs Weale. Come in – you are very welcome.’
‘Thank you.’ Edie stepped inside and he closed the door. She had expected him to sound different, more Russian, but though there was the slightest foreign turn to his voice, he spoke beautiful English.
‘Come through to the back, my dear – it’s more comfortable, even if not tidier, I’m afraid.’ He led her along the hall.
The house may not have been distinctive from the outside, but Anatoli Gruschov’s living-room had a very definite character of its own. At the back were glass doors, flung open on to a chaotic-looking patch of garden, through which the sun was streaming in, accompanied by a languid breeze. Inside, the room was the most cluttered Edie had ever seen. It’s like a nest! she thought, almost laughing in astonishment.
Across the middle was a large sofa covered in a worn gold brocade, and several tapestry cushions. But there was no space to sit down because piled all over it were heaps of paper, chiefly sheet music. A table, the rosewood desk positioned in one corner, the other two chairs and the grand piano were likewise encumbered and papers spilled on to the floor, the lino and colourful old rugs. All along the side walls were shelves reaching up to the ceiling, sagging with books, many with faded brown and blue leather spines, as well as some newer editions and piles of old newspapers. Leaning against the books was a hotch-potch of photographs, letters and cards, icons with burnished gold backgrounds and flat-faced saints, a pair of brass candlesticks and, inserted in a couple of places, pot plants which trailed strands of ivy down as far as the floor. There were pictures on the remaining walls in old gold frames and on the piano, along with the music, lay two violins with their bows alongside them, lumps of rosin, and several china cups minus their saucers. The violin cases were on the floor, along with an assortment of all kinds of other things: umbrella, straw hat, dog lead and several empty jam jars. The room did not smell of neglect, but rather gave off a whiff of old paper and camphor. The whole effect was of a jumbly, busy, rather attractive cosiness and Edie found herself smiling.
‘Now—’ Anatoli was saying, busily clearing the settee of heaps of music scores. ‘I have been tidying up, but as you see there is still some way to go . . .’ She watched him with amusement. He was a compact, quite powerful-looking man, dressed in soft-looking grey flannel trousers and a baggy jumper, knitted in a black and brown blend of wool, which looked excessive for the weather. ‘There!’ he exclaimed in triumph as the seat of the settee made what was clearly an unusual appearance. ‘You can sit – and I will make tea,’ he said with enthusiasm. ‘Would you like tea? The kettle should be boiled by now. I have cakes!’
‘That’d be very nice.’ Edie perched on the settee and smiled up at him. ‘Thank you.’
He disappeared for a few moments and Edie sat looking round and wondering what on earth the kitchen must look like. She was just thinking that Mr Gruschov must be a bachelor when she caught sight of a number of photographs on the side table. Quickly she got up to look. In an ornate silver frame was a wedding photograph, very clearly of Anatoli, standing up straight and proud, his hair then black and swept back from his strong, handsome face. On his arm, veil lifted back from her face, was a woman of a beauty fit to match his, with a distinctive, dark-eyed face. Both of them looked solemn for this momentous occasion.
‘That’s my wife, Margot – our wedding day.’
Edie jumped back, embarrassed.
‘I’m sorry – I’m ever so nosy.’
‘Of course. That’s quite natural. You know nothing about me.’ He seemed genuinely unbothered by her curiosity, and laid the tea tray on top of the papers on the low coffee table.
‘Is she Russian as well?’ Edie asked.
‘Margot? No. She was English. She is not with me any more, I’m afraid to say – she died two years ago.’
‘I’m so sorry,’ Edie said. ‘That’s very sad.’
‘Yes,’ he agreed, sounding almost surprised to hear this fact identified. ‘It is. But she was suffering. I am happy that she does not suffer any more. It’s terrible to watch. I have two children: my son is in Canada, and my daughter married last year and lives in Brighton.�
�� He leaned forwards and rubbed his hands. ‘Now – I hope you like chocolate éclairs.’
On the tray, alongside a large brown teapot which must have held enough tea for ten, was a tiny plate of Rich Tea biscuits and another large serving dish, in the middle of which he had ceremoniously laid two enormous chocolate éclairs oozing with cream.
‘Ooh yes,’ Edie said, beginning to feel she had joined in a kind of Mad Hatter’s tea party and quite prepared to enjoy it.