The Violin

by Lindsay Pritchard

  Her parents, stifling their criticisms, and shielding their daughter from the stigma of falling pregnant and producing a bastard child, now tried to be supportive. After all, the father was missing in action, presumed dead.

  “Well, it’s not the child’s fault,” said Eve Crostwick, “so we’d better make the best of it. Little mite will have enough problems in the Coram’s Orphanage in Redhill.”

  The Crostwicks had arranged for Dr McCracken and Ellen, the homely local midwife, to be present at the birth. Nancy’s labour was long and painful with imprecations directed forcefully towards the absent father. After some thirty-six hours, Dr McCracken advised the Crostwicks of complications.

  “It’s a breech baby. Difficult. We don’t know if it’s a full or partial breech but it does present dangers.”

  “What are they?” asked Eve anxiously.

  “Well, first there is a danger to the child. If the umbilical cord gets compressed then the blood supply to the brain can be interrupted. The longer that happens, the greater the danger.”

  “And what about Nancy?” asked Eve.

  “She’s a strong girl, I’ll give her that. But with something like this I would ideally have liked her to be in the Cottage Hospital and deliver the child through a caesarean. Too late to move her now. But there is a danger, particularly with a first child, that a breech birth will damage her and we cannot rule out some sort of trauma or haemorrhage. Of course, we will do all we can for her but you need to know there is a serious risk that she is in danger.”

  “Oh my God,” said Eve. “Please, please, Doctor, do what you can for her. For both of them.”

  A few hours later, Dr McCracken came slowly down the stairs and spoke to the Crostwicks, waiting in the front parlour.

  “As we suspected, it was a breech. The baby – a girl – is fine and healthy and making a lot of noise as you can hear,” he said.

  “And… Nancy…?” added Eve.

  Dr McCracken looked grimly at the floor, his face a rictus of concern.

  CHAPTER FORTY

  By the early spring of 1945, Ruth had been a captive in Theresienstadt and before that Dachau for five years. As a musician in the ghetto, she had avoided the fate of many who had been transported in railway boxcars to Auschwitz and Belsen, never to be seen or heard of again. The musicians had a propaganda value in case of prying eyes from international observers. They were still, however, living in insanitary conditions on starvation rations with no medical attention. Ruth had always been a slight bird-like girl with delicate features and small hands. After years of subsisting on stale bread, cabbage broth and occasional horsemeat, she had shrunk to skeletal proportions. Her teeth had long ago fallen out, her hair was lank and thin and her posture was stooped. As her body failed, her spirit remained indomitable. She told herself, ‘You will survive. There will be an end to this. Someone will come and get you but until then you must live in the world of music. One day your story will be told and some good will come of this.’

  In that spring of 1945, the atmosphere in the camp seemed to turn. The guards seemed ill at ease and they were seen to be whispering to each other and shaking heads. In parallel, there were increasing clearances of inmates who could be seen shuffling from the camp and into lorries and onto railway wagons. Thousands disappeared weekly. Ruth and the other musicians in the ghetto agreed to lie low and not to attract attention to themselves. At the end of April, there was a rumour that the camp commandant Martin Weiss had fled the camp together with guards and SS officers. A lower ranking officer, Heinrich Wicker, was left in charge with around a hundred men and guard dogs.

  Outside the camp, on April 29th, an American infantry division approached the Dachau complex. They found lorries and railway wagons filled with thousands of corpses. The sight of naked emaciated corpses, including children, and the smell of decaying bodies, vomit and excrement drove the US soldiers into a state of distress and rage.

  Inside the ghetto, the inmates heard the sound of gunfire, which prompted a rush into the market square. On the parapets and towers, German guards toppled over where they stood and, in some cases, off the walls. The word went round quickly.

  “The Americans! The Americans! They’re going to get us out!”

  They watched as the camp gates were burst open by a tank and around forty to fifty concentration camp guards retreated in disorder, eventually being corralled in a coal yard with no exit. Ruth heard the crackle of machine gun fire and she looked away.

  Slowly, slowly, the shooting stopped and a convoy of armoured vehicles and trucks full of US troops filed into the camp. The captives gathered round, disbelieving. But they saw the pity on their liberators’ faces, who had seen death, corruption and now emaciated and stinking walking cadavers, almost too frail to welcome them.

  Ruth saw three people come forward with a flag of truce, one man with a Red Cross flag and two of the relief camp commanders. They were ushered away, probably, she guessed, to discuss the surrender of the camp. A jeep drove up with two people inside, who began taking pictures and making notes, and a chaplain who asked the prisoners to join him in the Lord’s prayer.

  Ruth sat down on a crate near a wall. She was shaking. With fear? Perhaps this was only temporary and the Germans would be back? With relief? With the cold? A young American saw her and came over, unslinging his rifle. He took off his jacket and put it round her.

  “It’s OK, sister. You’re safe now.”

  He gave her half a bar of chocolate. Nothing, nothing had ever tasted so sweet.

  Gradually, over the next few days, transporters arrived and the Americans built up a camp outside Dachau with rudimentary field tents, camp beds, a hospital and a canteen. The inmates, despite their perilous state, waited patiently in line to have warm, clean clothes, blankets and hot army rations. After years of hunger each meal was a banquet.

  Ruth, Devorah and Esther struck up with some music. This was not music to instruction or to survive. This was to celebrate life being lived again.

  *

  A few weeks passed and Ruth began to feel human once more. Rudimentary washing facilities, civilian clothes and regular balanced food restored her as a recognisable individual human being. Men and women with clipboards came round taking details.

  Ruth asked, though with little optimism, “Is there any way I can contact my father? I think he was sent to Auschwitz. My mother and sisters are in Belgium. Is there any way to reach them?”

  The administrators from the Red Cross kindly hinted that in the post-liberation confusion, most channels and records had been lost or destroyed but that they would see what they could do.

  One day, several weeks after the camp gates had been thrown open, a small delegation went systematically round the beds in Ruth’s tent, eventually drawing up chairs around her camp bed. A young woman introduced herself.

  “I am Vera Hartmann, and this is David Huber. We are from the Hebrew Immigrant Aid Society and we are here to see how we can best help you to integrate following your experiences. We can help with identification papers, a little money, perhaps some train tickets. Of course we cannot promise you that things will ever be the same as before but we will be able to help you to get back on your feet again.”

  Ruth told them that her family were from Berlin but, given what she had seen before being taken away, she felt there would be little point in returning. She mentioned her father.

  “I’m sorry to tell you, but almost everybody who was transported to Auschwitz has been murdered. We will look and check what records might exist but,” she held her palms out helplessly, “the chances are really negligible I’m afraid. What about other family?”

  Ruth told them of her mother and sisters who had gone to stay with cousin Baruch in Brussels. Vera and David looked at each other and he nodded for her to speak.

  “We should advise you that, following the German invasion of Belgium, man
y Jewish people there were treated the same way as those in France, Poland, Germany. What we are saying is that you should not get your hopes up. But what we can do is to help you with some train passes and a little money to get you to Brussels. We have an organisation there with local knowledge who may be able to help you.”

  Ruth thanked them profusely. After five years of deprivation and cruelty she had been overwhelmed by the kindness she had been shown. A tiny, humble figure, she grasped both of Vera’s hands and said, “Bless you.”

  Later, lying awake in her camp bed she reflected on her liberation.

  What is liberation? I am free, but free to do what? I have nothing. I probably have no one. I have nowhere to go. In the camp we had each other and a purpose to stay alive. But now I am liberated, I am alone.

  Then she thought of the young American soldier who had given her his jacket and the chocolate.

  There is good in the world and there are still good people so I must continue my journey wherever it takes me.

  *

  After a few weeks of recuperation, Ruth was given a small suitcase, a change of clothes, tickets to Belgium and a modest amount of currency in Belgian francs and US dollars. She also clutched her violin case, which was never far from her side. She had an address in Brussels where the Hebrew Aid Society was situated. They helped her find a room in an inexpensive hotel near the station. Ruth spent an hour walking to the street where Baruch lived, the address imprinted on her memory, hoping that she would find her family. The street was dilapidated and Baruch’s house, number 36, was in a state of ruin like many of the others.

  She returned to the Hebrew Aid Society offices. She was ushered in to see a Director who explained.

  “After the German invasion of Belgium in 1940, I’m afraid that the persecution of Jews here was very much as you experienced in Berlin. Many were taken to the Mechelen transit camp for onward transportation to Bergen-Belsen. I cannot for sure say what happened to your family as there were so many people, so much chaos. If they are no longer where they were then…” He pulled a rueful face and shrugged sympathetically.

  Ruth thanked him for his trouble and his honesty. Homeless, stateless and friendless, Ruth wondered where she should go and how she should live. Like a bird released from a cage, she did not know how to be free. Staying near the cage seemed to offer the only security. After a few days of contemplation, she decided that, because of the anti-Jewish legacy in Belgium, France, Germany and other mainland countries, and with only short-term charitable support, she should look elsewhere in the world. After all, her family, her only roots, had all disappeared forever. In her dark moments she felt guilt at being spared and wondered whether there was any point to her life now. Although only in her mid-twenties, the ravages of life in the camp had left her with the appearance and stature of a little old woman. No man would ever look at her now so she would have to rely on herself. With a resilience that defied her experiences and her current situation she considered her options.

  Perhaps America? Perhaps England?

  She talked with the Director at the Society.

  “Well we can get you to America and we have contacts there. But if you want to stay a little closer in case your circumstances should ever change you could try London? We have an office there who could help you with somewhere to live and maybe to get work?”

  Ruth, remembering her time in New York with her father all those years ago, was tempted, but felt it would be too much of a leap into the unknown for a weak and vulnerable woman. A move to London would be much less dramatic and she had been hearing of a brave new world of reconstruction and optimism abroad in England.

  *

  And so, in January 1946, she set sail from Dunkirk in the SS Shepperton night train and ferry to Dover and Victoria. The aid people found some basic lodgings near Paddington.

  “But we can only accommodate you for a maximum of two weeks, I’m afraid.”

  Finding work proved difficult. She had no skills in typing, office work, waitressing. There was the added complication that Jews could not seek work without dispensation from the Ministry of Labour, which was painfully and bureaucratically achieved.

  Towards the end of her two-week period of grace, adjusting to a different country, language, living frugally and walking the streets looking for work, a sudden shaft of light illuminated the early dark winter afternoon. In the London Evening Standard, she saw an advertisement.

  Preparatory school in Knightsbridge seeks a music/piano/violin teacher for girl pupils aged 5–11. Good hourly rate. Experience and references required.

  *

  Ruth presented herself at the school. She was ushered into the presence of Mrs Butterworth, the School Principal. The school was situated in a five-storey building with porticos and columns, in Ennismore Gardens near Hyde Park. Mrs Butterworth, although cordial enough, seemed rather formal and austere. She asked if Ruth would like some tea and also if she wished to take her outside coat off. Ruth declined, embarrassed by her plain dress and threadbare cardigan.

  Mrs Butterworth continued with a well-rehearsed formality.

  “Let me tell you something about Knightsbridge Preparatory. The school has been in this building in Ennismore Gardens for nearly fifty years. It was founded by my father and is still very much a family concern. My two daughters, whom you may meet, the Mrs Rogers and Dixon respectively, are the main teachers along with myself. Of course during the war, the numbers dwindled but we are expecting to have forty to fifty girls by the new term. We own these premises and expect to buy number seventeen next door, as tenants leave, in order to expand.

  “We are known, I hope, as a friendly school but with a rigorous academic environment, although we do like to include the arts and Classics into our curriculum so that the girls get a well-rounded start in life. Our previous music teacher has just retired because of illness, hence the vacancy. Girls from here, mostly local, generally all go on to recognised institutions – Benenden, Cheltenham Ladies, Marlborough and the like,” she said proudly. “In the history of our school we have educated the children of the business community, and I am pleased to say,” she lowered her voice, “titled people entrust their girls to us, although we do offer bursaries to one or two impoverished but perhaps gifted girls.

  “Now, do you have any formal qualifications?”

  Ruth apologised. She briefly described her circumstances and her formal training in Germany, but her written qualifications had been lost in the chaos of war.

  “References, then?” asked Mrs Butterworth, frowning slightly.

  Ruth said that none were immediately available. She was a refugee without a settled recent past. She apologised.

  “Well, I can’t see how I can be expected to employ you then,” said Mrs Butterworth. “However, because of the times we are in we have not had a rush of applicants.”

  In fact, unbeknown to Ruth, she was the only candidate.

  “So, perhaps we might overlook the formalities. I take it, however, that you can play?”

  “Yes, yes I can,” Ruth stood up, asking for permission to open up her violin case.

  “Very well,” said Mrs Butterworth, “we shall see.”

  Ruth took her chance. With all the desperation of five years in a concentration camp, a lost family, homeless, undernourished and remembering the sadness in her father’s eyes as he shuffled towards the train, and oblivion, she mentally willed the violin to help her. It responded. She played, from memory, an extract from Mendelssohn’s violin concerto with a sadness, passion and emotion that was almost palpable. Intrinsic to the music was all of the fervour and feeling that had resonated and vibrated through the instrument’s body over the years at the hands of its players.

  Part way through the rendition the door quietly opened and Mrs Butterworth’s daughters came softly into the room and stood behind the couch as Ruth played. When she had finished she put down
her bow and looked, anxiously, for a reaction. For a moment there was none. A stunned silence. Then a collective exhalation of pleasure and surprise.

  “That was beautiful, just beautiful.”

  “Such feeling! Your technique is wonderful!”

  “You played that with your heart and soul!”

  “Well,” said Mrs Butterworth, “under the circumstances I feel we can dispense with the formalities. I would like to offer you the position. We can start you on three days per week at an hourly rate of three shillings and sixpence. Formal class tuition on music and individual tuition on the piano and violin. There may also be some private tuition although I cannot guarantee that.”

  Ruth, grateful and deferential, clasped her hands together in front of her in thanks and gave a formal half-bow saying, “Thank you. Thank you. I won’t let you down.”

  “Now,” said Mrs Butterworth, briskly but benevolently, “where exactly are you living so that we can send a formal letter?”

  Ruth described her temporary lodgings but said that she would need to vacate these soon.

  “Well, I thought as much,” said the Principal, “but I may have a suggestion. I happen to know that the grandmother of one of our girls has a flat near St James’s Park Tube station. She is not in the best of health and her daughter mentioned that she would entertain the idea of a lodger/helper if I happened to come across anyone suitable, in return for a very small rent. Would that be of any interest?”

  Ruth could hardly believe it. In one day it seemed that she could find paid work and a place to live.

  “I don’t think it’s a palace,” said Mrs Butterworth, “rather short on space, I believe. But if you are interested, I’ll give her a ring and arrange for you to go round. Shall we say Saturday about four o’clock? Good. My secretary will give you the details. Now, about starting the job. Shall we say next Tuesday, at nine sharp?”