Time Passes Time

by Mary Wood

  ‘No, there is nothing we need from here. Everything is ready. But, yes, I think you are right. Now that I have told you all and the burden of my knowledge is shared, I feel that urgency too. We will go in stages. Jhona, what is your decision?’

  ‘I will stay with you, Father.’

  ‘Good. I am glad and relieved. Now, my son, you should leave first with Marika and the children. Drive towards your home as you would normally do, but once out of this neighbourhood, detour to the factory. Here are the directions. Marika, I am sorry; I know you must have things in your home you would want to take with you, but now that we have decided everything, it is best we go without any hindrances. I have made adequate provisions for the children.’ Marika didn’t object.

  Isaac held the now whimpering Annagrette a little tighter. What had seemed like something that couldn’t happen was now a reality. His father rang the bell once more and the nanny brought the children back. The two boys skipped in, excited to tell about what they had been doing. Marika gathered the swaddled and sleeping baby Anya in her arms, her tears dripping onto the white blanket, but still she did not speak.

  ‘Look, Uncle Isaac!’ Axya held a picture towards him. ‘It’s you! You remember, that day you took me and Jhani to the fair? See, that’s the merry-go-round with the horses. Oh, when can we go again? When will the fair come to Warsaw again?’ Isaac felt tears prick the back of his eyes. The awful truth of their situation was crystallized in the child’s plea. Something told him that never again would they live that carefree life in this, their own country. Please God, we all get away safe so we can resume our lives again in America.

  The night air seeped cold into Isaac as he crossed the road. Out of the protection of the wood, he felt vulnerable. A few minutes earlier he’d jumped back into a ditch as a convoy of lorries full of German soldiers had come towards him. His heart had clanged inside him and his body had started sweating. Had it begun? Always they came at night, rousing people when they least expected it and were at their most vulnerable. With that many soldiers heading for the city, what were their plans? Oh, God, was the rumoured ghetto to start now? He sent a prayer of thanks up to God for the foresight he’d had in urging his family to leave tonight. At least they were safe. But he must hurry. He must get as far away as possible, and he must not be caught.

  After a few minutes he left the ditch, determined not to hide again. His father had cut off his peyos the night before. Tears had streaked his face as he had snipped the long plaits from above his son’s ears. ‘It has to be done, my son. God will understand.’ Without any distinguishing features to mark him out as a Jew, Isaac now looked like any other Polish or German man. Even his hair tended to be on the fair side, and this fact would help him in his cover story. If stopped by the Germans, he was to say his name was Hantz Rplenski. He’d been born to a German mother and Polish father. He had decided to take the side of his mother’s family and was making his way to Germany, and although he might be too old to join up, he felt he may still be of some help to the war effort. The Germans might wonder at the route he was taking, but he would say he had an uncle in Lithuania who would help him to get a passage across the sea – a route considered safer than crossing over the border into Germany. His father had even supplied him with the correct papers.

  It seemed to Isaac that a whole lifetime had gone by instead of just two weeks. His thoughts went to the legend of Good King Wenceslas as he trundled through the deep snow, and he wished he had the great man’s footsteps to tread and his spirit to keep him going. The boat carrying him from Lithuania had landed on the coast of Sweden, not in a port but in a small cove with impassable rocks that had meant he’d had to climb out and wade through the freezing water to the shore. The boatman’s family had been waiting for him. They’d taken him to their home and taken care of his every need. His father must have paid them well. Now he was in sight of Stockholm’s Bromma Airport, hoping to get a flight out.

  Standing at the gates to Passport Control, he prayed that his false papers would appear to be in order. The only flight he’d been able to get was one to Britain. Standing in the queue with him were many fellow refugees, some from Denmark, whose language he understood. All looked afraid. Some looked Jewish, but he dared not identify himself to any of them. He’d ditched his German papers once he’d boarded the boat, and now had fresh ones that had been waiting for him at his last drop-in. They stated his true identity, and he was now an official Jewish refugee. But he’d been told to trust no one. It was rumoured that the Germans took on many guises in their mission to bring escapees to heel. There were even rumours that they tracked people and kept a tab on their whereabouts for the future. If this was true then they had to be doing it by means of undercover refugees.

  An announcement by a distant voice that the last British flight of the evening was boarding caused a surge of bodies to thrust forward to get through the gates. Isaac managed it. Sweat stood out on his body as the moments ticked by with his papers under scrutiny. At last they were handed back.

  The apartment block where his mother-in-law lived looked no different from those around it. Here on the outskirts of Paris there were no signs of what was tearing Eastern Europe apart. In England, where war had been declared and he had stayed only a couple of days, they were dubbing it ‘The phoney war’. Something told him it wouldn’t be so for long.

  Standing a moment, unsure, his heart pounded his anticipation. A figure appeared at the window then darted away again, leaving the curtain flapping. He waited. A slow creak signalled the opening of the heavy door. ‘Marionette . . .’ His voice broke. His arms encircled his darling wife, the sensation thrashing his emotions. His whole being crumbled.

  ‘Mon chéri, mon amour, non. You are here now. Hush.’ Her hand soothed his brow and wiped away his tears. A peace entered him, only to be shattered at the sight of Pierre running towards him. Clinging to his son – the boy who had become a man in his absence – should have brought comfort, but Pierre’s words after kissing him and hugging him back took the last remnants of his world away.

  ‘Father, oh, Father, thank God you are here and safe. The Germans have crushed all resistance in Poland. Our beloved country is now completely under German rule.’

  ‘Oh God, your grandfather . . . Jhona . . .’

  ‘Father, why didn’t they come with you?’

  ‘Let us go in. Come along, mes chers?

  They allowed Marionette to guide them up the steps and into the hall. There, Pierre, impatient as always, stood in front of him. ‘Tell me before you go up to Grandmère . . . what happened? Why did you come out alone?’

  ‘Grandfather had a plan. It is a good plan. I have put things into place as he has asked, but I didn’t realize that total occupation would take place in such a short time. I wanted them out before . . .’

  ‘What is the plan?’

  It didn’t take long to tell them, and some confidence came back into him that it could all still work when Pierre said, ‘It is a good plan, Father. They will be alright, I am sure of it. I will do what I can to find out how Grandfather is. I can get messages across the country through the many students here who travel back and forth. Some of them are Polish and travel home to visit. So far there has been no mention of any restriction on students. I will ask them to find out what they can.’

  ‘But you don’t know that you can trust them, Pierre. We have to be so careful. You must never let anyone know you are a Jew.’

  ‘Don’t be afraid, Father; it is different here. No one persecutes the Jews here.’

  Grecko’s Diner – Florida 1963

  Trying to take all of this in and to imagine it was very difficult for Jacques. In the telling of it, his grandfather had seemed in control. And though he’d conveyed fear, he hadn’t shown any other emotion. After a pause, he continued, ‘Pierre did find out . . .’

  Again a pause, but this time it was charged with emotion. Jacques waited. ‘What happened, Grandfather? How did your – our family die?’
/>
  His grandfather’s body trembled. ‘They . . . they burned them. Burned them alive.’

  ‘Oh, God! No . . . No.’

  ‘Yes. This is why I have not been able to tell you. I have never uttered the words. Those words break my heart and fill me with horror.’

  ‘I’m sorry. Oh, Grandfather, I am so sorry.’

  ‘No, don’t be, son. You had to know. And there is so much more for you to know.’

  ‘Can you tell me how it happened? Please don’t if it will cause you too much distress . . .’

  After a big intake of breath his grandfather said, ‘No, in some strange way it is helping me to share what is inside me. They were betrayed. There was a lot of that. In some ways you couldn’t blame people who fraternized. The fear must have been horrendous. They were threatened with their children being burned alive, with torture and with their own death. Under these conditions some even sold their own families down the river. Pierre found out that the Germans went to the factory and sealed all the ventilators. Then . . . oh, God!’ There was a long moment of silence during which his grandfather held his head in his hands. Jacques allowed it, understanding that his grandfather needed time. When he looked up again, it seemed he’d aged. No sobs came from him, but tears trickled down his cheeks.

  ‘They . . . they torched the building. No one got out. My father . . . my brother and his wife . . . and my sister . . . dear Annagrette . . . and my nephews and niece . . . those dear little children. And the neighbours . . . men, women and children I had lived amongst and worked with . . . All burned to death.’

  Horror seeped into every pore of Jacques’s body. It was too much to comprehend. His stomach churned. He jumped up and ran for the lavatory.

  They left the diner without eating their meal. Once home, Jacques poured them both a bourbon. The evening had faded into a sunset that lit the windows of their house with a red glow. His grandfather put a match to the kindling in the hearth and then, as the flames became stronger, fed a log onto them.

  ‘Shall I make a sandwich?’

  ‘No, I’m not hungry, son. We’ll share a drink together and I will try to continue. Now we have come this far we should cover all of the ground.’

  Six

  Gaining Strength from the Past

  Lizzie, Rita and Theresa – London 1963 and Somewhere in Scotland 1942

  ‘Lizzie. Lizzie, love . . .’

  Lizzie’s head felt like a block of cement and wouldn’t do as she bid it. She tried to open her eyes to respond to Rita’s voice, but the room spun round when she did. There was a void inside her. Her body needed something – it was an urge she couldn’t deny. She needed that stuff Ken kept injecting into her. She had to have it.

  The trembling started again. Her limbs were out of control. She couldn’t stand it. ‘Rita, where’s Ken? I need . . .’

  ‘Oh God, Lizzie. I’m sorry . . . that bleedin’ Ken’s got you hooked!’

  The bed shook as Rita got in beside her. Her cheeks felt the dampness of Rita’s tears. Warmth enveloped her as she snuggled into her arms. But it wasn’t enough. ‘Rita, please . . .’

  ‘No, Lizzie . . .’

  ‘You have to, Rita. I can’t stand it.’

  ‘No, Lizzie. You’ll get over this, love. You will. Ken’s only given you a couple or so shots. You can come back from this. It’s just the effect of coming down. It’ll pass.’

  ‘Oh, Rita, help me . . . help me.’

  ‘Alright, love. Blimey, you’re not thinking as I wouldn’t, are you? I’d even go to the Old Bill if I thought as it’d help, and that’s something I never thought I’d bleedin’ say!’

  ‘No, don’t . . . he’ll kill us. He said he’d kill you first and make me watch. He said he’d pour petrol over you and set you alight. And then after I’d seen you burn the same would happen to me . . .’

  ‘What? Nah, he’d not have the guts.’

  ‘He might not, but he knows of them as would.’

  ‘Then we will go to the Old Bill – not that I’m a bleedin’ grass, but we need protecting. Who are these cronies you’re talking of? Yer can’t mean Loopy Laurence or Rednut? They’re bleedin’ short up top.’

  ‘I don’t know. I just know as he’s mixed up with some of the gangs, some of the big boys who work in these parts. Extortion and all that.’

  ‘Blimey, you don’t mean the bleedin’ Krays lot?’

  The thought of this put a sick dread into Lizzie, but no, Ken was only small fry, surely? ‘I don’t think he’s mixed up in anything that big, but there’s others who work the same stuff round ’ere.’

  ‘Christ, they better hadn’t let the Krays find out, then. They own the bleedin’ East End, and the West if it come to that, and half the bleedin’ government are in their pockets, not to mention the film stars. There was a picture of that Diana Dors with them in the paper the other day. They’re bleedin’ big trouble. They’d see Ken and his lot dead soon as look at ’em.’

  ‘Oh, Rita, what can we do? I feel sick and I want that stuff. You have it, yer know yer do. I’ve seen him give it to yer. Please, Rita. I can’t bear it. I’m scared of what he’ll do next. Oh God, Loopy Laurence . . . Ken brought him here to—’

  ‘Well, he didn’t, did he? Loopy has more about him than that bleedin’ brother of yours, and he refused, so that ain’t anything to worry about. As thick as his friends are, they have morals, it seems. But, no, Lizzie, don’t ask me to help yer get drugs. They get to yer. They gets yer so you can’t stop taking the bleedin’ stuff. I’ll do anything for you but that.’

  ‘You bitch! You bleedin’ bitch. You wait until Ken comes. I’ll . . . oh, Rita, I’m sorry. I’m sorry.’ Oh, God . . . How had she stooped so low as to speak to Rita like that? But then, desperation attacked her again and she knew how. ‘Help me . . . help me, Rita . . .’

  ‘I’m trying to, love. But I know from me own experience, drugs ain’t the answer. Please don’t go down that road. Not you. Not me Lizzie. You’re different to us, love. You’re the only good thing in me bleedin’ rotten life. We’ll get through this. We will. You’ll get back from this and everything will be as it was.’

  ‘A drink, then? You have gin; I know you do. I can smell it on you . . .’

  A tear trickled down Rita’s prematurely aged face. Remorse once more bit Lizzie. She couldn’t express it in words. Rita’s unwashed hair brushed her cheek. Lizzie lifted her face towards her and stroked it. ‘It’s alright, Rita. I’ll be okay. I didn’t mean—’

  ‘I know, but it’s true. I’ve failed yer, Lizzie. I’ve failed yer both. Try to get some rest, love. I’ll think of something.’

  ‘Tell me about Theresa before you go, Rita. What’s happened to her? Did you set it up so she’d have her bag snatched? Were she the one you always talk of when you’re feeling down?’

  Rita’s weary body left the bed. ‘Lizzie, I can’t tell yer of it. I’ve done wrong over the years. I’ve paid for some of it, but them, they never paid. Not her or her bleedin’ brother. Her daughter paid, though . . .’

  ‘Her daughter! You knew her daughter? But—’ Lizzie stopped herself, not yet ready to share the books.

  ‘What do you know of her daughter? How did you know she bleedin’ had one? What you up to, Lizzie?’

  ‘I – I . . . You told me. But yer never said yer knew her. I just wondered. I – I mean, the police are asking for anyone as knows of any family . . .’

  ‘Tell the Old Bill nuffin, Lizzie. I know I said different a moment ago, but that’s how it has to be. They don’t protect the likes of us. They just pretend to so they can get information that might lead to the big fry. No, we have to keep our mouths shut. It’s too dangerous. We’ll look out for each other. I’ll sort it with Ken.’

  Lizzie couldn’t answer. Glad she’d been able to stall Rita from probing further and discovering the books, she watched as she walked across the room. It seemed as if desperation bled from every step Rita took. This fuelled the desolation in her own spirit. Her body flop
ped back on the bed. Please, God, give me the courage to get through this.

  The Theresa of yesteryear came into her mind. Pain shot through her head as she leaned over and forced her hand under the mattress to retrieve the books. Slumping back on the bed, she had to use all her strength to hitch her useless lower body into a sitting position. The mirror opposite reflected someone she didn’t know: long golden hair matted and dull, light blue eyes sunk into dark pools of skin. Sweat beads shining on a ghost-like face. Lips sagging and dribbling spittle down her chin. A tear plopped onto her cheek. She wiped it away. No more. No more . . . Her weary fingers flicked through the pages.

  Somewhere in Scotland – Late Summer 1942

  The train seemed to be taking for ever. Sometimes Theresa could see out of the windows, but at others the thick smoke spewed out by the engine blocked everything from her view. Apprehension tickled the muscles in her stomach. Her journey into the unknown . . .

  Having completed the six-week Army training, an officer had summoned her. Derwent had been in his office and had greeted her with a condescending comment, ‘Theresa, my dear, you have shown a mettle I didn’t think you had in you.’

  Annoyed at first, she’d said, ‘Oh? Well, thank you for that.’ But then she had had to agree with him. ‘No, I’m only joking. I know what you mean. I didn’t know it myself, but I’m very pleased. I feel a sense of achievement. I take it you being here is to do with what we discussed before?’

  ‘Yes. I have booked you into an assessment centre.’

  ‘Oh, so I haven’t yet proved my worth?’

  She cringed inside and leaned her body further into the uncomfortable wooden bench seat of the train as she remembered how his wink had embarrassed her. Into it she had read that she had more than proved her worth with him in other ways in the past – a short affair they’d had had come to mind. Shaking herself, she half smiled at the very thought of her actually capable of feeling such an emotion as embarrassment! Changes are definitely afoot, girl!