The Star and the Shamrock

by Jean Grainger

  The room and all the furniture faced east towards Jerusalem, as was the tradition. On the wall was an ornately carved Star of David. One of the boys in her class, a twelve-year-old called Jacob, had worked for months on it, and it was a lovely piece of craftsmanship. She felt a pang as she recalled Daniel helping him with it.

  A candle burned, similar, she thought, to the sanctuary lamp in a Catholic church, always burning to remind the faithful of the ever presence of God.

  Unlike the Christian churches, there were no statues or paintings depicting the human form, so it felt different to the churches she was used to. But there was a peacefulness that reminded her of St Joseph’s parish church in Ballycreggan.

  She’d heard others describing the ornate and beautiful synagogues of Europe, the glass and metalwork, the carved and polished wood, but this place was nothing like that. It was just a room, with mismatched chairs and sheets hung as drapes on the windows.

  The rabbi and several of the community would have been used to segregated worship, with the women up on the balcony and the men in the main body of the synagogue, but the makeshift nature of the farm allowed for no such rules. Still, there was something lovely about it. She enjoyed the sensation of just being, thinking her thoughts.

  She was not much of a churchgoer; she never had been since she left Ireland. Her mother’s dogmatic approach to religion had cured her of ever wanting to be involved. Daddy used to go to mass on a Sunday; she remembered him standing at the back with all the other men and smoking his pipe outside the church after, chatting to the neighbours.

  Elizabeth could picture her parents in this still, silent place and allowed their images to take form in her mind. Margaret standing upright and severe, her brown skirt and jacket buttoned up, flat brown brogues on her feet and a scowl on her face. Her father, Miah, was softer, physically and emotionally. He was not a tall man, and he had chestnut hair as she had, but his was always kept back with Brylantine. She remembered him as smiling, and she could recall the feel of her little hand in his big one, and how rough his hands were from physical work. She saw him now in her mind’s eye, his long leather blacksmith’s apron going all the way down to his ankles, his hobnailed boots, his collarless shirt and the rivulets of sweat trickling down his neck as he worked over the fire.

  He would look up if she came into the forge on her way home from school, put down his hammers and place his hands in the small of his back to stretch into an upright position. He’d tell her, ‘Don’t touch me, Lizzie pet. I’m all dirty, and Mammy will murder us if you ruin your dress.’

  But he’d smile and give her a farthing to go to Bridie’s sweetshop beside the forge for a few lemon sherbets. They were his favourites, and so they were hers too. She’d pop one into his open mouth because his hands were so dirty, and then she’d be on her way.

  As an adult, Elizabeth had thought about why her mother was so cold towards them. Margaret seemed to disapprove of both her and her father in equal measure. Perhaps she was jealous of their closeness? Elizabeth loved her daddy with all of her heart, and when he was home, she was happy, but she could have loved her mother too, if only she’d been allowed to. Her father had done everything he could to make Margaret happy, but it was never enough. Then after he died, Elizabeth tried too but it had the same result – a bitter coldness. It was too late to do anything about it now anyway.

  She began to whisper. ‘Dear God, and Mammy and Daddy and Rudi, I don’t know if you can hear me…but if you can, please help Daniel. Or help me to help him. He did nothing wrong, and he’s a good man, and, well, I…care…’ She paused. ‘I love him.’ She’d never allowed those words to form in her mind before. Rudi’s sweet smiling face swam before her eyes – he was just a boy. She felt no disloyalty, as Rudi was another lifetime ago.

  ‘And look over Ariella, Liesl and Erich’s mother. Their father, Peter, is dead, it would seem, but they need their mother now, so please, if you can, keep her safe and bring her home to her children. Amen.’

  She blessed herself instinctively and then supposed that wasn’t done in a Jewish temple. But she felt sure nobody would mind.

  As she walked out, she passed the dining hall where some of the younger children who were too small for chores were sitting. They were colouring while people coming in and out of the kitchen watched them and prepared that evening’s meal at the same time. They spotted her and waved.

  ‘I drawed a puppy, Mrs Klein,’ Abraham Schultz, an incorrigible yet delightful five-year-old, called. ‘Came and see.’ His English was good, but like them all, he found the tenses difficult. She didn’t correct him; he would learn through conversation, and he was trying so hard, the little pet.

  She walked into the room and was greeted with a wave by Ruth, who was boning a chicken on a large table. Levi was leaning against the wall, chatting quietly to her. He seemed much more animated than usual. Elizabeth sat beside the little ones and admired the various puppies, kittens and houses with spiralling smoke they were drawing. She lifted one to look at it more closely and was surprised to see that there seemed to be markings on the other side of the paper. She flipped the page over. There were a series of pencil diagrams, but they had been rubbed out with an eraser; all she could see were the indents of the pencil, but the markings appeared to be very symmetrical.

  ‘Where did you get this paper, children?’

  The volunteers were too far away to hear the conversation.

  ‘Talia gave it to us. She had lots of sheets in her art bag. She gave us some, but we ran out, so we took some out of her bag over there,’ Rachel Krupp, a chatty little six-year-old, explained quickly in case they were in trouble for taking something they shouldn’t.

  The child pointed to Talia’s bag, which was hanging on the back of the door. It was the brown leather satchel, and Talia was rarely seen without it over her shoulder.

  ‘Oh, is Talia here?’ Elizabeth asked.

  ‘She was, but she had to go out again. Rabbi Frank come for her, and she go in the shul with the rabbi.’ Abraham said the whole sentence in English and looked very pleased with himself. She smiled at his use of the Yiddish word shul, for the synagogue.

  Ruth called them to wash their hands before lunch, so dutifully they trooped off to the sink in the kitchen, leaving Elizabeth alone. Quick as a flash, she went to Talia’s bag and took out several sheets of paper, careful to leave many more so as not to alert suspicion. The bag had jars and paintbrushes in the main part as well as in the two outer pockets. Glancing about to make sure nobody could see her, she rolled the sheets of paper and placed them inside her cardigan, under her arm.

  She knew if she asked, someone would drive her home in the bus, or she could borrow a bicycle. But she didn’t want to draw any attention to herself, so she set off down the rutted lane that led to the main road into Ballycreggan. It was only three miles, and she was thankfully wearing flat shoes. Liesl and Erich would be late getting their lunch, but they would survive. They knew she had gone to the farm, so they wouldn’t be worried.

  She walked on as several military vehicles passed her by, going to or from the RAF base.

  About a quarter of a mile from the farm, she paused. There was a copse of trees where she sometimes took Erich to look for conkers or sticks suitable for making slingshots. She ducked in there, knowing that after a few moments, she would come to a large felled tree. She sat on it, and without allowing herself to think about the invasion of her friend’s privacy, she unrolled the papers.

  There were several sheaves, some blank, others with watercolours of the local landscape, but nothing with any drawings. The watercolours were really very good. She held one up to the light, and something struck her. She placed the others on the tree stump and secured them with a stone, then moved out of the shade into a clearing where the midday sun poured in and held the painting up again. It was of the azure sea off the coast of Northern Ireland as the sun rose. In the foreground, verdant green fields tumbled steeply to the craggy shore, where dark, t
reacherous-looking rocks formed small cliffs.

  Elizabeth peered at the painting. Frustratingly, the light was just not good enough to confirm what she suspected. The midday sun shining through the canopy of leaves high above her was dappling the paper. She went back, grabbed the remaining pages and made her way back out onto the road. She checked to make sure there was nobody about, and then held the painting up once more, this time in clear sunshine. She wasn’t imagining it – once the light shone through the paper, she could make out something, some markings underneath the paint. It was impossible to tell what they were, but the paper definitely had been used before.

  What was going on? She put that one down and selected some others. In all cases, there was something written beneath the paint. She tried to make it out, but it was impossible. She cautioned herself that it might be nothing; art paper was scarce – she used newspaper in school for art projects – so perhaps Talia was just recycling paper. It would make sense, but yet something niggled. Were those drawings underneath?

  Before setting off again, she folded the sheets and placed them in her coat pocket.

  As she put her key in the lock forty-five minutes later, she froze. Coming from the kitchen was the sound of Erich and Talia laughing about something. She tried to act normally as she entered the room.

  ‘Hi, Talia.’ She smiled. The young woman had washed her face and looked herself again. ‘How are you?’ she asked as she sent Erich off to wash up for lunch. Did she imagine the flash of something in the other woman’s eyes?

  ‘Oh, fine, thanks. I’m sorry about earlier. I was talking to the rabbi about my family. It… Well, it’s hard sometimes.’ She shrugged and went on. ‘I came into the village because I wanted to try to see Bud, but it’s too late. I went to the base, but it seems to be all closed off or something. Anyway, the soldier in charge of the gate wouldn’t let me in, or even give Bud a message, and he’s being shipped out to England tomorrow, so I won’t get to see him.’ Talia looked crestfallen, but Elizabeth remembered how she and Erich had been laughing when she came in. Surely if the girl were heartbroken about both her family and Bud, she wouldn’t be able to be so cheerful?

  ‘There’s a big shipment of stuff coming today,’ Erich said as he came back into the room. ‘Bud told us. That’s why they are all locked up.’

  ‘Erich, remember what I told you? Careless talk costs lives. Bud shouldn’t be telling you those things, and you shouldn’t be repeating them.’ She needed him to understand, as he loved having inside information through Bud.

  ‘But, Elizabeth, it’s just Talia,’ Erich said innocently. ‘It’s not like I told Mrs Ashe!’ He giggled. The school music teacher was also the biggest gossip in Ballycreggan.

  ‘Erich, don’t be rude,’ she chided, suppressing a smile. He really was incorrigible.

  ‘It’s all right, Erich. I won’t tell anyone.’ Talia put her finger to her lips theatrically, and Erich chuckled.

  ‘You’re welcome to stay for lunch,’ Elizabeth said. She wanted to see if she could get something else to take to the police.

  ‘I’d love to, especially as it’s my turn to scrub the pots today.’ She winked at Erich. ‘Let me just pop up to the post office first, as I need to see if there’s a telegram. I have a feeling I may have sold a painting. I dropped into the gallery in Belfast yesterday, and a man looked like he wanted to buy one for his wife as a birthday present.’

  As the other woman left, Elizabeth’s urge was to run to the barracks in the village and alert Gaughran, but she didn’t want to alarm the children or alert Talia. So she decided to wait, just in case she could piece another bit of this together. She was very conscious that even with the pictures, she still didn’t have much.

  Chapter 23

  As Erich and Talia chatted animatedly and Liesl ate quietly over lunch, Elizabeth barely listened. Erich was all talk about the planes he and his friends had seen while they played after school; the aircraft were flying low before coming in to land at the base.

  ‘Well?’ Elizabeth asked as she poured some weak tea. The two women were sitting outside in the back garden while the children washed up. Talia loved Elizabeth’s garden and often sketched the many shrubs and flowers that grew in profusion, planted years ago by her father. Daniel and the children even tidied up the large shed at the back as a surprise for Elizabeth one day. It had been filled with some of the bigger pieces of heavy furniture and decades of detritus of the Bannon family. At least now she could walk in there, and the walls were lined with shelves full of paint tins and tools. She had donated all of the excess furniture to the farm. It felt good to get rid of her mother’s huge dark sideboards and hallstands.

  She grimaced at the colour of the tea as she added a drop of milk. It was at the end of the ration, and she had taken, like everyone, to reusing the tea leaves. These were on their third wetting and barely coloured the water.

  ‘Did you sell one?’

  Talia sighed. ‘No. Well, at least I didn’t get a message to say I did anyway. Mr McGuinness, who owns the gallery, is so kind. He wishes he could sell more, and he always explains that because of the war, people have no money for such luxuries as art.’ She shrugged and sighed. ‘Imagine a world that sees art as a luxury when it is vital to our very existence.’

  ‘And you just approached him one day, and he said he’d stock your paintings?’ Elizabeth asked pleasantly.

  ‘Yes. Well, I was in the gallery, and we got to talking about art. I told him I had studied, and he asked to see some of my work. Then he offered to stock it. I don’t mind if he doesn’t sell any, though. It just feels nice to be painting and behaving like the world is normal.’

  Elizabeth deliberately kept her tone light and conversational. ‘And did you specialise in landscapes at the art school?’ Elizabeth topped up the hot water that passed for tea.

  ‘No, not really. Landscapes never interested me. I liked portraiture, but coming here, well, it’s so beautiful and the light is quite incredible. I was enchanted.’

  ‘It must be difficult to get supplies now, though. I know we have awful trouble getting things for the school. We are reduced to painting on old newspaper.’

  ‘Yes, I have to use both sides of the paper. I paint on anything I can find, to be honest, and scrape the very last out of the paints. Mr McGuinness gave me some sketching pads a few weeks ago, so I’m using them very sparingly. It’s not as good as oils and canvas, but with watercolours, you can get away with heavy paper.’

  Liesl and Erich stuck their heads round the back door to say the kitchen was tidy and they were going back to join their friends outside. Elizabeth allowed the conversation to move away from art. Talia talked about Bud and how much she was going to miss him.

  ‘Do you think you two will get together after the war?’ Elizabeth asked.

  Talia smiled. ‘After the war. We say this all the time – after the war, when the war is over – but what nobody says is when, or who will win. So who knows? Perhaps Hitler will invade next week and slaughter all of us Jews or –’

  Elizabeth’s face caused Talia to stop. Erich was standing in the doorway, a broken slingshot in his hand. The front door was permanently on the latch when the children played outside. He must have come in to have her repair his toy.

  ‘Will Hitler come, Elizabeth?’ The little boy’s face raked hers for the truth.

  ‘No, darling. Talia was only joking. Of course he won’t. You know what’s going to happen – Bud explained. The Americans and the British, together with all the millions of good people in Europe, will defeat Hitler and the Nazis, and all we have to do is wait. It’s going to happen, we must just wait.’ She drew him into a hug and kissed the top of his head.

  Talia looked stricken. ‘I’m sorry, Erich. I was being stupid, trying to be funny, I suppose. Of course Elizabeth is right. We are all going to be fine.’

  ‘Daniel isn’t going to be fine. He is going to hang,’ Erich said. Elizabeth had been dreading this conversation. She knew the whole
village was buzzing with gossip, and it was inevitable the children would hear it.

  Elizabeth led the child to the table and sat him down. She went out into the hall and called Liesl. Moments later, the girl appeared, her face questioning.

  ‘Sit down, Liesl. I want to talk to you about something.’

  They both looked at her with such trust in their eyes, it broke her heart to do this, but she needed to see how Talia reacted.

  ‘I know people in the village have been talking about Daniel and what’s going to happen to him, so I wanted you to have the straight story, not gossip.’ She never made eye contact with Talia but kept the young woman in her peripheral vision.

  ‘Daniel is facing trial for spying for Germany. The papers that were found at the farm could, the police believe, only have been drawn by him. Daniel says he didn’t do those drawings, but whoever did gave information to the Germans. Because when they bombed the RAF base, they did it with precision, and they knew where everything was.’

  ‘Do you think he did it, Elizabeth? I thought you said you thought he was innocent?’ Liesl asked.

  Elizabeth glanced at Talia. ‘Yes, I know I did, Liesl, but now I just don’t know. The police seem sure.’

  The younger woman’s face registered surprise, but she said nothing. Erich and Liesl were horrified.

  ‘I don’t think…’ Erich began, his voice cracking from the emotion of it all. ‘Daniel wouldn’t…’

  Erich looked from one to the other, then ran sobbing from the room. Elizabeth started to follow to comfort him, but Liesl stopped her.

  ‘I’ll go,’ she said, and went after her brother.

  As the two women sat alone in the kitchen, Talia finally spoke. ‘I don’t want to admit it, but I think you’re right. I mean, who else could it have been?’