She tried to stay busy, though all she did was think about Daniel. It was in the hands of the magistrate now; there was nothing more she or anyone else could do. The rabbi had said all he was willing to say on the subject, and so it was just a matter of waiting for news.
The whole village was a hive of activity. Poor Bridie had been devastated to see her beloved sweetshop gone, but three of the older Jewish boys were working from dawn to well after dark trying to rebuild it. Sugar and sweets were so rationed now that at least she’d not lost much stock. They’d even asked Elizabeth if they could look in her shed for paint. They found some red gloss and a large tin of white, which they mixed together to make a lovely lurid pink colour. They painted the timber hoarding that served as the front wall of the building, so Bridie’s shop was the beacon in the village for children it had always been.
Elizabeth donated anything they had that wasn’t vital. Most of her mother’s extra furniture had been given to the farm in the early days, and they in turn gave it back to those with nothing.
She decided to go into the attic. She’d not been up there since coming home, but there was a chance her mother stored some things that might be useful to the neighbours. They needed blankets, pots and pans, cutlery, crockery…everything really.
She got Liesl to hold the ladder as she climbed up to the trapdoor at the top of the stairs. Erich was in his element with his school friends, painting and hammering and helping in every way he could on the reconstruction of the village.
‘Hold it steady, Liesl. I’m not a huge fan of heights, and let’s just pray there are no furry friends up here,’ Elizabeth said as she shoved the trapdoor upwards. She expected it to be stiff or strung with cobwebs or dust, but it opened easily with no debris to be seen. The dark attic smelled dry and musty. She listened for any ominous scurrying and was relieved to hear none. She had a torch tucked into the waistband of her skirt. Teetering up the last few rungs, she managed to get herself into the attic.
To her relief, it was floored – she couldn’t remember if it had been – and she was able to crawl through the trapdoor. In the apex of the roof, it was tall enough for her to stand.
On one side was a small window with a wooden shutter on it. Using the torch, she opened the latch holding the wooden shutter closed. It opened easily, a shower of dust and dead spiders hitting the wooden floor. Immediately, the dark attic was transformed as light flooded in the window, and she could see clearly. As she suspected, there were wooden tea chests stacked neatly, and as she opened them, she discovered all sorts of household things: odd cups and saucers, basins and buckets, and several pairs of wellington boots in varying sizes. Her father’s old work clothes were laundered and neatly folded in another, and she held a sweater to her face to see if it smelled like him. It didn’t. There were boxes of books – all her old schoolbooks – everything neatly packed away. It would be nice to be able to offer the things to those in the village who needed them.
She opened box after box. A small one, the size of a shoebox, was on a shelf. In it were Christmas cards. It was only when she opened them that she realised they were the annual Christmas cards she’d sent to her mother every single year since she left, each one ignored. But to Elizabeth’s astonishment, Margaret Bannon had kept every card, opened and read but still in their envelopes.
Behind the neatly stacked cards was an envelope, buff in colour and bigger than the cards. She opened it and found a whole bundle of other Christmas cards.
They were luxurious, not the thin flimsy ones she’d sent. These were on heavy card, some of them embossed with gold leaf. She opened one.
Dear Elizabeth,
Thank you for your lovely card. I hope you and Rudi are well and enjoying the Christmas season. Ballycreggan is as it always is. I’d love to see you, Elizabeth, and I’m sorry for the way I acted. Your father would have been better if he’d been spared. I miss you and send you all my love.
Mammy
She swallowed, a wave of emotion crashing over her. She stared at her mother’s copperplate writing. Such love and affection written here, things that she was never able to say. Why had her mother written those words of conciliation but never sent the card? All those years, she could have had a mother, and Margaret could have had a daughter. She wasn’t the warmest of women, there was no doubt about it, but Elizabeth had sent the cards every Christmas in the hope that her mother would soften. Only when she saw a tear drop onto the card did she realise she was crying.
All the other cards were in a similar vein, each to her, each wishing her a happy Christmas, an odd one with news of who died or who got married in Ballycreggan, sometimes a reminiscence of her father. And in those words, again she felt a softness that she’d never experienced with her mother in real life.
There was a mass card. ‘The Holy Sacrifice of the Mass has been offered for the repose of the soul of Rudi Klein.’ On it, her mother had written,
Dear Elizabeth,
I am so sorry to hear of Rudi’s death. He was just a young lad with his whole life ahead of him. I’m sorry for the way I behaved. I wish I’d met him. Take care, my love.
Mammy
In each card, she said how she missed her. She even signed some of them, ‘all my love, Mammy’.
‘Elizabeth? Are you all right up there?’ Liesl’s voice cut through her reverie.
‘Yes, yes, pet, I’m fine,’ she replied, her voice hoarse with emotion. She wiped her face with the sleeve of her cardigan. Such a waste.
She put the cards back in the box and placed it on top of her old schoolbooks, taking a few steadying breaths. She could not deal with this now on top of everything else.
She heaved a few boxes of kitchen utensils over to the trapdoor. ‘If I lower these down, can you take them?’ she asked Liesl. ‘They’re not too heavy, and some of this stuff will be useful.’
‘Of course.’ Liesl was delighted to help.
For the next twenty minutes, Elizabeth lowered boxes of things. She didn’t open them all, as she could go through the stuff downstairs and donate what might be useful and either dump or repack anything that wasn’t. Her back ached from bending down to reach the boxes stacked against the wall. She slid box after box towards the trapdoor and lowered them down to Liesl’s waiting arms. Lastly, she handed the girl the box of cards.
Eventually, the attic cleared, she lowered herself down the ladder once more, closing the trapdoor behind her.
‘That wasn’t as bad as I thought. I don’t think anyone has been up there for decades – anything could have been up there.’ Elizabeth tried to smile brightly, ignoring the shock and deep sadness she felt at her discovery. She brushed dust from her blouse and skirt and a cobweb from her hair.
‘There’s a lot of stuff,’ Liesl remarked as she counted the boxes.
‘Yes, my mother was a hoarder, threw nothing out. But she insisted on putting everything away neatly, so this stuff should be usable for someone. Let’s pull it into the spare bedroom there and go through each box. I couldn’t do it up there – my back was killing me.’
They took each box in turn. It really was incredible the things her mother kept. Several boxes of coats, hats and shoes, all of her father’s old clothes, men’s overcoats and working boots. Elizabeth gasped at the boxes of her own childhood clothes – dresses she remembered wearing, shoes, coats, pullovers handknitted by her mother, cardigans, even the hand-embroidered handkerchiefs – all stored lovingly in tissue paper and layered with mothballs. Everything was perfect.
They opened boxes of toys, jigsaws and books, and Liesl was enchanted by a beautiful doll with a china face. She wore a blood-red gown and had a red matching bonnet and long curly blonde hair.
‘Oh, that’s Rosie. I got her from Santa Claus when I was about six.’ Elizabeth examined the little doll’s face, her voice cracking with emotion. ‘My mother made her a whole wardrobe of clothes, even a playsuit for when I took her out to the garden digging with my father.’
Elizabeth caught L
iesl’s eye, seeing the question there. ‘I know I’ve told you my mother wasn’t very nice, but you must be thinking that that was a kind thing to do for a little girl, so maybe she wasn’t all bad?’
Liesl thought for a moment. ‘Well, it was nice of her, and she kept all of your things so beautifully. Maybe she missed you and couldn’t tell you?’
Elizabeth nodded slowly. ‘You know, Liesl? You’re right. I would never have believed it but…’ She sat on the spare bed and patted the space beside her for Liesl to sit down. She then picked up the box of cards.
‘I found these.’ She showed them to the girl. ‘Every year, I wrote my mother a Christmas card, and she never once replied. I even wrote to say Rudi had been killed, and still nothing. It hurt so much. I was all alone over in England. Rudi’s family were nice, but I wasn’t Jewish, and anyway, I hardly knew them, so I was really lonely. I needed my mother, even if she was a bit of a dragon.’ Elizabeth gave a small smile and Liesl giggled.
‘When I got a letter from her solicitor to say she had died – I didn’t even know she was sick – I was devastated. I was really surprised with how I reacted because I hadn’t seen her for over two decades, but I suppose a part of me thought that we would patch it up at some stage. Then she died, and I had to face the fact that we never would.’
A tear leaked from the side of her eye, and Liesl handed over a handkerchief. Elizabeth accepted it and wiped her eyes.
‘I just found these, replies to all my cards, a mass card for Rudi, and in each of them, she says she was sorry for throwing me out and that she loved me. But she never posted them. It’s so sad, isn’t it?’
Liesl opened one or two of the cards, reading the inscriptions inside. ‘It really is. For her and for you. She died here, alone, and if only she could have sent the letters, you would have come back, wouldn’t you?’
‘Of course. I don’t know why she didn’t post them, I really don’t.’ Elizabeth opened a few more, showing them to Liesl.
‘Maybe she was afraid that you would not want to see her,’ the girl suggested, her dark eyes innocent.
Elizabeth felt a rush of love for the child she saw as her daughter. ‘Probably. Promise me, Liesl, that no matter what happens, when you are grown up and I’m an old lady, that we won’t ever lose touch?’
‘I promise.’ Liesl rested her head on Elizabeth’s shoulder. ‘You are our mum now. We have lost our lovely mutti. You would have loved her, Elizabeth. She was so funny and always wanted to play. I loved it when she brushed my hair, and she would sing to us, all kinds of songs in all different languages. Silly songs about goats and dogs and boys and girls, and Erich and I would sing along. And then if Papa came home when we were singing, he would join in too. And she let us help her when she was cooking or baking bread. We would climb onto two stools at the kitchen table, and she would give us our own piece of dough. She was beautiful, my mutti. She had beautiful dark-red curly hair and brown eyes. Everybody noticed her. When we would go to the synagogue, she was the only one with hair like copper. Everybody admired her. I wish I looked like her. Papa said she was like a magical mermaid, and she was…’
It struck her that the child used the past tense. Liesl was convinced her mother was dead.
‘You have her eyes, and you will grow to be a beautiful woman, Liesl, just like your mutti. I think she would be so proud of you and Erich.’
The girl nodded sadly. ‘Yes, I think she would. And she would be so grateful to you for caring for us. She loved us so much.’
They sat together in companionable silence for a long moment, the warm summer sun shining through the window.
Chapter 27
In the week after the attack, Reverend Parkes and Father O’Toole continually made appeals to their respective congregations, as well as to neighbouring parishes, to bring anything they could spare to the hall and allow those who’d lost everything to try to rebuild their lives. It struck Elizabeth how heartening it was to see people be so generous when they had so little themselves. The entire perimeter of the hall was lined with tables borrowed from the school, and people were laying out their wares for their neighbours to take. Everyone from the farm also was there as often as possible to help out.
Levi and a few others were in a corner where he’d set up a repair station to mend things that were salvageable.
The whole hall was a hive of activity. The ladies of the parish had set up a tea-and-bun stall, and each child who worked hard was promised a sticky bun at the end of the day.
Elizabeth unpacked a box of her childhood clothes, not seen in daylight for over thirty years, and placed them on the table. They were old-fashioned undoubtedly but good quality, and she could see several mothers eyeing her covetously.
She had enlisted the help of some of the older children to bring the boxes from the attic to the hall. She had labelled each box, and Liesl was busy unpacking a men’s clothes and tools stand while Erich was making one of kitchen utensils, crockery, cutlery and lots of curtains and tablecloths. Elizabeth set about filling two tables, one with her mother’s old clothes and another with her own.
As she unpacked, Elizabeth was surprised to find a satchel at the bottom of one of the boxes. It was canvas and had metal buckles. It looked to be army issue.
She opened the satchel and extracted the contents. There was a large brown envelope, inside of which was a passport, or at least papers of some kind – the writing was in German, so she didn’t understand it. Inside was a photograph of Talia but with the name Sophia Becker. Elizabeth could feel her heart thumping in her chest. What on earth was this, and what was it doing in a box in her attic?
There were clothes, a map and a compass, and then another set of papers, again with Talia’s picture but this time in English with the name Josephine Turner. At the bottom of the satchel, wrapped in a piece of brown cloth, was a pistol.
In an outside pocket was a smaller envelope, and in it was another set of papers, identical to the German ones, with the name Hans Hoffman. The photograph made her gasp.
It was of Daniel.
Her heart pounded in her chest. What was this? Who had put these things in her house, in her attic? She didn’t know what to do. She needed to tell someone, but who? Whom could she trust? Was Daniel a spy after all? Were he and Talia working together? Why would he need other identification papers if he wasn’t? She hastily shoved everything back in the bag. She needed to think.
‘I forgot something at home. You two man the tables, and I’ll be back shortly, all right?’ she called to Liesl and Erich as she almost ran out of the hall, clutching the satchel.
‘Elizabeth, I think we can fix this if I could use the bench vice in your shed…’ Levi tried to stop her, but she just barrelled past him.
She kept her head down and walked the length of the village. Thankfully, everyone was in the hall, so she was able to get home uninterrupted.
She fumbled with the key, as her hands were trembling, but eventually she managed to open the front door.
She stopped dead in the hall as she heard a thump from upstairs. Someone was in her house. She heard footsteps. Her blood ran cold, and prickles of sweat rose on her neck and back.
Her instinct was to turn, to run and leave, but she was rooted to the spot. A young man appeared from the kitchen. She didn’t recognise him, but he was pointing a gun right at her head. He was wearing dark clothing and had short brown hair and a moustache.
‘It’s most unfortunate that you came back, Mrs Klein,’ he said softly. He was local; his accent was County Down. ‘But you seem to have something of ours, so drop the bag and take one step back, please.’ He padded towards her, his feet making no sound on the carpet.
She did as he told her, terrified he’d shoot. As she dropped the bag, she looked up the stairs. Talia was there, dressed in dark clothing, and she looked wretched.
‘Elizabeth, do what he says. You won’t get hurt – just do as he says.’ The younger woman’s voice sounded as terrified as Elizabeth felt.
‘Get out of my house this minute, both of you,’ she said through gritted teeth.
‘We’ll be happy to, Mrs Klein, but I’ll be needing that back.’ He came towards her and picked up the satchel, checking inside.
Elizabeth turned to Talia, the woman she’d seen as a friend. ‘How could you? Erich and Liesl, all the children loved you. How could you betray them like this?’
‘It’s more complicated than you think.’ Talia shrugged. ‘I had a job to do. I’m not Jewish, but I don’t care about that. The only future for my country is National Socialism and the Fuhrer – without him, there is no Germany. Without him, we are just like everyone else, weak and pathetic.’
‘How can you support him? I don’t understand…’ Elizabeth had almost forgotten the man pointing the gun at her, so horrified was she to hear Talia’s opinion.
‘You don’t know, you don’t understand! The Jews, they are like parasites, like cockroaches. They breed and colonise, and ordinary hardworking Germans, we can’t get anywhere. They control everything. We need them out. I like you, Elizabeth, and you mean well. We’re friends, and I don’t want any harm to come to you. You gave me a sense of home in these long lonely months. But those Jews, they can’t be allowed to survive. If you could only understand that! You can’t see what a parasite they are on decent people like us…’
‘But –’ Elizabeth began, but the man stopped her.
‘This wee cosy chat is all very well and fine, ladies, but I’ve a job to do, so if you don’t mind. Now then.’ He smiled. ‘I could shoot you, and that would be the end of it, but I know you’re the local schoolteacher, so I’d rather not. And you’ve those two wee bairns to take care of too, and unlike my German friend here, I couldn’t give a monkey’s what religion they are. We’re on the same side, you and me, Mrs Klein, and when all of this is over and Germany wins the war, us Catholics will be united with our countrymen in the South and all will be well.’
He smiled and she shivered.
The Star and the Shamrock Page 23