A Stranger in the Family

by Robert Barnard

  ‘Oh, what the law can do to cut down on the beatings and the rivalry and the occasional slaughters – slaughters like that family here in Glasgow … what was their name? Oh, the Doyles.’ He looked at his watch. ‘Oh Lord, I’ve got to go. I’m at the Theatre Royal tonight – the resuscitation of Scottish Opera.’

  It was a signal to all of them to depart. Kit doubted if they all were going to Scottish Opera, but they clearly all felt they had done what little they could do to help Kit in his efforts – to do what they were not quite sure. Kit appealed to them to contact him if anything occurred to them – however trivial – and he distributed little cards he’d printed himself at Glasgow station with his mobile number on them. As they were making their farewells and voicing their good wishes Kit noticed that it was mostly the men who were going, and two of the women were holding back. He tried to speed up the departures without stinting on thanks and exhortations, and when they were all gone he turned back to the women.

  ‘You wanted to talk to me,’ he said. Katie McCullough nodded and introduced her friend, a stunning Scottish beauty of about her age.

  ‘Yes, we wanted to talk. You’ll have noticed there was a shortage of women here.’

  ‘I was quite aware of that,’ said Kit. ‘I looked for more to invite, but couldn’t find any among my mother’s contacts. I also noticed a shortage of Scottish accents.’

  ‘Pure south-east England most of them. We, the colonised, like to keep a low profile, particularly if there’s any question of breaking confidence on things overheard while doing manual jobs for the university. Alison here, Alison McDermott, was another of your mother’s doctoral students, both of us doing late sixteenth-century Italian paintings – Caravaggio and Moroni. It brought us together – also having your mother as supervisor.’

  ‘I guess that means you were intrigued by her,’ said Kit.

  ‘Yes,’ agreed Katie. ‘Intrigued, fascinated, challenged. So we thought that any little thing might be of interest.’ Kit nodded. ‘Right. First, a date. You’ve been talking about an encounter between your father and a man who was closely involved with the “gang culture” of Glasgow – sorry about the awful phrase but it’s one everybody uses. Anyway, Alison can tell you when that conference was.’

  ‘We were both there,’ said Alison, ‘and we both saw it. It was the best view we’d had up to then of your father. I can date it because I only did waitressing jobs for one year of my doctorate, my second. So the encounter would have been between September 2002 and June 2003. That’s for definite.’

  ‘That’s brilliant. You didn’t know anything about the other man in the encounter?’

  ‘No, except that he was probably involved in the law, since that was one of the main purposes of the conference.’

  ‘Anything else?’

  ‘Ye … e … es,’ said Katie. ‘This is not much more than an impression, but we’ll give it to you for what it’s worth. We saw a bit more than Mr Lawrence. He probably dashed off somewhere in a hurry – they say he’s always doing that, and that it’s a woman behind it rather than any of the good causes he names. So we saw this later on, during the lunch break. First we saw this unknown man edging towards Jürgen (we always called him that, though we didn’t know him). He was edging towards his back, as if Jürgen might have avoided him if he’d seen him coming. We’d seen the man brushing off one or two people who’d tried to talk to him. Eventually the unknown man was standing just behind your father, waiting till your father was finished with the person he was talking to. When he was, Jürgen turned around towards the buffet table where we were, so we saw everything that happened quite well. He saw Mr X waiting and he was very definitely not pleased.’

  ‘I see,’ said Kit, unsure what she had really observed in the incident. ‘Now, why would this be? Had anything happened during the first encounter? Anything that maybe had angered or disgusted my father?’

  ‘Not that we saw,’ said Katie, ‘but we were on duty: telling people what was in the pies, the quiches or whatever.’

  ‘What more did you see?’

  ‘Well,’ said Alison, ‘it was just a very tensionfilled encounter. Your father, after the initial reaction, seemed to force his face to go blank. Like he was determined to give nothing away to any of the other people in the room. Neutral, unmoved, unexcited – that’s how he tried to appear. But we both spotted the tenseness of the body, the strain between the two men, the feeling of an inactive volcano that was soon to explode. It was as if your father would have liked to resort to violence if he hadn’t been, to the depths of his dearest convictions, one of those for whom violence never solved anything. I tell you, it was the most unusual episode I witnessed in the whole of my waitressing work that year.’

  ‘In mine too,’ said Katie.

  ‘But some of the interest must have come from the fact that you were intrigued by my mother. Inevitably her marriage was up there among the most important aspects of her life and personality.’

  ‘True,’ admitted the women.

  ‘Still, it’s a very interesting encounter. Anything else?’

  ‘Just a suggestion,’ said Katie. ‘About what you might do next.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘The thing everyone knows about your father is the Kindertransport.’

  ‘As we were saying earlier.’

  ‘Yes. There could be other things, things either connected to his Jewishness or to something quite different, that he would be less happy to have generally known. So he could have been using the rather heart-rending story about how he was saved from the gas chambers as a way of deflecting attention from something else. Sorry I can’t put it in a more sensitive way.’

  ‘I suppose I’d have to consider that. But it doesn’t sound anything like my father.’

  ‘Naturally you’d prefer the explanation you gave earlier – gratitude for his escape from death, and clear admiration for those who took part and risked death themselves. But we thought it might be worth going to talk to someone who really knows about the Jewish-British relationship, and the Jewish-Continental relationship as well. I know a man who used to be leader of the Council for Jewish Studies, which is a misleading title: it’s not an official body of any kind, just a talk shop, a group encouraging closer relationships and cooperation, and a sort of think tank illuminating dark areas in Jewish-British history. That means in particular what happened in the war.’

  ‘What’s this man’s name?’

  ‘Leo Kappstein. He’s a retired academic – must be eighty-odd. Lives in Berwick-upon-Tweed, near where I come from: that’s how I came to know about him. He was at one time into every controversy about Jewish history or about the Israeli government, which he fiercely defended, though he often in fact disapproved of what they were doing. He was one of the delegates at the conference we’ve been talking about.’

  ‘He’s still compos mentis?’

  ‘Very much so.’

  ‘Then I’ll talk to him.’

  ‘He’ll be delighted. Like all old people he likes to be wanted, to be remembered.’

  ‘I hope you’re right. Depending on what information he has I might prove to be more an embarrassment than a pleasure.’

  Kit was not to know that Leo Kappstein was to take his enquiries on to a whole new plane.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Secular Saint

  The house that was home to Leo Kappstein seemed to Kit as he approached it to differ subtly from the other houses in Berwick-upon-Tweed. They, even the recent ones, seemed to be the product of border disputes in the distant past, not just facing north or south but anticipating trouble from one direction or the other. Leo Kappstein’s was surrounded by a low wall, had a large 24 on the gate, and lawns that rolled down from what was nearly a bungalow to the road below, five minutes from the centre of the town.

  Nearly a bungalow because what had once been one now had an extension on the back: a two-storey, multi-windowed small block which seemed designed to house records of some kind – f
iles, reference books and newspapers, Kit guessed. It seemed that being keeper of the records was his host’s life work.

  His host had been watching for him. As he approached, the front door opened and a small man walked across the brilliant-green lawn to the front gate. How had he recognised him?

  ‘I saw you once,’ he said, leaning over the gate to shake Kit’s hand, ‘when I shared a taxi with your father, after one of our numerous meetings of worthy groups with excellent intentions. As we were dropping off Jürgen, you emerged from the front gate. I’ve trained myself to recognise and remember faces. You’re known as Kit, I think …’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘And I’m Leo Kappstein. I was so pleased when you rang asking to see me. Come through.’

  As he opened the gate Kit realised that the house’s doorbell was in fact a gatebell, and he guessed that the low wall was electronically primed to register any unauthorised intruders. Everything, he concluded, was geared to revealing callers wanted and unwanted to the sharp-eyed man of the house. There was here not quite a siege mentality, but close to it. Leo, a lean, fit-looking man in his seventies, saw that his caution had been noted.

  ‘I get some funny visitors, usually unwanted,’ he explained, as he led his guest up the lawn and towards the front door. ‘Funny how the old style of nationalism is making such a strong revival, but it’s done that every few years since the war. It’s so easy to turn “peace” into a dirty word. I’ve always believed that peace is the only answer.’

  He ushered Kit into the bungalow and through into the front sitting room, where coffee and biscuits had already been laid out on the sideboard.

  ‘I wrote to your mother when your father died, though I knew her only by his account of her. But I’d like to say to you now what I said to her. Your father was, in a quiet way, a great man. Nobody did more good and made less fuss about it. His was a difficult life, but he was a man of great humanity and even greater integrity, and his life was a beacon to others … There – I’ve said it now. Ask me whatever it is you think I can help you with. You’re not Jewish by religion, I take it?’

  There was a hungry, craving tone in his words, and behind them stood the shadow of the Holocaust.

  ‘No, I’m not.’

  ‘Pity. Pity to lose that. Still, still, I only ask because that is what a lot of people, especially people who got out of Germany just in time in the Thirties, come to me about. Wondering about what they’ve lost in the way of faith, and whether they should take it up again – if there was an “again” – or for the first time.’ He chuckled. ‘I always say they should try it. And I’d say the same to your generation, at one remove from the horrors of the Holocaust. Now, what is it that you’re interested in?’

  Kit had got his thoughts together on the train trip, but there was something that intrigued him in what Leo had just said.

  ‘Before we get on to that, just one thing puzzles me. You said my father’s was a difficult life. But he left Germany when he was three. I don’t think of him as having a difficult life after that. Am I missing something somewhere? Is there something I haven’t been told about?’

  Leo Kappstein thought.

  ‘No, it may not be a question of you having missed anything, or having had anything kept from you. You just see things differently from me. I see someone who, in leaving his country, lost also his religion. Most of the Jewish children who escaped to Britain were lodged with, and eventually adopted by, Jewish families. Jürgen and Hilde left at the height of the escaping fever, and there was no Jewish family to take care of or adopt them. Nothing was put in the way of the Philipsons, who were excellent people anxious to do good, but they were not Jews. They said they would ensure the two children had full knowledge of their background and religion, but I don’t think their assurance amounted to much. I talked this over once with Hilde—’

  ‘You knew Aunt Hilde?’

  ‘I met her once – at a bar mitzvah.’

  ‘It would be so much easier if she were still alive,’ said Kit feelingly.

  ‘I think it would,’ agreed Leo, warmly. ‘She had a sort of nostalgia for her old religion, but I got the impression that it was not strong enough for her to do anything decisive. So you see, I have my own viewpoint, and I think Jürgen often had difficulties and awful dilemmas, and I think that was mainly because, though he knew a little about Judaism, it was not a living force for him, and it would have been if things had been otherwise … And you mustn’t forget Hilde. He grew up with her. She was only five years older than him, but during and after the escape from Germany she coped with all the everyday things quite brilliantly for a child of eight. You mustn’t think I am blaming her because she couldn’t cope with the larger things, but it was very natural that her mind concentrated on the immediate realities of the escape.’

  ‘Yes, I do see, I think. Now if we could—’

  ‘Come to the real reason why you are here. Yes, let’s.’

  ‘I think you know that I’m an adopted child.’

  ‘Yes, I know that.’

  ‘I learnt during my mother’s last illness who my real family was. They were – they are – the family of a solicitor in Leeds. My adoptive mother was very cagey about the “adoption” …’ he sketched inverted commas with his hands, ‘how it took place, and I began to suspect that no official adoption had taken place.’

  ‘I see. So did you hear from your real mother and father, if they are still alive, how it had happened?’

  ‘They are alive. No, I learnt most of the details before I came to know them. My mother called my birth family Novello, and said they were in her address book, and living in Leeds. More than that she would not say. I tried not to do anything before my mother died, because those months were for her and our time together. When she was dead I knew what I needed to do. I knew exactly when they had received me after my so-called adoption because that was always kept as a special day – a day to be celebrated. Fortunately it was in the school holidays – August the twentieth. I had in my mind some very vague memories of an early childhood home, other parents. I went to the newspapers in the Glasgow University library and found little references to my birth parents in the national papers, and even briefer ones in the Scottish papers …’

  ‘And?’

  ‘I found that the name Novello, which my mother had told me was my birth name, was also the name of an English child who had been abducted in Sicily.’

  Leo Kappstein frowned, and only after a minute asked: ‘If you were abducted, why was there so little press interest?’

  Kit shook his head.

  ‘I don’t know. It seems the police here thought it was an Italian matter – and they left it to the Italian police. Or maybe whoever organised the kidnapping had some kind of heft in the newspaper world. Or else only the most sensational cases get mass-media coverage. I believe there are thousands of abductions a year in this country alone, and very few get more than mine got. Most get none at all.’

  ‘And the Madeleine McCann case?’

  ‘She had a beautiful mother, professional parents – people who could be built up and then knocked down, which the press loves to do. And of course, they themselves thought publicity was vital, to make sure the general public was on the alert to look out for her.’

  ‘That makes sense,’ admitted Leo. ‘Italy, you say?’

  ‘Yes. Do you see any special significance in that?’

  ‘I don’t know. The fact that you were kidnapped there must surely give it some significance. Questions arise, don’t they?’

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘Were you kidnapped because you were … what was your birth name?’

  ‘Peter Novello.’

  ‘Ah, yes … Or were you just kidnapped because your family was on holiday, seemed to have the sort of money needed to pay a ransom, and so on?’

  ‘Except that no ransom was ever demanded.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Not so far as I can discover. Which suggests, rat
her, that I was abducted because I was Peter Novello.’

  ‘An Italian surname. Perhaps some kind of revenge on your father, or on some other family member?’

  ‘I have problems with my birth father. Let’s come back to him later. Any other significance of Italy?’

  Leo Kappstein shrugged.

  ‘The fate of Italian Jews under Mussolini is a topic that engages many people today. I have been interested in it since I started my work, more than fifty years ago. My work is both for reconciliation between warring parties and also to help and identify survivors of the Holocaust – Jewish survivors, homosexual survivors, Gypsy survivors … and also Nazi survivors. Some people have tried to make Mussolini out to be a benign figure so far as the Jews were concerned. But he was just a less obsessed, and less efficient, Hitler.’

  ‘Can this have any relevance to me, and who I am? Even my father – he never did more than say he was a Jew. I don’t think it meant much more to him than just a simple fact.’

  Kappstein looked at him.

  ‘And yet I’d wager he thought about that simple fact every day of his life.’

  Kit felt himself rebuked.

  ‘He talked a lot about the “Kindertransport”. I’m sure that stayed with him,’ Kit said.

  ‘Did he talk about his family?’

  ‘Hilda, of course. Excuse the pronunciation. That’s how I always knew and thought of her – as an English woman. She was a regular visitor to us right up to her death. Otherwise … I do remember him once saying something that suggested that his father was still alive. That puzzled me, because he obviously was not talking about Grandad Philipson. If Jürgen’s real father in Germany was alive, why did we never see him, get letters from him, talk about him?’

  ‘Didn’t you ask your father about him?’

  ‘I thought about it at the time. I nearly did. But I saw that my father had noticed that I’d heard his words and been puzzled. He cleared his throat and turned away and … I can’t explain it.’

  ‘I think I understand, though,’ said Leo. ‘He was a man of quietness, of very restrained gestures. You, as one very close to him, would know when he wanted to keep silent on a topic.’