‘Don’t you love me?’ she whispered.
He made an impatient gesture. ‘We have to face it, Sala, we’ve both made a mistake.’ He was speaking quietly and without rancour. ‘But we’re still young, and we can make a new life for ourselves. We want different things, you and I, and there’s no reason why we shouldn’t both have what we want. For one thing, I want to have children, and you don’t.’
At the mention of children she felt something rising in her throat, threatening to suffocate her.
‘I never said I didn’t want children. I just didn’t want them before we were settled.’
‘Be honest. You didn’t want them with me,’ he retorted.
She was about to contradict him but didn’t know what to say.
‘I want you to know one thing,’ he said. ‘It’s not your fault and I’m not blaming you. It’s just that I’ve realised that I deserve better. I want someone who can accept me as I am. I don’t want to spend my life being a poor substitute for a peasant in a cellar, or a suave Casanova.’
Shocked, she turned away. When she turned back, he was pulling a suitcase from under the bed. He took his clothes from the wardrobe and folded them with a precision that infuriated her so much she had to restrain herself from hurling them onto the floor. He didn’t speak until he’d finished packing.
‘I’m going now,’ he said quietly. ‘I’ll pick up the rest of my things tomorrow.’
Night fell and Sala sat there, motionless. She knew she’d reached a crisis in her life, but the enormity of it paralysed her and she didn’t know how to react or what to do. As she replayed the scene in her mind she was struck by the dignity with which he’d spoken. It was his comment about deserving better that had stung the most. But she knew he was right. She had been resentful and critical, and she hadn’t appreciated him, and now it was too late.
Perhaps she deserved better too. That’s what she’d always thought, and she’d made that clear to Szymon in so many ways. She’d married him in haste and desperation. In her mind, she heard Dr Feldman asking, Would you have married him if it hadn’t been for the war? Of course she wouldn’t. She married Szymon because she’d lost everyone and she was alone. When you’re drowning, you even cling to a paper raft to save yourself.
‘We are the choices that we make,’ her father used to say. But marrying Szymon had been the wrong choice, so she was lucky because now she would have the opportunity to have a happier life. But she didn’t feel lucky.
Exhausted, she fell asleep. Once again she dreamed she was in a house where everything was ugly and strange and again she saw a trapdoor and rushed towards it. Her heart was pounding as she raised it. Any moment she’d be with Ernst again. When she looked down, she felt that familiar rush of joy, but it wasn’t Ernst waiting for her at the bottom of the ladder. It was Szymon.
Before she was fully awake, a thought formed in her mind. The biggest secrets are the ones we keep from ourselves.
Chapter 52
Kath was in the kitchen making pikelets for the boys’ afternoon tea, taking advantage of the brief time that the gas was on during the day. The doorbell rang. Putting down the bowl of batter, she hurried to the door, wondering who it could be. The milko had already left her two bottles on the doorstep that morning, the agent collected rents on Mondays, the ice cart delivered blocks of ice on Tuesdays, Sister Gately wasn’t due until the following day, and Mr Emil came on Saturdays. But this was Wednesday afternoon and she wasn’t expecting anyone.
Thinking about the nurse’s next visit, she sighed. Meggsie’s refusal to cooperate made the exercises a daily battleground, and she wondered how much longer she’d have the strength to persist. No matter how much she bullied, cajoled, threatened and shouted, he wouldn’t listen. ‘I’m not going to get any better, Mum,’ he’d burst out the night before. ‘I hate doing those stupid exercises, they hurt. And the hot packs are a waste of time. Why can’t you just leave me alone?’
She was still sighing when she opened the door, but what she saw made her forget everything else. The man on her doorstep wore a black satin cape lined with scarlet satin, and a shiny black top hat, and he held a baton in one hand. His dark hair was slicked back and he’d pencilled a thin black moustache on his upper lip and a goatee beard on his chin. His presence was as impressive as his appearance, and she could tell that this was an experienced showman who knew how to hold audiences in the palm of his hand.
He stood there without saying a word until she cried out, ‘Mr Emil? Is it really you?’
She was about to ask why he was in fancy dress when he placed a warning finger on his lips and whispered, ‘I want to surprise him.’
Meggsie stared open-mouthed at the apparition in his doorway.
‘Morris the Magnificent couldn’t make it today so the Great Novello is here instead,’ Emil said with a bow and a dramatic flourish of his cape.
It took Meggsie a few moments to collect his wits. ‘Mr Emil!’ he exclaimed. ‘Gosh, what a great costume. You really look the part. I thought it was really him.’ He sat forward. ‘Can you do any tricks?’
Emil placed his top hat at the end of the bed and lit a cigarette.
‘Tricks?’ he asked. ‘What kind of tricks?’
While he was talking, he made a fist of his other hand, put his lit cigarette into it and opened his fist. There was nothing in his palm. Meggsie’s eyes were round with amazement. ‘Gee, what did you do with that cigarette? Is it back in the other hand? Or in your sleeve?’
Emil showed him both hands, palms up, and shook out both sleeves.
‘How did you do that? Will you show me?
‘Show you what?’ Emil said with a deadpan expression. ‘I don’t know what you mean.’
Casually he took four lengths of rope from his case and, as Meggsie watched, the four pieces turned into a whole rope. Before his astonished eyes, scarves appeared and disappeared, and coins vanished into the air.
Emil placed a deck of cards on the bed. ‘Spread them out and choose one, but don’t tell me which one you chose,’ he said. He shuffled the cards several times, cut the deck three times, and riffled through them until the jack of spades was on top. ‘This is the card you chose, isn’t it?’ he said.
‘That’s incredible!’ Meggsie spluttered. ‘You’re like a real magician, Mr Emil,’ he said. ‘Can you teach me those tricks? Please?’
Emil looked into his eyes. ‘There’s more to magic than simply doing tricks,’ he said. ‘Magic is very powerful.’
‘You mean like a potion or a spell?’
‘Much more powerful than that,’ Emil said gravely. ‘Magic is the art of making the impossible seem real. It shows that if you believe in something strongly enough, everything is possible.’
‘Can it make my polio go away?’
Emil paused. He knew how important his answer would be.
Over the past few weeks he’d noticed that Meggsie had become increasingly dejected and pessimistic. During his last visit he’d found Kath sitting at the kitchen table, her head propped in her hands. For once she didn’t have a welcoming smile or a cheerful comment. ‘I’m at the end my tether,’ she burst out. ‘It’s a battle to get him to do those exercises. I don’t know how long I can go on like this. Sister Gately was my last hope and now all your money’s being wasted.’
Emil didn’t understand everything she’d said, but he realised that the boy had lost hope. He knew that he could help Meggsie regain confidence but he also knew that this would come at an enormous cost to himself.
It tore him apart to break the vow he’d made on his children’s souls, but he had come to the conclusion that his responsibility to a living child was even more compelling than his promise to two dead ones.
Looking deep into Meggsie’s eyes, he said, ‘The source of magic is deep inside us, so you have to start by believing in yourself. That means believing you’ll get better.’
Meggsie nodded, and his eyes were gleaming with excitement. ‘And then will you show me how y
ou do those tricks?’
‘Magic isn’t a game,’ Emil said. ‘It’s entering a secret society which is thousands of years old. Do you know what an oath is?’
Meggsie nodded eagerly.
‘Before you can become a member, you have to take an oath never to reveal the secrets, or the magic will lose its mystery and its power. Will you do that?’
‘I swear I won’t tell anyone, not even my brothers,’ Meggsie said. ‘Scout’s honour. But can anyone be a magician, or do you have to have special powers?’
‘Anyone can do magic if they believe in it,’ Emil replied. ‘And if they practise a lot. It’s like your exercises. If you don’t do them properly every day, your muscles will stay weak and they won’t work properly. To do the tricks, your hands have to be very strong so you can control them and move them in a smooth, flowing way, because misdirection plays a large part in performing magic.’
Meggsie leaned forward. ‘What’s misdirection?’
‘It means distracting the audience. You have to learn to make large flowing movements to take their attention away from the small movements where the magic really happens. You want them to keep their eyes on something flashy, so they don’t see the important things. That will come with practice. Lots of practice.’
Meggsie’s face seemed to crumple. ‘My hands aren’t very good,’ he said. ‘I haven’t got much strength in them.’
‘That’s why you have to practise so they get stronger,’ Emil said. ‘I’ve brought you some small balls that you can squeeze, throw up and catch, and every day you have to try and do it longer and faster. And when your hands are strong enough, and you can do some of the tricks, we will give a little magic show together. You can be my assistant.’
Meggsie looked as though he’d jump out of his skin with excitement. ‘Can I wear a top hat too?’
‘There is one thing more,’ Emil said, and his eyes were boring into Meggsie. ‘Magicians have to be honest.’
Meggsie looked away. For several weeks now, ever since Mr Emil had started visiting him, he’d been struggling with himself. Should he confess or not? The more they talked, and the closer they became, the worse it seemed to keep the secret from him, but at the same time the harder it was to own up and risk losing Mr Emil’s friendship.
The comment about honesty made Meggsie feel sick. He’d already resigned himself to the fact that God had punished him, but perhaps unless he admitted what he’d done, he’d never be able to do magic.
He stole a glance at Mr Emil. He was sitting in the chair, looking at Meggsie as though waiting for him to say something.
‘Mr Emil,’ Meggsie began in a tremulous voice, ‘I have to tell you something.’
He said it in a rush to get it over with, and added, ‘I know I should’ve told you sooner. I’m real sorry for what I did. Honest.’
He looked down at his hands, not wanting to meet Mr Emil’s gaze. He tried to steel himself for the telling-off which was sure to follow. Or, even worse, perhaps Mr Emil would just walk out of the room without saying a word and never come back.
‘I have waited for a long time to hear you say this,’ Mr Emil said quietly. He spoke in a serious voice, but to Meggsie’s surprise, he didn’t sound angry or upset. ‘We all make mistakes, but it takes courage to admit them. So let us shake hands. And no more secrets between magicians.’
As they solemnly shook hands, the burden that had weighed Meggsie down for so long suddenly lightened, and he couldn’t stop smiling.
As Emil was leaving, they heard Ethel Merman belting out her hit song, ‘There’s No Business Like Show Business’ on the kitchen radio.
Meggsie gave his visitor a conspiratorial look. ‘Can you hear that, Mr Emil? Show business. That’s us!’
‘You certainly know how to cheer Meggsie up, Mr Emil,’ Kath said as she walked with him to the front door. She’d watched Emil performing his tricks and had heard what he’d said to Meggsie. She had always believed there was more to their mysterious neighbour than met the eye, but this surpassed anything she’d ever imagined.
‘He hasn’t sounded so happy in weeks. And those tricks! You’re quite a magician.’
She’d hoped to engage him in conversation, but he just nodded and was gone.
From inside his room, Meggsie was calling her.
‘Mum, let’s do those exercises now. I’ve got to hurry up and get my hands stronger.’
Back in his own house, Emil sat in front of the two coffins, his hands clasped in front of him as he watched the flames on the candles flicker.
‘I wanted to keep my promise, but I had to help that boy,’ he whispered. ‘You want me to help him, don’t you?’
He sat communing with the souls of his dead children until the candles guttered and their flames burned out. It was time to release their souls and let them rest among the stars.
The light of day had faded and he went out onto his verandah and looked up.
The first evening star was twinkling in the clear southern sky, and beside it, another one glittered just as brightly. They glowed like candlelight. Emil breathed in the cool night air, and for the first time in many years he felt the consoling beauty of the universe.
Chapter 53
‘You’re bright and early this morning,’ the conductor said as he handed Sala her thruppeny ticket. ‘Goin’ down to the beach for a swim, are you?’
Although she was working in the office now, she still woke early. Ever since Szymon had moved out, she hadn’t been able to sleep; after tossing from side to side, she was always relieved to see the first light of dawn ending the darkness of the night.
It was Saturday and, lying in bed that morning, the whole day had stretched ahead of her. Apart from the rye bread and cream cheese she’d planned to buy from the new continental delicatessen in Bronte Road, she had nothing to do. It was a diamond-bright morning, crisp and clear, and on the spur of the moment she had decided to go to the beach.
Sitting on the top of the stairs leading down to the beach, she slipped off her sandals and looked at the beach shimmering in the opalescent light of morning. Swimmers were already diving into the water, and surfboard riders were skimming and weaving through the waves, arms outstretched like tightrope walkers.
Along the water’s edge, where the sun-tipped waves rolled onto the shore before being sucked back to sea, a narrow border of wet sand offered a firm foothold for the runners. Young men were jogging; children were running ahead of their parents; and small groups of friends strolled together, laughing and chatting, and every now and again they let out a scream when the waves rushed in and sprayed them.
Sala’s feet sank into the soft sand. As she strolled along the water’s edge, people smiled or said hello as they passed, and for the first time since Szymon had moved out, she felt a little less alone.
When she’d come back to Łód after the war and discovered that her parents had not returned from Auschwitz, nor had the aunts, uncles and cousins she loved, she had stood in one spot holding her head, as though turned to stone. For weeks she would stand outside their houses and look up, expecting to see a loved face at the window. She realised now that she had never stopped looking for them.
And now, with Szymon’s departure, she was reliving the anguish of that loss all over again. She told herself that she was relieved he’d gone, that what she missed was a familiar presence, someone who shared her space, not the man himself. She reminded herself that Szymon had always irritated her. She was angry that he’d come for his things while she was at work and hadn’t contacted her since then, and she tried to convince herself that she didn’t care.
Sala sank onto the sand and gazed at the beach with wonder, like a girl who has just realised she has always been in love with the boy next door. She had lived in Sydney for almost a year without really seeing the beauty of this curve of fine, pale sand connecting two rugged headlands.
She didn’t know how long she sat there, entranced by the view. There was no past, no future, and no pain, ju
st the warmth of the sun, the softness of the sand, and the dark blue waves rolling in from the far horizon. After an hour or so, she brushed the sand off her feet, fastened her sandals and walked towards the tram stop with a lighter step.
Back in Wattle Street, three boys rattled past her in a billycart, shouting as they careered around the corner. The only other person she saw was Miss McNulty, who was leaning against her picket fence beside her black cat.
Sala was about to cross the road so she wouldn’t have to pass the cranky old woman, when Miss McNulty looked up and said, ‘Looks like it’s going to be a nice day.’
Surprised, Sala nodded. ‘It was lovely down at the beach this morning.’
‘I used to live near there,’ Miss McNulty said. ‘A very long time ago.’
‘We didn’t have a beach in my home town,’ Sala said. ‘Or a garden.’
‘No beaches or gardens?’ Miss McNulty said. ‘Where was that?’
Sala told her about Łód, where people lived in apartment blocks and bought their flowers at the market.
Miss McNulty clucked her tongue. ‘No wonder you wanted to come out here, then.’
Sala looked down at the cat, which was rubbing against her legs, and bent to stroke it. ‘That’s Sooty,’ Miss McNulty said. ‘He’s nearly as old as I am. He likes having his chin tickled.’
Inside her room, Sala went straight to the table, took out a writing pad and a bottle of ink, filled her fountain pen and started writing.
In reply to your request for information about Mr Ernst Hauptmann, I’d like to start by saying that this is a personal account of my own experiences. I met Mr Hauptmann before the war, when he used to deliver food from his farm to my home. He was honest and reliable, and my parents had a very high opinion of him. After they were deported to a concentration camp, I was alone, and I would have been deported too, if Mr Hauptmann hadn’t offered to hide me. Although I didn’t give him any money or valuables, he took me to his farmhouse, and when the SS realised I was Jewish he hid me in the cellar for about eighteen months, against his wife’s wishes. He didn’t even tell their relatives I was there, in case they reported him for sheltering a Jew. He risked his life for me, because SS men often visited the house, and if they had found me, he would have been shot.
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