by Erica James
‘Please,’ said Sabine, pointing to an old couch with horsehair poking out through patches of threadbare fabric, ‘sit down while I make us some tea. Or would you prefer a cold drink?’ The baby began to fidget in her arms, then let out a squawk of protest.
Thinking how fraught Sabine looked – her skin had a high colour to it as if she had a fever, and her eyes were red-rimmed – Hope put down her basket of farewell gifts. ‘Why don’t you let me make the tea?’ she said.
‘No, no, I can manage,’ Sabine replied. Annelise wriggled some more and began to cry in earnest, her face turning very pink, her fists punching the air.
Determined to help in some way, Hope said, ‘How about I take Annelise from you?’ She reached out for the crying infant, but to her horror, Sabine backed away from her and burst into violent sobs, sinking slowly to the floor, her arms wrapped tightly around her child as if protecting her from an imagined force. She knelt there on the rug, rocking backwards and forwards, her cries growing louder and louder. Not knowing what else to do, Hope knelt on the floor next to her. Clearly Sabine wasn’t well. She was having some kind of crisis. A breakdown. And who could blame her, living in this godforsaken country where hatred ruled?
Sabine’s wailing continued, coming from somewhere deep inside her, a primordial sound that reminded Hope of when she herself had been told that Dieter had died. She was trying desperately to soothe her sister-in-law, and to get her to relinquish her crying baby, when the door opened and Otto came in, his black medical bag in his hand. Taking in the situation, he dumped the bag on the nearest chair and joined them on the floor. He spoke in German, firmly, but kindly. Still holding a howling Annelise, Sabine pressed herself against him and sobbed all the louder.
Otto continued to speak in German, and Hope understood enough to know that he was asking his wife to give him the baby, that her crying was frightening Annelise. Sabine raised her reddened tear-stained face to him and shook her head. ‘Ich kann es nicht tun,’ she sobbed. I can’t do it.
‘Bitte, mein Schatz,’ he said with a catch in his voice. For an awful moment Hope thought Otto was going to cry as well. But he didn’t. Instead he somehow managed to calm Sabine, and at the same time persuade her to give him Annelise.
‘I’ll make us some tea,’ Hope said quietly.
The kitchen was poky and dark, with a small window positioned so high it was impossible to see out of it. At the sink, a tap was dripping, and when Hope turned it to fill the kettle, it gave a metallic screech of resistance that then set off a clanking pipe. She had just found a match to light the gas on the stove when Otto joined her. He was cradling his daughter in such a loving and protective way, Hope feared he had something terrible to tell her, that perhaps Sabine was seriously ill. On top of everything else they had to cope with, please not that.
‘We need to talk to you, Hope,’ he said. His English was good, even better than Sabine’s. ‘Please, forget about the tea, come and sit with us.’
She did as he said and followed him back into the drawing room, where Sabine was now sitting on one end of the couch, twisting a handkerchief around her fingers. Otto indicated the chair opposite his wife. Hope sat down and waited for him to settle next to Sabine, Annelise now perched contentedly on his lap.
‘We want to ask you to do something,’ he said. ‘It will mean a very big sacrifice for you, and for us too.’
Hope saw the look that was exchanged between husband and wife. She swallowed. ‘Go on,’ she said.
‘Tomorrow you return to England. We want you to take Annelise with you. That way we will know she’ll be safe.’
Sabine stifled a sob, putting the handkerchief to her mouth.
Hope stared at them both with incomprehension. She tried to speak but couldn’t. She knew about the Kindertransport, the hundreds of Jewish children who were being put on trains to be taken to safety in England; it had been happening ever since Kristallnacht. But for Otto and Sabine to give her Annelise to look after? It was madness. She couldn’t do it.
‘But I’ve never looked after a baby before,’ she said at length. ‘I wouldn’t know the first thing to do. How could you possibly trust me with your precious child?’
‘The alternative is for her to go to strangers and …’ Otto’s voice broke. He swallowed. ‘We don’t want that for her; she’s too young and precious. And we know that you would love her. You are her Tante Hope.’
‘But you don’t have to give her to me,’ Hope said. ‘You could come to London, the three of you. You could come tomorrow. Just leave this awful place. Come with me!’
Fresh tears began to roll down Sabine’s face. ‘We cannot take the risk of being stopped. People like us are trying to escape all the time but are being sent back. Always the officials find some kind of problem with the passport, or the papers. But you have a British passport; you can pretend that Annelise is your child. They won’t stop you.’
‘But there must be some other way. Why not apply for visas from—’
Otto shook his head. ‘We’ve tried that. The queues for visas to go to Britain are endless. It’s the same at the American consulate. Besides, I cannot leave my parents.’ He took hold of Sabine’s hand, which lay on her lap, and raised it to his lips to kiss it. ‘I’ve tried to make Sabine leave without me, but she won’t.’ He blinked. ‘Hope,’ he went on, ‘you must take Annelise with you. You must take her tomorrow. War is coming very soon. We hear talk all the time. Soldiers are soon to be massed against the border with Poland. Once war is officially declared, there will be no escape.’
It was late when Hope finally left. Otto walked her to the tram stop. His last words to her as she climbed onto the tram were to say that he and Sabine would bring Annelise to her in the morning, but only once she was alone and on her way to the station. They didn’t want Gerda and Heinrich to get wind of the plan in case they tried to put a stop to it. Not because they didn’t care about their granddaughter, but because these days their loyalty lay first and foremost with the Third Reich.
The tram ride back to her in-laws passed in a daze. But Hope was in for another shock when she arrived at Kurzestrasse. Gerda handed her a telegram.
Please come home to Island House at once. Your father is dangerously ill.
Chapter Six
It was a hot, airless day in Venice, and on the fourth floor of her stifling apartment overlooking the Rio di San Vio, Allegra Salvato, half-heartedly fanning herself with her hand, contemplated the telegram she had just received.
Your uncle is dangerously ill. Please come home to Island House.
Could it be true? Could Jack Devereux really be dangerously ill? And why those words – come home? Island House wasn’t her home. It never had been, not really. Italy was the only home she had truly known. If she belonged anywhere, it was here.
Feeling nauseous with the heat, she sighed and gave up fanning herself; the effort far exceeded the benefit. A storm was on the way. She pulled absently at the fabric of her dress, which was sticking to her clammy skin. It was days like this, when Venice felt as though the very last breath of air had been sucked out of it, that she regretted submitting to Luigi’s will that she move here. She had been happy in Genova, with her apartment facing out over the harbour, but Luigi had insisted, had said it would be better for her career.
At the thought of Luigi, a fresh surge of stomach-churning anger rose within her. He had betrayed her in every way possible. He’d lied, cheated and stolen from her and made her look a fool in front of everyone who mattered. Everything he’d promised her had been a lie. She was sickened at her own naivety; that she had allowed herself to trust him. Oh, how convincing he had been, promising her the world, at the same time swearing his undying love for her, when all he’d cared about was lining his own pocket by exploiting her talent. Now it looked like he had robbed her of even that.
They had met in a small theatre in Parma eighteen months ago, w
hen he had come to her dressing room after her performance as Violetta in La Traviata. Introducing himself as an impresario, and her newest and biggest fan, he announced his intention to turn her into a great opera star, if she would let him. She was, he said, an artiste who needed careful nurturing and the opportunity to perform in the very best opera houses, not just in Italy but around the world. He told her he would love nothing more than to be her future manager, to share her wonderful talent with the audiences she so richly deserved.
He had taken her out for supper to explain how serious he was, and how mesmerising he’d found her performance. He had declared her a true exponent of the art of verismo; that she was a charismatic actress as well as a sublime singer. Allegra knew perfectly well that he was exaggerating, but with Alberto Ferro, her manager, safely out of the way in Genova, she had allowed this handsome stranger to charm her. With his shock of thick black hair oiled artfully into place, and his flattery and confident manner, he made a refreshing change to Alberto’s intense demeanour and strict declaration that she would only make it to the top by working hard and applying herself diligently to daily singing lessons for hours on end. It would take time, was his constant refrain, time, work and patience.
There was little room for fun in Allegra’s life the way Alberto managed it, and so by the time Luigi had wined and dined her, she had made up her mind to accept his offer. Even if only half of what he promised her came true, it would be better than the never-ending run of second-rate theatre engagements Alberto had planned for her. Alberto had no vision or ambition; he was happy with the status quo. Twenty years older than Allegra, he was also very much in love with her, and by his own admission was frightened of losing her. His adoration had begun to make her feel trapped, and in Luigi, and all he was offering her, she saw her chance not just to be the star she dreamt of being, but to be free.
Within days she had cut her ties with Alberto and put her trust in Luigi as her manager. He insisted she leave Genova and move to Venice, and following intensive singing lessons with a new teacher of his choosing, her first performance under his guidance was in Rome, at the Teatro Reale dell’Opera. She sang the role of Asteria in Boito’s opera Nerone, and to her delight received rave reviews, with special mention made of the emotional depth of her voice.
Her success there led to a busy run of bookings, with Luigi applying himself to finding her theatres in which to sing, though only those he considered worthy of her fine voice. Just as Allegra had suspected they would, they soon became lovers, despite him being married. He swore that his marriage was a sham, that as soon as he could free himself from his wife’s clutches, he would marry Allegra. She just had to be patient and give him time. It seemed that she was destined to spend her life being patient.
But she willingly gave Luigi everything of herself, including her innermost secret hopes, which she’d harboured since she had been a little girl in the orphanage on the outskirts of Naples.
Her life at La Casa della Speranza – the House of Hope – had begun when she was two weeks old, after she had been abandoned there, wrapped in a blanket and put into the ruota, presumably by her mother. The nuns had named her Allegra in the belief that it would make her grow up to be happy and cheerful. The surname they’d given her – a foundling name – had been Salvato, meaning saved.
With the exception of Sister Assunta, who had been a pitiless tyrant, the nuns were not especially cruel, but they were driven by a quickness to find fault and mete out punishments as they saw fit, all in the name of God. Allegra was often punished for questioning something she was told to do, or for being sullen, but more often for her temper. Her closest friend from the age of five was Isabella, and such was the bond between them that they liked to pretend they were sisters. Then one day, out of the blue, Isabella’s mother came for her to take her home, just as Isabella had said she always would. Allegra was eight years old at the time, and without realising what she was doing, she had expressed her sadness and loss by singing. Through song she felt an enormous release of emotion, an unburdening of her heart. She realised too that her voice had a strange power to it; it could touch those who heard her, making them cry sometimes.
Sister Maria, Allegra’s favourite of the nuns, recognised her talent and encouraged her to sing as often as possible. She told Allegra that God had blessed her with a unique gift and she must never squander it; that she must dedicate it entirely to God.
With Isabella gone from her life in such a manner, Allegra could not help but wonder if one day her own mother might come to claim her. Or maybe she might be adopted, as some of the younger children were. She didn’t think that very likely, as the men and women who visited the orphanage to pick out a child to take home with them did not usually want a child as old as she was; they wanted a sweet little baby they could call their own.
Shortly after Allegra’s ninth birthday, Sister Maria took her aside one morning and explained that she had a visitor – a man all the way from England who was her uncle.
Allegra’s first impression of Jack Devereux was of a giant of a man staring down at her. She trembled beneath the intensity of his unblinking eyes, conscious that he was scrutinising her for flaws, like the women in the market did when buying their fruit and vegetables. Scared that he might prod her with one of his large hands, she took a step back. He spoke no Italian, and so when he addressed her, she couldn’t understand him. Only with the help of Sister Maria, who knew a little English, did she learn what he was saying. Apparently in England she had three cousins – two boys and a girl – who were very much looking forward to meeting her. All she could do was nod. Then the man asked her, ‘Will you sing for me? I’m told you have a beautiful voice.’
Startled by his request, she was nonetheless happy to do as he asked, for here was something that might please him, and it suddenly seemed important to her to do that. But when she opened her mouth to sing, nothing came out, not a note, just an ugly croak. It was as if she’d been struck dumb. Sister Maria smiled encouragingly and she tried once more. But again she could produce nothing but a croak. Embarrassed, she began to cry, which made her feel even more foolish. From that day on, it was to become a fear that haunted her: that she would freeze on stage and be unable to sing.
Several hours later, clutching a small suitcase, she was climbing into the back of the stranger’s car. She gave a hesitant wave to those who’d lined up to see her go and found herself near to tears as the car moved off. In a wild moment of panic, she realised she didn’t want to leave and tried to open the car door, but the man who said he was her uncle snapped forward in his seat and put a hand out to stop her, making her feel like a prisoner.
Boisterous voices floated up from the rio beneath Allegra, children’s voices that interrupted her thoughts and brought her sharply back to the present and the cause of her anger: Luigi.
He had finally left his wife, but not for Allegra; instead for a girl who was not yet nineteen. Worse still, he had taken all of Allegra’s earnings, having put them in a bank account to which he alone had access. ‘Let me worry about your finances,’ he’d assured her. ‘That way you can concentrate on your singing. You mustn’t be distracted by the mundane.’
It hadn’t only been her earnings Luigi had stolen; he had helped himself to the bulk of her trust fund. She didn’t know what angered her most: his greed and betrayal, or her own stupidity. She should never have trusted him to the extent she had, but he had been so utterly convincing. Nothing had been genuine about him, least of all the supposed theatre bookings he’d put in place for the months ahead. Not a single one existed. What was more, he’d run up debts far and wide, and she was tainted by association.
He’d left her with nothing: no income, no bookings, much less her dignity. Even the rent on her modest apartment was going to be a problem, and to her disgust, the landlord, Signor Pezzo, had begun to hint there were other ways she could pay him if money was tight. His suggestion made her skin crawl
; nothing would induce her to fall so low, to allow that hideous man, with his foul sulphurous breath and filthy hands, anywhere near her. A proud fascist, only last week he had taken pleasure in evicting a Jewish couple from the apartment below Allegra’s. He’d claimed that they were difficult tenants and made too much noise, but Allegra had never heard a sound from them.
That sort of thing had been happening a lot since last year, when the new racial laws had been made. Jews were now forbidden from doing all sorts of jobs, and their children weren’t allowed to attend Italian schools either, or go to university. What horrified Allegra most was how easily her fellow Italians had accepted the new laws, which anybody could see were just plain wrong. But even she was careful to whom she voiced such an opinion. It seemed likely that things would soon get a lot worse, with Mussolini only too keen to adopt the ideology of Nazi anti-Semitism in order to curry favour with that awful Hitler.
She heaved a long, weary sigh. She suddenly felt so very old and tired, and she was only twenty-six! She returned her gaze to the telegram and its demand for her to return to Island House. Presumably Roddy Fitzwilliam had sent it. Dear old Roddy; he’d always had a soft spot for her, and she for him. Unlike the rest of them, who never allowed her to forget that she was illegitimate – the bastard child of Harry Devereux – he treated her as if she counted for something.
But to return to England, to subject herself to God knew what? Why would Jack Devereux care if she were there by his bedside at the end? What difference would it make? Why put herself back in the very situation she had fled? All that sneering from Arthur, the mock-pity from Kit and the superior air from Hope; why return to that? Especially now that her singing career was all but over. For in the shock of what she’d discovered about Luigi, her voice had abandoned her. Every time she tried to sing, she was once again that trembling, anxious child standing before the strange man in the orphanage unable to utter more than a mortifying croak. How could she put herself through the humiliation of the family knowing that her dreams had come to nothing?