Random Acts of Heroic Love

by Danny Scheinmann

  I still had those letters and the only thing I could think of doing with them was to post them. I sent her a few a day in the order I had written them. Goodness knows how she felt, suddenly receiving hundreds of letters from a man she didn’t know was still alive. One day she wrote back.

  Dear Moritz,

  I have been moved by your letters. I do not know if I can love you as you love me. I need to see your face. It has been so long. Please come to me.

  Lotte

  The letter sent me into a rage. Three non-committal lines. Was that it? I sat in front of the mirror and stared at the pock-marked face that she ‘needed to see’ and I cursed her: ‘You want to see my face, what is that supposed to mean?’ I yelled. ‘And when you see me racked with consumption, wasting away, coughing blood, will you love me then? Haven’t I proved myself enough to you? Have I not dedicated my life to you? No, I won’t go to you, I’ve gone far enough. Now you make an effort. You come to me.’

  And I tore up her letter like a petulant child and threw it in the fire. ‘I don’t care any more,’ I screamed. ‘I am too weak, I won’t leave my bed. Go marry a Viennese snob, I don’t care. You’ll be better off without me, at least he might live to see his grandchildren. You broke your promise, I hate you, Lotte Steinberg, I hate you. Oh, what am I to do?’ I flung myself on to the bed and beat the mattress until I felt ridiculous. My body went limp and I stared numbly into the fire. At length I fell asleep weeping with self-pity.

  It was a week of fury and downward tilts, reassessment and panic. Ulanow had lost its charm, my family home was squatted in by peasants, the few relations that were left, like Cousin Monyek, were planning to leave, and Poland was at war with Russia. With a heavy heart I took to the road again, unsure of where to go, knowing only that given time the road provides all the answers. There were trains I could have taken but it’s not the same, I needed time to think. The road led me through Czechoslovakia to Vienna. A voice told me I had to see Lotte one last time before coming to Berlin to find my family . . . ach . . . sorry . . . just a moment . . . it’s getting a little difficult to talk . . . She lived on a quiet cobbled street in the west of the city. There it was, not as grand as I expected, a small Viennese house. It was 5 February 1920, a week before her wedding. It was early evening, dark, a cold bite in the air, the shutters were closed for the night but I could see light through the crack . . . excuse me a moment . . . ach . . . spittoon! Thank you . . . I stood for a long while just staring at the door from across the street. All I had to do was knock on it and my journey would be over, there would at last be some kind of resolution. I was petrified. I had prepared a little speech on the journey from Ulanow, with choice phrases that I thought best expressed my feelings. Each day I had honed and improved it. I had imagined various scenarios and planned different responses to each one. Now I was repeating these words over and over like a student standing outside the exam room. My hands were trembling, my legs were wobbly and the words, which had seemed so apt only an hour ago, sounded limp and hollow. Between the door and me was a bottomless pit. I had grown roots and could not move. I gazed at the door and wondered about the lives behind it; what if she were to refuse me? For more than five years I had dreamt of this moment, and now I felt the blood leave my heart like an army in retreat.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a man scurrying down the street carrying a large bag. He wore a goatee beard and had an air of self-importance about him. He walked straight to Lotte’s door and rapped loudly on it twice. I retreated into the shadows and watched the door slowly swing open . . . Please wait, wait . . . ach . . . yes, wipe it off . . . good boy . . . It was Lotte’s mother who stood on the other side. Her hair, greyer than I remembered, was tied up in a tight bun and she wore a long, elegant, green dress. She seemed excited to see the gentleman.

  ‘I’ve made all the alterations that you requested,’ the man said, handing over the bag gingerly.

  ‘Thank you, thank you so much, Herr Klein. Lotte will be delighted.’

  The man bowed. ‘Happy to be of service, Frau Steinberg,’ he said ingratiatingly. They said their goodbyes and the man hurried away.

  I guessed what was in that bag and it was more than I could bear. I turned on my heels and walked away. At the end of the road I had a change of heart and turned back. I paced the street in this way for some time. I was in a pathetic quandary. All reason demanded that I should not subject myself to the humiliation of rejection; compassion demanded that I shouldn’t muddy Lotte’s feelings a week before her wedding. In the end it was only the weight of a ten-thousand-kilometre walk that pushed me over the road. They were the most difficult few steps of my long journey. The air was thick like water, my heart was pounding, it was intolerable. A brass knocker on a blue door. I was transfixed by it. I raised my shaking hand and grasped the knocker and brought it down hard against the door. Mrs Steinberg opened the door and in the hallway mirror I could see Lotte standing behind her, wearing her wedding dress. I think my heart stopped.

  Mrs Steinberg hadn’t recognized me, she was asking me what I wanted. I just stared and stared at Lotte . . . couldn’t speak . . . she was not the girl from my dreams. I had changed her, distorted her over the years. I had lightened her hair, heightened her cheekbone, wrapped her in melancholy. In the flesh she was darker, softer, more smiling. It took a moment for me to recognize her as my girl from the San. Now she was someone else’s, so lovely, so perfect in that white dress. Strange that I should see her in that dress before he did. I wanted to say her name, but my tongue died in my mouth. Then she turned from the mirror to look, and when her eyes fell on me I wanted to stand tall and smile but I broke down, fell against the doorpost and wept. I felt weary, tired to my core, but worse than that, utterly forlorn. What was I doing there torturing myself? At last Mrs Steinberg realized who I was, she mumbled something and went away.

  But Lotte knew me immediately. For a long time there were no words between us, no movement, not even a breath. I found her pitying gaze intolerable; through her eyes I saw how ugly I had become, how wretched, and I was ashamed. I felt humbled, unworthy. I was like a man waiting for his execution, and suddenly the moment had come; everything was to be settled once and for all, here and now. In my heart I knew that it was over, that the walking had saved my life but not my love. There was nothing more I could do, it was up to her now, my fate was in Lotte’s hands. And all I wanted was for her to dispatch me quickly, send me away with a gesture; it would have been unbearable to be patronized by politeness. Now I could see her mouth open. She was about to speak . . . ‘Moritz,’ she whispered, ‘you’re home’ . . . such tenderness in her voice . . . Oh, her voice. I felt a bolt of electricity rip through me and I knew from that sweet sound that she was mine, had always been, would always be. She flung herself into my arms. From a standing start my heart was galloping with hers . . . two wild horses . . . then we kissed like the children we once were on the banks of the San.

  I still love her. I always have . . . Shh Isaac . . . awake at last . . . sweet boy. Now listen carefully, you two, life is a journey, you don’t need power or wealth to survive it but with love in your heart you can face down a snowstorm. Your mother and I can only give you one thing and it is the only thing you need to make your journey beautiful. We love you more than life itself. Let this story be your inheritance . . . . . .

  ‘Daddy?’

  30

  ‘THE WEDDING PLANS HAD ALL BEEN MADE WHEN ONE DAY a bundle of letters arrived. You can imagine the shock, Leo, Moritz was back from the dead. Lotte couldn’t believe he was still alive, she had completely given up on him. And the letters kept arriving; great piles of them every day for weeks on end. They had an extraordinary effect on her; his love for her was pouring from every page. Her life turned upside down. What was she to do? The invitations had been sent. One day she went to her father and begged him to call off the wedding. At first he was furious but she reminded him of his promise that she could marry Moritz if he came back alive. Eventua
lly he agreed, but on one condition; that she wait until she saw him before deciding to marry him.

  ‘Many soldiers had lost their minds after the war and couldn’t adapt to normal life. He didn’t want to lose his daughter to a lunatic. The wedding dress, however, had already been paid for, and everyone including the old man secretly hoped that it would still be put to good use.

  ‘It felt like an age before Moritz showed up in Vienna and when she saw him at the door she was shocked by his appearance. He was emaciated and filthy. He looked much older than before, but frail though he was, he still had something about him. After all he’d just walked half the globe to be with her. She was in awe of him. When she hugged him he was shaking like a newborn lamb and later she noticed dirty hand-prints on her dress, but she didn’t care, for she knew that no one could ever love her like Moritz. He had proved himself a thousand times over. Within a month they were married.

  ‘After my dad died I had trouble sleeping and I would get my mum to tell me stories about him. I think she enjoyed remembering him through stories, and he took on this mythical status. She would always begin with, “One day, your dad, the great Moritz Daniecki . . .” She told me that Dad was the most extraordinarily intense and passionate man that she had ever known. He made the mundane seem miraculous. It was hard not to love him.’ Frank sighed and shook his head. ‘So there it is, Leo. It’s your story now. Let it work for you.’

  Leo got to his feet and wandered towards the window. ‘I can’t believe he did it . . . Moritz did it, he married Lotte . . . she’s my grandmother.’

  ‘Yes,’ Frank said, ‘but you already knew that. I told you about her putting me on the boat.’

  ‘Yes, you talked about your mum, but you didn’t tell me her name. I wasn’t sure.’

  All his life Leo had shuffled around the gaping hole of Frank’s past. He had never been told explicitly not to ask questions about it, and yet he had grown up knowing not to probe. Frank had been living on a high wire not daring to look down, and something in his sensitive demeanour told those around him not to push. All that was behind them now, and Leo realized that he had never really known his father at all.

  ‘Mr Deakin, there’s one thing I don’t understand,’ Hannah asked after a while. ‘Why did you run away from the story for so long?’

  ‘Because I couldn’t separate the story from the grief and guilt I felt.’

  ‘Guilt?’ Leo queried.

  ‘I thought that my father had died that night because I had made him finish the story. Not only that, but I watched him die in silence. I berated myself for not talking, not telling him I loved him, not even saying goodbye. Then, when my mother put me on the boat and didn’t come to England as she had promised I thought that it was because she was angry with me for killing my dad. I know it sounds ridiculous but . . .’

  ‘No it doesn’t, Dad,’ Leo interrupted, ‘it’s the same for me. I can’t forgive myself for making Eleni sit at the front of the bus. She was on her way down to the middle and I called her back. She only came because she would have done anything I asked.’

  ‘Well, you’re already a better man than me for saying so,’ Frank said. ‘I didn’t want anyone to know what a bad person I was. When I met Eve and we had you I thought I was the luckiest man in the world. But my grief lay twisted like a knot in my heart, it felt so heavy that the last thing I wanted was to pass it on to you.’

  Leo nodded, ‘I know, Dad. Maybe you were right to wait. I’m glad I’ve heard it now.’ He went over to Frank and gave him a hug, ‘I love you, Dad, I’m so lucky that I’ve got you.’

  Hannah bit her lip and looked away. She felt overwhelmed as if she were suffocating, and suddenly she jumped up and ran out of the room into the garden. Leo made to follow her, but Frank held him back.

  ‘Let me talk to her, Leo,’ he said firmly, and followed her into the garden. Leo raised an eyebrow at his mother and they both started to laugh.

  ‘Wow,’ Leo exclaimed, ‘all of a sudden he’s John Wayne.’

  ‘Or just plain Fischel Daniecki,’ Eve suggested.

  The air in the house felt lighter. Eve had become so accustomed to the great silent weight that hung over her home that it was only now it was gone that she wondered how on earth she had been able to bear it.

  Frank sat down on the garden bench next to Hannah and put his arm round her shoulder. ‘It’s no fun being an orphan, is it?’ he said softly.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Wherever they are right now, they’ll be looking down on you,’ he assured her.

  ‘Does the pain ever go away, Mr Deakin?’ Hannah asked.

  ‘Not really, but at some point life starts up again, the present slips into memory, and it becomes easier to bear. What do you think they’ll do up there now they’re together again?’

  Hannah thought for a moment. ‘They’ll probably go on some long walks, they used to love that.’

  ‘Yes, and I’m sure your dad will tell your mum what you’ve been up to and how proud he is of you.’

  ‘Mmm, and then they’ll do some gardening. I never saw the attraction when I was growing up. It was this boring thing my mum and dad did every weekend.’

  Frank nodded. ‘When you’ve had kids you become more interested in watching things grow,’ he said. Hannah looked around the garden, at the herbaceous borders and well-mown lawn; Frank and Eve had obviously spent a lot of time nurturing their own garden. ‘Don’t fall into the same trap I fell into, Hannah,’ Frank warned. ‘My mum put me on that boat so that I could be free. But I realize now that I’ve been oppressed all my life. I got to the point where I was so remote from my feelings that I didn’t even know I had any. I honestly believed I had conquered them. It was only when I saw Leo go inside himself that I saw what was inside me. Does that make any sense?’

  Hannah nodded. She took her mind back to the time when Leo had mistaken her blushes for affection and that dreadful dinner when he had accused her of hiding behind her smile. She had been badly stung by that attack, she had gone home and asked herself whether there was any truth in it, and had had to admit that he was right: after the death of her mother she hadn’t let anyone get close to her. ‘Yes, Mr Deakin, it makes a lot of sense,’ she said.

  ‘I can’t have you calling me Mr Deakin any longer. Please call me Frank, and I want you to know, Hannah, that if there’s anything I can do for you I will. If you want to talk about anything then call me any time, or even if you want to come and stay our door is always open.’

  ‘Thank you. I really appreciate it, Mr Deak— I mean Frank.’ Hannah smiled.

  31

  ‘THIS THING IS REALLY BLOODY UNCOMFORTABLE,’ HANNAH grumbled. ‘It’s more like a hammock than a bed. It’s like sleeping in a bag. I’d get more rest on a bed of nails.’

  ‘All right, all right, let’s swap,’ Leo offered, throwing back his duvet.

  ‘No, I couldn’t rob you of your bed, Leo. Can’t we both sleep in it?’ It was an innocent question and Leo read it as such.

  ‘Well, I suppose so, it’s not very big.’

  ‘We’ll snuggle up, it’ll be OK. How old is that camp bed?’ she asked as she jumped into Leo’s.

  ‘Put it this way: I remember my mum’s brother sleeping on it when I was four or five and it wasn’t new then.’

  ‘Christ, it’s an antique. It should be in a museum.’

  ‘In a camp-bed museum?’

  ‘Yeah, something like that.’

  There was a long silence.

  ‘Leo, what are you thinking?’

  ‘I was thinking about Eleni. I was wondering why she is still following me around everywhere. It’s as if she wants something from me.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes, I have this idea that wherever she is right now she can’t rest until I’ve done what she wants. Or maybe it’s me that’s hanging on to her, holding her back. We’re both in a kind of no-man’s-land, unable to really live fully.’

  ‘And what would you want for her if she were
still alive and you were dead?’

  ‘I’d want her to be happy.’

  ‘And how would she achieve that?’

  Leo reflected a moment. ‘I think she would have to love and be loved in the same way we loved each other. I can’t see any other way. Once you’ve been in love like that, how can you be happy until you’ve tasted it again?’

  ‘But wouldn’t you be jealous?’

  ‘Yes, terribly. But what is my jealousy to her happiness?’

  ‘Maybe she wants the same for you. Maybe she won’t go away until she sees you happy.’

  ‘I don’t think I could ever love anyone like I loved Eleni.’

  ‘How do you know? Maybe you could love someone more than Eleni, if you let yourself.’

  ‘I don’t know. It would have to be someone extraordinary.’

  ‘Someone like your grandfather, who would go to the ends of the earth for you.’

  ‘That’s only half of it. I’d have to be prepared to do the same for her.’

  ‘Leo, what do you think will happen to you if you don’t find someone?’

  ‘I see myself as a very sad old man. In fact I’m already a very sad young man so not a lot will change.’

  ‘Mmm, me too – I’m sad too. You’d better find someone then, and let Eleni rest in peace.’

  ‘Where, though?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Hannah sighed, ‘I just don’t know. I’ll think about it.’

  Leo rolled on to his side and hugged her. ‘Sleep well.’

  They lay spooned together in the single bed. Neither slept.

  ‘Leo?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Can you hear that noise?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What is it? It sounds like two cats fighting.’

  ‘It’s Mum and Dad having sex.’