She lay there, afraid to move. She needed the bucket as her insides were twisted with anxiety and terror, but she dared not stir. The sunlight slipped in under the slats, so it was still daytime. She and Frau Braun were alone in the house once again.
Frau Braun was a postmistress now, having been elevated from a mere delivery woman a while ago. When she announced her promotion, Ariella congratulated her but secretly presumed two factors precipitated the promotion: first, her husband’s rise within the Party, and second, the lack of anyone else to do the job. It was hardly her charming manner or her love of the postal service. For want of something better to talk about, Ariella tried to engage her on the subject of her job, but according to Frau Braun, the work was too hard, the hours too long, the pay terrible and her colleagues morons. It was such a negative way of going on, but it was all Ariella had as conversation, so she sympathised and tried to draw her out, so acute was her longing for human contact. The long hours she spent alone dripped so slowly.
The occasional positive thing Frau Braun did say was how well Hubert Braun was doing in his career. She boasted about how they were now being invited to Party functions, though to Ariella’s knowledge, Frau Braun never went out in the evenings. She also spoke of how Germany was winning the war by way of each person throwing themselves wholeheartedly into the war effort. She relayed stories of German victories, all on the excellent authority of her husband who was so high up these days. The fact that he was a violent brute didn’t enter these conversations, and of course, Ariella never let on that she knew anything about their marriage.
She assumed it was not going to be long before Germany was victorious, based on her only source of information, and she lay awake at night wondering what that would mean for her and her children. She was a Jewess, and the Nazis hated the Jews. Her children too were Jews because of her, though Peter had been a Christian. According to Frau Braun, there were no Jews left in Berlin. When the war was over, what then? How quickly could she get to Ireland?
She thought about her apartment. How would she go about reclaiming it? Perhaps when Germany won, they would allow the Jews to come back from the work camps. There would be no further need for them surely at that stage.
She spent hours planning their future. Berlin would have too many sad memories for her; there were so many places she’d gone, firstly with Peter, then with Peter and the children as a family. She decided she would sell their apartment. They had some investments in America, so she could hopefully realise their value as well, and she thought she might buy a place in the country. She’d hidden the papers relating to their bank accounts and American investments under the floorboards in their apartment after Peter was taken and once she heard of Jewish assets being seized, just in case, so she could go back and retrieve them once the war was over. Peter had believed they were safe – he thought her Jewishness would not be a problem because he was a Christian and held a position of influence at the bank. He was wrong.
Despite Frau Braun’s snippets of war news, of how Germany was winning, the Allied planes dropped bombs every night. Someone was fighting back. Britain, she assumed. It was terrifying lying there, wondering if the Braun house would be the next hit, and if it was, praying it would be quick.
She longed to do her former daily exercise regime. She was determined to stay strong physically and mentally. She would need all of her wits about her when the time came to find her children and restart their lives after all of this madness.
Sometimes the long hours played with her mind; she felt like she really was losing all sense of reality. Was this really happening? Was she dreaming? Would she wake up to find Peter sleeping beside her, and would she tell him over breakfast about her horrible strange dream? But no, it was real all right, so all she could do was focus on the future. To occupy her time at night if she couldn’t sleep, she translated poems into as many languages as she could. She did mental arithmetic; she designed their new house.
During the day, when she was sure Herr Braun was at work, she would read the letters the children had written.
She knew one by heart. It was from September of 1940.
Dear Mutti,
We hope you are well and that you can write back to us. We have moved to Ireland because Elizabeth’s house was bombed. Not just her house, but lots of houses, and the school she worked at too and the baker’s. Her mutti is dead, but she had a house in Ballycreggan in the north part of Ireland, and so we have come here and it is lovely. It is very green here, and we live near the beach, so Elizabeth says when it warms up, we can swim there. Irish people talk very fast, and it is hard to understand them sometimes. There is a lady called Bridie, and she has a shop that sells sweets. She is very funny and friendly. She said she remembered Papa coming to visit when he was a little boy with Opa. Opa’s brother was Elizabeth’s papa, did you know that? Elizabeth is our teacher, and she is so nice. She treats us the same as everyone else in school, but at home, she is like you.
We miss you and we love you.
Liesl and Erich xxxx
All Ariella ever felt was gratitude, not jealousy, that it was Elizabeth who was kissing them goodnight, or putting bandages on their cut knees. If Ariella had not put them on that train, if she hadn’t written to Elizabeth, who knows what fate would have awaited her precious babies.
She longed for another letter, but Frau Braun said there were none. She didn’t know if that was true or not, but when she pressed, the postmistress explained how dangerous it was to even smuggle that last one out. She said that Ariella was lucky to know that her children were fine and should be happy with that.
She tried to imagine Liesl, as she was now. She was only a child when they left and Erich her adoring little brother. He would have his bar mitzvah soon, if life had gone on normally. She supposed he had no idea about his Jewish faith if he lived in Ireland.
She hoped they didn’t think her silence was because she was dead. She would hate them to be upset and worrying, and if there were any way to get a message to them, she would. She once asked Frau Braun to send a telegram, but the woman had exploded and asked her if she were mad. Did she want to be discovered and both of them put on a train to the east before their feet hit the ground?
Instead, she composed letters in her head every week, and she translated them into English, French, Hebrew, Italian, Russian. One for Liesl and another for Erich. In these, she poured out her heart, her love for them, her love for their father, the pain at being apart from them, her gratitude to Elizabeth, to Frau Braun.
In the many hours she lay silently still, she speculated as to why the German woman, a dedicated follower of Hitler – at least on the face of it – had taken her off the street that day and hid her in the attic of their home. Surely if her husband found out, he would kill them both.
The prospect of discovery by Hubert Braun terrified her. He stayed out late, and she thought he sometimes came home drunk, as often very late at night, there would be the sound of crashing and things being knocked over. She had known the Brauns by sight before the war – her apartment wasn’t far from theirs, though in a much nicer part of the neighbourhood – and she’d had Frau Braun as her postwoman for years. She’d seen her husband a few times but had never spoken to him.
Frau Braun only spoke of him in terms of his role in the Party. But Willi was a whole other matter. If she spoke about anything, it was her son. On that subject, her face lost the hard angular grimace she habitually wore and she looked young. Her love for the boy shone.
Willi was twenty-seven years old and her only child. He was with the Infanterie-Regiment Großdeutschland, the unit that had, according to Frau Braun anyway, brought about the capitulation of Western Europe and were now doing the same thing in Russia.
Ariella remembered Willi as a schoolboy. She recalled a cheerful lad with a mop of dark curls and flashing eyes. She would see him sometimes on his bicycle going to or from school, and he also delivered their newspaper for pocket money. He was always singing or whis
tling. It struck her, even then, how unlike his dour mother he was.
Frau Braun had shown her a photograph of Willi in his uniform, and she replied dutifully that he looked very handsome. In truth, the sight of that uniform made her feel sick with fear.
In turn, she had offered a photograph of her and Peter with Liesl and Erich that they’d had taken professionally in a studio. It was the only thing she had in her purse when Frau Braun rescued her off the street. They were so happy then. They’d gone Christmas shopping after the picture was taken. She felt joy flood her heart when she looked at her beloved family. That day, swapping photographs, the two women were not a Nazi postmistress and a Jewess; they were just mothers. Mothers missing their children.
The house was still quiet. Had Frau Braun left for work?
No. There was a tap on the trapdoor.
Ariella realised she was holding her breath again, so she exhaled slowly and opened the trapdoor, peering over to see down to the landing below.
‘Come downstairs. We must talk.’ Frau Braun’s face was ashen.
From the day Ariella had arrived, she had never left the attic, not once. One time, Frau Braun had fallen off her bicycle and broken her leg. She was in the hospital for two days, and once she was home, she couldn’t get upstairs. Ariella thought she might starve, but once the house was empty, the German woman managed to drag herself upstairs and Ariella leaned down from the attic to receive some bread. She asked if she should come down at that time, to help her if nothing else, but her offer was rebuffed bluntly.
‘You can never leave there! The attic is where you live or where you die, but you never come into my house,’ the other woman said firmly, the pain of moving on her broken leg causing perspiration to bead on her forehead.
Now, Ariella moved her stiff and weak body to the edge. She managed to get her feet through, and she gripped the rope she used to lower the buckets down. She’d tied knots at intervals so it was easier, and she was sure it would bear her weight. She gripped the rope and allowed her weak body to slide down. She fell in a heap at the bottom. Instantly, Frau Braun dragged her to her feet, half pulling, half pushing her into a darkened bedroom.
Chapter 4
Liesl sat at the kitchen table, having finished her homework. She should, by rights, be attending the secondary school in Strangford, but she didn’t want to. She and the other Jewish children from the farm opted to stay in Elizabeth’s class in Ballycreggan National School, and nobody objected.
They had all grown up together and had shared a classroom for four years, so they all wanted to continue as they had done. The older children helped the younger ones, and they had become such a tight-knit group that the idea of going anywhere else to attend school was unthinkable. There had been a meeting, and the decision to let them all stay together was made. In their short lives, they had each lost so much – they needed each other in ways others couldn’t understand. Rabbi Frank called in once a week and gave them some instruction in the Judaic faith, and of course, they all attended services at the synagogue on the farm.
Elizabeth taught them all she could – maths, English. They were all fluent by now and spoke with a hybrid accent of whatever country they were from mixed with County Down. Some of the local colloquialisms and phrases out of the mouths of Poles and Germans caused the people of Ballycreggan to smile. The previous week, Liesl had told Viola to ‘catch herself on’ when she was saying she should not use her sweets ration because she was putting on weight. Bridie in the shop had pealed with laughter, saying that Liesl was ‘one of their own now’. It felt nice to hear.
‘What’s up?’ Daniel asked Liesl as he prepared their dinner and she chewed her pencil, deep in thought.
Liesl looked at him and smiled sadly. ‘I’m just writing to Mutti, and each time I do, I wonder, is it time to stop? She’s obviously not getting our letters because she would reply if she was. I kept it up for Erich, but he’s had his bar mitzvah now, so he’s a man, even if he’s a very annoying little one.’ She grinned to show she was joking. ‘So I wonder if we shouldn’t just stop.’
Daniel put the knife down and placed the potato he’d been peeling on the table. He pulled out the chair beside Liesl, sat down and faced her. ‘Why would you do that?’ he asked gently.
‘Well, it just feels pointless.’ She was trying to sound matter-of-fact, but saying those words still hurt.
‘But you don’t know if she’s getting them or not. Maybe she is and can’t reply.’
‘I watch the newsreels in the cinema. I read the papers. You know as well as I do what’s happening. They are gathering all the Jews and sending them away somewhere. Mutti didn’t have anyone to help her, and Papa isn’t there, so maybe it’s even crueller to Erich to keep up the pretence?’
Her eyes searched his kind, handsome face. Liesl loved Daniel, and though she would never forget her papa, Daniel was, in every way imaginable, their father now. He was kind and funny. He never talked to her like she was a child or treated her opinion as silly, and she loved that about him.
‘I don’t think so. I know it’s hard not knowing, but Europe is not as we left it. Communications are severely disrupted, and the military will be using any systems that still work, and civilians are far down the list when it comes to using infrastructure in wartime. There is a chance that your mother is getting your letters. But nobody I know, Jew or Gentile, has had a letter out of Germany for years, so perhaps it’s just not possible, I don’t know. But I do know this – hope is not a bad habit, Liesl. You know your papa is dead, and we said Kaddish for him. He is with God now, watching over you and Erich. But your mutti did not look Jewish – you always said that – so there is a good chance she wasn’t picked up. Perhaps she managed to live somewhere else, maybe she is living on false papers or hiding. We just don’t know.’ He tucked a stray piece of hair behind her ear.
She hoped he was right.
‘Look, I’m not trying to fob you off, and of course we all know what has happened at home, but until we have some information, I think a little hope cannot hurt. You write each week to her, and even if she doesn’t get the letters, I think, wherever she is, she knows you are thinking of her. And in those letters, you can talk to her, share what you want to with her, and that’s a good thing, isn’t it?’
Liesl shrugged. ‘I suppose so.’
‘And for Erich too. He needs to talk to his mother, as do you. So why stop?’ He smiled and ran his hand over her thick, dark-brown hair.
‘Do you ever write to anyone back in Vienna?’ she asked.
He shrugged and shook his head. ‘Nobody there for me any more. My family is here now. You and Erich and Elizabeth are my life now, and I’m a lucky man.’
‘I miss my papa.’ The words came as a surprise to her, but she felt his loss so keenly in that moment. She swallowed the lump in her throat as tears leaked from her eyes.
‘Of course you do.’ Daniel put his arm around her, wiping her tears with his thumb. ‘But you can talk to him too, you know? I think he can hear you.’
‘Really?’ she asked, uncertain but longing to believe him.
He nodded. ‘I talk to my parents, and my brother, Josef, who died in a car accident, all the time. I understand why my mother and father didn’t tell us about our Jewish heritage. They thought they were doing the right thing, that we’d have an easier life if people saw us as Christians, so I’m not angry with them but I do have some questions. I love my faith now – I love being a Jew. It feels right. I realise that something was missing before, and now it makes sense. I know Elizabeth talks to her parents, and Rudi, her first husband.’ He smiled at the look of confusion on Liesl’s face.
‘Don’t worry. I love Elizabeth and she loves me, but Rudi was her first love and a part of her heart will always be his – that’s fine with me. But my point is, those we love don’t die, not really. They are in our hearts, in our heads.’
‘All right, Daniel.’ She grinned. ‘Maybe you should become a rabbi, as you are so wise.�
�� She winked, and he chucked her on the chin affectionately.
‘I think I’m not learned enough for that, but I do know you should finish your letter to your mutti and then get on with your homework!’
‘I’ve everything done. I was leaving the letter until last.’
Daniel returned to peeling potatoes. ‘And of course you can tell your mother things you don’t tell me or Elizabeth without fear of judgement.’
‘I tell you and Elizabeth everything,’ Liesl replied, her eyes wide and innocent.
‘Hmm…everything?’ Daniel glanced over his shoulder at her and raised a sceptical eyebrow.
‘Yes, of course.’
‘Even about a certain Jewish-Irish boy from Dublin with blue eyes and a cheeky grin who always waits to talk to you after Shabbat?’
Liesl coloured to the roots of her hair. She didn’t know Daniel had noticed Ben waiting around to speak to her. He was from Dublin, and his father was one of the people who had set up the farm in the first place. Ben had arrived a few weeks ago, having finished school, to work on the farm. He was lovely, and her heart fluttered when she caught his eye, but she was much too young to be thinking about boys in that way. She knew Elizabeth and Daniel would not allow her to keep company with him, so a brief exchange each week after Shabbat would have to be enough.
‘I…I don’t know who you mean,’ she muttered, dropping her head and focusing intently on her letter to her mother, hoping he couldn’t see how much she was blushing.
Daniel stood up, his tall, broad frame shadowing over her. ‘He’s a nice boy, and clever too. He’s working hard on the farm and is very interested in engineering, though I suspect his interest in my work has more to do with you than me. You are a little young yet, so we will keep an eye on that situation, but Elizabeth and I don’t mind you sharing a friendly conversation now and again. Is that all right?’
The Emerald Horizon (The Star and the Shamrock Book 2) Page 2