The Emerald Horizon (The Star and the Shamrock Book 2)

by Jean Grainger

  Ariella knew that this was goodbye. Gretel couldn’t hide her, and there was no point in asking. She couldn’t put Gretel in danger by coming again, and she wondered if she would ever see her friend again in this lifetime. It seemed unlikely. Peter and Nathaniel were gone, and now they were alone and facing a future impossible to predict.

  ‘Now, take the food and go. Good luck, Ariella. I really hope you are reunited with Liesl and Erich. Remember us to them if you are. Nathaniel was determined to get them on that train, so at least if you find them again, he will have achieved something.’

  Another sad smile passed over Gretel’s face, and for a moment, Ariella glimpsed her pretty, funny friend once more.

  ‘We had a good life, didn’t we?’ Gretel asked, as if she needed confirmation that her whole life wasn’t this hell. ‘Friendship and laughter… We thought it would always be like that.’

  The pain of loss and sadness on her face hurt Ariella to her core. Though she was a Jew living with false papers and Gretel a perfect Aryan and mother to three loyal little Nazis, Ariella knew she would rather be herself. Regardless of what happened next, her friend had no happy future.

  Ariella hugged her tightly. ‘Goodbye, Gretel, and thank you for everything. I’ll pray that we’ll meet again when all of this is over –’

  But before she could continue, Gretel shook her head. ‘No, that won’t happen. Not in this life anyway. Good luck.’ Gretel kissed Ariella’s cheek and gently nudged her out the back once more. The door closed behind her, and she took one last look around the courtyard, the scene of so many summer barbeques, Peter and Nathaniel playing with the children while she and Gretel prepared the food. It felt like another lifetime ago.

  She let herself out and walked into the street, taking care not to be seen, and headed back towards the church. The nosey cleaner Frau Groenig would still be there, so she had some hours to kill. She didn’t want to run into Herman again, so she avoided the Tiergarten.

  She walked, on and on, street after battered street. The hideous red and black flags were everywhere, though many were worse for wear. People pulled trolleys and prams with their meagre belongings – bombed out presumably – and everyone looked hungry, miserable and hunted.

  Chapter 13

  Elizabeth let herself into the parish hall through the back entrance. Daniel was already in the little room behind the stage, and he looked up as she entered.

  ‘A full house.’ He smiled. All day he and the boys from the farm had been setting up rows of seats, and she’d arranged teas and buns for after the meeting.

  ‘This is the right thing, isn’t it?’ she asked, suddenly unsure. It had been her idea, but now that she was to address the entire community, she was nervous.

  Daniel took her hand. ‘I think you are completely right. The farm feels temporary, the dormitories, the refectory – it’s more like a boarding school or a barracks than a home. If we can get some help, we could turn the refectory into a big common room with a wireless and some couches and tables. We can get rid of the long trestle table and the benches and instead make tables and chairs, so they eat like a family. And upstairs, we could change the austere look of the dorms. I could make dressing tables and proper wardrobes – they only have a communal rail at the moment. But especially for the girls, if they had a little place of their own to put their things, that would make it feel more like home, wouldn’t it?’

  ‘It really would.’

  ‘Well, then, do what you do best. Explain to the good people of Ballycreggan what our plan is.’ He kissed her cheek. ‘I’ll be right beside you.’

  They walked out, and the hubbub of chatter died down. Elizabeth strode to the centre of the little stage, and all nerves disappeared. The entire town was gathered. These were her people, and those children were her responsibility. She could do this.

  ‘Thank you, everybody, for coming. I…well, all of us really, appreciate it.’

  The front row was made up of the rabbi, Levi, Ruth, some of the Irish volunteers at the farm, the parish priest and the local vicar.

  ‘We invited you all here tonight to discuss – well, to ask for help really, for a project we think is going to become necessary in the coming months and possibly years.’

  Every eye was on her, and one could hear a pin drop.

  ‘As you no doubt know, the situation in Europe is horrific, and though the end is in sight after such a long time, the children at the farm came alone. Many of them are very worried they will be sent back and just left to fend for themselves. Of course that won’t happen, but the reality is that for many of them, reuniting with their families will be a very difficult thing to do. And in the case of some, it will prove to be an impossibility.’

  Heads shook, and the compassion in the room was palpable.

  ‘So we, all of us adults who work with these children, were thinking that the main thing is that our boys and girls feel safe and that Ballycreggan is their home for as long as they need it. I’ve seen how you all have taken them to your hearts, and I thought you might like the opportunity to do something practical to help them.’

  ‘Hear, hear!’ called Mr Morris, the school principal, and several people nodded.

  ‘The kindness and compassion you have all shown to the refugees is an example of how decent people behave, and so knowing you as I do, I’m coming to ask you again.’ She smiled. This was going to be fine.

  ‘The farm was a ramshackle old place at the start, and the staff there did a wonderful job making it warm and dry and habitable, but I think it’s time to make it all feel more permanent. Who knows when the children will get to go home, but whatever happens, it will be a long time. So I think we could pull together to make it a little more homely for them. Nothing too elaborate. Rationing and everything is still in place. But maybe if you had some wool or old material lying around, the ladies of the Women’s Institute might be able to work their magic? Make some quilts, curtains and that sort of thing? And maybe some of the men could give a hand turning the dormitories into more individual rooms, with little lockers and wardrobes? We have some wood – we may need more – but if that was an option?

  ‘Reverend Parkes and Father O’Toole had offered some of the bigger pieces of furniture out of the vicarage and the parochial house. We couldn’t take them at the start because we hadn’t space at the time, but now that so much has been done up there, we can. Still, we’ll need much more. We’d like to create a common room too, a place they could relax and feel at home, but again, we have nothing…’

  Everyone was smiling and nodding enthusiastically and murmuring to each other. The atmosphere was positive, and Daniel gave her a wink.

  ‘The people of Ballycreggan have been so kind already that we hate to ask again –’ Elizabeth went on, but Father O’Toole stood up and interrupted her.

  ‘I’m sorry to cut across you, Mrs Lieber, but I feel I can speak for the village on this matter?’ He raised an eyebrow at Reverend Parkes, who nodded.

  ‘When our village was bombed and we were in a bad way, it was the community at the farm that came to our aid. Not just on the day after, but in the weeks and months that followed. They gave of their time and their skill to put our village back together. They share what they grow with us, and their children are educated alongside the locals.

  ‘The future those children face is uncertain, God love them, and our hearts are going out to them, so I can say with a hundred percent certainty that we will do whatever we can to help.’

  He sat down to thunderous applause that went on and on.

  The rabbi then stood, holding his hand up for order. ‘Mrs Lieber, Father O’Toole, Reverend Parkes, people of Ballycreggan, I have no words, except to thank you all.’ The normally stoic rabbi wiped a tear from his eye. ‘The kindness and love we have found here is so special. Looking out at so many faces… Doctor Crossley, who never once charged to tend to the children when they were sick and who has come out to look after us at all times of the day and night. Bridie, who
always has a toffee or a humbug even when the children have no money and no ration coupon. Mr and Mrs O’Farrell, who allow the children from the farm into the Saturday matinee at the Palace and never charge a penny. The Doherty brothers, who deliver bags of turf to keep our fires going. The ladies of the Women’s Institute, who mend and knit and sew so our little ones have clothes. Major Kilroy, who turns a blind eye to the encroachers in his orchard every September.’

  This caused a ripple of laughter. The old major chuckled, and even the dour Mrs Dawkins, his housekeeper, managed a small smile.

  ‘Tim Holland, who lends us his prize bull to do the necessary, and Alfie from the creamery, who collects our milk and makes sure we are always paid well for it. You parents, who encourage your children not to just be kind to our boys and girls but also offer the hand of friendship. I think the Ballycreggan versus Europe football match tally is in the thousands now, but it must go on.’

  ‘And we’re winning!’ Charlie Fenton joked from the back, causing another ripple of laughter.

  ‘Indeed, but the Europeans are hoping for a late surge.’ The rabbi chuckled. ‘But seriously, they don’t go unnoticed, all the little gestures. We see it, and it soothes our troubled hearts. When one of our children comes home with a new sweater or a pair of shoes that someone else has outgrown, delighted with their new-to-them item, or when they bounce in the door, beaming with joy, saying they have been invited for tea at their friend’s home, we notice every single thing and it gives us hope. Hope for a future where people are kind and people are judged not by their religion or their nationality but by the way they treat their fellow man. I have not forgotten anyone, but there are some of you who would rather keep your kindness between us, so I will not name you. But know this, every single person in this hall, you have our gratitude and our love, from the bottom of our hearts. And in a time of incomprehensible hatred, surely these children, whom God has entrusted to all, have seen through each of you that there is also great good in this world.’

  The thunderous applause as the rabbi sat down caused Daniel to lean over and squeeze Elizabeth’s hand. She wiped a tear herself. The rabbi was right – these were remarkable people, doing all they could with so little themselves. Her heart burst with pride for her homeplace and its people.

  The rest of the evening was spent in organisation, and by the time she and Daniel were home, there had been committees set up and lists of what was needed made. Not only was there to be extensive upgrading of the farmhouse itself, but there was going to be swings and a slide put in the garden and a piece of waste ground was going to be turned into a football pitch. It felt good to be doing something proactive.

  They stood in the sitting room, their arms around each other, and she leaned against him, suddenly exhausted.

  ‘You did an amazing thing, Elizabeth, once again,’ he murmured into the top of her head.

  Elizabeth’s eyes rested on her parents’ wedding photo on the mantelpiece. She picked it up and looked at it. ‘I wonder what my mother would make of me now?’ she mused.

  ‘They’d both be so proud of you. I’m sure of it.’

  She replaced the photo, running her thumb over the kind face of her father. She rarely spoke of them, and Daniel didn’t pry. It was a difficult subject for her.

  ‘When my father died, I was ten. He had a heart attack in the street on the way back from the forge. He’d stopped off to buy me sweets and then collapsed. Someone ran for my mother, and by the time she got there, he was dead. That evening, I don’t remember who, but one of the neighbours came and took me to her house, and nobody told me what was happening. I knew something was wrong, but nobody felt they should be the one to tell me. I slept at that house that night, or at least I lay awake, imagining all sorts, until the next morning.’ Elizabeth was shocked at how painful it was to tell the story, even now.

  ‘My mother arrived and just told me, matter-of-fact, that my beloved daddy was dead. I adored him, and you know how difficult my relationship was with my mother, so this was the worst thing I could ever have imagined. But do you know something? This village held us up. They cooked dinners for us, they were kind to me when I met them in the street, always saying nice things about my daddy, what a good man he was. The teachers at school didn’t get cross if I didn’t do my lessons. Everyone was gentle and looked after us because we were one of their own. They see the children on the farm the same way.’

  Daniel crossed the room to close the curtains, his broad muscular back stretching as he pulled the heavy velvet drapes. He closed them and then just stood, his hands in his pockets. She wondered what he was about to say. Long moments passed.

  ‘Elizabeth.’ He turned to look at her. ‘To the Jewish children, you are not just their teacher, but in lots of ways, you are their mother. The women volunteers on the farm are young and undoubtedly kind, but you are the one they go to when they need to talk or are worried. Being Erich and Liesl’s mother means they see you as one.’

  She knew he was right. She had felt very maternal towards the children in her class for these past four years.

  His eyes bored into hers. ‘I think you should be the one to explain the changes and tell them about how this is their home for as long as they want it. You’d be best at it.’

  Elizabeth found that she wasn’t shocked. She’d assumed the rabbi would be the one to explain things, and the idea that it would be her hadn’t occurred to her up to this point, but Daniel was right. She was the one who interacted personally with each child every day, and they did see her as a mother figure. All of the men on the farm were kind and did all they could for the children, but they lacked that sensitive touch.

  ‘Would they allow me to do it?’ She was referring to the executive council led by Rabbi Frank.

  ‘Of course we would. We’d be grateful. You’d find the right words.’

  He placed his hand on her cheek, and she could feel the calloused pads of his fingers. He gazed deeply into her eyes and leaned forward to kiss her gently. ‘You’re amazing,’ he said in a whisper.

  ‘I’m not, but I’m a woman and a mother figure as you say, and in this instance, that’s what’s called for, I think.’

  He nodded and then opened the door to the hallway, his hand extended. ‘Let’s go to bed.’

  She took it, and together they climbed the stairs.

  As they undressed, he said quietly, ‘She loved you.’

  She knew he was talking about her mother. Their relationship had been playing on her mind a lot lately, and he sensed it.

  They got into bed, and she rested her head on his chest, his arms around her.

  ‘You know that now from all the letters and cards you found in the attic, but imagine what it was like for her telling you that your papa was dead? It must have been so hard, especially knowing you loved him more.’

  ‘I know.’ She sighed. ‘I never understood her really, but then I don’t think she ever understood herself. That suitcase of letters and cards that she wrote but never posted showed a totally opposite woman to the one I knew. It’s like she was two totally different people. I can’t imagine holding a grudge against Liesl or Erich, and I’m not even their real mother, but she never said one word to me for twenty years. She died having not spoken to me, all because I married a Jew.’

  He chuckled. ‘And to put the tin hat on it, you went and married another one after that.’

  ‘Indeed.’ She smiled. ‘I think she might like you if she met you. We’ll never know now though.’

  ‘You are a very good woman, Elizabeth Lieber, and I am a very, very lucky man.’

  ‘We’re both lucky, and so are our darling boy and girl. I pray every night that Ariella comes back, but in the meantime, at least they have us and a home and the knowledge that they’re loved and wanted. We have to try, inasmuch as we can, to reassure the others that they won’t be abandoned, that we’ll still take care of them even if they eventually get the worst news.’

  ‘Which I fear many of them will,�
� he said with a deep sigh.

  ‘Maybe, and that will be awful, and that’s why knowing they are safe here is so important.’

  ‘God planned this for you,’ he said with certainty. ‘You know that, don’t you?’ Her childlessness was a subject that for many years nobody would dare broach, but he knew her as well as she knew herself and so went on. ‘The sadness that you had no child of your own, that a baby was so cruelly taken from your womb, it was so hard for you, I am sure. I cannot imagine. But God’s plan was for you to be a mother to these lost babies, all of them, not just Liesl and Erich. And perhaps if you’d had your own family, you would not have been here, in the right place at the right time, to be the mother they so badly need.’

  From anyone else, that statement might have sounded heartless, but she knew Daniel loved her and was speaking the truth. If Rudi had survived, if she’d not had a miscarriage and lost their only child twenty-six years ago, her life would have taken a very different direction. She’d never for a moment imagined, all those years as a spinster schoolteacher in Liverpool, that she would ever come back to Ireland, let alone with two little children in tow, and then to inherit another twenty-five. She had closed her heart off to feeling anything. It was hard to imagine now that she was capable of it, but she had. When Rudi died and then she miscarried, she wasn’t speaking to her mother – or more accurately, her mother wasn’t speaking to her – and her father was dead. The nuns in the school and the other teachers were kind. They saw her pain, but then she learned to hide it under a mask of efficiency. After she snapped at a few people who enquired after her, they soon learned not to pry.

  She felt awful being rude as she knew people meant well, but their sympathy made the situation worse. Nothing could be done. Rudi was gone, so was her baby, and there was nothing for it but to get on with things. People constantly asking if she was all right was so hard. She’d wanted to scream, ‘No, of course I’m not all right, you stupid woman! My heart is broken, and I feel so bereft and alone in this horrible cruel world that I think about ending my life very often.’ Either that or she wanted to collapse in a fit of sobbing in their arms. But that would shock them and possibly precipitate the loss of her job, so a curt one-word response and a rapid change of subject was how she coped. It took a while, but she persevered, and finally, people knew not to ask.