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

by Jean Grainger

  There was a slim chance that some of Frau Braun’s clothes still hung in the wardrobe, but she didn’t dare risk it. She thought she might look when she returned. The more disgusting she looked and smelled now, the better.

  ‘Mind yourself.’ Frau Braun swallowed.

  Ariella knew the other woman dreaded her leaving, but she needed to get to Father Dominic’s house. He was her only hope, and he’d surely have something for them to eat and maybe even some drugs. He’d offered to help her once; hopefully he would again.

  ‘I will, don’t worry.’

  On aching legs once more, the sensation horribly familiar by now, she crept down the hallway and out the back door. She stopped in the little yard, listening intently.

  It was probably coming up to 8 or 9 p.m., the summer night sky clear for once of airplanes and searchlights. Berlin was subjugated, she supposed, so no further need to waste valuable bombs.

  She looked up and down the deserted street before rapidly walking away from the relative safety of the Braun house. The windows of most houses were broken, an odd lonely curtain sometimes hanging limply from the space.

  She passed gardens, once an oasis of plants and flowers, now a scene of carnage like everywhere else. The entire city seemed to have been covered in a dusting of ash and rubble. Craters were commonplace now where there were once streets and buildings. It was impossible to imagine Berlin ever again functioning as a city.

  She kept her head down as she hurried through the streets in the direction of the Tiergarten. She would skirt around the actual gardens – they would be dangerous now, she was sure – but she could zigzag her way there by sticking to small residential streets and alleyways.

  It was a warm night, and she felt the perspiration trickle down her spine, but still she pressed on.

  She stopped when she saw lights ahead, a checkpoint of some kind. Russian surely, but she would have to avoid it. She retraced her steps and took a different route. She passed a few people in more or less the same state – old men, a few children, hardly any women or girls. They were all in hiding.

  She couldn’t risk being seen on the broad boulevard of Budapester Straße, where the Johanneskirche stood, but she thought she could get to Father Dominic’s parochial house behind it by crossing through the primary school at the junction.

  The school had taken a direct hit and was almost entirely in rubble, but she kept to the shadows and soon was within twenty metres of the parochial house. She felt relief; she’d made it. She stood in a doorway opposite, watching the house for signs of life. She knew Father Dominic wasn’t the only priest living there but didn’t know the extent to which his resistance activities were known to his fellow clerics. She didn’t want to endanger him further by just turning up, but she had no choice now. Willi was gravely ill, and she desperately needed help.

  Perhaps she should try to get into the sacristy of the church, her home for a while, and wait for him there? But what if a different priest came? Or Frau Groenig? Or that Stella woman? The war might be over and the Russians wielding their version of liberation like a club, but that did not mean all the Nazis suddenly changed their minds about Jews. A cornered rat is the most dangerous, as Willi pointed out, so she was not taking any unnecessary chances.

  She decided that if she met anyone other than Father Dominic, she would simply use her original cover story: She was from Fallersleben and looking for her aunt and uncle.

  When the street was clear, she ran across and up the path to the front door. When she left last time, Father Dominic had let her out the back way, down a narrow staircase and onto the street, and for a second, she considered entering that way. But if she met anyone, her presence there would be suspicious.

  She knocked on the door, the large brass knocker making the place sound hollow as the noise reverberated across the tiled floor inside. This house seemed to have escaped unscathed, which pleased her. Poor Father Dominic was doing so much for people; she was glad he still had his house.

  There was no answer, and she waited as long as she dared before turning to leave, though what she would do now she had no idea. The priest was her only hope, and roaming the streets in search of food and medicine was looking for trouble. The only other person who knew that she was still in the city was Gretel, but what could she do? She must be worried sick about her three children, because according to Willi, the Russians seemed to be seeking out the more enthusiastic of the Nazis for particularly brutal treatment.

  No, Gretel was not an option either.

  She racked her brain for a plan. There must be some way to get some food at least. Then she remembered – in the sacristy, Father Dominic kept bags of consecrated hosts, the little discs of bread. They were made in a convent out in the country somewhere, and he collected them in big flour bags and consecrated them at Mass. He’d explained what they were the evening she stayed there. She wondered if Elizabeth was a practising Catholic. Were her children Catholics now?

  Would it be a terrible insult to the church that had sheltered her to take the bag of bread? Would it even still be there? It felt wrong. But then Father Dominic had explained that until the point in the Mass when the miracle happens – Catholics believe that the bread and wine are actually turned into the body and blood of Christ – it was just bread. So maybe it wasn’t that bad. She’d have to do it anyway; it was their only option.

  She knew the sacristy door wasn’t locked, though if one tried it, it appeared it was. The trick was to press hard above the brass doorplate as you turned the handle. The lock had been seized for years, but if you kicked the base of the door with your foot at the same time, it would open.

  ‘Best anti-theft system ever,’ Father Dominic had joked.

  The giant bear of a man, whom no amount of grooming could make look tidy, had been an oasis of calm and kindness for her when she’d needed it most. She’d thought often how sad it was that Catholic priests weren’t allowed to marry. He would have made a lovely husband for someone, and she would have liked to imagine him with some nice woman to lovingly mend the holes in his clothes. She hoped he might be at the church. If not, well, perhaps she could leave a note.

  She ran as quickly as she dared across the street. It was pitch-dark now, possibly ten thirty or eleven o’clock; it was hard to know. Most of the city was without power, and while the darkness was welcome, it also unnerved her.

  There were very few people about. Most citizens who had survived the Nazis or the incessant bombing sensibly stayed in their homes, only venturing out when it was vital.

  A Russian army truck containing several soldiers trundled past, but she pressed herself into a doorway and they didn’t appear to notice her. She skirted around the church to the sacristy door, pausing only a moment to listen intently for voices from within, though it would be close to impossible to hear anything through the heavy oak door anyway.

  Nothing. She pressed her left hand to the door about two thirds of the way up, turned the handle and gave the bottom corner a swift kick. It was worn smooth down there from Father Dominic doing the exact same manoeuvre every day.

  The door opened, the swollen timber scraping across the tiled floor. She cringed at the noise but pushed it far enough to slip in. She didn’t know if the church still had power, but she didn’t risk putting the light on in case she alerted an enthusiastic parishioner, worried about the church.

  She remembered the geography of the series of three rooms behind the altar. There was the room where she’d slept; it had a table and a few chairs, and sometimes parishioners met there to discuss church events. There was a life-sized statue of the Virgin Mary in one corner and several icons on the walls depicting various saints. Off that was a room where the vestments hung, different colours for different feast days, and where a bevelled hinged mirror stood, for priests to ensure their vestments were perfect before going out onto the altar. And finally off that, a room where chalices, a thurible and a selection of other gold implements of the Mass were stored in a large maho
gany unit. In the base of that unit was where the bags of bread were stored. There was a sink on the wall where the items were washed before they were polished and returned to the cabinet for the next use.

  Ariella felt her way, her eyes becoming acclimatised to the dark as she moved from the door through the outer room, then the dressing room and finally into the third inner room.

  The almost-full moon was clearly visible through the plain glass window. The stained glass was reserved for the church only; the rooms behind were utilitarian and bare by contrast. She wondered for a moment if Liesl and Erich could see the magnificent moon as well. Were they admiring it, or were they sleeping or busy with their friends or schoolwork?

  The pale grey light helped her locate the knob on the bottom section of the wooden sideboard. She pulled it, and to her delight, there was a large cream-coloured fabric bag. And yes, as she opened the cotton ribbon that tied it, she found it did contain a bag of round white discs.

  She couldn’t help it – she dug her hand into the bag and extracted a fistful. The dried bread was more like wafer than bread, and it tasted of nothing really, but it felt so good to swallow and chew. She sat on the ground, a cup of water from the tap beside her, and ate several fistfuls of the bread.

  Once she’d had her fill, she looked at the bag. It was too big and bulky to carry across the city inconspicuously, and she wondered how she could hide it on her person to make herself look less interesting. She took the bag and retied the cotton ribbon, swallowing a last fistful of the wafers.

  The bag was around ten by thirty centimetres, so she flattened the contents and wrapped it around her waist inside her dress, using her belt to tie it in the middle. She put the jacket on again. The smell from it of her own perspiration, shed and dried over several months now, caused her to wrinkle her nose. She just about managed to close the buttons. It had been so loose on her before, but now she knew she looked ridiculous, with stick-thin arms and legs yet a plump belly. It would not withstand much inspection – nobody in Berlin nowadays was fat as it was impossible to be. Perhaps she might get away with looking pregnant. She placed her hands on the lumpy bag and was suddenly cast back to a different life, when she sat in their sunny apartment, her baby girl growing inside her, getting bigger with every passing day. She spent her time knitting little jackets and bootees, yellows and creams because she didn’t know if it was a son or a daughter. The sheer bliss of knowing she was going to be a mother, she and Peter were going to be parents, was a delicious sensation she never lost the ability to recall. It was no less wonderous with Erich, but possibly less serene as she had her live-wire daughter to care for at the same time. She would never forget the look on Peter’s face, first when she introduced him to his daughter, and three years later, his son. Did that really happen? She wondered sometimes if she dreamed it all, but she had the silvery lines on her belly to remind her…the evidence, years later, that once her womb was home to her precious babies.

  She considered leaving. The ivory clockface on the wall told her it was now eleven fifteen, and outside on the street there were the raucous sounds of rough men’s laughter. She wondered if it would be safer, less conspicuous, to go back to the Brauns’ house in the morning. She could spend the night here in the sacristy as she had done before. Frau Braun would worry, but Ariella had a strong sense that her chances of returning unscathed were probably greater if she travelled in daylight. Another advantage of staying was she would surely see Father Dominic in the morning when he came to say Mass. He might have some ideas about medicine for Willi.

  She found to her delight that the blanket and cushion she had used before were tucked under the small bench, so she pulled them out and lay down. The blanket smelled unfamiliar, and she wondered as she drifted off to sleep how many people had found sanctuary in the church since she last slept there.

  Chapter 26

  ‘What do you think?’ Elizabeth asked Daniel quietly after she outlined her idea. ‘Erich hasn’t slept properly for weeks now. And the last sighting of Ariella was nearly a year ago, so we have no way of knowing if she survived or not. Should we suggest it and leave it up to them? Or forget it as an idea? Even if we go ahead, it wouldn’t change anything when or if Ariella comes back. She’s their mother and she’d obviously be their parent, and anything we would have done would be secondary to that. But it might make them feel less at sea? Or is it a horrible idea?’

  Since the arrival of the letter, Erich had nightmares every night, always the same thing – that the Nazis had his mother and were hurting her and nobody would stop them, and that he and Liesl were put back on the train to Berlin alone. She’d hoped the letters would have given them hope, but they instead had unsettled them both, Erich especially. Every night, either she or Daniel ended up sitting beside him, stroking his hair and hushing him back to sleep. He woke each morning exhausted. He barely spoke and ate by rote, despite Elizabeth doing her best to make his favourite dishes.

  Even though Liesl had mentioned in the past that her mother might not have survived, Elizabeth knew there was a light of hope inside the girl that somehow, somewhere, her mother was one of the lucky ones. The confirmation in the letter from the priest that she was right to hope was good, but it left so many unanswered questions.

  ‘Is it too soon? Or is it a terrible idea at any time?’ Elizabeth wanted so badly to do the right thing; she just had no idea what that might be.

  Daniel considered the question, and she gave him time. ‘I don’t know. Perhaps suggest it and tell them we would love to adopt them but that it would be when and if they wanted it? And that when their mother comes back, then she would take over? But in the meantime, it would make things a bit more official?’

  ‘What do you think deep down? Is she still alive?’ Elizabeth asked him.

  He sighed. ‘I’d love to say yes, and she survived much longer than most so there’s a chance, but I’d be preparing for the worst and hoping for the best.’

  He sat beside her on the sofa, placing the book he’d been reading on the armrest. ‘The way things are looking, I doubt many of them up at the farm will be reunited with anyone.’

  The grim reality of the future of the Jewish children was becoming more sickeningly certain with each passing day. Though news of specific families was not common, each day brought new horrors from the advancing troops about the fate of those Jews unlucky enough to have been captured.

  ‘I know. The elation of the war being over didn’t last long, did it? The poor little pets. In some ways, the war going on kept hope alive, but now…’ She sighed deeply. ‘Erich was saying Simon was asking Mrs Simmons in the post office how long she thought a letter would take to come from Bavaria now that the war is over. The poor lad is convinced his father would not have been taken. He told Erich that when his papa left him at the railway station, he explained to him that he had an excellent hiding place for him and his mutti and that he wasn’t to worry, that they would be fine.’

  Tears came to her eyes, thinking of the incorrigible little Simon, such a toughie but soft as butter underneath.

  ‘It was probably the only way he could get the lad to take the train. Erich had Liesl at least, but poor Simon had to come on his own, and he’d only have been seven or eight.’ Daniel took her hand.

  ‘I know. But at least they’ve formed such a bond though, haven’t they?’ she mused. ‘All of them. I think they’ll be each other’s family for life. I hope so anyway.’ She went back to her original question. ‘So do we ask Liesl and Erich if they want us to adopt them?’

  ‘I think so. Liesl is older, so it would be more of an emotional thing for her than a practical one. She’ll be an adult out in the world on her own before we know it.’

  Elizabeth heard the tinge of sadness in his voice and felt her heart warm. By the time she and Daniel got together, the prospect of having a family of their own was well and truly past, but Liesl and Erich had fulfilled their need to be parents in ways they never even knew existed. Daniel adored Lies
l, and she confided in him often. He was her champion and regularly supported her in debates. Liesl was an intelligent girl who had lots of opinions, and rather than dismiss her ideas as foolish or immature, as Elizabeth’s mother would have done to her, Daniel encouraged her to voice them. His relationship with Erich was just as warm, but he was more of a father figure to him since Erich was just eight when they met. Erich hung on Daniel’s every word, and in the boy’s eyes, there was nothing he didn’t know or couldn’t do.

  ‘But I think she would like to be asked anyway. Perhaps we discuss it with her before talking to Erich. She’s worried about him these days too, and he’ll go with whatever she says anyway.’ He smiled because it was true. Erich deferred to Liesl in all things.

  ‘Can you imagine what it will be like for Erich’s wife in the future? Every little thing, he’ll have to ask Liesl.’ Daniel chuckled.

  ‘It won’t be a problem.’ Elizabeth laughed too. ‘Because he would never even consider marrying a girl that Liesl hadn’t approved of.’

  ‘That’s true,’ Daniel agreed with a smile.

  ‘So we’ll ask Liesl tomorrow and see how she reacts, and then if she’s happy, we’ll ask Erich?’

  ‘I think so,’ Daniel agreed. He let go of her hand and stood up. ‘Would you like a cup of tea?’

  She smiled. Their lives were peaceful and predictable. They had a cup of tea together every night before bed, sometimes with a thin slice of cake if she’d managed to make the butter and sugar allowance stretch. There was no sign of the rationing abating even if the hostilities had ceased.

  ‘Thank you. There’s a quarter of the madeira cake I made left in the blue tin. I used all of the butter ration at Liesl’s command.’ She grinned. ‘She says it’s better to use it all and have one nice thing than a scrape you’d hardly see on several slices of bread.’