by Lesley Lokko
When her fourth child and last son, Lionel, was born, she knew that she’d been saved. Of all her offspring, only he was like her. Now that he was almost a man, the ambition that she’d suppressed in herself for so long was born again. They would move to England, reinvent themselves, as they had to, and find a way to survive. It came as no surprise to her now, after nearly sixty years, that it would be her son, not her husband, who would save them – those who had the courage to follow, of course.
6
1939
FOUR YEARS LATER
LIONEL
London, England
A hush fell over the small knot of employees gathered in the banking hall. The secretaries exchanged nervous, half-excited glances. It was rare that the great business of banking ever ground to a complete halt, even rarer that the men for whom they all worked ever came down to the hall and stood with them, cigars and cigarettes in hand, just waiting. Even the telephones were silent. Everyone held their breath. There was a short burst of static, then the strong, confident voice of Chamberlain filled the hall.
‘I am speaking to you from the Cabinet Room at ten Downing Street. This morning the British ambassador in Berlin handed the German government a final note stating that unless we heard from them by eleven a.m. that they were prepared at once to withdraw their troops from Poland, a state of war would exist between us. I have to tell you that no such undertaking has been received, and that consequently, this country is at war with Germany.’ Lionel quickly glanced across the room to where his uncles, Siegfried and Paul sat. Both men wore looks of impassive, impressive calm. ‘Now may God bless you all,’ Chamberlain continued. ‘May He defend the right. It is the evil things that we shall be fighting against – brute force, bad faith, injustice, oppression and persecution – and against them, I am certain that the right will prevail.’ There was complete silence as Chamberlain’s voice faded away. It was as if the morning was holding its breath. A second passed, then another and then suddenly the air was ripped apart in a heart-stopping, heart-thumping shriek. The air-raid sirens had gone off.
In the chaotic scramble to get to the basement of the building that served as the street shelter, he found himself pressed up against a young girl, one of the many secretaries who worked on the second floor. Her pretty face was distorted by fear. He quickly looked away. There was something about seeing in the faces of others what he kept buried in himself that made him deeply uncomfortable. It stirred memories of their escape from Germany. It had taken them four days to make the crossing from Hamburg to Rotterdam and he’d been afraid every single second of the way. With his mother and two sisters beside him, he couldn’t give in to the dread seeping through him whenever the train stopped or a bell sounded or he heard the voices of the guards coming down the corridor. For their sakes, if not his, he maintained an air of unflappable calm, much as his uncles were doing now. They stopped once in the middle of the night at a shunting yard somewhere in the noman’s land just before the official Dutch border. It was the absence of noise that woke him. The great creak and sway of the train that he’d grown used to, ceased suddenly. He got up carefully so as not to disturb the others. He could hear his mother’s laboured breathing. The journey, which had already taken the better part of two days, had been hard on her. And it wasn’t over yet. He opened the door and shut it quietly behind them. In the dark, silent corridor, he could hear nothing other than the thump of his own heart. The train gave the odd twitch and creak as it stood still, patiently yoked to the tracks like an ox. It was cold; there was an open window about halfway down the corridor. He moved towards it, his heart hammering, and carefully stuck his head outside.
The night air was sour; a yellowed smell of urine and brake fluid rose sharply from the ground. He could see lights ahead and the ominous hit-and-miss of flashlights as shadowy figures moved up the tracks towards him. Fog swirled around one of the sodium-orange floodlights. Somewhere dogs began to bark; there were shouts and he could feel reverberations of doors slamming further down the train. A few minutes passed, spooling out towards infinity. He could feel rivulets of nervous sweat prickling his underarms, his back. His hand went to the two tiny packages in his left trouser pocket. In one, a small black velvet pouch contained several beautifully cut and polished diamonds. In the other hand, a small pillbox containing three vials of cyanide. Two packages, two choices. Live or die. Hans von Rilke, a classmate and one of the few left who still took his calls, had tipped him off. ‘Take diamonds,’ he said guardedly. ‘They might come in handy, you never know.’ Diamonds were the insurance of choice. It was too risky to be caught carrying cash.
The sound of footsteps grew louder, but it was a single footfall. The door at the far end opened and someone stood in the doorway, a dim, yellowy light spilling around him. Lionel’s fingertips went to the velvet pouch. The officer – there was no mistaking the measured, confident tread – walked down the corridor towards him and stopped. They were almost of equal height. There was a moment’s pause as the officer looked at him, sizing Lionel up. There was no tell-tale yellow star, no ‘J’ pinned to his dark grey overcoat.
‘Ausweiß, bitte.’ The words were clipped, measured. What happened next depended entirely on Lionel.
He withdrew the small velvet pouch and carefully, very carefully, placed it in the officer’s palm. There was no mistaking his intent. In complete silence the officer weighed it up, jiggling the little pouch, assessing its contents.
‘Gute Reise.’ He slipped it into the pocket of his uniform and turned on his heel. For the rest of his life, Lionel knew he would remember that moment as if it were yesterday.
Now, as he watched the faces of the young girls and men around him, blinking dazedly in the dim, weak underground light, the fear of that journey washed over him like a sweat. He desired only to be safe. A second later, as if in answer, the shriek of the all-clear sounded, mingling down there with the groans and cries and sighs of relief. A false alarm.
Uncle Paul’s hand was on his shoulder as they all trooped noisily up the stairs. ‘Narrow escape, eh?’ he murmured. ‘Let’s hope there’ll be more of those.’
Lionel nodded, not trusting himself to speak just yet.
‘D’you have a moment, my boy?’ Uncle Paul asked as they both reached the first-floor landing together. ‘Come up to my office. There’s someone I’d like you to meet.’
Lionel nodded. ‘I’ll just get my cigarettes,’ he said, opening the door to the small office he shared with his cousin Henry, Uncle Paul’s oldest son.
Uncle Paul chuckled. ‘They’ll be the death of you, those sticks,’ he said. ‘Hitler might not get you, but they will.’ He continued on his way.
There were three gentlemen in Uncle Paul’s office. He recognised Samuel Warburg immediately. He was chairman of S.W. Warburgs, their bigger, more established rival on Cheapside. The Warburgs had been in England for decades, although they were originally German, like most of the Jewish bankers in the City. He looked at the other two gentlemen, whom he’d never seen before. The man who sat with his back partially turned to the window was vaguely familiar – Lionel had seen his photograph somewhere – a newspaper, perhaps? He couldn’t quite place him. The man standing by the window was different, in all senses of the word. Olive-skinned, with thick, jet-black hair, a proper handlebar moustache of the kind that had long ago gone out of fashion, he was dressed in a smart black suit, silk cravat and a snowy white shirt straining over an impressively domed stomach. He looked Italian, or Spanish, perhaps, certainly not English, or German.
‘Ah, Lionel.’ Uncle Paul looked up as he came through the door. ‘Come in, my boy, come in.’
The three men turned. Samuel Warburg looked him over gravely, then turned to his Uncle Paul with an eyebrow cocked, as if to say, So, this is whom you’ve been talking about? Lionel recognised the look. He’s young. Very young. It accompanied most introductions that came his way.
‘Good afternoon, gentlemen,’ Lionel said, crossing the room to shake ha
nds before the invitation to do so had been issued. He could see the wary approval in everyone’s eyes. A confident young man.
‘Fred Schultz.’ Uncle Paul made the introductions. ‘And Georges Malouf.’
Ah, Lionel thought, recognising the name. Frederick Schultz. A colleague of Uncle Abe’s from Hamburg – not Jewish, a Gentile. What was he doing in London? he wondered. And the other man? From the name – Georges Malouf – he presumed the man was an Arab but what was he doing in Uncle Paul’s office?
‘Gentlemen,’ Uncle Paul began, without delay. ‘Shall we get down to business?’ He indicated the polished oval table with its eight chairs in the centre of the room. Lionel waited until the four men were seated and then took his own opposite his uncle. Uncle Paul sat down and cleared his throat. He looked up from the dossier of documents in front of him. ‘Thank you for coming, gentlemen. You all know the situation we find ourselves in. We have two options. Either we abandon the bank to the Nazis or we effect a temporary transfer of control. Samuel, I believe you’re in the same boat, which is why I’ve asked you to be here. I do not wish for this firm, which has been my life’s work, as yours has, Samuel, to be destroyed. I’m therefore proposing we take the latter route. I’m proposing we transfer control to you, Fred, until this is over.’
He looked up again. There was an expression in his face that Lionel hadn’t seen before, a kind of openness . . . an appeal of some sort. Before he could ponder it further, Uncle Paul continued. ‘This . . . this madness will end one day, gentlemen. And when it does, the whole world will have changed. I believe in being ready for those changes. We must be ready, which is why I’ve asked my dear friend Georges Malouf to be here. Gentlemen, our fortunes are inextricably linked. Germany, Britain, the United States and Palestine. I’m proposing an alliance, my dear friends, that will see us through the coming years. And I’ve asked Lionel, my youngest nephew, to be present because it will be his task, just as it has been mine for the past thirty years, to build on what we’ve been given.’
7
The office felt strangely emptied after they’d gone, as though the very air had been sucked out of it, replaced by a melancholy that produced in both himself and Uncle Paul a strained reluctance to speak. Neither seemed willing to break the spell. Lionel lit a cigarette and smoked quietly. Uncle Paul got up from his seat at the polished oval table and walked to his desk. He sat down heavily, removing his spectacles to pinch the skin between his eyes, a gesture that struck Lionel as ineffably sad.
‘So this is it,’ he said after a moment. ‘Three hundred years we’ve been in business. I never thought I would be the one to make such a decision.’
Lionel’s mind was moving quickly. ‘It’s the right thing to do,’ he said carefully, stubbing out his cigarette. His uncle was seeking some other form of reassurance, separate from the hard-nosed business decision he’d just had to make. Something deeper, another form of consolation. ‘And you’re the only person who could have done it. Uncle Abe won’t listen. He thinks Hitler will be finished within the year.’ He gave into a hollow laugh. ‘And as for my father . . .’ He shrugged. There was no point in saying anything further.
Uncle Paul nodded absently. His mind seemed elsewhere. The minutes ticked by slowly. Lionel finished his cigarette and was just about to get up when Uncle Paul spoke suddenly. ‘Listen, my boy, I want to tell you something. It’s about your father. Something I think you ought to know.’
As he spoke, Lionel saw that he was retreating into another relationship with him, as if the role of banker was another, different matter. ‘It’s not because I want to excuse him,’ Uncle Paul said, wagging his finger from side to side. ‘No, not at all. I know what a disappointment he’s been, not least to your mother.’ He swivelled his chair around so that he was facing the impressive portrait of Samuel Harburg, the founder of the bank. He fell silent for a moment. Lionel was aware of the ornamental clock on the mantelpiece behind them, ticking away. ‘There are things you need to know, to understand,’ Uncle Paul continued. ‘Not for his benefit, mind you, for yours. No man should have to make his way in the world thinking of his father as a failure. He may have failed certain, shall we say, challenges. But he’s not a failure, no. Not when you understand what he came from.’
‘What do you mean?’
Uncle Paul sighed. He rested his elbows on his desk, steepling his fingers together. ‘I don’t suppose anyone’s ever told you, have they?’
‘Told me what?’
‘That your father’s not . . . not quite who you think he is.’ Lionel stared at him. ‘What are you talking about?’
‘I expect you’ve always thought of him as simply one of us. A Harburg. Oma Rebecca’s son. Well, he’s not. He’s a Harburg. Yes, he’s Samuel’s child, but not Rebecca’s. No. Your grandfather had a – a liaison, shall we call it? – early on in his marriage and your father is the result. The woman died not long after he was born. Rebecca took the baby in immediately. Brought him up as her own. Many women wouldn’t, you know, but she did. But, there was always a slight lack of warmth, shall we say? Your father suffered terribly. Still does, I imagine. And then there was the question of . . . well, the woman wasn’t Jewish.’
Lionel stared at him. ‘Are you saying my father’s not Jewish?’
‘Well, technically speaking, no. He’s not. But that doesn’t matter. He’s a Harburg, that’s all there is to it. That’s all that matters.’ He frowned at Lionel. ‘But none of this has any bearing on you, my boy. You’re Jewish, as Jewish as the rest of us. And you’re your mother’s son, make no mistake. There’s almost nothing of your father in you. Well, a little around the eyes, perhaps. But you’re Sara’s boy. Which is why you’re here. You watch; you listen; you act. Just like your mother.’ He sighed. ‘The most capable woman I’ve ever met. I must confess to . . . to a certain admiration for Sara, not that she’d ever accept it.’ He stopped abruptly. ‘I digress. Forgive me. My point is that your father’s had quite a lot to deal with. His position within the family has always been difficult. There’s been a lot of . . . insecurity. Yes, insecurity. He is an insecure man, Lionel, not a failure. It’s important you understand the difference. Do you?’ Uncle Paul looked up from his position at the desk. A sternness had crept into his voice that hadn’t been there before, as though he’d staked out certain big, immutable facts and was now daring Lionel to make sense of them and accept them.
Lionel was silent. He thought of his father. A quiet man, with a weakness for the softer, sweeter things in life – sweets, puddings, rich tortes and sticky buns that the girls in the kitchen used to make especially for him. He was mild-mannered, not at all given to the outbursts of sentiment and fierce debate that characterised every other member of the household, the girls included. He spent most of his time in his library or, if the weather was fine, in the gardens beyond the lawn. When he was younger, Lionel sometimes wandered over to help him with whatever gardening task was at hand – pruning, planting, weeding and cutting. He spoke little, hummed a lot under his breath. That was all. Very occasionally, out of some strange, hidden provocation that none around him could see, a mood would come upon him that took him out of himself, turned him momentarily into someone else. He would shout and shake his fist at the world, some darkness having descended upon him. They heard the incomprehensible shouts and steered clear. Oddly enough, it was only their mother, Sara, who could calm him at such times. She would sit quietly with him until he had shouted himself out and the storm of whatever it was that had overtaken him had worn itself thin. When all was quiet again, he would suddenly pick up whatever task he’d been engaged in and continue, as if nothing had happened. His mother would sit there for a few minutes longer and then with a look upon her face that Lionel had never been able to fathom, she would simply get to her feet and leave.
He got to his feet slowly. He felt suddenly overwhelmed. His view of the world, which had until that point remained refreshingly simple, was becoming more complicated by the second. The family t
hat he’d always thought of as solid and immutable was crumbling. They were scattered now: some of them stubbornly waiting it out in Germany; his mother and sisters here in London, under his care. There were uncles here and there, new business associates in America and Palestine. New opportunities were presenting themselves and with them, of course, came new risks.
It was then, in that moment, that he saw very clearly what it was his uncle was asking of him. The question wasn’t whether or not he accepted Uncle Paul’s version of the facts as he’d told them to him. The question was deeper, altogether more urgent. Was he ready? That was the question. Was he ready to be the thread that would pull and hold the fragmented pieces of his family’s past together?
8
1963
TWENTY-FOUR YEARS LATER
EMBETH ELEANORA HAUSMANN
Cornell University, Ithaca, New York
‘You are just so lucky, Em.’ Betty Schroeder rolled over onto her stomach and cupped her chin in her hands, watching Embeth pack.