When the World Was Ours

by Liz Kessler

  1945

  LEO

  It was nearly the end of November and one of those days when you realize that there’s nothing much to look forward to for a few months.

  The war was over and after weeks of celebrating in the streets life had pretty much settled down to normality again. A dull normality that always had something missing in our case.

  It had rained since I’d woken up: the first day of rain for weeks. And now, mid-afternoon, it was already starting to get dark. Mama was sitting by the fire, humming softly to herself as she knitted a cardigan. I had just got up to take another log out of the basket when there was a knock at the door.

  ‘Who’s that going to be?’ Mama asked. ‘Are we expecting Annie?’

  I shook my head. ‘Shall I see who it is?’

  Mama had already put her knitting down. ‘I’ll go,’ she said.

  As she got up to go to the door, I picked up one of the logs from the basket. I had just placed it on the fire and was in the process of nudging it into place with the poker when I heard a cry from the hallway.

  I dropped the poker and ran into the hall. The door was half open. Mama was in the porch, crouched over, her hands on her face. She looked like she’d fallen.

  ‘Mama, what’s happened? Are you okay?’ I rushed to her side.

  And then the door opened fully and I couldn’t believe what I was seeing.

  Standing there, in a suit that was hanging off him, wisps of hair on an otherwise bald head, deep shadows under eyes that were little more than dark sockets and a thin, sticklike body that I could not equate with the larger-than-life man I knew, was my father.

  ‘Papa?’

  I stared at him. I couldn’t move. Was he real? Was this really happening?

  And then his bruised, chapped lips broke into a smile and he said, ‘Well, are you going to let me in, son?’ And suddenly, the dark, rainy day exploded into sunshine.

  ‘Papa! Papa! It’s really you!’ I cried, pulling the door wide open and throwing my arms around his neck. ‘I can’t believe it! I can’t believe it!’

  Papa wrapped his thin arms around me and held me close. ‘It’s true,’ he said. ‘I’m really here.’

  And then Mama was beside us, and we were hugging and laughing and hugging some more, and he was kissing her all over her face and we were all crying.

  Mama took his hand. ‘Come. Come into the warmth,’ she said. ‘Come sit by the fire.’

  I followed them into the sitting room. We barely spoke. All I wanted to do was drink him in. He was home! He was here. Right here with us. Papa had come home.

  But the warm silence quickly started to feel strange. Awkward, stilted. Too heavily filled with questions that we didn’t dare ask, experiences we weren’t brave enough to share.

  The silence grew darker and bigger. It was filling the room.

  ‘Papa, there’s someone I want you to meet,’ I said, as an excuse to get away as much as anything else.

  I had to process this new reality, this new father, this broken man who didn’t look strong enough to hold all the love I wanted to heap on him.

  Mama understood. ‘Go and get her,’ she said. ‘She should be part of this moment.’

  I gave Papa a quick, awkward hug before leaving them to go and get Annie.

  By the time we came back to the apartment, something had changed. My parents were holding hands, looking into each other’s eyes in a way I remembered.

  Papa stood up as soon as we came in the room and smiled his beautiful Papa-smile at Annie. Mama must have told him about her while I was out.

  ‘So you are the person who has made my son a happy man,’ he said. He opened his arms out wide and Annie threw herself into them.

  ‘I can’t believe I am meeting you at last, Mr Grunberg,’ Annie said.

  He held her at arm’s length and tutted. ‘I am not Mr Grunberg to you,’ he said sternly. ‘You are part of my family now. Let’s not waste any more time. Please, call me Papa.’

  And then Annie was crying, and Papa was holding out his other arm for me, and Mama had wrapped an arm around Annie’s waist, and the four of us clung to each other: a circle of love in front of the fire.

  It was going to be okay. We would get there.

  Later, after we’d eaten, Papa leaned towards me. ‘I’ve got something for you,’ he said. He reached into his pocket and handed me a photograph.

  No. Not a photograph. The photograph. It was torn and faded and stained. But the three smiles still shone brightly beneath all of that. The smiles that said everything.

  I took the photograph from him. I wanted to ask how he’d got it, where he found it, why he had it. But his face was closed and I knew he didn’t want me to ask any questions. Not yet.

  ‘Did you see them?’ I asked instead. I held my breath while I waited for him to reply. I wanted to know the answer, but I was scared as well.

  Papa swallowed hard, then nodded. ‘I saw them both,’ he said. He paused for a long time, and then in a voice that sounded as if it were filled with gravel, he added, ‘They were together at the end.’

  His words landed on my heart with a dull pain. Not a surprise. Not shock. But the deepest sadness in the world. Sadness for my dearest friends who I would never see again. Sadness for all the children, all the lives, all the families, the losses – it was too much to contain and I wanted to bend over and keen like a wounded animal.

  Mama closed her hand over Papa’s. Annie reached out to put a hand on my arm. I stared and stared at the photograph until it blurred from my tears. My dearest friends. One day I knew I would need to ask my papa more, but not now.

  ‘Let’s say Kaddish for them,’ Mama said softly. She got up to bring a candle and matches to the table. ‘Here, you light it,’ she said to me.

  I struck a match, lit the candle and put the photograph beside it. And then, together, we said the words of mourning for my friends.

  Yitgadal v’yitkadash sh’mei raba

  b’alma di-v’ra chirutei,

  v’yamlich malchutei b’chayeichon

  uvyomeichon uvchayei d’chol beit yisrael,

  ba’agala uvizman kariv, v’im’ru: amen.

  Later, when Annie had gone home, and my parents had gone to bed, I stayed up. I didn’t want to leave the candle alone while it burned. I wanted to stay till the end.

  I looked at the photograph and I was back there. That day, less than ten years ago – but still a lifetime away, a million lifetimes away. The day that a moment of carefree joy made me bump into a stranger. The two seconds that would save my life. The two best friends who had shared my childhood, who had shone a light on everything, brought me to life.

  The night was closing in.

  As I sat and watched, the candle flickered and danced and finally went out.

  2021

  LEO

  A young woman came to see me today. A teacher.

  She sat perched on the edge of the sofa in my lounge and looked around the room. I saw her eyes travel the length of the sideboard, taking in my photographs. A lifetime of memories: a wife, children, grandchildren, family. And in the centre, the oldest photograph of them all, and the most precious: the three children who thought they owned the world. Two copies of the same photograph, framed together. I never found out what had happened to the third.

  I made tea for us and then I sat in the green armchair in the corner of the room and put a blanket over my legs.

  ‘How can I help you?’ I asked her.

  She told me there is a rise in fascism in Europe. She said there are refugees dying in their attempts to cross oceans to a place of safety. She asked me to come and speak to her students.

  I asked her, why me? What do you want with a ninety-three-year-old man who can barely stand, let alone speak to a room full of people?

  She said I was there when it happened.

  I told her she was wrong. I wasn’t there. I was one of the very lucky few who escaped, who lived, who carried the guilt and the burden of survi
val through my whole life.

  ‘But you lived at that time,’ she insisted. ‘You have much to share with us.’

  I looked into her young, idealistic eyes. For a moment I saw a flash of Elsa in them. The burning in them lit something inside me.

  ‘I’ll tell you what,’ I said. ‘I’ll make a deal with you.’

  She smiled. ‘Go on.’

  ‘I’ll tell you my story,’ I said. ‘But my story is a baton, and in telling it I pass it on to you.’

  ‘What do I do with it?’ she asked me.

  I held her eyes for a long time, to make sure she saw me. Really saw me. ‘You listen well,’ I said. ‘And then you do all you can to make sure it never happens again – to anyone. And where you see injustice, you say so, and you encourage others to do the same. Those are my terms.’

  She held out her hand to shake mine. ‘They are fair terms,’ she said. And then she smiled again. ‘You’ve got a deal.’

  ‘All right,’ I said, sitting back. ‘Here is my story. It starts a long time ago, in a fairground in Vienna in 1936…’

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  This book has involved help, support, guidance and feedback from more people than anything I’ve ever written, and I am hugely grateful to everyone who has been on this journey with me.

  First and foremost, a huge thank you to my dad, Harry Kessler, for providing the inspiration for this book – a story I’ve wanted to tell for many years – and for being so proud of me for finally doing it. I am so happy to be able to share it with you.

  A big thank you to my mum, Merle Goldston, for always being my first reader, for loving my work and for making me feel like a superstar for every book I write.

  Thank you also to Caroline Kessler for your sisterly support along the way. I am particularly grateful for your advice when I called you in a distressed state from Munich and you told me to use the feelings I was having to understand my characters even better. As always, your advice was spot on and exactly what I needed to hear.

  I am lucky to have many writer friends who know what it’s like to go through the emotional rollercoaster of writing a novel and support each other along the way. There are three fabulous groups: the Folly Farm crew, the ladies of the Sofa and people of the Place. You are all incredibly special and amazing and I’m so grateful to have you all.

  Amongst my writer friends, there have been a couple of stars who have shone particularly brightly for me with this book. Inbali Iserles – you were such an important and integral part of this journey for me, and knowing you were there in the background helped me to get through some of the particularly difficult moments. And Anna Wilson, thank you for your friendship and support. You get me and you get my books without ever needing to explain anything to you and I’m very grateful to have you in my life.

  Claire Pipkin – thank you for sitting on the sofa in our living room and listening to me tell you the whole story. I think that was the first time I said it all out loud and you filled me with a belief that it might just work.

  Hira Pascoe – thank you for always saying exactly what I need to hear. In particular, thank you for being at the end of a phone when I called you from Prague, crying in the street and asking you how I would ever get Auschwitz out from under my skin.

  A special thank you to my niece, Frankie Stubbs. Frankie, you were such a big part of this for me. You were the person I wanted to talk to so many times; your insights and your ideas and your emotional support were an absolute gift and I can’t think about the experience of writing this book without seeing you in there with me.

  My dearest friends, Kerry and Kristina – I don’t know how I would have got through the Europe research trip without having you at the end of a phone, a video call, a WhatsApp message. Your spiritual wisdom, your loving friendship and your unquestioning support helped get me through five countries, four concentration camps, a few thousand miles and many tears! Thank you so much to our BL’s.

  One of the highlights of that trip was our time in Vienna, where the story – both in my novel and in real life – began. I am hugely grateful to Gerhard Strass. Your private tour of Vienna just for us was so insightful, your company was delightful and your Third Man Museum is absolutely incredible.

  For spiritual guidance and support, I am very grateful to Rabbi Robyn Ashworth-Steen. The fact that we had never met did not stop you from generously giving your time to listen, talk, advise and support me in this process. Thank you for your generosity and your wisdom.

  For expert insights relating to the Holocaust without which this manuscript would be full of holes, I am enormously indebted to Dr Jaime Ashworth, Prof. Arieh Iserles, Dganit Iserles, Annie Cohen and my brother Peter Kessler. I am extremely grateful to have had such expert readers to help me get as many details as possible as accurate and close to reality as I could. Any mistakes still in the text are entirely my responsibility.

  I am also very grateful to Anna Lloyd, from the Holocaust Educational Trust, for a series of conversations which helped me become clearer about my responsibilities to young people and helped frame this book in the wider context of Holocaust texts.

  There is one person who has been by my side for my entire writing career and who has made me feel lucky and grateful for twenty years. Catherine Clarke: all of your authors, all the publishers who work with you and people throughout the publishing industry know what a special person you are and I am so lucky to have you in my corner. You have been – as always – an absolute gift throughout this process. Your never-wavering support on every level, your confidence in me and my writing, the way you stand back and let your authors take centre stage – you are simply amazing and I will always feel like I hit the jackpot for having you as my agent.

  This book was a new adventure for me and I didn’t know who would be publishing it until it was finished. I want to say a huge thank you to Jane Griffiths, Rachel Denwood, Liese Abrams, Lowri Ribbons, Laura Hough, Sarah Macmillan, Eve Wersocki Morris and all the brilliant people at Simon and Schuster for bringing me and my book onto your team with such passion, vision and commitment. I couldn’t have ended up in a more perfect place.

  I could not have written this book or got myself through a gruelling research trip without my wife, Laura, by my side. Laura, you have lived with this book in the background for many years and have provided, as you always do, the most incredible bedrock of support as it came to life. You are my biggest cheerleader, my rock and the other half of everything. Thank you for every single bit of everything you are and for the team that we are together. Your love makes all of it possible.

  There have been many others in the background throughout the process of writing this book and, to anyone not mentioned here by name, please know that I am deeply grateful for everyone and everything that has played a part in this journey. I hope the end product lives up to the support it has had along the way.

  A list of resources and further reading

  The Holocaust Educational Trust (www.het.org.uk) is the leading Holocaust Education organisation in the UK. Their website contains details of their programmes and projects, as well as a wealth of downloadable resources and lesson plans.

  The Wiener Holocaust Library (www.wienerlibrary.co.uk) is the oldest Holocaust memorial institution in the UK. It has a Reading Room in Russell Square in London which is open to the public. It runs a programme of talks, lectures, workshops and exhibitions and also has a resource for schools, The Holocaust Explained.

  The National Holocaust Centre and Museum (sometimes referred to as Beth Shalom) (www.holocaust.org.uk) has a permanent exhibition and educational programmes.

  The Anne Frank Trust UK (www.annefrank.org.uk) has a range of educational programmes and travelling exhibitions, focusing on contemporary lessons to be drawn from the life of the teenage diarist.

  The Imperial War Museum London and Imperial War Museum North (www.iwm.org.uk) both have extensive permanent and temporary exhibitions relating to the Holocaust.

  The Jewish Museu
m London (www.jewishmuseum.org.uk) has a Holocaust exhibition based around the life of Leon Greenman, a survivor of Auschwitz born in London. It also has an exhibition on the practice and variety of Judaism past and present.

  The United States Holocaust Memorial Museum (www.ushmm.org) has a wealth of resources available via its website, including video and audio testimony, photographs and film footage.

  Yad Vashem (www.yadvashem.org) in Jerusalem is the Israeli Holocaust Memorial Authority. It has a wealth of information, downloadable resources and documents on its website.

  The Auschwitz-Birkenau State Museum (www.auschwitz.org) is a major focus of global commemorative events. Its website has information about the history of the camp and memorial.

  The International Holocaust Remembrance Alliance (IHRA) (www.holocaustremembrance.com) is an international body which offers strategic guidance in how the Holocaust is taught and remembered.

  The About Holocaust website produced by UNESCO and the World Jewish Congress (www.aboutholocaust.org) has thorough and accessible answers to ‘Frequently Asked Questions’ about the Holocaust.

  About the Author

  Photograph © Jillian Edelstein

  LIZ KESSLER has written more than twenty books for children and young people, including the internationally bestselling Emily Windsnap series. She has an MA in Novel Writing and has been a full-time author for the last twenty years. When The World Was Ours has been brewing in her heart for at least half of that time. Liz lives in the north west of the UK with her wife, Laura, and their dog, Lowen.

  www.SimonandSchuster.co.uk/Authors/Liz-Kessler

  First published in Great Britain in 2021 by Simon & Schuster UK Ltd

  Copyright © 2021 Liz Kessler

  This book is copyright under the Berne Convention.

  No reproduction without permission.