The Lost Twin

by Diana Finley

  There are tears rolling down Erna’s cheeks. I wrap my arms around her, hot tears of sympathy welling up in my own eyes.

  ‘Oh, you’re so brave to speak about it, dear Erna. Sure, it must be so distressing for you to remember those tragic times.’

  ‘Yes, but I want you to understand, Marie. I must tell you how it was, even though it is upsetting.’

  She takes some deep breaths and wipes her eyes.

  ‘By that time, Aron was nearly thirteen. A week before our planned departure, the three of us were making our way back home after visiting Andreas’s parents in their apartment nearby. It had been a dispiriting visit, one of many. The old couple would not hear of leaving Berlin, despite their fears. It had always been their home. They said they were too frail to make such a hazardous journey and they thought perhaps people were exaggerating the dangers. Surely things could never become so bad as Andreas and I seemed to imagine, they told us. Why, they had lived in Berlin all their lives. Of course, there had always been isolated incidents of anti-Semitism, they said, but things usually settled down in the end. There was no need to overstate the problems, to imagine the worst. They thought it was best just to keep their heads down and stay indoors out of sight as much as possible. Life was bound to improve again in time, they were sure. We should go to England, if we felt it was the best for us, but they believed we would soon return.

  ‘Andreas was very worried about his parents’ unrealistic assessment of the situation – and also worried about leaving them behind.

  ‘On our way back that evening, we talked and talked as we walked. It was dark, and I was pushing Aron in his wheelchair. We were feeling frustrated by Andreas’s parents’ attitude – and by our impotence to change it. We were so preoccupied by our discussion, that I suppose we were less vigilant than usual.

  ‘We had turned off from the wide, tree-lined Unter den Linden boulevard, into a maze of smaller, darker side streets, and we hadn’t noticed a small group of Nazis following us.

  ‘Suddenly this mob – made up of young men and teenagers, several in uniform and carrying weapons – ran towards us, shouting and jeering. They grabbed hold of Aron’s wheelchair, rocking it violently from side to side. He was helpless. He could do nothing to defend himself as they taunted him mercilessly, mocking his disability. They just gave whoops of laughter, seeing his fear.’

  ‘Oh no,’ I gasp. ‘That’s so cruel. Your poor boy!’

  ‘It was awful. Aron was absolutely terrified. Andreas was so brave – he placed himself directly between the Nazis and Aron, pushing them away as they came close, telling them to leave us alone, that we had done nothing to them.

  ‘I had managed to grasp the handles of the wheelchair to try to hold it steady, but now they turned their attack onto Andreas, beating him over the head with rifle butts and metal batons. They were like savages, completely without mercy. Andreas fell to the ground; blood was pouring from his head.’

  Erna paused and pressed her handkerchief to her face.

  ‘I screamed at them to stop. That made them turn their attention to me for a moment. Several of the men began beating my hands with their weapons as I tried to cling to the wheelchair.

  ‘Seeing Andreas so still and bleeding, I tried to approach him. I bent down to hold him in my arms. The attackers were suddenly shocked at the extremity of what they had done. It was clear to see that Andreas was dead, his skull broken. The attackers stood gaping at him for a moment, lying on the cold pavement, and then they ran away laughing.

  ‘I was shaking, deep in shock. I knew Andreas was dead, and I hated having to leave him there, but there was nothing else I could do. My hands were irreparably injured, but I managed to limp home, pushing Aron’s wheelchair with my elbows. Friends crept out later in the night to retrieve Andreas’s body for burial. I was bereft at the loss of my beloved husband. I knew I would have to protect and care for Aron, and to try to arrange our escape and emigration, all alone. I could hardly think of my life without Andreas, but I was determined to take Aron to a place of safety.’

  By now I’m trembling and trying to control the tears. Erna is so brave. I put my arms around her and we hold one another in a desperate embrace. I can’t bear to think what she had gone through. After a while, Erna bravely gathers herself together and insists on finishing her story.

  ‘With help from some gentile friends in Germany, and English friends who vouched for us, I managed to obtain the necessary documents for Aron and myself to emigrate to England. I cannot describe the pain of leaving Berlin without Andreas – and how much I missed him.

  ‘Not long after we arrived in England in 1939, I heard that Andreas’s parents had been forced to leave their home. They were taken, with others, to one of the camps. It was only much later that I found out they did not survive.

  ‘My fingers had been broken in several places. A medical colleague of Andreas had bound them the day after the attack, using wooden spatulas as splints. My hands healed slowly, but they were very badly damaged; I would never be a concert pianist again. I was fortunate to be able to find regular work as a music teacher in England and earn enough to support myself and Aron. The Hellers helped me find a small flat to rent in Blackheath, close to where they lived. We had seven years together, Aron and I – precious years despite them being war years. Aron’s muscle control, including his breathing, deteriorated relentlessly year after year. He died in 1946 at the age of nineteen. It broke my heart.’

  ‘Oh Erna,’ I say, embracing her, ‘I’m so sorry for your losses. So many tragic losses.’

  I feel such sorrow to know of the tragedies Erna – the kindest person I have ever known – has endured in her life. I think that perhaps we feel a special closeness because we are both mothers who have lost a precious son. Yet, I realise that when Erna lost her boy Aron, she lost him for ever, and had no other child to be the focus of her love, while I have Barry. I do regard myself as being lucky to have Barry, but of course, having one child cannot compensate for the loss of another. Even so, I tell myself, I must appreciate the gift that Barry is. I must always be thankful for him and treasure him.

  I stand up and hug Erna.

  ‘Dear Erna, thank you for telling me your story. I feel honoured that you trust me enough to share it with me. It can’t have been easy to relive those sad and tragic times.’

  Although my relationship with Erna had been – initially at least – one built on convenience, and although there’s a difference of more than fifty years in our ages, over time we two women have become extremely fond of one another. In fact, as she said, we have become very close, if unusual, friends. Friends who trusted one another completely, even with uncomfortable truths.

  ***

  After she told me the story of her life, Erna explained how she was able to buy such large house in Blackheath, and live in relative comfort. The money her husband Andreas’s parents would have passed on to their son and his family, was made over to her after the war. The Goldsteins had been well-to-do businesspeople until their arrest and murder in the late 1930s.

  Tragically, in 1943, Erna’s own parents also died in the concentration camps, leaving their estate to Erna, their only daughter. In addition, during the years after the war, the German government paid considerable reparations to those who had suffered under the Nazi regime and had lost everything. The house in Berlin, where Erna and Andreas had lived after their marriage, was eventually sold, and the resulting money also came to her. So Erna became rich and comfortable in material terms, but her wealth was tinged with such extreme sorrow, such tragedy. Maybe being able to use it to support Barry’s schooling has brought her some joy.

  Chapter 12

  1985

  Robbie

  Some days, Len takes a thermos of tea and a packet of sandwiches, which he calls his ‘bait’, to the allotment nearby. Len keeps his gardening tools in a small shed, in which are also two wooden folding chairs. During school holidays or at the weekends, I love going with him on these visits.
Len marks off a patch of the allotment for me to cultivate myself. He shows me how to sow potatoes, carrots, leeks, spinach and lettuces; how to nurture them and watch them grow bigger. Soon the two of us are competing to see who can grow the biggest potatoes and leeks!

  When my specimens win the size competition, Betty says, ‘Eeee, our Robbie’s got a real talent for growing, hasn’t he?’ She’s always on my side. When Len’s vegetables win, Betty shakes her head and says, ‘Oh well, the lad grows for flavour and quality, not just size!’ Len just gives me a wink.

  A small Victoria plum tree stands in a sheltered corner near the shed. It provides some shade for the two of us as we sit quietly side by side eating our ‘bait’ on a hot summer’s day. In the late summer its branches bend nearly to the ground with the weight of the ripening plums. At home, I help Betty wash and stone the plums and stew some of them for pies and crumbles, or to eat with rice pudding. But the bulk of the crop is used to bottle for the winter, and to make jam. That’s a big job. I love the whole process of washing the jars and sterilising them in a warm oven, putting the fruit, water and sugar in a huge copper pan, and boiling the mixture until it miraculously sets on a cold saucer – and the little house is filled with the sweet, fruity fragrance.

  One fine day during the holidays, while we’re sitting under the plum tree, Len says, ‘You know, Robbie, you’ve been working that hard at school lately, and doing so well, I think it’s time for a treat, for doing something special. Why don’t we all have a day out? I know our Betty would like that. How about we plan for an outing first warm day next week.’

  ‘OK, that sounds great. Will we surprise Betty?’

  ‘We will that. Good idea, lad. Where would you like to go? The hills, the country, or the sea?’

  I’m bursting to go to the sea. I’ve never been before. ‘Well … um, what do you think Betty would like best?’ I ask him, praying for the answer I want.

  Len screws up his eyes and looks at me thoughtfully. ‘Hmmm, well now … let me see … I think she’d like the sea. Yes, definitely, she’d like a trip to the sea.’

  ‘Yes, that’s just what I thought,’ I say.

  ***

  The following day is hot and sunny.

  ‘Phew!’ says Betty. ‘It’s going to be a scorcher today. Not a cloud in the sky.’

  ‘Just the day for a trip to the seaside then, I reckon,’ says Len, winking at me. ‘Best pack up your bikini, lass. Robbie and I will sort out the motor.’

  Len drives his ancient Morris out of the front garden into the street. He checks the tyres, plugs and starter motor. Then he and I take the car to the nearby garage to top up the oil and put some petrol in.

  ‘Time for an outing come round again, has it, Lenny, man?’ the garage man says.

  ‘Aye, Jimmy, that it is. Grand day for taking our Betty out for a spin.’

  Then it’s back home we go to give the car a final wash and polish.

  ‘Time to get your swimming trunks and a towel, Robbie,’ Len tells me.

  ‘I’ll put some lunch together then,’ says Betty, making for the kitchen.

  ‘Nah, don’t do that, lass. It’s your day out too. We’ll have our lunch in a café or pub and save you the trouble of making it.’

  ‘Ooh, but Len, the expense!’

  ‘What did you marry a rich man for, if not to be spoiled once in a while, pet?’

  Betty giggles at this and raises her eyebrows at me. ‘Eeee, what’s ’e like, eh Robbie darlin’?’

  They act like teenagers sometimes – it always makes me laugh. We all have a lot of fun together, more than I’ve ever had in my whole life before.

  But the thing is, Len and Betty aren’t teenagers, even though they’re interested in everything, and full of life and fun. I never really think of them as old, because most of the time they don’t seem at all old. If I’d thought about it more carefully, more realistically, maybe it wouldn’t have come as such a shock.

  ***

  One day, when I’m fifteen, I get back from school to find there’s no one at home. That’s unusual – they’re always there. Everything is quiet, ominously quiet. The back door is unlocked, as it always is, but why isn’t Betty clattering about in the kitchen? I go in, feeling strangely uneasy. The silence gathers around me, sending prickles down my spine as I stand in the middle of the kitchen, wondering what to do. Perhaps I should look upstairs? Yet I dread what I might find.

  I haven’t even put my school rucksack down when Mrs Willis from next door comes knocking and calling, ‘Cooo-eee!’

  I hate her; she’s a right busybody, and she always has a complaint to make about me, for any number of reasons: kicking my ball into her front garden, playing music too loud, or using my catapult to make stones ‘ping’ on the road sign at the crossroads nearby – any misdeed she can complain about, anything she can criticise. Betty never takes any notice.

  Mrs Willis stops in the middle of the room and folds her arms on her chest. She leans her head back and looks down her nose at me.

  ‘Len’s had a stroke,’ she tells me.

  My legs go weak and wobbly, like they’re going to give way. I can’t breathe properly. I’m not sure exactly what a stroke is. It sounds quite nice, like a gentle caress – but I know that isn’t what it means, I know it’s bad.

  My heart is thudding like a drum. The back of my neck feels hot and sticky, while the rest of me shakes uncontrollably, as if I’m freezing cold. It’s a proper shock, but no way do I want to show Mrs Willis what I’m feeling. I can’t bear for her to see how upset I am. She’s enjoying herself, I can tell that – being ‘the bringer of bad news’, the mean old cow.

  ‘An ambulance came – eeee, Robbie … top speed it was doing! Lights flashing – it were a proper emergency. Came to take Len to the hospital,’ she says, her head on one side, that twisty little smile on her face, her eyes watching me. ‘Betty must have dialled 999,’ she continues. ‘Aye, she went with him, in the ambulance like, poor soul.’

  I can hardly take in what she’s saying. I have to concentrate on not swaying, not falling.

  ‘Reckon it must be serious,’ Mrs W goes on. ‘You should have heard the siren!’

  I want to punch her, right in her nasty smiling mouth.

  She hands me a few coins Betty had left with her – for me to take the bus to the hospital. I run from the house and straight down the road to the bus stop, feeling sick with worry. Len can’t be ill; he’s strong, healthy; he’s tough. There must be some mistake.

  ***

  ‘No need to raise the roof!’ the nurse says severely, as she opens the door onto the ward. ‘I heard you ring the bell the first time! We’re looking after sick patients here, you know.’

  ‘I know … sorry … I-I just want to see Len,’ I say, wiping my face with my sleeve.

  ‘Five minutes, no more,’ she says, looking at me a bit more kindly. ‘He’s not very well, sonny. Don’t get him all excited, and don’t tire him out, will you, there’s a good lad. Is he your grandad?’

  ‘No, he’s my …’ What was he? ‘I’m … his foster son.’

  The nurse puts her arm round my shoulder and leads me past a desk, where other nurses are talking and looking at someone’s X-ray film on a screen. She pushes me gently into a ward with six beds in it, and points to the end bed on the right. Most of the men in that ward look half-dead – lying with their eyes shut and their mouths open, or staring vacantly at the ceiling.

  I’m crying now; I can’t stop myself, as soon as I spot Betty. She’s sitting by the side of Len’s bed, holding his hand. She gives me a sad little wave.

  I hate seeing Len lying there in the hospital bed. I hate it. His arms are brown against the white sheet, from working outside on his allotment. They look strong and muscular. He isn’t a feeble old man. After all, he was a miner in his day, he’s used to pushing heavy coal wagons about, and chipping away at the coalface. Len’s arms are covered in tattoos from his time in the navy – one is a red heart with ‘Bea
utiful Betty – my darling lass’ written inside. He’s always been a tough man; he’s had a tough life, but he’s got a soft side too. He’s shown it to me.

  Len’s face looks different now – he looks like an old man all of a sudden. His mouth is open and his cheeks look saggy. His face is nearly as white as the sheet.

  ‘He doesn’t look like Len,’ I whisper, frowning hard to try to stop the tears coming. Betty stands up. She hugs me tight and sobs into my chest.

  ‘Eeee, Robbie, Robbie. Our poor Len … what are we going to do, pet? What’s going to happen?’

  Well, what can I say to that? I don’t know, do I? All I know is … I’m scared. I’m terrified.

  ***

  Four weeks after Len’s stroke they bring him home from the hospital in a special ambulance. I watch the driver push the wheelchair down the ramp. Len is slumped in it, his head flopping over to his right shoulder, all limp, like he’s asleep, yet his eyes are open. Betty’s standing at the front door, her hands pressed over her mouth, tears rolling down her cheeks. Len opens his mouth as if he wants to speak, but no sound comes out. All his features droop downwards over to the right, as if his face is too tired to stay straight. Only his eyes seem to have the energy to move. They dart about, as though they’re frantically looking for the answer, but can’t find it.

  At that moment I know for certain Len and Betty’s life is never going to be the same again – and neither is mine.

  ***

  A few weeks after Len is brought home from hospital, I’m back in the children’s home. It’s Len and Betty’s daughter Shirley who suggests it’s ‘for the best’. Betty didn’t want to let me go, she says. But she can’t cope – she hopes I understand. I do and I don’t. It’s all Betty can do to look after Len, Shirley tells me. I tell her not to worry; I can look after myself, I’ll be fine. There are tears running down Betty’s cheeks when the car comes to pick me and my bag of stuff up.