Echoes (17 page)

“No, it was just a coincidence, but it was still a mean thing to do.”

“Do Jewish people look different than other people?” Daphne asked then with interest, and Amadea looked outraged.

“Of course they don't. How can you say a thing like that?”

“My teacher said that Jews have tails,” Daphne said innocently as both her mother and sister looked horrified.

“That's not true,” Beata said, wondering if she should tell them that she had been born Jewish, but she felt awkward telling them now. She had been a Catholic for so many years. And some people said they were only going after the poor Jews, the homeless and criminals, not the ones like her family. The Nazis wanted to clean up Germany and disperse the criminal element. They would never go after respectable Jews. She was sure of that. But still not sure enough to tell her children she'd been Jewish.

It was an interesting conversation at the dinner table that night, and they lingered longer than usual. Beata had never realized how politically interested Amadea was, how socially conscious and independent. Nor had she realized that she was struggling to decide if she had a religious vocation, which she found far more disturbing than her more radical inclinations. She couldn't help wondering just how influenced by Edith Stein's lectures and writings she had been. Or worse yet, by the fact that Stein had become a nun. Things like that were powerful influences on a young girl. Not to mention the older sister of her best friend. Altogether it painted a portrait of a life Beata didn't want for her. But she herself had offered little to put any weight on the other side of the scale in recent years. She had no social life, no friends, saw no one except the Daubignys, and them rarely. For eleven years while Antoine was alive, she had devoted all her time to him and her children. And since his death, she had become a recluse. She saw no way of changing that now, and had no desire to. But at least she could pay more attention to what was happening in the world. Amadea seemed far better informed than she. She worried about her opinions about the Nazis' anti-Semitism, though, and hoped she wasn't voicing them in school. She reminded her to be careful when she left for school the next day. Disagreeing with the Nazis was a dangerous thing to do, at any age.

The following week Beata went back to the synagogue. She didn't want to wait another year before she saw her mother again. This time she sat just behind her purposely, and there was no need to lift her veil. Her mother recognized her the moment she saw her, and as they left after the service, Beata slipped a piece of paper into her mother's gloved hand. It had her address and phone number on it, and as soon as she had given it to her, and saw her mother close her fingers over it, Beata disappeared into the crowd and left. She didn't wait to see her father this time. All she could do now was pray that her mother would be brave enough to call. Beata wanted desperately to see her and hold her and talk to her again. More than anything, she wanted her to meet the girls.

It was an agonizing two days. By sheer coincidence, Amadea answered the phone when it rang. They were just leaving the table after dinner, and Beata had just asked Daphne if she wanted to play a game. Amadea had noticed that her mother seemed much better these days, and was making more effort to engage them, or emerge from her long depression after Antoine's death.

“There's someone on the phone for you,” Amadea told her.

“Who is it?” Beata asked, momentarily forgetting the call she was expecting, and assuming it was Véronique. She had been asking Beata for months to make a dress for her for their Christmas party. She thought it would be good therapy for her. But Beata had been avoiding her. She hadn't sewn now in years, not since Antoine's death, except once in a great while, something simple for the girls. She no longer had any interest in making evening gowns or serious dresses. And she no longer had the need financially.

“She didn't say who she was,” Amadea explained, as she took Daphne upstairs, and Beata walked to the phone.

“Hello?” Beata answered, and her breath caught when she heard the voice. It hadn't changed.

“Beata?” she whispered, afraid someone might overhear. Jacob was out, but everyone knew she wasn't allowed to speak to her daughter. She was dead.

“Oh my God. Thank you for calling. You looked so beautiful at the synagogue. You haven't changed.” After seventeen years, they both knew that wasn't possible. But to Beata, she looked the same.

“You looked so sad. Are you all right? Are you ill?”

“Antoine died.”

“I'm so sorry.” She sounded genuine. Her daughter had looked destroyed. It was why she had called. She couldn't turn her back on her any longer, no matter what Jacob said. “When?”

“Six years ago. I have two beautiful little girls. Amadea and Daphne.”

“Do they look like you?” Her mother smiled as she asked.

“The little one does. The older one looks like her father. Mama, would you like to see them?”

There was an interminable silence, and then she answered finally, with a sigh. She sounded tired. Things were difficult these days. “Yes, I would.”

“That would be so wonderful.” Beata sounded like a girl again. “When would you like to come?”

“What about tomorrow afternoon, for tea? The girls would be home from school then, I assume.”

“We'll be here.” There were tears rolling down Beata's cheeks. This was what she had prayed for for years. Forgiveness. Absolution. Touching her mother again. Just once. Holding her. A moment in her mother's arms. Just once.

“What will you tell them?”

“I don't know. I'll figure it out tonight.”

“They'll hate me, if you tell them the truth,” Monika Wittgenstein said sadly. But just as Beata wanted to see her, Monika wanted to see her own child again. And these days bad things were happening. Jacob was afraid that one day it could happen to them, too, although Horst and Ulm said that could never happen. They were Germans, not just random Jews roaming the streets. They said the Nazis were after the criminal element, not respectable people like them. Jacob didn't agree. And they were all getting old. She needed to see her daughter again. Needed to. Viscerally. Like a part of her heart that had been taken from her and needed to be restored.

“They don't have to know the truth. We can blame it on Papa.” She smiled. They both knew her father would never relent. There was not even the remotest possibility that Amadea and Daphne would meet him. But Monika felt he could no longer force this tragedy on her, too. She could no longer do it to Beata or herself. “Don't worry. I'll figure it out. They'll be excited to meet you. And Mama …”—she nearly choked on the words—“I can't wait to see you.”

“Me too.” Her mother sounded as excited as she did.

Beata thought about it all that night, and in the morning, at breakfast, she said that there was someone who wanted to meet them, and she was coming that afternoon.

“Who is it?” Amadea asked with only minor interest. She had a test at school that day. She had stayed up late to study the night before, and she was tired. She was an exceptional student.

Beata hesitated for a beat. “Your grandmother,” she said, as both girls' eyes grew wide.

“I thought she was dead,” Amadea said suspiciously, no longer sure which story was the truth.

“I lied,” Beata confessed. “When I married your father, France and Germany were at war with each other, and people felt strongly about it. Both our families did. Papa and I met in Switzerland, when we were on vacation with our parents. And my father wanted me to marry someone else. Someone I didn't even know.” It was hard explaining it all to them now, their lives were so different. But they were riveted by what she was saying. It was not easy finding the words, or explaining what had happened so long ago. “Neither of our families wanted us to marry, because Papa was French, and I was German. We knew we'd have to wait until after the war, and even then it wasn't likely they'd approve. We were crazy and young, and I told my father I wanted to marry Papa, and would no matter what. He said that if I did, he would never see me again. Papa was wounded and waiting for me in Switzerland, and his cousins said we could live with them and be married. So I left, which was a very headstrong thing to do, but I knew I was right. I knew what a good man your father was, and I never regretted for a minute what I did. But my father has never seen me again, and he wouldn't let any of my family see me. Not my mother or sister or brothers. All my letters to them came back unopened. He never let my mother see me or speak to me again. I saw her somewhere the other day.” She did not tell them it was at the synagogue, because she didn't think they needed the added complication of knowing they were part Jewish. It would only confuse them. Or perhaps even put them in danger at some point, given Hitler's feelings about Jews. “When I saw her I gave my mother our phone number and address. She called last night, and she wants to see you. She's coming here today after school.” It was simpler than she had feared. Both her daughters were staring at her in disbelief.

“How could he be so mean?” Amadea asked, looking outraged. “Is that what Papa's family did, too?”

“Yes, it is. They hated the Germans, as much as my family hated the French.”

“How stupid. And how mean.” Amadea's heart went out to her. “Would you ever do that to us?” Amadea knew the answer before she said the words.

“No, I wouldn't. But that was a long time ago, and it was an ugly war.”

“Then why didn't he see you afterward?” Daphne asked sensibly. Like her sister, she was a bright child.

“Because he's a stubborn old man,” Amadea said with rancor. Beata had forgiven him years before, and accepted what happened, though it had tormented her for years before she did.

“What about your sister and brothers?” Amadea asked, still shocked by what she had heard. “They're not dead either?” Beata shook her head. “Why won't they see you?”

“They don't want to disobey my father,” Beata said simply. She didn't tell them that her father had said she was dead.

“He must be horrible if everyone is so afraid of him,” Amadea said sensibly. She couldn't conceive of treating people that way. But her own father had been a very gentle man. “And Papa's family, too.”

“Your mama must be very brave if she wants to see us now. Will your father beat her when she goes home?” Daphne asked, looking worried.

“Of course not.” Beata smiled at her. “But she won't tell him she came here. He'd be too upset. And now he's old. So is she. I'm so happy she's coming to see us,” Beata confessed with tears in her eyes, which touched both her girls. “I've missed her so much. Especially since Papa died.” Amadea suddenly wondered if her yearly visits to the synagogue had anything to do with it, but she didn't want to ask. Her mother had been through enough. “I just wanted you to know before she came today.” It had been an extraordinary insight into their mother, and both girls were still stunned by it as they walked to school. It was odd finding out that they had a grandmother who had been alive for all these years, and whom they had never seen. Not only a grandmother, but a grandfather, an aunt, and two uncles.

“I'm glad for Mama that she's coming,” Amadea said quietly. “But I think it was a terrible thing to do. Imagine if she did that to us,” Amadea said, filled with compassion and sorrow for her mother. What a huge, huge loss, to lose everyone she had loved for a man. Although if she hadn't done it, Amadea realized, she and Daphne would never have been born.

“I'd cry a lot,” Daphne said, looking impressed.

“So would I.” Amadea smiled, taking her hand to cross the street. “You'd better never do anything stupid like not talk to me, or I'll come and beat you up,” Amadea warned her, and Daphne laughed.

“Okay. I promise. I won't.” Thinking about their mother, and the grandmother they were about to meet, the two girls walked the rest of the way to school, hand in hand, lost in their own thoughts. Amadea had already forgotten the question in her own mind about whether her grandparents had been Jewish. It made no difference to her. She knew that her mother was Catholic, so she had to have been wrong about that. If her mother was Catholic, then obviously her parents were too.

8

W
HEN THE DOORBELL RANG AT FOUR O'CLOCK
, B
EATA
stood very still for a minute, smoothed her dress, and patted her hair. She was wearing a plain black dress and a string of pearls Antoine had given her for their tenth anniversary. Her face was startlingly pale. She looked serious and almost breathless when she opened the door and saw her mother standing there, in an elegant black coat over a purple dress. As always, she was beautifully dressed, and she was wearing black suede shoes, and a matching purse. Her black suede gloves were custom made. And she was wearing enormous pearls. Her eyes bored into her daughter's, and without a sound, they flew into each other's arms. Beata felt suddenly like a child who had lost her mother and finally found her. She just wanted to nuzzle her, feel her face, and the silk of her hair. She still wore the same perfume she had worn when Beata was a little girl. And as though it had happened yesterday, she could remember the horror of the day she left. But it was all over now. They had found each other again.

The years since melted away. She led her mother into the living room, and they sat down next to each other on the couch, as they both cried. Beata couldn't speak for a long time.

“Thank you for coming, Mama, I missed you so much.” More than she had allowed herself to feel, or could ever say. It all came rushing back to her now. The moments she wished she had been there, when she got married, when Amadea was born … and Daphne… for holidays and birthdays and every important moment in her married life … and when Antoine died. And all the ordinary moments in between. And now she was here. She felt no rage over the years they'd lost, only grief. And now, finally, relief.

“You'll never know what agony this has been,” Monika said as tears rolled relentlessly down her cheeks. “I promised him I wouldn't see you. I was afraid to disobey him. But I missed you so much, every single day.” She had never gotten over it. In the end, it was like a death.