Letter from a Stranger (31 page)

Dropping her eyes, she scanned the page, was reassured that this was her grandmother’s handwriting. She knew it well. It had always been distinctive, flowing, elegant, and easy to read.

BERLIN

NOVEMBER 16, 1938

I am always happy to come home when I’ve been away. When I reached the street where we lived I became excited, joyful in my heart. It was growing dark. There was a cold wind. This made me hurry faster. All of a sudden I started to run when our building came into sight. I couldn’t wait to see my parents and my little sister Erika. Once I was inside the vestibule, I smoothed my hair and straightened my scarf before climbing the stairs with my suitcase.

Something seemed different. Then I realized that the building was unnaturally quiet. I had lived here most of my life and it had never been so
still.
There was usually the odd noise. When I reached the second floor I noticed something even stranger. The door of our flat was ajar. It was always closed, locked from the inside. Who had left it open like this?

I didn’t go in. I stood staring at the door, frowning, listening. Silence. Darkness inside. Finally I pushed the door open, stepped into the foyer. I could see dim light at the end of the corridor, and as I looked to my right there was another pale glow from my father’s study. I stood there for a split second, fear invading me. I turned on the foyer light at last, called out, Mutti! Papa! I am home!

No voices of welcome. No happy laughter. No parents. No little sister hugging me. I put down my suitcase. My mouth was dry. I swallowed, steeled myself to walk forward. When I reached my father’s study I pushed open the door cautiously with my foot. The desk lamp was on. My father’s violin lay on his music table. It was not in its case. This was peculiar. Worrying. It was a Stradivarius. Papa always put it away. Next to it was a sheet of music. I went to look. Mozart.

I walked down the main corridor to the kitchen, peeped around the door, went inside. There were pans on the stove. A chopping board on the counter. Vegetables scattered on the big kitchen table. It was obvious my mother had left hurriedly. That was the only explanation. She would never leave her kitchen in disarray.

Where was my family?

I dared not accept the thought that sprang into my head. I just stood there. Frightened, rooted to the spot. And then I heard it, a noise, like a door squeaking. As I swung around I came face-to-face with Mrs. Weber, who lived across the hall.

She hurried to me, grabbed me, held me close to her ample body. I heard a choke, a sob. When I looked up into her face I saw how deathly white she was. The same color as her apron.

Gabri, you must leave. Now, at once, she told me. Come with me, I have something for you. I asked her where my parents and sister were. She did not answer. She just kept shaking her head. Taking hold of my arm she hurried me out of the kitchen, down the corridor. In the foyer she picked up my suitcase and rushed me out of our flat and across the landing into her home.

Mrs. Weber locked her door, led me into the kitchen. The window was open. I could hear the traffic in the street. She turned on the radio. So no one could hear us. I knew that. I was watching her alertly.

Where are they? I asked. I was trembling inside. They’ve been taken, she whispered, and stopped. I waited, my eyes riveted on hers. By the Gestapo, she said.

The Gestapo.
No! No! I shrieked. Not Mutti and Papa. Not little Erika. No, I cried. I was frozen to the spot, filled with terror, tears pricking the back of my eyes, my throat choked.

Mrs. Weber rushed to me, saying I must be quiet.
Gabri, please be quiet.
She held me close to her and then took my hand, almost dragged me into her bedroom. She closed and locked the door, pulled out a suitcase from under the bed, explained my mother had given it to her. Asked her to keep it for me some weeks before. She reminded me I had the key on a ribbon around my neck. I took it off, opened the case.

My clothes had been neatly packed. My passport lay on top, along with an envelope. I opened it. There was money inside. And a photograph of the four of us. I picked up the picture, staring at my family. Tears slid down my cheeks. Would I ever see them again? I did not know the answer.

I turned to Mrs. Weber, insisted I must get my father’s violin. She became vehement, said I couldn’t go back for it. They will soon come looking for you, she whispered. They have lists.
Family lists.
You must leave the flat the way they left it. They will return, they will notice.

I started to weep. She wiped my eyes with her handkerchief, brought me into her arms again, holding me close, stroking my hair. Do you know what to do? she asked me. Yes, I answered, my mother told me. She nodded, said, Now we must combine the two cases, put everything in your mother’s case. I did as she asked.

Mrs. Weber hugged me, led me through her foyer. May God go with you, Gabriele, she said as she opened her front door. I thanked her, looked across at our flat, and went down the stairs slowly. I was blinded by tears.

God? What God?
I wondered.

There was no God. I was on my own. I was fourteen.

When I went out into the street it was very dark. I turned left, then right, and left again. I walked straight down the fourth street until I arrived at the building where Anita Fischer lived with her older brother Markus. I had to tell them, warn them. I went into their vestibule, climbed the stairs to the first floor, rang their bell. Waited. I was still shaking inside, brimming with dread.
Had they been taken?

The door opened. Anita smiled when she saw me. And then her face instantly changed. What is it? What’s wrong? she cried, pulling me inside, slamming the door, locking it. They’ve been taken, my family, I whispered. A sob broke free from my throat. I covered my mouth with my hand, gulped back the tears.

The Gestapo? she asked. I could only nod.

Markus was suddenly standing there.
The Gestapo?
he repeated in a hushed voice. Still I could only nod.

They’re out hunting Jews, he asserted, his voice grim, his face turning as white as Mrs. Weber’s had been. The Nazi thugs came out in the open on
Kristallnacht,
he muttered, looking from me to Anita. They showed their hand. They want to kill us all. They won’t be satisfied until they’ve killed every Jew in Germany.

I gaped at him. So did Anita. That’s not possible, I gasped. Wait and see, he replied.

We went into the living room. Anita left us to make hot tea. Markus and I sat down. He was twenty-two, and clever. Do you want to stay here with us? I shook my head. I have to go to my mother’s friend, that’s what she told me to do, I muttered, still swallowing my tears. The Russian woman? Markus asked. Yes, I replied. Can I phone her? He nodded.

Markus took me to the small den, indicated the phone, then left me alone. I dialed the number I had memorized on my mother’s instructions. It rang and rang.
Ja?
a woman’s voice asked.
Guten Abend, Prinzessin,
I said in German. And then added in English, It’s Gabriele Landau speaking. There was a moment of silence. The princess asked in English, Are things not right? No they are not, I responded. She told me to come to her at once. I said I would.

I went back to the living room. Anita, as white as chalk and shaky, had made tea. We sat and drank it in silence. Anita said, Markus got his travel visa today. But I didn’t get mine. I stared at her. Can’t you go too? I asked. It was Markus who answered. We’ll find a way, he said. We must both go to Istanbul together. If we cannot, I shall stay here to protect Anita.

Later, after we had finished our tea, I asked Markus if he would take me to the home of Princess Irina Troubetzkoy, who lived near the Tiergarten, the lovely old park my mother so loved. He agreed to drive me there on his motorbike.

Justine put the black leather book on the coffee table, her hands shaking. In fact, she was shaking all over and her face was wet with the tears still streaming out of her eyes. She could not believe what she had just read, nor did she understand. She had always believed her grandmother was English. But she was not. She was German … a German Jew. And therefore
she
was Jewish, and Richard and her mother also. Justine understood she was not who she thought she was, and neither were they. But that did not really matter to her. What was important was the pain and suffering her grandmother had gone through as a young girl. A fourteen-year-old girl alone in Nazi Germany. A Jewish girl, more at risk than anyone.

A shudder rippled through Justine at this thought. She went into the bathroom, found the tissues, and wiped away her tears. Staring at herself in the mirror, she noticed how strained she looked, and her eyes were red-rimmed from crying.

Oh Gran, oh Gran, however did you endure? The tears started again, and Justine returned to the bedroom, lay down on the bed, weeping into the pillow. All she wanted at this moment was to wrap her arms around Gabriele and hold her close, and tell her how much she loved her.

But that was not possible. Nor could she speak to her. Gabriele and Anita were on the plane to Bodrum.

Thirty-four

Justine remained on the bed endeavoring to rest. Exhausted from weeping, she felt as though she had no tears left in her. The first pages in her grandmother’s black leather book had truly shocked and stunned her. She had been flabbergasted by what she had read, and was filled with innumerable questions which only Gran could answer.

She could not conceive how her grandmother had managed to endure such enormous pain and loss at so young an age. Or how she had survived what must have befallen her later on. Justine was well versed in history, and knew about the Second World War and the Holocaust. She could now only wonder, and agonizingly so, about Gabriele’s life during those evil times in Nazi Germany. That she had escaped death was surely something of a miracle.

What had the young Gabriele done? Who had helped her? How had she evaded arrest by the Gestapo? Or hadn’t she? Had she been in one of the death camps? And lived. What had happened to Gabriele’s parents?
Her
great-grandparents? And what about Erika? Had Gran’s little sister survived? How had Gran managed to get to England? When had she gone? What role had Gabriele’s beloved auntie Beryl played in her early life? On and on … so many questions scurried through her head, were unanswerable at this moment in time. Only after she had spoken to her grandmother would she know the entire story, and she needed to know it all now.

Justine’s eyes fell on the black leather book on the coffee table. It was like a magnet, enticed her. After staring at it balefully for a while, biting her lip, she finally went over to the coffee table, picked it up, and sat down in the chair. She leafed through the pages she had read before, until she came to where she had left off. Her eyes were glued to the page.

In the end we decided against the motorbike. There was the problem of my suitcase. It was too big. More importantly, Markus was reluctant to leave Anita alone in the flat. I agreed with him. We were living in dangerous times. Who knew that better than I? Jews had a price on their heads. Better that Anita came with us.

Out on the street we quickly found a taxi. I told the driver to go to the Tiergartenstrasse. When we were settled in the back, Markus asked me how my mother knew the Russian woman. She met her with Arabella von Wittingen some years ago, I told him. Arabella is married to Kurt von Wittingen. You’ve met the prince, I added, he’s a sort of roving ambassador, a consultant to Krupp, the armaments king. Oh yes, I remember him now, Markus replied.

I continued to explain: My mother and Arabella went to school in England together. Roedean near Brighton. She was born Lady Arabella Cunningham. She’s the daughter of the Earl of Langley from Yorkshire. They stayed close after leaving Roedean, I finished.

Your mother is English, I keep forgetting that, Markus said. She comes from London, Anita reminded him. I
know,
he replied, peered at me in the dim light of the taxi. You lived in London a lot. Pity you didn’t stay there permanently, he murmured sympathetically.

It is a pity, I replied. I wondered why we hadn’t. I knew that answer. Frequently my father conducted the Berlin Philharmonic Orchestra. Whenever they wanted him for a series of concerts he went back. He was a brilliant musician. Some people said he would be appointed permanent conductor one day. Not now, I thought, and shrank down into my coat, fear taking hold. Shivers ran through me. I wondered where he was at this moment. My lovely father. Dirk Landau. Who loved us all so much. Tall, fair of coloring, gentle. A good man. A man who wrongly believed Jews were safe in the Fatherland.

I snapped my eyes shut. Swallowed hard. I tried to hang on to my equilibrium. I must be brave. I must get back to Arabella. At the Schloss in the forest. I had just spent the weekend with them. I would be safe there. And they would help to find my parents. If anyone could do that it was Prince Rudolph Kurt von Wittingen. A great aristocrat. A well-connected man, my mother always said.

Markus asked, Isn’t she a princess? Yes, I answered. Irina’s a Romanov. Her mother Princess Natalie was a cousin of the late tsar.

Nodding, Markus said, Nicholas. Assassinated in the Russian Revolution. In 1917. I nodded back. That’s when they left Russia, I answered. They roamed around Europe. Refugees. With nothing. They settled in Berlin. Ten years ago. Recently Princess Natalie married. Her husband is a Prussian baron. Now they have a home at last. On the Lützowufer.