Letter from a Stranger (43 page)

I jumped up at the sound of knocking. Ran to the door. Opened it. Greeted Dieter. Hugged him. Led him into our little abode. A moment later Irina joined us. She embraced him. She said, I have a solution. We must persuade Arabella to return to Zurich. She has the little house there. What better place? The children will be safe. They’ll continue their education. She won’t go, I said. Dieter agreed. We must be clever about it, Irina said. Point out the disadvantages of Berlin. The advantages of Switzerland. We must promise her that if we hear anything about Kurt we will inform her. Immediately.

Dieter was thoughtful. He said, yes. We must appeal to her love for her children. Diana and Christian cannot live here. There’s nothing for them. Only a heap of rubble.

I wasn’t persuaded. But I agreed to help them. I pointed out that she would go to the Schloss. Not possible, Dieter exclaimed. The Mark is now in the Russian zone. It’s dangerous. I’ll tell her. Irina got up, went to make coffee. Dieter said in a low voice, I think Arabella is deranged. I went to see her again the other day. She was incoherent. Her eyes looked glazed. I am worried. He went on. They have a house in Munich. The old princess does. I nodded. Perhaps she’ll go there, I suggested. How will she get from here to Munich? Dieter asked, shook his head. Germany is full of refugees on the move. Zurich is simpler. He was right. I told him so.

Irina brought us coffee and Dieter instantly changed the subject. He said, I have a lovely offer. For the two of you. He smiled. Irina asked, What do you mean? General Barlett-Smith, our friendly Bart, would like you both to work for him. At a conference. He’s holding it next week. A meeting with Russians and Germans. We were both taken aback. I said, Doing what? Dieter answered, Listening, assessing, making notes. Later giving him your opinions. Does he want us to be interpreters? Irina asked. She was puzzled.

Dieter said, Not exactly. He’s going to have professional interpreters. Who speak German, and Russian. And obviously English. What he needs are some honest answers. You have both lived here. Before the war. During the war. Now, in its aftermath. Bart says he trusts you to convey something to him. What the Russians and Germans are
really
saying. What they
really
mean. Translations by the professionals won’t be the last word for him.

He’s very smart, Irina said. So much can be lost in translation. What is the conference about? Do you know? I do, Dieter answered. It’s about the rebuilding of Berlin. He laughed unexpectedly. You can still be
Trümmerfrauen
. But in a different way. We both laughed with him. We knew he disapproved of us chipping at the bricks.

A short while later we left our hole in the ground. Walked with Dieter to the Tiergartenstrasse. Took the train to Charlottenburg. Arabella was coming to lunch at Dieter’s house. When we were almost there, Dieter said, What shall I tell Bart? I glanced at Irina. She nodded, said, It will be interesting. I agreed with her. I must do it, I announced. He is arranging for my British passport. He’s been so nice. He has, Dieter said. You owe him a favor. There was a miraculous change in Arabella. She was her old self. Greeted us lovingly when she arrived. Laughed when she saw us wearing her old summer clothes. From the 1930s. We chatted. Drank a glass of wine. Louise drew Dieter to one side. I did not hear what they said. But he was smiling. When he joined us. The lunch was a success. Louise had managed to procure two chickens. From the black market in the Tiergarten. Food was still short. Everyone resorted to the Tiergarten. It was very active. Food and other items were always on sale. For the right price.

When we were having coffee Irina asked Arabella about her plans. She said she wasn’t sure what to do. Whether to stay in Berlin or not. She seemed to be looking to us for advice. Gently, in a loving way, we told her she must return to Zurich. This was the best plan. For her children. Unexpectedly she agreed. She told us she had been to the Tiergartenstrasse and the Lützowufer. Had been horrified to find their house gone. And by the damage. The wasteland which Berlin had become. It appalled her. No one can exist here, she said. Irina and I agreed with her. Reminded her about our hole in the ground. How uncomfortable it was.

Later that afternoon she hugged us both. Then wept. She whispered sadly, I know Kurt is dead. He must have been killed. In the last-ditch fighting. I am sorry about last week. My behavior. I was demented. Clutching at straws. We comforted her. Told her how much we cared about her.

Dieter walked us to the train station in Charlottenburg. Waited with us. When the Berlin train came chugging in, he said, So I’ll tell the general you’ll work for him? Yes, I said. And please ask him when we start. I believe the conference begins on Wednesday, Dieter said. Which Wednesday? Irina asked. This Wednesday, he replied. We were both flabbergasted. We nodded our agreement. He added, You will be paid.

And so began our little adventure. That is what Irina called it. We had to rush to get our clothes in order. We splurged. Bought shampoo. At the black market in the Tiergarten. And a lipstick each. On Wednesday morning we set off for Charlottenburg. And the conference. The aide to General Barlett-Smith, Captain Walter Frost, greeted us. He had been at Dieter’s luncheon. He took us to see the general. Bart was warm, welcoming. Then he explained why he needed us. What he wanted us to do. Once Bart had briefed us Captain Frost came back. He brought us passes, identification badges, notebooks, and pencils. He took us to the conference room. On the way he showed us where all the facilities were. Explained that we could eat at the canteen. He took us into the conference room. Showed us to our given seats. And disappeared. He’s dropped us in the deep end, I said. Irina laughed.

We worked hard. We listened carefully. Made detailed notes. Our assessments. I was concentrating on the German officers. Irina on the Russians. At night we wrote a report for Bart. Gave it to Captain Frost the next morning. Every other day we met with the general. To discuss our reports. We met Peter Hardwicke the first day we started. The canteen was full when he arrived. There were only two seats left. At our table. He asked if he could join us. I said, please do. Irina simply nodded, smiled at him.

He was nice-looking, polite. Possessed a quiet charm. We both liked him at once. He was a captain in the army. He was in the Administration Department of the British Military Police. We realized how impressed he was, when we said we worked for the general. That first day he made us laugh. Kept us entertained. He asked lots of questions about Berlin. We answered. A few days later he asked to join us for lunch again. He also invited us out on the town. That was the way he put it. We had to educate him about the town. We explained there wasn’t one.

One night, when we were planning our clothes for the next day, Irina suddenly turned to me. Her face was serious. Peter likes you a lot, she said. I like him, I murmured. I know you do. But he has really fallen for you, Gabriele. I began to laugh. Don’t be silly, I answered. And laughed again.

BERLIN

DECEMBER 5, 1945

I shall be leaving Berlin in a few days. My passport and all my papers are now in my hands. In some ways I feel sad to leave. Mostly because of Irina. She has looked after me for the last eight years. We’ve hardly been apart. We braved the storm of war together. I loved her. There was no one I admired more. But I know I must go. I need to be with Aunt Beryl and Uncle Jock. And before I leave I must return one more time to the International Red Cross. Visit all the other agencies. I must look at the lists again. The long lists of names of those who died in the concentration camps.

When I arrived at the temporary building for the International Red Cross I hurried inside. I found the woman I had dealt with before. She nodded. Her eyes were kind. I did not know her name. She handed me the new lists. These came in yesterday, she said in a neutral voice. She was an American. I thanked her. Took them from her. Hurried toward a corner. To be alone. I looked at the Ravensbrück list first.

My eyes scanned the page marked with a capital
L.
My heart clenched. I saw it at once. Her name.
Landau: Stella Elizabeth.
And underneath,
Landau: Erika Beryl.
Mummy, Erika, my heart cried. My mother was dead. My little sister was dead. No, no, no. I heard a terrible scream in my head. The tears fell out of my eyes. Splashed onto the paper. My hands were shaking. My legs felt weak. I was trembling all over. I found the Auschwitz list. Looked for my father’s name. It was there. Just as I had thought it would be.
Landau, Dirk.
There it was in black and white. My legs wouldn’t hold me. I slid down onto the floor. Clutching the lists, tears spilling down my cheeks. Splattering the paper. I would never see them again. I would never hear their voices … never, never, never … that word reverberated in my head. Papa, Papa, I will always love you. Mummy, Erika, I will never forget … never … never … never.…

I felt a hand on my arm. I opened my eyes. Looked up. The woman who had helped me was kneeling down next to me. On the floor. Her eyes were full of sadness and compassion. Her face kind. Can I get you anything? she asked. I shook my head. In my mind I silently shrieked. Yes! Yes! Yes! Get me my mother. Get me my sister. Get me my father.

The woman stood up. Came back a moment later. Gave me a clean handkerchief. To wipe my tears. I inclined my head. I could not speak. Silently I handed her the lists of the names of those who had been
murdered in the death camps.

LONDON

DECEMBER 8, 1945

I have come back to this welcoming house. Full of love and warmth. I am here in Aunt Beryl’s arms. I am here with my mother’s younger sister. The closest I can ever be to my mother again. Lovely Aunt Beryl. She is calm, kind, loving. Uncle Jock is a quiet man. Compassion and understanding are written on his face. They take me up to my room. Allow me to be alone … to think, to rest, to grieve. And slowly the memories are coming back.… I hear Papa’s violin. His music echoes in my head. Mozart. Rachmaninoff. Liszt. Schubert. I hear my mother’s lilting voice, her fine soprano. They are here with me now.
I can see their faces.
Erika with her golden curls and shining green eyes. My handsome, elegant father standing by her side … and Mummy next to him. Her pale blond hair framing her face … a golden halo, full of light.

Now I know they will never leave me. There is no such thing as death in my lexicon. As long as I’m alive they will live on in me. And they will be with me all the days of my life. And even after that.

*   *   *

Justine sat back in the chair. She still held the book in her hands. Her face was damp. More tears had fallen at the end. A deep sigh escaped her. She was glad her Gran had written this memoir … fragments of her life, the life she had lived long ago. And had had the courage to do so. She understood how painful it must have been for Gabri to dig deep into the past, into her memories. Into her soul.

As she was about to close the book she saw a small slip of paper attached to the endpaper at the back. It was stuck down with a piece of tape. There was something written on it, in her grandmother’s handwriting. She peered at it, read:

Dear Justine. In the safe at the end of my walk-in closet you will find a black leather envelope briefcase. I think you will be interested in the contents. Here’s the number for the safe: 17-95-9911. Gran

Justine put the book down, took the slip of paper, and went to her grandmother’s bedroom. Within minutes she had opened the safe, found the briefcase, and brought it back to her own room.

Opening it, she pulled out an envelope. Pale blue paper. Green ink. Faded slightly.
Birth Certificates
had been written on it. She looked inside. There was a copy of her grandmother’s birth certificate. And of two others as well. One was her great-aunt Beryl’s, the other one her great-grandmother’s …
Stella Goldsmith,
it read.

She sat holding them for a moment. Then put them down. In the briefcase there was a black notebook. Justine looked inside. She quickly read some of the pages. And immediately understood. This had belonged to Great-Aunt Beryl, and it listed all of the money she had given to Jewish charities over the years. Hundreds of thousands of pounds.

Placing this with the birth certificates, she pulled out a packet of clear plastic folders, wondering what they were. A label had
BERYL GOLDSMITH M
c
GREGOR
on it. As she shuffled them she realized they contained a collection of newspaper clippings. One slipped out of her hand, fell to the floor. She bent down to pick it up. And glanced at the headline as she did.

GENOCIDE

Justine’s eyes widened, and horror swept over her as she stared at the headline, then dropped her eyes to the photographs. “Oh my God!” she cried out loud. She was stunned by the graphic pictures of the most unspeakable evil, depravity, and inhumanity. Naked people, living skeletons, emaciated, hairless, and hollow-eyed. Piled on top of each other. Thousands. And thousands. She could not bear to look. Turning her head, she noticed the date on top of the front page of the
Daily Express.
Suddenly her eyes blurred with tears and all she could actually read was May 1945.

Forty-nine

“Why did you come back early, Gran?” Justine asked, looking at Gabriele intently. “I hope you were able to get all that work finished. That there’s no problem with your clients.”

“We did, and the clients are happy. And I came back because I was worried about you. Every time we spoke on the phone you were in tears. I began to think I’d done the wrong thing, writing those fragments, the bits and pieces of my life. And I certainly wished I hadn’t given the book to you.”