Letter from a Stranger (45 page)

“I think she might. Although she’s never been one for traveling. I think that’s partly because she fled here when she was a girl, found refuge here. She feels comfortable in Istanbul, safe. She doesn’t really want to leave here.”

He nodded, looked across at Justine and Anita, who were chatting to Mehmet, then turned to Gabriele. “I love her very much, that girl of yours, Gabri.”

Gabriele’s eyes were moist as she took hold of his hand and squeezed it. “I know.” There was a silence, and then Gabri said in a low voice, “You’ve read it, haven’t you, my little book of bits and pieces?”

“I have, yes. Justine said I must. She was also quite positive you wouldn’t be angry. I hope you’re not, that you don’t mind.”

“Of course I don’t. My goodness, you’ve been like a grandson to me over the years. Especially the wilderness years when I was here all alone, when Justine and Richard were cut off from me. I don’t know what I would have done without you, Michael. And you have every right to read it. Because of our closeness, the love I have for you.”

“Which is reciprocated tenfold. Your courage and steadfastness, your strength and discipline amaze me. And I want you to know there were moments when I wept. And it takes a lot to move me to tears.”

She stared at him for a moment, and then she murmured, “Oh yes, the hard-bitten Secret Service agent, that’s you.”

“There are moments when your pithiness does you proud. I might be tough, but hard-bitten? I’m not so sure about that.” He shrugged. “But perhaps I am in certain circumstances.”

Justine and Anita joined them around the coffee table in front of the fireplace, and Mehmet and Zeynep served tea and nursery sandwiches with a flourish.

Justine sipped her lemon tea, focused her gaze on Anita, said, “Now that I know a lot about the past from Gran, I’d like to hear something from you, Anita. I have a question.”

“And what’s that?” Anita, her head on one side, gazed at Justine, thinking what a lovely young woman she was.

Justine said, “I’d love to know how you found Gran? After the end of the war, I mean?”

Anita said eagerly, “I was determined to go and look for her. I decided that first I’d better go back to Berlin. I didn’t really relish it. But I needed to find my Gabri, my best friend. So in 1946, when I was twenty-three, I went to Berlin. Naturally I couldn’t find her. Or anyone remotely connected to her. Eight years had passed. So I knew she must have gone to London to her aunt and Jock. I returned to Istanbul somewhat disappointed. But I soon made a trip to London several months later. And
voilà
! I found her.”

“But did you know where to go?” Justine asked, looking from her grandmother to Anita.

“Yes. I have an excellent memory. I remembered that Gabri’s aunt Beryl and uncle Jock lived near a street named after an English king.
Charles
Street. Their house was just round the corner. The number had gone out of my head. But that didn’t matter because I knew I would easily recognize the house. It was on Chesterfield Hill and the corner of Charles. I rang the doorbell and guess who answered the door?”

“My grandmother.”

“No, no, Justine, your great-aunt Beryl,” Anita said. “I’d stayed with her once, when I’d visited London with Gabri and her mother. Naturally she recognized me, welcomed me like a long-lost friend. Which I was, in a way. When Gabri came home from the Royal College of Art later that afternoon, she was overjoyed to see me. And we just picked up our friendship where we’d left off all those years ago.”

“Now wasn’t that lucky you knew where to go,” Justine said, and winked at Anita.

“Oh yes, I know. I forgot to put the address on the back of the envelope,” Anita murmured, and had the good grace to laugh. “You’ll never let me forget that, will you?”

*   *   *

Justine and Michael walked through the gardens, went to sit on the seat facing the Bosphorus. Their seat. She had become rather quiet toward the end of tea, and had remained silent as they had strolled along the path.

“What’s wrong?” Michael asked, stretching an arm along the back of the seat, peering at her.

She did not say anything for a moment, and then finally spoke. “I’m tormented by the fact that I have trouble reading those old press clippings of Great-Auntie Beryl’s. I always believed I was strong. Tough. I was a journalist, for heaven’s sake, Michael. Yet I find them hard to face. And I feel like such a sissy.”

Michael put his arm around her shoulders, pulled her closer, held her in his arms protectively.

“Listen to me, Justine. Everyone has trouble reading about the Holocaust, the death camps, the astronomical number of people killed. Imagine this. Battle-hardened troops of the Allied armies, American, British, and French, were filled with shock and overwhelming disgust when they discovered those camps in April and May of 1945. They simply couldn’t believe what they were seeing … walking skeletons who staggered to meet them, arms outstretched as if to their saviors, held upright only by their will to live, their will to defy the Nazis. The soldiers were aghast, filled with fury. What happened in Nazi Germany was history’s most diabolical mass murder. Remember, six million people were killed.”

“I know,” she whispered. “I’ve read all the names of the camps.
So many.
Unbelievable, Michael. I couldn’t read on. I cried for hours. So what kind of person am I if I can’t
read
about the camps when my great-grandparents had to live there, were
murdered
there?”

“I know, darling, I know. But please don’t feel like a sissy, not brave, Justine. Don’t chastise yourself. I’m a historian and even I have trouble with those horrendous images and the fearful details. It’s mind-boggling. Listen, here’s another example for you. General George S. Patton, one of the U.S. Army’s most hard-bitten officers, was horror-struck after he had walked through the camp at Ohrdruf, had seen the death houses, his face was wet with tears and he was uncontrollably ill afterward. Eisenhower, the Supreme Commander in Europe during the Second World War, was ashen-faced, had clenched his teeth when he walked through an entire camp near Gotha. It was Ike who insisted that Washington and London send editors and legislators to view the horrors he had seen. To report on them. Men were filled with such revulsion and shock, they were sick. Disgusted, furious. You’re not alone in your reaction.”

She wiped her tears away with her fingertips, and clung to Michael. After a while he was able to calm her. As he held her in his arms, he thought, there is nothing cynical about her. She is pure, open-minded, without hatred, and has an understanding heart.

He said, after a short while, “Gabri knows you gave the book to me, that I’ve read it.”

“Was she angry?”

“No, not at all. I was wondering, do you think she’ll allow Anita to read it?”

“Perhaps. Yes, I don’t see why not. They are so bonded to each other … from childhood. And now they’re eighty, or almost.”

“I shall ask Gabri,” Michael said.

*   *   *

A little later Justine went to have a rest, but she found she couldn’t sleep. A thought had occurred to her when she was sitting in the garden with Michael. And now she swung her legs off the bed, put on her robe, went out into the corridor. She walked down to her grandmother’s room, knocked on the door.

“Come in, darling,” Gabriele called.

“How did you know it was me?” Justine asked as she went into the bedroom.

“Well, I doubt that Ayce would be knocking on my door at this hour. I’m sure she’s having a rest before preparing dinner.”

“Oh Gran, you’ve started packing. It’s exciting, isn’t it? You’re coming to Indian Ridge. Richard will be thrilled.”

Gabriele nodded. “It is.… And as you can see I’m very anxious to get there! This case is already half full.” She smiled at Justine.

Sitting down in a chair, Justine said, “Listen, I’ve been thinking about something. To be exact, Mom. It occurred to me that if you’d allow me I’d like to lend her your
Fragments
book. I think her attitude toward you would be very different, once she’d read it. I know she’s been angry, that she created the estrangement out of discontent and greed. But this memoir would move anyone to tears. It could be a bridge. Do you want to give it a try?”

Gabriele stood holding a dress, gaping at Justine. Her face had turned deathly white. “I can assure you she won’t want to read it.”

“But you don’t really know that, Gran. And—”

“Oh, but I
do
know it!” Gabriele exclaimed, her voice rising. “I told you, when you first arrived in Istanbul, that Deborah broke into my writing case when she was in London ten years ago. I also explained that she had read certain documents, and had then gone into an absolute fury. She was hysterical, out of control.”

“Yes, you did tell me that. You mentioned she saw your old marriage certificate to Trent. But what else did she see? You never said, Gran.”

“She saw the birth certificates belonging to my mother, Aunt Beryl, and me. She saw Aunt Beryl’s black notebook listing her donations to Jewish charities. Uncle Jock was a Scotsman, of course. But his mother was Jewish and his notebook listing his charitable donations was there as well. And there were a few other things which obviously disturbed her in that writing case, including Auntie Beryl’s carefully preserved clippings about the camps.”

Justine stared at her grandmother, saw that her hands holding the dress were now shaking uncontrollably. And she was ashen-faced.

“Gran, Gran, whatever’s wrong? What is it?”

“Deborah hates me because I’m
Jewish.
That is why she went into a tailspin a decade ago. When she read the birth certificates, saw Beryl’s donations in the book, and other papers, she was consumed with fury. Your mother is anti-Semitic, Justine. A bigoted, ignorant anti-Semite.”

“Didn’t she know you were Jewish?”

“No. I had never told anyone I was. If I had, I would have had to explain about my past. My frightening childhood in Nazi Germany. I couldn’t live through that again.
You know this.
I’ve explained I can’t dredge things up. I can’t relive the pain. I didn’t tell anyone because I don’t want to be constantly talking about the past, about myself, my life of long ago. And that’s the only reason I keep quiet. Deborah accused me of lying to her, but I never did. I never told Peter because deep down inside myself I knew there was enormous bigotry in him. And his mother was a snob, a social climber, bigoted and anti-Semitic. She was full of racial superiority. And I suppose that’s where Deborah gets it from. It was bred in the bone. They brainwashed her.”

“Oh no, Gran, no! This is terrible.” Justine was trembling herself, and pale as a ghost.

“It’s the truth. And now you know the real reason for the estrangement,” Gabriele said. “She broke up the family. Denied me access to you and Richard. Took you away from me because I’m Jewish. And there’s another thing.… You knew as a little girl that she hated Uncle Trent. And that was because he was also Jewish. So no, she can’t read the book. Because it will only inflame her more. And besides, it’s none of her business. I am who I am and to hell with her.”

Justine ran to Gabriele, put her arms around her. “Gran, don’t be upset about her. She’s not worth it. And you’ve got us. Richard and me, and Michael. And we do love you. We’re here for you.”

Uncharacteristically, Gabriele began to sob. Justine held her close, endeavoring to calm her, soothing her for a long time. And her fury with her mother mounted. She knew that she would never forgive her for the pain she had caused Gabriele, who had only done her good.

Fifty-one

Michael stood staring at himself in the bathroom mirror, thinking he didn’t look bad for thirty-nine. Well, almost. His birthday was next month. His face was much less tense these days; he had lost that tautness around the eyes that had been a permanent fixture when he was in the Secret Service. But that was a long time ago.

Nonetheless he was still tough, contained, controlled, disciplined, totally focused, and never displayed emotion in public. He was well aware that his training at the academy in Washington would remain with him for the rest of his life. It was part of him now, second nature.

After straightening the collar of his white sport shirt he turned away from the mirror, went into his bedroom, glancing at his watch as he did. He sat down in a chair thinking about Justine, and what to do about her. When they had first met his initial reaction to her had surprised him. And he was glad he had gone to London at the beginning of the week. It had given him a chance to think, to consider the situation, to look at everything objectively.

They were going back to New York early next week. Gabriele very much wanted to be reunited with Richard, and to meet her great-grandchild, Daisy. Anita hadn’t liked the idea of being left behind, and so she had made up her mind to go with them.

What would happen to his relationship with Justine when they got there? Would they continue to see each other, living in their own places? Or would they move in together? He had to travel. She had decided to go ahead with the documentary about Istanbul. What would their lives be like?

Suddenly things seemed to be up in the air. He walked over to the window, looked out at the garden, his mind racing. He had never felt so vulnerable before. It was because of her, this girl he had heard about for years, this girl he had fallen for. Fallen hard.

A
coup de foudre,
the French so aptly called it. Lightning striking. But what happened when the lightning stopped? Would it rain? Would the rain wash everything away?

Michael opened a drawer in the chest, took out various items and put them in his trouser pockets, grabbed his phone. There was no way out of this. He would have to talk to her. But first he had a phone call to make.

Once outside Michael walked down to the jetty, sat on a step at the edge of the water. He dialed Charlie in Gloucestershire. A moment later his client was saying, “Hi, Michael, what’s up?”

“Not much. I just wanted to let you know I’m going back to New York next week. I wondered if I should come to London for a day?”