Legacy of Silence

by Belva Plain

  HIGH PRAISE FOR

  BELVA PLAIN

  AND

  LEGACY OF SILENCE

  “BELVA PLAIN WRITES WITH AUTHORITY AND INTEGRITY.”

  —San Francisco Chronicle

  “Plain follows the long road to the sisters’ reconciliation through several generations, demonstrating, along the way, her talent for effortlessly moving a plot along, and illuminating the complex bonds of love, resentment, and need that shape and define families.”

  —Kirkus Reviews

  “BELVA PLAIN IS IN A CLASS BY HERSELF.”

  —The New York Times

  “[PLAIN] OFFERS … COMPELLING STORIES ABOUT WOMEN COPING WITH LIFE’S CRISES.”

  —People

  “A SUPERB STORYTELLER … Mrs. Plain’s novels are good stories well told.”

  —The Star-Ledger (Newark, NJ.)

  “Ms. Plain has the ability to bring characters as real as your neighbors into your heart.”

  —St. Clair County Courier (Mo.)

  BOOKS BY BELVA PLAIN

  LOOKING BACK

  AFTER THE FIRE

  FORTUNE’S HAND

  LEGACY OF SILENCE

  HOMECOMING

  SECRECY

  PROMISES

  THE CAROUSEL

  DAYBREAK

  WHISPERS

  TREASURES

  HARVEST

  BLESSINGS

  TAPESTRY

  THE GOLDEN CUP

  CRESCENT CITY

  EDEN BURNING

  RANDOM WINDS

  EVERGREEN

  Published by

  Dell Publishing

  a division of

  Random House, Inc.

  1540 Broadway

  New York, New York 10036

  This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 1998 by Bar-Nan Creations, Inc.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the Publisher, except where permitted by law. For information address: Delacorte Press, New York, New York.

  The trademark Dell® is registered in the U.S. Patent and Trademark Office.

  eISBN: 978-0-307-80539-3

  Reprinted by arrangement with Delacorte Press

  v3.1

  Contents

  Cover

  Other Books by this Author

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Prologue

  Part One: 1938 Caroline

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Part Two: 1959 Eve

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Part Three: 1993 Jane

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  PROLOGUE

  My mother’s lover said, “How beautiful you are! You look like Rebecca at the well.”

  Did I dream that, she asked herself. My mother, Caroline, died before I was old enough to know her. And Eve almost never talked about Caroline’s lover. More likely, as I think back, it was Lore who told it to me.

  She told me how alike they were, Eve and Caroline, with their black exotic eyes, and only twenty years between them, so that although they were mother and daughter, they were often thought to be sisters.

  The worlds in which they began their lives could not have been farther apart. One was a stolid, dependable town near the shores of Lake Erie, while the other was Europe, bleeding its way toward war. In the end, these worlds with their secrets came together, woven into a coat of many colors, as my mother’s lover might also have said.

  PART ONE

  1938

  CAROLINE

  ONE

  The house, built of creamy stone, was square and substantial, made, as in all of Berlin’s prosperous suburbs, to endure forever. Its tall, narrow windows overlooked in various directions a sloping park across the avenue, elms, horse chestnuts, houses, hedges, and gardens; in its own garden, at the center, a rose bed had a sundial on a marble pedestal.

  Here Caroline, while her poodle, Peter, lay under her chair, had often used to read or do her lessons. Now though, in 1938, there were to be no more lessons and no more examinations, for the university was closed to her, and her sole present problem was simply to decide what skill would be most practical for an emigrant. She was eighteen, but she felt much older, and she was much older because people age in times of fear and danger.

  “For you, it’s easy,” said her father, who was a doctor. “You can tutor, in English or French. There’s always a demand. But for me, all those licensing examinations in another language! And at my age.”

  The vision of their radical departure from everything they had known, everything that had been normal, house, friends, and their very language, was sometimes too hard to bear, especially on a shimmering, mild afternoon. She stood up, closed her book, fastened Peter’s leash onto his collar, and crossed the avenue to the park.

  Dry leaves, amber and faded red, lay on the walk. A windstorm earlier in the week had piled heaps of them beneath the trees, and into these Peter leaped and scrabbled with great yelps of joy. She stood and watched the scene: a girl and a dog in sunlight; change the girl’s costume and she could be a subject for Vermeer, who had painted in the seventeenth century, or for any painter in any century. It was all so natural, she thought again. And it was just this naturalness that made the heart ache. How was it possible, while so many terrible, unbelievable things were happening every day, perhaps at this moment, somewhere in this city? Somewhere.

  “That’s a fine poodle you have.”

  She had not heard anyone approach. He was a young man holding a German pointer on a leash.

  “Don’t worry. Siggy’s gentle. He doesn’t fight with other dogs.”

  “Peter doesn’t, either.”

  Indeed, the two dogs had begun to sniff at each other, entangling the leashes.

  “Funny creatures,” the young man said. “And yet some of us can’t do without them.”

  “That’s true. We’ve had Peter for three years. He’s Peter the Second. We got him after the first one died.”

  “I like his natural haircut. I always think there’s something pathetic about poodles who are decked out like clowns.”

  “Oh, I agree.”

  People said that the best way to start a flirtation—although she had never experienced anything like a flirtation—was to go walking with a charming child or a dog. In ordinary circumstances, this would have been a delightful little adventure. He was a very attractive person, well built, well spoken, with fine features, and only a few years older than she. But the circumstances were not ordinary. All this went through Caroline’s mind.

  “Were you planning to walk farther?” he asked.

  Yes, she had been. Usually, she went as far as the pond, circled it, and started home. Sometimes she even went twice around the pond.

  “Well then, do you mind if we go together?”

  “Not at all.”

  She had poise. She was known to have it. So no one could have guessed at her sudden excitement. H
e had such a beautiful face! His light eyes, under dark brows, were friendly, while his mouth was serious, as a man’s mouth ought to be. Yet she was at the same time aware that she was being foolish, schoolgirlish and absurd.

  “Walter Litzhauser,” he said with a bow and extended hand.

  “Caroline Hartzinger,” she answered, shaking the hand. And they walked on with the dogs on either side.

  “This dog-walking is a new experience for me. My parents are away and I’ve been made responsible to take Siggy out for his exercise. I usually don’t have much time at home. I’m at the university.”

  “I take Peter every day. He’s my own dog. He lives in my room.”

  There seemed, then, nothing to say. She was thinking how odd it was that human beings, no matter how casually met, have to keep talking in order not to appear rude or indifferent.

  “May I ask,” he inquired, “are you studying for the university, or are you perhaps already there? I am not very good at judging how old people are, so forgive me if I—”

  So he, too, was self-conscious. And she answered quietly, “I have not yet decided whether I want to go or not.”

  There was, after all, no reason why she should tell the truth to this stranger. We are going to leave the country.

  He nodded. “Yes, it is hard to know what to do with one’s life. I have only a few more months before I’ll be finished with my courses. Then I’ll be at a crossroads. What I want is to go on further in art history and eventually become a curator, but my father wants me to enter his firm.” He made a small grimace. “They manufacture ball bearings.”

  “You have quite a problem,” she said ruefully.

  “I do.” He picked up a pinecone and threw it for the dog to retrieve. “Well, on a more pleasant note, do you go to the opera? The Ring Cycle starts again soon.”

  “Yes, it’s wonderful, isn’t it?” She could have explained, We are not allowed to go. That is, my mother is not allowed because she is Jewish, and of course my father would never go anywhere without her.

  But she did not say so. What use would it be?

  So they walked, managing all the while to produce more desultory conversation until they had made the circuit back to the starting point.

  “I live here,” Caroline said, indicating the house across the avenue.

  “Oh, not far from me. I’m down that way, left, only five minutes’ walk. Shall we meet again tomorrow? My parents will not relieve me of Siggy until next week.”

  “Perhaps. I’m not sure,” she answered.

  Her mood had reverted to the somber gray that had enveloped her before their walk. Unready just yet to enter the house and its inevitable daily anxieties, she sat down again in the garden. And those same anxieties came flooding.… She had been twelve years old in 1933, when the Party took power with its red banners flying, its thousands cheering and thousands marching. Always the endless marching. Suddenly everything was organized: children’s groups, student groups, veterans’ groups, everyone, even the physicians—except her father.

  Because of Mama, he had been removed from the state medical plan and had lost his post as lecturer in the medical college. Uncomplaining, he continued to serve whoever among his old patients still wanted to consult him. Often he took payment in kind: a carpenter replaced a door, or a plumber repaired the pipes. Often he took no payment at all, so that they were rapidly using up their savings.

  Mama said that his profession was one of the two things that kept him from leaving the country. The other was his conviction, with which she did not agree at all, that this regime could not last. Only after Crystal Night, two weeks ago, had he lost that hope. Mass arrests of the innocent, thugs rampaging through the streets while the police stood watching, fires, broken glass and broken heads, weeping women and children, all had finally put an end to his now admittedly foolish hope.

  So they were leaving. Or, to be exact, trying to leave. It was not such a simple matter. It was, in fact, a very complicated matter of quotas and transit visas, of affidavits and money.

  “What are you doing out there with your daydreams?” called Lore, coming down the rear steps.

  “You’re off early today.”

  “I switched with someone. I had to go to the dentist. My aching teeth, as usual.”

  She was still in hospital white with the Red Cross insignia. Her walk looked confident. Her homely, wide face was strong. She knew what she was about. And Caroline had a sudden thought: If I were sick, I would want Lore to take care of me.

  “I saw you from the kitchen window. Since you’re doing nothing else, anyway, you might as well help me peel these leftover vegetables for soup. It’s a shame to waste.”

  This was an oblique reference to Mama, of whom Lore was otherwise fond. But Mama was a poor cook. Mama played the piano most beautifully and read good books. Ever since the servants had been dismissed, she had, with Caroline’s help, been preparing the meals and doing her best. Nevertheless, it was always a relief when Lore was home taking charge.

  “Cut the carrots finer, Caroline.”

  The sun was almost as warm as in spring, a freakish comfort with Christmas only a month away. Basking in it, they sat silently, with a sense of being talked out. The talk, the subjects, were always the same, either the anxious unknowable future or the wistful past.

  Lore spoke suddenly. “I remember every single detail of my first day in this house. You were three months old, asleep in the perambulator right here in this garden. I even remember the pink coverlet with the ribbon bow in the center. Like a rosette, it was.”

  Caroline could hardly count the times she had heard this story and all the stories: how one of Father’s patients had told him about an orphaned twelve-year-old niece—such a bright, good child—how the patient could no longer afford to keep her, having eight children of her own and an unemployed husband, and how Father, having himself met the child Lore and been touched by pity, had taken her into their home.

  From her parents, Caroline had heard their side of the story. Lore, at twelve, had been such a cheerful, obedient little girl! She had been so grateful for everything, for good food and clothes, a pretty room of her own, and kind attention. She had been a hardworking student. At nursing school she had done very well. Indeed, she did everything very well.

  More than that, she was the elder daughter of the family; midway in age between Caroline and her mother, she was the confidante of both.

  “My teeth,” Lore said now. “Look at them crumbling away. I was six years old when the war began in 1914, just in time for scarcity. We never had proper nourishment. No wonder my bones are soft. And then all the men were killed, my father and my two older brothers.” She looked around the yard, and seeing no one there, leaned toward Caroline, whispering, “That’s why I have to get out now before the next war comes.” Then she laughed. “And before all the young men die and I’ll never be able to find a husband.”

  Caroline felt sad for her. Poor Lore! She never went out anywhere except with other women. Nature was very uneven when it handed out eyes or noses or human skeletons, she reflected. Lore was short and large boned; she had scanty dull-brown hair and a large, flat nose with large nostrils. Unfair. Men would not bother to find out how smart and competent and good she was.

  “There. The peas are shelled. I’ve already done the beans, and you have the carrots. Now, with yesterday’s leftover meat, we’ll have a fine soup. There’s nothing like a thick soup and some fresh bread.”

  They went back into the house. Already, though no furniture had been moved, it had begun to feel deserted and temporary. Many of the rooms were never used anymore; the English governess had gone home the year before, and the French one, being Jewish, had left long ago for France. Five-course dinners in the long, formal dining room had given way to simple meals in the breakfast niche. In the glass-walled sunroom one felt too exposed to the bands of roving toughs who sometimes came through the neighborhood. The little library at the back of the house felt safest, and t
here they all huddled in the evening to read or listen to concerts over the radio, or to Mama playing softly on the piano.

  Now, especially since Crystal Night, in their very own house they were afraid.

  “EXCELLENT soup, Lore,” Father said.

  “On Sunday, I’ll be free and I’ll make apple charlotte for you.”

  “There’s nothing like your cherry strudel,” Mama said, sighing. “I remember last summer on Caroline’s birthday, it was good enough for a king’s banquet.”

  So they talked for a while about food, recalling dinners that none of their friends—of those who were left—ever gave anymore. And restaurants to which they never went anymore. They talked about a book that Mama had finished and recommended, or about a surgical case that Lore was tending. Quite obviously, they were trying to skirt the one question that was on all their minds.

  Lore, whenever she did private duty nursing, was sure to bring back a few tidbits of interesting gossip, most of it harmless stuff about forbidden romances. Sometimes she had more than gossip to relate. And then, inevitably, they would return to what was foremost in their minds.

  “Yes,” she said now, addressing Father. “They really are building that airport you heard about. A man who was visiting my patient this afternoon is working on it. But I only heard a bit because someone shut him up.”

  “What difference?” Father said glumly. “We all know what’s coming.”

  “You had better hurry,” Lore warned, as always.

  “What are you talking about? Visas for England are impossible. And as for America, it’s wait your turn on the quota. Hurry up and wait. Wait, especially for poor Eva, who was born in Poland and has a filled-up quota. Please don’t tell me we should have applied a long time ago because I already know it.”

  “The world is closed,” Mama murmured.