Sisterland

by Linda Newbery

  There were four chairs, which she arranged in a square; then she went indoors to find out what to do next. ‘Do you think four chairs is enough?’ she asked the Hilly girl, who for some reason was standing in the doorway next to the boy, instead of helping. ‘Only I can’t remember who’s coming.’

  ‘Heidigran,’ said the girl. ‘We need to ask you something.’

  ‘You ask an awful lot of questions!’ Heidi said, bored with their conversation. Shouldn’t the others be here by now?

  ‘It’s important, though. Are you sure Rachel’s your sister?’

  Heidi laughed. ‘Do you think I don’t know who my own sister is?’

  ‘Gran – what happened to her? Did she come to England as well?’

  ‘No. She stayed behind with Mutti and Vati. Then she went to France, but that was no good. She ended up in that place, you know—’

  ‘What place?’

  ‘You know. In another country. Where hundreds of them went and never came back. On the trains. Oz – oz – no, ow—’

  ‘Do you mean Auschwitz?’ said the boy, who seemed rather good at guessing what she wanted to say.

  ‘Yes, that’s it!’ she said, pleased.

  ‘And your parents?’

  ‘They were taken, too. One of the other places.’ Now Heidi felt her face doing strange things – her mouth screwing up as if she were sucking a lemon, her eyes smarting. She took the photograph out of her cardigan pocket and gazed at it.

  And now everything was happening at once. Feet trod briskly down the stairs and at the same time someone opened the front door with a key. The blonde girl came into the room, Zara, no, Zoë, with a face like a wet weekend as usual. And behind her, from upstairs, came Rose, dressed in a skirt and jacket and smart shoes.

  ‘Oh, Rose dear, you look nice,’ Heidi said sadly. She noticed that everyone seemed to be staring at everyone else. She dropped the photograph on the floor, face-up; the Hilly girl just gazed at it. A telephone rang in the hall. ‘Your mobile, Hilly,’ said Zoë, her voice flat and dull.

  ‘What’s this?’ Rose asked, bending to pick up the photograph.

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Survivor

  A few fragments of diaries, letters and scribbled messages do survive. But in the main, others must bear witness to what was done to the millions who could never tell their own story.

  Martin Gilbert, The Holocaust:

  The Jewish Tragedy

  ‘Hilly? It’s me, Rashid.’

  Hilly walked slowly upstairs, clamping the phone to her ear. ‘Oh – hi.’

  ‘Where are you? OK to talk?’

  ‘Fine, thanks. I’m at home. Only there’s quite a lot going on—’

  ‘Shall I ring back later?’

  ‘No – no, it’s all right.’

  Rashid’s was the voice she had longed to hear for two days, but now she heard the tone of her own: brusque, offhand, not at all the way she wanted to sound. Her headache was intensifying; she’d been stupid not to take the pills as soon as she felt it coming. She hauled herself up to the landing and leaned against the wall. The migraine brought with it a debilitating feebleness, the sense that everything was too much.

  ‘Sure?’ said Rashid. She heard his uncertainty.

  ‘I’ve just got a headache, that’s all.’ It sounded the lamest of excuses. ‘I get them quite badly. Perhaps it’d be better to talk later. I’ll call you back, shall I?’

  ‘OK, but I’m going out about seven,’ Rashid said. ‘Sorry you’re not well – go and look after yourself.’

  Hilly rang off, and stood for a few moments more, flooded with disappointment. She had wanted to say, How are you? What have you been doing? Tell me all about your day! Even, jealously: Where are you going tonight? Who with? She had said none of it – hadn’t managed to sound even mildly interested. Serve her right if he went out and met someone else tonight.

  But it was one problem too many, for the moment. Embarking on the second flight of stairs, she plodded up like a pack pony. She found the pills, and made herself gulp down two, without water; it was too much effort to drag herself all the way downstairs again. As she lay down on the bed, she felt it tilt and lurch in the way it did when grogginess took over her mind and body. She closed her eyes against the painful sunlight, but the inside of her head was no more restful. Patterns played on the inside of her eyelids, thoughts surged like currents, whizzing about her brain, bouncing off each other, clamouring for attention …

  Rachel died in Auschwitz. My relation, my – what is she? – great-aunt? And my great-grandparents. Killed, murdered. I’d have gone too, if I’d been there, we all would, Mum, Heidigran, Zoë, me – I’m part-Jewish, one-quarter of me—

  I knew! Did I? In the concentration camp – the hot sun and the butterflies, the stillness – the photographs – yellow stars and stricken faces – something in the air, something lingering – Only a visitor in the palace of death – yes, but—

  Reuben’s still here, downstairs, and Mum saw the photograph –

  Poor Heidigran, poor Sarah – she lost them all, she lost herself—

  Rashid, I didn’t mean – it’s all too much to explain – too much to take in –

  The tracks – those railway tracks, leading in – the gates looming, slamming shut – ARBEIT MACHT FREI …

  As the pain above her eyes receded to background dullness, and the thoughts blurred and mingled, she was aware of drifting into sleep: letting go, letting herself be taken. She was inside, where she belonged, where she had known she belonged. Her hands were on the bars of the gates, her wrists thin and feeble. Let me out! It’s a mistake – And the guards laughing, jeering: No, you’re staying here, you’ll never get out . Outside, free, in the sunshine, her father walked away, not looking back. Don’t leave me! Her throat was tight, she had to force out the words, making only the thinnest, feeblest sound. It’s a mistake! An awful mistake! But – No, said the guard, lighting a cigarette, there’s no mistake. You’re the one who’s been mistaken—

  Her eyelids flew open: she was lying on her back, staring up at the sloping ceiling. Pain returned with a relentless surge. Someone was coming up the stairs. She groaned, and rolled over onto her side.

  ‘Hilly?’ said Reuben’s voice. ‘Are you OK?’

  ‘No.’ She moved her legs aside to make room for him to sit.

  ‘Poor Hilly. Where does it hurt?’

  ‘My brain.’ She gave a pathetic whimper. Reuben touched her forehead with two fingertips, drawing slow circles – which, somehow, helped.

  ‘What’s happening downstairs?’ she asked him.

  ‘I told them. Your mum picked up the photograph, so I didn’t see what else to do. Your dad’s here now and I told all of them.’

  ‘And now?’

  ‘They’re trying to believe it. Your mum and dad and Zoë. Your gran seemed quite oblivious – she was back in her magazine!’

  ‘I’m trying to believe it. No, I do believe it. But Gran – she’s lied to us, all these years!’

  Reuben nodded. ‘Made up a different version, perhaps. She didn’t like the real one. Maybe, after so long, she believes the alternative version.’

  ‘But all the anti-Jewish things she comes out with! Zoë even calls her a Nazi.’

  ‘Camouflage,’ Reuben said. ‘Could be, couldn’t it? If you spent most of your childhood hearing how Jews are bad, Jews are evil, Jews are dirty, Jews aren’t wanted here, wouldn’t you want to distance yourself from it? And one way of distancing yourself is to be anti-Jewish yourself. Maybe it’s not even pretending, after so long.’

  ‘Mmn.’ Hilly let herself be soothed by Reuben’s voice, his massaging fingers.

  ‘You need time to absorb all this.’

  ‘Time!’ Hilly’s eyes flew open; she gazed at Reuben’s face. ‘I’ve got time! Like the rest of my life – the rest of Gran’s life! But how long is that going to be? When she goes, it’ll be lost – her past, the truth – it’s already half-buried!’

 
‘But the point is,’ said Reuben, ‘that it’s been buried, all these years – even your mum had no idea – and we’re only just beginning to see what’s under the surface.’

  ‘I’ve read books and pamphlets and stuff about Alzheimer’s,’ Hilly said, ‘and they all say more or less the same – people can remember things that happened years and years ago, amazingly clearly, even though they can’t remember what happened yesterday, or five minutes ago – oh!’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You know I told you about Gran having this obsession with checking the front door was locked? Over and over. Bad men’ll come, she said. I thought her house must’ve been burgled or something, and that’s what she was worried about. But when I tried to ask her, she said, “They took my daddy away.” I thought – I thought she was talking about the bombing, you know how people say someone’s gone when they’ve died, or passed away – but of course—’

  Reuben nodded, understanding.

  Hilly shook her head. ‘I can’t take this in. All this past, all this stuff. It used to be history. Now it’s Gran’s history – my family’s history – my history!’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘At school last year,’ Hilly said slowly, ‘we watched a documentary about that conference in Potsdam, the one where Eichmann and the others sat round a table and worked out the Final Solution. You know? They had figures and charts, working out how many Jews would have to be disposed of, how it could be done – and just like everyone else, I thought how awful, only I had no idea – Gran’s parents, then – Mum’s German grandparents, my great-grandparents – they died, didn’t they? – only not in the bombing like I’ve always thought, they—’

  No! her brain jibbed. Don’t make me go there!

  ‘Are you OK?’ said Reuben in concern.

  She took slow, deliberate breaths, trying to repel a wave of nausea. No, it wouldn’t be put off, there was no time to explain. She scrambled to her feet, clamping a hand to her mouth; bolted for the stairs, as the need to throw up demanded her attention. She made it to the bathroom just in time.

  On her knees, retching into the toilet again and again till there was nothing left to heave up, she was aware of Reuben bending over her, holding back her hair, making soothing noises. When she had finished he helped her to her feet, tore off loo roll for her to wipe her mouth, flushed the toilet and put the lid down for her to sit, while she leaned over the sink to brush her teeth.

  ‘God, God, I’m sorry.’ The shock of throwing up had squeezed tears from her eyes, tears of childish self-pity; her toothbrush was shaking in her hand. ‘What a state!’ She ran water to wash her face.

  ‘Don’t worry. Why didn’t you tell me? Come on, let’s get you back to bed.’

  ‘Rachel used to get migraines. Heidigran said. Rachel’s my great-aunt – it runs in the family! I keep thinking of things—’

  ‘Don’t think. You need to sleep.’

  ‘Ever thought of changing your name to Florence?’ Hilly said, allowing him to steady her as they went back upstairs.

  ‘I think we’ve had enough name-changing to be going on with. Lie down, go on, and try to stop thinking about it all.’

  ‘Next time I get one of these, I want you on standby. Will you marry me?’

  ‘Only if I can wear white and have five pink bridesmaids,’ said Reuben. He arranged her pillows, pulled the curtains, fetched her a glass of water. ‘I’d better go now, but I’ll phone you later, OK? And stay home tomorrow if you’re not well.’

  When Reuben left, her attempts to settle were disturbed by one visitor after another. First, her mother, on tiptoe: ‘Oh, love! We never did get you to the doctor, did we? I’m making you an appointment for next week. Don’t worry about anything else – I’m not going to my meeting after all, so you don’t have to come down again if you’d rather sleep.’

  Then, a little later, Zoë: ‘Are you OK? Reuben said you threw up.’ She smiled wryly. ‘You’re not joining the club too, are you?’

  Hilly raised her head. ‘Oh, Zoë, so there’s no change?’

  ‘No such luck. I’ve bought myself one of those pregnancy test kits – well, to be honest, I got Nads to go in and buy it for me. But I don’t dare try. I’m dreading it!’

  Zoë’s mouth formed a helpless grimace; Hilly saw how near she was to crying, glimpsed the frightened little girl just beneath the surface.

  ‘Don’t, yet,’ Hilly said, too wearied to contemplate the possible result. ‘Wait till tomorrow.’

  ‘You’ll help me, Hilly, won’t you?’

  ‘Yes, course I will,’ said Hilly, closing her eyes again to visions of family conferences, baby bottles, baby nappies, baby-sitting. No! It couldn’t happen. She switched her mental image to one of Zoë sitting up in a hospital bed, pale and brave, awaiting an abortion … the images slammed against her eye-sockets, bright and insistent.

  When Zoë went away, Hilly turned and turned in an effort to evade the pain that felt like something drilling through her skull. At last she began to doze, feeling herself sink back into the dream – the shut gates, her hands on the bars, the laughing guards; her father walking away without her, not turning back … And now heavy footsteps were clumping towards her. She gripped the bars, feeling her limbs heavy and weighted, her strength fading, her will to escape more feeble by the moment …

  ‘Hilly?’

  She opened her eyes to evening light filtered through curtains, and remembered why she was here.

  ‘Hilly? Are you awake?’ her father called again, his voice soft. ‘Just came to see if you need anything.’ He sat beside her on the bed, where Reuben had sat.

  ‘I was dreaming,’ she said, still dopey. ‘I dreamed you were leaving me. Walking away.’

  ‘Oh, love!’ He looked aghast. ‘I’d never do that, never. You’re precious to me – you know that – more than I can tell you—’ He wasn’t used to making this sort of declaration; he fidgeted with her duvet, tucking it around her neck. ‘You’ve had a shock – we all have.’

  ‘You mean about Gran?’ In Hilly’s mind-fuddled state, she thought for a moment he was talking about Zoë.

  ‘It’s – unbelievable, isn’t it? But it has to be true. Reuben’s convinced us – shown us the photo, shown us how everything adds up. It’s a lot for us to take in, all of us – your mum, especially. We’re talking and talking about it, you can imagine.’

  ‘And Gran?’ Hilly said, reaching for her glass of water.

  ‘Oh, she’s quite oblivious – watching Neighbours! Are you OK here on your own?’

  ‘Yes – no – stand back—’

  Another dash for the bathroom, this time with her dad in pursuit and support. He ran hot water, fetched a clean towel, waited. She heaved and spluttered, her eyes streaming tears. It felt as if poison had invaded her, her body responding with this violent purging. Some ten minutes later, spent and hollow, she made her way back to bed.

  ‘Why don’t you get properly undressed this time?’ her father urged. ‘I’ll fetch a bowl – don’t want to risk you falling downstairs – what about pills? Should you take some more now? Try to eat something?’

  ‘God, no! Just have to wait for it to go.’

  He fetched the bowl, fussed around for a bit, tuned her radio to soothing music when she decided it might help her to sleep.

  ‘Call me,’ he said, ‘if you need anything. Anything at all. I’m here.’

  The next arrival was Oscar, pleased to find someone in bed at an unexpected time; he swept his tail against Hilly’s face, clawed at the duvet and trod a nesting circle behind her head, where he settled. At last, soothed by his purring warmth, her brain slowed from its fast-spin, and the pain in her head subsided to a tolerable level.

  Now she became aware of someone on the floor below – in Gran’s room, her old room. It sounded as if Gran – or someone – was searching through cupboards, sliding doors open and closed, shutting drawers. A while later, someone could be heard slowly mounting the attic stairs, breathing hard.
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  ‘Gran?’ Hilly sat up in bed, offending Oscar, who jumped to the floor and began washing himself. Heidigran had never come up here before.

  With her eyes fixed on Hilly’s face, Heidigran moved slowly across to the bed. She offered Hilly a small, floral-covered notebook.

  ‘What’s this?’ Hilly took it, seeing that it was an address book – old, well-filled, with dog-eared indexed pages. ‘Why are you giving me this, Gran? D’you want to write to someone?’

  ‘No,’ Heidigran said, in her little-girl voice. ‘You write.’

  ‘Who to? Who d’you want me to write to?’

  Heidigran took back the address book and fumbled through the pages; she dropped it on the floor, Hilly reached down for it and handed it back; she started again. Eventually she found what she wanted and thrust the open book at Hilly, pointing.

  Fastened with a paperclip to the last spare page at the back was a torn piece of card, written in a different hand from Heidigran’s neat, looped, pre-Alzheimer’s writing:

  Hilly’s eyes swam; her mind reeled. She read, read again, staring at the marks on paper that jumbled and jangled themselves into nonsense.

  ‘Rachel? Israel?’ Her throat was dry. ‘E-mail?’

  Heidigran was nodding and smiling.

  ‘Your Rachel? Your sister Rachel? But she died in Auschwitz!’

  ‘No. No.’ Confusion flickered over Heidigran’s face. ‘Didn’t say that, did I? She went there. Yes. She came out. She isn’t dead. Survived.’ She pointed to the clipping. ‘She sent me a card, a … b – b—’

  ‘Birthday card?’ Hilly prompted.

  ‘Yes, when I was seven – seven – seventy. Wanted me to write back. I don’t think I …’ Heidigran’s face creased into a frown. ‘Don’t think I did. Don’t remember. But I kept it just in case.’ She pointed to the e-mail address. ‘Don’t know what that means. Do you?’