by Anna Ellory
Miriam kissed her on the cheek. ‘I love you.’
‘Let’s order a pudding, eh? And celebrate new beginnings.’
Miriam had looked out at the street while her mother had gone to order a cake. His red car was parked across the street. Him inside. He had wound down the window so she could see him.
When Mum came back she said, ‘They are getting us a chocolate pudding and ice cream, will be a few minutes.’
‘I can’t stay.’
‘Why?’ Mum asked, sitting down and placing her napkin over the corner of her skirt.
‘Axel is waiting outside.’
‘But he said he would pick you up from the house later, so you could see your father too.’
‘Look.’ Miriam pointed to the window. As her mother turned, Axel got out of the car and rested his arms on the roof, sunglasses shielded his eyes.
‘I’m sorry.’
Her mother’s face dropped and she looked deflated, sagged at the middle, her napkin askew in her lap.
Miriam bent down to kiss her, but Mum didn’t look up, so she placed a kiss on her soft downy hair.
‘I love you.’
‘Travel safe,’ she said, and swallowed hard. ‘Will you call me?’
‘As soon as we are settled. I promise.’
Miriam picked up her bag and headed for the door.
‘I love you too, be safe, sweetheart.’
Miriam had walked across the street, her eyes swimming with tears.
It was the last time she had seen her mother. She had been in Wolfsburg, just two hours away, for five years, and returned only once.
For Mum’s funeral.
At the table, Miriam places her Lebkuchen down with a clatter. ‘Sorry, Eva, what were you saying?’ She rubs her eyes with the back of her hand.
‘Are you okay?’
‘Even though Frieda loved Dad and Dad must have loved her too, it doesn’t change anything. I love my Mum so much, and it hurts, it hurts that she is no longer here.’
Eva puts down her coffee and finishes the last slice of cake before picking up her bag. Without saying a word, Eva slides a piece of paper across the table. The letter covers one sheet of A4, and like all the others this one has Eva’s translation attached.
Miriam takes a deep breath. ‘The last one?’
‘Yes.’
She picks up the paper and reads.
Henryk
Hani sacrificed herself so that I could live. She was so brave, she died when I should have. Matka helped me. Feed, feed, feed.
And then one day the guards left, taking all prisoners who could walk, all the food, and locked everyone else in. I could not move. I could not eat. I stayed.
The next day the camp was liberated.
We were rescued and the soldiers spoke English and I stayed quiet. I ended up in hospital and the baby grew! It was a miracle.
Emilie has come to visit me in the hospital. I am very ill but the baby is well and being cared for in the nursery. I saw Emilie in the doorway of my room. She looked unsure. I suppose I didn’t look anything like the ‘Frieda’ she knew.
The nurse who had opened the door confirmed that I had developed typhus. ‘She has only days to live,’ the nurse warned and left.
It feels so strange to hear of my life, after fighting for so long, reduced to days.
I am dying, Henryk. I write this to you as Emilie watches on, far back and close to the wall. Our daughter in her arms.
I can smell orange blossom, sweet baby milk, and I can see happiness. Pure joy. I am dying, but I am leaving something good behind. You have all my letters, you have our daughter and you have my love.
Please don’t forget me.
All I have now are stolen images and Emilie’s promise to take care of the baby and to take care of you too.
Emilie returns often without the baby and she holds my hand. She cries. And all I know is that I want you to be with me before I die.
I ask only for you.
Just so I can say goodbye . . .
40
MIRIAM
The air around Miriam seems to vibrate in her ears as if she is surrounded by water. Her feet remain numb, attached to the ground.
‘I don’t understand,’ Miriam says.
‘Turn it over,’ Eva says.
Frieda died 14th February 1945 at 4 a.m. Her baby survives.
‘That’s Mum’s handwriting!’ Miriam looks again. ‘Mum knew?’ Her head is fuzzy and scrambled suddenly. ‘What does this mean?’
‘I think,’ Eva says, reaching her hand across the table. ‘I think this means that you are the baby . . .’
Miriam is silent.
The noise of the café grows around her, but she looks at Eva’s clean, strong face, she holds Eva’s soft, warm hand and she looks at the letter.
‘What?’ She stands abruptly, but the blood rushes to her head and the room seems to spin around her. ‘I mean – no!’ She sits. Waiting for something to make sense.
‘We can’t know that,’ Miriam says. ‘We don’t know if the baby lived, or that Mum even took it.’ Miriam looks at Eva. ‘Is that everything?’
‘Yes, when I took the dress I wanted to check there was nothing else. Anything that may help you,’ Eva says.
‘And . . . ?’
Eva shakes her head.
‘You cannot take her away from me. I mean, this, the letters . . . I’ve already lost her once, Eva. Please. Stop,’ Miriam says and wishes more than anything Mum was alive to put an end to this. She knows it’s not Eva’s fault, but she translated this.
‘You didn’t need to give this one to me. I would have been okay without knowing this,’ Miriam says eventually. ‘Why?’
‘You deserve to know the truth. It’s not my decision to withhold anything from you. I think your parents protected you a lot. It’s not a bad thing, but maybe, maybe you are stronger than you realise,’ Eva says gently.
‘Why didn’t they tell me?’
‘I don’t know. But think about it, Miriam; if this is true, if you are the child of Frieda . . .’
‘If,’ Miriam says. ‘Big if . . . because even if I am, Mum is my mum.’
‘She will always be your mum. But think of the strength you had to survive right from the beginning? If this is you, and this is your story too . . .’ Eva doesn’t finish the sentence. ‘I thought you should know.’
The more Miriam thinks, the more she can understand. Her father is calling for Frieda. Maybe . . . But maybe not because he is searching for Frieda, as she thought, but maybe he is trying to tell her, Miriam, that she came from Frieda. Or . . . her thoughts topple over each other. Or maybe Dad thinks she is Frieda? She has been gone so long . . . did Miriam resemble Frieda?
‘I’ll never know anything for sure, will I?’
‘I’m so sorry, Miriam. If it’s true then you survived so much and have been so loved.’
Miriam shakes her head. ‘Nothing is ever true, is it? The only person who would know what happened is dead. Mum was my best friend. This . . .’ She shakes the letter. ‘Cannot take that from me. I won’t let it.’
‘Nothing will take your memories. Your mother, I’m sure, loved you very much.’
‘And Frieda?’
Eva stands, moves around the table and pulls Miriam to her feet. Embraced in a hug so deep, Miriam sobs something that sounds like a wail. When Miriam pulls away from the hug she sees Eva’s eyes reflecting the sorrow of her own face. The other diners are looking at them.
‘I need to leave,’ Miriam says.
Eva pays the bill and they walk out into the street.
Miriam stops suddenly and pulls out the last letter again; the hurt in the letter from Frieda seems to break through Miriam’s skin and scatter around inside her, as if it were her own. Did Dad go to her?
Did this woman die alone, without him?
Finally, when Miriam feels calmer, she goes to Eva’s side, waiting a little behind her, and holds her hand. And together they walk down the stre
et.
Eva says nothing, allowing Miriam the time to compose herself. The Christmas decorations still hang like jewels from the trees and lamp posts.
They walk until the road becomes blocked with bodies. The air is full of chatter as they get to the other side of Ruhwald Park, close to the hospice. Miriam’s head feels about to shatter with the volume of thoughts: the letters; the lives lost . . .
The chatter dies down as a voice as clear as a bird flies into the sky. People look up, as if they can hear the voice of an angel.
Eva places her hand in the crook of Miriam’s arm. No one speaks. The song seizes time and holds it for all who can hear and Miriam’s mind clears. No accompaniment, just a singular voice, singing to the heavens. Transporting Miriam in both time and place.
She recalls one year when her father returned late at the end of term.
‘I’m so sorry, did you do it all without me?’ he called from the doorway.
‘Almost,’ Miriam said. He arrived and kissed them both; Mum decorating the top of the tree and Miriam playing with the ribbon on a small gift she had wrapped for Axel. Her father pulled off his tie and dropped his briefcase on the table.
‘Is he here?’
‘Not yet.’ Mum’s voice was full of excitement.
‘What is he like?’
‘Gorgeous,’ Miriam proclaimed in a fit of giggles. ‘You’ll love him, Mum.’ The bubbles of excitement rose within her until she couldn’t stop smiling.
‘What’s left for me to do?’ her father asked.
‘The star, as always,’ Mum replied.
The tree was beautiful, silver and gold. The carols on the radio were quiet. Miriam passed her father the star and he placed it at the top of the tree.
‘Countdown then,’ he said, and Miriam went to the light switch and turned off the main light so they were plunged into darkness.
‘Three . . . two . . . one,’ they said together as Mum flicked the tree lights and they brightened the room.
The star at the top dazzled glitter. Miriam watched as her father pulled on the strings of her mother’s apron and took it off over her head. He placed it over the back of the chair and took her small hand in his. She stepped into his arms on tiptoe and he danced her around the room.
‘Mind the decorations,’ she said, smiling into his eyes.
Miriam watched as they did a few circuits around the room, so graceful, her mother’s skirt billowing around her so that she looked like a fairy ready to sit atop a tree herself. Her cheeks flushed and her hair messily out of place. She hoped one day soon that she would feel how Mum felt, but in Axel’s arms.
‘Merry Christmas, Emilie,’ her father said, and kissed her fully on the mouth. Miriam watched Mum flush in his gaze.
‘Merry Christmas,’ she said, and stopped to straighten her hair, her father pulling her close.
‘Merry Christmas, everyone,’ Dad said, kissing Miriam on the cheek, and her heart was full of cheer, elevated because Christmas was near.
The applause from the crowd is slow to start but becomes loud and flamboyant with whistles and cheers, bringing Miriam back to the present.
The orchestra starts up and bodies move slightly as the next song gets underway. She looks and sees a small boy taking a sip of water. He is surrounded by adults, but it is his voice that had carried them away.
Miriam places her hand over Eva’s arm as the crowds drift away.
‘Are you okay?’ Eva asks.
‘I have been more than blessed. But right now, I don’t know if Dad knew and he deserves to know what happened. Even if it is the end. I promised him.’ She walks on a few paces, leaving Eva behind, then returns.
Mum’s voice jumps in her head. ‘People deserve a peaceful, unburdened passing,’ she had said. Miriam takes a breath that shimmers in the cold air. She can do this for Dad.
At the entrance to the hospice, Miriam stops and looks up. The moon is still in the sky, surrounded by what look like bright stars. And it looks, at first, as if the stars are falling, but it is snow. It has started to snow.
Miriam holds her hand out and catches the flakes in the palm of her hand. She looks up and admires the beauty of something so erasable.
‘Their ashes rise black, but they always fall white,’ Miriam says. ‘Dad used to say that when snow fell, the ashes of those we lost fell with each flake, to nurture the ground and land on those they loved. Snowflake kisses, a snowflake touch. When I was little I never really understood, I just giggled as the snowflake kisses turned into Mum and Dad kisses. No matter what, they loved me.’
‘I am sure they did. I’ll wait for you, if you need me?’ Eva asks, but Miriam is watching the snowflakes melt in her hand. She can hear her father’s voice, his gloved hand wrapped around hers, his smoky breath mingled with fresh white snow.
‘If every flake dissolves, some part of that person moves into you. Giving you a gift, something they had,’ Dad had said.
Miriam thinks of the rabbit girls and Hani, Frieda and her mother and all the others lost and forgotten. As the snow gets thicker she wonders if, maybe, the lost have quite a lot of gifts to deliver.
Miriam feels Eva gently open the door and catch her arm. Inside, Eva waits by the Christmas tree as Sue walks down the corridor.
Sue holds both of Miriam’s hands in her own and greets her, ‘Your father is very alert today,’ she says. ‘But his chest has got worse again. I think’ – Sue directs Miriam into her father’s room – ‘I think it’s time,’ she says with gravity.
The room smells faintly of cloves, of Christmas gone. Sue walks in, leans over the bed and takes her father’s hand.
‘Herr Winter, Henryk. Miriam is here to see you,’ she says. And nods for her to move closer.
Sue straightens. ‘I’ll leave you to it. Christmas biscuits to eat,’ she says, stroking Miriam’s arm as she passes.
Miriam knows she should start talking. She knows she should explain what the letters said. She knows she should tell her father that Frieda is dead. She knows she should ask if he knew, that maybe, just maybe, she is his and Frieda’s child.
Instead she walks to his bed and leans over to kiss him lightly on the forehead.
She thinks of the poem and Frieda’s scrawl from the office, what seems like a lifetime ago, and knows she can bring him peace.
He deserves a happy ending.
HENRYK
It is her. Frieda.
I cannot open my eyes, but it is her.
After all these years.
She kisses my forehead, and I can feel the kisses of the past; her breath hot and static, charged so raw and bright I feel myself spinning, centred only by her lips, her touch. On me. So long ago . . .
A fog, haze and I am floating, leaving behind a body, a life.
‘Henryk.’ I can feel her swallow, her lips thin then plump back up on my skin. She moves to my ear, her breath makes goose pimples dance over my entire body.
‘When darkness drops, I am your light.’
And yes, she is. My light and my dark. She lives.
‘I love you,’ the voice says, full of tears. ‘It’s okay.’
Frieda sits on the bench, under the pine trees, her blonde hair playing in the breeze, she rests into my body. She holds my hand, softly yet firm. She smells of fresh snow, of roses, of stars.
And with her hand in mine, I squeeze tight. I swallow and take a deep breath. The voice that escapes my dry lips is not my own, but I say:
‘Frieda.’
December 1990
Snow was falling heavily and landed with a humph on the screen, as the old Trabant gargled north. Both women silent, watchful, respectful.
Cutting across white fields, trees and abandoned collective farms, a sign for Sachsenhausen meant they were going the right way; to Ravensbrück.
She couldn’t believe how close it was, less than two hours north of Berlin.
She took a long, deep breath and pointed to the spire of Fürstenburg Church as it came into view. They pa
ssed Fürstenburg station and she shook her head. She didn’t stop shaking until they pulled in on the other side of Fürstenburg. There was a cobbled forest road that led to the camp. Houses with pitched roofs appeared to the left as the lake opened to them, white, vast and frozen, to the right.
Wrapped up in coats and scarves, arm in arm, they walked carefully to the entrance.
High walls and signs in Russian. They couldn’t go any further.
Wood pigeons were cooing from atop the mass of linden trees bowed with snow. They stood looking out over the lake, the church spire spiking black through the blanket of snow.
‘They lie at the bottom of the lake,’ she said. ‘All of them.’
The breeze bit into their cheeks and eyes. Neither woman cried. They just stood in silence until feet, legs and arms were numb with cold.
A feather, small, fluffy and white, hovered briefly in front of them, before fluttering across the ice.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
This book could not have happened without the support of my parents, who believed in me long before I did and long before I had anything worth believing in.
I owe you everything.
Thanks to Juliet Mushens, who saw something special buried within my manuscript and signed me, worked with me, pushed me and challenged me. This book would not be half as good without your edits, your support and ultimately my sheer determination to not let you down.
To Laura Deacon and everyone at Lake Union, for taking my book out into the world.
To Arzu Tahsin, for edits that made me a better writer.
I could not have done this without my tribe – friends new and old. Thank you for listening to me; feeding me; taking time to care; for not asking ‘how’s the book going’ when I was rewriting (again); for the cups of tea; the boxes of food; the ‘shoe-drills’ and the incentive to never give up.
Thank you to my Evil Twin; Demo Dan; Shawn and my Krav family. For Faber friends Fran, Mandy and Louise; and new writer friends Louise, Priscilla, Lina and Liz. All exceptional writers in their own right. ‘Mummy’ friends, especially Beth Hollington, for truly hearing me and for sticking by me – when others would have told me to quit.
