by Isabel Wolff
‘That’s true.’
I went upstairs and found the box with Rick’s bags in it and took out the ten that I didn’t want, removing a propelling pencil from the Saks bag and some Neiman Marcus receipts from the fake Louis Vuitton Speedy. I looked inside the Kenneth Cole bag and wasn’t sure that I could even give it to Oxfam because the lining had been badly stained by a leaking pen. I put these bags into three large carriers then looked at the two that I intended to keep.
I took out the Gladstone bag. That could go in the shop straight away. The leather was a lovely cognac colour, a little scratched around the feet, but not too noticeable. I gave it a quick polish then turned to the white ostrich-skin envelope clutch. It had an elegant simplicity and the surface was pristine – it had had very light use. Now I checked that the fastener worked properly, but as I lifted the flap I saw that something was inside the bag – a leaflet, or rather a programme for something. I pulled it out and unfolded it. It was for a recital of chamber music, given on May 15th, 1975, by the Grazioso String Quartet at the Massey Hall in Toronto. So the bag had come originally from Canada: and the reason why it was in such good condition was that it clearly hadn’t been used since that night.
The programme was printed very simply in black and white. On the front was an abstract design of the four instruments. On the back was a group photo of the players – three men and one woman, who looked to be in their late thirties to mid forties. I read that they had played Delius and Szymanowksi in the first half of the concert, and after the interval, Mendelssohn and Bruch. There was a paragraph about the group, saying that they’d been playing together since 1954 and that this recital was part of a national tour. Now I turned to the inside back cover where there were biographies of the players. I read their names – Reuben Keller, Jim Cresswell, Hector Levine and Miriam Lipietzka …
It was as though the air had been squeezed out of my lungs.
Her name was Miriam. Miriam … Lipietzka. It has just come back to me.
Now I was breathing again, fast, as I examined the face that went with this name – she was a dark-haired, slightly severe-looking woman in her mid forties. This concert had taken place in 1975; so she would now be … eighty. As I read the biography, the programme shook in my hands.
Miriam Lipietzka (first violin) trained at the Conservatoire of Music in Montreal from 1946–49, where she studied under Joachim Sicotte. She then spent five years with the Montreal Symphony Orchestra before co-founding the Grazioso Quartet with her husband, Hector Levine (cello). Miss Lipietzka gives regular recitals and master classes at the University of Toronto where the Grazioso String Quartet is in residence.
I almost fell down the stairs in my haste.
‘Careful,’ said Annie. ‘Are you okay?’ she added as I rushed past her to get to the computer.
‘I’m … fine. I’m going to be busy for a while.’ I closed the door, sat down and typed Miriam Lipietzka + violin into Google.
It must be her, I thought to myself as it loaded the results. ‘Hurry up,’ I moaned at the screen. Now there were all the references to Miriam Lipietzka, linking her to the Grazioso String Quartet, to reviews of their concerts in Canadian newspapers, to recordings that they’d made, and to names of young violinists that she had taught. But I needed a more detailed biography of her. I clicked on the link to the Encyclopaedia of Music in Canada. Up came her page. My eyes devoured the words.
Miriam Lipietzka, distinguished violinist, violin teacher and founder of the Grazioso Quartet. Lipietzka was born in the Ukraine on July 18th, 1929 …
It was her. There could be no doubt.
She moved to Paris with her family in 1933. She emigrated to Canada in October 1945, where she was discovered by Joachim Sicotte, whose protégée she became … scholarship to the Montreal Conservatoire … five years with the MSO, with whom she went on national and international tours. The performances of Miss Lipietzka’s life, however, must surely have been during the war, when, as a girl of thirteen she played in the Auschwitz Women’s Orchestra.
‘Oh.’
Lipietzka was one of the youngest members of that orchestra, whose forty members included Anita Lasker-Wallfisch and Fania Fénelon, playing under the baton of Gustav Mahler’s niece, Alma Rosé.
So she was the same person, and she was clearly alive, because the entry didn’t say otherwise and it had recently been updated. But how could I contact her? I looked at the Google results again. The Grazioso Quartet had made a recording of Beethoven’s late quartets with the Delos label – perhaps I could find her through that. But when I looked it up I saw that the label had long since folded. So now I clicked on the University of Toronto website then went to their music faculty. I dialled the phone number given on their ‘Contact Us’ page. It rang five times then picked up.
‘Good morning – Faculty of Music, Carol speaking, how may I help you?’
Almost incoherent with apprehension, I explained that I wanted to get in touch with the violinist, Miriam Lipietzka. I said that I knew that she’d taught at the university in the mid seventies, but that I had no other information about her. I hoped that the university would be able to help.
‘Well, I’m new here,’ Carol said. ‘So I’m going to have to make further enquiries about this and get back to you. May I have your number?’
I gave it to her, together with my mobile number. ‘When do you think you’ll be able to call me?’
‘Just as soon as I can.’
As I put down the phone I felt sure that someone there would know Miriam. She was probably just a few phone calls away. She and Monique were probably both in Auschwitz at the same time, I reasoned. They might have been in touch with each other in the camp and afterwards – if there had been an afterwards for Monique.
The sense that I was being compelled to find out what had happened to her now returned to me with renewed force. Perhaps what I’d felt hadn’t been an obsession. Fate had led me down a wrong turning to Rochemare. Now Fate had again brought me close to Monique, via a concert programme that had lain in a small white handbag for thirty-five years. I couldn’t shake off the feeling that I was somehow being guided towards her.
I gave an involuntary shiver.
‘Are you all right, Phoebe?’ I heard Annie ask. ‘You seem a bit … het up today. Not your usual calm self.’
‘I’m fine, thanks, Annie.’ I longed to confide in her.
‘I’m … fine.’ I tried to distract myself by answering enquiries from the website. By now it was 5 p.m. – an hour since I’d spoken to Carol.
Suddenly the bell over the door rang and there was Katie, in her school uniform.
‘Great photo of you in the Standard,’ Annie exclaimed.
‘And a terrific plug for the shop,’ I added. ‘Thank you.’
‘It was the least I could do – plus what I said is true.’ Katie opened her rucksack and took out a carrier bag. ‘Anyway, I just wanted to return this.’ She took out the yellow stole, neatly folded.
‘Keep it,’ I said, still semi-euphoric with the events of the last hour. ‘Enjoy it.’
‘Really?’ Katie looked at me wonderingly. ‘Well… thank you – again. I’m going to have to start calling you “fairy godmother”,’ she added as she put the stole back in her bag.
‘So how was the ball?’ Annie asked.
‘It was wonderful. Except for one thing.’ Katie grimaced. ‘I managed to wreck someone’s dress.’
‘What happened?’ I asked, imagining a jogged elbow and a slew of red wine.
‘It wasn’t really my fault,’ she replied wearily. ‘I was going up the stairs and I was right behind this girl – she was wearing this multi-coloured silk gown with these chiffon trains floating off it – it was stunning. Anyway she suddenly stopped dead to talk to someone and I must have caught her hem with my foot, because when she moved off again there was this loud rip.’
‘Oops!’ said Annie.
‘I was mortified, but before I could even say “sorry” she�
��d started yelling at me.’ I felt my insides coil. ‘She said that her dress was this season’s Christian Lacroix and that it had cost her father three and a half grand and that I was going to have to pay to have it fixed – if it could be fixed.’
‘I’m sure it could be,’ I said. I wasn’t going to let on that I knew the gown’s owner and had in fact seen the damage – Miles had shown it to me – and that I’d been able to repair it myself.
Katie pursed her lips. ‘Then she stomped off and I managed to avoid her for the rest of the night. Apart from that, it was a fairytale – so thanks, Phoebe. But I’ll pop in again sometime – I just love looking at the clothes. Maybe I could help you,’ she added.
‘What?’
‘If you ever need a hand with anything, just call me.’ She scribbled her mobile number on a piece of paper and gave it to me.
I smiled. ‘I might take you up on that.’
‘It’s almost five thirty,’ said Annie. ‘Shall I cash up?’
‘Please – and if you could turn over the sign.’ The phone was ringing. ‘I’ll take that call in the office.’ I closed the door, then picked up. ‘Village Vintage,’ I said anxiously.
‘This is Carol from the University of Toronto Music Faculty. Is that Phoebe?’
My pulse began to race. ‘Yes, it is. Thanks for calling back.’
‘I have some information about Ms Lipietzka.’ Adrenaline scorched through my veins. ‘I’m told that she hasn’t worked here since the late 1980s. But there’s someone in the department who’s in close touch with her – a former pupil of hers, Luke Kramer. However he’s on paternity leave right now.’
My heart sank. ‘Is he taking any calls?’
‘No. He’s asked not to be contacted.’ I let out a sigh of frustration. ‘But if he happens to phone in, I’ll tell him about your enquiry. In the meantime, I’m afraid you’ll just have to wait. He’ll be back on Monday.’
‘And there’s no one else who …?’
‘No. I’m sorry. As I say, you’ll just have to wait.’
THIRTEEN
As I walked up to Oxfam the next morning with the unwanted bags, I berated myself for not having looked through them straight away. Had I done so I wouldn’t have missed Luke Kramer. I wondered how I’d be able to wait for a week.
‘Hullo, Phoebe,’ said Joan as I pushed on the door. She lowered her copy of the Black & Green. ‘Have you got some things for us there?’
‘Yes – some not particularly wonderful bags.’
‘Pre-loved,’ she said as I handed them to her in their carriers. ‘That’s what we’re supposed to say here now – not second-hand. Pre-loved.’ She rolled her eyes. ‘Still, I suppose it’s better than “cast-off”, isn’t it? Do you still want those zips and buttons?’
‘Please.’
Joan rummaged under the counter and found them – a dozen metal zips in various colours and a large jar of assorted buttons. At the bottom I could see little aeroplane buttons and teddy bears and ladybirds – they reminded me of the cardigans Mum used to knit for me when I was little.
‘You missed a good film on Thursday,’ Joan said. ‘That’s £4.50.’ I opened my bag. ‘Key Largo. 1948, Bogart and Bacall – a noirish melodrama in which a returning war veteran fights gangsters on the Florida Keys. We had a good chat about it afterwards with reference of course to To Have and Have Not, with its mood of post-war despair. I think Dan was hoping you’d come along,’ Joan added as I gave her a ten-pound note.
‘I will another time. I’ve been … preoccupied lately.’
‘Got a lot on your mind?’ I nodded. ‘Dan too. The paper’s sponsoring the hot-dogs stand at the fireworks on Saturday so he’s got to find forty thousand sausages. Will you be going?’
‘Yes – I’m looking forward to it.’
Joan had put her Black & Green down on the counter. I glanced at it; on the front was a piece about the firework display and at the bottom of page 2 was a boxed piece announcing that the paper’s circulation had hit twenty thousand – double what it had been at launch. I was happy to think that I’d played my part in this success, however obliquely; after all, the Black & Green had helped me. If it hadn’t been for Dan’s interview I wouldn’t have met Mrs Bell, and I felt that her friendship was taking me somewhere … that mattered. I didn’t know where. I just felt this constant, inexorable pull.
On Friday evening I went to see her. She looked so frail, and kept her hand protectively over her tummy, which was visibly swollen.
‘Have you had a good week, Phoebe?’ she asked. Mrs Bell’s voice was noticeably weaker now. I gazed down into the garden where the trees were shedding their leaves in slow, diagonal drifts. The weeping willow was yellow and sere.
‘It’s been an interesting one,’ I replied, though I didn’t tell her about finding the programme. As Mrs Bell had said, she needed to be calm.
‘And are you going to the fireworks?’
‘Yes – with Miles. I’m looking forward to it. I hope the noise won’t bother you too much.’ I added as I poured the tea.
‘No. I love to see fireworks. I’ll be watching them from my bedroom window.’ She sighed. ‘I suppose it will be the last time…’
Then Mrs Bell seemed suddenly to tire, so now I did most of the chatting. I found myself telling her about Annie, and about her acting, and about how she hoped to write a play of her own to perform. Then I told Mrs Bell about the ball and about Roxy’s dress. Mrs Bell’s pale blue eyes widened in amazement and she shook her head. Then I told her about Katie stepping on it. Mrs Bell’s face creased with horrified laughter, then she winced.
‘Don’t laugh if it hurts.’ I laid my hand on hers.
‘That was worth the pain,’ she said quietly. ‘I have to confess that I’m not terribly enamoured of this girl, from what I know of her so far.’
‘Well, Roxy isn’t easy – in fact she’s bloody difficult,’ I suddenly said, happy to vent some of my negative emotion. ‘She’s so rude to me, Mrs Bell. I was at Miles’ house again last night and every time I spoke to Roxy, she completely ignored me – and if I spoke to him she’d start talking across me, as though I wasn’t there.’
Mrs Bell shifted painfully. ‘I hope that Miles rebuked her for this … impolite behaviour.’ I heaved a painful sigh. ‘Did he?’ she added, peering at me.
‘Not really … He said it would have led to a row and he hates having rows with Roxy – it upsets him for days.’
‘I see.’ Mrs Bell folded her hands. ‘Then I’m afraid it is you who will be upset.’
I chewed on my lower lip. ‘It is a bit hard – but I’m sure things with Roxy will improve. After all, she’s only sixteen, isn’t she – and it’s been just her and her dad all this time, so I guess it’s bound to be a bit awkward to begin with. Isn’t it?’
‘I imagine that’s just what Miles says.’
‘It is, actually.’ I heaved a sigh. ‘He says that I should feel “compassion” for Roxy.’
‘Well …’ said Mrs Bell quietly. ‘Given the way she’s been brought up, you probably should.’
On Saturday morning I phoned Miles in between customers to discuss the fireworks. ‘The display’s at eight, so what time will you get to me?’ Through the shop window I could see the barriers being put up and refreshment tents being pitched; in the distance an edifice of planks and old furniture was being raised up for the bonfire.
‘We’ll come to you at about seven fifteen,’ I heard Miles say. So Roxy would be coming. ‘Is it okay if Roxy brings her friend Allegra?’
‘Of course it is.’ In fact, it would make it easier, I reflected. ‘You won’t be able to drive,’ I added. ‘The roads around the Heath will be closed off.’
‘I know,’ said Miles. ‘We’ll take the train.’
‘I’ll make something for us to eat and drink then we’ll walk up to the Heath.’
When I got home at the end of the day I found a message from Dad reminding me about Louis’ birthday on November 24th. ‘I thoug
ht we could play with him in Hyde Park and then have lunch somewhere. Just you, me and Louis,’ Dad had added tactfully. ‘Ruth will be filming in Suffolk that day.’
I turned on Radio 4 for the Six o’Clock News. They had yet another report on the banking crisis. Suddenly I heard Guy being introduced. I hit the ‘off’ button. Hearing him would be like having him in the room.
I put the canapés I’d bought on the way back into a low oven while I got ready. At ten past seven Miles phoned. Allegra couldn’t come after all, so Roxy didn’t want to come either. ‘Which gives me a bit of a problem,’ he added.
‘But why? Roxy’s sixteen – if she doesn’t want to come, surely she can stay at home for a couple of hours?’
‘She says she doesn’t want to be on her own.’
‘Then she has to come to Blackheath with you – because that’s where you’ve arranged to be.’
I heard Miles sigh. ‘She’s not easy to persuade. I’ve been trying.’
‘Miles, I’ve been looking forward to this evening.’
‘I know … Look, I’ll make her come with me – we’ll see you later.’
By seven forty they still hadn’t arrived. So I called Miles and told him that if they hadn’t arrived by ten to eight, I’d walk up to Village Vintage and they could meet me there. At five to eight, feeling despondent now, I put on my coat and joined the latecomers hurrying towards the Heath.
As we walked up Tranquil Vale we could see the laser beams raking the sky and the apricot glow of the fire. As I leaned against the shop, the music that had been ringing across the Heath from the fun fair was drowned out by the sound of the vast crowd counting down.
‘Four … Three … Two … One …’
WHOOSH!! BOOM!! KER-ACK!!
The rockets exploded against the night like gigantic, incandescent blooms. Why did Roxy always have to be such a pain – and why did Miles have to be so weak?
BANG!!! BANG-A-BANG!!! BANG!!! As more chrysanthemums flowered and shimmered, I thought of Mrs Bell, watching from her window.
PHUT … PHUT … PHUT … Up went the Roman candles, like distress flares, trailing an iridescence of pink and green.
