PRAISE FOR DIANE ARMSTRONG
‘Mosaic flows like a novel, which once started is hard to put down. It is a compelling family history of extraordinary people set against some of the most frightening events of our century. The depth of emotions evoked is stunning. I was thrilled and deeply moved.’
—Joseph Heller, author of Catch 22 on Mosaic
‘Diane Armstrong’s book is a source of delight to the reader. Written with fervour and talent, it will capture your attention and retain it to the last page.’
—Nobel Prizewinner Elie Wiesel on Mosaic
‘A most remarkable book about one family’s experience…a rich and compelling history…Just as AB Facey’s A Fortunate Life and Sally Morgan’s My Place have become part of the national literary heritage, so too has Mosaic earned its place in our social dialogue as part of our cultural tapestry.’
—Daily Telegraph on Mosaic
‘I found myself replaying the scenes in the book like a film reel in my mind…Nocturne is one of those novels that will leave you reading into the night and will stay with you, like the notes of an unforgettable melody, long after you’ve read the last line.’
—Australian Jewish News on Nocturne
‘A moving and poignant celebration of survival…’
—Booklist on Mosaic
‘A consummate writer at the top of her form…remarkable for her narrative dexterity and emotional resonance. A bold adventure of a novel…a fine fictional debut from a writer who’s already made her mark.’
—Sara Dowse, The Canberra Times on Winter Journey
‘A cleverly crafted mystery…a good story, well told. Armstrong’s skill in weaving an elaborate fabric out of her characters and subject matter stand her in good stead…the bleak wintry landscapes of the Polish countryside are vividly captured.’
—Andrew Riemer, The Sydney Morning Herald on Winter Journey
‘A complex and often heart-and-gut-wrenching novel. The book intelligently explores the need to confront and acknowledge evil before it can be exorcised. Armstrong’s supremely confronting basic material is crucial to our understanding of ourselves as “warped timber” humanity.’
—Katharine England, Adelaide Advertiser on Winter Journey
‘The best and worst of the human spirit are dredged up in this profoundly moving, compelling and superbly written story.’
—Carol George, Australian Women’s Weekly on Winter Journey
‘Like Geraldine Brooks, Diane Armstrong’s historical research is expertly woven into the fabric of a fictional tale, providing an engrossing “action” of heroism and resilience which will appeal to both fans of fictional dramatic/romantic sagas, as well as lovers of insightful history’
—Australian Bookseller & Publisher on Nocturne
‘Easy reading, racy…Diane Armstrong’s Nocturne is in the category of blockbuster with extra heart. The stories of the role played by young women in the Warsaw revolt are extraordinary…Armstrong keeps us turning the pages and may well introduce a new readership to a story that must keep on being told.’
—The Age on Nocturne
‘A gallant and gut-wrenching story. The accounts of the two uprisings...are dramatic and heart-breaking…superb reading.’
—Australian Book Review on Nocturne
‘Nocturne had me captured from its opening chapters...it is an inspirational account of how ordinary people are forced to find strength and courage within themselves when the world around them falls apart.’
—Vibewire on Nocturne
‘Compulsive reading, thanks in no small part to Armstrong’s ability to bring each character to life.’
—The Bulletin on Mosaic
‘A stirring and powerful tapestry into which she has masterfully interwoven the story of her family with the enormity of the Holocaust, commuting fluently between the individual and the historical, the particular and the universal.’
—Australian Jewish News on Mosaic
‘Her rich account of lives good and bad, love, joy, bravery, greed, and bitterness is a testament to the human spirit. Armstrong’s stories will bring smiles and tears.’
—Marie-Claire on Mosaic
‘It is no small achievement and it bristles with life…Mosaic is a work of many levels. But ultimately it succeeds because most of its characters demonstrate how the human spirit can soar way, way above adversity.’
—The Sydney Morning Herald on Mosaic
‘A haunting Holocaust history that deserves shelf space alongside Primo Levi and Elie Wiesel. Diane Armstrong’s work is a monumental accomplishment—both accessible enough and powerful enough to linger in our consciousness long after we have turned the last page.’
—Barnes & Noble on Mosaic
‘Mosaic has the epic sweep and emotional depth of a nineteenth-century novel. Her skilful blending of vibrant individual voices across the generations makes this memoir a touching tribute to the healing powers of storytelling as well as to the unquenchable human spirit.’
—Amazon.com on Mosaic (one of Amazon’s Top Ten memoirs 2001)
‘A vivid, heartwarming family memoir. The plot and her characters move along in a fast-paced, tightly woven narrative.’
—Publishers Weekly on Mosaic
‘Armstrong weaves in these individual tales with great skill. They flow in and out of the narrative in rhythm with the ship’s slow movement from the old world to the new.’
—The Age on The Voyage of Their Life
‘Armstrong’s triumph in this history is to avoid judgment or argument…she allows readers to enter into the mindset of the refugees, to empathise with them’
—Weekend Australian on The Voyage of Their Life
‘The characters become familiar and absorbing…almost unbearably moving’
—Australian Book Review on The Voyage of Their Life
‘She is a natural sleuth…her writing is clear, incisive, yet imaginative’
—The Sydney Morning Herald on The Voyage of Their Life
‘While it is a good read, The Voyage of Their Life is also an important historical document in that it gives humanity and dignity to the stories of dispossessed people arriving in post-war Australia.’
—Wentworth Courier on The Voyage of Their Life
‘Diane Armstrong’s study of the Derna is an important contribution to post-war Australian history. Her careful research combined with her excellent writing skills make this book essential reading for anyone interested in the development of Australian society.’
—Dr Suzanne Rutland, Australian Historical Society Journal on The Voyage of Their Life
© Jonathan Armstrong
DIANE ARMSTRONG is a child Holocaust survivor who arrived in Australia from Poland in 1948. An award-winning journalist and bestselling author, she has written five previous books.
Her family memoir Mosaic: A chronicle of five generations, was published in 1998 and was shortlisted for the Victorian Premier’s Literary Award for Non-Fiction as well as the National Biography Award. It was published in the United States and Canada, and was selected as one of the year’s best memoirs by Amazon.com. In 2000, The Voyage of Their Life: The story of the SS Derna and its passengers, was shortlisted in the New South Wales Premier’s Literary Award for Non-Fiction.
Her first novel, Winter Journey, was published in 2004 and shortlisted for the 2006 Commonwealth Writers’ Prize. It has been published in the US, UK, Poland and Israel. Her second novel, Nocturne, was published in 2008 and won the Society of Women Writers Fiction Award. It was also nominated for a major literary award in Poland. Empire Day, a novel set in post-war Sydney, was published in 2011.
Diane has a son and daughter and three granddaughters. She lives in Sydney.
A
lso by Diane Armstrong
Non-fiction
Mosaic: A chronicle of five generations
The Voyage of Their Life: the story of
the SS Derna and its passengers
Fiction
Winter Journey
Nocturne
Empire Day
The Collaborator
Diane Armstrong
www.harlequinbooks.com.au
To Bert
For all that you are
CONTENTS
Praise
About the Author
Also by Diane Armstrong
Prologue
Sydney
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Budapest
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Israel
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Sydney
Chapter Forty-Three
Author’s Note
Acknowledgements
Selected Reading
PROLOGUE
Tel Aviv, 1952
Isaiah Fleischmann presses his nose against the grimy window pane of his rented room, wipes the steam off the glass with his handkerchief, and stands very still. Soft white flakes are floating through the air. Snow in Tel Aviv! Who could have imagined such a thing? The sky is the colour of tarnished brass, and as he watches, the grey street is transformed by a fine layer of snow, pure, silent and untouched.
He has forgotten he is still holding his pen until it drops from his numb fingers and he bends down with a groan to pick it up. He is about to resume writing, but the snow distracts him. It crosses his mind that such a rare phenomenon could be a portent of something momentous, but he shrugs that off. Bube mayseh, superstitious nonsense, that’s what his mother would have said. The silence is now broken by children who have run outside, squealing at their first sight of snow, gathering handfuls which melt as soon as they try to shape them into balls. Some splatter against his window and slide down, leaving a watery trail.
He shuffles back to his rickety wooden table and pulls a blanket around his bony shoulders, determined to start writing, but snow is still falling, and he rises again and peers through the window. It’s a seductive sight, watching flakes drifting from the sky onto the ground, but he knows you can’t trust snow any more than you can trust people. It lulls you with its beauty while it disguises reality. Beneath its plump whiteness lies poverty, squalor and misery.
Snow creates an illusion, it fools people into mistaking the appearance for the substance. Every winter, it used to transform the huddle of overcrowded cottages back in Kolostór into a wintry wonderland scene like those in fairy tales.
But inside their hut his father was bent over his worktable, mending shoes with chilblained hands, his mother added water to the soup to make it go further, and he and his little sister Malka shivered as they huddled together in bed to keep warm.
Most people were too stupid, too complacent, or too trusting to detect the reality concealed beneath the beguiling surface, behind false smiles and lying words, but whether they liked it or not, he intended to continue exposing dishonesty wherever he saw it. Courage and conviction were what mattered, not approval or acclaim.
He knows that people laugh at him, and ridicule the pamphlets he writes. They call him a nebbish, a loser, a curmudgeon with a bee in his bonnet, a crank with a grudge against the whole world, but their mockery has never deterred him and it never would. Those who reveal uncomfortable truths usually face derision, so he doesn’t expect praise when he hands out his smudged, closely written leaflets that expose corrupt politicians and public servants who serve only their own interests. He has turned survival into a mission.
He rubs his stiff fingers and picks up his pen. One day they would realise he had been right. As his mother used to say, you can’t be a prophet in your own kingdom. She was a wise woman with a proverb for every situation, but he wonders if she ever realised the irony of naming him Isaiah.
So he keeps handing out his pamphlets to passers-by on the corner of Dizengoff Street, the busiest thoroughfare in the city. Most people quicken their pace when they see him standing there and avert their gaze, the women staring at the pavement, pulling their dogs and toddlers away, and the men finding a sudden reason to cross the road. Occasionally someone takes a pamphlet, probably out of pity for the thin, unshaven fellow in a shabby overcoat and worn-out shoes who thinks he can put the world to rights. He suspects that when he isn’t looking they throw the thin sheets into the garbage bins or use them to wipe their behinds, since toilet paper, like so many other things here, is an expensive commodity.
That brings his mind back to his current hobbyhorse. He unwraps the crinkly packet of tobacco, places a pinch onto a sheet of cigarette paper, rolls it carefully so not a single shred will fall out, and licks the edges of the paper to glue them together. He takes a comforting puff and continues writing. This time his target is the Rationing and Supply department which he likes to refer to, in capital letters, underlined and asterisked, as the *RATIONALISING* Department. Because that’s what they did. They kept making excuses for their mismanagement.
Every day he passes long queues of women lining up to buy essential food for their families. This is supposed to be the land of milk and honey but you often can’t buy milk, let alone honey. How are mothers supposed to look after their families when they spend hours every day queuing up for basic food which is either unavailable or sold out? His neighbour Fruma who has two kids under five often comes home in tears because when she finally reaches the counter, the grocer spreads his hands in a helpless gesture and says he has run out of milk. ‘But the newspaper says there is milk!’ she complained the day before. The grocer shrugged. ‘So put your newspaper in the saucepan and boil it!’
By now Isaiah has worked himself up into a fury and his pen flies fast over the sheets of lined paper. This time he decides to address the women. Have you ever seen Ben-Gurion’s wife waiting in line? Do you think Moshe Yosef’s children miss out on bananas? Do Moshe Sharrett’s kids exist on two eggs a week? Moshe Yosef, the minister of our *RATIONALISING* department keeps telling you to be patient, because we are a young country, and our population is growing. He thinks austerity is good for your soul, but he and the other politicians live in towers of plenty, they have no idea what ordinary women like you are going through every day, trying to feed your families with the pathetic coupons they issue.
He pauses, checks what he has written and nods agreement with his words. Week after week he writes the truth about the deceptions and lies of the government but no-one seems to be listening. He reaches for the latest issue of Ma’ariv just as the light globe flickers and plunges the room into darkness. Another blackout. Everything here is a balagan, a mess, all due to inefficiency and mismanagement. Curs
ing, he fumbles for the candle he keeps on the table just in case. He smokes his cigarette down until the butt burns his nicotine-stained fingers, places his small saucepan on the primus stove and a few minutes later he is sipping scalding tea through a lump of sugar he sucks between his teeth.
Squinting at the small newsprint, he shakes his head in disbelief. He is reading about the war in Korea. ‘So now we are worrying about Korea, as if we don’t have enough tsures of our own,’ he mutters. From the moment he arrived in 1948, they’d had to cope with Arab attacks, war, inflation, rationing, recession, unemployment, severe housing shortages and endless discussions about who should be allowed to enter the new nation and in what numbers.
The Jews were God’s chosen people all right — chosen for perpetual suffering, persecution and endless arguments. As for believing in some divine being who ordained every event on earth and directed human lives like some kind of celestial traffic warden, that was just absurd.
He turns, startled to hear a man’s voice in the room, not realising it is his own. They say that a man who defends himself in court has a fool for a client, so what do they call one who talks to himself? He chuckles, and reads on. It seems that the Korean War does affect them after all, because as a result of it, America has now reduced its donations of powdered milk and other food to Israel. More tsures.
He arrived in 1948, a reluctant immigrant to the Promised Land. He had come via Auschwitz and Bergen-Belsen, hellholes he tries to blot from his memory. He came with a battered suitcase held together with a leather strap, and a heart full of hate. He loathed the Nazis and the camp guards, but most of all he hated that upstart from Budapest who had refused to save his mother and his sister. Miklós Nagy also came from Kolostór, but Nagy’s family had lived in a villa in the best part of town, not in a cobbler’s hut, and ate chicken every day, not just on holy days. After Nagy left town, he became a big shot in the capital, and they hadn’t seen him for dust. Until that day in 1944, a day that is branded on his memory as clearly as the number tattooed on his arm.
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