by Annie Murray
He poured cups of strong tea, handed Edie a plate with an éclair on and a fork and leaned back to his savour his own. They were seated at each end of the sofa.
‘It is important to have treats – as often as possible, don’t you think?’
Edie smiled. She could hear Frances in her head saying that if you had treats too often they weren’t treats any more. ‘Yes – I think that’s a lovely idea,’ she said, watching his intense enjoyment as he forked up a mouthful of choux pastry and contentedly chewed and swallowed.
‘So, do you like to be called Edith Weale? Or Mrs Weale?’
‘You can call me Edie. And I am Mrs Weale, but my husband died nearly twenty years ago.’
Anatoli’s fork wavered above the éclair. ‘No! You cannot have been old enough to have married twenty years ago!’
‘That’s nice of you – but I was nineteen. He died in an accident only a few months after we were married.’
‘Good heavens. Well – that is sad too,’ he pointed out.
‘Yes, it was. But it’s a long time ago now.’
‘You never remarried?’
Edie looked down at her plate. ‘No.’
‘I’m sorry. Now I’m the nosy one.’
They both ate in silence for a few moments, then he said, ‘And you have a son?’
Edie nodded, finishing her last mouthful. ‘That’s why I wrote to you. He is in Israel at the moment.’
Anatoli gave her an appraising look, putting down his empty plate. ‘I would not have guessed that you are Jewish.’
Blushing, Edie looked down into her lap. If only she didn’t have to explain her tie with David – if she could just say, I’m his mother and that could be that.
‘I’m not.’ She put her plate down and turned to Anatoli. ‘David was not my husband’s son.’ Briefly, she explained how David had come into her life. ‘He is Jewish, though I am not. Hermann Mayer was his real father. When David’s mother escaped to England, Hermann stayed in Germany. It is only quite recently that we found out who David’s real family are.’
Anatoli listened with deep attention. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees.
‘How extraordinary. How, well, fitting that we should meet. I have to confess that when I got your letter, I wanted just to throw it away. My reply the first time was abrupt and too hasty. I apologize for it.’
‘It doesn’t matter.’
‘Well, in a way it does. That time, in that place, it is something you try to forget. The truth is, I was only there for a few days. They tried not to let many of the forces stay in Belsen for too long. It drove people mad. It was beyond any inhumanity that you can imagine. And the risk of disease was acute. But even a few days there . . .’ He shook his head and was silent for a moment. ‘Hermann Mayer was only one of so very many in the extremity of suffering. Typhus was killing the camp inmates like flies, on top of all the suffering they had already endured. The place was . . . Well, the smell—’ His face twisted. ‘I can still taste it in my nostrils when I think of it . . .’
He lapsed into silence, so Edie said, ‘He lives with his sister, Annaliese, in Haifa. From what David has written to me, he has never been able to lead a normal life since.’
‘I’m not surprised,’ Anatoli said. ‘Many survivors have managed to make a life, I know, and they are to be much admired. But others . . . Well, who knows? People disintegrate for far less reason. God knows, relief workers broke under the strain . . .’
He stopped again for a moment, then spoke more briskly. ‘Look – really the details are too much to tell you . . . But the thing about Hermann was – well, of course he saw us and we were the British Army. And he wanted to tell me that his wife had died in England. I didn’t really understand what he meant and of course I was busy – the work was overwhelming. We were burying thousands every day. He had typhus and I took him to the hospital. There was no bed for him but when I put him down in a space on the floor, he grasped the collar of my coat. I could easily have pulled away – he was weak as a straw. He could barely speak, but his eyes were begging me . . .’ Anatoli paused for a moment, then went on. ‘I saw that he wanted me to embrace him. I stayed kneeling and I did my best to wrap my arms round him again. The man was a bag of bones. He said he would never forget me, and that was when he made me tell him my address. He made me say it three or four times . . .’ Anatoli stopped speaking for a moment and Edie was moved to see that his eyes were full of tears.
‘He must’ve remembered your address all this time.’ ‘Yes—’ He took out his handkerchief and wiped his eyes. ‘And yet I never heard from him. I thought he had probably died.’
The two of them talked and talked for the rest of the afternoon. It grew dusk. Anatoli made more tea and Edie told him about bringing up David, and about Frances and Janet and working at Cadbury’s. He told her that he had been born in St Petersburg in 1906 but his parents had emigrated to England a few years later, so he had only the very dimmest memories of the place.
‘My father made musical instruments,’ he told her. ‘One of those violins there, on the piano, was made by his hands.’ He got up and laid the instrument in her lap and Edie admired its lovely curving shape, the rich sheen of the wood.
‘It’s beautiful,’ she said. ‘So are you a musician?’ ‘No.’ He put the violin back on the piano. ‘I am a pharmacist! But of course I play. Margot was a fine pianist and we used to spend many hours playing together. I was brought up to live and breathe music, the violin especially of course. It’s just part of life – I have never made my living by it.’
‘Will you play something for me?’ She was surprised how relaxed she was with him, that she felt she could ask anything.
‘Oh – well, let’s see.’
He shuffled through some scores, stood one on the piano stand and picked up his instrument. A second later, music was pouring out round the room. He did not seem to need the music after all and closed his eyes and Edie, knowing she was unobserved, gave all her attention to the music with its high, minor-key melancholy. The violin seemed to touch the notes of all the lingering sadness in the world. By the time he had finished there were tears running down her cheeks.
‘Yes—’ He appeared undisturbed by her emotion. ‘It does that. That is why I can only play occasionally – not all the time.’
She wiped her eyes and smiled at him through wet lashes. Anatoli laughed suddenly, giving a bow. ‘Thank you. I have not had an audience for some time!’
Edie noticed suddenly how it was. ‘My goodness, what time is it? I must go or I’ll never get home tonight!’
Anatoli told her it was six o’clock.
‘I will take you to your railway station,’ he said.
‘Oh, you don’t need to do that – it’s all the way to Euston.’
‘That’s all right. What else should I do this evening?’
Edie gathered up her bag, unexpectedly delighted by this offer, finding herself reluctant to leave this cosy room, his conversation.
‘Well – that’s ever so kind of you . . .’
He smiled, with his mischievous twinkle. ‘Madam – it would be a pleasure. In fact this entire afternoon has been a pleasure.’
Forty-Seven
The week after Edie met Anatoli Gruschov, their letters crossed in the post. Edie wrote a polite note to Anatoli thanking him for the afternoon they had spent together. She had been glad of his company back to Euston, and he had been very gentlemanly, taking her arm as they stepped in and out of the trains on the Underground.
‘You must be careful of yourself,’ he said.
When they parted he kissed her on each cheek and stood watching as she walked towards the train. She waved and saw his arm, clad in the woolly jumper, raised in reply. With a pang she got on the train. She had never had a day quite like it. But she did not let this feeling show in the letter. She told herself that Anatoli would show the same warmth and interest to anyone who crossed his path.
But his note arrived th
e day after she posted hers, thanking her also for taking the trouble to make the visit. She felt her heart beat faster as she read the rest.
‘I have not spent an afternoon that has given me so much pleasure in a long time and on my return to my house, which felt sadly empty in your absence, I thought it a great shame that we have no other reason or excuse to meet. Even at my age I’m looking to justify myself with excuses! But perhaps you would not find it too forward of me if I were to suggest that I might visit you in Birmingham one day?’
‘What does he say?’ Frances asked. She had already had the full story from Edie.
‘Oh – just thanks for the visit.’ She folded the letter and put it away. Should she reply? If she did, what was she getting herself into? But then, she reasoned, he might not ever come. He was just being polite. She wrote back, briefly, saying that if he was ever up in Birmingham she would be very happy to see him again and left it at that.
She didn’t spend time dwelling on this, though, because two other letters arrived which both took over all her and Frances’s thoughts. The first, at the beginning of August, was from Janet and its tone was breathless:
You must’ve wondered what had happened to us, as I’ve not written properly for so long. Don’t worry – we are all right, but I have hardly had time to eat or sleep this last fortnight, let alone write a proper letter. An extraordinary thing has happened – Martin and I are for the present the proud parents of twin girls! We were woken, early one morning, before sunrise, by their mewling. We went down in the dark, hearing their little cries – we thought they were kittens to begin with! – and there they were, tiny mites who had been wrapped up together in old strips of cloth and left at our door. They were newborn and the umbilical cords had just been cut and knotted. No one knows where they came from. We are fairly sure they are not from Ibabongo – all pregnancies and babies are accounted for! Martin thinks it most likely that they were left by a mother from one of the other villages around, most likely a leper woman who is not part of the colony here, who saw this as the best hope for them. Whoever she is, poor soul, we feel so much for her. What a desperate act, but meant for the best, I’m sure.
For now, we are going to look after them. It’s exhausting and very demanding but I have to tell you I am absolutely loving it! The girls are so beautiful. We have called them Ruth and Naomi. Ruth is the bigger of the two and is thriving, and Naomi is tiny and a little more delicate, but she should be all right with the care we are giving her. I feel very soppy at the sight of them cuddled up asleep together like little puppies. All I can think of is that they are a special gift to us from God. (Chrissie, of course, is utterly convinced of this!) I never expected to become a mother like this, and if they are to stay with us there may be all sort of problems and challenges ahead of us . . . But all I can do for now is love them. The future will have to look after itself!
Edie and Frances spent many an hour discussing this new development. They both knew how much Janet had craved children and they were glad to hear she was so happy.
‘The only thing that really bothers me,’ Frances said, as they sat out at the back of the house one warm evening, ‘is other people’s reactions and prejudices. You know what people can be like. If they wanted to bring them home, I can well imagine people saying all sorts of awful things about Janet and how they come to have coloured children.’
‘Hmm.’ Edie looked round at her. In the half light she saw how fragile Frances looked. It was another painful reminder of her growing old.
‘Well, I suppose if they won’t believe the truth when they hear it, more fool them. You’ve never been one to take any notice of people gossiping.’
‘No, I know.’ She sighed. ‘We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it. It would have been so much more straightforward if they could have had their own.’
Edie was touched. She had never heard Frances openly expressing this regret before.
Then the letter from David arrived. Edie read it on the way in to work. It was quite short – he promised he would write again soon to fill them in on all the news – but he had something to say which could not wait.
I have made a big and very difficult decision this week, but now it is done I feel at peace. I know this will hurt you and I wish I was with you to explain. I have decided that I am not going to come home and go to Imperial at the end of this month as planned. Instead, I am going to apply for a similar course at the universities in either Jerusalem or Tel Aviv. I am investigating the possibilities now and even if it is too late for this year, I have good qualifications and should be able to take up a place next time round. Studying engineering is something I have always wanted to do and here I can also see how much value it has in the life of the Kibbutz and in contributing to the building up of the state of Israel.
I would much rather have told you this face to face. I know it will come as a shock. Two other things have influenced my decision to stay. One is that I feel truly at home here. The other is that I have found someone with whom I am very deeply in love and in due course I hope that she will agree to be my wife. Her name is Gila Weissman and I know that when you meet her you will love her too.
After more expressions of love and concern for her feelings, he signed off.
Edie stopped at the corner of Bournville Lane, quite oblivious to anyone around her, and read the letter through twice more, trying to take in what he was saying. That he wanted to live in Israel. That he was never coming back . . . The thing she’d feared most. And that he was thinking of marriage . . . Marriage, already! Edie stood trying to breathe properly as she slipped the letter into her bag. She felt an anger, and a hurt too deep for tears to surface yet. Oh, she had thought she was letting go of David, allowing his life take its course, but she had not been prepared for this. For all that he had found his father and was so involved with all these people in Israel, what she had held on to was the thought that come September he would return to her, to take up his university place in London. But now he was making a break far more radical and final than she had ever dreamed of. Settling down in Israel! How had all this happened so quickly? In those moments of panic she felt certain she would never see him again.
She said nothing to anyone, but it was a desperate day at work. As the hours passed on the line, checking and assembling the little trays of chocolates, she passed through her darkest emotions yet of hurt and rejection, and of fear for her own future: that she would spend all her life now abandoned and alone. In the evening she broke the news to Frances, trying to be as calm and matter-of-fact as she could so as not to distress her. She was even more protective of Frances these days. Frances was of course also upset but tried to be comforting and positive. But to Edie it felt as if the whole of her world was crumbling and she needed to be alone. She went up to bed early that night and finally allowed the tears to come, sobbing out her pain and anguish for her boy, who always seemed to have to move further away from her, over the horizon until she could no longer see him. She knew he was a good boy, that he did not want to hurt her, but this didn’t help to take away the agony of it.
When she was calmer, she lay looking up into the darkness, wondering if she would ever get to sleep. She longed for someone to talk to apart from Frances. Someone who she could open up to completely. If only Janet were here, instead of the other side of the world!
A thought struck her. A longing. She got up again and put the light on, searching in her drawer for a pad of notepaper.
Why not? she decided. I have to do things for myself now. That’s how it has to be. She wrote her address at the top of the paper, then began, ‘Dear Mr Gruschov . . .’
Forty-Eight
Edie stood at New Street Station as a cool breeze blew along the platform. The summer’s definitely over, she thought, buttoning up her mac. She kept nervously smoothing her clothes and touching her hair, which was loose today, falling in soft waves round her face. Every few seconds she looked at the clock. The platform was very quiet, although the train
was due in two minutes.
Why on earth did I say he could come? she groaned inwardly. Writing that letter when she was feeling low – what had possessed her! Pouring out her feelings about David to a man fourteen years older than her whom she’d only met once! What must he have thought of her writing him such an emotional letter? And now she’d said yes to him coming to see her dull little life. How on earth were they going to pass the time?
The seconds ticked past. A train pulled in on a neighbouring platform. Edie was so nervous she couldn’t bear standing still and started pacing up and down . . . Two minutes late . . . Four minutes late . . . What if it didn’t arrive? Perhaps there’d been a mistake and she could just go home and continue her quiet Saturday. She was startled by the sense of desolation that washed through her at this thought. Oh, she did want him to come! There were so many reasons why: his dark eyes, full of amiability, his comfortable, somehow comforting mode of dress, his sympathy, the way they had talked for hours, all rushed into her mind. At last she heard the train coming in the distance and her heart began to thump even harder.
She saw him, some distance along the platform, before he noticed her, and took in that he was slightly more smartly dressed than the last time they had met. He was wearing dark trousers and a jacket, and seemed both taller than she remembered, and yet somehow more vulnerable in this big echoing space. As he turned and caught sight of her she saw he was also carrying a bouquet of flowers. For her? When had anyone ever bought flowers for her before?
A delighted expression spread across his face as he came towards her.
‘My dear! How very lovely to see you!’
‘Hello, Mr Gruschov,’ she said, shyly.
‘Oh please – call me Anatoli for goodness sake. We are not strangers, after all, are we?’
