The Fruit of the Tree

by Jacquelynn Luben

  It would be dishonest to pretend that I could remember in detail the events of those few days. I remember ringing Ruth to tell her the news. I remember writing to Susan in Ireland, garishly in red ball-point, because there was no other pen handy at that moment, and breaking the news in a bald statement of no more than two or three lines. I recall too ringing another friend, Susan (our dentist’s wife), and asking her husband to break the news to her because she was expecting her own baby soon. I remember falling asleep on the floor, curled up in a patch of warm sunlight, when Michael left me alone in the house once, and I remember going with deliberate effort to make our bed, as if it were a mammoth task like climbing a mountain.

  The day of fasting passed, and I hardly noticed it, and had little inclination to eat when it was over.

  Michael’s mother was telephoned in Majorca, after much family discussion as to whether or not to tell her the news, and she returned home from a holiday that we already knew was giving her no pleasure.

  The funeral was arranged for Friday, 1st October. Sonia rang me beforehand, weeping on the telephone.

  ‘Oh, please don’t cry, Sonia,’ I begged, feeling my own tears start.

  ‘You’re crying,’ she replied, accusingly.

  ‘Yes, I know, but that’s different,’ I said, and somehow, tears mixed with laughter, and we both found ourselves laughing and crying at the same time.

  For the moment I was taken aback by Sonia’s next request—‘Please don’t go to the grounds, Jackie.’ She could not know that there were no horrors for me at the burial ground. I needed no protection from this. Nothing could be worse than what had already passed.

  ‘Oh, but I must Sonia.’

  ‘Please don’t,’ she asked again.

  However much I wanted to please her there was no way I could accede to her request. I, only I, had known my baby Amanda nearly a year ago, felt her growing inside me, nurtured her, even then, in the womb. I had borne her and cared for her, all the days of her short life. And not for her sake, but for my own sake, I needed to be there with her at the end of her last journey.

  ‘Why not Sonia?’ I asked, still puzzled.

  ‘Because I ought to be with you, and I don’t want to go.’

  So there was no real problem. I was relieved.

  ‘There’ll be plenty of women at the grounds, Sonia,’ I said. ‘There’s no need for you to be there. Anyway, someone has got to help Philippa, and look after the children.’

  And this was no pretence, for Philippa, six months’ pregnant herself, had willingly undertaken to receive the family back at her house after the funeral, and Robert would remain with her. Selfishly, perhaps, I had imposed this burden on her, but I didn’t want her to suffer physically because of it.

  Sonia, also relieved, was anxious to offer help in any way. A part of my brain that one might have imagined would have stopped functioning temporarily reminded me that Robert, growing fast, had practically no clothes to wear, neither for going away, nor for the day of the funeral, when he would be seen by friends and relations.

  ‘There is something you can do,’ I said, for I had no inclination now, to go shopping for clothes. ‘Buy a couple of pairs of shorts and shirts for Robert,’ and Sonia, given such a task, immediately became her usual self, practical and efficient, as we discussed sizes and colours.

  Our neighbours Doug. and Beryl came over, and we wandered round the garden.

  ‘You’ve got the photographs,’ Beryl said. ‘I hope they help a little.’

  I nodded, not trusting myself to speak. Yes, I had these few permanent reminders of Amanda’s tiny perfect features.

  We examined the tomato plants whose blushing fruit we had been picking with excitement for several weeks. The leaves were faintly scorched by the first of the autumn frosts.

  ‘We’re going away,’ Michael told Doug. and Beryl. ‘Do take anything that’s any use, before the frosts ruin everything.’

  ‘We’ll keep an eye on things while you’re away,’ they promised.

  ‘We don’t seem to get any fruit on the trees,’ we said, pausing at the plum trees. Douglas seemed to think it might be our pruning. He clipped back the two plum trees to show us how it might be done. I watched with a feeling of unreality.

  Friday, the day of the funeral dawned, and it was mild and sunny. Thank goodness, for Michael possessed no dark overcoat, and I was relieved that he would not have to wear his dreadful old suedette jacket.

  Driving in the sunshine to the Jewish cemetery, in the now repaired car, it felt once again as if we were going for a day out. The Indian summer of the last few days had been out of accord with my black emotions. Yet when we arrived at the cemetery, I was grateful for the bright sky and brilliant sunshine, transforming that solemn place into a pleasant garden.

  On occasions in the past I had been buffeted by winds and rain at unprotected cemeteries, and at worst they had been depressing, bleak places; but now I was aware of a sense of tranquillity. Always influenced by good and bad weather, I felt that this perfect autumn day had been arranged specially; it was like a sign that my daughter was welcomed and was at peace. Her grandfather was here too—Michael’s father—whom neither she nor I had ever met; but I was glad that he was here—if there was some meeting place, he would know her; he would care for her. The three days that had passed had been traumatic. Surely, the only thing that had protected my mind after such a shock was the unreality, the numbness, the feeling of being in contact with the outside world only through layers of cotton wool. But this day was not an ordeal. Here I was soothed by the familiar ritual, the recognisable pattern and the sight of relations and friends of many years.

  The Minister stepped forwards and asked, ‘Are you the parents?’

  I wondered how he knew, but I suppose we had that look—the empty eyes, revealing the mind that could not think for the pain of thinking. I had seen it myself—I had seen that look on the faces of Ruth and her mother six months ago. I had seen it on the face of an ex-neighbour whose wife was killed by a motorcyclist. And now I knew how it felt.

  As we assembled in the anteroom for part of the service, I was asked if I had any particular wish. Little things become important at such a time. I asked if they could use the baby’s English name, Amanda, so that, despite much of the service being in Hebrew, I could recognise her name, when it was spoken.

  There are no pallbearers at a Jewish funeral; the coffin is normally wheeled to the burial ground on a special trolley; but Amanda’s tiny coffin was carried by the Minister in his arms.

  As he strode ahead of us, my mother reached out to take my arm, but I could not share this moment with anyone but my husband. Together, hand in hand, we walked through the sunshine following the Minister bearing aloft the body of our daughter, and finally stood still to witness the coffin being placed in the ground to join the other children of tragedy all around. The tears streamed unceasingly from my eyes as the men stepped forward to replace the earth. When Michael asked quietly if I wished to add a spadeful of earth, I shook my head. I remembered Ruth’s mother’s spontaneous gesture—the gesture of a woman who has no man to act for her. I could not compare myself to her who had lost both husband and daughter tragically and prematurely, and who had left behind who knows how many loved ones in Nazi Germany. Any imitation of that declaration of aloneness would merely be pretentious mimicry by me, who stood surrounded by loving family.

  The Minister’s voice rang out—almost sternly: ‘The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away. Blessed be the name of the Lord.’

  I did not recognise the words as the normal part of the Jewish burial service, but they were all too appropriate in our case. Amanda, much wanted, much welcomed daughter, given so recently, only to be snatched away. Amanda, ironically named after three dead great-grandparents. Who could have imagined that so speedily, so prematurely, she would join them? I could see no reason in it.

  Back in the anteroom, Michael and I sat, whilst one by one our relatives and friends filed pas
t, to bend and kiss us and utter the familiar words to mourners. ‘I wish you long life; I wish you long life,’ and as my elderly relatives greeted me, I was filled with bitterness and a sense of incongruity that my child should die, when so many lived to a great age, and felt that the roles should have been reversed and I should have been comforting one of them.

  But as the Minister and other officials stood in front of me saying, ‘I wish you long life; you should have “nuchas”’ (the joy that your children bring), I saw in their eyes that it was not wrong to yearn for another child, and for a moment, my heart held some hope and I wondered if I dared to dream that dream.

  Philippa’s mother-in-law was helping at the house; as we walked in, she covered her face with her hands.

  ‘I can’t speak,’ she said emotionally, and turning away she fled to the kitchen.

  Those good people; they all shared our grief in their different ways. They did not know our baby, would not remember her as a character, a personality, nor would they miss her from their lives.

  But they were there in love, in affection for us. And though soon their conversation would turn to their own family news, to their businesses, their work, their financial problems, I was thankful and grateful for their presence, for the buzz of conversation that blotted out thought, and for the familiarity of known faces. I wished that I could stay in the embrace of that familiarity—not to return to Surrey, where I was still an outsider. For the moment, my much-loved hideaway home held no attraction for me.

  I was grateful when Philippa said she would prepare a meal for us, when the last of our friends had disappeared. She made roast beef and I realised I was famished; I had hardly eaten for four days. We ate well, and as we sat and relaxed, I tried to explain how I had been helped by the funeral. Out of horror and into grief. Grief and sorrow; they were infinitely more bearable than the nightmare that had passed, even though it would return to haunt me many times.

  Eventually, we took our leave; somehow I had to learn to live in that house again, at least until next week, when we would depart for Majorca. Arrangements had been made to stay with Ruth and Roger for a day or so during the week and there would be visits to my other local friends to fill the time. More than at any other time, I needed people; I could not face the vast emptiness of bereavement on my own. Even the letters, which had been pouring in, were a comfort; I had not realised how desperately one yearned for comfort and sympathy from others, and I poured over the letters, drawing strength from those words of warmth.

  That night the telephone rang. It was Susan ringing all the way from Ireland. She had been trying to reach me all day, having received my letter; she longed to help us, asked if I would stay with her in Ireland, and I explained that we were going away.

  Once again, I tried to convey that the funeral had made me feel better—better than two or three days ago. Later she was to write to me: ‘Have just spoken to you on the phone—you sounded as if you had really accepted Amanda’s death….’

  Accepted the fact of it, yes. But for months to come, the question was repeated over and over in my mind, ‘Why did it happen to me?’

  16. Limbo

  In the week that followed I learned to meet people all over again.

  At the local post office, I bought a birthday card, explaining that we were going away and Robert’s birthday would fall during our holiday. Impulsively, the postmistress reached for a box of chocolate figures—popular T.V. characters.

  ‘You give him that for his birthday,’ she said.

  Her eyes were full of sympathy, but she could not put it into words.

  Everyone wanted to be kind, but many could not speak easily of death. Only their eyes said, ‘We’re sorry, but we don’t know what to say.’

  It was a peculiarly English reserve. I realised this when I met a European acquaintance.

  ‘I’m so sorry about your baby,’ he said. The tears came to my eyes and I couldn’t speak, but I was glad that he had said it.

  But many people studiously avoided the subject. And others felt obliged to make cheering remarks.

  ‘Aren’t you lucky,’ they said, on hearing that I was going to Majorca, and they believed, I know, that they were saying the right thing. Such remarks were hurtful—even insulting—trivialising as they did the extent of my grief, implying that a mere holiday could make up for the loss of my baby. But I had to forgive them for I knew that I too had made the same dreadful mistakes—before I knew—when I was on the other side of that barrier.

  How badly I had let Ruth down at our recent meetings, unrelentingly trying to be cheerful, constantly changing the subject, thus denying her the right even to speak of her sister Rita. And by that denial—not only refusing to acknowledge Rita’s death and its terrible impact, but also her very existence.

  Did I do it because I thought it was unhealthy to think back to a lost loved one? Did I do it to avoid the embarrassment of tears? Did I really believe that I could cheer Ruth up, and with a few words drive a tragedy of such magnitude from her mind, if only for a few moments? Yes I had believed it, and now I knew how dreadfully wrong I was. Such a tragedy was not something that flitted briefly in and out of your mind. It surrounded you, engulfed you; it was there all the time, with only tiny momentary excursions into the activities of the rest of the world.

  Only now did I discover the longing of the bereaved to talk about their loss, bringing the dead back to life for a moment or two through some vivid memory, briefly revisiting the days before tragedy had struck. Increasingly as the months passed, I was to recognise with shame my own past mistakes. Because talking of the tragedy itself was the greatest release of all—the greatest relief of pain, and for friends to forbid that relief, albeit through ignorance, was positively cruel.

  Before the end of the week, we made our way to Ruth’s new home in Hertfordshire. On our arrival, Roger greeted me by saying, ‘It seems strange saying this, but you look very well.’ I knew he was right; my face was still rosy from the summer sunshine, and I still had the fullness of a nursing mother. Even after a week, milk remained in my breasts. It was as if my body had not yet learned the terrible truth.

  With this family, where tragic death was no stranger, we spoke without reserve. Perhaps it was too late for me to help Ruth, but the ability to take refuge with her was certainly a support to me.

  But work and life of a sort had to go on. We left their home by night, and as we sped through the darkness from north to south, we were waved to the side of the road by a police car.

  ‘We’ve been caught in a speed trap,’ said Michael gloomily. And I, with the feeling of one who is fated to meet with an unending stream of problems and misery, recalled that Michael’s driving licence already held two endorsements; one earned by my brakeless excursion into the village, and the other (about which he was equally indignant) bestowed upon him by virtue of one of his then employees driving a van with a bald tyre. Would a third endorsement for speeding mean that he would be banned from driving, I wondered?

  Formalities were carried out and the policeman told Michael to bring his licence and so on to a police station the next day.

  ‘You’re going to Shrewsbury, tomorrow,’ I reminded him.

  ‘The day after, then,’ requested the officer.

  ‘We’re going on holiday,’ I said worriedly, wondering how he would suggest we overcome such insurmountable difficulties.

  To my surprise, his manner relaxed.

  ‘Going on holiday, eh? Where are you going? You go off and enjoy yourselves. Don’t let it happen again.’

  A great wave of relief spread over me; it was good to know that nice things could still happen, and I couldn’t help wondering if something in our faces told him that we needed a break.

  Ruth was not my only support during the few days before our holiday.

  Carol and Jill, who had so unselfishly taken Robert away in those first agonising days, still had time to sit and talk, to reassure—above all to be with me; and Susan, our dentist’s
wife, herself expecting her first child, even she sat and talked to me, at what unknown cost to her own future piece of mind, for she must have wondered what fate had in store for her own baby, whilst I prepared for the holiday. My preparations involved washing and ironing everything that had accumulated, even the little nighties and vests that had been thrown in with the other dirty linen, many days ago. Now as I automatically ironed and folded the tiny garments, even the problem of what to do with them and all the dear little dresses seemed insoluble.

  The first severe frost came to our garden before the end of the week. One morning I awoke to find the garden enveloped in mist, only faintly revealing the dark shapes of frost-singed plants. But as the mist lifted, I saw that my garden was devastated—the once brilliant dahlias and tomatoes were dramatically changed to blackened skeletons, and in its sudden transformation from high-coloured radiance to grotesque ugliness, it seemed to echo that other transformation from rosy cheeks to the pallor of death. I felt a grim satisfaction that my garden, where I had often found peace and relaxation, should now be in accord with my emotions.

  Yet there, at the very depths of the pit of my bitterness, I found a small ray of hope.

  I took it as a sign—as perhaps we all do, who search or long for a sign from a higher Being. In my dead garden, flat upon the ground, so that it had temporarily escaped the ravages of the frost, not more than 2″ across was a young fuchsia. Its brothers and sisters had perished—it was a reminder that in nature we accept unquestioningly that the weak will die and the strong survive.

  Even before Amanda had been conceived, this little plant had taken root, only to show itself now, for the first time, as if it were a reincarnation of her, or if not that, a tiny memorial here in my garden. But could it also mean that poor, frail Amanda would be followed by a stronger, hardier plant—one that, like this fuchsia, would survive Nature’s assaults?

  One week after Amanda’s funeral, we made preparations to depart for our holiday. The milk was cancelled and the house locked up. I had dealt with matters efficiently, like an animated robot, mechanically capable of carrying out tasks it had performed before. I even left a note for the laundry man, telling him what had happened and asking him to leave Michael’s dinner jacket in the porch when it had been cleaned. For it was our intention to get home in time to attend a family wedding a day or so after our return.