The Bells of Bournville Green

by Annie Murray

  ‘We’re going to give you a bit of help here . . .’

  There was a terrible tearing, stretching feeling, as if she was going to crack apart, and then, in the silence, a tiny snuffle.

  ‘Oxygen,’ someone said curtly, and the baby was whipped away.

  Greta heard herself moaning. Then there was silence.

  ‘My baby . . . ?’ she whimpered.

  The midwife appeared, looking solemn. Greta felt her hand taken and held with a gentle pressure.

  ‘You have a little girl,’ the midwife said softly. ‘But she is small – she came early. They are just doing some work on her to help her breathe.’

  ‘Will she be all right?’ Greta tried to sit up.

  ‘No – don’t move! We hope so, dear – now lie still.’

  The eternal minutes which followed were an agony. She felt the midwife washing her.

  ‘I want to see her. I want my baby!’ she said, sobbing. There seemed to be nothing else in the world at this moment, except her bond with this tiny creature after all the two of them had gone through together. She could hardly bear it that they had taken her away and that the midwife looked so worried. What was it they were not telling her?

  ‘Ssshhh, it will be all right,’ the woman said in her strange, springy English.

  Greta lay, weak and frightened, tears running down into her hair.

  There was a flurry of activity and a man appeared and brusquely called the midwife away. Greta realized he was a doctor, and lifting her head, she saw a small, bundle being handed over. There was no sound from the bundle, only a terrible silence. She watched, paralysed, as the midwife turned to her, her face terribly solemn. Greta couldn’t breathe . . . Oh God . . . Oh God . . .

  The woman looked across at Greta, and after what seemed a terribly long time her face broke into the most beautiful smile.

  ‘Here she is,’ she said. ‘Your little girl . . .’

  All pain forgotten, Greta pushed herself upright, her heart pounding with excitement. The bundle was laid in her arms and Greta saw a crinkled, yet somehow familiar face. She felt she recognized her at once, and her heart expanded out to her in a way it had never done to any other being before. Almost as soon as she was in Greta’s arms, the little girl began to snuffle and cry.

  ‘Is she all right?’ Greta said anxiously.

  ‘She has had some oxygen. They were worried because she is a little premature,’ the midwife told her. ‘But she seems very strong. Now she wants to drink – offer her your breast, dear.’

  As the baby began to suck, everyone was smiling, the midwife, the nurse who turned from clearing up the room to watch, and above all, Greta.

  ‘She is almost six pounds,’ the midwife told her. ‘That’s a good weight. If you had carried her to term she would have been a very big size!’

  Greta couldn’t stop staring at the little being sucking confidently on her nipple. She and Trevor had made this little miracle! She felt a pang of misery – how Trevor would have loved seeing her. He would have been so happy! More tears ran down her cheeks.

  ‘Oh you little love,’ she said, wiping one of her tears from the little girl’s cheek. ‘You’re mine – you’re my little girl!’

  ‘Now – we need to take you to the ward, and she must go to the nursery. It is far too late to have a visitor on the ward.’ She eyed the clock on the wall, which Greta was amazed to see said one o’clock. It was the middle of the night!

  ‘Just before you go, there is someone to see you. You must be quick, this is not really allowed!’

  She went to the door and spoke to someone outside. Anatoli’s face appeared round the door, a little anxious and then, at the joyful sight of mother and child, his face bloomed into smiles as well.

  ‘My dear girl – what a marvellous thing! A little daughter!’

  He came straight to her and kissed her, perching, quite oblivious of hospital rules, on the side of the hard bed, his arm round her shoulders. Greta’s tears began to flow again.

  ‘You waited – all this time!’ she said, overwhelmed. She felt so full of love for him, and gratitude, this man who was more than a father had ever been to her. Fancy his caring enough for her to wait out there faithfully all these hours!

  ‘Of course!’ he said. ‘We would not desert you my dear, at such a time.’ He smiled fondly at her.

  ‘You’re so kind,’ she told him, tears and smiles coming at the same time.

  Anatoli gave her a squeeze. ‘Not at all. I was worried about my girl. . . !’

  She was so touched by this she couldn’t say anything for a moment. Then she wondered,

  ‘Where are the others? Not out there, surely – the kids and everything?’

  No – I persuaded them to go back to Birmingham. After all, we couldn’t all clutter up the hospital corridors could we? So our friend Dr Ferris is suffering the indignity of driving my much-despised car! I am in a position to stay down here because I have friends in London who will put me up. So that was that. All the same,’ he twinkled at her, ‘I’m not sure that Edith will ever speak to me again after this – her having to miss the birth of a baby!’

  It was almost impossible to sleep that night, in the strange hospital ward, and full of the strain and excitement of the birth. And in the night they brought the baby for her to feed and she was able to hold her, gazing on her in the dim light, and fall even more deeply in love with her.

  The next day passed in a round of feeds and bed-makings and other ward routines. The other new mothers were all local, and were amazed by Greta’s story of almost giving birth on a car journey back to Birmingham! Anatoli came to visit later on and they were all very curious about him.

  ‘Is he your dad? He’s ever so handsome, isn’t he, for an older bloke!’

  Greta just said yes, he was her father. It was easier than explaining and it felt very nice.

  He came to see her the first afternoon, bearing a beautiful bunch of pink tulips before him and a big smile. Greta felt very spoilt, and was delighted to see him, but said she was sorry to put him to so much trouble.

  ‘Yesterday was in any case a holiday, remember?’ he said. Greta was amazed to remember that it had been Easter. ‘And I am able to see my friends and have a little extra vacation, thanks to you. And to make acquaintance with this little lady.’

  ‘The thing is, I don’t know what to call her,’ Greta said. ‘I’ve thought about naming her after my Nan – well, both of them. But Ethel’s such an old-fashioned name, and if I call her Louisa I s’pose I’ll offend someone. Or there’s Frances Hatton, but I’m not sure about Frances . . . Maybe something more modern . . .’

  ‘Hmmm,’ Anatoli pondered. ‘I can see it’s a problem. Louisa is pretty . . . And Frances – of course we all remember Frances with such affection . . .’

  ‘I like Louisa – I like names ending in “a”. They sound all Italian and romantic don’t they?’

  ‘Ah!’ Anatoli beamed. ‘In that case, I have the solution! Why not call her Francesca? Then you have a lovely, dignified name and the best of both worlds!’

  ‘Francesca . . .’ She tasted the word on her tongue and broke into a smile. ‘Yes – that’s lovely. Little Francesca – that’s very pretty!’

  She stayed in hospital for three days, by which time they seemed sure that Francesca had no problems with her lungs and was feeding well.

  On a chilly March morning, Greta carried a well wrapped up Francesca with great care, and with Anatoli constantly fussing, into a taxi to Euston Station. Everything felt so strange – being out of hospital, being in London, being suddenly a mother. She felt like someone else, older and much changed. Even the CND march felt as if it had happened months ago.

  Sitting on the train with Francesca in her arms she alternated between gazing out of the window and down at her daughter’s snugly sleeping form. She had given her a good feed before they left the hospital, so it was fingers crossed that she would last the journey.

  ‘You’re coming home to Br
um,’ she whispered to her, excited at showing her to Edie and her Mom and Janet. She tried not to think about Marleen and Trevor.

  Another anxiety seized her.

  ‘You know,’ she turned to Anatoli. ‘I shall go back to work – soon as I can. I don’t want to take advantage – sponge off you or anything.’

  Anatoli leaned round and looked very seriously at her.

  ‘Greta – listen to me. I know you are not one to take any kind of advantage. And I am serious when I say you are like a daughter to me.’ He touched her hand for a moment. ‘You will have realized, I do not have much relationship with my own girl. Now, you are to go back when you are ready, and not before.’

  ‘Oh – thank you,’ she said, her eyes filling with tears. She turned to look out of the window, wanting to sob. Here was she, always longing for her father, for a loving family, and life had given him to her in a way she never expected.

  Part Four

  Jerusalem, 1967

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  June 1967

  ‘Stop – this is far enough.’

  David climbed out from the back seat of the car in a dusty suburban street in Jerusalem, hauling his pack out after him.

  ‘Todaroba,’ he said curtly. ‘Thank you. Shalom.’

  ‘It’s an honour.’ The elderly man leaned across the front seat to shout fervently through the window. ‘For one of our fighting boys. What a victory – and in six days! Shalom, shalom.’

  The ceasefire had been agreed on 11 June. For the first time in the two weeks since the reservists were mobilized, David found himself alone, standing in the street in the mellow light of late afternoon. There was the usual sense of anticlimax when released by the army, a floating feeling of loss of structure and routine, as well as that of renewed freedom and exhilaration at going home. But it was different this time. For a short while he needed to be alone, much as he longed to rush back to the flat. Only now, in this pause, could he begin to take in that he had been, for these intense days, at war: that the war was now over.

  His solitude lasted only a moment. His army uniform drew passers-by towards him.

  ‘Are you back from the Front? Where you been – the Golan, Sinai?’

  ‘You boys have done a great job – you are the jewel of the state of Israel!’

  ‘When you think what might have happened . . .’

  ‘. . . if the Arabs had won . . . God knows . . .’

  An elderly lady hurried from the shade of her doorway and David found himself clasped against her diminutive form as she pulled him down to rain kisses on his cheeks, chattering all the while in a blend of Hebrew and Russian before letting him go on his way.

  But there was no mood of exhilaration, not then. Just a deep, sober relief, after this nation of refugees had faced the old fears of being driven out once again. The build-up of hostilities had been terrifying: the border skirmishes with Syria and Jordan, the chilling threats from Nasser in Egypt that he would drive the Israelis into the sea, of genocide. During those six days in June, the Israelis had managed to destroy most of the air power of Egypt and Syria and take control of the Golan Heights, the Gaza Strip, the west bank of the river Jordan including eastern Jerusalem, the Western Wall, the Temple Mount, and the whole of the Sinai Peninsula. It had been an astonishing victory.

  But any excitement was dampened by exhaustion, a numbness which enveloped him now. His own unit had been in the north of Sinai, under Major-General Ariel Sharon. The last three days had been of constant fighting until they had broken through the defences at Abu-Ageilah, south of El-Arish. The Egyptians had retreated in panic and the Israelis were able to sweep through the Gulf of Suez. One of the finest moments had been the yelps of joy as his unit flung themselves into the waters of the Gulf, fully clothed, soaking themselves after the parched desert, in the waters of victory. It had been sweet indeed, a victory won with merciful speed. But now his greatest desire was for home: for peace and normality, and to see the faces of his wife and son.

  On the way to the apartment, though, he stopped at a call box and dialled the number of his aunt in Haifa. She had a telephone now.

  ‘Who is it? Rudi? David – is that you?’ Her voice was shrill with nervous tension.

  ‘It’s OK, Auntie,’ he told her. ‘It’s me. I’m safe – and almost home.’

  ‘Oh, thank God! I have been so worried – I couldn’t eat, or sleep . . . And poor Gila – how is she? She has been worried half to death as well.’

  ‘I’m just going home,’ David told her. ‘I won’t talk now – I just wanted to let you know I’m OK.’

  ‘You’re all right? Not injured? Nothing?’

  Nothing. I’m fine – really.’

  ‘You are miraculous,’ she said. ‘And now Rudi . . .’ She could not resist calling him that, the name he was called originally, in Germany. ‘You go home and see your wife . . . And telephone Edith. I spoke to her. Of course she is worried sick too. In fact, I know you – you are in a call box somewhere with no money left . . . I shall call England for you – let them know that you are OK . . .’

  ‘Thank you, Auntie . . .’ He rang off, smiling. He enjoyed her fussing. And her concern for Edie, so far away in Birmingham. He knew Annaliese was deeply fond of Edie and Anatoli, and grateful to them. And she had kept him strictly in touch with them at times when he had found the tensions of his identity too difficult. At times in the past he had wanted to forget his Englishness, simply to lose contact with them and pitch himself in totally as an Israeli with no other ties. Annaliese understood him all too well.

  ‘You think no one else has to struggle with where they have come from – with living in this thorny country? She has been as a mother to you, and don’t you forget it!’ Yes, he would telephone, or write very soon.

  Now he felt ready for home. A year ago he and Gila had moved to a slightly bigger apartment in the same settlement. Standing outside, now it seemed to him an immensely long time since he was last there.

  ‘Doodi!’ She had seen him from the tiny balcony and as he went to the door he heard her sandals slapping on the stairs, and Shimon’s eager voice. The two of them erupted into the little hallway.

  ‘Daddy, Daddy!’

  Laughing, David bent down next to the apartments’ mailboxes and scooped Shimon up into his arms.

  ‘Oh, you big boy, you are so heavy! You have got bigger just in a couple of weeks!’

  Gila was more joyful, more girlish, than he had seen her for a long time. Maybe things would be OK now, he thought. But he could see the strain in her face, the tightness of the skin round her eyes. Once he could put Shimon down they fell into each other’s arms and just held each other. She pressed her face against his chest and he stroked her dark, wiry hair. He felt her begin to shake.

  ‘I was sure you were going to die . . .’ And then she was sobbing, the fear and anguish pouring out, and he held her helplessly.

  ‘But I did not die, I’m here. I’m here – don’t get in such a state . . .’ As time went by he could fathom her emotions less and less.

  He felt Shimon clinging to his leg, silent, understanding the seriousness of the moment. He was seven now, physically strong, but emotionally fragile.

  After a few moments, Gila looked up, face crumpled, tears rolling from eyes which held a wild look. ‘I had a bad feeling. Very bad.’

  ‘Ssssh – it’s OK now.’ He was moved, yet a little frightened as well. Less and less did he see the tough sabra girl he had married. But her vulnerability stirred him. Holding her close aroused him at once, and he wanted her.

  Much later, after making love, when Shimon was sleeping in the tiny second bedroom, they lay awake together long into the night.

  ‘Are you not tired?’ she asked.

  ‘Absolutely exhausted,’ he said. ‘But I’m still primed for action.’

  ‘I noticed.’ She was able to tease now, stroking his side, fingers playing his ribcage like a piano. ‘Plenty of action.’

  ‘Once I sleep, I
expect I will sleep for ever.’ He wanted sleep to block out the images of the past days. Over and over in his mind he saw the fleeing Arab refugees, possessions in bundles like those of the Jews before them. What were they doing to these people? Where were all their high-minded kibbutz ideals of equality now?

  ‘He’s wetting badly,’ Gila said. ‘Worse than before.’

  Shimon’s bed-wetting had been a problem for some time now. Auntie Miriam had said, ‘I expect he is anxious, living away from you. When he moves out from here back to you, it will stop.’

  But he had been back home for a year and still he woke often, crying in the night with wet sheets, or they found him sodden in the morning. His new school, they told each other, that must be the problem. He had started school in Tel Aviv, then moved to one in Jerusalem. He had had too many changes.

  ‘My being away. The war,’ David said. ‘Everyone has been talking about nothing else. It’s bound to unsettle him.’

  ‘Dr Hirsh says he will grow out of it. That we should lift him in the night. . .’

  She fretted about her sensitive boy. David understood that she was also worried that he would be a nerve case like her mother, Mrs Weissman. No, he would reassure her. It was her life that made her like that. Shimon will be different.

  They lay close, facing each other. It was a long time, he realized, since they had last lain and gazed like this, into each other’s eyes. He told her she was beautiful and remembered how much he loved her thin, dark-browed face, the sweet unevenness of her little white teeth. Here was this glimpse of love, the freshness of it again for a few moments. In the dimly lit room he could not see the lines on her forehead which he noticed in the daylight. Sometimes she looked girlish, at others much older than her age of twenty-seven. Growing up Israeli you had to be tough, to take on responsibility beyond your years. They heard about the ‘Swinging Sixties’, the carefree and outrageous goings-on of young people in Europe and the USA. But mostly they had been too busy, too much under pressure from his studies and hers. They had had to struggle with juggling where Shimon was to be, missing him dreadfully and quietly blaming each other for his absence even though they knew really that neither of them was at fault.