by Alba Arikha
“You never mentioned her before,” I remarked. “Of all the information you kept in that folder, you never told us about the lady with the French accent…”
“I guess not,” he answered. “It didn’t seem as important as all the rest.”
“But it was…”
“To you maybe. Not to me,” he said abruptly.
We hung up. He was too distraught to continue the conversation. And in truth, so was I. All of it beggared belief, including that Flora had sold her house because of me. There was no other reason. She had moved away because she could not stand knowing something which I didn’t. She had understood me before I had even understood myself. “Pain was shaping who she would later become.” She feared seeing me get hurt. She had chosen to cut me out of her life rather than witness the undoing of my family. But why? Couldn’t she have withheld the truth from me? Couldn’t we have continued to see each other as friends? Wasn’t there a middle ground? No, of course there wasn’t. Flora didn’t do middle grounds. Vincit omnia veritas. Truth conquers all. No white lies for Flora Baum. She was too pure, too virtuous. And impetuous. She followed her emotions. She didn’t compromise. I couldn’t blame her. She had a deep-rooted fear of abandonment. Of treachery. So she chose to flee rather than face me. I understood her. I wish she had trusted me, but I understood. Of course I did. I could forgive her anything. And I had to forgive myself too, for those presumptions I, as well as my family, had made about her. Had any of us discovered the truth, we would have been horrified.
Now it had been revealed. And it was up to me to find her son. She hadn’t formulated it as such, but the message was quite clear. And I wouldn’t give up until I had found him.
*
A friend from my Oxford years, a woman who had been adopted, put me in touch with Harry Yeovil. He had once been employed in an intermediary adoption agency, and now worked alone. “He’s a bit like a private investigator,” she had explained. “And because of the complexity of your case, I strongly urge you to go to him, not a conventional agency.”
My friend had used Harry to trace her birth mother, and had warned me that, as I wasn’t a relative, my quest was going to be nigh on impossible. “Unless the impossible is circumvented,” she had added. “Which is where Harry Yeovil comes in.”
He had echoed her sentiments. Having looked at my case, he thought I had a chance, “though much is conspiring against you”, he admitted. “Then again, two things are on your side: the fact that the adoption was done privately, which means that no records have been held, and the horrors of history. Sorry to say it, but it’s true. The fact that Flora lost her parents in the Holocaust will make your case stronger, only because there’s no way they can trace her roots – and that includes yours.”
Harry explained that my relationship to the deceased required some further “tweaking”. I would have to be upgraded from neighbour to relative. “You’ll be closer to her that way,” he said.
Anything that brought me closer was good. I urged Harry to cut as many corners as he could, and he promised to do his best. “But not all corners are cuttable,” he added, in his mellifluous voice, launching into a long diatribe about data protection and various UK adoption acts. “There are always more formalities than one thinks,” he concluded. “But let’s worry about that later.”
Harry had had sent off a copy of Maurice’s birth certificate to the General Registry Office. He had warned me that the search might take some time, anywhere from a few weeks to a year, information I had baulked at, but he had urged me to trust him – and I did.
Harry was a thoughtful, studious man in his early thirties. He wore his hair parted on the side, and had a penchant for pastel-coloured clothing. He was vague about his background and family. I suspected that he had been adopted as well, and not in the happiest of circumstances. He was equally vague about his sexuality, mentioning “my friend” at various times. But professionally, there was something strong and determined about Harry, which was what I needed. Someone with bravura. I could not, under any circumstances, let Flora down. I was not going to be satisfied until I had found Maurice – or whatever he was now called. Harry had explained that his name had most probably been changed. And while Harry worked at his end, Az and I had both agreed that we would do our own fieldwork, starting with Fletcher Schumann. “He’s probably dead – likewise the wife. But his children shouldn’t be too hard to find,” I had ventured.
Az and I had trawled through the internet and yellow pages. There were a few Schumanns, though no Fletchers. I tried all the ones I could find, as far as Scotland. None of them had heard of a Rosalind or a Fletcher. There was one name left, a Simon Schumann, with an address in Battersea. I had tried ringing, but no one had answered. I had tried so many times that I knew the phone number by heart. I had decided that if no one answered by the following day I would show up at the house. And then I got lucky: just as I was about to hang up, a man’s voice answered.
“Who is this?” It was a gruff voice. I introduced myself, explained that I was looking for Fletcher or Rosalind Schumann. “Would you happen to be a relation?” I asked, in a friendly tone.
I could hear the sound of a television in the background. “Maybe. Why do you want to know?”
“A friend of mine, an older lady, knew Fletcher,” I said. “She’s just died. There’re a few things I wanted to discuss. Would it be possible to speak to your parents?”
Simon paused again. “My father died ten years ago. My mother’s in a home.”
“I see,” I said slowly. “I don’t suppose I could visit her, could I? Or perhaps visit you?”
“You need to tell me what this is about. Otherwise, I won’t be able to help.” Given the supposed pedigree of the family, I had expected a more educated voice. His was snarky. “Are you a journalist or something?”
“No, not at all.” I took a deep breath. “I think it might be easier if I spoke to your mother. It’s rather confidential.”
Simon laughed. A raucous, unpleasant laugh. “My mother doesn’t do confidential. She’s got Alzheimer’s disease.”
I cleared my throat. “I see. Sorry about that. All right then, I’ll try to explain.”
Was it worth going into detail over the phone? Wouldn’t it be better to meet him? What if he hung up on me?
“This might be a bit upsetting for you,” I ventured cautiously. “Perhaps it would be better to meet somewhere.”
“No, it wouldn’t. I work all day. Tell me what this is about. I don’t get upset easily.”
“OK.” I sat down and spoke slowly. “How much did your father tell you about Robert Schumann?”
“Who?”
“Robert Schumann, the classical composer? Nineteenth-century?”
“Oh, him! I don’t know much about his music. I’m more of a jazzer myself,” he confessed, his voice sounding chirpier.
“I understand. Well, what did he tell you about Robert?”
“Nothing really, apart from that we had the same surname.”
“He never told you that you were related? That his father held some of his scores in his house in the country?”
This time, Simon burst out laughing. “House in the country? Scores? What exactly are you trying to say?”
“Your father revealed certain things to my friend, a woman I knew called Flora,” I explained. “He told her that he had grown up in a mansion, that his father owned some of Schumann’s scores and that Robert was a relation of yours.”
“Well, either she didn’t hear him right or my father was lying. And he was no liar.”
“No, of course not. Could you tell me then what you think he meant by that?”
“How would I know? I’m not my father,” he snapped, his tone gruff again.
“No, but you may have an idea? I mean, where did he grow up? Do you know a bit about his background?”
“He was fr
om Slough. His father was an insurance broker, his mother a nurse. No sodding country mansion. No money. No Robert in the family that I ever knew of. The Schumann we were related to was some German pharmacist from Bavaria.” He paused. “Who was this Flora anyway?”
I hesitated before answering. “A friend of his. A woman he had an affair with, a very long time ago.”
There was another silence at the other end of the line. “I see. Why do I need to know this?”
“Because Flora believed your father about Robert Schumann, and I wanted to confirm that what she believed was the truth. I now see that it wasn’t.”
“No,” Simon corroborated. “It wasn’t.” He paused again. “My father had a few Floras in his life. But that didn’t make him a liar.”
“Of course not.” I wanted to add more, but held myself back. “Thank you for your time,” I said instead.
“That’s all right.” He paused again. There was no longer
a sound in the background; he had switched the television
off.
“Was she keen on my father, this Flora?” Simon asked, with some hesitation in his voice.
“Yes,” I answered. “She was. He broke her heart.”
“I’m sorry.” His voice dropped. “He broke my mother’s heart too.”
Then he hung up without saying goodbye.
*
In the middle of it all, a French fashion designer asked me to provide catering for her daughter’s wedding. It was a major booking, and I couldn’t afford to turn it down. The wedding was in August, so I had time to prepare.
But my head was in a different place. For the first time in many years, food had been supplanted by something else: Flora. What she wrote, how she wrote and what she sounded like. Because I could hear her speaking to me again, her low and faintly accented voice rising from her crowded, cursive writing.
The neatness of her flowery letters belied the urgency of her tone. Had it been me, my handwriting would have been scruffy and quasi-illegible. But Flora’s suggested a woman who could distance herself from her emotions. A woman who, despite what she had undergone in her life, understood that even despair requires a modicum of self-control. That sinking further would only defeat her purpose.
Ben, who had read the memoir during his subsequent visit, was in a similar state of excitement. “Bloody hell,” he kept repeating. “And how she had to give her baby up – man, that must have hurt,” Ben continued heatedly, pacing back and forth. “And what about that Israeli writer dude? Do you know anything about him?”
“No,” I answered, “but I looked him up. He’s a very good-looking guy, like his father was, I imagine. I’ve written to his agent, hope I’ll hear back quickly. From what I gather he writes thrillers, mostly. I want to meet him or talk to him at least. It could be interesting.”
I poured myself a glass of white wine, handing Ben a Diet Coke. He took a few sips and replaced the glass on the counter. “Listen,” he said, sounding serious. “I want to help you find him. I want to come and help you search for Maurice. Or whatever his name is.”
“Do you really? That would be great.”
I explained what I had been doing with Harry. How he had warned me that the administrative side of things might take some time. “I’m not related to her, so we’re going to have to lie and pretend that I am.”
“Of course,” said Ben. “There’s no other way. I’m a strong believer in bullshit when it comes to getting immediate action.”
I laughed. “I’m honest. I tend to play by the rules.”
He paused and smirked. “You won’t this time, if you want any answers.”
*
Harry had good news. “Things are moving along swiftly,” he said, crossing his fingers. “That’s why I called you in to see me.”
“Really? How swiftly?” I asked.
“I found him,” he said slowly. “I found Flora’s son and I spoke to him. But there’re a few issues which I need to discuss with you.”
“But that’s fantastic!” I exclaimed. “Where is he? What’s his name?”
“I can’t give you that information yet. All I can tell you is that his name is not Maurice. But one thing at a time,” Harry cautioned me. “There’s one more hurdle before we’re done. And then I can put you in touch.”
“Hurdle?”
“Well, it’s not really a hurdle,” he backtracked. “The agency I’m dealing with would like to meet you,” he stated, sounding nervous.
“What kind of an agency?” I was worried.
“A government-registered adoption agency. It’s part of the procedure. As you saw in the document I sent you, you’re required to sign a declaration certifying that you and Flora are related.”
I gasped. “What document? You never sent me anything! How am I going to certify it if it’s a lie?”
Harry spoke slowly. “I sent you a document which I send to all my clients. It’s called ‘Different stages in the intermediary process’. If you didn’t read it, I’m sorry.”
“So am I,” I mumbled.
“The document in question,” Harry continued, “explains what the process of tracing a relative entails. Now – and please listen carefully…” he added, speaking firmly.
“I am.”
“You have become Flora’s cousin, thrice-removed, on her father Maurice’s side.”
“Have I?”
“Yes. Maurice’s brother’s son, David, had a daughter, Anna, who later married your grandfather.”
I was flummoxed. “Yes, Anna was my grandmother. How did you know that? How did you figure this out?”
“I did a bit of research. So for the time being, Anna was as Jewish as you have now become.”
“Fine.”
“And as your father’s history is equally murky,” he continued, “that makes you a lucky woman. But you still have to sign that paper,” he added.
I squirmed in my seat. “I’m a law-abiding citizen, Harry, I cannot lie in front of an official, can I?”
“Official is a big word, and you’ll be all right,” he reassured me. “I understand why you’re nervous. But it isn’t entirely a lie, either. Stop seeing it as one.” He paused. “You do want to meet him, don’t you?”
“Yes of course!”
“Well, then you’re going to have play the game. And in any case,” he continued, “Flora mentioned in her memoir that you could have been her daughter, right? In a way, given what you’ve inherited from her, it wouldn’t be that far-fetched to say you’re related.”
“I guess,” I answered. “But what if they ask me to show, I don’t know, my father’s birth certificate? I don’t even know if I have it!”
Harry spoke calmly. “They’re not going to ask you for your father’s birth certificate. He doesn’t really matter to them. What matters is you and Flora. That’s the link they want on paper, which they’re not going to get. All we have is the birth certificate, which is a big plus. It indicates some sort of filial connection, because otherwise, why would you have it?”
“That’s true. And the memoir?”
He hesitated. “I would keep it as a last resort. Bring it to the meeting and only pull it out if you think you really need to.”
*
I received a reply from Ezra Bernheim. He thanked me for getting in touch. My email had taken him by surprise, he wrote, because few people knew who his father really was. Ever since he was a child, his mother had maintained that Ezra had been a soldier, killed on the battlefield. A hero whom she had loved very much. Then, when Ezra turned eighteen, she finally told him the truth. That yes, they had loved each other very much, but to some people he was a traitor – although to Lotta, and others as well, he would always be a hero. “It was a hard one to digest,” he admitted. “And I’m still digesting it. What happened that day in 1946 divided the nation.”
&
nbsp; He went on to tell me that his mother had moved to Berlin in the ’80s. She had remarried – a prominent German journalist. She seldom came back to visit. “Too much baggage, I guess,” he said. But Ezra had stayed in Israel. One of the ways of confronting his demons, he explained, was to write books. Another way was to find out as much as he could about who his father really was. “Which is why I was so interested in hearing from you. I want to hear from anyone who knew him, aside from his Irgun sidekicks, whom I’ve already spoken to. How much do you know about Flora and Ezra? How did you meet Flora?”
I explained. I didn’t elaborate on any details, only mentioning that I had met Flora when she lived in Notting Hill. She had told me about her days in Palestine and her relationship with Ezra. I didn’t tell him about the memoir, as it seemed too personal. He had never met Flora after all, so why tell him more than was needed?
Ezra’s emails became more heated. He admitted that he had been very upset after Flora had declined to meet him. “I knew she was lying,” he wrote, “and that she wasn’t leaving the country at all. She obviously didn’t want anything to do with me, or my father. He was a terrorist, so I understand. But still. From what my mother told me, they had been in love with each other.”
I explained. That indeed, his father had been the only love of Flora’s life. That although she had branded him a murderer, I didn’t think she had ever stopped loving him. But that finding out about his son’s birth had upset her. “I think she would have liked to have had a child with him,” I wrote. Then I immediately wished I hadn’t. But it was too late. Ezra asked me to ring him, and I did.
We spoke for a long time. His English was very good, despite an Israeli accent. He asked me several times how come I knew so much about Flora, but however much I wanted to tell him the truth, I couldn’t. Flora had asked me to find her son. Not Ezra’s. I needed to safeguard her privacy, and so I did. I told Ezra that she had confided in me a few times, but then she had moved and I hadn’t heard her name mentioned for many years, except to find out that she had died.
