by Mary Wood
Isaac did not argue. He knew what the Germans were capable of, and did not want his friends in any danger. ‘Where are we to go, my son?’
‘To a farm on the border of Vichy country. You will be safe there. The farmer is very old; all he knows is that you are looking to take your family out of Paris during the Occupation. If asked, he will say you are his son who has come to help him run the farm. There are no neighbours for miles around, and he is known to have a son who went off to make his fortune many years ago. The son has never been seen since, so no one will question his story. He and his neighbours know little of each other, and only met at market when he farmed his land. He hasn’t done so for a long time, but now it must be done. It will be hard work, but you will be safe as the Germans are not in that area. It is near to the designated free area. But never trust anyone, as the French people there are collaborators, and carry out the Germans’ wishes. You will be okay, as you do not look Jewish; Mère and Grandmère do, so they must stay on the farm and never go to market or anywhere. Your name will be Becke – François Becke. Your French is so fluent that nobody will guess that you are not French.’
‘But, son, we must get to America. You must come . . .’
‘We can’t, Father. I know there are still those making their way to America, but we can’t take the risk.’
‘And you, my son? Where will you be? How can we contact you?’
‘I will contact you when I can, Father.’
Isaac felt for the second time in a few short months that his world was crumbling. His arms encircled his son. ‘My Pierre, I cannot bear to lose you. I have lost so many . . . So many . . .’
‘You won’t lose me. I will be safe. I have Grandfather and Uncle Jhona and all of the family looking down on me. I have to fight for them. I have to know a time when the Jews are safe as a people, and to know that I did my best towards that.’
Florida 1963
‘I didn’t see your father again until he brought you to me. He told me about the love of his life – your mother, Theresa Crompton – a British agent we knew as Olivia Danchanté. He told me how she was the bravest person he’d ever met and that she had kept her pregnancy a secret from her colleagues and her bosses in England. She’d carried out all assignments given to her during the whole nine months, and to the letter. Even her cover family knew nothing of you growing inside her. The birth took place with just Pierre present to help her. He’d had to leave her after to bring the baby to us.’
‘D-did my mother never see me again?’
‘Yes, in the early summer following your birth. It was June 1944. They said preparations were under way that could see the beginning of the end of the war. And that they had work to do immediately following this. And again in August of that year. Olivia – I mean, Theresa – should have been lifted out, but she chose to stay and see the last of their planned missions through and to come to see you with Pierre. They had a wonderful time. They were so happy. They picnicked; they danced in the moonlight. They tended to you and indulged you all they could. That was the last time your grandmother and I saw them. They had been involved in the sabotaging of the advance of German troops after D-Day, and their work was all but finished. They had such hope that within weeks the war would be over, but until it was, on French soil, anyway, they would fight on. At the end of it your mother would have to return to England for her official discharge, and then, they would come for us all. They never did. We did not know for a long time what had happened, but then we had the news we had dreaded. We went back to Paris, once it was all over, but all we could find out was that someone had betrayed them to save his own skin. We don’t know when, but they were captured and . . . Oh God, so much pain . . .’
The silence filled the space between them. Jacques couldn’t take all of the pain on to his shoulders, because in his heart was the warm glow of knowledge that his mother and father had loved one another and had loved him, and a pride swelled in him as he thought, They gave themselves in the ultimate sacrifice to ensure my freedom. And with this thought a great love for them surged through him.
Going to his grandfather’s side, he dropped down on his knees and took this beloved man into his arms. ‘Grandfather, I can’t make all of that right, but you have given me something to hold on to. My father and mother are real to me at last. To think of their love for one another and for me, and of them having fun together, means so much to me. I have to go to try to find if I have any family on my mother’s side, but I will be back and I will make you proud of me.’
‘I cannot be more proud of you than I am, son. And I understand. Go with my blessing, but tread with care. You will be a shock to them, and . . . well, they are British, and from what I heard, upper-crust at that, so your birth to their unmarried relative may be a source of embarrassment that they might want to keep quiet.’
‘But this is the sixties! Surely there are no more stuffed-shirt societies, even in Britain!’
‘I think there are, son, though there are those who challenge it more and more. I don’t know anything of your mother’s family. She did say they came from the north of England – Yorkshire – but I don’t think finding them will be a problem. I – I have pictures . . .’
‘What? Of my parents? I thought everything had to be left behind!’
‘I know. We – we did say that, and it is true about most things, but we did bring some papers and there are some family photos amongst them. None of your great-grandparents – my mother and father – nor any of your great-uncle or great-aunt or their families, as I couldn’t carry anything like that with me when I left them behind . . . But of that first weekend and of the time later in the year, when they came to visit, of Theresa and Pierre and you, I have copies of those and I left some at the farm house just in case. I could never give up hope, not completely. We . . . your grandmother and me, we could not look at them. We kept them hidden away, but now I can, and I want to, and I want to share them with you. They are yours. We had no right to keep them from you . . . I’m sorry.’
‘I understand. Please don’t worry. Gee, this is a real turn-up. Where are they? I can’t wait to look on the faces of my parents.’
Fetching the wooden box he didn’t know even existed from under his grandfather’s bed set up an ache of anticipation inside Jacques. And an overwhelming love surged through him as he looked at the picture of his father and mother holding him. Both looked down on him with such love in their eyes, and held him with protective arms. Though he lay in his mother’s arms, his father had his hand over hers and one of his fingers touched his son’s face. Tears prickled his eyes. He blinked and one escaped and trickled down his nose.
‘I know you feel sad, son, but look at them with pride. As they posed for this picture, your dad said to your mom, “This is why we do what we do – for our son and for all the children of the next generation. His life will be different. The Germans have to be beaten.” Your mother replied, “Yes, I know, but I wish it was over and we could stay like this for ever – a family.” Your dad had to dry her tears and comfort her before she could recover to smile for the photo.’
‘Do you hate the Germans, Grandfather?’
‘No, I don’t. Not all of them. They didn’t want what happened, but were powerless to stop it. Those who tried suffered as much as the Jews did, and there are far more good ones than bad. They had been taken over by a wicked regime, but they didn’t realize just how evil until it was too late. I am sorry that they are now suffering as they are. The wall that divides them is just as bad as the walls that divided our people from everything humane. Families are living apart and never allowed to see each other. Those in the East are desperately poor and oppressed. Many millions of innocent Germans lost their lives in the bombing of their country. No, I don’t hate them. I feel for them.’
‘I hate them. At this moment, I hate them like I’ve never hated anyone. They took my life from me. And for what? German supremacy? Well, they didn’t bloody get it, and yet so many suffered and died
whilst they strived for it. God! I can’t forgive them. I can’t.’
‘I don’t blame you, son, but don’t direct your hate at a nation. Direct it at the regime – the Nazi regime – and hope that they never rise again.’
Jacques tried to see things his grandfather’s way, but at that moment, looking into the eyes of his beautiful parents and thinking about the agony of the death suffered by his great-grandfather and great-uncle and great-aunt and his great-uncle’s family – those three innocent little children – he couldn’t. And then, to think, an estimated six million of his fellow Jews, burned, gassed, shot, starved, tortured, experimented on . . . God, how could anyone ever forgive them?
‘Look to the future, son. Learn from the past, but look to the future.’
He knew his grandfather was right, and he would try. ‘Grandfather, do you know where they are buried?’
‘I don’t know. I heard that your father was taken to Alsace. I have a map of it, there in the bottom of the box. I found it after the war in a little second-hand shop selling war memorabilia. See – Camp du Struthof. I read later that they have put a memorial there. It is located on France’s eastern border and on the west bank of the upper Rhine adjacent to Germany and Switzerland. But from what I have researched, it will be distressing to visit it. It was a concentration camp where twenty thousand Jews and dissidents, as they called French Resistance workers, were executed. They say they have kept the conditions realistic. I couldn’t bear to see it.’
‘I will go there. I have to. My father was forced there, so I will go willingly in his memory. I will try to feel what he felt and I know that is where I will get the closest possible to him, as that is the place where he left this earth. But what about my mother?’
‘The stories that filtered through to us were that she was taken to Dachau and shot.’
‘Then I will go there, too.’
‘And, my dear Jacques, would you do something for me, as I fear I will never go back? Will you visit my home in Poland? Will you go there and erect a memorial?’
Eight
Bitterness Corrodes
Patsy and Harriet – Breckton 1963
Studying old stuff was getting to be a pain, but Dad insisted they spend some of their time each day going over and over the diagnostics of what could go wrong with different parts of the body. ‘It will stand you in good stead when you are in that little group of student doctors following the consultant from bed to bed. It may give you an edge over some of the males who will be out to trip you up at every step to make you look foolish. You will be able to turn the tables on them,’ he’d said.
Patsy’s umpteenth sigh provided Harri with the excuse she needed to put down her papers. On doing so she saw Patsy had the newspaper article open in front of her. She’d first looked at it a couple of days ago and hadn’t been right since, though she couldn’t blame her. ‘Is it all getting to you again, love? Have you made up your mind what to do?’
‘I don’t know. Nothing in me is stirred by the picture. You know – no emotions or anything like I should feel.’
‘Not even your instinct as a potential doctor? Surely that part of you is moved, even if you have no feelings for the woman as your mother?’
‘Don’t come all of that with me, Harri. You have no idea with your cosy life that’s never been disrupted in any way.’
‘Stop it! I know you’re upset, but none of what happened to you is my fault and I won’t keep letting you blame me. And don’t start on the other stuff about the family, as all that about you being less than me in their eyes is in the inside of you, not in us. Once you let go of that, you will be a lot happier, though I’m used to you how you are: Grumpy-Knickers carries the world’s woes on her shoulders! If you changed, I wouldn’t know how to go on, as me life revolves around keeping you happy. By, I’d be able to bake a cake in me spare time between me studies.’
After a moment’s silence Patsy laughed. She couldn’t help but join her. This released some of the tension between them.
‘Sorry, love. Don’t know what’s got into me. It must be this woman – me supposed mother – turning up, and in such a predicament. I coped with the fact that I had relatives who knew nothing about me, but she does know, and chooses not to. Part of me wants to meet her, if only to give her a piece of me mind.’
‘Maybe she couldn’t cope with having you . . . Oh, I don’t know, we’ve been over this so many times, but I do know you’ll never find out unless you go to her. I know as I’d want to meet her and find out the truth.’
The telephone ringing cut into their conversation, its shrill tone demanding attention. ‘I’ll go. I think Mam’s out the back, and Dad’s not in.’
‘It’ll most likely be one of his patients, so if he’s not in there’s not much use in answering.’
This shocked Harri. How could Patsy be so off-hand about someone who might need a doctor?
A voice with a similar tone to Patsy’s came down the line, only this one was broad cockney. ‘Is there a Patsy there? Is this the residence of Sarah, Jack Fellam’s daughter?’
‘Aye, it is, and there is a Patsy here. Who’s this calling?’
‘Just put Patsy on, will yer.’
‘It’s for you, Patsy. The woman won’t say who she is.’
The voice sent an instant shock through Patsy. Rita! She dropped the phone.
‘What is it? Patsy?’
The hanging mouthpiece swung to and fro, giving out an increasingly frustrated voice: ‘Hello? Are you there? Hello . . .?’ Harri returned it to its stand. ‘Patsy?’
Her body trembled so violently she had to sit. ‘That was her . . . that Rita that caused me to make the call that led to my uncle killing himself!’
‘That wasn’t your fault, Patsy, love. You were only trying to find your family, and that Rita had used you. Anyroad, you’re only surmising that it was your phone call as triggered what he did, you don’t know for sure. Whatever he’d done, it had come back to bite him and it must have been pretty bad, but it were his doing, not yours. You couldn’t know that he had sommat in him as he couldn’t face. That’s even if he did. No one knows.’
‘But I did know, Harri. I knew all about him and Rita, and . . . well, Rita had said he had used my own mother, and together they had done unspeakable stuff. Her . . .’ Her finger hurt as she stabbed it on the picture of the battered, old-looking woman staring out at them.
‘It were all a long time ago – she’s made up for how she was as a young-un. Look how the village still talks about what she did in the war. Anyroad, how do you know what Rita said is the truth? If she rings again I’ll deal with her or get Mam or Dad to.’
‘She must be ringing because she’s seen the story. Maybe she wants to complete the revenge she started. She . . . maybe she even did this to my mother . . . Oh, God, Harri, what should I do? My mother may need me help . . .’
‘Let’s talk to Mam about it. She’ll know what to do. One thing, though, Patsy, love: you’re not as callous about your mam as you try to make out, and I’m glad about that. I didn’t like seeing you like that. It scared me a bit.’
Patsy suppressed a sigh. Harri was too caring at times, to the point where it got on her nerves. Yes, they were training to be doctors, and having that kind of nature was a good trait, but the profession wasn’t all about caring. Sometimes some tough decisions had to be faced and taken, and you couldn’t let your heart rule your head. Harri was in danger of doing that a bit too often.
A part of her calmed. At least that was one good thing about Harri: she had a good bedside manner, and could make something as massive as this seem everyday and something that could be sorted. Could it, though? And did she want it to be? No, some little part of her would still like to get revenge on her mother and was now wishing she hadn’t cut Rita off. This thought triggered another and something she’d pondered for the umpteenth time came to her, prompting her to ask of Harri: You know, it’s always puzzled me how Rita knew you, or rather what you looked
like. She must have been round these parts after she left the prison.’
‘I’ve thought about that. And I can only think that she must have been the woman who came to Granddad Jack and Grandma Dorothy’s house. I used to stay over quite a bit in the holidays, as we lived in Market Harborough then and I didn’t get to see them often. One afternoon this woman appeared out of the blue in a flash car.’
‘That would be Rita. Everything is flash about her. What did she want?’
‘Well, she wasn’t welcomed – not by Grandma Dorothy she wasn’t. It appeared they had been Land Girls together, or rather this woman had worked on your Uncle Terence’s farm and Dorothy on me granddad’s. She’d come because she’d wanted Granddad Jack’s forgiveness. And he was willing to give it to her, despite Dorothy not wanting him to. You know how lovely Granddad Jack is. Look how he treats you the same as me.’
‘I know. I am a bitch at times. Sorry about me mood earlier. All of you have been good to me and accepted me, although it couldn’t have been easy for your mam. I mean, she had to come to terms with the fact that her then husband had betrayed her just after they were wed, and by raping another! It must have been humiliating for her to be faced with me, and me looking exactly like her own daughter!’
‘Well, we know it was hard for her. Not that she had any love for our dad. She was afraid of him and had married him out of fear.’
‘Harri . . . How do you cope with that? I mean, sometimes I want to wipe out of me mind everything to do with our dad.’
‘I know. It’s like wearing a sackcloth shirt of shame. Like everyone around here knows who you are, who fathered you, and you wonder if they think you might be like him. But I try to hang on to the fact that he was sick in his mind. I try to keep in me how Dad explained it all – how he told us of the undiagnosed split personality syndrome he thought our dad suffered with, and so he couldn’t really be responsible for his actions. That made me feel better. Especially as I’ve looked up schizophrenia and read quite a bit about it.’
