Time Passes Time

by Mary Wood

  Jacques waited, wanting to give her time to process her painful memories.

  ‘A Russian soldier heard my cry. We were saved, but not many of us, and some died anyway, too sick to recover. But it is all so long ago now.’ Without warning she changed the subject: ‘Your great-grandfather was a good man. So you must be Pierre’s son? How is he?’

  To his telling her all he knew of his father and his quest to know more about him, she shook her head. ‘A brave man. You must be proud of him. I do know someone who you could talk to: Gustov Gustov is still alive. Gustov and your father played as boys and grew up together. When your father went to university in France, Gustov went to work in your great-grandfather’s factory. I will take you to meet him. You can talk to him and I will interpret for you. Gustov escaped the fire . . .’

  ‘But . . . but I thought no one got out!’

  ‘Only Gustov. He was a thin young man, and he is double-jointed. He could get through the bars of a gate by dislocating his arms and then his legs. He worked in a circus for many years after the war. When the fire started, he got through bars that your great-grandfather had erected over the waste outlet in the basement and swam out along the sewer. He lived down there until the end of the war. It is a remarkable story. At night he came out and stole food and water. It is a miracle he was never caught.’

  Sitting across from the strange-looking wiry man, Jacques suddenly felt unsure. What should he ask? Would his questions stir up painful memories for this man? Gustov and Verkona chatted for a while. He caught a few of words: ‘son of Pierre . . . wants to know about him . . .’

  When Gustov looked over at him, it was with a fierce, penetrating gaze. ‘Yes, I can see the likeness. Pierre was the boy’s age when he left. He is dead, you say? Executed? Yes, I can imagine that would be the fate of Pierre. He was a young man with principles and the courage to see them through. I am sorry. What do you want to know?’

  It was difficult speaking through Verkona, but somehow they managed it and Jacques learned that his father liked to play jokes on others. ‘I remember he called over to me once. He looked strange – bald . . . He told me that we all had to have our hair cut and shaved like his because there was an epidemic of lice. Even our peyos – his peyos were gone! I was astonished, as this couldn’t be possible. I ran to my mother and she told me Pierre was lying. When I came out again, Pierre was laughing his head off and his hair was restored and his peyos hung where they should in front of his ears. Then he showed me the cap. It was rubber and fitted over your head to make it look as though you were bald. It had come from the theatre where his aunty Annagrette used to work.’

  Jacques smiled at this. The thought of this mischief trickled some knowledge of his father into him – a man who, not unlike himself, enjoyed catching his friends out in a joke.

  Gustov was quiet for a moment, and Jacques didn’t want to hurry him. Anxious as he was to ask questions, he respected the man’s right to sift his memories according to how he wanted to present them. Nothing prepared him for what came next. Verkona paled as she translated, often hesitating and asking if he was sure he wanted to hear it as Gustov went into details of the fire. Mesmerized, Jacques nodded.

  ‘The fear was the worst thing. You could smell and taste the fear more strongly than you could the acrid smoke, and the wails of despair from the adults and the high-pitched agonized screams of the children rang in your ears. I can hear them today. I ran. Down into the basement, clambering over others in my haste to escape. I couldn’t save anyone. It wasn’t possible. Not even a child could get through the bars I knew I could get through. I can fold my body.’ In a moment of silence a tear trickled down Gustov’s face. ‘The smoke choked me and stung my eyes. Once through the grid, the stench of the sewer was almost a relief. Standing in the pipe with all manner of stuff running around my feet, I stayed still, trembling, vomiting, not knowing what my next move should be. I held my ears closed against the onslaught of the cries of pain. My nose clogged with the smell of burning flesh. I could do nothing. It took about half an hour for the last whimper to silence. When it did, there was a relief in me. It was so strong, I wept with it. But then began a nightmare of a different kind, as I had nowhere to go and it dawned on me that the sewer had to be my home.’

  From lips that had dried to parchment, Jacques managed to say that he was sorry. But the images and the thought of his family dying in such a way had taken everything from him.

  ‘But you are here to hear about your father, Pierre. I am sorry. I shouldn’t have gone over all of that . . .’

  By the time they left Gustov, Jacques felt as though his father had come alive to him. He’d learned so much about him, and all of it good. A good scholar, footballer and runner, he’d been a loyal friend, and though studious, always had time for Gustov who had struggled with his academic studies.

  He’d listened to an idyllic childhood: camping in the summer, hunting in the winter, trips to the horse racing, and shooting parties. And he felt glad, for history had shown that the boys’ lives were to be short-lived – stolen from them just because they were Jews.

  He made the trip to the site of the factory with Verkona and Gustov. Standing looking at the waste ground, it was hard to imagine such an atrocity taking place there, although the hush that descended on the place had an eerie feel. He felt himself connecting to his family once more.

  Outlining his grandfather’s plans to have a memorial stone here or in the Jewish cemetery, he was pleased that they thought it a wonderful idea and that Gustov would like to take on the project, on behalf of Isaac and Pierre. Gustov didn’t think the Communist regime would object. They were trying to appease the people, who were ready to revolt, so they wanted to look as though they were going along with the people’s wishes. ‘This is something I know the people of Warsaw will get behind, and it can be no more fitting than if it is organized by me – the one and only survivor.’

  ‘I am sure my grandfather would be honoured if you would take the project up. I am telephoning him tonight, and I will see what he says.’

  ‘And will you give my regards to your grandfather, along with those of Gustov?’ Verkona asked.

  ‘I will. I am sure he will be thrilled that you are both alive and well. It will seem impossible to him, but he will be thrilled.’

  Over dinner that night, they talked of happier memories – Verkona’s of Isaac and Gustov’s of Pierre. Lots of little anecdotes came out and were laughed over. There were no more tears. These people had, over the years, shed more tears than should have been allocated to them for a lifetime, and although they had come through it all, they hadn’t come through it very well. Both were extremely poor. Jacques made his mind up to do something about this, and asked them if they would ever consider leaving Poland. Both shook their heads. ‘Not even to come to America?’

  ‘I would love to come for a visit, but that is all. Poland is where my heart is and I will die here.’

  Gustov agreed with this from Verkona.

  ‘Well, then, I will have to try to get you a visit, and very soon. It is easy now. I know I came from England to here, but I had no problem as an American citizen getting here. Travel restrictions are easing all the time and many Americans have been able to welcome Polish friends and relatives to our country. I’m sure we can add another two to the numbers!’

  ‘But . . . well, we cannot afford . . .’

  ‘It will all be taken care of, I promise you. My great-grandfather was very astute and had large amounts of money deposited in an American bank. My grandparents carried on the tradition of the family and ran a chain of jewellery shops until they retired, when, knowing I did not want to go along that route for my career, they sold them. Grandfather is very rich. It will be an honour to get you there and to see to all your needs. As to whether you stay in Poland, leave that an open question until your visit. I will of course book return travel for you.’

  ‘That would be wonderful!’

  Again a flush prettied Verkona’s fac
e. This amused Jacques as he thought of his grandfather. I hope she isn’t expecting the dashing young man he used to be! But then, maybe that was what she would see, as he’d heard that in the eyes of someone in love, the person they loved never changed. He hoped so, though it would feel very strange indeed if his grandfather and . . . No. He couldn’t even think of it.

  His lovely late grandmother came into his mind, with her twinkly smile and kind eyes. No, Grandfather could never love another . . . Anyway, they were too old!

  Later, when he put the phone down after speaking to his grandfather, he was no longer so sure. Grandfather had seemed over the moon that Verkona was still alive and well. His voice had taken on a soft tone when he spoke her name, and his excitement at her coming over for a visit was evident. Grandfather also remembered Gustov, and was amazed he’d escaped the fire, saying, ‘That is wonderful news! I feel a small victory was won over the Germans, and they didn’t even know. We should have his story published so that any of them left alive can know they did not succeed in wiping all of the Jews out who had hidden in the factory. And please tell Gustov I would be honoured to have him arrange the memorial. Tell him to go to a solicitor and to have it all drawn up in an agreement, and to open a bank account so that I can put the funds in that he will need. Well done, Jacques! You have lifted my spirits. At last my dear father, my brother and his family and my sister will have a place that acknowledges their lives.’

  There had been a catch in his voice at this last and something else he couldn’t define. Jacques didn’t let him know he’d heard it, chatting instead about general things and telling of his plans to move on to France in a couple of weeks – after returning to England to visit his grandmama again.

  His grandfather had been pleased with this development in Jacques’s quest to find his mother’s family, but saddened to hear of the plight he’d found his mother in. He’d urged him: ‘Go to see her, son. Go to see her as soon as her mother has made the way clear for you.’

  Yes, he would do that. He would ring his grandmama tonight to see what progress she had made, then tomorrow he would sort out Verkona and Gustov getting visas . . .

  Nineteen

  Life Changes for Lizzie and Theresa is Captured

  London 1963 and France 1943

  Lizzie lay between the snow-white sheets of the hospital bed, their crispness chafing rather than comforting. ‘Observation,’ they’d said, but they hadn’t been near her for hours.

  Unsure of her future she had a dread in her as to what might happen and most of that concerned her dad. Now behind bars, he could face the death penalty. What if that was his fate? How would it feel when it was happening? A shudder took her. Please, God, NO. I know he deserves it, but I don’t think I could bear it.

  Other emotions assailed her as she lay alone. Ken . . . and Rita . . . her whole family gone. A sob caught in her throat. She’d loved them both despite their faults, and she would miss them. Tears broke through. She allowed them. Sobbing into her pillow gave her a little release, but more worries came with thinking of them both. She had their funerals to arrange, but how? She had no money, and no idea how to go about it all – that was, if they ever found Ken.

  The lady in the next bed called out to her from the other side of the curtain. ‘You alright, love?’

  Will I ever be alright again?

  ‘Anything I can do?’

  ‘I – I lost some of me family yesterday.’

  ‘Oh, you poor love. Here, I’ll come and talk to you, if you like?’

  ‘N-No. I – I mean, thank you, but I need to be on me own. I don’t want to be rude . . .’

  ‘No, that’s alright, love. Don’t worry. You let it all out and don’t mind me.’

  Relief settled over her for a moment. Talking with a stranger was the last thing she needed.

  Picking up the second book of Theresa’s memoirs, she determined to lose herself in it to help her to cope.

  The Fateful Mission – 1943

  The stuffy atmosphere of the carriage was unbearable, and it being full of German soldiers added to Theresa’s anxiety. The officer in the corner smoked incessantly, his eyes hardly leaving her through the haze that hung around him. Maybe she was being paranoid. Even if there was a poster circulating with her picture on it, no one would recognize her now. Her hair, now bleached blonde, had been styled onto her face. Her usually thick eyebrows were plucked to a thin line. Glasses, annoying ones as they hadn’t been able to get hold of any with clear glass, and the slight magnifying effect of the reading specs impaired her vision slightly, sat on her nose.

  Looking out of the window, she could see the landscape changing. Countryside gave way to buildings, scattered at first, but now they had taken all the space. Most of them were houses, but some were factories and warehouse-type structures. Thank God, we are entering Paris at last!

  A movement drew her attention back into the carriage. The man sitting next to her stood up. Her stomach muscles clenched as she saw the staring officer in the corner rise too. The hem of his grey coat chafed her shin as he took the place the soldier had vacated.

  ‘Mademoiselle, I have been watching you. You appear nervous. Is anything wrong?’

  ‘No, monsieur. It is hot in here and I need some air. Excuse me. I think I will stand out in the corridor for a while.’

  ‘A good idea. I will come too. Cigarette?’

  ‘No . . . no, thank you.’

  ‘You don’t smoke?’

  ‘No. I do smoke, but I am more in need of air at the moment.’

  ‘Where are you from?’

  They were standing in the corridor, where the air was cooler. Not answering him but taking the opportunity to slide open a window, she tried to put space between them. The stench of stale tobacco coming from him made her feel sick.

  ‘Parisian?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You don’t give much away.’ His latest mouthful of smoke billowed out towards her. ‘What is the purpose of your journey?’

  ‘I have been visiting family.’

  He looked away from her. His cheeks sucked into his teeth, and his lips protruded. He was considering her answer. Turning, she went as if to walk away, but his hand grabbed her arm. ‘Where are you going?’ His words held a command. His eyes narrowed.

  ‘To the bathroom. We are nearly at my stop.’

  ‘Oh, you are getting off earlier than you thought? I heard you tell the ticket master you were going into the area of Rue Saint David.’

  ‘I – I thought we were approaching there. Yes, look, the next stop after this one is Saint David. I am only going to the outskirts.’

  His hand gripped her tighter. Fear chilled her blood. Her mouth dried. ‘Have you a problem with me, monsieur? I have not done anything wrong.’

  ‘No, but you intrigue me. There is something . . . I’m not sure what. Give me your papers and your bag.’ His head turned and he directed a command into the carriage, ‘Gefreiter!’

  ‘Sir.’ The younger man who had sat next to him stood, clipped his heels, and came out into the corridor.

  ‘Search her bag.’

  The strap of her bag wrenched at her shoulder as he snatched it from her. ‘Now, your papers?’

  Prayers clogged her brain as she pulled her wallet from her pocket.

  ‘Name?’

  ‘Lydia Francome.’ The new name they had given her for this assignment rolled easily off her tongue. Rehearsing it constantly had paid off.

  A draught of air wafted her face as he flicked her ID card close to her cheek. ‘Francome . . . Not Smith? Or Brown?’

  ‘I – I don’t understand.’ Crying would be the thing to do here. I need to show less eoumge, less defiance. She thought of Mater and how much she would like to be held by her at this moment. The thoughts brought on the emotion she needed, and a tear tripped from her eye. ‘I – I’m Lydia Francome. I’ve been on a visit to my aunt. I just want to go home . . .’ The floodgates opened. He looked disconcerted. His corporal said some
thing in German. She tried to sort out the words, but the nearest she could get was that he hadn’t found anything untoward. Thinking of her papier-mâché make-up, she felt relieved that he hadn’t been suspicious of it.

  ‘Very well. You may go.’

  Grabbing her bag and papers, she turned and fled, stumbling into other passengers and tripping over bags. Damn these bloody glasses!

  The laughter of the Germans didn’t sting her as they probably expected it would, but was music to her ears. They had believed her . . .

  Paris in springtime – everyone’s dream, but this Paris was not how she remembered it from her visit as a young girl. Everything then had had an eager anticipation about it – the people, the art, the pavement cafés, the flowers. Even the birds had given off a joy. Now, the streets held sandbags and men in uniform holding guns. A tank churned its chains into the soft tarmac, and heads were down in fear. Clothes were no longer fashionable and vibrant, but tatty and grey. Eyes looked hungry as they stared out of gaunt faces. No wonder she had come to the attention of the officer. Someone should have researched this. Her coat, though not new, stood out amongst what others had. Her freshly styled hair marked her out as someone who hadn’t suffered the shortages. No grime had sunk into her skin.