Luc squeezed Jenny’s hand. She had uttered only a few words since the drownings but also refused to cry, which troubled him at a distant level. He hadn’t paid enough attention to her needs; he knew it. But she had Nel fussing over her day and night. He felt clumsy, too broken to offer the right words of comfort that seemed to fall from Nel in a constant stream of support accompanied by embraces, little strokes and glances that he simply couldn’t find the capacity for. When he’d arrived at the gravesite his little girl’s resemblance to her mother – normally so charming – now seemed to mock his loss. Her eyes looked bruised and hollow from no sleep and her complexion was a ghost of the healthy summer glow of just a week ago. Her hand felt tiny in his; even her normally straight stance appeared broken.
He watched the vicar’s mouth murmur a prayer and heard people respond with a sombre ‘Amen.’
Why? What rhyme or reason did the heavens have for constantly battering his life with loss? How much more could be taken from him?
Then pay your debts, whispered a voice in his mind. And then we will be done with you.
PART FOUR
November 1964
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Nel gave a snort of exasperation. ‘It’s been nine months,’ she tried.
Yes, and I should have had a new son or daughter in my arms by now. I should have three children, not one, he growled in his mind.
‘Luc, come back, for Jenny’s sake,’ she pleaded.
He drifted from his thoughts and his gaze fixed on Nel, well aware of the strange void of a landscape he’d been walking these last months. Was it really nearly a year since Lisette and Harry had died? It felt like yesterday. The pain felt just as tinglingly raw as the day they had buried his beloved wife and son. Did Nel think he didn’t understand that he had been absent in his mind? He knew it, but it was better than a drug for dulling the pain. He had been going through the motions of life, working so hard his body ached at night and so fatigued in the fields he could drop, yet sleep eluded him.
He’d lie awake at night, staring at the curtains that Lisette had made, looking at the wardrobe where her clothes hung, or getting up to touch the hairbrush where some of her hair still clung. He’d sometimes spray her perfume onto the pillow so he could pretend she was still there – fragrance could always transport him. And there were times when he’d sleep in Harry’s bed, hoping to catch a sense of his boy if he could lie his head down on the same pillow. He’d refused Nel’s offer to tidy Harry’s room or store Lisette’s things.
‘Leave it like it is,’ he’d replied, ‘just as they left it.’ He knew it was pointless. He knew the more he tried to disappear into his memories, the further they drifted from him.
‘It’s been long enough, Luc,’ Nel said firmly. ‘No one’s saying you shouldn’t grieve for them, but you have to stop punishing yourself. You have to join the land of the living again.’
‘I don’t know how,’ he admitted. He tried to hide his anger because it wasn’t Nel’s fault, although he knew he laid some blame at her door. She should have been there when Lisette and Harry needed help. But he was convinced Nel was doing a more than adequate job of beating herself up daily, but he didn’t have room to bother with anyone else’s feelings, only his own agony.
‘Find a way,’ she pleaded, searching his face. ‘Tom and I are here for you. But more importantly, you have a daughter to think about. We’re not enough for her, Luc. I’ve tried to be there for her, both of us have. We’ve raised her these last nine months because we love you both and knew you needed our support. But she’s blaming herself and nothing we say or do is helping. She’ll be turning fourteen soon. She shouldn’t have this guilt on her shoulders and she shouldn’t watch a father she loves gradually disappearing from her.’
Luc sighed. He didn’t think he could help her either. He was as messed up as Jenny was.
He must have said it aloud. He wasn’t sure. But Nel was reaching up and grabbing his face in both hands.
‘Look at me!’ she demanded. He focused again on her angry eyes. ‘There’s a teenage girl here who is lost. Now, I don’t care how sad you are, Luc, but you are her father. And you are all she has left … and she is all you have in the whole world. You of all people knows what it means to have no family. Do you want the same for her? Think about that!’ She gave a sound of disgust.
Her final words felt like a slap, and he knew she regretted them.
‘I’m bringing her home this evening. And you are going to start being a father to her again. She loves us, Luc, but Jenny’s refusing to live with us a day longer; threatens to run away to the city almost every week because she thinks you don’t love her. She wants to be home. She hates school. She hates everything. She misses them as much as you do. Remember, Luc, she was there. She blames herself for not being fast enough or strong enough to swim back in time to get help. And you have to dig yourself out of your grief for Jenny’s sake and make her see it differently.’
Nel put her hands in the air as if to stop herself uttering any more, as if to say Enough! ‘All right, Luc,’ she began again in a calmer tone. ‘There’s a casserole in the oven, which you two are going to share and you are going to talk over. It’s going to feel strange for both of you to live together again but it’s either this or lose her. You’ve got a chance to rekindle your relationship and it doesn’t matter if you both weep through the night or every night for a while but hold her, Luc. Hold your little girl close, tell her you love her and that none of this is her fault. She thinks you blame her as much as she blames herself. She’s the daughter I could never have, and so help me, Luc,’ her voice rose, ‘I’ll take her from you if you don’t—’
‘Nel!’ It was Tom. He’d arrived back after a trip to the local store and had taken swift stock of the conversation. ‘Go wait in the car.’
She left, but not before glaring at Luc. ‘You mind my words, Luc Ravens.’
He heard the fly screen door bang shut. Raising his head, Luc regarded Tom, who had been rock solid for him, and always at his side with the right words and a strong shoulder. He’d stood next to him when Luc had kissed his two beloved people farewell at the funeral house; he’d made all the arrangements for him when he was incapable at the time; he’d stood shoulder to shoulder as they’d buried mother and son. He’d toiled quietly in the fields with him in the weeks and months following, more to keep an eye on him in case he did something regrettable. But Luc could feel it now. Tom didn’t need to say anything. Like Nel, he’d also reached his plateau of tolerance.
‘You have to get your fuckin’ life together, mate,’ Tom said, leaning his freckled hands, balled into fists, on the table. Luc heard his friend’s knuckles crack beneath the pressure, and though the words were harsh, his voice was gentle. ‘No one says it’s easy. But harden up now. They’ve gone; nothing will bring them back and this is no life you’re living. You’re better off lying with them up there in the white field. But you have someone else to think of besides yourself, mate. You owe her. She’s a great girl – she’s strong, she’s smart, she’ll make you proud one day. But you’re gonna lose her, mate, unless you get your head together now. You and Jen can help each other. Promise me you’ll try?’
Luc nodded. Nel’s words about having no family were still thundering in his mind but it was Tom’s gruff counsel that got past his defences.
‘I promise,’ he said, clearing his throat.
‘Good. Here, I’ve brought some fresh stuff at the store and I picked up your mail. It’s gonna be a cold one tonight. Frost tomorrow. There’s wood ready on the pile. Build a fire, sit and talk – don’t mope there in that shruggin’ frog silence of yours. We’ll drop Jenny home but we won’t come in. I’ll call back tomorrow, okay?’
‘Thanks, Tom. Thanks for everything.’
The fly screen door banged again and he heard the DeSoto’s engine start up and the wheels crunch softly over the gravel of their drive. And then there was quiet. Just him and the hum of the empty fridge. He stared
absently at the bread, the apples, the milk and the bottle of Abbott’s lemonade for Jenny. He sighed, stood up and put the milk and soft drink into the fridge and returned to the table to put the fruit into the empty bowl when his gaze fell on the letters. On the top was a blue envelope with Par Avion emblazoned on it. An air letter and addressed to him. Regular aerogrammes used to arrive from England from Lisette’s grandfather, although they’d become less frequent since her granny passed away.
Who could be writing to him? He didn’t have any contacts left in Europe. He picked it up and noted the bold, neat handwriting and the French date stamp. Strasbourg. How odd. Luc turned the letter over, frowning. Mr M. Vogel. Not a name he recognised and an address that meant nothing to him. He fetched a knife, sat down again and slit open the envelope. The letter was written on tissue-thin matching blue airmail paper and covered several sheets. As he unfolded the sheets something fell out. It was a photograph. He picked it up. It was grainy, showing a picture of a man – a face in a crowd. He happened to be staring straight at the camera, although it was obvious he didn’t know he was being photographed. He was smiling, serving someone at a counter, it looked like, and others were waiting patiently.
His face was compiled of unremarkable features: small eyes, set close and dark over an unimpressive nose, a narrowish mouth with no firm outline to the lips and small teeth he could barely make out in the photo. Hair that Luc recalled as dark brown definitely looked thinner, but shaggier. It had once been cut precisely over the small ears with a sharp side parting, but now he thought he could just see it curling at his neckline, as though he’d not had time to have it cut, or was that a disguise? All in all, he was the image of a man whose facial appearance one might instantly forget once out of sight and that was surely this evil creature’s weapon. He was forgettable, but not to Luc. Luc recognised the face of the devil instantly – as he was surely meant to by the sender. Kriminaldirektor Horst von Schleigel once more stared at him. Luc kicked back his chair and stood, moved to the sink and poured himself a glass of water that he drank slowly, trembling, forcing himself to breathe. But it didn’t work; he ran for the bathroom and his quiet house echoed to the sound of his gagging.
Later, after washing his face, brushing his teeth and finally returning to the table, he sat down before the letter, ready to confront whatever it contained. He turned the photo of von Schleigel face down; he couldn’t bear to have that hideous face smiling at him … not in this house. Luc picked up the letter and began to read; he didn’t realise he was holding his breath as he devoured the contents. When it was finished he sat back and stared at the clock on the wall, trying to wrestle all the tangled emotions the letter had prompted back into some order, but it felt impossible for the shocks had come like punches, one after another.
It was Kilian’s son who had written.
He had corresponded with Lisette.
He had learnt that Bonet, Ravensburg and Ravens were the same man.
He was a stranger who nearly two decades on had pieced together the final days of the Bonet family and had learnt the full fate of Sarah and especially Rachel.
He explained it all in succinct, carefully constructed detail. Max Vogel told it like a story, filling in the gaps that had tormented Luc since that summery day in 1942 when his adopted Jewish family had been arrested and bundled out of Saignon.
It seemed Vogel wasn’t content with this, though, and the lure of von Schleigel had proved too much. According to Kilian’s son, it had taken months of painstaking work but he’d set out to search for this man of the Gestapo – and finally he’d found him. The photograph attested to that. Luc reread the final paragraphs.
Your wife asked me not to write again but I’m defying her for what I sincerely believe are the right reasons. I know what it’s like not to know about family; I’m sure you’d rather be aware of what occurred at Auschwitz, no matter how much pain it brings. You also have information I wish to know. I am happy to exchange it for what I have learnt. I live between Switzerland and France but I can meet you anywhere in Europe you choose; our family home is in Lausanne – where you are most welcome as my guest – but the city of our meeting is your choice. I look forward to hearing from you. The attached is a faithful copy of a witness statement from the Federal German Archives and the photo was taken a fortnight ago from the day this letter is dated.
If you wish to learn where von Schleigel is, then it is now up to you.
Luc put the letter down and rested his head in his hands. The crush of sorrowful thoughts as the various deaths of his loved ones crowded in was nevertheless laced with an overriding thrill. He was ashamed that he could feel this prick of dark pleasure but he needed something to angle the pain at and no one deserved that vengeance more than von Schleigel, whose ugly handiwork was now stamped over Rachel and Sarah’s deaths.
Maximilian Vogel had come into his life at the perfect moment. This letter, its horrible contents and especially its enclosure, smashed down Luc’s barriers and reached through darkness to present him with a fresh purpose. He’d been holding a rage for nearly twenty years and losing his wife and son so tragically had tipped him over the edge. He knew he couldn’t hold that darkness in any longer. Max had given him the escape valve he so needed. Now he would lay the ghosts to rest … now he would pay his debts.
And maybe there was hope for a new life … a different one. But he couldn’t think about that now.
He turned the photograph over and stared at it again. The face brought back horrendous memories and a host of forgotten promises that Lisette’s death gave him permission to fulfil at last.
The fire was crackling quietly in the sitting room – just an odd spit and pop reminding him it needed topping up. But the kitchen was warm from the oven and especially from the love that had rekindled when Luc had reached across and covered Jenny’s small hand with his own.
It was as though floodgates had opened and she’d thrown down her knife and fork and fallen into her father’s arms, sobbing onto his shoulder. He cried with her. And it felt right. He held his daughter. No matter how grown up she tried to appear, she was still his baby girl and he’d forgotten until this moment how much he loved her. Guilt washed over sorrow that he’d taken this long to show her just how much.
Jenny kept repeating, ‘I’m sorry, Dad …’ But he knew she didn’t need consoling that it was an accident. This was a personal battle she would wage and ultimately overcome in time; what she needed was assurance that their love was strong enough until she came through.
‘I’m sorry too,’ he said instead. ‘I’m sorry I wasn’t there.’
‘I’ve missed you, Dad. I love Nel and Tom, but …’
‘I know, I know, ma belle. Forgive me. I’ve been lost and I’ve had a struggle to find my way back to you. It’s as though I’ve been ….’ He couldn’t find the right words.
‘Like you’ve been drowning?’
Their gazes connected and he nodded slowly.
‘Me too,’ she said.
He smiled sadly. ‘I wish I could have spared you this.’
‘I don’t know why Harry deserved to die.’
‘He didn’t. Neither of them did. Sometimes when fate knocks, it’s a bright visit – like the day I met your mother. Other times it brings sorrow. None of us control fate.’
‘But why Harry?’
He shook his head helplessly; he had been asking himself the same thing. ‘Jenny, I can’t help you with this question but we can help each other to learn to live without Mum and Harry. It’s been long enough. We’ll never forget them, but we must try to find a new way instead of this strange half-life I’ve allowed us to fall into.’
Jenny snuggled into his shoulder. He continued stroking her dark hair and finally broached what had been on his mind since the afternoon.
‘Listen to me now, Jen.’
She had been crying softly but now she sniffed. ‘What? I’ve had enough of lectures from Aunty Nel and Uncle Tom.’ He smiled.
‘Look at me.’
She lifted her head, her red, watery eyes regarding him, and he could see the defiance in them. She was her mother’s girl, all right. ‘How do you fancy taking some time off school?’
Jenny blinked. ‘Aunty Nel said school and routine would help me.’
‘Forget what Nel has told you. I’m your father. And I have an idea that might help us both.’
‘Help us both … to what?’
He took a breath. ‘Help us both to start again.’ It sounded horrible. He gestured around their kitchen. ‘Where we are now, Jen, it’s just too sad. Everywhere is Mum and Harry. It doesn’t matter if I’m out in the fields or in here. I cling to the kitchen because that’s where Mum spent so much time; I lie in Harry’s bed just to feel closer to him; I won’t let anyone change anything in the house in case we lose what we have left of them.’
She nodded. ‘I know. I wear his pyjamas each night. I stole Mum’s perfume.’
‘I noticed,’ he said. ‘It suits you.’
She found a thin smile. ‘Mum was so beautiful.’
‘So are you.’
‘You’re my dad – you have to say that.’
He stared at her, sitting back to look at her fully. ‘You don’t think you’re pretty?’
Jenny snorted. ‘Are you kidding? All of you were so good-looking. Harry was growing into you and I could even see my teachers staring at you.’
He laughed genuinely. It was a strange sound to hear.
‘All of you got the looks. I got the brains of the family.’
‘And the modesty?’
She shrugged.
Luc pulled her closer. ‘Oh, my girl, I could tell you some stories about your mother that would make your hair curl. Neither of you were really old enough to hear much about our early years but Mum was something else. Not just a stunner but one of the brightest, smartest people I’ve ever met.’
‘Don’t make me laugh.’
The French Promise Page 24
