Echoes

by Danielle Steel

  “How could he be so mean?” Amadea asked, looking outraged. “Is that what Papa's family did, too?”

  “Yes, it is. They hated the Germans, as much as my family hated the French.”

  “How stupid. And how mean.” Amadea's heart went out to her. “Would you ever do that to us?” Amadea knew the answer before she said the words.

  “No, I wouldn't. But that was a long time ago, and it was an ugly war.”

  “Then why didn't he see you afterward?” Daphne asked sensibly. Like her sister, she was a bright child.

  “Because he's a stubborn old man,” Amadea said with rancor. Beata had forgiven him years before, and accepted what happened, though it had tormented her for years before she did.

  “What about your sister and brothers?” Amadea asked, still shocked by what she had heard. “They're not dead either?” Beata shook her head. “Why won't they see you?”

  “They don't want to disobey my father,” Beata said simply. She didn't tell them that her father had said she was dead.

  “He must be horrible if everyone is so afraid of him,” Amadea said sensibly. She couldn't conceive of treating people that way. But her own father had been a very gentle man. “And Papa's family, too.”

  “Your mama must be very brave if she wants to see us now. Will your father beat her when she goes home?” Daphne asked, looking worried.

  “Of course not.” Beata smiled at her. “But she won't tell him she came here. He'd be too upset. And now he's old. So is she. I'm so happy she's coming to see us,” Beata confessed with tears in her eyes, which touched both her girls. “I've missed her so much. Especially since Papa died.” Amadea suddenly wondered if her yearly visits to the synagogue had anything to do with it, but she didn't want to ask. Her mother had been through enough. “I just wanted you to know before she came today.” It had been an extraordinary insight into their mother, and both girls were still stunned by it as they walked to school. It was odd finding out that they had a grandmother who had been alive for all these years, and whom they had never seen. Not only a grandmother, but a grandfather, an aunt, and two uncles.

  “I'm glad for Mama that she's coming,” Amadea said quietly. “But I think it was a terrible thing to do. Imagine if she did that to us,” Amadea said, filled with compassion and sorrow for her mother. What a huge, huge loss, to lose everyone she had loved for a man. Although if she hadn't done it, Amadea realized, she and Daphne would never have been born.

  “I'd cry a lot,” Daphne said, looking impressed.

  “So would I.” Amadea smiled, taking her hand to cross the street. “You'd better never do anything stupid like not talk to me, or I'll come and beat you up,” Amadea warned her, and Daphne laughed.

  “Okay. I promise. I won't.” Thinking about their mother, and the grandmother they were about to meet, the two girls walked the rest of the way to school, hand in hand, lost in their own thoughts. Amadea had already forgotten the question in her own mind about whether her grandparents had been Jewish. It made no difference to her. She knew that her mother was Catholic, so she had to have been wrong about that. If her mother was Catholic, then obviously her parents were too.

  8

  WHEN THE DOORBELL RANG AT FOUR O'CLOCK, BEATA stood very still for a minute, smoothed her dress, and patted her hair. She was wearing a plain black dress and a string of pearls Antoine had given her for their tenth anniversary. Her face was startlingly pale. She looked serious and almost breathless when she opened the door and saw her mother standing there, in an elegant black coat over a purple dress. As always, she was beautifully dressed, and she was wearing black suede shoes, and a matching purse. Her black suede gloves were custom made. And she was wearing enormous pearls. Her eyes bored into her daughter's, and without a sound, they flew into each other's arms. Beata felt suddenly like a child who had lost her mother and finally found her. She just wanted to nuzzle her, feel her face, and the silk of her hair. She still wore the same perfume she had worn when Beata was a little girl. And as though it had happened yesterday, she could remember the horror of the day she left. But it was all over now. They had found each other again.

  The years since melted away. She led her mother into the living room, and they sat down next to each other on the couch, as they both cried. Beata couldn't speak for a long time.

  “Thank you for coming, Mama, I missed you so much.” More than she had allowed herself to feel, or could ever say. It all came rushing back to her now. The moments she wished she had been there, when she got married, when Amadea was born … and Daphne… for holidays and birthdays and every important moment in her married life … and when Antoine died. And all the ordinary moments in between. And now she was here. She felt no rage over the years they'd lost, only grief. And now, finally, relief.

  “You'll never know what agony this has been,” Monika said as tears rolled relentlessly down her cheeks. “I promised him I wouldn't see you. I was afraid to disobey him. But I missed you so much, every single day.” She had never gotten over it. In the end, it was like a death.

  “All my letters came back,” Beata said as she blew her nose.

  “I never knew you'd written. Papa must have returned them without showing them to me.”

  “I knew that,” Beata said sadly, remembering her father's handwriting returning them to her. “The ones I wrote to Brigitte came back too. I saw her on the street once, and she wouldn't talk to me. And Ulm and Horst.”

  “We sat shiva for you,” her mother said sadly. It had been the worst day of her life. “He won't allow us to even speak of you. And I think Brigitte is afraid to upset me, so she doesn't say anything.”

  “Is she happy?”

  Her mother shook her head. “She's divorced. She wants to marry someone else. Papa doesn't approve. Are your children Jewish?” her mother asked hopefully, and Beata shook her head.

  “No, they're not.” She didn't tell her mother she had converted when she married Antoine. Maybe hearing that would be too much for her. This was enough. And then her mother surprised her with what she said next. She assumed correctly that Beata had converted. She had somehow thought she would, once she married Antoine.

  “Maybe it's better that way, with the way things are these days. The Nazis are doing terrible things. Papa says they'll never do it to us. But you never know. Don't tell anyone you were Jewish. It would take them a long time to find the records. If you're a Christian now, stay that way, Beata. You'll be safer that way.” It was a powerful thing for her mother to say. And then she looked at her daughter with worried eyes. “What did you tell the children about me?”

  “That I love you, Papa didn't want me to marry Antoine because he was French, and we were at war. I said his family felt the same way about me. The girls were shocked, but I think they understood.” As best one could. It was a big bite, and tough to swallow, but Beata thought they had.

  “Did his family ever see you?” Beata shook her head. “How did he die?”

  “A riding accident. His father had died two weeks before.” And then she smiled. “I'm a countess now.” Her mother smiled, too.

  “I'm impressed,” she teased, with a sparkle in her eye. And with that, the girls came home, and walked cautiously into the room. They looked at the woman they knew was their grandmother, and saw the smile that lit up their mother's face. She introduced Amadea to her first, and then Daphne, as her mother sat looking at them with tears rolling down her cheeks, and she held out both hands to them. “Please forgive me for how foolish I have been. I'm so happy to meet you both. I'm so proud of both of you. You're so beautiful,” she said, dabbing at her eyes with a lace handkerchief, as the girls slowly approached. Daphne thought she looked nice. And Amadea wanted to ask her questions about why she had let her husband be so mean to their mother, but she didn't dare. She thought she looked like a good person. She cried a lot, and their mother did, too. And as they all drank tea together, and talked, they realized that she reminded them a lot of their mother. She even sounded l
ike her. They had a lovely time together, and finally Monika stood up, as Daphne looked at her with interest.

  “What are we supposed to call you?” It was a sensible question for an eight-year-old. Amadea had wondered about it too.

  “Would Oma be all right?” Monika asked hesitantly, glancing first at them and then Beata. She hadn't earned it, but it was an endearing term for grandmother. “I'd be honored if you'd call me that.” Both girls nodded, she hugged them both before she left, and then held Beata in her arms. They couldn't get enough of each other.

  “Will you come again?” Beata asked softly as she stood in the doorway.

  “Of course,” her mother answered. “Whenever you like. I'll call you in a few days,” she promised, and Beata knew she would. She had always kept her promises, and Beata sensed that she still would.

  “Thank you, Mama,” Beata said, and hugged her one last time.

  “I love you, Beata,” her mother whispered, kissed her cheek, and finally left. It had been an extraordinary afternoon, for all of them.

  After her grandmother left, Amadea came to find her mother. Beata was sitting alone in the living room, lost in thought.

  “Mama?” Beata looked up with a smile.

  “Yes, sweetheart. What did you think?”

  “I think it's sad that she was gone for so long. You can see that she loves you a lot.”

  “I love her too. I'm just glad she came back, and that she got to meet you.”

  “I hate your father for what he did to you,” Amadea said in an icy voice, and her mother nodded. She didn't disagree with her, but she didn't hate him. She never had, although her father had caused her untold grief, as he had her mother. His decision to banish her had taken a huge toll on them all, and probably him too, although he would never admit it. But he and Beata had always been close. It had been a huge blow to him when she left. It was the ultimate betrayal, in his eyes. Beata had never expected her banishment to last the rest of their lives. But even if she'd known it before, she would still have married Antoine.

  “Don't hate anyone,” Beata said quietly. “It's too much work. And it only poisons you. I learned that a long time ago.” Amadea nodded, as she listened to her. She suspected what her mother had just said was true. But she still thought her mother was a remarkable person for not hating her father. Amadea was sure that in her shoes, she would.

  Amadea sat down on the couch where her grandmother had been, and hugged her mother close, just as Beata had hugged her mother, and was so grateful to have been able to do so after all these years.

  “I love you, Mama,” Amadea whispered, just as Beata had. It was an endless chain of echoes and bonds that went on and on. And in the end, in spite of distance and time, and unspeakable differences, it was an unbreakable bond. Her mother had proven that to her that afternoon.

  9

  FOR THE NEXT TWO YEARS, BEATA'S MOTHER CAME TO VISIT them once a week. It became a tradition and a ritual that Beata came to count on, and for each of them, a precious gift. Beata and Monika got to know each other in ways they never had when she was young. She was a grown woman and a mother now, with children of her own, and both of them had suffered inordinately and grown wiser with time. Monika had even approached Jacob once and tried to get him to relent about their daughter—she said she had seen her on the street with two young girls—and his eyes were instantly fierce as he looked at her.

  “I don't know what you're talking about, Monika. Our daughter died in 1916.” The subject was closed. He was made of stone. She never dared to bring it up again but contented herself with their visits, as did Beata. She no longer hoped to see the others again. Having her mother back in her life was enough. She was grateful for that.

  Her mother brought her photographs. Brigitte was still beautiful, and she was living at home again, with her children. Their mother was worried about her, said she went to too many parties, stayed in bed all day and drank too much, and she wasn't interested in her children. All she wanted was another husband, but most of the men she went out with were married to someone else. Horst and Ulm were both doing well, although one of Ulm's children was frail and often sick, and Monika worried about her. She had a problem with her heart. And during the years of their visits, she developed a deep attachment to Beata's girls. Amadea thought her grandmother was interesting and intelligent, but she never quite forgave her for allowing Jacob to banish their mother. She thought it was cruel, and hung back from her grandmother as a result. But Daphne was young enough to fall unreservedly in love with her. She loved having a grandmother as well as a mother and sister. She didn't remember her father, and hers was an entirely female world. As was Beata's. She had never looked at another man since Antoine died, although she was still beautiful. She said that the memories of the years she'd spent with him were enough to last her a lifetime, and she wanted no one else. In 1935, two years after the visits with her mother began, she turned forty and her mother sixty-five. They were a great comfort to each other. The world had become a frightening place, although it had not touched them. Yet.

  Amadea often spoke with outrage over the growing anti-Semitism in Germany. Jews had been banned from the German Labor Front, and were no longer allowed to have health insurance. They could no longer obtain law degrees, and had been banned from the military. It was a sign of things to come. Beata feared it would get worse before it would get better. Even actors and performers had to join special unions, and were rarely given work. The signs of the times were increasingly frightening.

  Monika spoke to Beata about it quietly one afternoon when they were alone, before the girls got home from school. She was worried about Beata's papers, and even the children's. Even though she knew that Beata was now Catholic and had been for nineteen years, she had nonetheless been born Jewish and the girls were half Jewish. She was afraid it could make trouble for them if things got worse. Poorer Jews, and those without power and connections, had been shipped off to work camps for the past two years. Although Jacob insisted it could never happen to them. Those being sent away were “marginals,” or so the Nazis claimed. Convicts, criminals, loiterers, Gypsies, unemployed, troublemakers, Communists, radicals, and people who couldn't support themselves. But now and then people they knew remotely were caught up in it. Monika had a cleaning woman whose brother had been sent to the camp at Dachau, and subsequently her entire family was sent away, but admittedly her brother was a political activist, who had printed leaflets against the Nazis, so he had brought it on himself and his family. But still, Monika was deeply concerned. Little by little, Jews were being squeezed out of productive society, singled out, and hampered at every turn. If things got worse, she didn't want anything to happen to Beata and the girls. And Beata had thought of it herself. They had no one to protect them and, if trouble happened, nowhere to turn.

  “I don't think they'll cause problems for people like us, Mama,” Beata said quietly. Monika always worried about how thin she was too. She had always been slight, but in recent years she was wraithlike, and without makeup her face was startlingly pale. She had worn black and no other color since Antoine's death. And overnight, it had turned her into a seemingly much older woman. She had closed her doors to the world, and all she had in her life now was her children. And at last, her mother once again.

  “What about the children's papers?” Monika asked with concern.

  “They don't really have any. All they have are student cards with ‘Vallerand’ on them, they were born Catholic. I'm Catholic. Our parish knows us well. I don't think it ever occurs to anyone that I wasn't born Catholic. And since we came here from Switzerland, I think some people think we're Swiss. Even my marriage certificate to Antoine shows that we were both Catholic when we married. My passport expired years ago, and the girls never had any. Amadea was a baby when we came back, and she came in on mine. No one's going to pay any attention to a widow with two daughters with a noble French name. I'm listed everywhere as the Comtesse de Vallerand. I think we're safe, as long as we
don't draw attention to ourselves. I worry more about the rest of you.”

  Everyone in Cologne knew the Wittgensteins and that they were Jewish. The fact that they had banished Beata two decades before and listed her as dead would protect her in a way, and her mother was grateful for that now. The rest of the family was far more visible, which was both good and bad. They assumed that the Nazis were not going to single out a family as respectable as theirs to persecute. As many were, they were convinced that it was the little people, the loose ends of society that they were after, as Jacob said. But anti-Semitism had certainly become the order of the day, and both her sons admitted that they were concerned. Both Horst and Ulm worked at the bank with Jacob, who was thinking of retiring. He was seventy years old. In the photographs Beata now saw of him, he looked distinguished but ancient. She worried that in disappointing him, she had contributed to his looking so old. Unlike her mother, he looked older than his years. Amadea refused to even look at the photographs of him. And Daphne said he looked scary. Their Oma wasn't.