The Emerald Horizon (The Star and the Shamrock Book 2)

by Jean Grainger

  ‘Sean and Barry are going fishing after school – there’s trout in the Shanagadeen River. Barry’s brother caught two beauties yesterday, and Levi said the kids from the farm could go too if we liked, but I’d better ask Elizabeth, do you think?’ Erich asked.

  ‘Yes, ask, but I’m sure it will be fine,’ Liesl responded absentmindedly. Her thoughts were on Ben. After Shabbat, he’d stood outside the synagogue, now a beautiful building on the farm thanks to Daniel and Levi and the others, and she knew he was waiting for her. Her friend Viola nudged her when she saw him standing there.

  He was dressed appropriately for worship, dark trousers and a white shirt, his kippah sitting neatly on his head, but to Liesl he was like a god or something. Viola was such a great friend that Liesl knew she wouldn’t laugh at her, so she told her how she felt about him and what Daniel had said about it being all right for them to be friendly but nothing more as she was too young.

  Liesl and Ben talked about her schoolwork, and he told her a funny story about his maths master at school in Dublin. He was so easy to talk to. His gorgeous Irish accent, creamy skin lightly dusted with freckles, piercing blue eyes and dark hair haunted her dreams. More than once, Elizabeth had caught her daydreaming about him in class when she was supposed to be concentrating on conjugating verbs or learning the rivers of Europe.

  ‘Did you have a nice talk with Ben after prayers?’ Erich asked, a slight smirk on his boyish face.

  ‘Yes, I did.’ Liesl stopped and looked into her little brother’s eyes. Erich was almost as tall as she was now, and filling out almost daily. It both broke and warmed her heart to see him looking so much like her beloved papa. ‘But don’t be going on about it, will you? I don’t want the teasing to start and then the rabbi to hear about it and think something was going on. But he’s very nice and I like him.’

  ‘All right, no teasing, I promise.’ Erich smiled, his brown eyes warm. ‘He is a nice fella actually.’

  Liesl smiled at his Irishisms.

  ‘He fixed the puncture on Marcus’s bike last week even though he had so much to do to reroof the chicken coop after the high winds.’

  Liesl smiled. She was glad Erich liked Ben too.

  ‘Did you write to Mutti about him?’ Erich continued as they walked along.

  ‘Yes…well, a bit. I…’ She paused, wondering if she should go on. She decided Erich wasn’t a baby any more, and anyway, she wanted to share Daniel’s wisdom with him. Even if Erich never said anything, he must have had the same thoughts.

  He looked quizzically at her.

  ‘I was going to stop writing…well, because I thought there was no point, as she probably isn’t getting the letters.’ Her voice was quieter now. She wanted to tread carefully with this conversation.

  ‘Do you think Mutti is dead, Liesl?’ Suddenly Erich wasn’t the tall rangy boy whose shirttails were always hanging out and shoes scuffed from kicking a football. He was her little brother, looking up to her for everything. What she said next was crucial.

  ‘No, of course I don’t. But maybe she’s not getting our letters, or maybe she is and can’t reply. Daniel was saying nobody can get letters out of Germany since everything is so disrupted.’ She deliberately kept her gaze on the path ahead.

  ‘Do you think it’s true, that it’s as bad as they say on the news? Or is it our side making some of it up to make the Germans look worse and make people more enthusiastic about winning the war?’ Erich asked.

  ‘I don’t know. I think some of it’s true. I know it’s hard to imagine,’ she confirmed quietly.

  ‘And so do you think they took Mutti to one of those horrible camps?’

  She heard the catch in his voice, though he was trying to sound calm. He was kicking a pebble, his eyes not meeting hers.

  ‘We have to face facts that there’s a chance they did.’ She wanted to prepare him, but she also wanted to at least give him a little hope as Daniel had given her. ‘But we don’t know for sure. And even if they did, then after the war, Elizabeth and Daniel will help us find her.’

  ‘Some of the others are saying we’ll be put back on trains when the war is over, just sent back where we came from. I…I don’t want to go back to Berlin unless Mutti is there to meet us, Liesl. I can’t even speak German properly any more, and what if the Nazis are still there but hiding?’ His eyes were wet now, and she put her arm around him.

  ‘Elizabeth and Daniel won’t ever do that, silly. Of course they won’t.’

  ‘But what about the others? Will they send them back? And what if they can’t find their parents?’

  ‘Nothing like that will happen, I’m sure of it. Tell them not to worry – we’ll be looked after.’

  He nodded, believing her as he always did.

  ‘So are you going to keep writing?’ she asked.

  ‘Well, if you write, so will I,’ he said, and the sadness in his voice broke her heart.

  Later that evening, as Erich was in the bath, Liesl followed Elizabeth to the kitchen after dinner. She started drying the dishes that Elizabeth washed.

  ‘I talked to Erich today. He was worried that we are all going to be put on trains and sent back once the war is over.’

  Elizabeth looked aghast. ‘Of course you won’t. How could he think that?’

  ‘They all think it, all the kids at the farm. That was the arrangement – that we’d have to be returned when the war is over.’ Liesl was almost sure Elizabeth wouldn’t allow that, but she needed to be certain.

  Elizabeth put down the soapy serving platter and turned to her. ‘Liesl, you and Erich are staying here until such time as your mother comes to claim you or she instructs me to send you to her. Not a minute before. And as for the others, well, we’ll have to start the process of finding their families, but it won’t be easy or quick. In the meantime, of course we’ll take care of them.’

  Liesl nodded, relieved to have this confirmed. ‘Perhaps you should tell them that, save them worrying?’

  ‘Of course I will, and thanks for letting me know.’ Elizabeth gave her a quick squeeze.

  ‘I can’t ever imagine going back, even if Mutti were there,’ Liesl said. ‘Ballycreggan is our home now.’

  Elizabeth smiled. ‘I’m so glad you feel like that. And when your mother turns up, I’m hoping she’ll be happy to come here too so we can share you both. I can’t imagine our lives without you two.’

  Liesl hesitated but then said what was on her mind. ‘It feels wrong to say this, and of course I love her and my papa too, but you and Daniel feel like our parents now, and it confuses me. I feel so disloyal to Mutti and Papa, but then it’s just how I feel.’

  ‘My darling girl.’ Elizabeth placed her hands on Liesl’s shoulders. ‘No wonder you feel confused – so much has happened in your short life. What you feel is normal. Daniel and I feel like your mum and dad, we really do, and I never imagined I’d have children of my own, so this is such a blessing. But there’s enough love in that big heart of yours for all of us. When your mum turns up, and I’m sure she will, we’ll work it out. She wants you to be happy, otherwise she would never have put you on that train, and so do we. So nobody is going to force you or Erich to do anything or go anywhere you don’t want to go.’

  Liesl sighed and relaxed for the first time in ages. Everything was going to be all right.

  Chapter 7

  All the way across the city Ariella walked, not with her head down, but not up either; she tried to look like someone with someplace to be. She hid her shock at the state of her city. Everyone else seemed to be used to it. She’d grown up in Berlin and saw it as home even if the current regime saw her as an alien. Berlin was a beautiful city – at least it had been before it was flattened by Allied bombs.

  She didn’t dare walk on Unter den Linden towards the Brandenburg Gate, even though it would have been the quickest way; instead, she skirted around the small streets at the back of the Reichstag instead. Each of the beautifully ornate buildings now was the headquarters of s
ome aspect of Hitler’s Germany. The red and black Nazi flags hung everywhere, and apart from a few elderly people and children, everyone seemed to be in uniform.

  She was terrified at the prospect of being stopped and questioned, but everyone seemed preoccupied. Nevertheless, she avoided all eye contact.

  She hurried on, towards Leipziger Platz, and passed the famous Wertheim department store. She remembered going in there so often both as a child and as an adult, and it always impressed her with its eighty-three elevators and glass-roofed atrium. The name of the Jewish family was gone from above the door now and had been replaced by AWAG, an acronym for some Nazi commercial entity no doubt. She wondered what had become of the Wertheims. Had they been removed from society too, despite their great wealth?

  She skirted rubble and dangerously precarious buildings, street after street, until finally reaching her destination.

  The paint was blistered on the big black door of the house beside the shoe shop on Wilhelmstrasse, and it was slightly ajar. Ariella pushed it, and the wood scraped the dirty tiled floor inside. The house, which had been divided into apartments, smelled of old food and unwashed bodies, and she tried not to wrinkle her nose. She had no idea which apartment to try. To her left were pigeonholes. The ground floor apartment had the name Gruber, and several weeks’ worth of mail was stuffed in it. Perhaps they were gone; Berlin seemed empty. The second pigeonhole, presumably for the second-floor apartment, had a piece of card stuck over the aperture so no post could be delivered, and the third hole held one key on a ring. The stuffed one is vacant surely? she thought. The other doesn’t want post. Would you draw the attention of the post office by doing that if you were trying to keep a low profile? Surely you’d just empty it. The key on a ring – she had no idea what to make of that. But she thought she would knock on that door and take it from there.

  There wasn’t anyone about, so she made her way to the stairs. Several of the spindles were missing from the bannister, and the treads were bare. Her legs and arms moved painfully, unused to the exercise, but she gripped the rail and half walked, half pulled herself up to the third floor. She didn’t want to look conspicuous if anyone came in behind her or down the stairs, so she tried to keep her gait as normal as possible.

  There was only one door that looked in use on the third floor, and it was closed. Two others were locked with padlocks and clearly hadn’t been opened for a long time. They looked more like closets anyway. She knocked, her heart in her throat. Sweat pricked her back, and she tried to inhale and exhale normally. What if it was a trap? What if the police were watching the building?

  After what seemed like an eternity, the door opened, but the person remained behind it. The room inside was unremarkable.

  ‘Um, I was wondering… I was looking for Herr Olfson?’

  ‘Why?’ asked the person behind the door.

  She inhaled. She would have to reveal herself, even if it was a trap. It was a gamble she had to take. ‘I need papers.’

  She heard a muttered oath of frustration, then a hand reached around the door and grabbed her, pulling her inside. The door was kicked closed, and before she knew it, she was up against it with a gun to her temple. She opened her mouth but no sound came out.

  Inches away stood a youngish man with receding brown hair, hazel eyes and a thin wiry frame.

  ‘Who sent you here? The truth. Or this bullet goes right in your brain,’ he whispered, the vice-like grip of his other arm across her chest never loosening.

  ‘I’m a Jew,’ she managed to whisper.

  ‘No, you’re not,’ he hissed, increasing the pressure on her chest and releasing the safety catch with the other hand. The click sounded so loud so close to her ear.

  ‘I am. I attend the Rykestrasse Synagogue. The rabbi in 1939 was Max Weyl…’

  ‘What happened there in 1934?’ he whispered in her ear.

  Ariella exhaled and swallowed, then said in as clear a voice as she could, ‘The choir at the synagogue, led by Kurt Burchard performed the new Friday liturgy. It was in February and Jakob Dymont composed it based on the melodies of chazzanut following the Nussach.’

  The pressure on her chest was removed instantly. The man stood back and stuck the gun in the waistband of his trousers.

  Now that she could see him properly, she realised he was no older than his mid-twenties. He had a boyish face and ink-stained hands. He wore a beige pullover and dark-brown trousers, and his dark hair was neatly combed. He looked like the kind of boy any girl would be happy to take home to her father.

  ‘Who hid you?’ His eyes never left hers.

  ‘I can’t say.’ She would not betray Frau Braun.

  He gave a snort of derision. ‘If you are wandering the streets looking for me, they don’t care too much about you.’

  ‘Circumstances changed. There was nothing else to do.’

  He shrugged. ‘Name?’

  ‘Ariella Bannon.’

  ‘That’s not Jewish.’ His brow furrowed once more.

  ‘My husband was Christian.’

  ‘And where is he?’

  ‘Dead. He tried to defend a Jewish woman in the street. He was sent to a camp and died there.’ The words felt like sawdust in her mouth.

  ‘Kids?’

  ‘They are safe. I put them on one of the last Kindertransports.’

  ‘Lucky them.’ He went to the window and stood to one side, observing the street below. Then he turned to her again. ‘So Frau Bannon.’ He smiled laconically, as if they were meeting in a salon over coffee. ‘What can I do for you?’

  ‘I need papers.’

  ‘Have you money?’

  She opened her purse and took out the notes, thrusting them at him.

  ‘Is this all you have?’

  ‘Every penny.’ She thought quickly and then removed her wedding ring. It was twenty-four carat gold. ‘But you can have this?’

  He took it and held it up to the light. ‘Nice.’

  ‘It was made in Geneva.’

  He popped it into his pocket and returned the notes. ‘You’ll need that for food, and anyway, it’s not enough. I’ll keep the ring though.’

  ‘Fine,’ she said, her voice barely a whisper.

  ‘Right, let’s get this done. Stand over there please.’ He directed her to the corner where a white sheet hung on the wall.

  She did as he bid her, and he picked up a camera. Quickly, he took a shot of her head and shoulders, then gestured that she should sit on the dusty armchair beside the empty fireplace. As he busied himself at a large untidy table piled with papers and stamps and blades, she scanned the room. It had large shuttered windows overlooking the wide boulevard below, and the elaborate cornicing and ceiling rose spoke of a time when none of this misery existed.

  There were a blanket and a pillow on the only other piece of furniture in the room, a cheap old battered sofa. She assumed he slept there.

  ‘I’m just taking this to the makeshift darkroom. I won’t be long,’ he said with a smile, and left the room.

  Was he really developing the photo? What if he had gone to call the authorities? In one of the papers Frau Braun had given her, there were several advertisements encouraging citizens to do their duty and report anyone suspicious. Perhaps people were even paid to hand others over.

  The urge to flee was tempered by the fact that she had nowhere to go. Assuming this man was genuine and gave her a fake identification card, a certificate of Aryan descent and a food ration book, and assuming the papers would pass an inspection, what then? She took the roll of banknotes Frau Braun had placed in her hand and counted them. Thirty Reichsmarks. As she rolled the notes back up, the man returned.

  ‘It won’t be long now. You’re lucky to have lasted this long, but if you can stick it out for another little while, you should be fine,’ he said, and she noticed his German was accented, though she couldn’t determine where he was from.

  ‘Pardon?’ She didn’t know what he meant.

  ‘This.’ He waved
in the direction of the windows. ‘The Allies are almost ready, the Americans are in England, the end is nigh,’ he said dramatically, and grinned once more.

  ‘Do you mean Germany will not win the war?’

  He chuckled. ‘You have been under a stone. No Frau Bannon, Germany is completely kaput.’ He drew his finger across his throat.

  ‘How do you know?’ she asked, trying to quell the excitement in her chest. Was he right?

  ‘Everyone knows. But I get my information from the BBC – I have a radio. And in this line of work, you get to know people.’ He grinned at the shock on her face. Listening to foreign radio was punishable by death.

  ‘They’ll shoot me if they catch me forging papers anyway, so I might as well break all the rules, eh?’ He chuckled. He sat down at his desk and began writing, then clipping and stamping. He beckoned her over. ‘Sign here, Marta Weiss.’

  She did as he told her and handed him the piece of paper. He assembled everything, stamping and sticking with a pot of gum on his desk. Finally, he took the paper he was working on and dipped it in dark liquid. She watched, fascinated.

  ‘Coffee, or at least that disgusting ersatz stuff they make with acorns,’ he explained. ‘All papers and cards now are battered and damaged, so yours must be too. Pay attention. You are Marta Weiss from Fallersleben. You got bombed out, and you are here in Berlin looking for your aunt and uncle. You came here because you have nowhere else to go. Marta sadly is no longer with us, so she was a real person and her papers are genuine – I just needed to insert your photo. It’s better to use real papers, safer, but it’s not always possible. Your mother was called Margareta Schmitt and your father was Otto Weiss, both from Fallersleben, both dead. You’re an only child now as your older brother in the Luftwaffe was killed in 1940.’

  He appraised her critically. ‘Now, she is only twenty-seven, so you’ll have to act and try to look a bit younger, but everyone looks old and haggard these days, so it shouldn’t be too hard.’ He handed her a bundle of papers. ‘Good luck.’ He winked and smiled once more.