Authors: Annie Murray
Chocolate Girls (47 page)
‘OK.
Gut.
’ She smiled and caressed his shoulder. ‘Rudi . . . Little Rudi . . . I will speak simply so you can follow.’ She eyed the clock on the wall above them. ‘Soon Hermann’s programme will finish and he will want coffee. But I have to tell you about your father so that you understand.’ As she talked she fiddled with a gold ring on the middle finger of her right hand. ‘Hermann – he is my younger brother. He is now forty-eight years old, though you will be surprised because he looks much older. This is because of what he suffered in the camps. He is not the man he was before the war. Not at all. Hermann had a scientific training. Because of this he stayed in Berlin longer than many Jews because he was employed in the armaments industry. But even those Jews who were of use in this way were deported in 1943. He left in summertime. Soon after, the Nazis declared Berlin to be
Judenfrei
. No Jews left, they said. This was even a lie because they let some of us stay. I was a nurse in the Jewish Hospital all through the war. And of course there were others in hiding. Hermann was taken first to the camp at Theresienstadt. We heard nothing from him from that day. Later, they started to move groups of them to Auschwitz-Birkenau. You know what is this?’
‘Of course.’ David felt himself tightening inside.
‘He was working for some months at Birkenau – in fact in one of the laboratories. Then he fell foul of one of the capos – some official – who sent him to the work parties outside. It was the Christmastime of 1944. Already his health was not good and after some weeks he fell ill. He was fortunate in this way: a few months earlier and he would have been sent straight to the gas chambers. Just a fortnight before, I heard, they had used the gas chambers in the camp for the last time – for a group of two thousand who had come on a transport from Theresienstadt. But the British and Russians were coming closer – they did not want their crimes to be seen. Many of them – even the sick, the starving – were made to leave the camp. They were to march to their deaths – through the rain and snow, day after day. But Hermann was sent with some others to the transit camp at Bergen-Belsen. You have seen pictures of Bergen-Belsen,
ja
? I do not need to tell you. At that time the camp was full of typhus, and Hermann caught it. When the British came into the camp in April 1945 he was very ill. A few more days . . .’ Annaliese shrugged, palms up. ‘Even then it was not finished. They moved him when still he was quite sick, to another camp on the Dutch border. I think this totally finished him – really.’
David saw her examine his face, checking that he was understanding everything.
‘Hermann was still quite a young man of course. He should have been in the prime of his life, but his health was broken. I am worried at his seeing you . . . But at the same time – such joy!’ She beamed, wiping her eyes again.
‘Have you been with him ever since?’
‘
Ja.
’ She spoke the word on a sharp intake of breath. ‘What could I do? Our parents and our sister died in Auschwitz – even before Hermann was taken there. I was never married. When we found each other we were the only family we had left, except for one uncle who was in the United States. We already knew that Gerda was dead. And you.’ Annaliese ran her eyes over him again, as if to confirm to herself that he was real, and gave a faint smile. ‘All we could think of was to leave. The very soil of Germany was stained with the blood of our people. We applied to come here, before the State was declared. Finally we arrived in 1947.’
In the pause when she finished speaking, both of them became aware of a new silence in the apartment. The radio had been switched off. In the hallway, a door opened. Annaliese gave David a meaningful look.
‘Your father does not speak of these things now. Nothing, ever. Just be calm, David. Let me talk to him.’
‘Anna? Annaliese?’
A shuffling, bedroom-slippered tread was heard on the landing.
Annaliese stood up. ‘I’m here, Hermann,’ she said soothingly. ‘In the kitchen. I have someone here I want you to meet.’
David got to his feet as well. His hands broke out in a nervous sweat and his heart was thumping like a drum.
Don’t expect anything of him
, he kept saying to himself.
Just be calm.
The door squeaked open and Hermann Mayer shuffled into the room. David saw a thin man with wispy white hair standing on end like an aura round his head, face furrowed with lines and wide blue eyes, slightly rheumy, wearing a bewildered expression. He had a shirt on, buttons unfastened at the top to reveal a pale, almost hairless chest, the bones protruding, and no trousers, only a pair of long, sagging underpants. Pushed into the slippers were scrawny legs, the ankles discoloured and swollen. David boiled inside with pity. All he could think in that moment was not, this is my father, but, this man looks seventy-five – and he’s forty-eight years old.
‘Annaliese—’ Hermann said querulously. ‘I don’t know where is my newspaper.’
‘I’m sorry, Hermann.’ She spoke gently. ‘I have not been out yet. I will get your newspaper. But first . . .’ She went to her brother and took his arm between both her hands, caressing him, speaking in a low voice. David only managed to make out some of the words. ‘I have a surprise for you. A happy surprise . . . You must prepare yourself . . .’ After further gentle murmuring, from which David, trembling now, caught the words
Gerda . . . Rudi
he saw Hermann Mayer’s eyes drift towards him as if it was the first time he had noticed there was anyone else in the room.
‘Hermann—’ Annaliese led him forward. Smiling tenderly she told him, ‘This is your son, darling. This is little Rudi, Gerda’s boy.
Your
boy. He has been safe all this time, and he has come from England to find us.’
David saw the tremor in his own hands mirrored in those of the man before him. Hermann stood looking at him, helplessly. His face remained expressionless for a time, then for a second it contorted and David thought he was going to weep. But the spasm passed. Eventually, he held out his hand, and very formally, as if David was perhaps a new business associate, he said:
‘I am very pleased to meet you.’
Kibbutz Hamesh
Galilee
June (Boiling hot!)
1958
Dear Mum and Frances,
. . . Every day seems to get hotter here! Today is already 31°C and they say it will get even worse by August! I wonder what it’s like at home . . .
. . . I’ve got a new job though and am ‘lucky’ to be working inside. I’m not sure which is worse in this weather, inside or out. But the digging of the swimming pool is coming along gradually. I don’t know that I’ll be here to see it in action though! I’ve moved on from working in the hen house (believe me, you can have too much of the company of chickens) and am now being trained up in machine maintenance, which as you can imagine is close to my heart and I’m told I have a ‘flair’ for it! Some of the farm machinery here is very old and a real challenge to keep going . . .
. . . Last week I was able to go to Haifa overnight again. My father seemed even more unwell than before, though Annaliese says he is often like this. I asked her whether my visits upset him. I was frightened that it might damage him – more than he is damaged already. She says there has been some change but she believes it to be temporary, and there has not been any repetition of the upset on my first visit, when his emotion was so overpowering it was hard even to watch it. I think he is getting more used to me coming now. He is very dependent on my aunt for his day-to-day welfare and sometimes it seems he is more like her child than her brother. This time there was an outburst – not obviously connected with me but over something he had mislaid, which is the sort of thing which makes him very agitated. It was a terribly sad sight, seeing a man in such a state over a lost pair of spectacles. He does not talk about the camps at all, or what happened to him. The little information I told you was all from Annaliese. From what she says, he has never been able to have a normal life since he came here. He worked for a time as a postman, early on, but even that used to fill him with so much anxiety that he would come home early, weeping. Eventually he broke down in the street and couldn’t move. He was taken home by the police and he did not work again after that. He has talked to me sometimes about my mother and their life together in Berlin, and when he talks about her he weeps, very suddenly, tears gushing from his eyes, and is very affectionate to me. Later he can be more distant. It feels as if his mind is divided into completely separate compartments which barely touch each other.
Evidently their family lived in an apartment in Charlottenburg. As he describes it – and Annaliese too – they must be rather grand houses not too far from the Fasenenstrasse Synagogue. They had big stairwells, the stairs winding up and up, and the inside was quite ornate with heavy furniture. (They don’t live like that now. The apartment in Haifa is very simple.) They also had a house
meister
and a maid and cook. Now they just have Elena, a Christian woman who comes to clean the apartment! Apparently when Gerda and my father were courting they used to meet after work on a street called Kurfürstendamm for coffee and cakes. The Germans seem to like their coffee and cakes!Since my last visit, Hermann has been talking a lot about someone he met in one of the camps. It’s obviously preying on his mind. He does not mention what his connection is with this man except it is obvious he must have been in the British Army which went into Bergen-Belsen. He remembers the man’s address from the time as if he is reading it from a piece of paper, and says he meant to write to him after he arrived in Israel, but never did. I asked him why he does not write now but he avoided the question. Often when I ask him anything direct his gaze drifts away towards the window as if he has not heard what I said. I have to be very careful – he is so fragile. But he has spoken of this man several times now. I know it is a very big thing to ask you, Mum, but I wondered if you would perhaps write to this address for me and see if he is still there? His name is Anatoli Gruschov. I know that is a Russian name, but he was definitely in the British Army. Perhaps we could even meet him one day?
Anyway, things are going well here otherwise. Gila says I am beginning to look like a Sabra so I must be doing something right!
With very much love to you both. I will write again soon!
David xxx
Frances watched over the top of her spectacles as Edie folded up the letter. Edie looked across and smiled. She had read it through several times.
‘His friend Gila seems to be getting a lot of mention,’ Frances remarked. ‘I wonder if our David is having his heart stolen away by this fierce Sabra!’
‘Well,’ Edie said non-committally. ‘He’s only going to be there for another two months.’
‘What an interesting letter.’
‘Yes—’ Edie was barely listening. After a moment she took the letter and went out into the garden. It was evening and there were birds singing. She took a deep breath of blossom-filled air. Reading David’s letters from Israel had been tough at first, especially when he found his father and aunt. But abiding by her decision that she had to let him go where he needed to go, she wrote to him and said that she would like him to share his experiences with them, not feel he had to hide away his discovery of his family for fear of hurting her feelings. Tears in her eyes, she wrote, struggling for every ounce of generosity she could muster:
There is more than one way of being a mother or a father. I have always known you were not my flesh and blood and I understand that you need to find out where you came from – I’m sorry if I have made it difficult for you. I was so frightened of losing you. But whatever happens, you’re my boy and I will always love you. The kind of mothering I have given you is the sort made of all the time we have spent together, all the memories we have collected and the love we’ve shared. I know that you value this and you always will.
She was quite surprised at herself writing all this down. They were a household which didn’t normally go in for outpourings of emotion. Still, she thought, sealing the envelope. You can spend your whole life not saying things, and then it’s too late.
Standing in the garden, she thought about David’s request that she write to the Russian man. For some reason she felt resistant towards doing it, but she knew this stemmed from the old jealousy of all these people David was associating with now. And increasingly she trusted David’s judgement. He hadn’t just danced to every tune the Leishmanns played, had he? They had wanted him to go to an Orthodox kibbutz in the Negev desert, but David had said that felt ‘too much’ and had chosen a secular kibbutz for himself. And all she had to do was find out if the Russian man still lived there – that wasn’t much to ask, was it?
The same evening she dropped a little note of enquiry into the post to the London address at the bottom of David’s letter. She only put in the barest explanation of the connection with Hermann Mayer in Israel. After all, this Mr Gruschov had most likely moved on years ago anyway.
Edie had a reply from Mr Anatoli Gruschov almost by return of post, written on pale blue paper in a beautiful copperplate hand. The letter confirmed that he was still residing at his address in Wimbledon and that he did remember a Hermann Mayer from his brief time in Bergen-Belsen. The letter was very courteous, but concise to the point of curtness.