Rosa's Child (3 page)

The new foster parents soon detected in the girls the same character traits that had been so evident at the Antonien-heim. Whereas Lotte was warm and outgoing, Susi was clearly more timid and withdrawn. 'The twins were so opposite,' Irene recalls. 'Nor were they really close. Once I could see in the garden that Lotte had her two arms around Susi. She was rocking her and, half in English, half in German, she was saying: "Susi, my Susi, meine Schwester, mein lovely sister..." and Susi was sitting there like a little statue, just enduring it, and clearly waiting for the ordeal to come to an end.'

During the twins' first autumn in Wales, war had been declared. All the while their English was improving, but the same could not be said of their health. Over the following months they both succumbed on four occasions to bronchitis, a weakness which the family's GP was quick to attribute to the change in climate between Munich and the Welsh capital.

'My wife made every provision for their health and strengthening, and I did my part too,' the Reverend Mann recalls. 'For one whole year, if not more, at 5.30 in the morning my wife rose and pressed out an orange, and took the juice into the children's bedroom, where they drank it readily and happily. This seemed to help quite considerably, for slowly they began to gain strength.'

Within twenty-four hours of settling into their new home, the twins had been kitted out with new sets of clothes. The heavy Germanic boots and thick white cotton underwear in which they had arrived were discreetly put aside. 'I felt that they must be made to look as English as possible in order to mix with other children,' their foster mother remembers. 'We bought them complete new outfits, but always dressed them alike.'

Some months before receiving the twins, the Manns had been asked to attend an interview in London with members of the children's refugee committee. During a lengthy discussion the committee expressed concern that the sisters would be baptized. Indeed was this not inevitable, they asked, with a prospective father who was a Baptist minister? The Reverend Mann soon found himself giving a hasty tutorial on the practices of the Baptist Church. Contrary to popular belief, he explained, it does not baptize infants into the Christian faith; nor has it ever sought to do so. Thus he was able to reassure the committee that there was no possibility whatsoever of Susi and Lotte being baptized in the name of Jesus Christ. With a collective sigh of relief, the committee declared itself reassured by the Reverend's words.

All non-Jewish prospective foster parents were required to give an undertaking not to convert their foster child. In fact they were asked to endeavour to maintain to the best of their ability his or her Jewish identity. Here again the Manns were able to satisfy the committee. However, whereas they were to remain true to their pledge not to baptize the girls, on the issue of their Jewish identity they were not to fare so well. For as soon as the twins set foot in their new home their Hebraic roots were quietly forgotten, never to be mentioned again. The Manns were in no doubt: Susi and Lotte were to grow up as Christians, attending Sunday school and participating fully in their church's many activities.

Before long the ancient Hebrew songs the girls had heard so often at the orphanage began to fade from their minds. They were replaced by the hymns and powerful singing of the Welsh chapel, where darkness, death and burning hell were never far from the lips of the fiery preacher who was now their father. The Reverend Mann had not the slightest desire to broadcast the fact that he and his wife had taken in German Jewish children. And he did not.

While Susi and Lotte were lucky to have escaped with their lives, much had already been lost to them, despite their tender age. Abandoned by their father before their birth, they had experienced precious little bonding with their natural mother. True, the Antonienheim had become familiar and given them a degree of security. But now that too was gone. And inevitably, as the months passed, their grasp of their native language began to falter. At the same time a subtle campaign of attrition was allowing their Jewish roots likewise to pass into oblivion. Was there anything left to be stripped from the twins?

Indeed there was, for their official identities were also in process of being transformed. It had all been planned. Although of course they would not have understood it, by the time they arrived in Cardiff their birth-names had been struck from the record -at least in the minds of their foster parents if not legally. In fact it was to take most of two decades to complete the process, although the clear intention took effect from the start. The Manns had no difficulty in convincing themselves that their reasoning was sound and in the best interests of the twins. The last thing they wanted, they were quick to agree, was for the girls to be persecuted or punished in some way for having names that were manifestly not British in origin. The very idea of putting them at risk in this way was unthinkable, and all the more so now that Britain and Germany were at war.

And yet instead of simply calling Lotte Lottie, and Susi Susan, the Manns decided on a more radical solution. The giving of completely new names served their purpose well, for it wiped the slate clean. A new, non-German, non-Jewish life was to be forged for the twins, one wholly untainted by the rather unsavoury middle-European past to which the couple had been made party. Thus it was that Lotte metamorphosed into Eunice Mary, while Susi was henceforth to be known as Grace Elizabeth, a name to honour a Christian virtue.

Anxious to present an ideal image of happy family life to a sometimes inquisitive world, the Manns now found it imperative to bury all links with the girls' Bechhöfer ancestry. For anyone who might ask awkward questions, the Manns' answer was brief. Hardly anything was known: the orphanage in Munich had been destroyed by fire three weeks after the twins had arrived in Cardiff, and all the records with it.

However, the fantasy went further, for the Reverend would become extremely irritable if anyone suggested, directly or indirectly, that Eunice and Grace were anything but his own flesh and blood. And this despite the fact that it is not easy to explain the sudden arrival of two three-year-old children in a family. He would defend his claim to true paternity with such vigour that sometimes it seemed that he had succeeded in convincing himself. And if, from time to time, this spirited defence demanded a white lie or two to bolster the myth, then so be it. After all, was it not in the best interests of the girls?

And to Susi, the twin to whom the Reverend Mann now began to devote an increasing amount of time and affection, to the point of possessiveness, her foster father's message could not have been clearer. 'Remember one thing and you will not go wrong,' he would repeatedly instil in the more fragile of his charges. 'That your name is Grace Elizabeth Mann and you are mine.'

THREE

House Rules

I
n Cardiff tongues were beginning to wag. At least that was the message reaching the Reverend and Mrs Mann. In fact, unbeknown to them, the gossip had been going on for the best part of two years, ever since they had taken in the young refugees from Germany. Perhaps they had been naive, for from the outset their ambition had been that their foster daughters should become indistinguishable from the other children in the vicinity, and that they should slip quietly into the Welsh way of life. In short, their fervent hope was that not one finger would be pointed at the twins, questioning their origins or singling them out from their peers. But such hopes would soon be dashed.

Little Eunice, now five years old, had been the first to let the cat out of the bag. As Irene Mann was towelling her after a bath, Eunice looked into her eyes with an intensity that made it clear she was seeking some kind of reassurance.

'Mummy,' she asked, 'what is German?'

It was exactly the kind of question Irene had hoped never to hear. Struggling to keep her composure, she decided to make light of it.

'Why do you ask?' she replied as casually as she could.

'Because there's a girl at school who keeps saying to us that we're German. She says her father thinks because we're at war with Germany we should go back to our own country.'

When Edward Mann returned from chapel that evening he was furious. Eunice's innocent curiosity threatened to undermine everything he was trying to achieve for the twins. For him, fostering and adoption were akin to state secrets -not a matter for public debate. True, the taunting had come from just one five-year-old girl. But by her own admission she was repeating what was being said in her own home and perhaps others. Ever decisive, the Reverend Mann was in no doubt about what had to be done: if his daughters were not to be permitted to mix easily with their school friends, then they must change school.

'Right,' he thundered. 'They're too near the house, and they're too near the church, where everybody knows who they are and what they are.'

Within a week Eunice and Grace had been dispatched to a smart private school some distance away. Arrangements were made to transport the twins to and from school each day. But the Manns were sure that such efforts, in addition to the unaccustomed burden of school fees, were worthwhile, and indeed very soon the girls were thriving in a new environment where no one need know about their background.

But a change of schools was no magic wand. Some two-and-a-half years later, questions arose that the Manns thought had been buried long ago. And this time the twins were united in their quest. They had spent some time talking together about what was bothering them, and one evening asked whether 'Mummy and Daddy are our real Mummy and Daddy'. But unlike Eunice's earlier question, which had caught Irene completely off guard, this one was to receive a more thoughtful reply. It would be in the form of a story, Irene promised the twins, which she would tell them as soon as they were in bed. That evening Eunice and Grace could hardly get into their nightclothes fast enough.

'Once upon a time,' their mother began, 'there was a very wicked man indeed, called Adolf Hitler. He was the leader of this country called Germany, and he was doing all sorts of cruel things to men, women and children alike. He just wanted power for himself and he was very cruel. So a lot of children were sent away from Germany so that they wouldn't get into his clutches -and you were amongst them. And that was how you came to us -it was all done properly, of course -so that you could have a happy upbringing.'

Eunice, warm and exuberant as always, needed no prompting. She immediately got out of bed and flung her arms around her mother. 'I'm so glad that God gave us you and Daddy,' she said joyfully. 'Isn't it wonderful!'

With such an enthusiastic response to her little story, Irene could have been excused for thinking that a very delicate problem had been dealt with once and for all, and for feeling relieved that there would be no more awkward questions about origins, identity and suchlike. So moved had she been by Eunice's display of affection that she had paid scant attention to Grace's quite different reaction to the story. Withdrawing into herself even more than usual, Grace had not uttered a single word -either of gratitude or reproach. But then, Irene told herself, such a mood was typical of Grace, always bottling up her feelings so.

By the spring of 1945 Germany had been roundly defeated and its cities lay in ruins. Hitler's monstrous reign was over. Together with the rest of war-weary Britain, the Reverend and Mrs Mann were looking forward to a prolonged period of peace and stability. Sadly, however, far from being able to bask in the sunshine of victory, the Manns were about to engage in a cruel struggle of their own -not on the battlefields of Europe but beside a hospital bed.

It all began innocently enough. When the twins had arrived, in 1938, Eunice had been slightly taller than Grace. Over the years Grace had slowly but steadily closed the gap and in fact had now overtaken her sister. The Manns did not make much of it, knowing that children's growth rates are unpredictable. Nor did the twins. But then Grace noticed another change in her sister: she herself could easily run to catch the bus to school, whereas Eunice would often struggle to keep up. As time went by Eunice's movements seemed to become more and more uncoordinated, and she developed a marked limp. Nor was there much respite at night, when she would often have bouts of vomiting for no apparent reason.

Night after night the whole family's sleep was disturbed, but what concerned everyone most was the mystery of what was wrong with Eunice. The Manns had no idea what to do. 'Come on, Eunice,' one or other of them would say somewhat lamely, 'there really is no need for all of this.' They suspected that the many changes in her physical abilities and her behaviour, some of which seemed quite irrational, were probably psychological in origin. At the same time they were aware that if this was not the case, she could be suffering from some no less worrying physical disorder.

Eunice's behaviour had indeed become bizarre. No longer a small child, she had a compulsion to ask, quite unabashed, inappropriate questions of complete strangers. She considered it her business, for example, to know what someone was planning to eat that evening. This and other eccentricities made Grace feel her sister was slipping away from her - and the worst part was there was nothing she could do for her.

It was Eunice's headmistress who was the first to realize that her pupil was not a wilfully disruptive girl. 'That child needs a doctor, Mrs Mann,' she told her mother.

And so the Manns embarked on a circuit of medical consultations that would become all too familiar. First one general practitioner was visited, then another. Then one paediatrician, followed by a second. To add to the strain on the family, Grace was also required to attend each time, and asked to perform physical tests for the purpose of comparison and to determine whether she too was suffering from the same illness. Time after time doctors shook their heads ponderously and suggested yet another series of tests with another specialist. And still nobody could pinpoint the problem.

Eventually Eunice was seen by an eminent neurosurgeon, and that was when the family received the verdict they had been dreading. Scarcely nine years old, and the subject of one ghastly test after another without ever bemoaning her fate, Eunice displayed all the classic symptoms of a malignant brain tumour.

'It's difficult to describe exactly how we felt,' Irene would later recall, 'other than to say it shattered us completely. It was as if the bottom had dropped out of our world.'

Professor Lambert-Rogers, of Cardiff's Royal Infirmary, was quite clear: surgery was required as a matter of the utmost urgency. Drawing strength from their faith in the Almighty, the Manns accepted that they had no alternative but to agree: it was a matter of life or death. They signed the consent form.

When Eunice came round after several hours of surgery, her head shaved, she became hysterical. 'Mummy, Mummy,' she called out, sensing Irene's presence beside her bed. 'I'm blind. I can't see you! I can't see anything or anybody!'

It was true. The doctors were quick to explain that it was the shock to the brain. More specifically, reducing the pressure exerted by the tumour had caused the optic nerve to cease functioning. But, it was emphasized, she would regain her sight within twenty-four hours, and when Irene returned the next day Eunice was sitting up in bed smiling, cheery as always, and able to see again. Even so, Eunice was the first person to admit that she looked a dreadful sight, swathed in bandages and with an enormous, turban-like dressing on her head.

If the Manns had hoped that this single surgical intervention would conclude the matter, they were disappointed. Professor Lambert-Rogers informed them that a second operation was imperative, for all that had been done so far was to remove a piece of the cranium to let the tumour have its way. The next step was to attack the tumour itself.

This time, after a complicated four-hour operation, Eunice lay unconscious for three weeks. To reduce her temperature, she lay naked, with just a light cotton sheet above and below her fragile frame. All day and every day Irene sat at her bedside, keeping vigil, hoping and praying for her daughter either to open her eyes or, if it was God's will, to stop breathing for ever. Little Eunice must have decided that her life had not yet run its course, for after what seemed an infinity to her family she opened her eyes, looked up and smiled.

With Eunice still engaged in her struggle to survive, the Manns decided that it was important for Grace to be released from the suffocating atmosphere of illness, and their doctor readily agreed. They were convinced that she would be happier at a boarding school, well away, for the time being, from her sickly twin. It would be a healthier way of life for Grace, and it would enable Irene to devote her time and energy to the sister who needed it most.

Not for the first time in her life, Grace felt the pain of separation. Once again she was leaving the world that she knew, the people and places that gave shape to her life. Although greatly distressed as she said her goodbyes, even as her father was driving her to her new school she resolved to survive.

Shunted off to Somerset, that first night Grace lay in her bed in the stark and chilly dormitory of Yeovil's private Park School feeling bewildered and alone. Once again her world had been turned upside down. In time, however, she evolved a strategy for coping: to make others smile, and to bring mischievous fun and laughter to every situation. It certainly won friends for her, and more than one of the teachers fell under her spell - even as they wrung their hands in despair over what should be done with her. At bottom it was all a way of securing attention, and it gave Grace a heady, alive feeling even when that attention brought punishment with it. And yet if she craved anything more than to be noticed it was to be loved.

During her first term Grace seldom passed an undisturbed night. The reluctant boarder had a number of worries on her mind, and they loomed especially large during the hours of darkness. One particular nightmare recurred endlessly. She dreamt that her sight had been wrested from her, just as Eunice had briefly lost hers. Surely it was only a matter of time, strange, recurring images would suggest, before she too was wheeled off to the operating theatre. Sweating profusely, she would emerge from her half-sleep urgently in need of someone to tell her it was only a dream. But in the enclosed world of the British boarding school, no such soothing voice was to be heard.

As the Reverend Mann's posts changed, so too did Grace's schools. From Yeovil she was moved to an institution noted for laying great emphasis on Christian ethics: Clarendon School, in North Wales.

The five years Grace was to spend at Clarendon turned out to be the most magical period of her childhood. Although entirely secluded, the school's setting was majestic, with the rolling Welsh countryside all around and the sea within sight. The entrance to the school's grounds opened on to a large expanse of open park land. When delivering their daughters, parents would turn into this concealed entrance, off a long and winding lane, and the approach of a car was always an exciting event, betrayed by the sound of its wheels negotiating a sheep grid set in the road. If the girls missed that clue, they could hardly fail to notice the sound of a car coming to a halt on the gravel outside the main door. On entering the main building in winter, the visitor would be greeted by a log fire glowing beneath the finely crafted wood panelling.

Clarendon's regime was strict. The girls' reading material was drawn from the Christian and Classical traditions, with little input from the outside world. Prayers were said regularly, and every girl was expected to attend. For the older pupils there were additional laws, rigorously enforced, outlawing dancing and the wearing of make-up. And yet, despite the austerity and repression of the girls' natural femininity, for the first time in her life Grace felt both happy and free. Much to her parents' regret, though, her studies were a matter of supreme indifference to her. She was too busy enjoying herself, for she had overcome her earlier sense of exile and isolation and was now rejoicing in the feeling of freedom.

Manners, as Grace was known to friend and foe alike, soon established herself as a personality. Now coming up to eleven years of age, she was emerging from her shell with a vengeance, driven partly by the need to make up for lost time. Always misbehaving and in trouble with the teachers, she rapidly developed a reputation for her quick wit and repartee. Such skills might not have been what her parents had envisaged, yet there was no denying that in terms of strength of character and self-esteem Grace was making remarkable progress.

However, in a dramatic reversal of mood she would become very downcast as the end of each term drew near, and with it the prospect of going home for a few weeks. Grace had come to dread the atmosphere of the Manns' household, and in particular the daily threat of falling foul of one of her father's thunderous rages. For the Reverend Mann the opposite was true: he always looked forward keenly to the day of his daughter's return. And always, once she was home, he would immediately set about reiterating certain fundamental rules - just in case they had faded from her mind while she had been away. It was a crucial message that she had heard many times before.