‘I’ve another bit of news,’ Justine said. ‘The two of them, I mean Richard and Jo, have hooked up with each other at last. She’s been in love with him since we were kids growing up together, and very frankly I never thought it would happen. But it has.’
‘Que sera sera,’ Gabriele murmured, using her favourite saying. ‘What will be will be.’ She glanced at the door as it opened. Ayce came in pushing the tea trolley, and Gabriele welcomed her warmly.
THIRTY-TWO
Once they had finished tea, which had been a bit more elaborate than Gabriele had anticipated, she sat studying Justine for a moment or two.
Her granddaughter suddenly became aware of this fixed scrutiny, and said, ‘Gran, you’re staring at me. Do I have a dirty mark on my face?’
‘No, darling, you don’t. I was just admiring you, thinking how beautiful you look.’
Justine smiled, her face lighting up. ‘And you do too, so smart in your black suit and white shirt. Just like a high-powered executive.’
Gabriele shook her head. ‘Just an artist, that’s all.’ There was a pause, and then she said, ‘I want to talk to you about something, Justine, but before I do, I must ask you a question. When is Iffet coming to see you tomorrow?’
‘In the afternoon. But a time hasn’t been set yet.’
‘I think you should cancel the meeting.’
‘Why?’ Justine asked, sitting up straighter. She couldn’t understand what this was about. ‘Is there something wrong?’
‘No, no, not as far as Iffet’s concerned.’ Gabriele paused, took a deep breath, continued, ‘I promised to tell you about saving Anita’s life, and I will do that tomorrow, as arranged. But that is all I can actually tell you about my early life, my past—’
‘Oh no!’ Justine exclaimed, cutting across Gabriele. ‘I want to know everything.’ Dismay flooded her.
‘Let me explain,’ Gabriele responded. ‘When I was a girl, a teenager approaching young womanhood, I had a difficult life. It was not a happy existence. As I grew older, and my circumstances started to change, I began to bury the past, pushing it deep down inside me. In fact, I buried it so deep I cannot dredge it up. Ever. I obliterated it from my heart and mind, and I have never been able to speak about it. However, I think you have a right to know about my early life, what I was, who I am.’
‘Thank you for that, Gran, and I’m so glad you will talk to me, that you’ve chosen me to hear your story.’
‘Oh, but I’m not going to tell you anything, Justine.’
‘But you said you wanted me to know.’
‘I do, and you shall. I have never discussed those years with anyone. No one on this earth knows my story, and—’
‘Not Anita?’ Justine interrupted.
‘Not even her. She knows about my childhood; after all, we grew up together, and I saved her life when we were teenagers. A short while later we became separated by circumstances. We didn’t meet again for a few years, and she had no knowledge of my life during that time – nor I of hers. I did confide one thing when we finally met again, and she knew about those people who’d been kind to me, but that’s all.’
‘You weren’t able to tell Uncle Trent either?’ Justine ventured.
‘No.’ Gabriele leaned back against the pillows on the sofa, staring into the distance for a moment. A sadness settled over her.
Finally, she spoke. ‘Ten years ago, when your mother and I quarrelled, I came back to Istanbul once she had returned to the States. As you now know, she created the estrangement between us, told me to stay away from her and her children – you and Richard. She kicked me out of the family in effect. As you can imagine, I was stunned. Broken-hearted. I came to Istanbul because I knew I was safe here. I had my yali, and I knew I was loved and respected by my friends. I had Anita, and Michael was loving and caring when he was here.’
‘I’m happy he was, Gran, that comforts me.’
‘He’s a good man… To continue. Slowly, over the last ten years, I began to pull up bits and pieces of my past, fragments of my life, and I wrote them down. Certain parts were buried far too deep; I could not dredge them to the surface of my mind. And so they remain unwritten. But there are enough of those fragments for you to form a picture of my early years. It took me a long time to write this… well, I was going to call it a memoir, but it’s not that. Rather, it’s scenes, bits and pieces, fragments of a life. Do you understand, darling?’
‘Yes, I do. It’s like a notebook? Is that what you mean?’
‘That’s what it is, I suppose. I shall give it to you before we leave for Bodrum tomorrow.’
‘Is that why you want me to cancel my meeting with Iffet? So I can read it?’
‘Yes.’ Gabriele hesitated for a split second before adding in a low, concerned voice, ‘I think you might find some things… difficult. Knowing you the way I do, you’ll want to be alone. And you’ll want to digest everything.’
‘I understand,’ Justine said, and she did. ‘I’ll call Iffet later.’
‘Don’t read it all at once,’ Gabriele murmured. ‘Take it slowly. I put the name of the place and the year of each fragment, each memory. So you’ll know where I was and when.’
‘If I need to speak to you, can I? Can I call you in Bodrum?’
‘Yes, on my mobile.’
‘Are you going to allow Richard to read it?’
‘Yes, of course. He must. He has to know about my early life.’
‘Can I tell him about the notebook?’
‘I think I’d prefer him to read it for himself. Better he doesn’t know about it beforehand. I want him to understand it properly, to digest it. So don’t say anything to him, please, Justine.’
‘I won’t. What about Michael?’
Gabriele thought about this for a moment or two.
‘You can talk to Michael if you feel you must. A few things he does know from Anita.’
‘He said he didn’t know anything,’ Justine replied, frowning.
‘That’s absolutely true. He has no information about my early life, except in relation to his grandmother. You’ll understand why he knows certain things as soon as you’ve read the first few pages.’
‘Is this notebook going to upset me, Gran?’ Justine asked slowly, suddenly feeling nervous inside, and anxious.
Gabriele did not answer.
Justine gave her a penetrating stare, and her heart clenched. For a fleeting moment she saw the pain in Gabriele’s eyes, and knew the answer to her question.
THIRTY-THREE
The following afternoon, once Gabriele was ready to leave for Bodrum, she went to the safe at the back of the walk-in closet in her bedroom, and took out the large black notebook.
She had kept it locked up for years, and only removed it when she had wanted to add to it. Now for the first time it was going to be read. By her granddaughter. For a moment Gabri hesitated at the safe, suddenly tempted to put the book back inside. No, she thought. I want Justine to know the truth about my life. Decisively, she closed the safe and locked it.
A few moments later she picked up her handbag and went downstairs to find her granddaughter. Justine was not inside the yali, and when Gabriele went out into the gardens, she caught a glimpse of her walking down towards the garden seat in front of the Bosphorus.
Gabriele smiled to herself. The seat had become a favourite spot. It was there that Justine and Michael had admitted their overwhelming attraction for each other, and, of course, it was now symbolic to them both.
A couple of seconds later, Gabriele was joining her on the garden seat, explaining, ‘Well, darling, I’m about to go to the airport with Anita, and I just want to give you this.’ As she spoke she handed Justine a small Fortnum & Mason shopping bag. ‘In here is my book of notes, those fragments I told you about yesterday after tea.’
Taking the shopping bag from her, Justine nodded. ‘Thank you, I can’t wait to read it, Gran. I’ll start this afternoon. And by the way, Iffet didn’t mind about changing our da
te. In fact, it was good for her. She has clients in town and she usually looks after them when they’re here.’
‘I’m happy it worked out. Now you have plenty of time to read, to digest everything.’ Reaching out, Gabriele took Justine’s hand in hers. ‘I intended to leave the book to you and Richard in my will. You see, to be honest, I never thought I would see either of you again in my lifetime. Not in my wildest dreams. But you found me. And I’m still alive and kicking, so I decided you should have it now. Richard can read it when he arrives next week.’
‘I’ll keep it safe, Gran, and I do understand it’s for my eyes only… until Rich gets here.’
‘And remember, it was written over the last ten years, and to the best of my memory.’
Later, after Gabriele and Anita had left, Justine took the Fortnum’s shopping bag to her bedroom, sat down in a chair and placed the black leather-bound book on the small coffee table.
She sat staring at it for the longest time, wanting to pick it up, to open it, and yet, in a strange way, she was afraid to do so. She was not sure what she was going to find among those leaves.
After taking a deep breath, she finally reached for it, stared at the first page. The title was there.
Fragments of a Life, it said, and underneath was the name of the author. Gabriele, and that was all, no last name. Justine turned the page, and read the words at the top. On the left was the dateline BERLIN, and on the other side it said 16 NOVEMBER 1938.
Justine frowned as she stared at the name of the city. Berlin had jumped out at her. What was her grandmother doing in Berlin in 1938? She was genuinely puzzled.
Dropping her eyes, she scanned the page, was reassured that this was her grandmother’s handwriting. She knew it well. It had always been distinctive, flowing, elegant, and easy to read.
BERLIN 16 NOVEMBER 1938
I am always happy to come home when I’ve been away. When I reached the street where we lived I became excited, joyful in my heart. It was growing dark. There was a cold wind. This made me hurry faster. All of a sudden I started to run when our building came into sight. I couldn’t wait to see my parents and my little sister Erika. Once I was inside the vestibule, I smoothed my hair and straightened my scarf before climbing the stairs with my suitcase.
Something seemed different. Then I realized that the building was unnaturally quiet. I had lived here most of my life and it had never been so still. There was usually the odd noise. When I reached the second floor I noticed something even stranger. The door of our flat was ajar. It was always closed, locked from the inside. Who had left it open like this?
I didn’t go in. I stood staring at the door, frowning, listening. Silence. Darkness inside. Finally I pushed the door open, stepped into the foyer. I could see dim light at the end of the corridor, and as I looked to my right there was another pale glow from my father’s study. I stood there for a split second, fear invading me. I turned on the foyer light at last, called out, Mutti! Papa! I am home!
No voices of welcome. No happy laughter. No parents. No little sister hugging me. I put down my suitcase. My mouth was dry. I swallowed, steeled myself to walk forward. When I reached my father’s study I pushed open the door cautiously with my foot. The desk lamp was on. My father’s violin lay on his music table. It was not in its case. This was peculiar. Worrying. It was a Stradivarius. Papa always put it away. Next to it was a sheet of music. I went to look. Mozart.
I walked down the main corridor to the kitchen, peeped around the door, went inside. There were pans on the stove. A chopping board on the counter. Vegetables scattered on the big kitchen table. It was obvious my mother had left hurriedly. That was the only explanation. She would never leave her kitchen in disarray.
Where were my family?
I dare not accept the thought that sprang into my head. I just stood there. Frightened, rooted to the spot. And then I heard it, a noise, like a door squeaking. As I swung around I came face to face with Mrs Weber who lived across the hall.
She hurried to me, grabbed me, held me close to her ample body. I heard a choke, a sob. When I looked up into her face I saw how deathly white she was. The same colour as her apron.
Gabri, you must leave. Now, at once, she told me. Come with me, I have something for you. I asked her where my parents and sister were. She did not answer. She just kept shaking her head. Taking hold of my arm she hurried me out of the kitchen, down the corridor. In the foyer she picked up my suitcase and rushed me out of our flat and across the landing into her home.
Mrs Weber locked her door, led me into the kitchen. The window was open. I could hear the traffic in the street. She turned on the radio. So no one could hear us. I knew that. I was watching her alertly.
Where are they? I asked. I was trembling inside. They’ve been taken, she whispered, and stopped. I waited, my eyes riveted on hers. By the Gestapo, she said.
The Gestapo. No! No! I shrieked. Not Mutti and Papa. Not little Erika. No, I cried. I was frozen to the spot, filled with terror, tears pricking the back of my eyes, my throat choked.
Mrs Weber rushed to me, saying I must be quiet. Gabri, please be quiet. She held me close to her and then took my hand, almost dragged me into her bedroom. She closed and locked the door, pulled out a suitcase from under the bed, explained my mother had given it to her. Asked her to keep it for me some weeks before. She reminded me I had the key on a ribbon around my neck. I took it off, opened the case.
My clothes had been neatly packed. My passport lay on top, along with an envelope. I opened it. There was money inside. And a photograph of the four of us. I picked up the picture, staring at my family. Tears slid down my cheeks. Would I ever see them again? I did not know the answer.
I turned to Mrs Weber, insisted I must get my father’s violin. She became vehement, said I couldn’t go back for it. They will soon come looking for you, she whispered. They have lists. Family lists. You must leave the flat the way they left it. They will return, they will notice.
I started to weep. She wiped my eyes with her handkerchief, brought me into her arms again, holding me close, stroking my hair. Do you know what to do? she asked me. Yes, I answered, my mother told me. She nodded, said, Now we must combine the two cases, put everything in your mother’s case. I did as she asked.
Mrs Weber hugged me, led me through her foyer. May God go with you, Gabriele, she said as she opened her front door. I thanked her, looked across at our flat, and went down the stairs slowly. I was blinded by tears.
God? What God? I wondered.
There was no God. I was on my own. I was fourteen.
When I went out into the street it was very dark. I turned left, then right, and left again. I walked straight down the fourth street until I arrived at the building where Anita Fischer lived with her older brother Markus. I had to tell them, warn them. I went into their vestibule, climbed the stairs to the first floor, rang their bell. Waited. I was still shaking inside, brimming with dread. Had they been taken?
The door opened. Anita smiled when she saw me. And then her face instantly changed. What is it? What’s wrong? she cried, pulling me inside, slamming the door, locking it. They’ve been taken, my family, I whispered. A sob broke free from my throat. I covered my mouth with my hand, gulped back the tears.
The Gestapo? she asked. I could only nod.
Markus was suddenly standing there. The Gestapo? he repeated in a hushed voice. Still I could only nod.
They’re out hunting Jews, he asserted, his voice grim, his face turning as white as Mrs Weber’s had been. The Nazi thugs came out in the open on Kristallnacht, he muttered, looking from me to Anita. They showed their hand. They want to kill us all. They won’t be satisfied until they’ve killed every Jew in Germany.
I gaped at him. So did Anita. That’s not possible, I gasped. Wait and see, he replied.
We went into the living room. Anita left us to make hot tea. Markus and I sat down. He was twenty-two, and clever. Do you want to stay here with us? I shook my head. I have to
go to my mother’s friend, that’s what she told me to do, I muttered, still swallowing my tears. The Russian woman? Markus asked. Yes, I replied. Can I phone her? He nodded.
Markus took me to the small den, indicated the phone, then left me alone. I dialled the number I had memorized on my mother’s instructions. It rang and rang. Ja?, a woman’s voice asked. Guten Abend, Prinzessin, I said in German. And then added in English, It’s Gabriele Landau speaking. There was a moment of silence. The princess asked in English, Are things not right? No they are not, I responded. She told me to come to her at once. I said I would.
I went back to the living room. Anita, as white as chalk and shaky, had made tea. We sat and drank it in silence. Anita said, Markus got his travel visa today. But I didn’t get mine. I stared at her. Can’t you go too? I asked. It was Markus who answered. We’ll find a way, he said. We must both go to Istanbul together. If we cannot, I shall stay here to protect Anita.
Later, after we had finished our tea, I asked Markus if he would take me to the home of Princess Irina Troubetzkoy who lived near the Tiergarten, the lovely old park my mother so loved. He agreed to drive me there on his motorbike.
Justine put the black leather book on the coffee table, her hands shaking. In fact, she was shaking all over, and her face was wet with the tears still streaming out of her eyes. She could not believe what she had just read, nor did she understand. She had always believed her grandmother was English. But she was not. She was German… a German Jew. And therefore she was Jewish, and Richard and her mother also. Justine understood she was not who she thought she was, and neither were they. But that did not really matter to her. What was important was the pain and suffering her grandmother had gone through as a young girl. A fourteen-year-old girl, alone in Nazi Germany. A Jewish girl, more at risk than anyone.
A shudder rippled through Justine at this thought. She went into the bathroom, found the tissues and wiped away her tears. Staring at herself in the mirror, she noticed how strained she looked, and her eyes were red-rimmed from crying.