Letter From a Stranger

  Her grandmother loved beauty… it was her antidote to ugliness, brutality, pain, suffering and loss. Justine truly understood now why the gardens at Indian Ridge had always been important to Gabriele. It was she who had made the entire property so spectacular. She had planted many tall trees and flowering bushes, including rhododendrons, hydrangeas, lilacs and the lilac-blue wisteria. Then there was the orchard filled with apple trees, and Gabriele’s famous rose garden, which she had tended lovingly and for hours on end.

  As a child Justine had been the main helper, the assistant gardener, her gran called her. She had passed tools and the garlic bulbs, which Gabriele said prevented the invasion of nasty little black beetles that ate the roses.

  Justine smiled to herself. Remembering so much, and now understanding so much more. Her grandmother was a caring and compassionate woman, as well as so many other things.

  As she finally sat down on the seat, Justine wished Michael were here. She needed to unburden herself to him, ask him certain questions. Closing her eyes, Justine relaxed, enjoying the balmy air, the smell of the sea mingling with the fragrance of the flowers. Later, when twilight descended, wrapping the yali in its soft blue light, the night-blooming jasmine would spill its heady scent over everything.

  After a while, Justine roused herself from her myriad thoughts and stood up. She looked across at Central Istanbul with all its teeming millions and then walked back to the villa slowly.

  Upstairs, fragments of her grandmother’s life awaited her. She must go back to it again.

  THIRTY-SIX

  The moment Justine walked into the bedroom she picked up the black-leather book, sat down in the chair, and opened it. For a split second she stared at the title, Fragments of a Life, and wondered what was coming next, wanting to know but almost afraid to start reading again.

  Finding her place, she stared at the page.

  THE MARK BRANDENBURG 17 NOVEMBER 1938

  I did not sleep. I cried most of the night. I could not get Mummy out of my mind. Or Papa and Erika. Every part of me ached for them. I longed to be with them. Where were they? How were they? My mind raced. I must find out what happened to them. Where were they taken? I must have fallen asleep from exhaustion. The princess woke me at nine o’clock this morning. She was dressed to go out. She told me to get ready, go downstairs for breakfast. Hedy, the cook, was expecting me. She confided she was going to see someone who might help us. The princess bent over me, stroked my hair tenderly, added that we would be going to stay with Arabella von Wittingen. At the Schloss in the Mark Brandenburg.

  I did everything she wanted. I was ready, waiting to leave when she returned later. I could tell she did not have good news. She told me that her contact knew nothing, as yet. He would find out, she said, gave me a reassuring smile. We went out into the foyer. She leaned closer, whispered, Don’t talk about private matters in front of any staff. Anywhere. I’m sure they’re loyal. But better to be silent, she finished. I told her I understood.

  It was Hans, the Herr Baron’s chauffeur, who sat behind the wheel of the motorcar. He stowed our suitcases. Helped the princess into the back. I scrambled in after her. We sat together in silence. I wondered which way we were going to the Mark after we left the Lützowufer. We were driving towards the Tiergartenstrasse. When we passed the Tiergarten, I thought of my mother. It was laid out like a natural English park, that’s why she loved it so much. The car left the Hofjägeralle, went past the Grosser Stern, and the Siegessäule, the winged victory column.

  We went down the Unter den Linden. The princess closed her eyes, muttered in a low voice, They have defaced the most beautiful boulevard in Berlin. And grimaced. I knew what she meant. The Nazis had erected rows of soaring columns down its centre and its sides. Each was topped with a Nazi eagle. My mother had called it meaningless, ridiculous paraphernalia. After passing the Pariser Platz, Hans turned right.

  I stiffened. We were driving up Wilhemstrasse. At the end of this street was the Reich Chancellery where Hitler dreamed up his mad schemes with his sinister henchmen. The dreaded Führer was plotting death and destruction behind those walls. I shivered uncontrollably. The princess glanced at me. We are going to the British Embassy, she murmured. Had she read my mind? Opening her handbag, she took out a letter, showed it to me.

  It was addressed to Sir Nevile Henderson, the British Ambassador in Berlin. The car stopped outside the embassy. Hans took the letter. I peered out of the window. My heart lifted. The British flag, the red, white and blue Union Jack, was blowing in the wind. I couldn’t help thinking of auntie Beryl. Far away in London. My mother’s sister. Was that letter about my mother?

  Once we were on our way again, Princess Irina said, Although I have been many times to Kurt’s home, I do not know much about the area. Tell me about it, Gabriele, please.

  I did so, explaining, The area once belonged to the conquering Teutonic knights. The forests of the Mark Brandenburg were part of their domain, and they stretch into Prussia. It has many lakes, canals and little rivers running through its many villages, and these are quaint, charming. There are three rivers in this area, the Havel, the Spree and the Oder, and several great Schlosses. The two most important belong to Prince Kurt, and Graf Reinhard von Tiegal.

  Thank you, Gabri, the princess said. She settled back against the seat and closed her eyes. I did the same. We remained silent until we arrived at the castle where the von Wittingens lived.

  Princess Arabella von Wittingen, my mother’s best friend, stood waiting for us on the front steps of the Schloss. The moment I saw her, tears came to my eyes. She was tall, slender, blonde, blue-eyed. So similar in appearance to my mother. They were both English women, had the same silky English voices. My mother was not an aristocrat as Arabella was, but she came from a highly respected English Jewish family. Her great-great-grandfather had gone to England from France in the early nineteenth century. His name was Leo Goldsmith. He was a diamond merchant. He created a great business in Hatton Gardens, the diamond district in London. Diamonds had made my mother’s family rich.

  I wanted to run to Arabella when I got out of the car. I didn’t. I walked sedately, carrying my suitcase. I wanted to be grown-up. The princess followed me with Hans, who was holding her case.

  When I got to the top of the steps, Arabella opened her arms. I put down the case. Stepped into them. She held me tightly, said soothing words. Then we all went inside. And Hans drove away. I did not like the chauffeur. I did not trust him. And I was glad we had kept silent on the drive here. Diana and Christian were nowhere in sight, and as I turned to Arabella to ask where her children were, she said, They’re with their grandmother. They’ll be here tomorrow, Gabriele. It was as if she had read my mind. Like Irina had. Was that easy to do? I must learn to keep a poker face.

  Arabella led us into the great room off the hall. There was a huge fire blazing, and on the large coffee table I noticed a teapot, cups and saucers, and a plate of nursery sandwiches, as they were called in England. Princess Irina and I welcomed the hot lemon tea and the roaring fire.

  Once we were settled, Arabella said, I spoke to my husband today, and he will endeavour to find out where Stella, Dirk and Erika are. She looked at Irina questioningly. I know you tried also, Irina. I did, the Russian princess said, shaking her head. No luck. But I fear the worst, I’m afraid.

  I stiffened on the sofa, stared at her. What do you mean? I asked. My contact, the man I saw this morning, said he’s fearful they might have been sent to a camp already, Gabri. I didn’t say anything earlier. I wanted you to be here with Arabella when I told you. I wanted you to know we’ll keep you safe.

  But my family, I began, and burst into tears. Arabella, next to me on the sofa, put her arms around me. This only made me cry more than ever. In my mind and heart she was so closely associated with my mother.

  I finally stopped crying, sat up, dried my eyes. I said, Can we get them out of the camp? I don’t know, Irina murmured, sounding sorrowful. Arabella said, Let us se
e what Kurt comes up with. There is something else I would like to discuss with you Gabriele. I nodded. She continued, Your aunt Beryl in London. Have you telephoned her? Does she know what happened yesterday? No. I haven’t phoned her. I then recounted everything, explaining what I had found when I returned to the flat. I also told her about Mrs Weber, what she had been able to tell me. I should’ve phoned, but I didn’t think of it, I muttered. I was worried about my family.

  The two women exchanged glances, and Irina said, I think I can get you an exit visa, Gabri. Arabella believes we can work it out for you to go to London. It’ll take some doing, but we both feel confident we can pull it off.

  I shook my head vehemently. I don’t want to go! I want to stay here. To find my parents. I can’t leave them behind. I won’t do that. I must be brave and stay in Berlin, find Mummy and Papa, and little Erika. My voice wobbled as I spoke. I pressed my hand to my mouth. The idea of leaving without my family frightened me.

  We’re all going to work on it! Arabella exclaimed. We must remain calm and controlled. Handle this step by step. But in the meantime, there’s no harm in putting certain things into motion. Don’t you agree, Irina? I do, Irina answered, added, I will talk to C. If anyone can help, he can. And he will. He’ll get the visa, Arabella. The Russian princess gave me a loving smile. I knew she was kind, caring, and wanted to reassure me. But I wasn’t. Not really. Deep down inside myself I knew that once people had been taken by the Gestapo they were never seen again. The Nazis had absolute power. I had heard my father say it many times.

  Later that afternoon I put on my overcoat and scarf and went for a walk. The estate was beautiful, even in winter. Great fir trees towered above, almost touching the blue sky, and there was the sound of running water everywhere. The Schloss had lots of little waterways and canals. My mother had a favourite spot here. It was a cluster of rocks on top of a rise. The view of the lake across the valley was spectacular. Mummy had liked to sit there, and read. Or while away an hour doing nothing. Sometimes Arabella made a picnic and brought Diana and Christian. There was always merriment and laughter, much joyousness when they came.

  Sitting down in the shadow of the rock formation, I leaned back, closed my eyes. I heard her voice then, saying my name, calling me her darling girl, reciting her favourite poem to me or reading something from a special book.

  Would I never hear that voice again? See her smile? Look into her clear blue eyes? Would I never feel her tender touch? Her loving arms around me? Was my mother gone from me forever? And little Erika? My baby sister, only eight years old? And Papa? Would I never hear him play his Stradivarius? Hear his happy laughter, see his joyful face when he was with his little family. My girls, he called the three of us. He loved us all so dearly. And we loved him. We were a happy family.

  Although they had not said it directly, I was certain that the two princesses were not too optimistic about finding my parents. It was something I sensed. And I could not shake that feeling.

  How do you cope with a loss like that? Justine closed the book and leaned back in the chair. Despair, loneliness, fear, sorrow …all those feelings must have swamped her grandmother when she was only fourteen. The thought of it overwhelmed Justine. She could hardly bear to think about it, had to leave the book for a while to recoup, settle her emotions.

  Suddenly, she wanted to talk to Michael. She looked at her watch. It was seven thirty. Two hours earlier in London. She hesitated for a moment, wondering if he was in a meeting. And then, taking a deep breath, she dialled his cell and waited.

  After a moment his voice was on the line. ‘Dalton here,’ he said.

  ‘It’s me,’ Justine answered. ‘Is this a bad time?’

  ‘Hi, and no it’s not. I just came back to the hotel. It’s a good time.’

  ‘There’s something I want to tell you,’ she said, and the tears came into her eyes.

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  ‘So tell me,’ Michael said, when Justine remained silent at the other end of the phone.

  ‘I know a little bit more about Gran’s past,’ she began, and then unexpectedly her voice faltered, and she stopped speaking.

  ‘What is it? What’s the matter?’ Michael said, sounding anxious. ‘Do you have a cold?’

  ‘No, I don’t, I’ve been crying.’

  ‘What is it, Justine? What’s wrong?’ he asked, his voice rising in concern and alarm.

  ‘Nothing’s wrong, Michael. It’s just that I’ve been reading about Gran’s early life, and I’ve been very touched, really moved. And sorrowful, actually. But that’s not what I have to tell you.’ There was a pause before she said, ‘I just found out I’m Jewish.’

  There was a silence at Michael’s end of the phone.

  Justine asked, ‘Are you there, or did I lose you?’

  ‘No, I’m here. I’m taken aback. So Gabriele finally told you,’ he said.

  ‘Not exactly. What I mean is, she didn’t speak to me about it. She gave me a leather notebook. She calls it Fragments of a Life, and it’s handwritten, filled with bits and pieces about her life, scenes from her past. I’m beginning to realize she has chosen things that are meaningful, changed her life. She’s apparently been writing it for the last ten years, ever since my mother quarrelled with her. She was planning to leave it to us in her will, but changed her mind when I found her.’

  ‘Good God! And she never told anybody – well, at least to my knowledge she didn’t. I’m glad you know you’re Jewish, Justine. The fact that you didn’t has been bothering me. A lot. I spoke to Anita before I left for London, and she said that she was positive you had no idea Gabriele was Jewish. Or that she and I were. I told Anita I was going to bring it up with Gabri when I got back, which alarmed her somewhat.’

  ‘I can imagine. But now you don’t have to talk to Gran, because I know.’

  ‘It’s a relief. And by the way, I was determined you were going to be filled in as soon as possible. I believe you have a right to know about your antecedents and your heritage.’

  ‘I agree with you,’ Justine responded.

  ‘And how do you feel about it?’ he asked, his curiosity echoing in his voice.

  ‘Obviously I was startled when I discovered that Gran was not only Jewish but German-born with a German father. I had always believed Gran was English. She looks it, sounds it, and is very English in her ways, her manners.’

  ‘Well, she is half English because of Stella, her mother, and I’m sure she absorbed a lot from her, and the aunt in London. I know from Anita that she and her mother were very close, joined at the hip. Then again, they spent a lot of time in England before the war, according to Anita. Later Gabri was married to an Englishman, Peter Hardwicke, your grandfather, and she lived there for a number of years before going to America.’

  ‘Yes, that’s true, and I guess that’s the only part you know, isn’t it, Michael?’

  ‘It is. After Gabri saved Anita’s life, they were separated, were living in different countries until the end of the war. And that’s about the extent of it. Do you know, I’m not even sure how they found each other again. It was in London, though, that I’m aware of, Justine.’

  ‘I’m sure my mother doesn’t know one thing about Gran’s early life. Otherwise I think she would have been much kinder to her, nicer. Perhaps the estrangement might never have happened.’

  ‘Perhaps. But look, Gabriele has always been very tight-lipped about her life before she went to New York in the late Fifties.’

  ‘I just wish she had told me and Rich when we were children. My father didn’t know, I’m convinced of that.’

  ‘How could she tell you, Justine? Gabriele obviously couldn’t confide in anyone. If she said she was Jewish, had grown up in Nazi Germany, the questions would have come flying at her thick and fast. It’s quite apparent people would have wanted to know about her life, what happened to her as a young woman.’

  ‘I suppose so, and she is very striking, was truly a beauty when she was a much younger woman. Ch
arming, very elegant. People were drawn to her. They would have wanted to know more.’

  ‘Gabriele can’t dredge up those years. That’s the reason she has never talked. And never will. I understand that, Justine. She can’t bear to relive what happened to her,’ Michael said. ‘It’s too painful.’

  Justine murmured, ‘I’ve been on an emotional roller coaster all day, Michael.’

  ‘I’m sure you have. I hope Gabri will let me read it. What do you think?’

  ‘I did mention that to her, and she said I could tell you about the book. After all, you’ve been like a grandson to her all of these years, given her love, shown compassion and understanding. You’ve been extremely close to her. Of course she’ll want you to read it.’

  ‘Yes, we’ve been close and she’s given me a lot of love in return. I would like to know about those mysterious years in her life. I think that’s only natural.’

  ‘Something else came up, Michael. Joanne called earlier today. I’m afraid Daisy has come down with an ear infection—’

  ‘They’re not coming!’ Michael exclaimed, cutting across her.

  ‘That’s right. She can’t travel. Not for two weeks.’

  After she and Michael had hung up, Justine decided to go downstairs and have supper. Although she was not very hungry, she knew if she didn’t appear soon Ayce would come looking for her.

  It was Suna who greeted her when she went into the kitchen. ‘Good evening, Miss Justine,’ she said. ‘Ayce on terrace.’

  Justine nodded, murmured her thanks and went outside. She spotted Ayce setting a small table in readiness for her dinner. ‘Thank you,’ she said as she came to a stop next to the pretty young Turkish woman, smiling at her. ‘What a great idea you had. It’ll be nice to eat outside.’