Heritage (24 page)

But things were not that simple, she now realised, as Violet's eyes met hers with a candour and maturity Maureen had not seen there before.

‘I know you think I'm empty-headed and romantic,' Violet said directly and without any form of accusation, ‘but you see, Maureen, I believe in romance.'

The use of her Christian name without the ‘auntie' title was strangely affecting, and Maureen felt riddled with guilt for having hurt the girl as deeply as she plainly had.

‘I believe that romance and love are the same thing,' Violet said. ‘They are for me. I don't want to sleep with Pietro just to lose my virginity.' Her lip trembled slightly, her composure was starting to crack. ‘And I wouldn't run away with some buck to a cheap motel.'

Maureen was mortified, at a loss for words. But Violet stemmed the tears that threatened. She took a deep breath, regained her dignity, and continued.

‘You think my romantic view of the world is shallow, and perhaps it is. But it doesn't mean that my love is shallow. I just look at things a different way from you. I like romance in my life, and you don't.'

It was a simple statement, and it was true, Maureen thought. She couldn't remember a time when she'd experienced even the slightest sense of romance. Passion, yes, in the early days with Andy. She'd slept with him before they were married, she'd been the one to instigate it. And she'd experienced love. She'd loved Andy deeply, she still did, they'd been partners and soul mates. But romance? She'd had no time for romance, her life had been governed by practicality and commonsense for as long as she could remember.

‘I will marry Pietro,' Violet said. ‘I want to. I was frightened before, but I'm not any more, Dad's helped me make up my mind.' A rebellious edge crept into her voice. ‘I'll marry Pietro whether Dad likes it or not.'

Maureen hoped Violet wasn't marrying Pietro simply to spite her father, but she quelled the voice of reason. She was being over-practical again, she warned herself, now was not the time.

‘Your dad's not a bad man, you know, Violet,' she said.

‘Yes he is.' The girl's tone was more than rebellious now, it was hard. ‘Dad's a hypocrite.'

‘Only where his family's concerned. He thinks he's being protective.'

‘And he hit you.'

‘Yes,' Maureen admitted, ‘but he did it because I was saying things about you he didn't want to hear. I think he frightened himself more than me.'

‘You're very forgiving, Maureen.' Violet wasn't. She could still hear her father's voice:
I can kill the fucking Dago, that's what I can do.
She'd never forgive him for that.

‘I'm sorry for what I said, Violet.'

‘I know. And it's all right.' Violet smiled her pretty, childlike smile. ‘It's all right. Really.' She and Maureen had an understanding now. A real woman's understanding. Violet was happy about that much at least.

 

Lucky's winning streak continued. Two months after his two-up triumph, he and Maarten Vanpoucke picked the winner of the Melbourne Cup.

Rising Fast had been Maarten's choice. The Melbourne Cup was the one time of the year Maarten gambled, and he took his selection very seriously, studying the field, the owners, the jockeys and the track conditions. This year, however, he'd considered there was no need to study up.

‘Rising Fast,' he'd said to Lucky. ‘He's won this year's Caulfield Cup and the Cox Plate – he's a champion. And Purtell's a fine jockey, he won last year's Cup on Wodalla, we can't go wrong. I'm putting fifty pounds on Rising Fast to win.'

Lucky had gone along with the idea and they'd placed a hundred quid on the nose. It had become an annual event to pool their bets. This year it had paid off.

On the Saturday following the Melbourne Cup, Lucky collected their winnings and arrived at Maarten's around four in the afternoon, as they'd arranged. Maarten met him at the front door flourishing an unopened bottle of vintage Taittinger.

‘What a horse, eh?' the Dutchman said as he ushered Lucky up the main staircase and into the lounge room. He started opening the champagne. ‘The Caulfield Cup, the Cox Plate and the Melbourne Cup all in one year – he'll go down in history.' The cork popped loudly.

‘Pity he was the favourite.' Lucky took his bulging wallet from his pocket. ‘But we still did very nicely.' He grinned, about to count out the money.

‘All in good time,' Maarten said, pouring the champagne into the flutes sitting on the sideboard beside the ice-bucket. ‘To Rising Fast.' He handed a glass to Lucky, who dumped the wallet on the coffee table and joined in the toast.

‘To Rising Fast,' he said, and they clinked.

For the next ten minutes or so they chatted enthusiastically about the race. Maarten was in a most effusive mood, and not only because of their win. Lucky had finally agreed to stay and dine after their chess game – it was a first.

‘You can't turn me down this time, Lucky,' he'd insisted over the phone. ‘It was a history-making race, they'll be talking about this horse fifty years from now. We must celebrate.'

‘Of course we must, I'd be delighted to stay for dinner. Thank you.' Lucky had accepted the invitation with good grace, although he'd hoped he wasn't creating a precedent; he'd far rather spend his evenings with Peggy. But he felt guilty always declining Maarten's invitation; for all the Dutchman's charm he appeared to have few friends.

‘Tell me, how's young Pietro?' Maarten asked, topping up their glasses and replacing the champagne in its ice-bucket. ‘He hasn't been to see me for over six weeks.'

‘He's probably been distracted,' Lucky replied. ‘He's in love.'

‘Ah well,' Maarten laughed, ‘that explains it.' But he was serious as he added, ‘He must be due for another script by now. He's been meticulous with his medication, I take it?'

‘I presume so.' Lucky had no idea.

‘I'd like him to visit me once a month as we agreed,' Maarten peered over his spectacle rims in professional doctor mode. ‘It's advisable I keep an eye on his condition. Perhaps you could remind him, Lucky?'

‘Yes, of course I will.' It was obvious he was still perceived as the boy's father figure, Lucky thought, but he was grateful to Maarten for his concern. He would chastise Pietro for neglecting his monthly check-up.

‘Well, let's get started.' Maarten placed the ice-bucket and champagne on the table where the chess board was laid out. ‘The sooner I beat you, the sooner we eat.'

Lucky joined him at the table and they sat.

‘Mrs Hodgeman is preparing veal knuckles in red wine,' Maarten said. ‘A specialty of hers, and a favourite of mine.'

 

‘You're a genius, Mrs Hodgeman,' Lucky said five hours later as he mopped up the last of his gravy. The food had been superb. ‘I haven't eaten a meal like that since the old days.'

‘Goodo, sir, I'm glad you liked it.' Noreen Hodgeman beamed with pleasure. She was a tough little woman in her mid-forties with an Aussie accent that belonged in a shearing shed. ‘It's one of the doctor's favourites,' she said as she started clearing away the plates. ‘Shall I leave it half an hour before serving sweets, Doctor? Fruit flan,' she said with a special smile. It was obviously another of Maarten's favourites.

‘Yes, thank you, Mrs Hodgeman, and tell Kevin to fetch another bottle from the cellar, if you wouldn't mind.' Maarten drained the last of his specially imported Bordeaux into his empty glass; Lucky's was still half full.

‘Right you are then,' and she disappeared with the empty bottle.

Lucky had always liked Mrs Hodgeman. She was a bizarre mixture. She was an outback woman, yet her attitude to her employer was both maternal and servile, and Lucky found it amusing. He sensed she liked him too, but she'd refused to call him Lucky when he'd suggested it. ‘Ah no, sir,' she'd said, ‘this is the doctor's house, I like to do things right. Heavens above I owe him that. I dunno where I'd be without the Doctor.' A widowed farmer's wife, her husband killed in the war, Noreen Hodgeman had been Maarten's housekeeper for the past five years and, as he'd also employed her son and given them both a roof over their heads, she'd had every reason to be grateful. It was obvious that she now adored Maarten and she played the roles of mother and servant with equal dedication.

‘Where did Mrs Hodgeman learn to cook like that?' Lucky asked when she'd gone. He'd been fussed over with cups of tea and cake in the past, but he'd never experienced Mrs Hodgeman's cooking.

‘Books,' Maarten said, and he laughed at Lucky's reaction. ‘It's true. She knows I like European food so she's made a study of it. I must say it's a relief. When she first came to me I got so sick of mutton stews and lamb chops with boiled vegetables.'

Several minutes later, Kevin arrived with the wine. He was a big, thickset young man in his early twenties, and gauche, like an overgrown boy. He rarely said a word and Lucky hadn't known what to make of him upon their first meetings. Whenever he'd tried to introduce polite conversation, he'd been met with a stony silence.

‘Don't bother,' Maarten had said finally, ‘he's not all there.'

‘Oh.' Lucky hadn't realised. He wished Maarten had told him earlier.

‘What's that wonderful Australian expression?' Maarten had said. ‘He's not the full quid,' and he'd laughed.

Ever since then Lucky had gone out of his way to be nice to Kevin, and he'd quickly registered that the boy was not sullen at all, but painfully shy.

‘Hello, Kevin,' he said now as Kevin arrived with the wine.

Kevin nodded and gave him a quick smile before concentrating on the corkscrew and the wine. Kevin liked Lucky. He put the opened bottle on the table and left in silence.

‘Drink up, Lucky, you've ground to a halt,' Maarten said jovially.

‘I have, you're quite right. Not for me, thanks.' He waved aside the bottle that Maarten held poised over his glass. The Dutchman had drunk virtually all the previous one; half a bottle of champagne had been quite enough for Lucky.

Maarten didn't seem to mind. He topped up his own glass and toasted the air. ‘To Rising Fast,' he said yet again, forgetting that he'd said it at least half a dozen times. ‘The horse of the century.'

‘Which reminds me, I owe you some money.'

Lucky rose from the table and fetched his wallet. He was wondering how long it would be before he could politely make his exit; Maarten was getting happily drunk and it was nearly ten o'clock. He resigned himself to the fruit flan, however. It would be rude to leave before the dessert, although he felt he couldn't eat another thing. But his mind was on Peggy now, and her promise was beckoning. ‘I'll be ready and waiting no matter how late you are,' she'd said suggestively when he'd told her not to wait up.

He took the bundle of notes from his wallet and placed them on the table in front of Maarten.

‘There you go,' he said, ‘the honour's all yours.' And he sat.

‘What were the odds? Five to two, weren't they?' Maarten asked. ‘That should make it three hundred and fifty pounds between us, including the one hundred we laid on for the bet.' The Dutchman appeared instantly sober – money was serious business to Maarten Vanpoucke. He unfolded the wad of notes.

‘I can't remember,' Lucky said. ‘He was five to two on the tote, but I think the bookie gave us better odds than that. I didn't count it when I collected it, how much is there?'

A photograph was sitting in the middle of the notes he'd unfolded, and Maarten picked it up and stared intently at it. ‘Is this your wife?' he asked slowly.

‘Yes,' Lucky said. He'd forgotten the photo was there; it must have got mixed up with the money when he'd shoved it in his wallet, he thought. He must return it to the safety of his cabin which these days he kept locked. Wallets were far too easily stolen. ‘Yes that's Ruth,' he said.

The Dutchman studied the photograph. Lucky had told him that his wife had died at Auschwitz. But Lucky was wrong, Maarten thought. He knew this woman. This woman was very much alive. Or she had been the last time Maarten had seen her.

Ruth was enjoying the warm desert breeze blowing through the car's cabin as they drove along the Jaffa Road to Jerusalem. The early November weather was pleasant: the scorching heat had long gone, the days were comfortable and the nights were cool. Not that she minded the intensity of the heat; she was well accustomed to it.

Far in the distance, she could see the city. So many new buildings, she thought, although she'd known there would be. The Jewish settlement to the west had been expanding at an extraordinary rate even in 1948 when she'd last seen the city, barely a month before the State of Israel had officially come into being. Now, over six years later, the settlement appeared to have doubled in size.

Six years, she thought – had it really been that long? She lived barely a half-hour drive from Jerusalem and yet for a whole six years she'd chosen not to return. She could have done so whenever she'd wished – Moshe regularly made the trip into the city. In the early days he'd always asked her to come with him, but each time she'd said no. Occasionally she'd accompanied him into Haifa, where she'd done some shopping and visited the synagogue, more to please him than herself, but she no longer maintained the pretence of finding interest in either shopping or synagogues, preferring to remain at the orchard. Now, when Moshe went into town, he no longer asked her if she wanted to accompany him.

She glanced at him. He was deep in thought as he drove, but, sensing her look, he turned to her.

‘I told you you'd see some changes,' he said, indicating the distant city.

‘Yes,' she agreed. ‘It's very beautiful.'

The two once more lapsed into silence, his eyes on the road, hers on the city.

It was extraordinarily beautiful, she thought. The new buildings already resembled the old – built, as they were, of the same local limestone, they appeared as timeless as their predecessors. In the midst of the parched, biblical landscape, the rocky oasis of Jerusalem seemed to grow out of the very stone upon which it sat, stark and pale like bleached bones.

Ruth had first arrived in Palestine in November of 1947, shortly before the United Nations' vote for the Partition of Palestine into a Jewish and Arab state, and before the final departure of the British governing forces. Initially unaware of the depth of conflict seething around her, it had been the ancient beauty of Jerusalem that had made such an impression.

‘Yerushalayim has that effect upon everyone who comes here,' her uncle had said in Hebrew. Walter Stein no longer spoke his German mother tongue unless it was necessary, and Ruth was fluent in Hebrew. ‘But its timelessness holds a special purpose for we who have returned to the homeland of our people, Ruth. It is here that you will find yourself.'

Walter had felt a deep responsibility, both paternal and spiritual, for his niece. She was his blood, his name. The poor child had reverted to her maiden name in a desperate bid to obliterate the memory that she had once been married with a child. She was a lost creature, and he had welcomed her into his home like a daughter. Having brought up his two children in the strict Orthodox traditions of Judaism, Walter had been convinced that the strength his niece required to rebuild her shattered life was to be found in the faith she had deserted long before.

Her uncle was kind and well-meaning, and Ruth had dutifully attended the synagogue each Shabbat and taken care to observe the rituals, but it had all been meaningless to her, mere gestures of courtesy to her uncle and his family in whose home she was living. The faith she had grown up with had died in Auschwitz. For Ruth, there was no God – there could not possibly be.

But perhaps there was some truth in her uncle's words, she'd thought as she wandered the narrow streets of the old walled city, in awe of its history and its architecture. Perhaps here, in this ancient place, spiritual heart for Jew, Muslim and Christian alike, she might find some kind of peace within herself, something to fill the void of despair in which she'd been lost.

The miracle of liberation and her own survival had meant little to Ruth Lachmann. There had been nothing to live for, and the nightmares had haunted her …

The cattle car. Mannie supporting her, Rachel on his shoulders; the stench of vomit and faeces. The old woman on the floor unable to get up, wailing, then silenced, trampled to death.

The doors thrown open. The blinding glare of daylight. Dogs barking, jaws snapping.
‘Raus! Raus!'
Nazis screaming, cudgels flailing. The air thick with a hideous sickly smell.

The march to the head of the ramp. The SS officer in his smart, black uniform directing the traffic with a flick of his riding crop.
‘Links. Rechts.'
Mannie cudgelled and dragged from her.

The queue of old people and women with children. Clutching Rachel's hand, trying to hide the child behind her. The SS soldier snatching at a baby in a woman's arms, the woman fighting back, not letting go. Two shots. The woman and baby dead on the ground, the child still in its mother's arms.

Then Rachel ripped from her and, above the chaos, the shrill scream of her child's terror. Lunging forward, reaching for her daughter. The soldier raising his rifle. Her own scream mingling with Rachel's …

Ruth always awoke before she heard the shot. But it didn't save her from the image of Rachel. Her tiny, lifeless body lying next to the woman whose baby remained clutched in her arms. Ruth envied the woman.

The image returned relentlessly throughout her waking hours. Without warning, and with an accompanying click, like the shutter of a camera, it would flicker on and off in her brain. And after her liberation, when her daily focus had no longer been on the fight for survival, the image had seemed never to leave her. Her mind had been free to dwell on the image of her murdered child and the purposelessness of her own existence. Even her work as an interpreter with the American occupying forces had provided no distraction. Rachel was always there, lying beside the woman with the baby.

It had been easier in the camp, Ruth often thought. There she had learned to exist on hate. Ira Schoneberger, who had fought so desperately to encourage her will to live, had finally discovered the right avenue of persuasion, although his early attempts had met with little success.

‘Survive, Ruth!' he'd told her at first. ‘Survive. If you die, they win. You're young, you can have another child. Every one of us who survives is a victory. And those who go on to bear children are the greatest victors of all.'

His advice, well intentioned as it was, had meant nothing. Ruth hadn't wished to survive and she had no desire to bear another child. But she had decided that she would live long enough to save Mannie. Through her relationship with Klaus Henkel, she could do it, she was sure. Henkel had the power over life and death. Henkel would save Mannie, and then she would be free to give up her own battle for survival. But Klaus Henkel, the Nazi who had preserved her from certain death, had not saved Manfred Brandauer.

‘Mannie is dead,' Ira had told her bluntly. ‘They shot him yesterday, and it was Henkel who ordered it.'

She hadn't believed him at first. ‘But Klaus promised me Mannie would be safe,' she'd said, desperately. ‘I told him that Mannie was not a Jew, I told him that Mannie was Stefan Brandauer's son. Klaus said that he knew Stefan. Stefan was a fine man who had served the German government well, he said. He promised to …'

‘I saw it, Ruth, I was the doctor in attendance. The wall of death beside Block 10, a firing squad of four, at three o'clock in the afternoon.' Ira had been ruthless in his detail. ‘The soldiers told me it was Henkel who ordered the execution.'

She had known it was true, even as she'd tried to persuade herself that Ira was wrong. Ira was never wrong. Ira could always be relied upon for correct information.

Ira Schoneberger, although a Jew and an inmate, had been given the freedom of the camp. A highly qualified doctor, he'd proved useful to Josef Mengele and Klaus Henkel, and he'd ingratiated himself with the Nazis, even to the point of agreeing with Mengele that his hideous experiments were invaluable to the future of medical science.

Ira's survival had depended upon his sycophancy and willingness to betray his own people, but Ruth had proved his weak spot. He had fallen in love with her, and would do anything to save her. The privileged position Henkel had assigned Ruth at the hospital had made it easy for Ira to meet secretly with her. She'd had no idea of his feelings for her, and he had no intention of declaring them – it was too dangerous – but he'd welcomed her as another tool in his survival kit. The anticipation of his meetings with Ruth had helped keep him alive, and he had passed to her the drugs and supplies that she then smuggled out to her fellow inmates. Ira would never have risked smuggling the drugs on his own, but giving her a further purpose to live had been to his advantage. Through Ruth, Ira Schoneberger had unwittingly been a lifeline to many of his people, all of whom detested him and considered him a traitor.

He hadn't wanted to tell Ruth of Mannie's death for fear she would lose her own will to live, but he'd known that she would find out eventually, and he'd needed to feed her a fresh purpose to survive.

‘You've tried to believe that Henkel is different, Ruth,' he'd said after comforting her in her grief and shock. ‘But surely you must know that he's not. Surely you must have felt the malevolence in the man.'

She had. Even when Henkel had wooed her, massaging her shoulders with caring expertise, singing along gently to ‘Barcarole' as the music played on his gramophone, she'd had the feeling he could break her neck with equal expertise if she displeased him.

‘Klaus Henkel is different from the others in only one way,' Ira had said. ‘He is more evil than all of them. Mengele himself fears Henkel, I can sense it. The man is so diabolical that even the Angel of Death fears him – imagine that!'

Then, as he'd planned, Ira had set out to fuel her hatred with all the reason and persuasion of which he was capable. ‘We must live to see Henkel brought to justice, Ruth – it is our duty to do so. The Germans are losing the war. I hear Mengele and Henkel talking freely about it in the Experimentation Block where there's no-one but me to hear them. They're worried.'

His mention of the Experimentation Block had been deliberate and he noted her reaction. She'd had no idea that Klaus Henkel was directly involved in Mengele's experiments.

‘And when the Germans have been defeated, we must be alive to tell our stories and see Henkel and the rest of his kind hang,' he'd urged. ‘Use him, Ruth. Use Klaus Henkel to survive. But hate him. It's your hate that will feed you and keep you alive.'

Now as the car neared Jerusalem, Ruth could see the ancient fortifications of the Old City and the domes and spires of the mosques and churches that lay beyond, the great golden dome on Temple Mount glinting spectacularly in the afternoon sun. The Dome of the Rock, one of Islam's most sacred sites, dominated the skyline of the old walled city from every possible viewpoint.

She recalled her hope that sacred Jerusalem might bring her some peace. How naive she'd been. Hatred and violence had abounded throughout the whole of Palestine.

The hate Ira Schoneberger had successfully fuelled in her had been rekindled in Jerusalem, and Ruth didn't want to go back. She knew that seeing her cousin David would arouse memories she'd been trying to obliterate for the past six years, memories that rivalled even the horrors of Auschwitz. But most of all she dreaded the thought that Eli Mankowski might be at the funeral. It was quite probable he would attend, she thought. He and David were comrades in arms, after all, and Eli might well wish to pay his respects.

‘It will be hard for Sarah.'

Ruth had been so preoccupied with her thoughts that Moshe's voice startled her.

‘Yes. Very hard. She'll miss him.'

‘Hard for Rebekah and David too.'

‘Rebekah yes, but I don't think David will grieve for long.' Her tone was cold, as it so often was lately. ‘David will be too busy to bother with grief.'

She returned her attention to the old walled city, aware that she'd sounded rude and dismissive. She shouldn't have – Moshe was only trying to make polite conversation – but she'd been brusque with him ever since he insisted she attend her uncle's funeral.

‘You owe it to Sarah, Ruth,' he'd said. ‘She and Walter took you into their home; David and Rebekah are your cousins, your blood. It is essential you attend as a mark of respect.'

He'd spoken to her as if she were a recalcitrant child, and she'd been annoyed. Of course she was aware of the debt she owed her aunt and uncle, but she owed no debt to her cousin David, or to his friend Eli Mankowski. Why must she be forced to suffer their company? She'd agreed to go, but was angry that Moshe appeared to have no idea what he was asking of her.

Moshe took his eyes from the road to glance at her as she gazed resolutely ahead, ignoring him. He knew what was occupying her thoughts, and it certainly wasn't the death of her uncle. Nor was it her Aunt Sarah's impending loneliness. She was wondering if Eli would be at the funeral. A stab of the old jealousy returned, but Moshe pushed it aside. She didn't love Eli any more than she loved him, he thought. Ruth was incapable of love. She had told him so all those years ago, and it had been arrogant of him to presume he could change her. But Eli Mankowski had held a power over her, and Moshe had always envied the man for that. Any reaction, even the repulsion she now professed to feel for Mankowski, would be preferable, Moshe thought, to the remoteness he himself was forced to endure.

He wondered sometimes whether he still loved her. She was beautiful certainly, he thought, watching her now, the wind playing havoc with her sun-bleached hair; a tanned arm resting half out of the window; her body lean and healthy. But Ruth had a tortured mind, and little wonder. Moshe had hoped somehow that he might be her saviour. But he hadn't been able to break through her coldness. He had the feeling she would leave him soon and, when she did, he wondered how much he would care.