Let Me Whisper You My Story (16 page)

‘That’s all right, Greta dear,’ said Martha. Cups of hot cocoa had been brought in. ‘Just tell us what you remember. Here, sip this.’

‘He’s not alive. My father, I mean. But a lot of us lost parents. I can accept that, though I don’t want to. It’s my mother. She wasn’t Jewish.’

‘What happened to her?’

‘She gave me up.’ Greta shrugged and then her body began to tremble, as if she suddenly realised the weight of her words. She shook so much that Martha took the wobbling cup of cocoa from her and put it on a small table beside her.

‘We were on the train platform waiting to be transported to a concentration camp. She saw a guard she knew and she grabbed him by the shoulder. He recognised her.’

‘Do you remember what your mother said to him, Greta?’

‘She said, “I shouldn’t be here. I’m not Jewish. Look at me. Look at my blonde hair and Aryan features. See. I made a mistake. My husband was Jewish. He has been taken away. I am a good German. I want to live.”’

‘What did the soldier say, Greta?’

‘He said, “And your child?”’

That was all Greta remembered about the conversation. Her lower lip shook with the telling of her most terrible memory.

‘My mother slipped away into the crowd. Everyone was pushing and jostling one another. Guards were beating Jews with their rifle butts. I called for my mother. She’d left me there. She escaped and I went alone to a concentration camp, where I should have died. I was sent to Bergen-Belsen, to an orphans’ compound. A guard there smuggled milk to us. Imagine, I had to go to a concentration camp to find more love from a Nazi guard than from my own mother.’

‘Greta, maybe it didn’t happen the way you remember. Maybe she tried to grab you in the crowd on the railway platform, but it was too late,’ Martha said, stroking her arm. ‘There were guards pushing people onto the train. You were separated for a moment. Everyone went a little mad at the railway stations. You can’t be sure she meant to leave you there by yourself. You must always remember that.’

‘I remember being sent to a concentration camp, and that I was all alone. That’s what I remember.’

Suddenly I had a very good idea. Why hadn’t I thought of it before?

‘When I write to my papa, I’ll ask him if I can bring you to Australia as well. Imagine, we can go to school together. We can sit at the long table together on the Sabbath and throw bread at each other.’

‘If my own mother didn’t want me, why should anyone else? Your papa won’t want me either, Rachel.
He will send me back to England.’ Her eyes filled with tears.

‘Don’t cry, Greta. Papa’s such a good man. He will say yes.’

That night, in bed, I said to Greta: ‘Hey, what made you take the world’s longest scarf?’

‘Don’t know. You treat it with such love, I s’pose I wanted to feel what you feel when you hold it.’

N
EXT DAY
I asked Peter for help with my German and we sat together in the living room and wrote a letter to my family.

My darling Papa and dearest Miri,

How would you like another daughter and sister? I would like to bring Greta to Australia with me. She is an orphan here. She needs a family just as much as I do.

She has been through terrible experiences in Bergen– Belsen concentration camp and needs a lot of love.

She is my age, and full of stories about the royal family. They aren’t true, but they are good fun all the same
.

We heard on the wireless how the newly formed United Nations agreed on the Jews having a Jewish state in their biblical homeland. Australia was the first country to vote for it. Hurray for Australia!

I shall bring a special pair of scissors just to trim your eyebrows, Papa. Miri, buy two bottles of scent. One for me and one for Greta, your new sister
.

Is there any word about Agnes?

As soon as you reply, Martha, our carer here, will make arrangements for us to travel to Australia.

I love you both more than words can say,

Rachel

‘I’
VE POSTED MY
letter to Papa,’ I said to Greta over dinner that night.

‘It’s a wasted letter, Rachel,’ said Greta. ‘Why should he take in a child he’s never met? Anyway, I’ve told you already. I’m not going with you.’

‘We’ll see about that,’ I replied, pushing mashed potato onto my fork. I looked around the table and after I’d finished eating I handed Greta the salt shaker. ‘Throw some salt over your left shoulder.’

‘Why?’

‘It’s for luck. It’s an old custom. It’s time for you to be happy and optimistic, Greta. Time for you to let go of your sad memories.’

Greta frowned but found it hard to continue looking grumpy because the grin would not move from my face.

She took the salt shaker and sprinkled salt over her left shoulder. Some of the younger children watching did the same. Martha, sitting at a nearby table with Peter, glanced at us and smiled. I think she recognised this old ritual and didn’t care a bit about salt dotting the floor.

‘S
O YOU
’
RE GOING
to Australia,’ Tony said at school recess.

‘We’ve grown used to you, Rachel.’ Timothy smiled. ‘Our parents hoped you would change your mind and that you’d come and live with us.’

‘I suppose this is better for you, but we’ll miss you,’ Tony added. ‘I heard that you’re taking Greta with you. She’s a weird one. But I suppose you know that already.’

He tossed a ball at me and I jumped to catch it.

‘You’ll write to us?’ Tony called out as he dashed across the school oval.

‘Of course I will.’

‘Y
OU SEE
, G
RETA
, a letter has come from my father and he doesn’t just want you, he expects you to arrive with me. He will send out a search party if you don’t come. He has written that I’m to trim his left eyebrow and you’re to trim his right. My sister has already bought you a bottle of scent and has written welcoming you as her new sister.’

Greta smiled despite herself.

‘And there are beaches the colour of honey, Greta. And handsome lifesavers.’

‘Really?’

‘That’s what Miri has written. No kings and queens there, no princesses. Just people. Good people. No war. People like us escaping from the war. People going there to make a new life. We’ll go down to the beach together with Papa and Miri. We’ll go across the Harbour Bridge. Miri says it’s a beautiful bridge shaped like a coat hanger that joins one side of the harbour to the other. There’s a
zoo there, and koalas and kangaroos. I think they hop down the main streets of Sydney.’

Greta smiled some more. ‘All these stories. You’re starting to sound like me, Rachel. Tell me more about the lifesavers.’

I
N DECEMBER
1948, seven months after the State of Israel became a reality, Greta and I, aged fifteen, accompanied by a refugee mother, Mrs Feinberg, and her small son Isaac, left on the SS
Orcades
for Australia. It had taken months for arrangements to be made with the Australian government for our immigration.

It was a maiden voyage for the ship, which was crammed with new immigrants for Australia and refugees seeking a new, safe life far away from war.

Early that frosty morning we left Hartfield, our home for more than three years, for the last time. We kissed the other children who had been our friends and family for so long. I turned as the car followed the driveway to take a last look at Hartfield House. No, I won’t forget you, Hartfield, ever, I thought.

Martha and Peter drove us to Tilbury Docks where we saw the ship. It was huge and shiny with a mighty funnel. People were already cramming up the long gangplank and lining the decks. Martha cried as she said goodbye, but they were happy tears.

‘We’ll write,’ I said to Martha and Peter as Mrs Feinberg gently took my hand to lead us up the gangplank.

‘Good luck and be happy, girls,’ Martha called to us wiping her eyes. Peter, that solemn man, gave a wide smile. He took off his cap and waved it as we climbed unsteadily from one life to another.

Once on board the ship we leaned against the rails, and Peter threw a red streamer to us from the wharf. I caught it and held on tightly to it. I felt a link between us, a solid tangible weight, until the ship pulled away, and the thousands of streamers held between passengers and friends on the dock broke. A cord between us and our old lives was broken, but not the love we shared.

‘Come on, Greta, let’s explore,’ I said.

I
WAS SEASICK
. Greta too. Then one day I found Greta looking under our double bunk bed. ‘I’ve found them,’ she called out.

‘What?’

‘Our sea-legs. Here they are.’

She held up invisible legs which, of course, only she and I could see. From that moment on, we decided there’d be no more throwing up. We’d sway when the ship swayed and forget our giddiness.

I loved the ship. I loved the smell of salt, the pulse of the ocean, the amazing sight of dolphins and whales. I loved the variety of people and the many languages. This, of course, was second nature for me. I had surely heard every language of Europe at Hartfield.

Little Isaac soon made friends with other children and spent a good part of the day in the children’s play area. Mrs Feinberg made friends with other families, and we would often pass her sitting on a deckchair talking or inside one of the lounges playing cards with her new friends.

Dear Freddy,

I shall never call you Fred, no matter what the Australian customs are. You’ll always be Freddy to me.

I am on my way to my new home in Australia. Greta, another refugee like me, is coming to live with us. It will be a new life.

You said you might come to see me sometime. I would like that. Your grandmother and you will always be part of my life. Your grandfather too. I always knew your grandparents loved me. You too, Freddy. Why else would you all risk your lives when the bombs fell?

I hope all your dreams come true, and you become part of building the new Germany. For me, I don’t know yet what I want to be when I finish school. It doesn’t seem important right now.

I shall see my papa and Miri. I can hardly believe it. And one day, I shall see you.

I am sending you a photograph. You will see that I am growing up, and am quite outstandingly beautiful. Ha ha, only joking.

With affection,

Rachel

E
VERY DAY ON
board ship, a teacher gave English lessons. How happy I was that I spoke it fluently. Refugees turned up at the English classes and worked seriously on their English. Greta and I went along out of curiosity. I noticed two boys there about our age. They hung around us when they found us on deck the following day and asked if they could play deck quoits with us. One was called George. He had dark hair and a skinny body, and had eyes only for Greta. Greta’s face became flushed when he talked to her. He was French and his English was awful. His friend was called Jacques. I immediately thought of little Jacques who couldn’t hear.

I wondered about their stories. They also had a chaperone refugee family and were travelling to Melbourne. George was to be reunited with a distant aunt, and a home had been found with a Jewish family in Melbourne for Jacques.

Jacques had slicked-back dark hair and a bony face. He was fifteen and a half and seemed too tall for his body. He had very long dark eyelashes that were wasted on a boy.

‘Tonight, big dance. You dance, yes?’ George was testing his English on Greta.

‘Um…’ said Greta.

‘She’d love to,’ I finished the sentence for her.

So we went to the big dance. I wore a pink dress with a fitted belt and a lace collar; Greta wore a yellow cotton dress. She braided her hair and wore it up and plaited across her head. With her fair hair and her pink skin, she looked very much like the posters the Germans
used to show of the typical Aryan girl, the kind that German girls were meant to look like under Hitler’s policies.

Greta stared at herself critically in the cabin mirror, until Mrs Feinberg called out, ‘Too much staring can break a mirror. Now, off with you both, and have a good time.’

‘Don’t you want to come, Mrs Feinberg?’ asked Greta. ‘The stewards are checking on the children, so Isaac will be fine. You should come with us.’

Mrs Feinberg shook her head sadly. ‘Oh, don’t worry about me. I had a husband once, and we danced plenty. I have my memories. Now, go.’

Off we went upstairs to the dance. The band was playing a Bing Crosby song and people were dancing. We sat at a table and my heart pounded. This was the most grown-up thing I’d ever done. I couldn’t really dance, but figured that you moved in time to the music, let your partner lead you, and hoped for the best.

George came over and asked Greta to dance. He looked quite nice with his hair combed back and slicked down with oil to keep it smooth and shiny. He’d dressed for the occasion in a suit that didn’t fit him very well and a broad tie. It made him look years older.

Greta became nervous. ‘I can’t do this, George. I’ll tread on your toes,’ she protested.

‘
Toes
?’ he asked. ‘What is
toes
?’

I grinned and pushed Greta onto the dance floor, and watched smiling as she was whirled around in his strong arms. Then as I tapped in time to the music Jacques
appeared and asked me to dance. I could hardly say no when I’d pushed Greta onto the floor, so I tried to stand gracefully and followed him in my low heels to the dance floor, hoping that I wouldn’t trip or stub his feet.

‘Where are you?’ he asked me.

‘On board ship,’ I replied, confused, then realised he was asking where I came from. ‘England, no, Germany,’ I said, unsure myself of where I came from.

Jacques held me close as we danced, and it was wonderful. I let him guide me and soon I found my feet moving to the rhythm. His arm was firm around my waist.

‘You have a small middle,’ he said to me.

‘Thank you,’ I said giggling.

These boys became our friends, and we played cards together and managed to accidentally throw a record number of deck quoits overboard. Eventually, their English improved and I think ours might have suffered as we communicated in broken sentences. Although we were all Jewish and had all lost family in the war, we didn’t talk about it. You couldn’t talk about the war and be happy. The two just didn’t go together. We played at being happy young adults who had grown up in a peaceful country where there had never been war, and no-one had to wear yellow stars stitched to their clothing or had been afraid of soldiers taking them away.

We were on a ship and the air became warm and balmy. We could dance and even cuddle a little in the clear nights. One night when we were leaning over the rail watching the ocean, Jacques kissed me. He had his
arm around me and tilted my chin towards him. His kiss tasted salty and it seemed strange because I was thinking about Freddy at the time.

George, Greta’s friend, really did like her. He said he’d marry her when he turned twenty if she wasn’t married already, and we giggled about this in our bunks at night.

‘Did you tell him that you’re already promised to a Danish prince?’ I asked her. We laughed so loudly that poor Mrs Feinberg in the other bunk told us, ‘Shh. Go to sleep, you two. You’ll wake up Isaac.’

We talked about the ship stewards, which of them were good-looking and which weren’t. We both fell a little in love with the ship’s photographer, who had dark wavy hair and a wonderful smile. We had our hearts broken when he showed interest in a young woman migrating to Australia who had long legs and wore lots of make-up.

Our skin turned the colour of honey and tasted of salt. Soft bread rolls appeared at all meals, and fish and roast beef at dinner. Dessert was pudding and ice-cream, or cake and ice-cream, and there were bowls of fruit afterwards. Rationing didn’t seem to exist on board ship.

We went ashore at strange ports of call and with some money that Martha had given us bought presents for Papa and Miri. A letter from Papa was waiting for me at Colombo, the capital of Ceylon.

Rachel,

We’ve found Agnes! She is in a displaced persons’ camp in Switzerland. She is not well. She will come to
us soon. When she arrives, we must encourage her immediately to have tantrums at least three times a day until she gets stronger.

His fun-filled words hid anxiety, but at least they’d found her. Agnes was alive. She’d be part of our family again. Papa would be surrounded by girls, all of them taking turns to trim his eyebrows.

There were serious shipboard romances, and one marriage, when the captain married a twenty-year-old Polish survivor to a young Swedish immigrant. We toasted them, cheering as the bridegroom stomped on an empty glass (a Jewish custom which probably didn’t impress the captain). We yelled ‘Mazel tov’ to wish them good luck.

When the ship docked at Fremantle, in Western Australia, I went to the purser’s office to see if any letters had arrived. I was surprised to find a letter for me from Freddy.

How are you, mate?

I think this is the way they talk in Australia. I am writing immediately by airmail hoping that you will get this before the ship leaves Western Australia.

I am coming to Australia, definitely. I don’t know when. Of course, now that I have seen your photograph and can confirm that you are outstandingly beautiful, I must come as soon as possible.

I am enclosing a recent photograph of me. As you can see I am outstandingly handsome (also just joking).

I have your mama’s frying pan. When I come to Australia I will bring it with me. I promised my Oma I’d do this. She said it was important if we were to meet again that I return it.

With love,

Freddy

With love?
I said the words out loud to myself. What did they mean? Were they just casual words or was he telling me something else? I looked at the small photograph of Freddy with his wavy blond hair and startling blue eyes and decided he was outstandingly handsome.

My face felt hot. I tucked the letter away in my handbag. I didn’t show it to Greta. This seemed very private.

We disembarked and travelled on a bus with Mrs Feinberg and Isaac to the city. George and Jacques had gone on a guided tour with a large party of immigrants. In the city we had a picnic in a park on the banks of the Swan River.

I watched young adults walking near the river, arm in arm. They stopped and kissed. I looked at them and wondered what it would be like to have a boyfriend. George had told Greta he loved her, and she was absolutely delighted. ‘He thinks I’m wonderful,’ she said to me, surprised.

‘You see, you don’t have to be a princess to be loved,’ I told her.

Jacques and I were just friends. Since the first kiss we hadn’t kissed again. I think he sensed that I was saving my kisses for someone else.

In Western Australia I noticed that Australians spoke English but with strange accents, and used expressions I’d never heard before, like ‘no worries’ and ‘fair dinkum’. This was an ancient country, different and exciting. There were no green, cultivated farms, thatched cottages or castles. I’d read books about Australia from the ship’s library, learning about the red heart of the country, the dry mouths of parched river beds, the white beaches, the dusty green of trees, the Aboriginal culture that spanned hundreds of thousands of years, and the courage of early explorers to battle the climate and grow crops.

Greta and I wrote letters to Hartfield House.

Dear Martha and Peter,

We are having a wonderful time on board ship. We’ve visited amazing places and now I have some exciting news for you
.

My cousin Agnes is alive. She is in Switzerland and has been ill but will come out to Australia to live with us soon.

I’ll write to you when we get settled. Here are a few words from Greta
.

We’ll never forget you
.

Lots of love
,

Rachel

Dear Martha and Peter,

We are almost in Sydney. I am excited and nervous. I no longer think about the royal family and my grand connections. I think I am finally happy to be who I am.

I’ll come back one day and see you both.

By the way, I’ve had a shipboard romance!! His name is George and he’s as handsome as a prince! He won’t be coming to Sydney and I will be broken-hearted, but he’s going to visit me in Sydney just as soon as he can. I think I may be in love!!! He treats me like a princess too.

With hugs from Greta

T
HE SHIP DOCKED
at Adelaide then Melbourne, and migrants poured off the ship, eager and happy to begin a new life. Greta and I said goodbye to George and Jacques. Jacques and I hugged warmly and promised to write. George and Greta kissed and Greta cried as she waved goodbye to him. Our magical journey to Australia was about to end, and we felt incredibly excited about our imminent arrival in Sydney and our new lives.
Papa and Miri. Papa and Miri.
I said the words over and over in my head.