Heritage (10 page)

He went back to the kitchen in search of food supplies, although he doubted he'd find any. He opened the bread box. Bare. He'd expected it. Frau Albrecht. But then he supposed it was sensible: the bread would have been mouldy by now. He opened the cupboards and, to his surprise, the packet of powdered eggs was there. So were the tins and, most surprising of all, the coffee. Then he noticed, beside the small brown paper bag, the money. A neatly stacked pile of coins rested on top of two ten reichsmark notes. He counted the amount. Thirty reichsmarks in all. Not a vast sum, but substantial enough in these straitened times.

Samuel had numbed his mind to everything around him from the moment he'd entered the apartment. He could not afford to do otherwise. But the money unnerved him. The sheer unexpectedness of it had caught him off-guard. He slipped the notes and coins into his pocket, and concentrated on the practical matters to hand, loading the food supplies into the string bag which Ruth kept in the top drawer, wrapping a sharp knife in a tea towel and packing it, together with several other kitchen utensils, into the side pocket of the knapsack. He must not allow himself to be distracted. Now was not the time to question the money, or the donor, or the reasons.

String bag in one hand, knapsack over his shoulder, he crossed through the living room to the front door, flicked off the light switch and stepped into the hall. He pulled the door to, hearing the click of the latch, and started towards the stairs. Then he heard the click of another latch as a door opened quietly behind him. He turned. Frau Albrecht stood in the hall, the silver of her hair shining in the light that streamed from her apartment. She looked so frail, and so very, very old, he thought. She hadn't looked that old the last time he'd seen her, surely. The war had aged them all, but Frau Albrecht more than most.

They stood barely ten paces apart, and although not a word was uttered, Frau Albrecht's eyes spoke to him. A faded milky blue, they appeared huge in the fragile parchment pallor of her face, and all her confusion, despair and helplessness was mirrored in them. How had it ever come to this? her eyes asked, and it seemed they were begging his forgiveness.

Samuel nodded his thanks for the money. We are all lost, he thought as he stared into the old woman's eyes. The whole world is lost.

Frau Albrecht remained standing in the hall, watching him as he walked away.

He left Berlin the following day.

Samuel's aim was to reach Switzerland and his father. Recklessly indifferent to capture, he travelled openly, hitching lifts, jumping trains, producing his false papers whenever necessary, anticipating exposure at every turn and sometimes even wishing for it. But it seemed he was charmed. His head bandaged, the dressing which Sharon had applied now grubby and ill kempt, he was certainly conspicuous. Perhaps people presumed he was a wounded soldier returned from the front. How ironic, he thought. Or perhaps his survival was due to the sheer perversity of life: if one didn't care whether or not the worst happened, then it didn't. Perhaps it was as simple as that.

When eventually he arrived in Zurich his father was elated. Having received no news of his son for eighteen months, Leonard Lachmann had assumed the worst. And over the ensuing two years, as Samuel found employment and settled into a regular pattern of existence, Leonard was relieved that his son appeared to be getting on with the business of living. In truth, Samuel was not. He was simply going through the motions.

Samuel Lachmann was a tortured man, grieving for his wife and child and haunted by the past. Above all, he was a man plagued by guilt: guilt that he had not been taken with his family; guilt that his best friend had forfeited his life for their protection; and, above all, guilt that he was alive when the three people most dear to him had gone to their deaths.

But, when the war finally ground to its conclusion and the Allies claimed victory over Germany, a fresh torture presented itself to Samuel. He was taunted by the faintest rekindling of hope.

Reports from the liberation fronts exposed the hideous truths of the death camps. But they also spoke of survivors. Among the unbelievable horrors of man's inhumanity were survival stories which beggared description. Could Ruth be one of them? Samuel wondered. Could she be alive?

He pictured her. She would be singing to Rachel. In Italian, her favourite language, ‘the voice of Puccini and Verdi', she would say. And, as he pictured her, he heard her. She was singing her favourite aria from
La Bohème
, softly, in her true, pretty voice, and Rachel was clapping her hands, out of time with the melody. Was Mannie with them? he wondered. And, as he pictured Mannie, Samuel heard his voice too. He was reading a bedtime story to Rachel. It was ‘The Snow Queen', of course. How strange that the child never tired of hearing it, that she reacted with the same degree of fear and delight each time Mannie read it to her.

Samuel tried to haul his mind back to reality, but the images and the voices wouldn't let him. He was becoming obsessed. Everywhere he looked he saw Ruth and Rachel and Mannie. He didn't believe they were still alive, but the slender thread of possibility was driving him insane, and he knew there was one way only to free himself of his wild imaginings. He must learn the truth. He must explore all avenues, discover witnesses if he could. He must know how they died.

The Jewish Agency for Palestine, an organisation newly formed with the express purpose of reuniting and re-settling Holocaust victims, informed Samuel of Camp Foehrenwald, roughly fifteen miles south of Munich. Originally a village built in 1939 to house the forced labour at I.G. Farben's camouflaged munitions plant in the nearby woods, Camp Foehrenwald now served a very different purpose. The village and surrounding area had been taken over by the United Nations Relief and Rehabilitation Administration and was one of the largest displaced persons camps in Germany. It no longer housed workers, but survivors. And a great number of the survivors had come from the death camps, including many from Auschwitz.

Ruth and Rachel Lachmann and Manfred Brandauer were not listed among the residents at Camp Foehrenwald, Samuel was informed over the phone, but the Jewish Agency for Palestine had compiled an extensive Survivor List at the camp, and already many families were being reunited through contacts made there.

Samuel returned to Germany. At last he had a purpose, a direction to follow, and, as the train approached Munich, he started to feel a flicker of genuine hope. His imaginings no longer seemed so far-fetched.

In the camp's main office, he carefully scanned every name on every page of the Survivor List, but Lachmann and Brandauer were absent. In the central hall, he studied the massive noticeboard with its hundreds of names of displaced persons and its plaintive pleas of those seeking the fate of relatives. There were even several names he recognised. Louis Halpem was one. Samuel had known the Halpem family quite well many years ago in Berlin. Louis had been a friend of his father's.
Does anyone have news of my daughter Frieda Halpem?
Louis's note read.
She was sixteen years old when we were separated at Buchenwald.
There were many such messages on the board, and Samuel added his own.
Does anyone know what happened to Ruth and Rachel Lachmann and Manfred Brandauer? They were transported to Auschwitz in July, 1943.

He asked among the residents of Camp Foehrenwald, specifically those who had been in Auschwitz, but no-one could give him any information. Most were sympathetic, wishing him good luck in his search while plainly holding out little hope of success, but several responses were quite brutal.

‘Who can say what happened to them?' one man shrugged. ‘The Nazis didn't keep records of those who went to the ovens.'

‘A woman with a baby?' another scoffed. ‘No chance. They shot the babies as soon as they arrived, and usually the mothers as well.' Having witnessed his own wife and child shot in front of him, the man saw no point in softening the blow for Samuel. ‘Young mothers of dead babies don't make good workers,' he said.

Defeated and depressed, Samuel was about to leave when the Agency representative, a kind enough woman but eminently practical, suggested that he should look at the record of deaths witnessed by survivors. ‘It's not a very long list,' she added, ‘there were not many who survived to become witnesses.'

Samuel couldn't believe he hadn't even thought to enquire about such a list, and realised that his newfound hope had made him naively optimistic. He had been searching among the living, when he should have been searching among the dead.

As the woman had said, the list was not extensive, but it was thorough in detail, as the Agency wished to avoid any confusion of the facts. Alongside each name was the cause of death, the place where it had occurred, the date if known or an approximation if not, and the identity of the person who had witnessed the death.

Samuel's eyes remained glued on the papers now quivering in his hand. There was no mention of Ruth Lachmann or her daughter, nor could he see Martin Brandauer, but the name Lachmann was there. Alongside it was the identity of the survivor, a man named Ira Schoneberger. Ira Schoneberger had witnessed the execution of Samuel Lachmann by firing squad at Auschwitz-Birkenau in the month of October, 1943.

The grief and guilt Samuel had suffered in the knowledge of Mannie's sacrifice returned tenfold as he stared at the record of his own death.

 

‘But why Australia? It's so far away.' Leonard Lachmann was aware of the answer even as he asked the question. For over a year his son had trekked throughout Europe, from one displaced persons camp to another, seeking news of his wife and daughter, and the futility of his search had all but broken his spirit.

‘A new life in a new place,' Samuel said. ‘It's the only hope I have. Even here in Zurich I'm too close to the past, I must leave Europe.'

Leonard was saddened at the prospect of losing his son to such immense distance, but he agreed that Samuel was right. Europe was still in turmoil, the memories of hate and horror too raw. He hoped that in Australia Samuel might find himself again, that the strength and the confidence and the buoyancy of spirit his son had always possessed might return in a new country where such qualities would be called upon.

 

‘Come in, mate.'

Samuel entered the office, and the interviewer from the Snowy Authority, a jovial man, middle-aged and over-weight, indicated the chair.

‘Take a seat,' he said as he circled the desk.

‘Thank you.' Samuel did, and the two of them sat.

‘How long have you been in Australia?' Stan was making pleasant conversation – he liked to put migrant applicants at their ease before he started on the official interview.

‘Eighteen months. Only six months here in Sydney, though. I was in Brisbane for a year before I came south.'

‘Your English is good.' It was, Stan thought. In fact, the bloke sounded very well educated. But then Stan had bumped into quite a few foreigners who were, surprisingly enough. ‘Where are you from originally?'

‘Germany. Berlin.'

‘Ah. Right.'

It was Stan's theory that all Germans couldn't be bad, and he made a habit of trying hard not to let any bias show when he interviewed one of them. The poor bastards copped enough flak as it was, in his opinion. Besides, apart from the buggered-up eye, this one looked like a nice enough bloke.

‘Well, let's go from the top, shall we?' He smiled his broad assurance that he wasn't one of those who made judgements, opened the manila folder on his desk, and picked up his pen. ‘What's your name, for starters?'

‘Lachmann. Samuel Lachmann.'

‘Right you are.' Stan printed the name clearly on the application form. ‘Luckman, Samuel,' he said.

Samuel watched from the other side of the desk as the pen formed the words upside down, and he didn't bother correcting the man.

‘Luckman, eh?' Stan looked up with another hearty grin to prove he wasn't a bad guy. ‘Do they call you Lucky?'

The question took Samuel by surprise and he paused for a moment to consider his answer. ‘Yes, that's right,' he said. ‘They call me Lucky.' And he smiled as he realised he'd said it without bitterness.

Pietro was in love. Or so he professed to Lucky. And for an innocent like Pietro who wore his heart on his sleeve, Lucky knew that it was serious business.

‘I admire your choice, my friend,' he said. ‘She's very pretty.'

Pietro flicked back his hair with a quick jerk of his head in the manner he'd recently adopted to conceal his self-consciousness, but secretly he was pleased. Lucky's teasing, and his own acceptance of it, was a measure of their friendship. When any of the other men made fun of him, as they sometimes did, without malice, simply because his naiveté made him fair game, Pietro would walk away, flicking his hair back furiously in an attempt at bravado as he nursed his hurt. It was different with Lucky. He trusted Lucky.

‘But beware of the father.' Lucky's tone was still teasing and he rolled his bloodhound eye melodramatically in the way that always made Pietro laugh, but his warning was genuine. Why, he inwardly sighed, of all the girls in Cooma, did Pietro have to fall in love with Cam Campbell's daughter? Not that it was really surprising, he supposed. Violet Campbell worked behind the counter of one of the busiest shops in town, she was eighteen, pretty and on constant display. Every young man for miles around was probably in love with Vi Campbell

‘Beware? Why beware, Lucky?' Pietro had not met Violet's father, but Violet herself had said that he was ‘a fine man', those had been her very words. He was puzzled. ‘Why I must beware for Mr Campbell?'

Lucky decided to back-pedal. Pietro was an impressionable young man and it would be wrong to feed him preconceived notions about the man whose daughter he seemed bent on courting.

‘No real reason,' he said. ‘I'm sure you will be fine.'

But he wasn't going to get away with it that easily. ‘Why, Lucky? Why you not like Mr Campbell?'

‘Because he does not like me.' Lucky decided to be truthful.

‘Why?'

‘Because I am a German.'

‘Ah yes.' Pietro nodded, the answer was understandable. ‘Many Australian do not like the Germans.' Then his face lit up. ‘But I am Italian.'

‘And he'll like you, I'm sure.' Perhaps he would, Lucky thought. Perhaps Cam Campbell's intolerance was reserved purely for Germans. He doubted it, but he smiled his assurance anyway.

A thought occurred to Pietro. ‘Why you not tell him you are a Jew? You tell him you are a Jew, then he like you.'

Pietro's logic sometimes escaped Lucky and he decided not to pursue it, just as he decided to stop worrying. There was little he could do about the current situation. Pietro was an immigrant, and whether it was Cam Campbell's daughter he courted, or the daughter of any other local, he was bound to receive the same reaction. Even the most open-minded Australian men, Lucky had observed, developed instant double standards when it came to their daughters. But then wasn't it the way with all fathers? If the girl was his daughter, he'd probably be the same.

Lucky's mind jarred to a halt as he thought of Rachel. If she had lived, she'd be thirteen. A dangerous age, thirteen. Nearly a young woman. He tried to picture her but, as always, he couldn't. If he'd had a photograph of her as a child, then perhaps he'd be able to imagine the girl she might have become, but as it was he could summon no image to his mind.

Lucky deeply regretted not having a photograph of his daughter. Not for maudlin reasons. He would not have wept over it – the time for weeping had long passed. But he would have liked to have had proof of her existence. Sometimes it seemed as if Rachel had never lived.

The only reminder Samuel Lachmann had of his past life was the single photograph he possessed of his wife: the photograph that his best friend Mannie had taken with such loving care. He no longer kept it in his wallet as he had in the early days – wallets were renowned for disappearing. Many a drunken night in a Cooma pub had seen a man divested of several weeks' wages. At first the photograph had lived tucked into the frame of the shaving mirror which he'd hung on the wall of his one-man cabin. But when his natural desires had got the better of him and he'd started paying an occasional visit to the prostitutes who regularly came down from Sydney, it had felt wrong to return to the image of Ruth, so he'd put the photograph away in the top drawer of his lowboy. These days he rarely looked at it, even though, strangely enough, Ruth was on his mind more than she had been for years.

Lucky's affair with Peggy Minchin was the first real relationship he'd had with a woman since his wife's death over a decade ago, and it aroused in him many sensations that left him unsure. Was he in love with Peggy? Or was he in love with the feelings she evoked in him? He was a sensual man, he had had several casual affairs and many sexual encounters over the past ten years, and he had been content to do so. Now Peggy was reminding him there was far more to share with a woman than lust and the pleasure the female body had to offer. At night, he enjoyed the warmth of her in the bed as he drifted off to sleep, and in the morning, when he awoke early, he liked to watch her sleeping beside him. During the days they spent together, he delighted in her intelligence and conversation and the sheer happiness of her laughter. And when he caught her unaware, before she had time to look away and compose herself, he was moved by the undisguised love he saw in her eyes. But sometimes the strength of her love frightened him. Could he return it? Was he deluding them both and offering Peggy false hope in continuing the affair? He wasn't sure whether his feelings for her were genuine or whether they were the result of the memories she evoked. Memories of a life shared with a woman he'd loved many years ago, in a different world when he'd been a different man. Lucky didn't know what to do. Peggy Minchin's love was a responsibility he was not ready for.

He envied Pietro. Love at first sight was so unquestioning and uncomplicated. ‘I love Violetta the moment I see her,' Pietro had confided to him, and Lucky had recalled the day he'd introduced himself to Ruth on campus. ‘You're Ruth Stein, languages,' he'd said. ‘Samuel Lachmann, engineering.' He'd held out his hand and the moment their eyes had met, he'd known she was the one.

 

‘Hang on a minute. You've given me too much.'

Pietro's introduction to the woman of his dreams had been far more gauche. He'd been halfway to the door when she'd called out to him.

‘Is all right,' he said, turning back.

‘No it's not.' The cash register resounded with a ting as she pressed the button and the drawer sprang open. ‘You gave me a quid, not ten bob,' she said ferreting out the change. He must have got his notes mixed up, she thought, a lot of the foreigners did.

He cursed himself. He hadn't looked at the note he'd given her, and there were at least half a dozen people waiting for her to serve them. It was a busy Saturday and the two other assistants, a young man and a young woman, were attending a horde of customers at the far end of the long wooden counter that stretched the entire length of the shop. He shouldn't have bought anything, he thought as the panic rose, he should have just browsed through the catalogues like he normally did. He didn't need two new pairs of trousers and he didn't even know if they were his size. He'd pretended to check when she'd handed them to him, but he hadn't really. He'd acted on impulse, just wanting to be near her, assuming that he'd be able to make a quick getaway in the general hive of activity.

‘Is all right.' He started again for the door.

‘Don't be silly, you have to take your change.' Crikey, Snowy workers were rolling in it, she thought. Ten bob was more than a week's wages to her.

Before he knew it she was around the other side of the counter and a dozen eyes were watching them.

‘Hold out your hand,' she said, and automatically he did. ‘Seven and threepence from one pound …' She placed a threepenny coin in the palm of his hand and started counting out the change. ‘Seven and six … eight shillings … nine shillings …'

Trying desperately to ignore the collective critical gaze of the other customers, he focussed upon his hand, and her fingers as they methodically placed the coins there. But her fingers were slowing down now and so was her voice. He knew she was challenging him to look at her, so he did. Breathlessly. He'd never been this close to her before. So close that he was mesmerised by the dusting of freckles across her finely shaped nose, he could have counted each individual one.

‘Ten shillings …' Her eyes didn't leave his and, as she gently pressed the final coin into his palm, she smiled.

Pietro's heart skipped a beat. During all of the time he'd spent browsing in the shop, he'd never seen her smile that way at anyone else, he was sure of it. The sky-blue eyes that looked at him from beneath sandy lashes seemed to signal a promise, and the curl of the prettily shaped mouth a special invitation. He was so spellbound that he forgot to flick back his hair in a gesture of nonchalance.

It was Violet who broke the spell, snapping the ten shilling note she held between her fingers with all the expertise of a bank teller. ‘And ten bob makes one quid.' She held it out to him and he took it.

‘Thank you,' he said, flicking back his hair as he shoved the change into the pocket of his trench coat.

She smiled the smile he'd seen on many an occasion: bright, personable and efficient; she was popular with the customers, particularly the young men. She even flirted with them sometimes, so long as they weren't rude. Just in fun, always proper, never letting things get out of hand. Then she said something, and Pietro wasn't sure if he'd heard her correctly.

‘I knock off for lunch in half an hour.' She said it under her breath, very quickly, and suddenly she was back behind the counter. ‘Sorry to keep you waiting,' she was saying to the next customer in line.

‘You're Italian, aren't you?' They were her first words half an hour later when she stepped out into Sharp Street where he was waiting by the open shop doorway in uncertain anticipation, still wondering whether he might have misconstrued what she'd said.

‘Yes.' They moved away from the doors to make way for the steady stream of customers going in and out. ‘My name is Pietro Toscanini,' he said.

‘Violet Campbell.' She'd taken to calling herself Violet lately, but it had little effect upon the locals who all knew her as Vi. She held out her hand and he shook it. Violet liked the way European women offered their hands – she thought it was sophisticated – and these days she always initiated a handshake, even though most Aussie blokes thought it too forward. But then Aussie blokes had a lot to learn about manners. ‘I've seen you in the shop,' she said. ‘Lots of times.'

She had. He'd been coming into the shop once a fortnight for nearly two months now, and she couldn't fail to notice him: he was very handsome. He'd leaf through the catalogues on the stand near the door, or he'd peruse the merchandise on display. Behind the counter, samples of every grocery and hardware item in stock were exhibited on the myriad shelves that stretched the length of the shop from floor to ceiling. Other goods were displayed on the counter itself: jars of lollies, ladies' handcreams, boxes of soap and candles, bottled sauces and tins of cooking oil were all carefully arranged between machines and apparatuses that sliced and chopped and measured and weighed. The shop appeared to sell every item imaginable.

‘Can I help you?' she'd asked him once as he'd examined the jars of chutneys and pickles stacked on the end of the counter near the windows, but he'd given a quick shake of his head and returned to the catalogue stand. Another time, when he'd had his face buried in a catalogue, she'd called, ‘Want to order something? Need any help?' But once again he'd given a shake of his head, and a minute or so later he'd left the shop. She'd come to the conclusion that he couldn't speak English and that he was shy. A lot of the foreigners were like that, she'd found.

Then one afternoon she'd caught him out. During a moment's respite in an otherwise busy day, she'd been sitting on a stool by the windows listing the items that were in short supply while Trish and Mick, her fellow assistants, had been looking after the several customers at the other end of the counter. Leaning on her elbows, twirling her copper curls between her fingers and intermittently chewing on the end of her pencil, she'd looked up and caught his eye. He wasn't perusing the shelves at all – he was looking at her. And, as he'd guiltily averted his gaze, she'd realised that he had never really been perusing the shelves, that he'd always been looking at her. She was flattered. And from that day on she'd proffered him the brightest of smiles as soon as he'd arrived. ‘Hello there,' she'd call, and he'd return a quick nod before diving for the catalogues. She'd never dared push any further, for fear of scaring him off. But when the workers came into town on the weekends, Violet always looked forward to seeing the handsome young foreigner. He was an admirer, one with far more taste than some of the others who made lewd remarks to which she never responded. He made her feel special.

‘Where you would like lunch?' Pietro asked, and she looked blankly at him. ‘Is your lunchtime. You said.'

‘Oh, I'm not hungry; shall we go for a walk?'

It was a fine day in late March, but the heat of summer had gone, and Violet buttoned up the cardigan of her blue twin-set as they walked through the lunchtime crowd that thronged Cooma's main street. She initiated the conversation with questions. Where was he based? she asked. Spring Hill, he said, he'd been working on the Snowy for nearly three months now. And where was he from? Milano, he said, a big city in the north of Italy.

He looked like a film star, she thought, dark-eyed and romantic, and she liked the way he flicked his hair from his face – it was debonair. She'd like to go to Italy, she said, she intended to travel one day. Heavens above, she'd never even been to Sydney, but she wasn't going to tell him that.