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  Copyright © 2019 Anna Patrick

  The moral right of the author has been asserted.

  Apart from any fair dealing for the purposes of research or private study, or criticism or review, as permitted under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988, this publication may only be reproduced, stored or transmitted, in any form or by any means, with the prior permission in writing of the publishers, or in the case of reprographic reproduction in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency. Enquiries concerning reproduction outside those terms should be sent to the publishers.

  This is a work of fiction, based in large part

  on the memories of the author’s mother.

  Matador

  9 Priory Business Park,

  Wistow Road, Kibworth Beauchamp,

  Leicestershire. LE8 0RX

  Tel: 0116 279 2299

  Email: [email protected]

  Web: www.troubador.co.uk/matador

  Twitter: @matadorbooks

  ISBN 9781838599782

  British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data.

  A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  Matador® is an imprint of Troubador Publishing Ltd

  To Mike, for everything.

  Contents

  London 1998

  Krakow 1944

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  Ravensbrück 1944

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  Wentorf 1945

  23

  24

  Two Christmas Eves

  Background Notes

  Acknowledgements

  London

  1998

  We are in the psychiatrist’s chair: my mother and I. She is there for treatment of the anxiety and depression that have dogged her for most of her adult life; I am there to act as her spokesperson – after two or three mini strokes, her ability to communicate is something of a lottery. The psychiatrist does not like this arrangement. He wanted to see her on her own, but I insisted. He asks her a question; I start to answer. An angry glance and impatient gesture silence me. I lean back in the armchair and look around the room. I hear my mother answer in fragments; he needs the whole picture, but it is not forthcoming.

  ‘The Road Less Travelled’ by M. Scott Peck nestles among psychiatric tomes, also an autobiography by Leslie Thomas. I am pleasantly surprised though I have read neither book. There are two prints on the wall: the one opposite me is a beach scene in pleasing pastels; I glance at the other, but its colours are angry, the scene menacing. This is the picture facing my mother.

  He asks another question. This time my mother turns to me in despair. I summarise my mother’s problems: her frustrations at not being able to communicate properly; the loss of her friends; the intellectual isolation; the world closing in on her.

  ‘Exactly,’ she cries. I have been faithful in my interpretation of her grief. I do not look at the psychiatrist while I speak, but I sense that he has understood the need for my presence. Then he says: ‘The important thing at the first meeting is not to have too much information.’

  I cannot believe the stupidity of this remark and want to leave. I re-examine our surroundings while, unexpectedly, he starts to ask for more details of her depression. Perhaps he expressed himself clumsily. He is doing better now, honing his questions, grasping the point of what is being said and what is being left out.

  Sotto voce and in her native tongue, my mother says: ‘I’ve had enough. Let’s go now.’

  I smile, but we both know we’re here for the duration, for whatever £175 buys of this man’s time.

  More acute questions follow. She is being put on the spot and does not like it. While he writes his notes, she continues to plead with me to go. He catches her speaking and asks what she is saying.

  ‘I didn’t say anything,’ lies my mother, picking imaginary fluff off her skirt and winking at me.

  It is a bravura performance and I love her for it. I know she is looking forward to coming away for the weekend and wants to be out of here. Now she is sharp, verging on rude in her answers. He asks about her friends.

  ‘I used to have friends,’ she says, ‘but they died.’

  ‘All of them?’

  ‘No, one by one.’

  He asks her what she does during the day, whether she goes out, what interests her. She is negative in her replies. She doesn’t want to take responsibility for her happiness or her life. There are pills to take care of that if only she can find the right ones or persuade him to give them to her.

  ‘I’m a hard nut to crack,’ she volunteers.

  He summarises the situation as he sees it. She does not appear to be in the depths of depression. She disagrees immediately: she is in the very depths of depression and despair.

  He is willing to help her with additional medication, he says, and we have a break in proceedings because she thinks he has suggested meditation, a path she has been down before. I have to raise my voice to get her to understand. At nearly 80 she is more than a little deaf and doesn’t wear hearing aids.

  He continues; he knows of her traumatic past but does not think this is the problem now. He needs her to participate in her own treatment, to work as a team with him. He knows she has been brave in the past and he wants her to be brave now by making an effort. He says she is lazy and focused on herself.

  She has stiffened in surprise. Such forthright opinions from a stranger are a shock, but she does not disagree with his analysis.

  ‘You may not like me for saying this,’ he says.

  She laughs and with an almost coquettish air indicates that this is not so. He is not fooled.

  ‘You may say otherwise once you leave here.’

  He has gained her respect which is not easily done. He wants to see her again, together with me – my turn for surprise – in six weeks’ time. In the interim, he wants her to have cognitive therapy with a young, bright therapist.

  I explain cognitive therapy to her briefly and tell her I think it would be helpful. He gives her a prescription for some additional tablets and we say our goodbyes.

  As we wait to pay in the reception, she gives her assessment in loud Polish.

  ‘He’s not very sympathetic, but he’s far from stupid.’

  This is high praise indeed.

  ‘I was a little shocked by what he said and embarrassed really.’

  This is promising; no indeed, it is amazing. I allow myself a little hope, but who am I kidding? The cognitive therapy never happens; the return visit is endlessly postponed.

  Krakow

  1944

  1

  Marta dragged her feet, resisting the marching pace set by the guards. Her eyes scanned the passers-by, some now gathered into groups watching the prisoners go; others hurried about their business, their faces averted as if misfortune were contagious.

  Was he here? Would she see him one last time before…what exactly? What did the future hold? Fear shuddered through her.

  ‘Good luck,’ someone shouted.

  ‘We will pray for you,’ called another.

  The blood drained from her face and she swallowed hard to stop herself being si
ck.

  He wasn’t here. Why would he be? He would be at work and might not know they had transported her for days or weeks, perhaps not until they returned his next parcel… if they returned it.

  She bit her lip to control her emotions, but tears coursed down her cheeks.

  Somebody hummed the national anthem, but she didn’t join in. Everything around her blurred, and she stumbled on the cobbles once, twice, until friendly arms locked into hers and pulled her along.

  At the station, one of those women, lined face compassionate, voice stern, cupped her head.

  ‘Take control of yourself, girl. Whatever courage you have inside, find it now and keep hold of it. Only then will you survive.’

  She looked away, frowning. Her lower lip jutted out.

  ‘It’s so unfair.’

  The old woman shrugged.

  ‘And when was life ever fair?’

  Marta sat down on the platform, arms and legs crossed; other prisoners sat down nearby, but nobody engaged her in conversation. She was glad.

  Her act of love wasn’t meant to end like this. She was meant to go home, put her books on the window sill, wait for the sound of a key in the door, rush into his arms and swing round and round, laughing, crying.

  She had set out with such élan. Everything was going to be fine.

  And if it went wrong? She would show those Germans, hoodwink them. She was clever, so much cleverer than they were. And when she had convinced them of her innocence, they would let her go. What a bloody fool she was.

  A short blast on a steam whistle and the burning smell of heavy braking mixed with the fustiness of an engine coal fire punctured her mood. She was a little girl jumping up and down on the platform waiting for relatives to emerge through the billowing white clouds and shower her with kisses, and, best of all, gifts. Now she was all grown up, dressed in the latest Parisian fashion, a cigarette alight in its ebony holder, ankles crossed, as she travelled in opulent carriages with sumptuous upholstery or took refreshment in the busy dining car with its sparkling glasses and gleaming plates. Happy days.

  An SS officer strode down the platform and the guards sprang into action, yelling and marshalling them onto the train with shoves and shouts.

  Caged with a stranger, she clutched at the wire netting separating the two of them from the other prisoners.

  ‘At least it’s not a cattle truck,’ she said, turning around.

  ‘Oh? You an expert on prisoner transportation?’

  ‘No, but these cells are weird. What’s it used for? Mailbags? Parcels?’

  ‘Lady, I don’t care.’

  ‘Oh.’

  Her mouth dropped open, and she blushed. She looked around but didn’t recognise anyone inside the rest of the carriage. She sighed and watched as her companion sat down and huddled her knees. It would be a long journey. She decided to introduce herself.

  ‘My name’s Marta Paciorkowska.’

  There was a flicker of fear followed by a sigh of resignation.

  ‘Rachel Goldstein.’

  ‘Oh, you’re…’ She didn’t want to say the word out loud.

  ‘Brilliant deduction.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘So am I, believe me.’

  ‘How did you manage to…?’

  ‘Survive this long? How do you think? I hid.’

  Marta’s face turned bright red.

  ‘Sorry.’

  ‘So you said.’

  The train moved off with a jerk, catching her unawares and she staggered. Rachel glowered, fists clenched.

  ‘For the love of God will you sit down and shut up.’

  She slid to the dusty floor. The mention of God reminded her of the prayer and she touched the folded piece of paper in her pocket. Now wasn’t the time to share it.

  The guards were talking nearby, ribbing each other and laughing. There was nothing to do but wait.

  Four weeks earlier, on an airless June night, her beloved Ludek had tossed and turned and moaned in the few snatches of unconsciousness. One minute too hot, the next too cold, they found no comfort in each other or sleep. When Sunday morning came, neither of them wanted to get up. Eventually, Marta forced herself out of bed. Dressing as a saucepan came to the boil, she cut two slices from the stale loaf, made two glasses of weak tea and brought their breakfast over to the bed.

  Ludek clutched his stomach, his face pale and perspiring.

  ‘Do you remember when we used to eat butter on our bread? You always piled it on as thick as the bread itself, while I just scraped it on to add a bit of colour, well that and a bit of taste.’

  She looked at Ludek; there was no response.

  ‘I’m going to look out for Maria at the market next week; her mother always used to keep some butter to one side for us, but I haven’t seen her for ages. I know she had a soft spot for me after that incident with the policeman, but I haven’t been able to find out what happened to her. Maria always has a long queue to her stall, but she might be willing to part with some. If only I could find something to sell, but I don’t think she’d be too impressed with the stuff I’ve got left.’

  She chattered away, the words falling like snow on rock.

  ‘What is it, Ludek? Something is obviously worrying you. You hardly slept all night and your eyes are haunted by something. Tell me about it, maybe I can help?’

  He shook his head, but as usual she persisted.

  ‘You don’t have to give me details, just the gist of what’s troubling you.’ On and on, she continued, persuasive, insistent, demanding, cajoling, until finally he relented.

  ‘All right, all right, I’ll tell you. I have to deliver a gun today. It’s for… no, nothing, forget it.’

  Chewing pallid lips, his hand combed through his hair.

  ‘Something is wrong, Marta. I can feel it in my guts, but I know it’s got to be done.’

  She nodded, a plan already forming.

  Ludek had been a member of the resistance, the Home Army, since the start of the war. They never discussed the struggle. What was the point? Fear for his safety would never dissuade him from fighting for Poland’s liberation.

  ‘Has anything specific happened? Have the Gestapo caught anyone?’

  ‘No, all’s been quiet, almost too quiet. The last operation was a dream and the cell’s been lying low since…’

  His voice trailed away.

  He tapped fingers against lips before gnawing at his knuckles. Perspiration covered his forehead.

  ‘I can’t let my colleagues down.’

  ‘You won’t. I’ll do the delivery in your place.’

  ‘You? But you’re not…’

  ‘Not what? Not trained? Not patriotic enough? What am I not?’

  ‘Nothing. Would you really do that for me?’

  ‘I would do anything for you.’

  She had been chewing on the slice of bread, making every crumb last, but now it was finished.

  ‘Where is the rendezvous?’

  ‘The Planty park, along from the theatre where we used to meet up with Andrzej. Any bench around the oak tree.’

  ‘What time?’

  ‘10am.’

  ‘Better get moving then. Shall I change into something more appropriate?’

  ‘Appropriate? A postman’s uniform, perhaps?’

  ‘Perhaps.’

  They smiled. Their love for each other was so deep, and had been so bitterly tested, that communication between them was as strong in silence as in the words they enjoyed pitching back and forth.

  ‘Hell, I don’t know, Tusik,’ he said, using her diminutive name. ‘It’s a terrible risk.’

  ‘Everything is a terrible risk these days. I could go shopping and they could arrest me in a street round-up. Look, I have no bad feelings. You do. So it makes perfect sense
to swap places.’

  ‘Are you sure you’re happy about this? No bad dreams?’

  ‘None.’

  Marta was generally optimistic about life; only one thing caused her to falter, and that was any dream featuring meat, especially raw meat. The dreams brought bad news in their wake and were never wrong.

  Days before war erupted, she woke up in the early hours of the morning sweating and gasping for breath. Heart pounding, eyes wide open, the nightmare scene refused to dissipate: fat men in fancy uniforms jabbed fingers at a map of Europe which transformed into a raw steak, the size of a table. They tore at the flesh and crammed pieces into their mouths, the blood running down their chins, as they turned to look at her.

  The scene made her shiver every time it came to mind.

  She went to get dressed endeavouring to look smart and efficient with a hint of frivolity. A favourite blouse trimmed with lace, a dark skirt and enough heel to give her additional height but to enable the fast walking she preferred to strolling. She would have loved some jewellery to add to the outfit, a string of pearls perhaps, or a gold chain with a simple cross, but, like everyone else, she had sold the few pieces she owned long ago for bread and other essentials. A glance in the mirror made her frown. No, it was too demure, too secretarial. She went to the wardrobe and pulled out a flowered skirt she had made herself and put that on instead. Although June was invariably hot in Poland, she decided to take a cardigan with her and placed one ready on the bed.

  She pirouetted into the room and stopped. Never had she seen him look so sad.

  ‘You are so beautiful.’

  ‘Yes, Pinocchio, that is clear to see.’

  ‘Maybe you don’t see it, but I do. I always have and I always will.’

  ‘Especially when I’m old, wrinkled and cantankerous.’

  ‘So, only two things to get used to then.’

  ‘Pah.’ She turned away in mock offence, but he pulled her towards him and kissed her, fondling her ears, melting her inside. He looked deep into her eyes.

  ‘Are you absolutely sure about this?’