Heritage by Judy Nunn Page A

your coat, Samuel,’ Naomi said. ‘He was wearing your coat with the Star of David on it.’
    Samuel’s hopes died in that instant. He’d known they’d been implausible, born of wishful desperation, but they’d been something to cling to. Now, with the enormity of his friend’s sacrifice, came the recognition of the inevitability of his wife’s death, and all hope deserted him. Like the hundreds of thousands before him and the hundreds of thousands yet to follow, Samuel Lachmann felt himself drowning in despair.
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    He didn’t leave Berlin with the Meisells, although Efraim secured him false papers. His head wound made him conspicuous, he said, and he insisted he would pose too great a threat to their safety as a travelling companion. The family had already risked far too much on his behalf, he told Efraim. In saving his life they had risked their own and he was forever in their debt.
    â€˜You were not intended for death, Samuel,’ Efraim said, embracing him in farewell. ‘It was God’s will you should live. You are a lucky man.’
    Lucky? Lucky to have lost his wife and daughter? Lucky to live the rest of his life in the knowledge that the man who had been a brother to him had died in his place? Samuel could taste the bitterness like bile on his tongue as he returned Efraim’s embrace. He wished Efraim hadn’t saved him; he wished that he’d died that night. But he allowed Efraim to believe he still cared about life, it was only fair. He would live secretly in the cellar, he said, and when his wounds had healed he would make good his escape. Then he bade the family farewell.
    Samuel did not live in secret. He flaunted his existence, venturing out daily, and his enquiries about the departures from Grunewald Goods Train Station were dangerously blatant. A chain of information existed for Jews seeking loved ones, witnesses surreptitiously passing along the grapevine the names of those they had seen rounded up for transportation. It was advisable to be discreet, however: word could reach the Nazis who were always keen to identify anyone asking questions. Samuel’s lack of discretion yielded swift results and, after several days of persistent investigation, he discovered the information he sought.
    Early in the morning after their capture, Ruth and Rachel and Mannie had been seen herded into the cattle trucks along with the hundreds of others who had huddled on the railway platform throughout the night, their destination Auschwitz.
    Samuel decided to leave Germany.
    The night before his departure, he visited the second-floor apartment across the square, his purpose not one of sentiment but practicality. He needed supplies, most importantly whatever cash he could lay his hands on, and he hoped that the meagre savings Ruth had put aside were still in the tea canister where she kept them.
    The door was not locked, but then why should it be? Only he and Ruth had keys to the apartment. He turned on the overhead light, heedless that such advertisement of his presence might be imprudent. Everything remained exactly as it had been, with one exception. There was a large, dark stain on the floorboards beside the dining table. But that was all it was, just a stain. Where was the blood? Who had cleaned it up?
    Frau Albrecht, Samuel thought, recalling how, several days previously, as he’d been leaving the Meisells’ flat, he’d looked up at the second-floor apartment opposite to see a figure watching him from behind the living room curtains. He’d known immediately, by the glint of sunlight on silver hair, that it was Frau Albrecht. He’d been surprised. He’d never thought of the Albrechts as pilferers, but why else would Frau Albrecht be in his apartment? War obviously made thieves of even the most respectable, he’d decided, and he hoped she hadn’t discovered the money in the tea canister.
    Now, as he looked at the stained