redirected.’
Christina remained silent. It was what Kate had said to her. It was what everyone would say to her.
Carl regarded her with an anguished feeling of helplessness. He knew the irrational burden of guilt she was bearing, a guilt that came of knowing that all her family were almost certainly dead.
He, too, was bearing a burden of irrational guilt. Though he was a pacifist and hadn’t set foot in his homeland for over thirty years, he felt guilt by proxy for the monstrous crimes
perpetrated there. And if he could help just one Jewish family to be reunited, it was a guilt that might, in a very small way, be eased.
‘Write down the names of your mother and grandmother,’ he said decisively, ‘their birth dates, their last known address. I’ll start making enquiries tomorrow.’
Christina gave a small gasp, almost crying with relief. If Carl Voigt was prepared to help her, then it meant her quest wasn’t entirely without hope. ‘Thank you,’ she said
unsteadily.
Carl smiled. With his thinning hair and rimless spectacles, he wasn’t a good-looking man, but his diffident manner possessed its own kind of charm, and Christina was suddenly aware of just
why a shy, middle-aged woman like Ellen Pierce was so attracted to him.
‘Nichts zu danken,’
he said, rising to his feet to make a fresh pot of tea. ‘Don’t mention it.’
For the first time ever she didn’t flinch at being so forcibly reminded of his nationality. It was, after all, her nationality also.
‘Meine Mutter ist am ersten Mai 1900 in
Heidelberg geboren,’
she said, reaching in her handbag for pen and paper, and speaking German for the first time in nearly ten years.
‘Und meine Grossmutter am siebten Oktober
1870 in Bermondsey.’
When Kate and Leon and the children burst into the house an hour or so later, they were brought up short in shock at hearing an animated conversation in German taking place in the kitchen.
‘I didn’t know your father ever lapsed into German,’ Leon said in startled surprise, Luke straddling his shoulders and clutching at his still damp, crinkly hair.
‘Grandpa calls me
mein Häschen,’
Matthew said informatively as they hung their coats and jackets up in the hall. ‘It means my little rabbit. And he calls Daisy
mein Schätzchen
which means—’
‘It means my little treasure,’ Daisy said, smiling winningly up at Leon. She, not Matthew, remembered him from a time even before Luke had been born. A time when he had returned to
Magnolia Square on leave, bringing her oranges when oranges were a nearly unobtainable treat. At seven years old, she was old enough to realize that Leon was not her real daddy, just as Kate was
not her real mummy, but that only made both of them more special to her.
‘Can we go swimming next week as well, Daddy-Leon?’ Matthew asked, trying to bring the focus of attention back to himself. ‘Will you teach me to doggy-paddle and dive
and—’
‘It must be Christina he’s talking to,’ Kate said as Leon swung a squealing Luke down to
terra firma.
‘I think it might be as well if you took the children
straight up to bed. I’ll bring a tray of cocoa and sandwiches up.’
Leon raised his eyebrows slightly. Kate was indicating that whatever conversation was taking place in the kitchen, it was of a private nature and she didn’t want the children interrupting
it.
‘All right,’ he said obligingly, wondering what on earth the subject under discussion could be. ‘Come on, troops. We’re going to make ourselves scarce for a little while.
Whose bedroom am I going to tell a bedtime story in?’
‘Mine! Mine!’ Matthew shouted eagerly, too delighted at the prospect of being told a bedtime story by his new daddy to protest at being taken to bed the minute they had returned
home.
‘It isn’t your bedroom,’ Daisy chided, taking hold of Luke’s hand to help him up the stairs. ‘It’s your bedroom and Luke’s. You share it.’
If his new daddy hadn’t
Christina remained silent. It was what Kate had said to her. It was what everyone would say to her.
Carl regarded her with an anguished feeling of helplessness. He knew the irrational burden of guilt she was bearing, a guilt that came of knowing that all her family were almost certainly dead.
He, too, was bearing a burden of irrational guilt. Though he was a pacifist and hadn’t set foot in his homeland for over thirty years, he felt guilt by proxy for the monstrous crimes
perpetrated there. And if he could help just one Jewish family to be reunited, it was a guilt that might, in a very small way, be eased.
‘Write down the names of your mother and grandmother,’ he said decisively, ‘their birth dates, their last known address. I’ll start making enquiries tomorrow.’
Christina gave a small gasp, almost crying with relief. If Carl Voigt was prepared to help her, then it meant her quest wasn’t entirely without hope. ‘Thank you,’ she said
unsteadily.
Carl smiled. With his thinning hair and rimless spectacles, he wasn’t a good-looking man, but his diffident manner possessed its own kind of charm, and Christina was suddenly aware of just
why a shy, middle-aged woman like Ellen Pierce was so attracted to him.
‘Nichts zu danken,’
he said, rising to his feet to make a fresh pot of tea. ‘Don’t mention it.’
For the first time ever she didn’t flinch at being so forcibly reminded of his nationality. It was, after all, her nationality also.
‘Meine Mutter ist am ersten Mai 1900 in
Heidelberg geboren,’
she said, reaching in her handbag for pen and paper, and speaking German for the first time in nearly ten years.
‘Und meine Grossmutter am siebten Oktober
1870 in Bermondsey.’
When Kate and Leon and the children burst into the house an hour or so later, they were brought up short in shock at hearing an animated conversation in German taking place in the kitchen.
‘I didn’t know your father ever lapsed into German,’ Leon said in startled surprise, Luke straddling his shoulders and clutching at his still damp, crinkly hair.
‘Grandpa calls me
mein Häschen,’
Matthew said informatively as they hung their coats and jackets up in the hall. ‘It means my little rabbit. And he calls Daisy
mein Schätzchen
which means—’
‘It means my little treasure,’ Daisy said, smiling winningly up at Leon. She, not Matthew, remembered him from a time even before Luke had been born. A time when he had returned to
Magnolia Square on leave, bringing her oranges when oranges were a nearly unobtainable treat. At seven years old, she was old enough to realize that Leon was not her real daddy, just as Kate was
not her real mummy, but that only made both of them more special to her.
‘Can we go swimming next week as well, Daddy-Leon?’ Matthew asked, trying to bring the focus of attention back to himself. ‘Will you teach me to doggy-paddle and dive
and—’
‘It must be Christina he’s talking to,’ Kate said as Leon swung a squealing Luke down to
terra firma.
‘I think it might be as well if you took the children
straight up to bed. I’ll bring a tray of cocoa and sandwiches up.’
Leon raised his eyebrows slightly. Kate was indicating that whatever conversation was taking place in the kitchen, it was of a private nature and she didn’t want the children interrupting
it.
‘All right,’ he said obligingly, wondering what on earth the subject under discussion could be. ‘Come on, troops. We’re going to make ourselves scarce for a little while.
Whose bedroom am I going to tell a bedtime story in?’
‘Mine! Mine!’ Matthew shouted eagerly, too delighted at the prospect of being told a bedtime story by his new daddy to protest at being taken to bed the minute they had returned
home.
‘It isn’t your bedroom,’ Daisy chided, taking hold of Luke’s hand to help him up the stairs. ‘It’s your bedroom and Luke’s. You share it.’
If his new daddy hadn’t
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