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Samuel James Lawrence was born some hours later, on 24th March 1902. After the last patient had left his evening surgery, Dr Lawrence paid his wife and first-born son a visit. The small east bedroom had been prepared as a lying-in room. Dr Lawrence was relieved to find that all was clean and neat, and quiet. Winifred was sitting up in bed, brushing her hair. Next to her, the infant was sleeping in a mahogany cradle in which, nearly forty years previously, Dr Lawrence himself had slept.
‘Here he is, John,’ Winifred whispered, ‘here’s our Samuel.’
Dr Lawrence peered into the cradle.
‘Splendid. What a funny little fellow.’
* * *
Sam, his younger brothers Humphrey and Albert, and his sister Freda, grew up in the rambling house on the edge of the village of Stonethwaite in Cumberland. Their father’s surgery occupied half the ground floor. During surgery hours, patients waited on hard wooden chairs in the hallway. There were two consulting rooms: one for Dr Lawrence, large enough for minor operations, and a smaller one for Dr Jasper, his junior partner.
At the back was a small dispensary, where Dr Lawrence made up pills and medicines. Stacked on one shelf were glass bottles of ominously coloured liquids: red, green, and brown, each sealed with a cork. Dr Lawrence was a great believer in the placebo effect for simple country people. These bottles contained nothing but sterilised water, some harmless colouring, and a little alcohol added as a ‘pick-me-up’. His patients swore by them.
‘Ah no, Doctor, not the green one; my Betty takes that. It’s the red one ’as worked wonders for my rheumatism.’
Apart from the kitchen, the house was always cold, even in summer, the sun rarely having time to penetrate the thick stone walls before the chill of evening returned. On the bitterest winter nights a meagre fire smouldered in the sitting room grate. Bedroom fires were lit only on rare special occasions, such as when Freda shivered and quaked with scarlet fever. Winifred was in charge of the running of the house. It was a house looming with heavy dark furniture inherited from an earlier age. Carpets were worn and soft furnishings threadbare.
Sam had no memory of anything new ever being bought for the house. Even shoes were considered an extravagance, and were kept for as long as possible. As the eldest, Sam sometimes had new shoes bought for him, but only when his toes were firmly pressed against the tips. Shoes were patched and mended, their soles and heels reinforced with crescents of metal. When unarguably outgrown, Sam’s shoes eventually passed to Humphrey, and finally to Albert. Sam’s feet caused him problems for the rest of his life.
Meals were bland and simple, in accordance with Dr Lawrence’s taste. He considered that excessive use of seasoning overstimulated the appetite and the senses, and was to be avoided. Each week, Winifred struggled with the domestic budget allowed by her husband. She made careful lists and opted for the cheaper cuts of meat, which were cooked at length in the Aga until reasonably tender, and stretched with turnips, potatoes, barley and suet dumplings. Certain items not absolutely essential were omitted from the shopping until the following week. She supplemented the family diet with produce from a large vegetable and fruit garden. It did not occur to Winifred to suggest that Dr Lawrence might have increased her household allowance. The children always left the table a little hungry.
While they were very small, the children were taught to read and write by their nanny in the nursery. Nanny Lawrence was a kindly spinster of middle years, from whom the children enjoyed occasional demonstrations of affection. When Sam was nine, a governess arrived and introduced him and Humphrey to the rudiments of history, mathematics and French. Two years later Nanny Lawrence disappeared, despite anguished tears shed by Albert and Freda, then aged six and five. At the same time, a tutor was engaged to prepare the older boys for their entrance examinations. He performed his task with rigour, caning Sam and Humphrey viciously across the knuckles for any lack of effort or application.
The austerity of home life prepared Sam well for conditions at boarding school. He expected neither comfort nor affection, and received none. The battlefields of France and Belgium were rapidly absorbing a generation of young men. Many of Sam’s teachers were old men or survivors of the war, returning damaged and embittered, and resenting their pupils’ untouched youth and opportunity.
Despite its harshness, Sam’s childhood was not without pleasure. His father’s work meant he was rarely present at home, except when occupied in the surgery. The children were expected to entertain themselves, when not actively engaged in schoolwork. They roamed the hills and country freely on foot and by bicycle, slabs of bread and cold tea packed into knapsacks. Sam often helped his mother in the vegetable garden. She was not a talkative woman, but he sensed her quiet fondness for him as they worked side by side, planting lines of potatoes, turnips and carrots.
‘Well done, Samuel. By autumn we’ll be enjoying these.’
When Sam reached the age of seventeen, Dr Lawrence called him into his study for a discussion about his future.
‘Are you considering medicine, Samuel? I have contacts at St Thomas’s, you know. I’m sure they’d take you on, as long as you don’t make a mess of matriculation. It’s a fine profession.’
‘I don’t think I’m really cut out to be a doctor, Father. Not like Humphrey.’
‘Not cut out for it? I don’t know about that. That seems a somewhat flippant way to refer to your future. You do realise we can’t send you all to university, don’t you? If you don’t want to pursue medicine, have you thought about the other options? There’s law or there’s the army.’
Sam longed to escape the constraints of his life. He longed to see the wider world. In 1922, he became one of the youngest officers to graduate from Sandhurst. Dr Lawrence and Sam’s godfather – an uncle in Ireland – shared in paying for his commission, with money long set aside for just such an eventuality.
His first posting was to Ireland. It was not the exotic setting he might have hoped for, but he liked the Irish, and recognised that history had dealt them a poor hand. His commanding officer warned him against this view.
‘Be careful, Lawrence. It’s a mistake to try to see both sides of the argument – or to consider the argument at all for that matter. Our job is to keep order, nothing more. Keep out of the politics.’
In Ireland Sam learned that great charm was not incompatible with extreme brutality. There was a spate of house burnings by the Black and Tans, after which the IRA considered what reprisals against the Protestants might be appropriate. IRA leaders of the local Brigade felt it would be unjust to burn the homes of people not involved directly in anti-Catholic acts. Instead they decided to target Leindown Castle, residence of Lord and Lady Tullycomb. Lord Tullycomb was a member of the British House of Lords and a determined opponent of Irish National aspirations. British officers sometimes stayed at the Castle, and officers from the local garrison – including Sam – were occasional visitors there.
The IRA also selected Leindown for its history of devout Unionism and its longstanding links with the British establishment. At the time of the attack, Lord Tullycomb was away in Scotland on a fishing trip. The only occupants of the Castle were Lady Tullycomb, her daughter Hester, and five servants. The Castle and most of its contents were burnt to the ground in the raid, but no one was harmed.
Sam participated in the subsequent military investigation. He was impressed by Lady Tullycomb’s steadfast refusal to identify the attackers, saying only that they had ‘behaved like gentlemen’. She informed the military that she and Hester had been allowed to identify some of their most treasured possessions, and then ten IRA men had been assigned to carry these objects out of the house. Two armchairs had also been taken outside for herself and Hester to sit in safety and comfort. Sam noted that these chairs were placed in the rose garden, where the women would be sheltered from the sight of their home being destroyed, and where the smell of burning might be masked by the fragrance of the blooms. He was ordered to remove these references from his report, his commanding officer being concerned that the true criminality of the act should not be disguised.
On another occasion, Sam was cycling back to his base following a match at the nearby tennis club, when he rounded a corner and stumbled upon an IRA ambush. A general – a highly decorated hero of the First World War – and his friend, a colonel, together with their wives, were driving in the other direction, in order to play tennis themselves. Seeing signs of an ambush ahead, and unable to turn the car around in time, the general accelerated the car in a desperate attempt to escape. The ambushers opened fire with revolvers, rifles and shotguns, killing the general and the colonel’s wife instantly. The car swerved sideways and crashed into a ditch.
Sam was nearly upon them. He witnessed the event, but was unable to intervene or escape the notice of the attackers. He had no option but to continue cycling. As he reached the rebel road block, unarmed and vulnerable in his white shorts and shirt, he waved his tennis racket in the air. The IRA men, respecting a sportsman, shook their heads and allowed him through unharmed, before making their escape without further bloodshed.
Sam was able to summon help for the injured survivors of the ambush. He was genuinely surprised when his advance through the site of the attack was later referred to as an act of heroism. He had been confident that the rebels had nothing to gain by targeting him too and, in any case, felt he had no alternative but to proceed. Sam’s gentle and courteous manner endeared him to all sides of the conflict. Over time he gained a reputation for being a fair and effective negotiator.
After two years, he made a brief visit home before leaving for India with his regiment. Freda was overjoyed to see her eldest brother. Humphrey had begun his medical studies in London, and Albert was still at school, prior to joining his brother at St. Thomas’s Hospital.
The family had been invited to an evening with the Fairbairn sisters. Dr Lawrence disliked social gatherings. He regarded them as a regrettable but necessary extension of his working role. Winifred felt shy and self-conscious, worrying about the earth that refused to be prised from under her fingernails, and about her outdated gown. Freda was thrilled at any opportunity to leave the house and meet people. She had heard that the Misses Fairbairns’ orphaned niece Charlotte was staying with them, and she hoped to befriend her. Sam regarded the evening as a bit of a bore, but he was quite happy to accompany his sister. Their parents joined the older guests in the drawing room, while Sam and Freda made their way to the sitting room, where younger people were gathered.
Though not vain or self-conscious, Sam was aware that he made quite an entrance; tall and slim in his lieutenant’s uniform. After two years away from home, his shoulders had broadened and he had acquired a confident and easy-going manner.
He and Freda were introduced to Charlotte. She had a pale complexion and fair hair arranged on top of her head. She was wearing an azure blue dress, pulled in becomingly to her narrow waist with a darker blue satin band. Sam supposed she was pretty, yet there was a hardness about her. Her smile was quizzical rather than warm, as if she was about to say, ‘What exactly do you mean by that?’ Sam’s attitude to women was one of gallantry rather than true connection, due perhaps to lack of exposure. He thought nothing critical of Charlotte; only he sensed that experience had made her suspicious of others. Perhaps it was an instinct to comfort and protect her, but he found himself strangely drawn to her.
‘Do you ride, Miss Fairbairn? The weather is so fine at present – I wonder if you would like to go for a ride with me? Not too far, of course.’
She frowned. ‘Distance is no object for Bunty, or for me.’
That prickly, challenging expression again.
‘Bunty is your horse? I’m afraid I was thinking of my bicycle.’
Charlotte snorted. ‘Never been on a bicycle in my life, and don’t intend to try.’
Sam was not an expert horseman, but he had achieved some proficiency in Ireland. Charlotte’s uncle lent him his horse, which was a little more frisky than he would have liked. Charlotte’s Bunty was a fine bay with a serene temperament. Over the coming week, they made several excursions together. Charlotte seemed to enjoy his company. She relaxed and started to laugh more, but there was little warmth in her manner. She remained distant and gave no signal that greater closeness would have been welcomed. Yet, by the time Sam was ready to leave for India, they had agreed to write to each other.
* * *
Sam was completely bewitched by India: the overwhelming heat, the noise, the colours, smells and tastes of it. He wrote to Charlotte of all he experienced. In particular, he told her of his trips to Kashmir: trekking on horseback through hills smelling of pine and rosemary, sleeping under canvas on a camp-bed made up by his batman Morris, and eating delicious fragrant food cooked over an open fire by Rahman Singh. He knew she would like to hear of his equestrian adventures, the sturdy little horses sure-footed on stony screes and steep mountain tracks.
Despite the detailed and vivid descriptions of his experiences, Sam thought little of Charlotte during the long voyage, and for the first weeks in Calcutta. At times he worried about not missing her, but he put it down to the distraction of adjusting to such an alien environment. His head was filled with one new impression after another – there was little room for anything else.
Gradually, he settled in to his rooms and took stock of his life. He became aware of an absence. It was not as if he were lonely; far from it, he was constantly in company. His fellow officers were a mixed bunch, as always, but he found comradeship with Ellis, St John, Cameron and Hailsham. His men liked and respected him. He enjoyed the knowledge that he had created a good rapport with them. His contact with the local people was equally positive. He was learning Urdu in order to communicate better with them. There were regular dinners and dances at the officers’ mess, where he dallied with one or two young women: an English governess employed by a local Maharaja to tutor his children, and the older daughter of the District Commissioner. His senior officer, Major Wellbeck, warned him off.
‘Take care, Lawrence. These girls are after husbands, remember. If that’s what you want, fine. But make the proper approaches.’
Sam felt colour rising up his neck.
‘If it’s just a bit of hanky-panky you’re after, there are always the native women. The adjutant can tell you which is a safe house, so to speak.’
Sam wrote beautiful letters, descriptive, expressive, poetic. As time went on, the tone of Charlotte’s replies became a little softer. The emotional content of Sam’s letters rose in intensity. He was deeply moved by them himself. They were so convincing. How much easier it was to put feelings into writing than to express them face to face.
After a year, he asked Charlotte if she would consider becoming his wife and joining him in India. She wrote back to affirm that she might consider such a proposal, and detailing her precise needs regarding sufficient stabling at their married quarters. She explained that as she had no father to ask the ‘correct questions’, she had to ask them herself. Namely, what exactly were Sam’s prospects in terms of his likely career path and future earnings? He replied that he expected to be promoted to captain the following year, when he would be twenty-five. He was too modest to mention that his commanding officer had explained that such early promotion reflected Sam’s exceptional potential. Charlotte suggested they wait until the following year to get married. Until that time they considered themselves engaged.
The following year, 1927, Sam returned home on three months’ leave. His parents were delighted to see him, and pleased about the forthcoming marriage. For some weeks Sam and Charlotte embarked on a spending spree, which alarmed Doctor Lawrence and Winifred inordinately, but they came to accept that the young couple needed to equip an entire household. The army provided some essential basics, but further items of furniture, bedding, kitchen goods and clothing were assembled, ready to be boxed and shipped to India. Winifred’s greatest sadness was that Charlotte rejected her offered gift of her mother’s old wedding ring. Charlotte wanted to choose a new one for herself.
‘But what about the expense, my dear?’ asked Winifred.
‘Hang the expense,’ Charlotte replied.
Sam and Charlotte were married at Stonethwaite Parish Church. Humphrey was Sam’s best man. As they stood shuffling from foot to foot at the altar, awaiting the bride’s arrival, Sam was overcome with misgiving. He saw his father in the front row, sombre as always, staring straight ahead. Next to him his mother, red-eyed and clutching a handkerchief, tried to smile at Sam.
‘Oh God, what have I done?’ breathed Sam.
‘Courage, mon brave,’ whispered Humphrey.
After the celebration, Sam and Charlotte retired to his old room for their first night together as a married couple. A second single bed had been carried into the room and pushed up against Sam’s narrow schoolboy bed. It did not surprise Sam that Charlotte recoiled when he reached for her that night.
‘Not here,’ she hissed, ‘with your parents next door!’
He could understand her reluctance. It had been excruciatingly embarrassing saying goodnight to them and going upstairs together. But as he gazed at Charlotte’s forbidding back, he wondered if they couldn’t at least have hugged each other.
Early the next day they took the train to Southampton, where their ship was waiting. That night, in the privacy of their cabin, Charlotte was extremely tired from the journey. The second night she appeared so nervous and anxious that Sam tried to reassure her. He kissed her neck and chastely ran his fingers down her rigid shoulders and arms. Charlotte was an innocent girl, he told himself, shy and unschooled in the ways of the world. She had not had the supportive presence of a mother during her earlier years. What did he expect? He needed to give her time, to be patient.
He was patient for all the weeks of the voyage, and then tried hard to sustain patience when they moved into their bungalow. Charlotte was unhappy with the sleeping arrangements. She would have liked separate bedrooms. Sam’s patience was running out. One evening he abandoned all his good intentions and shouted about his rights as a husband. He asked why she had married him: was it just for a ticket to a social position and a good life in India?
‘If you absolutely insist, I suppose I have to agree, occasionally. But don’t expect me to enjoy it.’
Sam’s desire faded in direct proportion to the growth of his anger and frustration. It seemed clear that Charlotte’s only true love was for horses. If he could have offered her impregnation with good Arabian stock, she might have considered the proposition. Children – his children – were out of the question.
It took six years of misery before his commanding officer would agree to a divorce.
‘The army doesn’t approve of divorce, Lawrence, especially not a rushed job. You don’t want to destroy your career prospects completely.’
They lived at opposite ends of the house. On the surface, they kept up a semblance of normality. When attending balls at the officers’ mess together, Charlotte sometimes said, ‘I suppose you’d better give me your arm.’
In 1933, Charlotte returned to England. Two years later they were granted a decree nisi. Sam never contacted her, or heard from her again.
At thirty-three, Sam resigned himself to a solitary life, successful in his chosen career, but lacking personal attachments: a life devoid of warmth and affection. He created a beautiful garden around the bungalow. The servants were instructed to water the plants every evening, whether or not he was there. Alongside the hibiscus, orchids, oleander and bougainvillaea were roses and delphiniums, ceanothus and hydrangea. The garden was his greatest pleasure. He wished he could share it with his mother.
Sam remained in India for two more years, after which he was posted to Egypt, by then a major. It was a time of increasing unrest, as the quest for full independence – a cause for which Sam had some sympathy – grew in momentum. His visits to England were few, and many years apart. His parents were ageing. In 1940 his father died. Winifred, bereft, moved to Surrey to a cottage roughly equidistant from Freda and her husband’s small house, and Humphrey and his wife’s much larger one.
In 1942 Sam began a posting as a lieutenant colonel in Palestine. A man of extreme gentleness, his experience in work and in personal relations had been of continuous conflict: Ireland, India, his marriage, Egypt and now Palestine. At first he was drawn to the Arab cause. Gradually his respect and sympathy for the Jews grew. Surely all people deserved the right to live safely and freely, to have a homeland? Above all, he admired their determination to force the arid land into fertility, into prolific growth. He remembered his first CO’s warning about seeing both sides of the argument. Yet he couldn’t help believing both the Arabs and the Jews had a just cause.
A year later Anna Wiener, a Jewish refugee and a widow, was appointed as secretary to Sam and his fellow officers in the training section. He was immediately, miraculously attracted to her. She was as different from Charlotte as any woman could be: small, dark, intense, emotional and sharply intelligent. Sam recognised that Anna was traumatised and complex, her life one of even greater turmoil than his own. He knew they came from different countries and cultures, and that he should proceed with caution. He sensed mystery, perhaps danger, at her core. But any initial hesitancy was soon thrown aside. He could think of nothing, no one else. Rejected by the only other woman to whom he had reached out, it was a wonder to Sam that Anna loved him too, that she responded to his touch, that she chose to be with him, that she wanted to have children with him.
In March 1944 Sam and Anna were married at the British High Commission in Haifa.
27th October 1945, Berlin
My darling Anna,
It was wonderful to get your letter of 5th Oct, and the lovely photograph of Benjamin. What a splendid little fellow he is. He’s grown so much since I was with you both; looks quite a little rugby player now (a rough, uncivilised and no doubt incomprehensible game played by British males – I’ll tell you about it some time). What a lot of hair he has now – and how come he’s inherited my red instead of your beautiful black hair? My only disappointment was that you didn’t include a recent photo of you too though – the one of us both in Surrey is now hopelessly dog-eared (yes, another strange English expression!) from my constant fingering. Do please get Humphrey or Constance to take one of you, and send it to me.
I hope you are well and happy and enjoying life, despite Surrey’s limitations and the dismal weather. Is the new accommodation working out? It has to be an improvement over the last place. What an unpleasant experience for you, and so unnecessary. I hope Mrs Wilson is an agreeable landlady and will be tolerant of any noise Benjamin might make. Remember, you’re paying the rent and it is your home, and Ben’s, for the time being. You should feel free to do as you please, and to come and go as you wish.
Are you missing me? I can’t wait for us all to be together again – and to that end, I have been extremely busy since you wrote with your list of instructions and requirements(!) Of course I quite understand your insistence that we engage no staff young enough to have been in the Hitler Youth. I think you’ll find that I’ve complied with your wishes. We now have a cook, a nanny, and a gardener – and I’m working on a suitable maid. Their credentials are as follows:
Cook: Frau Helga Stammel. Known as ‘Maggi’ (after the Swiss soup firm). Aged 64 years. Previously very wealthy. Then abandoned and divorced by her husband. Cooking not bad.
Nanny: Frau Selma Rausch. Aged 52 years. From Silesia. Denounced for expressing anti-Nazi sentiments and imprisoned during the war.
Gardener: Herr Eisen. Aged 68 years. Refugee from Eastern Germany. Lost his entire family during the war. A silent man – but wields a mean spade.
As you will see, the Germans have done a pretty good job of destroying the lives of some of their own people too. I trust they are old enough for you? At the moment Frau Rausch is preparing the nursery and is on a ‘retainer’ until you and Ben arrive. The others have started work – Maggi does her best with the limited supplies. (I hope you are eating all right?) I’m due to interview a couple of potential maids tomorrow. Frau Rausch is going to help me make a selection.
I think you’ll approve of the house. It’s spacious and has a very large garden (which pleases me, of course). With Eisen’s help we should have quite a crop of fruit and vegetables next year. I know the requisition business is not very comfortable – but you may be surprised to hear that the owner says she’s delighted to have a British family in her house. She reckons we’ll take better care of it than the Russians or Americans!
Meanwhile, the work proceeds quite well. We’re making progress organising the educational side of things. A little more food is gradually getting through, but there are still terrible shortages. Of course there’s a huge black market trade, for those who can afford it. At least transport is slowly improving. I won’t write more now – all news when you come. Oh God, I love those words – when you come!
Darling Anna – I miss you so much. I long to hold you, touch you, smell you. Not long now until we can all be together – a proper family. Speaking of families, are you surviving my dear relatives? Mother adores you – she wrote six pages about your last visit with Benjamin! Humphrey is a good sort. Don’t take Constance’s ways too much to heart. She’s a bigot and a snob, but otherwise a treasure.
Take special care of yourself – and Ben – these next few weeks, and write again when you can.
All my love, as always,
Sam
PS. I was so glad to hear your suggestion of having a ‘Naming Ceremony’ for Ben when you get here. It’s a wonderful idea. Let’s make a real occasion of it – we’ll have a party on the rations!
Chapter 4 (#ulink_60333886-08c9-5557-96d5-60ca0b6873b8)
Anna
Anna is born in 1914 just before the start of the First World War, a war that is to have a fundamental effect in shaping her early life. Anna’s parents, Artur and Matilde Feldman, run a successful factory making clothes for both the ‘ready-made’ market in large stores, and for private customers. Despite having come from farming stock only a generation previously, Artur has a sharp brain for business. Matilde is from an educated, artistic and musical family. She has inherited a spontaneous flair for design. Her women’s outfits and children’s clothes are soon amongst the most sought after in fashionable Vienna. With their eldest daughter Esther, Artur and Matilde are able to move to a spacious apartment in Mariahilferstrasse, in the centre of the city.
However, challenging times lie ahead. With the break-up of the Austro-Hungarian Empire, eighty per cent of their market disappears. Profits plunge, but employees still need to be paid. Artur is a patriot; he loves Austria. Leaving Matilde to run the factory, he enlists and spends three years fighting for his country. By 1918 the Austrian economy is in ruins. Food is scarce. Despite their former affluence, the family is on the verge of starvation, as is much of the population of Vienna. There are now three young daughters to support. After the war is over, Allied occupiers set up soup kitchens to feed the most vulnerable. One child from each family is permitted to receive a hot meal each day.
Margaret, the youngest, is still being breast-fed. Anna, the middle child, is judged to be the puniest, the most deserving. She is taken to the feeding hall by Kaethe, the family’s maid. Even at four, Anna senses the deep humiliation of defeat in being fed by British soldiers.
Worse than the deprivations, Matilde contracts the Spanish flu sweeping Europe. The virulent infection kills many neighbours. Matilde becomes very ill and develops encephalitis. She is not expected to survive, but somehow she does. The infection has destroyed vital areas of her brain. At thirty-four she is left with a form of Parkinson’s disease. Year by year it deprives her of more abilities and strength, until she becomes bedridden, her body and limbs possessed by trembling, her speech a high monotone.
Life in the once fine apartment on Mariahilferstrasse centres on Matilde. She had been the mainstay of both the business and the family: shrewd with money, clever at stretching small amounts of food, and efficient at paperwork. Artur’s priority is to fulfil his wife’s needs as best he can. The children must not make noise. They cannot invite their friends home to play. Matilde must be kept comfortable and serene. Every evening Artur spends time with her after returning from work. He sits on her bed holding her hand and reports on the day’s events, and Matilde makes suggestions regarding the business.
Gradually Artur rebuilds the firm. Less educated than his wife, nevertheless he has a way with people. Naturally charming, he is popular with both men and women, and is a successful salesman. The staff are loyal; they remember Artur and Matilde’s support during the hard years. Slowly the business becomes profitable again.
Anna and her sisters live contented, protected lives. As their mother’s health deteriorates, it is Kaethe who plays a central role in caring for and nurturing the children. Although Esther, Anna and Margaret would love to have a more active mother, who can play and read with them like many of their friends’ mothers, Kaethe surrounds them with love and affection. For a few years their lives are relatively carefree. They attend a mixed private school, the majority of whose pupils come from homes as comfortable as theirs. The girls walk to school arm in arm with their friends, thinking only of fun and friendships. Lotte, Leila, Gretchen, Magdelene, Wilma, Sara and Monika – all are indistinguishable from one another.
The girls light candles for Hanukkah and then clip them onto the fir tree, to be lit on Christmas Eve. They wish each other a happy new year for the first of January, and again for Rosh Hashanah. Other than these enjoyable events, they are scarcely aware of who is Christian, who is Jewish. Artur is a pragmatic rather than a devout man. He rarely goes to temple, and then only to meet a business associate. Viennese society is not without its divisions, but these relate largely to identifying those who live in a less smart neighbourhood, or who are less well dressed, less well spoken, less witty.
Anna is pretty, petite, with black curls and dark eyes. She is hard working and diligent at school, her marks always in the top three of her class. She is equally good at sports: skiing, skating, swimming, basketball and gymnastics. She is regarded as sweet-natured and kind by the other girls, and polite by her teachers. Despite these many attributes, Anna is not priggish or conceited. She has a quick temper and a wicked sense of humour, which endears her to her friends. Despite her popularity, Anna has a more troubled side to her temperament. Perhaps the household’s preoccupation with her mother’s needs and illness induces in the growing child a tendency to occasional bouts of melancholic contemplation. From an early age, she keeps a diary in which she records ‘days of sad thoughts’.
One day as they walk to the bakery together to buy the morning rolls, Anna, at the age of eight or nine years, astounds the down-to-earth Kaethe.
‘Kaethe, why am I inside this person looking out?’
‘Inside? Inside who? What are you talking about, child?’
‘I mean, why am I me? I could have been anyone. Why was I born inside this body and not someone else’s?’
