Rachel's Legacy Read online

  DEDICATION

  To Rosa, Bella and all of the other Holocaust survivors who generously shared their stories with me, and in the memory of those who died resisting the Nazi regime, I am in awe of your courage and resilience.

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people or real locales are fictitious. Other names, characters, places and incidents are all products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  However, all of the characters in the Red Orchestra are real people, and I have used their real names when they are revealed to Kobi Voight. They did do all of the things that my story credits them with, and they died as martyrs to their cause. There is no record of Harro Schulze-Boysen fathering a child, although he and his wife, Libertas, did have an open marriage and so the idea of him having a relationship with someone in their circle is not at all far-fetched. The Horowitzs, Rafael Gomez, the Voights and Maria Weiss are all completely fictional.

  EPIGRAPH

  Even if we should die, we know this much:

  The seed continues to sprout.

  Heads may roll, but the Spirit still masters the State.

  The final argument

  Won’t be left to the gallows and the guillotine

  And today’s judges don’t represent the judgement

  of the world.

  A poem written by First Lieutenant Harro Schulze-Boysen, Luftwaffe,

  in his own handwriting and recovered from his cell

  after his execution on 22 December 1942.

  CONTENTS

  Dedication

  Author’s Note

  Epigraph

  Characters

  Chapter One: Berlin: June 1942

  Chapter Two: Melbourne: July 2014

  Chapter Three: Berlin: July 2014

  Chapter Four: Berlin: June 1942

  Chapter Five: Berlin: July 2014

  Chapter Six: Berlin: June 1942

  Chapter Seven: Berlin: July 2014

  Chapter Eight: Berlin: June 1942

  Chapter Nine: Berlin: July 2014

  Chapter Ten: Berlin: June 1942

  Chapter Eleven: Berlin: July 2014

  Chapter Twelve: Berlin: June 1942

  Chapter Thirteen: Berlin: July 2014

  Chapter Fourteen: Washington DC: July 2014

  Chapter Fifteen: Washington DC: July 2014

  Chapter Sixteen: Vermont: July 2014

  Chapter Seventeen: Berlin: June 1947

  Chapter Eighteen: Berlin: June 1947

  Chapter Nineteen: Vermont: July 2014

  Chapter Twenty: Melbourne: August 2014

  Chapter Twenty - One: Melbourne: August 2014

  Chapter Twenty - Two: Vermont: August 2014

  Chapter Twenty - Three: Melbourne: August 2014

  Chapter Twenty - Four: Melbourne: September 2014

  Chapter Twenty - Five: A farm outside Berlin: Late June 1942

  Chapter Twenty - Six: A farm outside Berlin: March 1945

  Chapter Twenty - Seven: Berlin: August 1947

  Chapter Twenty - Eight: Berlin: February 1950

  Chapter Twenty - Nine: Bonegilla: September 1950

  Chapter Thirty: Yarraville: The 1950s

  Chapter Thirty - One: Yarraville: The 1960s

  Chapter Thirty - Two: Melbourne: September 2014

  Chapter Thirty - Three: Vermont: Early October 2014

  Chapter Thirty - Four: Vermont: October 2014

  Chapter Thirty - Five: Vermont: October 2014

  Chapter Thirty - Six: Vermont: October 2014

  Chapter Thirty - Seven: Vermont: October 2014

  Chapter Thirty - Eight: New York: June 2015

  Epilogue: Jerusalem: November 1986

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Also by Julie Thomas

  The Enigma of Looted Art

  Book Club Questions

  Sneak Preview

  Levi’s War

  Copyright

  CHARACTERS

  The Voights

  Elizabeth Voight German-born, Melbourne-raised

  Karl Voight Australian-born, her husband

  Andrew Voight their elder son

  Lisle Spencer their daughter

  Dr Kobi Voight their younger son

  Sabine Gunther Elizabeth’s mother

  Peter Gunther Elizabeth’s father

  Mathias Gunther Elizabeth’s brother

  Greta Voight Karl’s mother

  Karl Voight Snr Karl’s father

  The Horowitzs

  Benjamin Horowitz a banker, interred in Dachau

  Elizabeth Horowitz his wife

  Levi Horowitz their eldest son

  Simon Horowitz their middle son

  Rachel Horowitz their twin daughter, a Resistance fighter, interred in Auschwitz

  David Horowitz their twin son, interred in Dachau

  David Horowitz Simon’s son

  Cindy Horowitz David’s wife

  Daniel Horowitz David and Cindy’s son, Simon’s grandson

  Others

  Rafael Santamaria Gomez a conductor

  Maria Weiss a Resistance fighter

  Harro Schulze-Boysen a Resistance fighter

  Libertas Schulze-Boysen a Resistance fighter

  George Ross an investment banker

  Professor Dr Mikel Kribbler Kobi’s boss in Berlin

  Dr Boris Meyer Galerie Bassenge, Berlin

  CHAPTER ONE

  Berlin

  June 1942

  My dearest darling baby

  My hand trembles as I start this, my first letter to you. I shall try not to cry, because then the ink will be stained and the words might run together and you won’t be able to read it. My heart is in such a state that it is hard to know what to write. I am hoping that one day you and I will sit down and read this together and I can explain what I cannot write down.

  But there is, lurking in the back of my mind, the fear that I will not be there and you will read them by yourself. Maybe you will be a young woman, and my heart flies when I think of how beautiful you will be. There is so much I want to tell you, so much you MUST know. If I consider that maybe you will never know, it feels as if my body will break in two and all my tears will run out and flood this room. You cannot possibly know how much I love you, how much my heart beats in time with yours even though you are not here with me anymore. But I am getting ahead of myself. I will try my hardest, my darling, to rein in the flood of emotion that fills my brain and write you a sensible letter.

  I’m hoping that your name is still the same, because you are named after my mama, your grandmother. She is the bravest and most wonderful woman, and it is my daily prayer that one day I will be able to introduce you to her. I know she will adore you, as I do. The nickname your papa and I gave you the day that you were born was Ebee, a shortened version of her name and yours. Whenever I say it, I think of Mama.

  Why did I start writing the letters today? Because I got stopped. I had to take the rickety old bicycle out and deliver some food to the family who are hiding Herr H. Herr H was my brother’s violin teacher, and I remember I was always scared of him because he was a very stern man and he was tough on my brother. But I understand now that he was hard because my darling brother was so good at the violin. Today he is not stern or tough, now he cries a lot and wants to know what is happening outside of the tiny windowless room in which he lives.

  On my way home a German soldier stopped me and demanded to see my papers. This happens sometimes if we are unlucky, but he was brighter than many of the stupid men with their uniforms and their guns, and he looked at me closely. Then, suddenly, he accu
sed me of being Jewish. I suppose he thought that if I was frightened by him, I might simply admit it. I acted shocked and horrified and told him that Jews are dirty rats and that I most certainly am not! I told him my cover story. That my father is German but my mother was born in Milan, that my name is Francesca Albrecht and I was born here. My father is fighting at the front and I am a good Catholic. I’ve said it so many times it’s almost second nature now, it doesn’t feel like a lie.

  His tiny piggy eyes narrowed with suspicion, so I started to recite the Prayer for the Intercession of the Blessed Virgin Mary . . . ‘Hail Mary, full of grace. The Lord is with thee. Blessed art thou amongst women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus.’ Although I don’t believe it as I say it, I do find it gives me comfort in times of fear.

  He asked me how many disciples Jesus had and I told him that there were twelve, and then he asked me how many days was Jesus in the tomb and I told him it was three, and then he asked me what the third Beatitude was and I panicked. I said I wasn’t sure, something about being pure and going to Heaven? He nodded and smiled at me and said it was ‘Blessed are the meek for they shall inherit the earth.’

  Because I couldn’t answer all of his questions, he seemed to think that it meant I really was a Catholic and not a Jew pretending to be a true believer. He told me to go on my way quickly and be careful, as the streets are full of robbers and starving people who might try to hurt me. I pedalled as fast as I could all the way home.

  That was close. I was one wrong answer away from disaster. We live with the whims of these soldiers all of the time, and I have seen them shoot people in the street for insubordination or being too terrified to answer a question. I hate disavowing my Judaism, my community and my heritage, it feels like a betrayal of everything I was taught to believe, but if he hadn’t believed me, if he’d arrested me and taken me straight to the train station and loaded me into one of those dreadful trains, you would never know who I was and that I didn’t give you away. That the fact you are not here with me breaks my heart and rips into my soul every single day.

  So, I am sitting in the cellar of my home in Charlottenburg, with a blank piece of precious paper in front of me, and I have decided to write on it and hide it in a safe place in the wall. There are loose bricks all over this room with holes behind them, and I will keep my letters in separate places so that it is less likely that they will all be found. And I shall write them in the language of my faith, the tongue I learned as a small child, so that they can only be read by those who will understand my actions.

  When I have finished them, I will take them to Meme and ask her to give them to the couple who are looking after you. It’s too dangerous to have you here with us, so they are being your pretend mama and papa until all this hell is over. I think about you all the time and imagine you living in a safe place with animals and fresh food and sunshine. When the evil Führer is defeated, your papa and I will come and get you. We will have a lovely house by a lake and we will sail and swim and live together in peace, far from this frightening city, and with lots of laughter, and we will bring you up in my faith.

  So who am I? I am Ruby. I long to tell you my real name, but if this letter is discovered it might get us all killed, so for the moment, nicknames will have to do. I am your mama. Four months ago I gave birth to you in a bedroom upstairs, with my best friend acting as a midwife, and with a doctor and a dentist — both part of our group — helping. Your papa paced up and down in the sitting room and waited; he is very impatient, so that was hard for him. But we both fell in love with you instantly, and you were such a good baby.

  I want to tell you so much about your papa. He is brilliant and funny and gentle and kind. When you were very small he would rock you in his arms and sing traditional Prussian folksongs to you. He has strong hands and little curls that sit flat on his neck and wonderful blue eyes. He is the love of my life, and he makes me feel safe when the whole world seems to be tearing itself apart. Without him I would have just died of loneliness and the pain of missing my family so much. But before I tell you more about him, and our life, I must tell you about my family — your family — and all of the wonderful people I grew up with.

  Dr Kobi Voight let the letter drop onto his stomach and stared up at the ceiling. So this is what the funny piece of paper, with its indecipherable writing and lovely pencil sketches, actually said. The author, ‘Ruby’, was German, like his mother, alive during World War II, like his mother. It appeared she had made a huge sacrifice, given up her newborn daughter. Why? If she was delivering food to Jews in hiding, then maybe she was working for the Resistance. A hero, a brave young woman who stood up to the Nazi regime. What fate had befallen her?

  And why were these letters in his grandmother’s, and then his mother’s, possession? His mother thought that Grandma Gunther had bought them in a market because of the beautiful sketches; she couldn’t read them, because they were written in Hebrew.

  His mother had been born in Berlin, but the family had come to Melbourne when she was eight; his father’s parents were originally from Munich, and he had felt ‘German’ on occasions when he was young. But more lately he had begun to feel as though a whole part of his being was missing. The Voight side of his family had died with his paternal grandparents, but the memories were strong. Now here he was in Berlin, and somehow it felt as though he was spying on someone else’s family. He picked up the letter again.

  My earliest memory is of a drawing lesson. My drawing teacher was called Madame St Claire. Mama told me she was a Frenchwoman who had married a German before the Great War, and he had been killed fighting the French and the British at the Battle of the Somme. She lived with his parents in Berlin and looked after them while she waited for him to come home, and when he didn’t, she stayed with them. I didn’t understand then how hard it must have been to be French and living in Berlin during that war. Back then I took everything for granted, believed that people would always be nice, and it never occurred to me that we were ‘different’.

  I remember wanting to have our lessons in the drawing room; the boys had their music lessons in the music room, so why couldn’t I have mine in the drawing room? But Mama said I might spill something on her lovely rug, so I sat at the big wooden table in the kitchen. Madame St Claire always wore perfume, and she smelt like the flowers in our garden in the summer. Her hair was red and she wore it wound up in a bun on top of her head. Her hands were rough, and I think she must have had to clean the house for her parentsin-law, but she could draw wonderful people. She taught me how to draw circles and then where to put the features on their faces, and she made me copy out handwriting so that I could make beautiful letters. She will never know how useful that skill has been over the past two years!

  One day I made her a present. I drew her eyes. She had the saddest eyes I had ever seen, and I tried to capture what they looked like. When I gave it to her, she cried and hugged me and called me her ‘Jolie petite chose’, but she told me she cried because my drawing made her so happy. I believed that then and I want you to believe it now.

  The only thing I loved more than drawing were the stars at night. Sometimes I would get out of bed and sneak out the back door to stand in the garden and look up at the sky. Once Papa found me and brought me a blanket and we stood together. He pointed out where the different constellations were, and told me how far away they were. And he said that no matter where I was when I was grown up, I could look up at the sky and know that he was looking at it, too, and we would be together. He is a sentimental man, Papa, with a big heart, and I often look up at the stars now and wonder if he’s looking at them, too.

  So where did we live? In a very big house not far from the Brandenburger Tor. It had lots of bedrooms and bathrooms upstairs, and some wonderful formal rooms downstairs. My bedroom had my bed and my wardrobe and dressing table, and a desk at which to do my homework.

  Mama embroidered a silk quilt for my bed with a Star of David in the centre and a dreidel and a me
norah and a Torah and my name in Hebrew. All of my dolls sat or stood on the big window ledge, and I dressed them in different sets of clothes that hung in a little wooden wardrobe that my uncle had made for me.

  He had made one for Dee, too, to keep his dreidels in. Dee was very proud of his collection of spinning tops. Sometimes I forget that you won’t know what these things mean. A dreidel is a top with four sides and four Hebrew letters on it, and you play a game with it at Hanukkah. Dee liked to play for a pot of money, but Papa usually made him play for sweets. It’s a game of chance and, depending on what letter it comes to rest on when you spin it, you get nothing, or you get the whole pot in the middle of the table, or half the pot, or you have to add something to the pot.

  Papa visited art galleries when he was in other cities in Germany, and he brought me home prints of famous paintings to hang on my wall. My favourites were the da Vinci Portrait of a Musician, the Raphael Portrait of a Young Lady with a Unicorn, and the Albrecht Dürer works, especially the hare and a large piece of turf. We had an original Dürer painting in our entrance hall; he was an ancestor of Mama’s and he looked like her. He had curls that came to his shoulders and hazel eyes that were almost green, like Mama. Dee said he was very proud and looking down his nose at us, but I thought he was kind and his clothing was beautiful — he had been very rich.

  The best room in the house was the formal sitting room. We sat in the drawing room as a family, but the formal sitting room was for guests. Mama had all her best treasures on display there, the ruby-red Venetian glass bowls and her two Fabergé eggs. Oh, how I loved those eggs! They were covered in enamel that was the colour of the sea and the grass, and had tiny little diamonds around the middle, and one had a big emerald on the top! If I had been good, Mama would take one down from its display box and let me touch it and open it to look at the tiny gold-and-diamond carriage inside.

  I used a peacock feather to tickle the small porcelain statues of people, because they were stuck in their fancy poses and couldn’t scratch the itch! And the ivory carvings were so cold under my fingers in the winter. There was a marble pedestal with the bust of a Greek politician on it; one day I danced into it and knocked it over, but the bust was so heavy it didn’t break.