Two weeks later, Miriam sat between Mr Denison and Will in the back of an armoured car, being driven through the cobbled streets of the Bavarian town on their way to the last of the Nuremberg trials. Most of the major war criminals had been tried and executed by now: von Ribbentrop, Frank, Frick, Kaltenbrunner, Keitel, Seyss-Inquart, Streicher and Rosenberg had been hanged; Goring and Hess had committed suicide the night before their executions.
She looked out of the window at the bombed-out houses and piles of rubble and tried to imagine the sounds of marching feet, cheering crowds, rousing music and a triumphant Führer spitting out his message of hatred to the listening world. She’d not even been born when Hitler came to power; now he was dead himself, shot by his own hand, deep in his underground bunker. But not before he’d claimed the lives of Eva’s parents and grandparents. She’d heard the Jews had been told to sing as they entered the gas chambers so they would inhale more gas and die quicker. Had Mutti ended her life with the melody of her beloved villanelle on her lips? She turned her head to hide the glaze of tears from Will.
She must have made a sound, as Mr Denison reached out to hold her hand. ‘I’m sorry, my dear. This can’t be an easy trip for you.’
Miriam nodded. She’d wondered a few times on the way out if she’d made the right decision, but every time her parents’ faces came into her mind, her resolve had hardened. ‘I’m here to do a job. And I’ll do it to the best of my ability.’
Mr Denison smiled at her. ‘I wouldn’t have expected anything less.’
Will was very brave in court, standing ramrod straight in the dock and answering the judge’s questions loudly and clearly. Miriam winced as she took notes. Will hadn’t told her about the terrible food, the solitary confinement, the hard labour, although it was obvious from the mental and physical change in him that he’d had a gruelling time. She knew too that the Germans had treated their prisoners of war a lot better than they’d treated the Jews. She stared hard at the notebook in front of her, to blot out the image of Mutti and Abba, their heads shaved, their bodies stripped as they entered the gas chamber at Auschwitz. All she could do for them now was to be the best daughter she could. Here at Nuremberg, she’d do everything in her power to help Mr Denison make sure the criminals were punished. And afterwards, she’d work at her singing until her voice was so beautiful her parents would hear it from Gan Eden.
*
Hana chewed the inside of her cheek as she lay on her bed frowning up at the yellowing ceiling of Irena’s spare room, then winced at the resulting soreness and metallic tang in her mouth.
Irena had been so kind, and the apartment was comfortable if sparse, but it wasn’t home. She’d not had a home for ten years now. And there was clearly no chance of going back to the house where she’d lived with the Rubensteins, thanks to that awful woman who owned it now. But apart from the memories, the house was just bricks and mortar really. It was the feeling of being an orphan that haunted her most: all those she’d loved, all those who’d loved her – Mutti, Abba, Eva – were dead. Only her biological father remained alive, but she hadn’t seen him since Terezin. Perhaps he’d been in hiding. Until now.
She smoothed the crumpled letter in her hand, then propped the paper against her raised knees to read it, even though she knew the words by heart. It was headed with the impressive lion and unicorn emblem of the British Foreign Office, and was a summons to give witness at the trial of Otto Blumsfeld at Nuremberg.
She let her knees drop and the letter fluttered onto the bed. In normal circumstances she’d never have contemplated going to Nuremberg. How could she testify against her own father? But then she’d noticed the name at the bottom of the letter: Hugh Denison. Doubtless he had no idea who she was – just another Terezin survivor who could testify against a minor war criminal. But Hana knew exactly who he was. It was too much of a coincidence. It had to be the man whose family Eva told her Miriam had gone to live with in England. Eva had spoken of Miriam’s letters assuring her that the Denisons treated her like a daughter, that Mr Denison was benevolent, if busy, and Mrs Denison was all heart.
Apart from Otto Blumsfeld, Miriam Kolischer, her half-sister, was Hana’s only surviving relative. So she’d accepted the summons. It was partly curiosity: she’d never been outside Czechoslovakia in her life, and Prague had felt stifling lately, the houses in some of the old streets off the Staroměstské náměstí tilting so alarmingly it seemed they might topple forward and trap her between them. The roughened cobbles constantly snagged her shoes as though they wanted to rip her to shreds from her feet upwards.
She yearned to see Prague receding at speed from a train window, its spires and towers blurring as she hurtled free of the city’s grasp. But it was more than that. Some of the most evil men in the world had passed through Nuremberg. Murderer after murderer had stood in the dock and been sentenced to death or life imprisonment. Some had even died at their own hand. There’d been nothing she could have done to save her family, but maybe she could witness their killers brought to justice.
And then there was Miriam. If she could get to meet this Hugh Denison, maybe she could talk to him about his adopted daughter. Perhaps he’d invite her back to England to meet her. A little bubble of hope rose in Hana’s chest at the thought of getting to know her half-sister. Would she look anything like her? Would she be musical? And how would Miriam feel knowing that her mother, their mother, had had another child?
It would be a risk going to Nuremberg; she’d accepted the offer of expenses and accommodation, perhaps dishonestly – and she’d have to account for that – but the desire to find out about Miriam had been too strong. Even if she still didn’t know whether she could stand up in court and testify against her father.
It was a long train ride to Nuremberg, through half-destroyed villages. She glimpsed ragged children perched on piles of rubble, staring at them forlornly. Women in patched clothes paused in their farm work to rub their backs whilst the train sped by. But at least they were all alive. What would Eva be doing now if she’d survived?
They left the towns behind and the track wound slowly upwards towards the wild beauty of the Böhmerwald mountains, then plunged into the dense forests of Bavaria. Lulled by the endless blur of bottle-green trees and rigid brown trunks, Hana fell asleep for the last part of the journey. But she woke with a jolt when the train finally ground into the station, her stomach clenching and her heart quickening at the thought of what was in store.
After checking in at the small but clean hotel, the details of which had accompanied her letter, Hana spent a restless night before breakfasting early, alone, in the chilly dining room. It was strange to eat by herself; at Terezin you were never alone, and back in Prague, she normally chatted to Irena as they drank coffee in the kitchen before departing for the conservatoire together. Her anxious thoughts reverberated round the room. Why was she here? She still hadn’t decided whether she would go to court. The trial wasn’t until the next day. She had a little time to come to a decision. But first she had to track down Mr Denison.
She asked the grim-faced receptionist for directions to the British consulate building, where she assumed she’d find him. Thank goodness her German was still good, although she’d mainly spoken Czech since returning to Prague. But at the consulate, another receptionist, a little less stern this time, informed her he was at the Palace of Justice.
It took another hour, and a number of wrong turns, trudging through the streets in her worn shoes, before she finally arrived at a large old building with a terracotta-coloured roof and myriad windows. She looked up at them, wondering if any German war criminals were staring out, and shivered as she made her way up to the entrance. There was a soldier on guard outside. Fortunately she had thought to bring her letter from Mr Denison, and, after peering at it for several seconds whilst Hana held her breath, he let her in. The action was repeated by the official inside, until she was finally shown down a long corridor with a high gothic ceiling and into a room where a large-framed man was sitting behind a desk. There had been a weary-sounding ‘Enter’ to the official’s knock.
‘Mr Denison?’
The man looked up. His face was flushed, whether from exhaustion or annoyance she couldn’t tell, but there was kindness in his blue eyes. This was the man who’d welcomed her half-sister into his home, Hana told herself.
He asked her a question in English, to which she couldn’t reply, then nodded at the official, who departed at once.
Hana took a deep breath and spoke in her best German, hoping Mr Denison would understand. ‘My name is Hana Rubenstein. I was in Terezin during the war. You asked me here to give witness against Otto Blumsfeld.’
There was a movement from the corner of the room, and Hana realised there was another occupant, a young girl, possibly in her mid teens: slim, with dark hair and a slightly anxious expression. She’d been sitting in a gloomy recess, surrounded by piles of papers, and had been so still that Hana hadn’t noticed her.
‘Indeed I did,’ Mr Denison replied in heavily accented German. ‘Is there a problem?’
Hana nodded. ‘Otto Blumsfeld was my gaoler. The guards at Terezin made our lives very difficult.’
‘A good reason to testify against him.’
Hana took a step forward. ‘I’m not sure I can. I was supposed to be on a train to Auschwitz, but he rescued me. He almost certainly saved my life.’ She darted a glance across the room. The girl was looking at her keenly.
Mr Denison’s words drew her back. ‘He might have rescued you, Hana, but he let many other people go to their deaths.’
Hana’s heart was hammering. She’d meant to tell Mr Denison her decision, then hope to lead the conversation on to Miriam. She certainly hadn’t anticipated saying this much, but there was something in the man’s scrutiny, something in the girl’s stillness, that made her want to tell the truth. ‘It isn’t as straightforward as you make out. You see, Otto Blumsfeld was also my father.’
Mr Denison leapt to his feet and came round the desk towards her. ‘We’d no idea; why didn’t you say?’
The girl was standing too, her expression a mixture of sympathy and horror, although she didn’t come near.
Hana looked down at the floor. ‘I was in two minds. I wanted to hate him for what he did to my mother; I thought I could keep my feelings at bay – stay detached.’ She drew her hand across her face. ‘But now I find myself remembering how he saved me.’ A memory darted into her mind of Otto standing awkwardly beside her as the train receded. The train that had carried Eva to her death and should have carried Hana too. She felt a warm hand on her shoulder and realised the girl had approached.
‘What did he do to your mother?’ Mr Denison asked.
Hana made her fingers into a fist and rammed them silently into her side. ‘He was a member of the Hitler Youth as a boy, back in 1930. He attacked my mother because she was Jewish. She became pregnant . . .’ She couldn’t say any more. Already she felt a heave of nausea.
Mr Denison returned to his desk and sat down heavily. He muttered something to the girl in English, and Hana thought she saw a look pass between them. The room started to swim, and she reached out to steady herself.
‘Are you all right?’ The girl, this time. Strangely, she spoke in Czech.
‘Miriam, take Miss Rubenstein to the bathroom, please. Then perhaps you could go through the papers with her.’
Miriam? Hana’s legs felt hollow.
‘Please come with me,’ said the girl. Her voice was low and clear. But Hana barely registered that. She was too busy taking in the fact that this girl was called Miriam, that she knew Mr Denison, and that she spoke flawless Czech. There was no other explanation. This Miriam had to be her half-sister.
She stumbled down the corridor after her.
*
After Miriam had taken her to the bathroom and waited outside whilst Hana dry-heaved into the wash basin, then swilled out her mouth and tidied herself in the mirror, she showed her into another office, even smaller than the first, and invited her to sit down. Then she drew a chair from under the heavy oak desk that dominated the room, and positioned herself in front of her. Hana gazed at Miriam’s face. Was that Eva’s expression she saw, or was she imagining it? How could she confront Miriam with her suspicions?
‘You speak Czech,’ she said, ‘and you have a Jewish name.’
Miriam nodded. She was drawing a sheaf of forms from the desk and unscrewing a pen. ‘I lived in the Jewish quarter in Prague until the German invasion. My mother managed to smuggle me out to England, where I’ve lived ever since.’
It all fitted. ‘Did you live with the Denisons?’ Hana asked.
‘Yes! How did you know?’ The pen lid clattered onto the desk.
Hana shifted in her seat. ‘Mr Denison seemed very protective of you.’ She remembered the two of them standing close together in the room. That was how a father and daughter should look.
‘He is. But you must know more to make you think that.’ Miriam’s gaze was intense.
Hana let out a long, low breath. ‘I think I met your mother in Terezin.’
‘My mother? Yes, she was there.’
‘Was she Eva Kolischer? She was a musician, wasn’t she?’
‘Yes,’ Miriam whispered.
Hana reached out to take Miriam’s fingers in her own, as much to stop her own hands shaking as to comfort the other girl. ‘When we were in Terezin, the guards allowed us to put on musical concerts. They thought it would keep us busy.’ She tried to keep her voice steady. It wouldn’t help to show she was upset herself, even though she felt the sweat trickling down her back. ‘I was . . . am . . . a pianist. Eva – your mother – became my teacher. She taught me to play Verdi’s Requiem. I acted as her understudy when she performed it in front of the Germans.’
Miriam swallowed. ‘And when she left for Auschwitz . . .?’
‘I took over. She was a wonderful teacher. A wonderful person.’
‘She was.’ Miriam blinked several times.
Hana tried to speak as gently as possible. ‘Miriam, when I told Mr Denison my mother was attacked, I was speaking about Eva – your mother, our mother.’ She ignored the sharp intake of breath and fixed her eyes on the navy cloth of Miriam’s skirt. She didn’t dare look at her face. ‘She was raped in the cemetery when she was taking a short cut home . . .’
‘How do you know this?’ Miriam’s voice was hoarse.
‘When she came to Terezin, she recognised one of the prison guards – Otto Blumsfeld – as her former attacker. She’d become pregnant on the night of the attack. I was the result. She had me in secret and gave me away for adoption. When she knew she was to be sent to Auschwitz, she asked Otto to take care of me.’
Miriam snatched her fingers from Hana’s grasp and shot to her feet. ‘I’m sorry. I have to go.’ She lurched towards the door and Hana heard the staccato rhythm of her shoes down the corridor.
She sagged in her seat. What had she done? Miriam would never want a relationship with her now. Why on earth had she answered the summons to Nuremberg? She should have refused, stayed on in Prague and tried to put her life back together. But wouldn’t Eva have wanted her daughters to get to know each other? And a small part of Hana was pleased that Miriam knew the truth. The girl had spent five years being brought up by Eva, cuddled by her, kissed by her, put to bed at night . . . cherished . . . loved. Hana had grown close to Eva at Terezin, but she could never have Miriam’s memories. And she, the firstborn daughter, had been farmed out to strangers kind though they were, whilst Miriam had basked in their mother’s affection.
She drew a long, shuddering breath. There was no point in feeling jealous. Eva was no longer alive; Hana couldn’t compete with Miriam for their mother’s affection. She could only hope Miriam would still want to know her. They’d both lost their mother. They were each other’s only blood relatives. She had to find a way of getting close to her.
She was still sitting on her chair, churning over the events of the last half-hour, when she heard a soft knock.
She wiped her cheeks with her thumb. ‘Come in.’
It was Mr Denison. He sat down on the chair Miriam had vacated. ‘Miriam is terribly upset,’ he said. ‘I’ve sent her back to her hotel. My son will look after her.’
Was there a note of accusation in his voice? And there was something in the way he said ‘my son’, as if the Denisons were closing ranks against her. Miriam had a foster brother to care for her. And she’d been kept safe during the war. All Hana had left was the man who had a dubious claim to be her father. She didn’t reply to Mr Denison: even if she could have found the words, she didn’t trust her voice.
‘My dear, it’s clear from what Miriam has told me that you’ve had a terrible time.’ Mr Denison was panting a little, whether from exertion or embarrassment Hana couldn’t tell, but at least these words were kinder. ‘But she’s had an awful shock too.’ He paused, waiting for her to speak.
Hana managed a whisper. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘Tell me everything, from the beginning.’
With Mr Denison’s kind eyes fixed on hers, Hana blurted out her story. How she’d been adopted by the Rubensteins, sent to Terezin, her meeting with Eva, the discovery that she was her mother, the music . . . and her last-minute rescue by Otto.
‘I see. You have something of a dilemma here.’
Hana nodded. Her voice was stronger now. ‘My father did a terrible thing, many terrible things probably. But he also tried to protect me.’ A memory slithered in. Otto seeking her out when she was alone practising in the gymnasium, and handing her a hot baked potato in a napkin. She’d eaten it quickly, the floury heat burning her throat, whilst he had looked on, smiling, then taken the napkin from her after she’d wiped her fingers. He’d slipped away whilst she resumed her playing, nourished and warmed from within.
‘Yet he didn’t rescue your mother. Nor the thousands of others who went to Auschwitz.’
‘He couldn’t disobey orders.’
‘He must have done to save you.’
‘I suppose so.’ Hana had never found out if Otto had been punished. She’d just been glad to be reprieved. Although at times she was racked with guilt that she was the only one who’d survived.
‘Perpetrators of crime have to be brought to justice, Hana.’
‘I know. But I am not going to testify against my own father.’
Mr Denison sighed. ‘Please think about this very carefully. If you don’t testify, Otto Blumsfeld may well walk away scot-free. Do you really think that’s right?’
‘No. Of course not. But I can’t live with myself if I help sentence him to death.’
‘He won’t get the death penalty. That’s reserved for the major war criminals. He’ll get a prison sentence. Like all those Jews incarcerated at Terezin.’
Hana shook her head. ‘I’m sorry. You’ll have to find someone else. I can’t do it.’ Her stomach was churning, the nausea threatening to return. What was she supposed to do? She had no one to return to.
‘Very well.’ Mr Denison got to his feet. He patted her hand awkwardly. ‘Thank you for coming, anyway. I’m sure Miriam will want to talk to you again. But she needs time.’
Hana managed a wan smile in response.
She returned wearily to her hotel room, almost oblivious to the journey, so consumed was she with thoughts of her meeting with Miriam. She went to bed convinced she’d made the right decision. But all that night, the Dies Irae from Verdi’s Requiem thundered through her brain. She heard Eva playing the tumultuous notes, and her ears rang with the choir’s words: ‘Therefore when the judge takes His seat, whatever is hidden will be revealed: nothing shall remain unavenged.’ And in the darkness she saw a terrified girl cornered in a gloomy graveyard, and a terrified woman singing in the stifling air of the gas chamber until she could breathe no more.
Nothing shall remain unavenged.
*
Miriam sat in the packed courtroom. The benches were filled with officials and journalists, all wearing suits, some with headphones on their ears. The air was thick with tension. Eventually a tall man with fair hair was led into the dock, flanked by armed soldiers. He looked to be in his mid thirties, with a scattering of freckles on his face and a full mouth that quivered with fear. Hana’s father. And Mutti’s rapist. She’d been sixteen. Almost the same age Miriam was now. Miriam’s stomach clenched; she rammed her nails into her hands.
Mr Denison had been disappointed but resigned. ‘Hana would have been our trump card. The other two witnesses have since passed away. We’ll have to make do with written statements now.’
‘I’m sorry,’ Miriam had said. ‘I might have been able to persuade her, but I just couldn’t cope with what she told me about Mutti.’
‘Of course you couldn’t,’ said Will. ‘It must have been a terrible shock.’
And Mr Denison had nodded at her kindly.
But now, in the gloomy room, staring at the man who’d raped her terrified mother and played gaoler to thousands of her people, Miriam wished she’d stayed to talk to Hana. All she’d been able to think about last night was her mother seated on a piano stool with this stranger who claimed to be her half-sister; her mother waiting patiently whilst Hana played her scales; her mother offering Hana advice, making her play again and again until she was note perfect. It was Hana, not Miriam, her legitimate daughter, who’d spent those last precious weeks with Mutti, given her her last kiss, her last hug. Miriam had spent the night trying to banish those painful images from her mind. How on earth was she to cope with this?
She understood her half-sister’s loyalty; by her own account Otto had saved her life. But what about Mutti? What about Abba? What about Oma and Opa, who’d died ahead of their time? Not to mention all the other Jewish families. He couldn’t be allowed to walk free.
Otto’s face was white as the witness testimonies of the dead were read out. Miriam watched the journalists scribbling furiously. Next to her, Will leant forward, frowning in concentration. A nerve flickered in Mr Denison’s cheek.
‘Do you have anything more to say?’ Lord Justice Colonel Sir Geoffrey Lawrence turned an enquiring face to the chief prosecutor, who shook his head.
There was a sudden flurry of activity as an official scurried into the room and whispered into the prosecutor’s ear.
The barrister stood up. ‘Apologies, my lord, we do have a last-minute witness. May I permit her to give her testimony?’
The judge gave a nod and wrote something on the pad in front of him.
As Miriam looked up, a slight, fair-haired young woman entered the witness box, guided by an official, and gave her oath. Miriam’s pulse accelerated.
It was Hana.