‘My name is Rebecca. My mother was Lydia, your sister.’
Max sat down on the old leather armchair beside the fire. So this is what Primrose was trying to tell me, he thought to himself. ‘All was not lost.’ ‘But my sister died in the camps with my parents,’ he said, bewildered, handing back her child.
‘No, she didn’t.’ Rebecca shook her head. ‘When your parents sent you and Ruth to England a generous neighbour offered to look after Lydia until the trouble passed. The Germans came for your parents and took them away, but Lydia was safe. Lydia, my mother, grew up with these good people. At the end of the war they adopted her and in a bid to protect her they never told her about the family she had lost. She believed she was Lydia Steiner right up until she died a few years ago of a tumour.’
‘She never knew?’ Max was devastated that all the time he and Ruth had assumed their sister was dead, she had in fact been alive and living in Austria.
‘They felt very guilty about it and told her of her true identity just before she died. They gave her a box of photographs and sentimental things her mother had left her.’
‘Do you have that box?’
‘Yes, I do.’
‘Where?’ he asked, looking at the sodden coat she had draped over the hall table.
She lowered her eyes. ‘I left my bags outside.’
‘In the snow?’
‘I wasn’t sure you would want to see me.’
Max strode outside and retrieved the brown leather suitcase, wiping the snow off with his hand. ‘How did you get here?’ he asked. There was no sign of a car.
‘I took the train and a taxi.’
‘You’re a brave girl,’ he said kindly.
‘I’m desperate,’ she replied. ‘You’re the only family I have.’
‘Where is your husband?’
‘I don’t have a husband.’ She blushed.
‘I see.’
‘My boyfriend left me when I got pregnant.’ Max thought of Ruth and how close she had come to ending up in the same predicament as Rebecca. They had even both named their daughters Mitzi.
‘Have you come all the way from Austria?’
‘Yes.’
‘Let me see the box,’ he said, wanting to be certain that she was the person she claimed to be.
She bent down to open the case. She had packed everything with great care. The few items of clothing were neatly folded. She lifted them up and pulled out a weathered cardboard box. Placing it on the table she lifted the lid. To Max’s amazement it was full of photographs of him and Ruth as children, of Lydia as a baby and later of her growing up. He slowly studied each one, dizzy with nostalgia and wonder.
‘This is my mother just after she had me,’ she said, pointing to the black and white photograph of a pretty young woman holding a small baby who strongly resembled Mitzi. ‘I miss her so much.’
‘What happened to your father?’ he asked.
‘My mother didn’t have a happy marriage. Life was hard. My father left her for another woman, who he married after she died. They were never divorced. I have no relationship with him.’
‘Are you an only child?’
‘Yes. I would never have bothered you, Mr de Guinzberg, if I hadn’t been desperate. I didn’t know where to turn. I have no money and a small baby . . .’ Her voice trailed off and she began to cry.
‘Rebecca,’ he said in a gentle voice, standing up and putting an arm around her. ‘You don’t know how happy I am that you have found me. Fate has led you to me. You are my sister’s child. You are all I have left of her.’
‘I have never been curious to find you,’ she began, but he interrupted.
‘It’s okay, you don’t have to explain. You’re a child yourself. You’re too young to bring up a baby on your own. You’re home now. You and Mitzi. You’re safe and I’m going to look after you, I promise.’ He put the lid on the box. ‘Come into the kitchen and let’s get you something to eat. You must be hungry, and how about Mitzi?’
‘I’m still feeding her myself, Mr de Guinzberg,’ she said, following him.
‘Call me Max,’ he said. ‘I’m your uncle, after all.’ With that Rebecca began to cry again, which woke Mitzi.
Max cooked her a Spanish omelette while she fed her baby discreetly beneath the dressing gown. She told him about her mother but he wanted to know more, right down to the smell of her skin. ‘She always smelt of roses, you know, the old-fashioned kind. As a child I used to play with her hair. Tie it up, plait it, wash it. She had lovely thick hair. Like yours. I have my father’s hair. He is blonde too, but his hair isn’t thick.’