For the Love that lingers

I never thought he would die.

I had never expected that one day I would be here, clothed in black, staring at a coffin knowing his body was inside. Even at 96, Grandpa had never seemed old to me. He had been such a strong and vigorous man, spending his days attending parties and functions around town, and gardening.

He loved his garden, which was where Aunt Mildred found him. Facedown in his lavender bush as if intoxicated from the scent. A heart attack.

It had been a hell of a year. Finally, lockdown restrictions had lifted. The pandemic had upheaved everyone’s lives, and I like thousands of people, lost my job. As my life in Bristol had deteriorated, I ended up packing my things and moving 91 miles up north into my mother’s house. What joy.

The only saving grace had been Grandpa. He had lived ten minutes away. Now I had lost him as well. And if that wasn’t enough of a kick in the teeth, I was expected to handle today sober.

After the year I’d had, I think I am entitled to a scotch and soda before noon. But that’s what happens when you live with your Mum. Your independence dies, hand in hand with your sex life.

I was expected to be graceful and thank everyone who had taken the time to turn up to the church. This was going to take all day, as half of Bridgnorth had turned up. Even my ex had turned up - which was so considerate, as I now have the chance to meet his “wonderful” new girlfriend.

She looks like me. Tall, with blue eyes and brown hair, but she’s younger. Much younger. I think she’s called Apple, or red currant or something of that ilk. A clear indicator that she was born in the ‘nineties’. I try not to roll my eyes. I, on the other hand, had brought Rachel. My best friend from school. A fiery, red-head and fellow spinster, armoured with a hip flask, which was being handed to me.

“You know, you can cry,” she whispered.

“And ruin the mood,” I murmured, lowering myself in my pew in a bid to hide me taking a long swig. Only for me to cough it back up.

“What...is...this...!” I wheezed, making a scene.

“Something strong,” she panicked, grabbing the hip flask and hiding it from view, her eyes darting the room like a badly-behaved student. “Uh oh, your mum’s coming...”

I could hear her footsteps before I could see her.

“Amanda, could you at least try and be respectful,” she glowered.

I turned slowly in my pew to face her.

Mum is the complete opposite of me. Short, blonde and loves organization and keeping to the rules. She always looks immaculate, while I prefer ripped jeans, shouty rock band T-shirt’s and, nonchalant messy hair. Oh, and I was usually disorganised. When I say usually, I mean always.

Mum would tell me I look like I am always rebelling against something. I’d tell her she looked like Professor Umbridge. She was over-dramatic and I was docile. I was chalk and she was cheese. So we bickered constantly.

“Afternoon Mrs Howard, I’m sorry for your loss,” whispered Rachel sheepishly, clutching her handbag as if it were to be confiscated.

“Drinking in church! Why, don’t you just set fire to the pulpit!?” hissed mother.

“Mum, it’s only a bit of….” I looked quizzically at Rachel.

“Very watered-down whiskey. Just for the nerves,” nodded Rachel.

“I do not need you drunk today,” said mother, ignoring Rachel “Particularly as we have the will-reading this afternoon.”

I knew what she was after. The hairpin. Out of everything Grandpa had collected in his lifetime, the hairpin had been the one thing we couldn’t place. It hadn’t belonged to Grandma, and when she was alive, she had asked us not to mention it in front of Grandpa. Its origin was a mystery and we weren’t allowed to ask about it. It was beautiful. Silver, with ornate carvings and an amethyst stone set in the centre.

“You might have been left something that could help you start your company. You know, the one you’ve been going on about for years now,” she huffed...

As I was about to snap back, she stormed off. What is it about family that has the power to instantly summon your rage with one comment?

“That was a bit harsh,” whispered Rachel, in my defence. “It’s not like you didn’t try to raise the money.”

For years I had been dreaming about opening my café. It would have white walls, serve the strongest coffee, and homemade cakes and sweets. Honey cake, Rugelach, Cinnamon cinnamon babka - you name it. Although we weren’t Jewish, Grandpa had loved cooking Jewish pastries and breads. It had been Grandpa who had taught me how to plait dough and bake honey cake. It was the only thing from his childhood he had shared. I didn’t know anything about his family. I only knew he had been born in Austria and immigrated to the UK during the war. I had never pushed him about his childhood, which until this moment had never seemed important.

I grabbed the hip flask and downed another mouthful.

As Rachel wrapped her arms around mine, I could feel tears springing to my eyes. The organ blasted into action as I felt my body crumble into her.

“Let’s say goodbye,” she said softly.

After the cremation, I felt heavy, weepy and slightly intoxicated. As the afternoon sun hit me and the congregation turned to discuss the service with each other, I withdrew, whispering to Rachel that I needed five minutes alone. I bolted before anyone could grab me.

I thought I would just walk around the graveyard, but my feet had other plans. I wound up outside Grandpa’s home, turning my keys in the lock. Stepping into the house, it felt empty now. The walls, shelves and cupboards had been stripped. His possessions had been organised in terms of "worth". In a space that has held so much warmth, it was now cold. As if devoid of soul.

I wandered through the yellow corridor into his spare room, which had been my room when I had stayed over. The thought of never sleeping here again emptied my insides.

On top of my bed was a shoebox. It looked old, with yellowed edges. I lifted the lid and gazed in bewilderment at the contents. There was an envelope, with my name on it, a black notebook, and cash. A lot of cash.

Marching into the dining room, I emptied the box on the table. The letter clanged against the wood and the cash exploded on its surface. I counted and kept on counting until I had £20,000 in front of me. What was this amount of cash doing here?

Scanning the table, I hadn’t noticed that the notebook had sprung open as if asking to be read. Its pages were full of blue ink, revealing a foreign language. It looked like a diary.

Mai 26th 1934.

I’d recognize that slanted penmanship anywhere. It was Grandpas. Grabbing my phone, ignoring the seven missed calls, I typed the words into Google translator and deciphered the words, which were in German.

They are coming. With every passing day, their presence runs deeper into the city. Shops and homes are being abandoned in abundance. More and more Nazi’s infect the city.

As Mama and I walked towards the shop, a Nazi walked out the door with disappointment etched on his face, as there was nobody inside to arrest or humiliate. The Haspels have abandoned their home. I doubt I will ever see them again. Mr Haspel made the best Challah bread in town. It was a joy to eat their food. Another loss. Another cold reminder that the Vienna I loved is no more. Vienna is purgatory now. I pray the Haspels find sanctuary.

Juni 4th 1934

Mama and I were stopped again today. Papers, that’s all they want to see. We were once proud Austrians, but now, I despise the place.

Vienna is littered with Nazis, their symbols and flags donning the landscape. German influence has been growing exponentially in the last couple of years but it has never been this intense. There have been regular attacks on the city. People going missing, abandoning their homes, or being bullied in the street.

We can’t stop this. It’s a feeling of such intense helplessness, mixed with a rage I can hardly bear it. But the worst thing is my fear for Maria. My love. Her family haven’t left their home in weeks. I will not go without her, but we must leave Vienna.

Juni 31st 1934

Maria’s front door now bears the mark of a Jewish family. I am frightened. The days of seeing her laughing with her thick auburn hair tied up in her hairpin, are gone. She never smiles anymore. Father and I have worked on a plan to head for Amsterdam. We can gather resources and passports to flee for England. We need to make it to the north, father is certain we will be safer there. He will only let me bring Maria, we cannot risk her whole family. How can I ask my love to do what I would never have the strength to do myself? But she must leave.

The house phone shocked me. It had cut like a knife through the atmosphere and brought me back to earth. I'm guessing it was Mum calling, having figured out I had wandered here. I knew I should have headed back, but I couldn't put the notebook down. There were pages and pages filled with his thoughts. How had we not known he had gone through this? The last page of notes was slightly muddled by drip marks.

Juli, 24th 1934

Vienna has fallen and my beloved is missing. They have taken Maria. I found her hairpin, lying in a puddle outside her front door. The monsters must have barged in during the night. My parents dragged me from their ransacked home. I will never return to this place.

I tilted the envelope. A letter and Maria’s hairpin fell out. It had never felt heavier. I opened the last note Grandpa had written to me and read...

Amanda,

I am sorry I hide this from you. I left Vienna consumed with hatred. After we arrived in Holland, I couldn't bear thinking about Maria or my childhood. My memories felt tainted and dark. I beg, that you hold on to the hairpin. Don't sell it. It must be kept, with people who understand the importance of it.

We forget you see, especially the young. We forget about the horrors from that time. My Maria died in a camp. A camp, that was situated so close to our home. The only justice I could give was to tell their stories and I failed. My anger kept me quiet. I have regretted not telling you so, I leave the notebook now in your hands.

All the money I had now is yours. Don't be disheartened by the circumstances of your life right now. Things will change. Heartbreak, recession, rock bottom makes a solid platform for you to rebuild your life from. And this is what I give you. Some tools for you to use to rebuild one that is worth fighting for.

Don't forget - it is in our stories, where the real treasures lie. They are found in memories. They are found in books. They are found in the stories of people who want to share.

All my love,

Grandpa