Magda's Daughter, page 6
‘You’re welcome to have it here,’ Andrew offered as he sat down.
‘Thank you, Doctor John. What did you tell the ladies, Father O’Brien?’ Helena asked.
‘That I’d talk to you and give them your decision as soon as possible.’
‘The church hall isn’t far from the crematorium in Glyntaff. It will be easy for the mourners to walk there from the church and back down the hill for the tea afterwards,’ Alma commented.
‘Yes, it will,’ Helena agreed. ‘Please tell the ladies that it is very kind of them to offer to host the funeral tea and that I accept, gratefully and gladly, Father.’
‘Then that’s settled.’ Father O’Brien rose to his feet. ‘I’ll tell the ladies to go ahead with the planning but to hold off buying the food until we are in a position to set a date.’
‘And in the meantime, you don’t have to worry about Helena. We’ll take good care of her, Father.’ Alma reached for Helena’s hand.
‘And help her with the practical things, as they arise. Living one day at a time, as the saying goes.’ Bethan gave Helena a reassuring smile.
‘While I wait for a letter from Poland,’ Helena murmured, more to herself than the others.
‘While you wait for a letter from Poland,’ Alma echoed, avoiding Andrew’s eye.
‘Have you thought what you’ll do if a letter doesn’t come from Poland?’ Andrew asked Ned after Alma, Bethan and Helena left for the florists to choose wreaths and flowers.
Ned set aside the copy of the Pontypridd Observer he’d been pretending to read. It was only when he folded it that he realised he hadn’t taken in a single word, not even the headlines. Disturbed and preoccupied by Helena’s reaction to Magda’s death, he was unable to think about anything else. ‘Auntie Alma warned Helena that mail from the West is routinely opened by the Polish authorities, so on that basis it’s possible Helena’s letter might not even reach her relatives.’
‘As I said, even if it has, she knows nothing about them.’
‘I realise you think it’s foolhardy of us to go to Poland, Dad. But you saw Helena when she was talking about reuniting her parents. That’s all she can think about right now – doing this one last thing for her mother.’
Andrew clenched his fists impotently. ‘I’m aware of how close Helena was to Magda.’
‘It’s not just that they were close,’ Ned commented perceptively. ‘Helena also feels that her mother sacrificed a great deal for her.’
‘That’s stuff and nonsense. Any parent will do whatever they can for their child. As I hope you two will find out for yourselves one day.’
‘Magda suffered during the war –’
‘As did many others.’
‘She left her country, her family and her friends. She brought Helena here when she didn’t know a soul, and risked everything to give her a better life.’
‘She did,’ Andrew agreed, ‘but she wasn’t the only one who took risks or made sacrifices. You only have to look as far as your namesake, your mother’s brother, Eddie. He paid the ultimate price at Dunkirk when he was barely out of his teens.’
‘Do you know something about Helena’s mother I don’t?’ Ned asked.
‘I doubt it,’ Andrew answered evasively. ‘I don’t know how much Magda told Helena about her background or why she came to Wales, but I am certain that no one here knows anything about Magda’s life in Poland before the Germans invaded the country, or what happened to her during the war.’
‘Helena told me that the Nazis used Magda as a slave labourer.’
‘That’s what Magda told Alma, and I have no reason to doubt it.’ Andrew pulled his cigar case from the inside pocket of his suit and reached for an ashtray.
‘For all the propaganda, my friends – the ones who drove to Minsk – said that the people behind the Iron Curtain are just the same as us,’ Ned said defensively.
‘No, they’re not,’ Andrew contradicted.
‘They may be poorer –’
‘There’s no maybe, Ned. They are poorer. They’re also cowed by officialdom and terrorized by the State, and that’s a dangerous combination. Life is cheap there, a lot cheaper than in Britain, and I would hate to see you or Helena get hurt – or, God forbid, worse.’
‘The papers here are always looking for horror stories to fuel the Cold War. When they can’t find any they make them up.’
‘It’s not just the papers. You were only a toddler when Alma’s husband, Charlie, was deported back to Russia. We never found out what happened to him but it’s a fair bet that he was either sent to Siberia or shot.’
Loath to cause his mother or Auntie Alma pain, Ned had never asked questions about ‘Uncle Charlie’, whom he could barely remember. ‘Mam told me that you and Uncle Charlie were close.’
‘We were. Feodor Raschenko, or Charlie as everyone in Pontypridd called him, was your grandfather’s closest friend and became one of mine after I married your mother. I was privileged to know him,’ Andrew said. ‘He rarely spoke of his early life in Russia during and just after the revolution, but what little he said terrified me. I couldn’t imagine anyone living through half of the privations and horrors he had, and remaining sane. Like his father, Peter has seldom mentioned what he went through in Russia, especially during his childhood in the camps and never mentions the time he spent in Auschwitz during the war. It’s understandable. He makes a good living from the garages, dotes on Liza and their girls, and lives very much in the present.’ Liza had married Peter within months of his arrival in Pontypridd just after the war. ‘But he did open up to me once about his early life in Russia shortly after Charlie was forced to return there. And it sent shivers down my spine. So forgive me for trying to prevent you and Helena from travelling to the region. If anything happened to either of you, I would never forgive myself.’
‘Nothing will happen to either of us, Dad,’ Ned said forcefully. ‘We’re both over age and sensible enough to make and take responsibility for our own decisions. Besides, Poland isn’t Russia.’
‘Hard-line Soviet Communists rule both countries. Peter and his father said people are so frightened by the regime that, guilty or innocent, they would report their own family members, friends or neighbours for any crime or misdemeanour if they thought it would keep them out of danger, prison or a camp. They have also been taught to be suspicious and envious of Westerners. The propaganda isn’t one-sided, or only in the Western press. Many communists believe what they are told in their newspapers – that we all live like degenerate millionaires. If Helena takes Magda’s ashes back to Poland, I suspect she’s going to have a great deal of trouble persuading the authorities to open her father’s grave. And, if she succeeds, she may well find herself facing even more problems with her relatives.’ Andrew finally lit his cigar.
‘In what way?’ Ned asked.
‘Either they will want nothing to do with her, or …’
‘Or?’ Ned pressed when his father fell silent.
‘Or they will see her and you, if you accompany her, as wealthy benefactors. Given Helena’s precarious mental state, that could prove disastrous. Emotionally for her, and financially for you both.’
‘Surely you can see why I have to go with her if she insists on this trip?’
Andrew left his chair and laid his hand on his son’s shoulder. ‘I can. But in the meantime, as your mother and Alma keep saying, we must take life one day at a time. First the formal identification of Magda, then the post-mortem, then the funeral.’
‘Followed by Poland,’ Ned said.
‘Yes,’ Andrew muttered, grim-faced. ‘If Helena is intent on going there.’
Apart from the raised bed in the centre, the room was bare. Painted a bland cream and white, it was no better and no worse than the room set aside for the same purpose in the Bristol hospital where Ned had worked. But Ned had only ever accompanied strangers to visit their recently deceased loved ones. Now it was the girl he loved.
Helena leaned over Magda and gently touched her cheek. ‘She looks peaceful, doesn’t she?’
Choked by emotion, Ned nodded. He had driven Helena and Alma to EastGlamorganHospital, so Helena could formally identify Magda’s body. Given his chosen profession, he had seen many corpses, but he hadn’t as yet become accustomed to the sight of death. Despite his tutors’ assurances to the contrary, he was beginning to doubt he ever would.
Helena kissed Magda’s forehead.
‘She does look peaceful,’ Alma agreed. ‘She’s lost that worried look that she so often wore in life.’
‘Do you think I could cut a lock of her hair?’
Helena glanced at Ned, but the nurse who had shown them into the room produced a pair of scissors from her apron pocket. Ned sensed that she had heard the request many times before. Alma stepped forward to help Helena. He left the room and went into the ante-chamber, where an official was waiting to record the formal identification of Magda’s body.
‘My condolences at this sad and difficult time, Doctor John.’ Although the man must have uttered those same words a thousand times, he sounded sincere.
‘Thank you.’
‘I have had the pleasure of meeting your parents many times.’
‘Have you?’ The question was inane, but Ned couldn’t think of another response.
‘And, like everyone else in Pontypridd, I knew Magda Janek. A wonderful lady. She had a kind word for every customer, no matter who they were.’ He glanced through the open door into the room where Alma was wrapping a lock of Magda’s hair in a handkerchief. ‘It’s a terrible loss for her daughter. There are no other relatives?’
‘None in this country,’ Ned confirmed.
‘I’ll prepare the papers right away.’ He opened a file and unscrewed the top of his fountain pen.
Ned leaned against the wall and waited patiently for Helena and Alma to join them. They came out ten minutes later. The only tears Ned saw were in Alma’s eyes.
The official explained the post-mortem procedure to Helena. As Ned and his father had already told Helena what to expect, she didn’t seem to pay much attention. The official read the papers to her; Helena signed them. Then the nurse entered the ante-room, closing the door behind her. She handed Helena a parcel wrapped in brown paper, and a brown leather handbag.
‘Mrs Janek’s clothes and effects.’
Helena took them from her. Ned felt suddenly upset by the sight of Magda’s handbag although he couldn’t have quantified why.
‘Mrs Janek’s jewellery is in a box in her handbag.’
Helena handed the parcel of clothes to Alma, opened the handbag and removed a white box. She lifted the lid. It contained Magda’s tortoiseshell hairpins, plain, stainless-steel watch, and two pieces of jewellery: a distinctive embossed gold wedding band, and a gold locket.
‘I’ve never seen Magda wear that,’ Ned commented when Helena lifted out the locket.
‘She always wore it tucked beneath her collar.’ Helena touched a catch at the side. The locket flew open, revealing a grainy sepia image of a young man holding a baby. She held it out to show Ned and Alma.
‘You with your father?’ Alma guessed.
‘It was taken when I was a week old. My mother used to say that she was lucky the Nazis never discovered she was wearing it. If they had, they would have taken it from her.’ Helena looked at the picture for a moment before closing the locket and returning it to the box.
‘Time to go home for lunch, sunshine.’ Ned wrapped his arm around Helena’s shoulders.
Helena turned to the official. ‘The post-mortem …’
‘You will be sent a copy of the report, Miss Janek. As soon as it has been typed.’
‘Thank you.’ Helena looked at the official and the nurse. ‘You have both been very kind.’
‘Our condolences, Miss Janek.’ The nurse opened the door for them.
Ned was beginning to feel that society’s way of coping with bereavement and the bereaved was by resorting to well-worn platitudes.
But as he walked Alma and Helena to his car, and saw the droop of Helena’s shoulders and the heart-rending expression of bewilderment on her face, he could think of nothing more original than, ‘I am so sorry, sunshine.’
The post-mortem report was delivered to the flat two days before the funeral. Ned was sitting with Alma and Helena, who were discussing the final arrangements with Father O’Brien. He went downstairs, picked up the post, and waited for the priest to leave before giving the envelope to Helena. She saw the address on the outside and handed it back to him.
‘Please read it for me.’
‘If you want me to.’ He opened the envelope with his thumb. Alma stood to leave.
‘Don’t go, Auntie Alma,’ Helena pleaded. Alma sat down again.
Ned scanned the report as quickly as he could. ‘The cause of death was, as my father suspected, a massive cerebral haemorrhage.’ He frowned. ‘What is surprising is the number of healed fractures the pathologist found on Magda’s body. Three on her skull, one on her arm, and two on her legs.’
‘I can’t recall Magda ever breaking a bone,’ Alma said.
‘The pathologist has stated that they were all old fractures.’ Ned looked at Helena. ‘Could they be a result of war wounds?’
‘I have no idea.’ Helena frowned.
‘Magda didn’t like talking about the war,’ Alma reminded them. ‘But she did say that she was forced to work for the Nazis. They were notorious for beating their prisoners of war and slave labourers.’
‘They were.’ But the thought of Magda’s injuries troubled Ned when he considered Helena’s resolve to travel to Poland. What if they weren’t the result of wartime beatings? His father was right. Helena knew nothing about her mother’s family other than the few snippets Magda had read to her from the occasional letters, which must have been destroyed because neither Alma nor Helena had found any trace of them in the flat. In fact, there was nothing in the flat to connect Magda with Poland except a few photographs, the handwritten Polish recipes in her cookery book, and the selection of dried herbs and spices in the food cupboard.
He recalled conversations with Magda in which she’d told him that if she ever dared to return to Poland, even as a naturalized Briton and the holder of a British passport, she would be severely punished for ‘defecting’ to the West after the war. She had certainly lived in constant fear of the Communist regime tracking her and Helena down, and taking reprisals against the family she had left behind. But he still thought it extreme of Magda to destroy every scrap of evidence that linked her to her Polish family.
Had Magda’s memories of her life in Poland been so painful she hadn’t been able to bring herself to talk about them, even to Helena? Or had there been other, more sinister reasons that had driven Magda to keep the knowledge of her family to herself? Were they vicious criminals? Were they in prison? Was that why none of them had yet replied to the letter Helena had sent to the village enquiring about her grandmother’s, uncle’s and aunt’s whereabouts? Should he take his father’s advice and do more to dissuade Helena from making the trip?
But even if he did, would Helena take any notice?
Chapter Four
Ned had been christened and confirmed into the Anglican Church – to be precise, St John’s on the Graig – but he, like many teenagers busy with their social life and, to a lesser extent, studies, gradually stopped attending services. On the rare occasions someone asked him why he no longer went to church, his stock answer was that he regarded religion as ‘a personal thing’, but in truth he scarcely gave it a thought. Aside from weddings, funerals and christenings, he hadn’t set foot in a chapel or church of any denomination for over ten years, and Magda’s funeral was the first full Catholic mass he had attended. Not only did it seem interminable but it also emphasized the chasm that had suddenly opened between him and Helena. Or perhaps it had always been there and he had simply chosen to ignore it.
Everything Helena treated so familiarly was alien to him: the smell of incense wafting from the burners; the multi-coloured crucifix above the altar that bore the broken and bleeding body of Christ; the plaster Madonna and saints in the niches in the walls; the garish biblical scenes that hung on the walls; the text of the service; the litany, the hymns, the rehearsed tones of the choir; the way Helena used her rosary …
Watching her during the service as she stood beside him – physically close, yet emotionally distant – he felt as though she were a stranger, or worse. Strangers could be introduced. There was a chance that they might strike up a conversation. But the most Helena had said to him in days was ‘yes’, ‘no’ and ‘thank you’.
She had become self-contained in her grief. No matter what he said, or did, to try to reach her, she pushed him away and retreated into a world from which she had excluded him. It was as though someone who didn’t want to know him had taken possession of the body of the girl he passionately loved and wanted to spend the rest of his life with.
The congregation finished singing a hymn, and Father O’Brien led them in prayer. Ned knelt beside Helena. Time was passing so slowly. It seemed as if days, not hours, had passed since they had entered the church. Under cover of his clasped hands he glanced sideways at Helena.
Dressed in funereal black, her colourful mini-skirts abandoned for a new black knee-length one, her legs encased in black stockings, a black lace veil covering her hair, she looked pale and ill. Ned knew she had lost weight in the ten days that had elapsed since Magda had died, but he hadn’t been aware just how much until he had seen her in her mourning clothes.
Her face was drawn and there were dark circles beneath her eyes. Sleeplessness? Or the result of crying at night, away from his and other prying eyes? His father was right; she was too calm, too controlled. But he sensed that behind her dry-eyed composure, Helena was racked by illogical guilt as well as grief. He only wished he could think of some way to coax her into discussing her feelings.
