Magda's Daughter (26 page)

‘But when she does, she will be able to move on.' Ned looked Josef in the eye. ‘We both will.'

Helena changed into the black suit, black silk blouse, stockings and shoes she had bought for Magda's funeral in Pontypridd. She applied a discreet layer of foundation, lipstick and mascara, tied her blonde hair into a knot at the nape of her neck and draped her mother's black lace shawl over her hair. When she finished dressing she took the roses from the newspaper and tied them together with the ribbon Josef had given her, teasing the ends into a decorative bow. Only then did she remove the casket that contained Magda's ashes from the airtight box.

She laid the posy of roses on top and looked back at her duffle bag. It seemed strange to leave it, but her money and valuables were in the belt around her waist and she no longer had any reason to carry it with her.

‘Would you like me to carry the casket to the churchyard for you?'

She looked at Ned as though she were seeing him for the first time. He looked tall and handsome in his dark suit, white shirt and black tie, with his auburn hair brushed back from his forehead.

‘No, thank you. I've carried my mother this far. I can take her to Adam Janek's grave.'

‘Are you ready?' The question hung, unspoken, between them. ‘Are you ready to let Magda go?'

‘Just one moment. I have something else to do. I was going to do it at the graveside but on reflection it will be best done in private.' She set the box on the table, lifted the flowers from the lid and opened it.

Trying not to look at the contents, she unclipped Magda's locket from around her neck. She opened it and studied the photograph it contained of Adam Janek.

‘Are you sure you want to bury that with your mother, Helena?' Ned asked, concerned.

‘Adam Janek wasn't my father. I have no right to wear it.'

‘You told me that Magda always wore it, in which case it must have meant a great deal to her. It won't do any good in the earth. And neither will her wedding ring,' he added when he saw Helena take it from her pocket. He moved closer to her. ‘You will value them. Not because they are gold, but because they were your mother's treasured possessions. If you can't bear to wear them any longer, put them away and think of them as your mother's gifts to the grandchildren she will never know.'

She looked up at him through dark, bruised eyes. ‘You really think I should keep them?'

‘I do,' he said decisively. ‘You may not be Adam Janek's daughter, but you are the child of Magdalena Janek. You should cherish her possessions.'

She stood silently for a moment before closing the casket. Her fingers trembled as she lifted the locket.

‘Here, let me.' He took the chain from her and re-fastened it around her neck, then watched her replace the flowers. ‘Ready?'

‘Yes.'

‘Then let's go.' He opened the door.

Chapter Fourteen

Josef was standing behind the stone cross that marked Adam Janek's grave. His white shirt, collar and black tie were neatly pressed, his dark suit shiny, the sleeves and trouser legs too long, the shoulders too wide as if it had been tailored for a taller, broader man, and Helena wondered if he had inherited his foster-father's suit along with his ecclesiastical duties. He was holding a worn, leather-bound prayer book. A carved wooden crucifix bookmark hung from its pages and she watched it sway in the slight breeze that was ruffling the leaves of the trees and bushes.

Wiktor and an old woman, who looked so like Magda Helena knew she could only be her grandmother, stood on Josef's right. Beside them was another younger woman, whose eyes and hair were as dark as Magda's had been. A mousy-haired woman and four children, all of whom appeared to be of secondary school age, hung behind them. Helena presumed they were Wiktor's wife and children.

Wiktor deliberately turned away from her and Ned when they walked to the grave. Not wanting to cause a scene, Helena didn't acknowledge the Niklas family but went to Josef.

She looked down at the casket. Now that the moment had finally arrived for her to relinquish it, she couldn't bring herself to hand it over. She gripped it tightly and dropped a kiss on the smooth planed surface of the oak before re-arranging the roses so they lay in the centre. A shadow blocked out the sun. She looked up. Josef was in front of her. He held out his hands.

‘It is time, Helena.'

She was aware of Ned moving closer to her. She allowed Josef to take the casket. Wiktor stepped forward. Josef held out the casket and, like Helena, Wiktor kissed it. Josef crouched down next to the hole he'd dug, and Helena knelt beside the grave, neither seeing nor heeding the dirt that clung to her stockings and skirt.

The hole Josef had dug was three feet deep, and a foot wider and longer than the casket. He laid the box with its covering of cream roses in it, and a whisper rippled through the churchyard. Helena glanced over her shoulder. For the first time she realised that the churchyard was full of people. She recognised Anna, old Henryk and Olgan, the stall-holder who had sold her the roses, and the men she had seen drinking in the bar. They had entered so quietly she hadn't even been aware of their presence until now. And every one, even the small children, was standing so still and so silent that she found it unsettling.

Her uncle lifted an immense wreath woven from green fir branches and dozens of artificial red roses. Josef took it from Wiktor and laid it on the mound of earth he had taken from the grave.

‘Please, will you leave my roses on the casket?' Helena asked Josef.

‘If that is what you would like.' He opened the prayer book.

‘The family flowers go on the grave,' Wiktor barked.·

Ned helped Helena to her feet, and she was more grateful for his presence than she had been since they'd reached Poland. A lone violinist struck up a tune and a hundred voices rose in unison singing the old, nationalistic hymn that her mother had often hummed while she'd worked in their flat or the shop. ‘Sacred love of the beloved homeland, you are felt only by worthy minds …'

Helena mouthed the words Magda had taught her, but she couldn't bring herself to make a sound. Instead, she lifted her head and looked up at the sun-washed, cloudless blue sky. Crows flew overhead, their cawing blending with the music. The peppery, pungent scent of lilies, left as offerings on the surrounding graves, mingled with the sickly sweet perfume of full-blown roses that had been planted around the churchyard. She was suddenly certain that, despite Magda's fear of the communists, she would have loved to have visited this village one last time.

The hymn ended. Josef gave a brief eulogy. Helena suspected that Wiktor Janek had told him what to say, because Josef made no mention of her being Magda's daughter. Instead, he recounted how happy Magda had been growing up with her brothers and sister on the family farm, and how she had been driven from her home by the Nazis during the war and forced to make a life for herself elsewhere. A life he didn't elaborate on.

Then Josef began the mass. As the people made the age-old responses to the ceremony, Helena reflected that, although Poland might be outwardly Communist, no government could ever hope to gain complete control over people's minds and souls. Far from dead, the old beliefs were obviously very much alive and being passed on to new generations. The service drew to a close, and the task she had set herself, which had seemed so impossible in Pontypridd, was complete.

She had brought her mother back to the churchyard where she had been christened, confirmed and married. Magdalena Janek undoubtedly belonged here. But two questions remained, burning into her consciousness. If she wasn't Helena Janek, then who was she? And just where did she belong?

People moved away as silently as they had appeared. Josef took the spade from the mound of displaced earth that he had piled behind Adam Janek's memorial cross. He offered it to Helena, but before she could take it, Wiktor snatched it. Helena could smell alcohol on his breath as he sank the spade into the earth. He lifted a chunk of crumbling sandy soil and dropped it on to the box. Although Helena had been expecting a noise, the sound of the dry dirt rattling on the polished oak startled her, sending her taut nerves jangling.

Josef held out his hand, ready to take the spade from Wiktor and hand it to Helena. According to Polish custom, each member of the immediate family should be invited to fill in a grave, but Wiktor lifted his rose wreath from the mound and continued doggedly to wield the spade. When it became obvious that he wouldn't relinquish it, Helena looked at her grandmother.

The old woman was staring intently at her. Helena braved a smile and stepped forward, but the younger woman, whom she had presumed was her aunt, moved between them. Deliberately turning her back on Helena, she led the old woman away. Helena blanched. She had never experienced such naked hostility before.

Wiktor Niklas continued to fill in the grave. His face turned crimson, but he only paused to wipe away the beads of perspiration that collected at his temples and on his neck above his tight white collar. Every time he broke his rhythm, Josef held out his hand to take the spade, but Wiktor pretended he hadn't seen him.

When Wiktor had returned all the dirt to the hole, he battered it down with the flat of the spade before treading around the edges. Only then did he place the wreath on top of the grave. He propped the spade against the church wall, thanked Josef for conducting the ceremony and walked away.

‘I'm sorry.' Josef looked at Helena and Ned with sympathy.

‘It's not your fault that my uncle is determined to ignore me.' Helena looked at the new inscription on the cross. Old Henryk had been as good as his word. Her mother's name and dates had been inscribed below that of her husband's and daughter's. She traced the letters with her finger. ‘I had my mother all my life until a few weeks ago. Her mother, brother and sister hadn't seen her in over twenty years. I knew when I made the decision to return her remains to Poland that I would lose her to the rest of the family. I just didn't expect them to shut me out.'

‘Come on, I'll buy you both a drink,' Ned offered.

‘All the men in the village will be there,' Josef warned.

‘That won't affect us in the courtyard.'

They followed the masculine crowd heading towards the bar. When they reached the yard, Ned turned to Josef and Helena.

‘Beer?'

‘As it's too early for vodka.' Josef pulled out a stool from under the table for Helena. ‘But it will have to be a quick drink. Anna will need me to help her serve that lot.'

‘Helena?'

‘Small beer, please.'

Ned opened the back door into the bar. Loud voices raised in anger resounded into the yard, and Helena looked inside. Wiktor was sitting at a table, shouting at Henryk and two other men. He slammed his fist on the table, sending the glasses rattling. She stood.

‘You can't go in there,' Josef reminded her.

‘My uncle promised that he'd talk to me after the funeral.'

‘He started drinking early this morning, before the mass.'

‘I know.' She looked Josef in the eye. ‘Will you get him or shall I?'

Slowly, reluctantly, Josef left his chair and went into the bar, just as Ned walked out with three glasses of beer.

‘Your uncle hasn't your mother's temperament, that's for sure. Magda could be cantankerous but I never saw her aggressive,' Ned commented.

‘Josef is asking him to come here. Be polite if he does,' she pleaded.

‘He can't speak English.' Ned set the beer on the table.

‘Voice tone and body language are universal,' she muttered when Wiktor raised his head and looked at her through the open door. His eyes were cold and unforgiving.

Josef returned to the yard, and picked up the beer Ned had bought for him. He raised the glass. ‘Cheers. Your uncle will join us in a few minutes but be careful. He's in a very bad mood.'

‘I could see that in the churchyard.' Helena toyed with her glass.

‘He was bad then, but he's worse now. Watch out.'

‘You wanted to see me; I'm here.' Wiktor swayed in front of their table.

‘Please, sit down,' Ned said in English, rising and pulling out a stool for Wiktor. Wiktor might not have understood Ned's words, but the gesture was obvious. However, he made no attempt to sit.

‘I wanted to ask your permission to visit the farm and see my grandmother and aunt …' Helena began hesitantly.

‘Your what?' Wiktor was perspiring heavily but he made no at­ tempt to wipe the sweat from his face.

‘My grandmother and aunt. My mother's mother and sister …' ‘You really believe that my sister, Magdalena, was your mother?' He threw back his head and roared.

Chilled by the sound, it took all of Helena's courage to reply. ‘Of course she was.'

‘Look in the mirror and tell me what you see,' he sneered. ‘A tall, slim, healthy blonde girl with blue eyes. You're no Pole.' He spat out the words. ‘God only knows where my whore of a sister found you but there's only one thing you could be – an Aryan Nazi. And a whore. Just like the bitch that brought you up.'

The silence that blanketed the courtyard and bar was so absolute, so total, that Helena heard a cockroach scratching as it crossed the dirt floor. Shattered by her uncle's contempt, she slumped, jarring her spine against the wall of the house.

Ned realised Wiktor Niklas was furious, but he didn't understand why. He looked to Josef in the hope of receiving a translation but Josef appeared to be as paralysed by shock as Helena.

It was left to Anna to break the spell. She charged out of the bar, bottle in one hand, glass in the other, and brandished both in Wiktor's face. ‘No one calls any woman such names, or uses language like that in my place and gets away with it. No one! Do you understand me, Wiktor Niklas? No one. Get out! Now!'

‘You'd rather serve a Nazi bitch than an honest Pole,' Wiktor taunted. ‘But then, you always did.'

‘You're drunk, but not so drunk you don't know what you're saying. I just told you to get out!' Anna shouted.

‘I've buried my sister –'

‘And I'm sorry that she's not here to see what you are doing to her daughter,' Anna interrupted.

‘She's no more Magda's daughter than you are, Anna.' Wiktor narrowed his Slavic eyes. ‘She's a –'

‘Young girl. Now get out, before I have you thrown out.'

Wiktor squared up to Anna. ‘Just try –'

‘She doesn't have to; I'll do it for her.' Josef stepped between Anna and Wiktor. He glanced at the men in the bar who had gathered around the back door. ‘Do I have to send someone to telephone the police, or will one of you take Wiktor home?'

Two men left the bar and stood either side of Wiktor.

‘I'm not going anywhere.' Wiktor lashed out wildly at Anna, who side-stepped. His intended blow fell wide of the mark, but the back of his hand connected with Helena's cheek. There was a loud crack as she jerked sideways and hit her head on the stone wall of the house. Both Josef and Ned leapt forward, but Josef was quicker. He caught Wiktor's arm and twisted it high behind his back, before pushing him towards the men.

‘Get him out of here.'

Wiktor was unceremoniously frog-marched through the archway.

Blood poured from Helena's head. She closed her eyes and swayed. Ned caught her before she fell from the bench. He crouched next to her and examined the wound.

‘Does she need a doctor?' Anna said, looking worried.

‘Ned's a doctor.' Josef gazed anxiously at Helena.

‘A doctor?' Anna repeated sceptically.

Ned didn't understand what Josef or Anna had said, but he recognised the scepticism in Anna's voice. ‘If you have a first aid kit, get it,' he shouted.

Josef translated the order, and Anna ran into the house.

Dazed, Helena struggled to focus. ‘I'm all right, there's no need to fuss.'

‘Sit still,' Ned commanded, concern making him brusque.

Anna returned, holding a wooden box decorated with a hand­ painted red cross. Ned was squeezing together the jagged edges of the wound that had opened above Helena's ear with both his hands, so Josef took it from her.

Anna looked around for some way in which she could reassert her authority. ‘The entertainment is over,' she shouted at the men still crowding in the doorway. ‘Go back into the bar, all of you. If you want a drink, ask Stefan to serve you. And make sure you pay him. If my takings are down, the price of beer will double until I make up the loss.'

The men retreated, the last one in closing the door behind him.

Ned gave Josef a hostile look. ‘I need antiseptic, cotton wool and a plaster.'

Josef took out a small brown bottle. He unscrewed the cap, upended it on a pad of clean cotton wool, which he handed to Ned. The antiseptic smelled like nothing Ned had encountered before, but he cleaned the wound with it.