But little Bep needed to be ready, whether her family came back or whether they didn’t. She would need to mourn if they were dead, just as Lena would mourn if her loved ones in the portrait never returned. Mourning couldn’t begin until she faced the truth. And her life couldn’t move forward until she mourned. Lena glanced up at the photograph again. Even after she’d mourned, she would never leave these precious ones behind. They would always be part of her, carried in her heart as she moved forward from the place of grief.
With Maaike beside her on the sofa and little Bep on her lap, Lena opened the wooden box. Inside was a photograph album and a pair of silver candlesticks, tarnished black. “Your mama and papa gave you these pictures so you would remember who they are, and who you are.” There was also a letter Bep’s mother had written to Lena on ivory stationery. Lena remembered reading it on the night Bep came to her, three years ago, before Pieter buried it along with the box. She unfolded it and silently read it again:
Dear Mrs. DeVries,
In giving you my daughter, I’m giving you part of my heart. For however long this war lasts, you’ll be the one who will watch her grow and teach her to skip and run and sing. You’ll brush her hair in the morning and hug her good night and dry her tears. I pray that you will love her as if she is your own, and that she’ll know comfort and security in your arms. If God wills it, we will meet one day, and I will be able to thank you for protecting my little girl. If He wills otherwise, I ask that you tell her about her father and me, Avraham and Miriam Leopold, through these photographs. Tell her that her Hebrew name is Elisheva, and that it means “God’s promise.” Tell her how much we loved her. And how very hard it was to let her go.
Lena refolded the letter, knowing how this mother must ache to hold her daughter in her arms. How many months had it been, now, since Lena had seen her own daughter Ans and son Wim? Lena understood the pain of loving a child so deeply and having to let her go. Ans and Wim had left Lena in a different way and for different reasons, but releasing a loved one to God’s care, not knowing what that child’s future would be, was an impossible choice for any mother to face.
“What are these?” Maaike asked, fingering the tarnished candlesticks.
“They’re silver candlesticks. They’ll be beautiful once we polish them.” Lena set them and the metal box aside and opened the photograph album. The first three pictures were loose, not glued to the page. She read the writing on the back, translating the German. “This is your mother, Miriam Leopold, and your father, Avraham Leopold. Look, here they are holding you when you were a tiny baby.”
Bep studied the pictures for a moment before reaching to turn the page.
“These are your grandparents,” Lena continued, reading the captions. “Your grandfather was a professor at the university, see?” She pointed to a photograph of a distinguished-looking man in academic regalia. “This is your mother’s home in Cologne, Germany.” It was a mansion, three stories tall with stately pillars in front, shaded by tall trees. “This is your mama when she was a little girl. She looks like you, don’t you think? Look, here she is on a holiday with her parents at Lake Konstanz.”
Bep seemed overwhelmed by it all as they paged through photographs of aunts and uncles and cousins. She hadn’t grasped the full meaning of the album yet. Between two of the pages, Lena found a sealed letter that Miriam had written to Bep. Lena set it aside, deciding to wait until Bep had more time to get to know the strangers in these photographs.
As they leafed through the album, Miriam slowly grew up and became a young woman, a solemn beauty with a shy smile and shining dark hair like Bep’s. In many of the pictures, she was holding a violin. By the time they reached the last page, Miriam was a slender young adult, seated at a dining table, surrounded by her parents and aunts and uncles and cousins. The table was spread with a white tablecloth, flowers, platters of food, and crystal glassware. “Look what’s in this picture . . . ,” Lena, said, pointing. In the center of the table, with flames gleaming brightly, were the silver candlesticks.
Tears filled Lena’s eyes at these glimpses of Miriam Leopold’s life. The album painted a picture of a gracious, genteel life, a loving family. But they were pictures of a world that had vanished in a whirlwind of flames and hatred.
A Note from the Author
I hope you enjoyed meeting Audrey and Eve and experiencing a bit of life in England during World War II. If I Were You began as a simple story about a British war bride and an American soldier. I have always been intrigued by my friend Janet Sharp’s parents, now deceased, who met during the war much like Audrey and Robert did. Janet’s mother, a lovely, tea-drinking English lady, was serving as an air-raid warden in Enfield when she met her handsome American pilot. They moved to Illinois after the war and had two children. A sweet, romantic story.