She turned her gaze to the far end of the beach and noticed the man walking toward her. It was difficult to discern his age at that distance, but he had a slightly wild air about him, with a headful of curly hair and a broad, bushy beard. Gertie’s heart beat faster as she noticed him make a beeline for her. Instinctively, she placed a protective arm around the baby before walking quickly in the opposite direction. There’s nothing to fear, she told herself. You’re so close to home. Glancing over her shoulder, she noticed him quicken his step in response to her movement. Gertie panicked. She began to hurry up the beach toward the path leading to the house.
“Please! Wait!” called the man.
Gertie didn’t look back. She picked up her pace as soon as she reached the verge, pulling Else close. The path was narrow, flanked on either side by overhanging cow parsley and arrow grass, making it difficult for Gertie to hurry, and with Else in her arms, she certainly didn’t want to run.
“Please,” cried the man as he reached the path. “I only want to talk to you.”
There was something about his voice that made Gertie stop. He spoke English with a German accent. She spun ’round, doing her best to invoke the domineering tones of Margery Travers as she addressed him. “What do you want?” she demanded.
The man approached her breathlessly. Beneath his beard and baggy clothes, she discerned a slight frame and sallow complexion. He regarded her with desperate eyes that at once seemed familiar. “Do you know where Hedy Fischer lives?” he asked.
A thrill of recognition squeezed Gertie’s heart. “You’re Arno.”
The man raised his eyebrows in astonishment before a thought struck him. “You’re Gertie Bingham.” Gertie nodded. His eyes traveled from her face to the baby in her arms. “And this is . . . ?” His voice trailed to a whisper.
Gertie held out the baby for him to see. “This is Else.”
Arno yelped with a mixture of soaring happiness and deep heartache. He clutched his chest and gazed at the baby’s face. “Can you take me to Hedy? Bitte?” he whispered, as if not daring to believe that this might be possible.
Gertie led him along the path and stopped outside the garden gate that led to the house. Arno stared at her for a moment. “Go and knock,” she said. “I’ll stay here.”
He gave a brief nod before making his way to the front step. Gertie watched as he rang the bell and waited. When Hedy opened the door, she froze at the sight of him. Brother and sister stared at each other in silence, unable to believe that it was real. Then Hedy rushed forward, pulling her brother into her arms, and they collapsed to the ground in a reunion that was alive with joy, sorrow, and love.
As they sat around the kitchen table later, Gertie noticed a new spark in Hedy’s eyes. She nestled close to her brother and hung on his every word as if fearful that he might disappear again at any second. “When did you last see Mama and Papa?”
Arno’s face clouded at the memory. “1943. We were at Theresienstadt before being sent east. They wanted young men to work in the factory, so I was chosen. We knew it would probably be the last time we saw one another.” He stared at the cup in front of him. Hedy grasped his hand. “Mother wrote letters.” He looked from Hedy to Gertie. “For each of you.” He reached into his pocket and retrieved two faded brown envelopes. “She told me I had to survive so I could find you and deliver them. I think that gave me courage. She said that if we found each other again we must remember that she and Papa are always with us, that all we have to do is look up at the night sky and find them.”
Hedy nodded through her tears as she took the letter. He handed the other to Gertie.
“Thank you for taking care of my sister,” he said.
“Your sister has taken care of me,” she told him.
Gertie waited until she was home before she read the letter. Her cottage was just along the path from Sam and Hedy’s with a magnificent view of the sea. The orange sun was kissing the horizon as she and Hemingway let themselves in through the front door. Gertie made some tea and carried it out into the garden, enjoying the still cool of the early-evening air. Breathing in the scent of lavender, she paused to enjoy a new pink rose, freshly bloomed that day, then sat on the bench that Sam had set up for her in the perfect spot looking out to sea. As the sky darkened, Gertie gazed upward, noticing two vivid stars in the distance. She thought back to Else’s promise and smiled as she began to read.
Theresienstadt, 14 January 1943
My dear Gertie,
I hope you don’t mind me addressing you in such an informal way. It is just that after Hedy’s letters I feel as if I know you like a friend. I’m not sure when or how this letter will reach you, but I have entrusted it to my dear son, as I know that if anyone will bring it to you, he will. I sense that these letters will be the last I am ever able to write. My hands are shaking at this thought because it means that I will never see my darling daughter again. It pains me deeply to think that I will never catch sight of her beautiful face or hold her in my arms or kiss her soft cheek once more. I pray that one day she will become a mother so that she understands the strength of feeling I have for her. Hedy and Arno have brought my husband and me untold joy and love. I have never felt love quite like it. It is as wide as the ocean, as constant as the night sky, and it lives with you forever, regardless of what happens. It is also the reason we decided to send Hedy to England. I need you to understand how difficult it was to make this decision. I spent many sleepless nights questioning if it was the right thing to do and drove poor Johann mad with my fretting. On the day Hedy left, I was inconsolable. I would remember her sweet face gazing out the train window, so brave, so stoical. Every night in my dreams, I saw her crying out, begging us to let her stay. I would wake in a cold sweat, fearful of what had become of her. But then Hedy’s letters started to arrive, and she told us about you and how kind you are. I could picture you both sitting in the garden with Hemingway. It made me think of our darling Mischa. I knew then that we had made the right decision. To lose your child and know you will never see her again is a living nightmare, but the thought that you were taking care of her, acting as the mother that circumstances prevented me from being, is everything to me. I can never thank you enough for what you have done. It is an endless comfort to me as a mother to know that my daughter is surrounded by love and kindness. In hopeless times, when there is nothing but darkness in the world, they are all we need.
Ever yours,
Else Fischer
The Bingham Books Bugle
Christmas 1952
Warmest greetings to all our book club members, old and new.
As you know it’s been a busy year with two new branches of Bingham Books opening in Hoxley and Meerford. We are pleased to report that Cynthia and Archibald Sparrow have assumed the roles of manager and assistant manager, respectively, for the original Bingham Books in Beechwood.
We’ve had a wonderful selection of book club reads and meetings to enjoy, organized by our newest Bingham Books employee, Will Chambers （son of children’s illustrator and local resident Elizabeth Chambers）。 Notable highlights have been the visit of Miss Barbara Pym to discuss her book Excellent Women and the children’s book club meeting to discuss Charlotte’s Web, where all the children made pig masks!