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Jake’s interest in the occupation of Eastern Europe had begun a few months ago when he’d covered a story about a Lithuanian refugee called Juris Ziverts. Ziverts had been accused of collaboration in the Holocaust, and Jake had befriended the old man. Now, months later, two things stuck in his mind. One was the level of ignorance that existed about the events of Eastern Europe in the last war. The other was the man Ziverts himself.
On Jake’s desk next to his computer was a wooden cat. It was black, half-crouching with its tail raised. It was a replica of one of the statues from the roof of the Cat House in Riga. Ziverts had carved it from memory as a memento of the city he had left behind. He had given it to Jake on their last meeting, pushing it towards him with emphatic nods. It was a gift, made in thanks, though what Ziverts thought he had to be grateful for, Jake didn’t know.
He stood watching the early light on the water, his eyes narrowed in thought, then he shrugged, and sat down at the desk. The clock on his monitor told him it was seven twenty-nine–a minute before his planned start to the working day. He had an interview at eleven with Marek Lange, a Polish expatriate whose story should be interesting. Pole-ish enough…
Most people thought of the émigrés as lumpen factory fodder. Jake knew the stereotype–vodka-swilling, brutal and stupid. In fact, they had entered British society at all levels: artists, scholars, teachers, philosophers, entrepreneurs–and criminals. The country they had chosen to make their home was substantially different because they had come here. Lange was the archetype of the entrepreneur, and Jake needed his story. But, as always happened with any project that had gone smoothly, the last bit was proving the most difficult.
Setting up the interview had been hard enough. Lange didn’t answer his phone and didn’t respond to messages. But something must have got through, because suddenly Jake had Lange’s daughter on the phone who had told him brusquely that her father did not want to be involved. Jake had been planning to give up on Lange–there were other people who would fit the profile he wanted–but this opposition aroused his interest. He’d been prepared to persist, but then Lange himself had phoned, apologizing for his earlier silence and agreeing to an interview. Maybe the daughter had been laying the law down there as well, in which case, Jake owed her thanks. He opened the relevant file on his screen and read through the information he’d managed to get hold of:
Marek Lange
Born: 1923
Place of birth: Litva, Poland
Father: Stanislau Lange
Mother: Kristina Lange
Arrived in UK 1943. Joined Polish Free Forces Marital history: married 1955, divorced, 1961. Ex-wife died, 1963
Children: Katya Lange, born 1959
He tapped his fingers on the desk. There was plenty of material relating to Lange’s interests after his arrival in the UK, the period he wanted for the article. Jake would have no problems writing a gung-ho profile of a man who’d acquitted himself bravely in the last years of the war and had worked hard and successfully afterwards. But his life before 1943 was frustratingly vague. And this part of Lange’s story might tie in very well with the new book Jake had embarked on shortly after his first meeting with Juris Ziverts.
Ziverts’ dilemma had opened Jakes eyes to the other refugees, those who had arrived quietly, camouflaged among the thousands who were trying to escape the chaos of Europe and rebuild their shattered lives, those whose papers were in suspiciously good order, and who talked little about their past. These were the people with something to hide and it was their stories that Jake wanted.
Eastern Europe had suffered under the sway of two ideologies: Stalinism and fascism. The storm that had erupted when the two systems collided had been terrifying in its intensity and its brutality. Thirteen million people had died in the war years alone. The millions who had died under Stalin had never been accurately counted, and the majority of the perpetrators had never been brought to book.
Jake didn’t want to write about the lost chance for justice–victors’ justice, many would have said. He wanted to tell the story of the human cost. His work had given him access to the people who had lived with the Soviet behemoth to the east and the rising darkness of fascism to the west. He needed a hook on which to hang his story, and Juris Ziverts had led him to it: the story of Minsk.
Minsk, a city with a history going back to medieval times, had suffered the worst that both regimes could offer. North of the city, on its outskirts, was the Kurapaty Forest, where 900,000 people had been systematically slaughtered by Stalin’s soldiers. And the city itself had been devastated by the Nazi occupation. By the time the Nazis were driven out, a quarter of the population was dead.
Belarus, or Byelorussia, or Belarussia–it was a country with more names than a fugitive. He’d dug around a bit. And he had unearthed a Belarusian émigré living in Manchester. Sophia Yevanova was an invalid who had been housebound for several years. He’d gone to see her with no great expectations. What could an ailing babushka have to tell him? But he had come away from their first meeting captivated and enthralled, as had, he suspected, every man who had crossed Sophia Yevanova’s path for most of her seventy-five years.
Illness confined her to her room in the spacious old house she shared with her son, the eminent historian, Antoni Yevanov. She was sharp, she was witty, she was unnerving and she was beautiful, and she had woven stories for him that had captivated him for far longer than the hour he had assigned to the meeting. She was from Minsk, and had lived through what may have been one of the most horrific occupations of the 1939-45 war.
At thirteen, she had endured Stalin’s terror. At fourteen she had joined the partisans fighting against Hitler’s armies. She had ended her war in a concentration camp, but she had survived. And she had made it to England to give birth to her son, the child of her partisan lover who had died in the camps. Jake wanted to tell her story. He wanted to tell the story of the city that she had described with such passion and such regret–the sweep of history focused through the eyes of one woman.
Her son, Antoni Yevanov, was a recent catch for the city’s university. It was the articles heralding his arrival that had first drawn Jake’s attention to Sophia Yevanova. Yevanov, an expert in international law, had been involved in setting up the war crimes hearings at The Hague. What the mother had experienced in one era, the son was trying to redress in another.
Jake opened his work file and scanned the draft of the chapter he’d been working on the evening before, before Cass’s arrival had interrupted him: The allegiances of the Baltic states (Latvia, Lithuania, Estonia) in the Second World War are not as straightforward as those of the western European alliances. The Soviet occupation of these countries was harsh and repressive. The Nazi invasion of 1941 was seen initially as a liberation. This was a major factor behind Baltic collaboration in Nazi atrocities against civilians.
His phone rang. He tucked the handset under his chin, and went on reading. ‘Jake Denbigh.’
The notorious 12th battalion of the Lithuanian police carried out massacres of civilians…
‘Mr Denbigh, this is Katya Lange.’
Marek Lange’s daughter. Jake had a good idea what this was going to be about. ‘How can I help you, Ms Lange?’
…in the Ukraine and Belarus, including massacres in the Pripyet Marshes, Mir, Slutsk, Baranoviche and, notoriously, Minsk.
‘I understand you’re interviewing my father this morning.’
‘That’s correct,’ Jake said. He deleted ‘notoriously’ and moved on to the next paragraph.
Sadly, they were assisted in many cases by members of the local police forces.
‘I thought I made it clear…’ He heard her intake of breath. ‘My father isn’t well,’ she said abruptly. ‘I don’t think this is a good idea.’
He sighed, and gave her his full attention. ‘It’s just an interview, Ms Lange.’
‘About what, exactly?’
‘It’s about the experience of being an immigrant.’ He’d already told her this.
‘He had a bad time in the war,’ she said. ‘Before he escaped. He doesn’t like to talk about it.’
‘My remit is immigration,’ he said. ‘I’m interested in what happened to him after he reached the UK.’ He clicked open his research notes on Marek Lange and scrolled the list of dead ends he’d encountered while trying to establish what Lange had been doing in occupied Eastern Europe in the years leading up to his escape:
No record Litva–check spelling
Only reference: Litva–Grand Duchy of Medieval Belarus and Lithuania.
No record of Lange family as per your profile–NB records incomplete–war damage.
…cannot trace…
…no record…
‘Well, I’m not happy. I’ve asked my daughter to sit in on the interview. I don’t want you to begin until she is there.’
‘Okay, your daughter will be there. Thank you for letting me know.’ He hung up. Forewarned is forearmed. His appointment with Lange was for eleven. It looked like he’d better get there a bit early.
The Snow Child
This is the story of how Eva was born.
Once upon a time, there was a forest, with birch trees that were bare in the winter and reached their fingers high up into the sky. But in summer, the leaves grew and the branches hung down in fronds. When the wind blew, the branches would wave and the leaves would dance. Then the sunlight made patterns of shadow and gold. And the tree trunks were white, like slender pillars along the paths.
In the forest, there was a clearing. And a man called Stanislau built a house in the clearing, a house of timber. And Stanislau and his wife Krishna lived in the house, where their first child, Marek, was born.
Stanislau planted trees in the clearing, cherry trees and plum trees, and he dug a deep well. The water that came from the well was clear like crystal, sweet and cool.
And Stanislau, Krishna and Marek lived in the forest and they kept chickens, and Krishna had a garden where she grew potatoes and cabbages. Marek gathered mushrooms in the forest, and they all picked the cherries and the plums that Stanislau took into town to sell. They were content.
Except that there were no more children. Marek grew big and strong, a happy boy with fair hair and a ready smile. And then, five years later, in the depths of winter, Eva was born. The last child, a little girl. The night of her birth, there was a storm that made the trees bend, the branches lashing through the air as the wind whooped and swirled.
Stanislau struggled through the forest to the village to find the midwife, and Marek stayed with his mother in the wooden house while the storm raged outside. By morning, the world was still and silent, and Eva lay beside her mother, wrapped in her shawl, and the snow fell for six days.
‘You have a sister now,’ Stanislau said to Marek. ‘You must take care of her.’
The winter passed and spring came to the forest. Marek liked to sing to the baby and tell her stories while she lay in her cradle under the trees and waved her hands, trying to catch the sunlight that danced in the leaves. And the time went by, and Eva began to crawl, and then she could walk, and Marek would take his sister into the forest where he could show her the trees and the birds and the animals that walked the paths, because the forest was vast and quiet–there were not many people, not then. There were foxes and squirrels and rabbits.
And the witch.
He taught her to beware of the witch who lived in the dark places in the forest.
4
The caller had stayed on the line long enough for a trace. The call had come from somewhere in the remote hills on the far side of the dams. It was a lonely place, used by walkers and picnickers in the summer, but isolated through the winter months. The hills tended to mask phone signals. There was only a small area in which a mobile would work reliably. The trace centred on the one building in this area, a house that was marked on the map as ‘The Old Hall’.
According to the records, the owner of the house had died recently, and it was empty, under the care of court-appointed executors.
The number of the mobile gave no clues. The house looked like the most promising location. There was a caretaker in residence and the phone was still connected. No one responded when the number was called.
But just after nine, before a car could be despatched, another call came through. This time, someone spoke. It was a male voice, incoherent with panic. ‘She’s dead! Please, you’ve got to…I didn’t…She’s dead!’ He could barely get the words out.
The operator’s training took over. Her voice became calm and matter-of-fact. ‘Where are you?’
‘The library. In the library. She’s…’
‘I need to know where you are,’ the operator said again. ‘We’ll get someone to you. Tell me where you are.’
‘It’s too late.’
The voice moved from panic to leaden certainty. For a few seconds, he was silent, and they thought they’d lost the connection, then he came on the line again and gave them the location.
The Old Hall.
It was after a car had been dispatched that the full details of the second call were checked. The first call had come through on an unregistered cell phone. It was a pay-as-you-go, and they hadn’t been able to link it to a name.
The phone on which the young man, half-weeping, had begged for help was not the same phone. It was later in the day that they managed to get a name for it. It belonged to a woman called Helen Kovacs.
Jake Denbigh checked the A-Z that was open on the seat beside him, and swung his car round the next turning, into a crescent where the houses were set back among the trees and behind tall hedges. He parked and got out of the car, checking numbers on the gateposts.
Marek Lange’s house looked neglected. The gate was open, collapsed on its hinges, pushed back against the overgrowing shrubs. The drive was rutted and muddy, last autumn’s leaves trodden into the ground. The front of the house was thick with ivy that obscured some of the upstairs windows. The ground-floor windows were under siege from privet and laurel that pressed against the glass. Lange must like his privacy. Jake rang the doorbell and stepped back, looking up at the house. Add a few thorns, a turret or two, and Prince Charming could hack his way through into the enchanted castle where the sleeping princess…
The door opened suddenly, and a woman stood there. She was short and thick-set, and her face was unwelcoming. The princess was out, but apparently the wicked witch was at home. Was this Lange’s granddaughter? It couldn’t be. This woman must be in her late forties at least. The daughter? Unlikely. He smiled and held out his hand. ‘Jake Denbigh. Mr Lange is expecting me.’
‘He didn’t say anything to me about it.’ The woman shrugged. ‘You’d better come in.’
Definitely not the daughter. Not the guardian relative at all. He followed the woman–who hadn’t introduced herself–across the dim vestibule where the stairway ran up to a half-landing. The house was cold, and he shoved his hands deeper into his pockets. A man was coming down the stairs, moving with a slight shuffle.
‘Mr Lange?’ It had to be Marek Lange. He was a tall man, well built, but with the stoop of age. He was wearing a cardigan and heavy trousers. He had bedroom slippers on his feet. Jake held out his hand. ‘I’m Jake Denbigh. It’s good of you to see me.’
The old man settled his glasses on his nose and subjected Jake to a close scrutiny. His eyes were a faded blue and his hair was white, but still thick. His face was severe, but whatever he saw must have satisfied him because he held out his hand in response to Jake’s. ‘You are early.’
‘I thought the traffic would be worse than it was,’ Jake said.
Lange nodded once, accepting Jake’s explanation. ‘You would like coffee?’ he asked. He took Jake’s coat–which Jake was reluctant to relinquish in the chill–and held it out to the woman, who must be some kind of help, Jake decided. There was no sign of the guardian relative.
He declined the offer of coffee. He didn’t trust what might emerge from any kitchen run by the grim-faced woman. Lange opened a door and led the way through. Jake followed him. The room in which he found himself overlooked the back of the house. It smelled of dust and age, but it was large and well proportioned, with French windows looking out over the garden.
The garden was overshadowed by trees, except for a small lawn and a flowerbed close to the window. Lange gestured towards two heavy armchairs that stood on either side of the fireplace, and Jake sat down, running his eyes over the bookcase that filled the alcove beside the chimney-breast. The books were without jackets, and the writing on the spines was faded, but Jake thought he could see at least one that was written in Cyrillic script. The shelves were dusty.
‘So…’ Lange’s eyebrows came together as he studied Jake. ‘How can I help you?’
Jake had been over this once already on the phone, but he was used to the forgetfulness of old age. ‘I’m writing an article about people who came to this country during the war,’ he began.
Lange waved this aside impatiently. ‘Yes, yes, you already tell me this. People who came to this country during the war–there are many such. So, Mr Denbigh, I ask you again: How can I help you?’
Jake suppressed an appreciative grin and reminded himself that old though Lange was, he had been a ruthless and successful businessman in his day. ‘I wanted the experiences of someone who’d built up a successful operation like yours from scratch, in a strange country. I wanted to talk to you about what it was like starting again.’
Lange cleaned his glasses as he thought about this. A book that had been lying on the arm of his chair fell to the floor with a thud. ‘Well, maybe I can help you,’ he said eventually. ‘But it was a long time ago. I have little to tell.’
Or little that he chose to tell. Jake raised a sceptical eyebrow. ‘That’s not what I’ve heard,’ he said. He leaned forward and picked the book up from the floor.
Lange gave him a sharp look. ‘Maybe you had better ask your questions,’ he said. ‘We will see.’
Jake looked at the book in his hands. It had fallen open and he glanced at the page. Baba Yaga. He read on: Once upon a time, deep in the dark forest where the bears roamed and the wolves hunted, there lived an evil witch…Okay, that was appropriate. He closed it and looked at the cover. Russian Fairy Tales.
But he needed to move on. He wanted to get Lange talking while he had him on his own. He hadn’t been convinced by the daughter’s claim that Lange had been traumatized by his early war experiences and was unable to talk about them, and now that he had met the old man, he was even less prepared to accept it. Lange’s reputation spoke for itself and it didn’t look as though age had taken much of his edge. A man like that didn’t deal with trauma by hiding from it.
Jake started off with some personal background. Lange had lived in Manchester for almost sixty years. His marriage had ended in divorce and his ex-wife had died over forty years before. Lange steered away from the personal and talked about his work. He’d devoted himself to making a success of his business, making contacts in Europe when the market was there, travelling further afield as the markets changed. Like many men of his generation, he didn’t seem to have had much time for family life. ‘You’ve got just the one child?’ Jake said.
Lange paused. ‘I have a daughter,’ he said distantly. Then he smiled for the first time. ‘And the granddaughter. Faith.’
He was starting to relax his guard. Jake circled closer. ‘Your life must have changed completely when you arrived here. You went into industry–why did you choose that? I’m interested in how people adapt to these circumstances.’ He kept his voice casual.
‘Industry, yes.’ Lange’s glance at Jake was sharp. ‘The war had led to some new processes. There were opportunities for anyone who cared to take them.’
‘It’s interesting that you managed to spot them when so many people didn’t. Was it your training? In your home country?’
‘I was a peasant, Mr Denbigh, and then over here, I was a soldier. That is training enough for anyone.’ He was sitting stiffly in his chair, and his voice had become distant. Jake decided not to push it any further for now.
‘Tell me what it was like when you first arrived in Manchester,’ he said. ‘It must have been very different from the way it is now. I never saw industrial Lancashire. It was all gone before I came here.’
Lange sat in silence as if assessing Jake’s request, looking for the hook. ‘I have the pictures’ he said. ‘First people I work with, first places.’ He didn’t move from his chair.
‘I’d like to see those,’ Jake said. Pictures were always useful for triggering reminiscences. They might give him an opening to push Lange further back, to catch him at a moment when he might start talking about his past.
Lange nodded briefly, then got up and left the room. Jake heard him talking to someone and checked his watch. It was after eleven. Had the guardian relative arrived? He heard Lange’s voice: ‘…is not necessary, Doreen. I tell you this before.’ His tone was peremptory. Then the door opened again and Lange returned carrying a box. He came back to his seat. ‘Is so long…’ he muttered, half to himself as he opened it.
Judging by the dust on the lid, it hadn’t been touched in ages. Jake moved his chair across. It contained a few paper wallets, orange-brown with dark stripes, marked ‘Kodak’. Jake looked at Lange for permission, then began going through them. Lange evinced no interest. The pictures were disappointing. Black-and-white photos of factories and production lines with the occasional picture of Lange surrounded by different groups of overalled men. Jake began discreetly checking to see if anything more interesting had been slipped in at any time. He could remember his own grandfather’s habit of putting loose photographs in with more recent sets.
And his intuition paid off. Tucked away among some negatives that had been undisturbed for so long they had stuck together, were two small prints, grainy monochrome, faded and damaged. He took them out and looked at them. The first one showed a group of people–a family? It looked like a typical peasant family to Jake–standing in front of a small house. It was hard to make out the details. The woman’s hair was pulled back from her face and she wore a long dress and apron. She held a young child–about four, maybe–in her arms. Standing next to her, there was a boy who looked as if he might be ten or eleven. Lange? Jake glanced across at the old man. It was hard to tell.
The second one was slightly larger and cut with a deckle edge. He checked the back quickly. It looked as though something had been written on it, but whatever it was, it had faded beyond legibility. It showed a young man in uniform standing in front of a building–the boy from the first photograph? If it was, he was older now, in his late teens or early twenties. This picture was unmistakably of Lange.
He held the first picture out. ‘Your family?’ he said.
After a brief hesitation, Lange took the photograph. His fingers brushed the woman’s face, and then the child’s, tentatively, as if the picture was a reflection in water that would disappear at his touch. He stared at it in silence for a full minute, then reached for the box and started going through the envelopes himself, impatiently gesturing Jake to silence.
Jake waited. Lange’s reaction to the picture was odd and had aroused his curiosity. He kept his observation discreet, letting his eyes wander over to the French windows and the garden beyond. The rain had stopped, and the day had the brightness of early spring. Unlike the front, the back garden was carefully tended, a strange contrast to the shabby, neglected house. Someone had been working on the rose bed by the window. A spade was propped against the wall, and a fork was dug into the earth. The plants had been pruned, and the remaining leaves shone with health.