Heritage Read Free Page B

bedtime storyteller.
    â€˜I’ll take her to the bathroom and get her into her pyjamas and you can put her to bed, Mannie.’ She dumped the soup bowls in her husband’s hands. ‘Samuel will do the washing up, after which we’ll have coffee, and he’ll give you his full attention. Won’t you!’ Her look defied Samuel to disagree.
    â€˜Yes, yes, I said I would. Not that it’ll make any difference anyway.’
    Â 
    Samuel and Ruth were making the coffee together, measuring out the precious grinds and taking care that it didn’t boil over, while Mannie read out loud to Rachel, tucked in her cot, the latest chapter of her favourite story. She never tired of Hans Christian Andersen’s ‘The Snow Queen’.
    Then the quiet of the night was shattered by the clatter of boots in the street and, for a brief moment, all four of them, even the child, froze in a breathless silence.
    Barely a second later, Mannie rose and turned out the bedroom light, noting the Meisells’ apartment opposite also plunge into darkness. Dear God, he thought frantically, was there time to get the family upstairs to his flat? Then he heard the stamp of the boots on the wooden stairs. There wasn’t. He gathered Rachel in his arms, whispering for her to be quiet.
    In the kitchen, Ruth had turned out the light and Samuel had dived into the living room to extinguish the lights there. The boots were in the hallway now. Samuel returned to the kitchen and held Ruth close as they waited silently in the dark.
    The boots stopped at the front door and there was a banging of fist on wood.
    In the bedroom, Mannie clasped Rachel to him.
    In the kitchen, Samuel and Ruth remained frozen.
    â€˜No,’ she said, as he finally made a move. ‘Let me go. I might be able to bluff them.’
    She went into the living room, stared at the front door, then took a deep breath and turned on the light. There was another pounding, and she opened the door to a man in plain clothes. A Gestapo officer, she knew it immediately. Beside him was a uniformed Oberleutnant and behind them three troopers, also in the immaculate grey of the SS.
    The Gestapo officer marched straight in, the SS men following, the Oberleutnant’s pistol drawn, the troopers’ rifles at the ready, all eyes surveying the room.
    â€˜You are Frau Lachmann, the owner of this apartment?’ the officer demanded.
    â€˜I believe you are mistaken,’ Ruth replied, disguising the tremor in her voice, her tone firm but respectful. ‘This apartment is the property of Herbert Klauptmann.’ She gave the fictitious name in which her father had purchased the apartment. ‘The records will clearly show that he purchased it over twenty years ago.’
    The Gestapo officer was momentarily confused. This woman was Aryan, and patrician at that. She was no Jew. He glanced at the Oberleutnant. Perhaps they had the wrong apartment. Perhaps they should check the records.
    But the Oberleutnant did not acknowledge the officer’s querying look. ‘It has been reported that the Jews Lachmann live here,’ he barked. ‘Man, wife and child. Your papers.’ He held out his hand peremptorily, and Ruth knew that all was lost.
    â€˜I am Lachmann.’ Samuel appeared from the kitchen and the troopers immediately trained their rifles upon him. He walked slowly to Ruth, careful to give the men no cause for alarm, and put his arm protectively around her.
    â€˜Where is the child?’ It was the Gestapo officer, annoyed at the Oberleutnant for issuing the orders, but more annoyed at himself for his moment of indecision.
    â€˜The child is not here,’ Samuel answered. ‘The child is staying with friends.’
    â€˜It is not wise to lie to the Gestapo, Herr Lachmann. Search the apartment.’ The officer indicated the bedroom door, which was ajar, and two of the troopers started towards it.
    â€˜No!’ Ruth ran to the door