Semitism, though, and hoped she wasn't voicing them in school. She reminded her to be careful when she left for school the next day. Disagreeing with the Nazis was a dangerous thing to do, at any age.
The following week Beata went back to the synagogue. She didn't want to wait another year before she saw her mother again. This time she sat just behind her purposely, and there was no need to lift her veil. Her mother recognized her the moment she saw her, and as they left after the service, Beata slipped a piece of paper into her mother's gloved hand. It had her address and phone number on it, and as soon as she had given it to her, and saw her mother close her fingers over it, Beata disappeared into the crowd and left. She didn't wait to see her father this time. All she could do now was pray that her mother would be brave enough to call. Beata wanted desperately to see her and hold her and talk to her again. More than anything, she wanted her to meet the girls.
It was an agonizing two days. By sheer coincidence, Amadea answered the phone when it rang. They were just leaving the table after dinner, and Beata had just asked Daphne if she wanted to play a game. Amadea had noticed that her mother seemed much better these days, and was making more effort to engage them, or emerge from her long depression after Antoine's death.
“There's someone on the phone for you,” Amadea told her.
“Who is it?” Beata asked, momentarily forgetting the call she was expecting, and assuming it was Veronique. She had been asking Beata for months to make a dress for her for their Christmas party. She thought it would be good therapy for her. But Beata had been avoiding her. She hadn't sewn now in years, not since Antoine's death, except once in a great while, something simple for the girls. She no longer had any interest in making evening gowns or serious dresses. And she no longer had the need financially.
“She didn't say who she was,” Amadea explained, as she took Daphne upstairs, and Beata walked to the phone.
“Hello?” Beata answered, and her breath caught when she heard the voice. It hadn't changed.
“Beata?” she whispered, afraid someone might overhear. Jacob was out, but everyone knew she wasn't allowed to speak to her daughter. She was dead.
“Oh my God. Thank you for calling. You looked so beautiful at the synagogue. You haven't changed.” After seventeen years, they both knew that wasn't possible. But to Beata, she looked the same.
“You looked so sad. Are you all right? Are you ill?”
“Antoine died.”
“I'm so sorry.” She sounded genuine. Her daughter had looked destroyed. It was why she had called. She couldn't turn her back on her any longer, no matter what Jacob said. “When?”
“Six years ago. I have two beautiful little girls. Amadea and Daphne.”
“Do they look like you?” Her mother smiled as she asked.
“The little one does. The older one looks like her father. Mama, would you like to see them?”
There was an interminable silence, and then she answered finally, with a sigh. She sounded tired. Things were difficult these days. “Yes, I would.”
“That would be so wonderful.” Beata sounded like a girl again. “When would you like to come?”
“What about tomorrow afternoon, for tea? The girls would be home from school then, I assume.”
“We'll be here.” There were tears rolling down Beata's cheeks. This was what she had prayed for for years. Forgiveness. Absolution. Touching her mother again. Just once. Holding her. A moment in her mother's arms. Just once.
“What will you tell them?”
“I don't know. I'll figure it out tonight.”
“They'll hate me, if you tell them the truth,” Monika Wittgenstein said sadly. But just as Beata wanted to see her, Monika wanted to see her own child again. And these days bad things were happening. Jacob was afraid that one day it could happen to them, too, although Horst and Ulm said that could never happen. They were Germans, not just random Jews roaming the streets. They said the Nazis were after the criminal element, not respectable people like them. Jacob didn't agree. And they were all getting old. She needed to see her daughter again. Needed to. Viscerally. Like a part of her heart that had been taken from her and needed to be restored.
“They don't have to know the truth. We can blame it on Papa.” She smiled. They both knew her father would never relent. There was not even the remotest possibility that Amadea and Daphne would meet him. But Monika felt he could no longer force this tragedy on her, too. She could no longer do it to Beata or herself. “Don't worry. I'll figure it out. They'll be excited to meet you. And Mama…”-she nearly choked on the words-“I can't wait to see you.”
“Me too.” Her mother sounded as excited as she did.
Beata thought about it all that night, and in the morning, at breakfast, she said that there was someone who wanted to meet them, and she was coming that afternoon.
“Who is it?” Amadea asked with only minor interest. She had a test at school that day. She had stayed up late to study the night before, and she was tired. She was an exceptional student.
Beata hesitated for a beat. “Your grandmother,” she said, as both girls' eyes grew wide.
“I thought she was dead,” Amadea said suspiciously, no longer sure which story was the truth.
“I lied,” Beata confessed. “When I married your father, France and Germany were at war with each other, and people felt strongly about it. Both our families did. Papa and I met in Switzerland, when we were on vacation with our parents. And my father wanted me to marry someone else. Someone I didn't even know.” It was hard explaining it all to them now, their lives were so different. But they were riveted by what she was saying. It was not easy finding the words, or explaining what had happened so long ago. “Neither of our families wanted us to marry, because Papa was French, and I was German. We knew we'd have to wait until after the war, and even then it wasn't likely they'd approve. We were crazy and young, and I told my father I wanted to marry Papa, and would no matter what. He said that if I did, he would never see me again. Papa was wounded and waiting for me in Switzerland, and his cousins said we could live with them and be married. So I left, which was a very headstrong thing to do, but I knew I was right. I knew what a good man your father was, and I never regretted for a minute what I did. But my father has never seen me again, and he wouldn't let any of my family see me. Not my mother or sister or brothers. All my letters to them came back unopened. He never let my mother see me or speak to me again. I saw her somewhere the other day.” She did not tell them it was at the synagogue, because she didn't think they needed the added complication of knowing they were part Jewish. It would only confuse them. Or perhaps even put them in danger at some point, given Hitler's feelings about Jews. “When I saw her I gave my mother our phone number and address. She called last night, and she wants to see you. She's coming here today after school.” It was simpler than she had feared. Both her daughters were staring at her in disbelief.
“How could he be so mean?” Amadea asked, looking outraged. “Is that what Papa's family did, too?”
“Yes, it is. They hated the Germans, as much as my family hated the French.”
“How stupid. And how mean.” Amadea's heart went out to her. “Would you ever do that to us?” Amadea knew the answer before she said the words.
“No, I wouldn't. But that was a long time ago, and it was an ugly war.”
“Then why didn't he see you afterward?” Daphne asked sensibly. Like her sister, she was a bright child.
“Because he's a stubborn old man,” Amadea said with rancor. Beata had forgiven him years before, and accepted what happened, though it had tormented her for years before she did.
“What about your sister and brothers?” Amadea asked, still shocked by what she had heard. “They're not dead either?” Beata shook her head. “Why won't they see you?”
“They don't want to disobey my father,” Beata said simply. She didn't tell them that her father had said she was dead.
“He must be horrible if everyone is so afraid of him,” Amadea said sensibly. She couldn't conceive of treating people that way. But her own father had been a very gentle man. “And Papa's family, too.”
“Your mama must be very brave if she wants to see us now. Will your father beat her when she goes home?” Daphne asked, looking worried.
“Of course not.” Beata smiled at her. “But she won't tell him she came here. He'd be too upset. And now he's old. So is she. I'm so happy she's coming to see us,” Beata confessed with tears in her eyes, which touched both her girls. “I've missed her so much. Especially since Papa died.” Amadea suddenly wondered if her yearly visits to the synagogue had anything to do with it, but she didn't want to ask. Her mother had been through enough. “I just wanted you to know before she came today.” It had been an extraordinary insight into their mother, and both girls were still stunned by it as they walked to school. It was odd finding out that they had a grandmother who had been
