Anca's Story - a novel of the Holocaust

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To Anca

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This book is dedicated to the real Anca Pasculata, who as my fourteen year old pen-friend in Romania, regaled me with tales of the suffering her family endured in eastern Europe in World War Two.

Anca’s last pen-pal letter to me, beautifully handwritten in English and always so eloquent, arrived just days after the 1977 Bucharest earthquake. It would be over a year before I was finally able to confirm the worst, and learned that Anca was among the 1,500 who had perished during the one-minute tremor.

As young teenagers Anca and I, aspiring authors with untold energy and limitless ambition, often discussed the possibility of writing books together. Of course, that was never to be, but the seed had been sown.

Anca’s Story, while not of course Anca’s words, is written in her uniquely eloquent style of English to honour her memory.

1.

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Replete in casual suit, no tie, and perfectly manicured nails, Mr. Wilkinson led me gently into the empty classroom. 

Desks had been thoughtfully moved to one side, the seats arranged in rows in a semi-circle directed towards a single chair that I guessed it would be my privilege to occupy.

Mr. Wilkinson asked, Will this be comfortable enough for you?

I nodded, easing forward on my walking frame, unable to speak.

My throat felt dry, my clammy hands gripping my frame tightly to conceal the shake. I wanted to leave, to make my excuses and return to the security of my sheltered home, but I fought against my instincts.

For weeks now I had been preparing for this day.

Making notes.

Drawing on long-forgotten memories.

Struggling to bring order to my thoughts. 

Now, at last, the moment had arrived. The time had come, to relate a story I had kept buried deep within me for almost six decades. I prayed I could maintain my composure before my audience when they arrived.

My host seemed quite indifferent to my plight, chatting amiably about the curriculum. Only half-listening, I cast my eyes around the room, searching unsuccessfully for the comfort of a blackboard. My eyes alighted on a white screen. I caught my breath, interrupting Mr. Wilkinson to apologise for not having brought any slides along.

Mr. Wilkinson tried to hide a smile, explaining to me this was an interactive whiteboard.

My blank response saw him toying with a keyboard with practiced movements that put my own humble typing skills to shame, bringing the screen to life in a blaze of colour and sound.  Maps and still photographs combined with video clips and commentary and suddenly I could witness the rise of Nazi Germany, Hitler’s invasion of Poland, the Japanese attack on Pearl Harbour...

This was twenty-first century interactive education, Mr. Wilkinson explained with undisguised glee, extolling the virtues of IT in his class as if it were his personal invention.

Not just the Second World War, he stressed, but any other conflict I would care to mention, from the Mycenaean battles of antiquity to the more recent Gulf Wars. I need but name it and he could produce a file or web-site to bring it to life before my eyes. 

I declined the offer, struggling to explain that for me there was only one war.

His condescending smile said it all. 

I was an old lady, living in the past, unable to see the greater picture.

And slowly I realised my role in being here today was not so much to bring recent history to life, but rather to say goodbye to it.

2.

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As I gathered my thoughts the door opened and the children began to file in. A few glanced my way and I responded with an awkward smile, unsure how best to acknowledge them.

I watched as they selected their positions in the semi-circle around me. One or two extracted notebooks and pens from their bags, but without much enthusiasm. Mostly they slumped into their seats and carried on their private discussions seemingly oblivious to my presence, as if hoping the lesson would be somehow delayed until they had finished.

Settle down, 9B.  The sharp rap of knuckles on wood brought the class to order. 

With noisy sighs of resignation the children turned their attention to the teacher, some noticing me for the first time. They stared at me, perhaps wondering what sundry lecture I had been instructed to bore them with on this occasion.

9B, that will do.  Mr. Wilkinson’s stern gaze dared them to dissent. The class fell silent. After a few seconds he said, Today we have as our guest Mrs. Jones, who has kindly volunteered her time to talk to you about her personal experience of World War Two and the Holocaust. About how...

I felt waves of panic sweep over me. I clutched my chair, closing my eyes, willing it to pass. For a moment I felt faint.

Mr. Wilkinson’s words came back into focus.  ...therefore I expect you all to give her your undivided attention for the next forty minutes and, hopefully, to come up with some... He paused for effect. "Some intelligent questions to ask when she has finished."

There was a groan of dismay at this proposal and I realized few here wished to hear what I had to say. 

As I looked about me at these fresh young faces, thirteen and fourteen year olds whose idea of trauma was to miss a favourite television programme or to be deprived of their mobile phone for an hour, I could see in their bright eyes a mirror of my own childhood, of my own indifference to even current affairs, let alone the past. 

I remembered how irrelevant even the day’s news had been.  How could I possibly ask that these children be interested in what happened to me, seven decades ago, long before their parents were born? Perhaps even before their grandparents were born?

I studied their clean features, their shining hair, immaculately ironed uniforms, polished shoes beneath socks neatly at half mast. In return they stared back, some sullenly, others in a spirit of hope over experience, waiting for me to start.

The sooner to finish, no doubt. 

I chose my words carefully and began.

3.

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"My name is Anca.  Anca Pasculata.  Your teacher introduced me as Mrs. Jones, and that is indeed my name now, for I came to your country in nineteen forty-eight, married in nineteen fifty-four and have lived here in the United Kingdom ever since.  But for today, for the purpose of this lesson, I am Anca Pasculata once more. 

The name is Romanian, for such are my origins.  I was born in Romania and my parents, my family, were all of that country.

Blank faces stared back at me. I suspected they were as indifferent to geography as they were to history, and had no idea where Romania was.

No matter.

I gathered my thoughts. I had intended to begin by explaining a little of the background to the war, but your teacher has shown me some of the remarkable materials you have to work with and I realise that is not necessary. To be honest, you probably know more about the war itself than I do.

I took a deep breath, conscious of the tremor in my voice

So I shall begin not at the beginning but rather towards the end of the war, for that is when my own story starts. I want to take you back to a year before the war ended.  To nineteen forty-four.

I paused to study my audience, already showing advanced signs of boredom. Someone stifled a yawn. Several were fidgeting with bags or equipment. One seemed to be texting from a mobile phone secreted behind their pencil-case. I pressed on, hoping somehow to earn their attention, if not their respect.

I was twelve years old at this time. Just a little younger than you are now.  I was lucky enough to have enjoyed an education until then, though it hardly compared with your own.  School, for us, was a single, bare, unlit, un-heated classroom. A place where paper and pencils were luxuries, and memory our most precious asset.

I was pleased to see a few heads turn my way. I pressed on.

This was a time before computers, or even calculators. Before television, even in the advanced industrial countries like your own.  For a backward, peasant country like Romania even radio and newspapers were luxuries beyond our day to day experience.

A couple of girls exchanged glances, perhaps trying to imagine life before computers.

I said, Certainly I knew nothing of the world about me. Not even of the global nature of the war that had already been raging four long years by this time. Our country was under Nazi German domination, that much I knew.  I vaguely understood other, neighbouring countries to be involved somehow, but to what end, on whose side, I neither knew nor cared. I was aware only of events in my own small world. And that world was one insignificant town in a backward, insular country in eastern Europe.

A boy to one side was whispering loudly to his classmate. Mr. Wilkinson rapped a ruler on the desk. 

Ben, at least have the courtesy to be quiet, if you can’t be bothered to listen.  Mrs. Jones has been to a great deal of trouble to be here with us today.

The boy called Ben stretched out in his chair, a calculated show of disinterest. Yeah, but it’s boring, Sir.  Why can’t we do it on the computer instead, if we have to do it at all?  No-one cares about history.

The boy cast his eyes about his fellow pupils conspiratorially before adding, Least of all the Holocaust. The child looked directly at me, a smirk on his face. It’s only about dead Jews.

One more remark like that and you’ll be up before the Head. Mr. Wilkinson’s sharp rebuke silenced the boy.  To me, I’m so very sorry, Mrs Jones.

I could feel the teacher’s embarrassment at his pupil’s conduct, and at my discomfort. I raised a shaking hand to stay his apologies, but speech failed me. Not that I was offended by the child’s words. Rather, shocked that any child could be so insolent in the presence of a master.

Mr Wilkinson turned to the boy again. Ben, you will apologise immediately.

The boy leaned forward in turn, staring back at his teacher.

Mr. Wilkinson took a step towards the child. I won’t tell you again.

Some of the other children glared at the boy. I heard three or four girls urge him to apologise. Others were nodding agreement.

Ben forced a sullen Sorry, Miss, as he slunk back into his chair, still privately delighted with his performance.

I forced a smile, addressing the boy directly.  I can assure you, Ben, that, if old and frail, I am still very much alive, and anticipate being around a few years more yet.

The class appreciated my little joke and I pushed home my advantage.  Nor, I might add, am I a Jew.

The teacher shot me a surprised look.

I said, Mr Wilkinson asked me to bring along any personal effects I had, to help illustrate my story. Photographs of my family and friends; mementoes of that time. Of the Holocaust.  I splayed my palms theatrically. You will notice I have brought nothing.

I felt the eyes of the class on my empty hands. I brought nothing because I have nothing.  Everything, every possession I had, was destroyed or left behind.  Not a single token or memento survived with me.

If the words brought a lump to my own throat still there was indifference from my audience and I knew that, if I did not soon capture their minds I would never move their hearts. I asked, Tell me this.  How many of you have lost a parent?

There was a stunned silence.  Two hands rose awkwardly.

Forgive my intrusion, but what happened to them?

Mr. Wilkinson cast an anxious glance at me, but I ignored his concerns, directing my attention to the two children whose hands hovered hesitantly above their heads.

My mother was killed in a car accident, a few years ago.

I am sorry.  So very sorry.  I turned to the second child, a boy.  And you?

Cancer. My father died of cancer, soon after I was born. I never knew him.

The class shifted uncomfortably in their seats. Mr Wilkinson looked on, unsure how to respond. This was not what I had been invited to discuss.

I said, Thank you.  You are brave to talk about it.  But I asked with good reason, to make a point.  Most of you have two parents.  Two of you have lost one.  I lost my father when I was twelve years old.  But not to cancer.  Not to a car accident.

I paused, struggling to control the quaver in my voice.  He was murdered.  Murdered in cold blood, by a firing squad outside our home, while my mother, my younger brother and I were forced to watch.

I had their attention now, this class of bright-eyed children that had no acquaintance with evil.  I chose my words carefully.

"History states the war began in nineteen thirty-nine, when Germany invaded Poland.  Perhaps it was so.  But for me the war began with my father’s death.

My story begins as the war entered its final year, just a few weeks after my father’s execution.  In a storm-swept cemetery in Medgidia, Romania, in the early spring of nineteen forty-four...

4.

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We stood in silent reverence, my mother and I, before the pitiful mound that marked my father’s grave.  Driving rain lashed the sodden black earth, each drop drawing another grain of soil into the murky pools that formed unbidden at its base.

At the head of the grave a crudely shaped rowan cross defied the elements, proud against the rolling clouds that had advanced afternoon into premature evening.  A flash of lightning briefly cast shadows as it lit the sky, greeted by thunderous applause.

I clasped my mother’s hand tightly, fighting a losing battle to hold back tears that joined with the rain to trace the contours of my face.  Instinctively I ran my tongue over my lips, the salt stimulating my taste buds, conjuring welcome, evocative memories. 

The Black Sea, near Constanta. Salt spray lingering in the air as the spring wind flung the waves against the foreshore, the surf frothing, foaming, against the beach.  Nearly two years had since passed, but the memories were as if it were yesterday.  It had been soon after my tenth birthday. The spring of nineteen forty-two.  A special holiday for his little nurse, as Papa always called me. To recuperate from some malady long since over.

Papa, I will never forget you, I said to the rowan cross. Never.

My mother glanced at me. Anca?

It was nothing, Mama. Just thinking out loud. But we should be going now, for Nicolae is tired. You surely must be, too.

To reply, to acknowledge my assertion, was pointless.  Words were cumbersome, even unnecessary at times like this.  A clash of thunder drowned out any reply she may have made as we turned to leave.

The storm is receding, I observed quietly as we found ourselves on the main road, a short distance from our home.

It is as well, Anca, my mother concurred. You and Nicolae will sleep better for it.  There is enough noise through the night without nature adding her own.

I smiled agreement.  These past few weeks I had hardly slept of a night, kept awake by the constant drone of passing trucks and tanks.

Behind us a vehicle’s throbbing engine spewed unseen exhaust fumes into the early night.  Heads down, our eyes scanned the truck as it passed.  In the tenebrous dusk their uniforms were unclear.  Not that it mattered anymore.  Iron Guard or Gestapo, Papa had said they were of the same breed. Whatever their nationality. Whatever their chosen name. 

Only when the truck had passed into the darkness did we breathe again.

The rain had begun to ease now and by the time we reached home it had reduced to a fine drizzle, but still the smell of wet hair and sodden clothes quickly permeated every corner of our small domicile.

Nicolae, by now asleep, was laid to rest on a threadbare rug. I gently towelled his hair with a dry cloth while Mama brought a thin counterpane to lay over him.  Fortunately, Mama’s coat had borne the brunt of the storm’s attack and Nicolae’s clothes were still dry.  I slipped shoes from his tiny feet and made him comfortable as best I could, gently stroking his rouge cheek, a smile hovering on my own lips in the certain knowledge he, at least, was resting peacefully.

5.

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Mama forewent the pleasure of dry clothing and made immediately for the parlour to prepare a simple repast.  Only once Nicolae and I were fed and in our beds would Mama tend her own needs. 

With some effort I braved the discomfort and declined to change my own clothes, beyond removing my thin, inadequate coat.

An oil-burning lamp held the darkness at bay while I fostered a small wood fire in the grate.  As the flames gained confidence the room slowly brightened and I turned out the lamp, conscious that fuel was precious and we knew not when more might be available.

When the meal was ready Nicolae was gently awoken and we sat cross-legged around the fire, enjoying the warmth, drawing comfort from lambent flames that cast flickering shadows around the sparsely furnished room. 

For a while the dull clatter of wooden spoons against clay provided the only accompaniment as cutlery chased food to hungry mouths.  It was a meagre offering of a bland maize-based gruel, enhanced by a few welcome slivers of mutton which Mama had somehow acquired. But we were grateful now for what we would have viewed with contempt just months before.

Papa had been provident to our needs, but upon his arrest all but our most basic goods and chattels were seized by the Nazis, and after Papa’s execution we were overnight reduced to a state of indigence, without an income or pension of any sort. 

Somehow, Mama obtained the odd bani to keep us fed, though whenever I tried to enquire how she would become agitated and instigate a discussion of some other matter.

Nicolae, too tired to talk, and warmed by the fire, fell asleep again even