Danielle Steel - Echoes

“You'll never know what agony this has been,” Monika said as tears rolled relentlessly down her cheeks. “I promised him I wouldn't see you. I was afraid to disobey him. But I missed you so much, every single day.” She had never gotten over it. In the end, it was like a death.

“All my letters came back,” Beata said as she blew her nose.

“I never knew you'd written. Papa must have returned them without showing them to me.”

“I knew that,” Beata said sadly, remembering her father's handwriting returning them to her. “The ones I wrote to Brigitte came back too. I saw her on the street once, and she wouldn't talk to me. And Ulm and Horst.”

“We sat shiva for you,” her mother said sadly. It had been the worst day of her life. “He won't allow us to even speak of you. And I think Brigitte is afraid to upset me, so she doesn't say anything.”

“Is she happy?”

Her mother shook her head. “She's divorced. She wants to marry someone else. Papa doesn't approve. Are your children Jewish?” her mother asked hopefully, and Beata shook her head.

“No, they're not.” She didn't tell her mother she had converted when she married Antoine. Maybe hearing that would be too much for her. This was enough. And then her mother surprised her with what she said next. She assumed correctly that Beata had converted. She had somehow thought she would, once she married Antoine.

“Maybe it's better that way, with the way things are these days. The Nazis are doing terrible things. Papa says they'll never do it to us. But you never know. Don't tell anyone you were Jewish. It would take them a long time to find the records. If you're a Christian now, stay that way, Beata. You'll be safer that way.” It was a powerful thing for her mother to say. And then she looked at her daughter with worried eyes. “What did you tell the children about me?”

“That I love you, Papa didn't want me to marry Antoine because he was French, and we were at war. I said his family felt the same way about me. The girls were shocked, but I think they understood.” As best one could. It was a big bite, and tough to swallow, but Beata thought they had.

“Did his family ever see you?” Beata shook her head. “How did he die?”

“A riding accident. His father had died two weeks before.” And then she smiled. “I'm a countess now.” Her mother smiled, too.

“I'm impressed,” she teased, with a sparkle in her eye. And with that, the girls came home, and walked cautiously into the room. They looked at the woman they knew was their grandmother, and saw the smile that lit up their mother's face. She introduced Amadea to her first, and then Daphne, as her mother sat looking at them with tears rolling down her cheeks, and she held out both hands to them. “Please forgive me for how foolish I have been. I'm so happy to meet you both. I'm so proud of both of you. You're so beautiful,” she said, dabbing at her eyes with a lace handkerchief, as the girls slowly approached. Daphne thought she looked nice. And Amadea wanted to ask her questions about why she had let her husband be so mean to their mother, but she didn't dare. She thought she looked like a good person. She cried a lot, and their mother did, too. And as they all drank tea together, and talked, they realized that she reminded them a lot of their mother. She even sounded like her. They had a lovely time together, and finally Monika stood up, as Daphne looked at her with interest.

“What are we supposed to call you?” It was a sensible question for an eight-year-old. Amadea had wondered about it too.

“Would Oma be all right?” Monika asked hesitantly, glancing first at them and then Beata. She hadn't earned it, but it was an endearing term for grandmother. “I'd be honored if you'd call me that.” Both girls nodded, she hugged them both before she left, and then held Beata in her arms. They couldn't get enough of each other.

“Will you come again?” Beata asked softly as she stood in the doorway.

“Of course,” her mother answered. “Whenever you like. I'll call you in a few days,” she promised, and Beata knew she would. She had always kept her promises, and Beata sensed that she still would.

“Thank you, Mama,” Beata said, and hugged her one last time.

“I love you, Beata,” her mother whispered, kissed her cheek, and finally left. It had been an extraordinary afternoon, for all of them.

After her grandmother left, Amadea came to find her mother. Beata was sitting alone in the living room, lost in thought.

“Mama?” Beata looked up with a smile.

“Yes, sweetheart. What did you think?”

“I think it's sad that she was gone for so long. You can see that she loves you a lot.”

“I love her too. I'm just glad she came back, and that she got to meet you.”

“I hate your father for what he did to you,” Amadea said in an icy voice, and her mother nodded. She didn't disagree with her, but she didn't hate him. She never had, although her father had caused her untold grief, as he had her mother. His decision to banish her had taken a huge toll on them all, and probably him too, although he would never admit it. But he and Beata had always been close. It had been a huge blow to him when she left. It was the ultimate betrayal, in his eyes. Beata had never expected her banishment to last the rest of their lives. But even if she'd known it before, she would still have married Antoine.

“Don't hate anyone,” Beata said quietly. “It's too much work. And it only poisons you. I learned that a long time ago.” Amadea nodded, as she listened to her. She suspected what her mother had just said was true. But she still thought her mother was a remarkable person for not hating her father. Amadea was sure that in her shoes, she would.

Amadea sat down on the couch where her grandmother had been, and hugged her mother close, just as Beata had hugged her mother, and was so grateful to have been able to do so after all these years.

“I love you, Mama,” Amadea whispered, just as Beata had. It was an endless chain of echoes and bonds that went on and on. And in the end, in spite of distance and time, and unspeakable differences, it was an unbreakable bond. Her mother had proven that to her that afternoon.

9

FOR THE NEXT TWO YEARS, BEATA'S MOTHER CAME TO VISIT them once a week. It became a tradition and a ritual that Beata came to count on, and for each of them, a precious gift. Beata and Monika got to know each other in ways they never had when she was young. She was a grown woman and a mother now, with children of her own, and both of them had suffered inordinately and grown wiser with time. Monika had even approached Jacob once and tried to get him to relent about their daughter—she said she had seen her on the street with two young girls—and his eyes were instantly fierce as he looked at her.

“I don't know what you're talking about, Monika. Our daughter died in 1916.” The subject was closed. He was made of stone. She never dared to bring it up again but contented herself with their visits, as did Beata. She no longer hoped to see the others again. Having her mother back in her life was enough. She was grateful for that.

Her mother brought her photographs. Brigitte was still beautiful, and she was living at home again, with her children. Their mother was worried about her, said she went to too many parties, stayed in bed all day and drank too much, and she wasn't interested in her children. All she wanted was another husband, but most of the men she went out with were married to someone else. Horst and Ulm were both doing well, although one of Ulm's children was frail and often sick, and Monika worried about her. She had a problem with her heart. And during the years of their visits, she developed a deep attachment to Beata's girls. Amadea thought her grandmother was interesting and intelligent, but she never quite forgave her for allowing Jacob to banish their mother. She thought it was cruel, and hung back from her grandmother as a result. But Daphne was young enough to fall unreservedly in love with her. She loved having a grandmother as well as a mother and sister. She didn't remember her father, and hers was an entirely female world. As was Beata's. She had never looked at another man since Antoine died, although she was still beautiful. She said that the memories of the years she'd spent with him were enough to last her a lifetime, and she wanted no one else. In 1935, two years after the visits with her mother began, she turned forty and her mother sixty-five. They were a great comfort to each other. The world had become a frightening place, although it had not touched them. Yet.