No Going Back

Anna Patrick

Description

Poland 1944 Arrested by the Gestapo for carrying a gun, Marta has to think fast. With a mixture of courage, cunning and sheer good luck, she faces down her interrogators and protects her beloved fianc But at what cost to her?Nothing in her privileged background prepares her for the horrors of Ravensbruck concentration camp in Germany. Close friendships and an unshakeable belief help her survive. As the war ends, she has to pull together the fragments of her shattered life. What does the future hold and will she ever see her fianc again?Blending imagination with historical fact and the memories of an exceptional woman, No Going Back is a tale as gripping as it is moving and offers a unique insight into one of modern Europe's darkest periods.

Sujets

• Historical fiction
• Europe

Informations

• Publié par: Troubador Publishing Ltd
• Date de parution: 24 août 2019
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781838599782
• Langue: English

Extrait

Copyright © 2019 Anna Patrick

The moral right of the author has been asserted.

Apart from any fair dealing for the purposes of research or private study, or criticism or review, as permitted under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988, this publication may only be reproduced, stored or transmitted, in any form or by any means, with the prior permission in writing of the publishers, or in the case of reprographic reproduction in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency. Enquiries concerning reproduction outside those terms should be sent to the publishers.

This is a work of fiction, based in large part
on the memories of the author’s mother.

Matador
9 Priory Business Park,
Wistow Road, Kibworth Beauchamp,
Leicestershire. LE8 0RX
Tel: [phone]
Email: [e-mail]
Web: www.troubador.co.uk/matador
Twitter: @matadorbooks

ISBN 9781838599782

British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data.
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

Matador® is an imprint of Troubador Publishing Ltd

To Mike, for everything.
Contents
London 1998

Krakow 1944
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16

Ravensbrück 1944
17
18
19
20
21
22

Wentorf 1945
23
24

Two Christmas Eves
Background Notes
Acknowledgements
London 1998
We are in the psychiatrist’s chair: my mother and I. She is there for treatment of the anxiety and depression that have dogged her for most of her adult life; I am there to act as her spokesperson – after two or three mini strokes, her ability to communicate is something of a lottery. The psychiatrist does not like this arrangement. He wanted to see her on her own, but I insisted. He asks her a question; I start to answer. An angry glance and impatient gesture silence me. I lean back in the armchair and look around the room. I hear my mother answer in fragments; he needs the whole picture, but it is not forthcoming.
‘The Road Less Travelled’ by M. Scott Peck nestles among psychiatric tomes, also an autobiography by Leslie Thomas. I am pleasantly surprised though I have read neither book. There are two prints on the wall: the one opposite me is a beach scene in pleasing pastels; I glance at the other, but its colours are angry, the scene menacing. This is the picture facing my mother.
He asks another question. This time my mother turns to me in despair. I summarise my mother’s problems: her frustrations at not being able to communicate properly; the loss of her friends; the intellectual isolation; the world closing in on her.
‘Exactly,’ she cries. I have been faithful in my interpretation of her grief. I do not look at the psychiatrist while I speak, but I sense that he has understood the need for my presence. Then he says: ‘The important thing at the first meeting is not to have too much information.’
I cannot believe the stupidity of this remark and want to leave. I re-examine our surroundings while, unexpectedly, he starts to ask for more details of her depression. Perhaps he expressed himself clumsily. He is doing better now, honing his questions, grasping the point of what is being said and what is being left out.
Sotto voce and in her native tongue, my mother says: ‘I’ve had enough. Let’s go now.’
I smile, but we both know we’re here for the duration, for whatever £175 buys of this man’s time.
More acute questions follow. She is being put on the spot and does not like it. While he writes his notes, she continues to plead with me to go. He catches her speaking and asks what she is saying.
‘I didn’t say anything,’ lies my mother, picking imaginary fluff off her skirt and winking at me.
It is a bravura performance and I love her for it. I know she is looking forward to coming away for the weekend and wants to be out of here. Now she is sharp, verging on rude in her answers. He asks about her friends.
‘I used to have friends,’ she says, ‘but they died.’
‘All of them?’
‘No, one by one.’
He asks her what she does during the day, whether she goes out, what interests her. She is negative in her replies. She doesn’t want to take responsibility for her happiness or her life. There are pills to take care of that if only she can find the right ones or persuade him to give them to her.
‘I’m a hard nut to crack,’ she volunteers.
He summarises the situation as he sees it. She does not appear to be in the depths of depression. She disagrees immediately: she is in the very depths of depression and despair.
He is willing to help her with additional medication, he says, and we have a break in proceedings because she thinks he has suggested meditation, a path she has been down before. I have to raise my voice to get her to understand. At nearly 80 she is more than a little deaf and doesn’t wear hearing aids.
He continues; he knows of her traumatic past but does not think this is the problem now. He needs her to participate in her own treatment, to work as a team with him. He knows she has been brave in the past and he wants her to be brave now by making an effort. He says she is lazy and focused on herself.
She has stiffened in surprise. Such forthright opinions from a stranger are a shock, but she does not disagree with his analysis.
‘You may not like me for saying this,’ he says.
She laughs and with an almost coquettish air indicates that this is not so. He is not fooled.
‘You may say otherwise once you leave here.’
He has gained her respect which is not easily done. He wants to see her again, together with me – my turn for surprise – in six weeks’ time. In the interim, he wants her to have cognitive therapy with a young, bright therapist.
I explain cognitive therapy to her briefly and tell her I think it would be helpful. He gives her a prescription for some additional tablets and we say our goodbyes.
As we wait to pay in the reception, she gives her assessment in loud Polish.
‘He’s not very sympathetic, but he’s far from stupid.’
This is high praise indeed.
‘I was a little shocked by what he said and embarrassed really.’
This is promising; no indeed, it is amazing. I allow myself a little hope, but who am I kidding? The cognitive therapy never happens; the return visit is endlessly postponed.
Krakow 1944
1
Marta dragged her feet , resisting the marching pace set by the guards. Her eyes scanned the passers-by, some now gathered into groups watching the prisoners go; others hurried about their business, their faces averted as if misfortune were contagious.
Was he here? Would she see him one last time before…what exactly? What did the future hold? Fear shuddered through her.
‘Good luck,’ someone shouted.
‘We will pray for you,’ called another.
The blood drained from her face and she swallowed hard to stop herself being sick.
He wasn’t here. Why would he be? He would be at work and might not know they had transported her for days or weeks, perhaps not until they returned his next parcel… if they returned it.
She bit her lip to control her emotions, but tears coursed down her cheeks.
Somebody hummed the national anthem, but she didn’t join in. Everything around her blurred, and she stumbled on the cobbles once, twice, until friendly arms locked into hers and pulled her along.
At the station, one of those women, lined face compassionate, voice stern, cupped her head.
‘Take control of yourself, girl. Whatever courage you have inside, find it now and keep hold of it. Only then will you survive.’
She looked away, frowning. Her lower lip jutted out.
‘It’s so unfair.’
The old woman shrugged.
‘And when was life ever fair?’
Marta sat down on the platform, arms and legs crossed; other prisoners sat down nearby, but nobody engaged her in conversation. She was glad.
Her act of love wasn’t meant to end like this. She was meant to go home, put her books on the window sill, wait for the sound of a key in the door, rush into his arms and swing round and round, laughing, crying.
She had set out with such élan . Everything was going to be fine.
And if it went wrong? She would show those Germans, hoodwink them. She was clever, so much cleverer than they were. And when she had convinced them of her innocence, they would let her go. What a bloody fool she was.
A short blast on a steam whistle and the burning smell of heavy braking mixed with the fustiness of an engine coal fire punctured her mood. She was a little girl jumping up and down on the platform waiting for relatives to emerge through the billowing white clouds and shower her with kisses, and, best of all, gifts. Now she was all grown up, dressed in the latest Parisian fashion, a cigarette alight in its ebony holder, ankles crossed, as she travelled in opulent carriages with sumptuous upholstery or took refreshment in the busy dining car with its sparkling glasses and gleaming plates. Happy days.
An SS officer strode down the platform and the guards sprang into action, yelling and marshalling them onto the train with shoves and shouts.
Caged with a stranger, she clutched at the wire netting separating the two of them from the other prisoners.
‘At least it’s not a cattle truck,’ she said, turning around.
‘Oh? You an expert on prisoner transportation?’
‘No, but these cells are weird. What’s it used for? Mailbags? Parcels?’
‘Lady, I don’t care.’
‘Oh.’
Her mouth dropped open, and she blushed. She looked around but didn’t recognise anyone inside the rest of the carriage. She sighed and watched as her companion sat down and huddled her knees. It would be a long journey. She deci