Majdanek

David Gibb

Description

John Zobrzynska arrives in Poland as a celebrity subject in the TV series A Life Revisited, hoping to trace his Jewish roots. With the help of his researcher, to whom he becomes increasingly emotionally attached, he follows the trail that leads to the horrors of Majdanek, a WW2 concentration camp, and to a family member who uncovers the secrets of his past. But his longed-for sense of security is threatened by the appearance of a former camp guard, forcing John to face a chilling ultimatum. Will duty to his family or desire for happiness with his new love prevail?

Sujets

• Historical fiction

Informations

• Publié par: Brown Dog Books
• Date de parution: 23 septembre 2020
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781839521935
• Langue: English
• Poids de l'ouvrage: 1 Mo

Extrait

MAJDANEK
First published 2020
Copyright © David Gibb 2020
The right of David Gibb to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs & Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, electrostatic, magnetic tape, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the written permission of the copyright holder.
Published under licence by Brown Dog Books and The Self-Publishing Partnership, 7 Green Park Station, Bath BA1 1JB
www.selfpublishingpartnership.co.uk

ISBN printed book: 978-1-83952-192-8 ISBN e-book: 978-1-83952-193-5
Cover design by Kevin Rylands Internal design by Andrew Easton
Printed and bound in the UK
This book is printed on FSC certified paper
MAJDANEK
DAVIDGIBB
To my daughter Katherine and my partner Anne; many thanks to Anne for her professional guidance; and to the tens of thousands who suffered and lost their lives in Majdanek
Contents
Foreword
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Epilogue
Foreword
Majdanek was a Second World War concentration and death camp on the outskirts of the southern Polish city of Lublin. It operated from late 1941 until July 1944 when it was liberated by the advancing Red Army.
The camp took its name from the nearby Lublin suburb of Majdan Tatarski. It was unlike other camps in that it was not hidden away but visible to local inhabitants. The majority of its inmates were Jewish.
Majdanek began as a labour camp but by 1942 had developed into an extermination camp too. The gas chambers and mass shootings were the chosen means of slaughter. There have been various estimates of the death toll but the official version stands at 78,000, of whom 59,000 were Jews.
Official sources and witness statements about Majdanek can vary but every effort has been made to paint as true a picture as possible.
The plot and the characters are entirely fictitious.
Prologue
She supported herself on one elbow in the king-sized bed and scanned the hotel room. It was spacious, with a red leather chesterfield couch and matching armchair. By one wall stood an elegant writing table with its chair, and dotted around the room were several occasional tables on which lamps rested. Rich curtains hung to the thickly carpeted floor. The room, in an expensive London hotel, was tastefully furnished but there was nothing of hers in it. It felt devoid of emotion, soulless almost. Her eyebrows lowered into a troubled frown and she lightly bit her lower lip. The same hotel. The same room. Familiarity, he had said, would make it less impersonal. She remembered that at first, over a year ago, she had thought of bringing a photo of the children with her to place on the bedside cabinet but had then dismissed the idea. She had this irrational fear that she would leave it behind by mistake, that her whereabouts could then be traced. Ridiculous, she knew, but it highlighted the innate tension she felt, the fragility of her situation, the concern she had for her children.
She got up, slipped on a silk dressing gown provided by the hotel and walked to the fridge. She took out a half-consumed bottle of wine and carried it to a low table by the couch. She filled the two glasses that they had used earlier.
He came out of the en-suite bathroom to see her there. ‘Oh,’ he said, half-surprised, half-disappointed. ‘You’re up.’
‘Yes,’ she replied. ‘Felt like a drink.’
‘Not coffee then.’
‘No. Come over here.’
‘Just a minute.’ He put on a dressing gown himself; he would have felt absurd sitting naked on the couch. He was intrigued yet concerned about what she might say.
As he sat down beside her, she took his hand in hers. His concern rose. ‘It may seem a bit strange talking to you like this, John, but you know the work I do for television?’ Instead of speaking to him now, she could have written everything that she was going to say in a letter. Perhaps distance would have been better but somehow she felt that that would have been wrong. She needed to speak to him face to face, now and not later, and not communicate with him in writing from some faraway location.
‘Yes,’ he replied, and his concern changed to a feeling of absurd anticlimax. He feared she was going to say something serious about their relationship but it was about TV. He was relieved and yet irritated. He wanted to hold her in his arms in bed, not discuss this. After all, they had only one precious night a week together.
Nevertheless she persisted. ‘Well, we’re looking at a series of programmes that help people to fill in the missing parts of their lives.’
‘People?’
‘People in the public eye. And you’re one of them, John. All those news programmes abroad you’ve done on television. All those interviews.’
He looked at her questioningly.
‘You’ve heard of the BBC programme Who Do You Think You Are? ’ He nodded. ‘Well, we want to do something similar. We’re thinking of calling ours A Life Revisited . Perhaps we’ll find something a bit catchier later. We’re outsourcing this to a company that’ll do the research and the filming. I’ve already spoken to my colleagues, John. We’ve got a number of people in mind. You’re one of them.’
‘I’m not an A-list celebrity, though. Lucy, it’s six in the morning and you’re going into detail about a television programme that I could appear in. Yes, I do find that a bit strange. Don’t you want to go back to bed? Can’t we talk about this later?’
But she had broached the subject and had to go on. She knew she must talk about it now. It soon wouldn’t be appropriate, wouldn’t be possible even, she suspected. ‘Not now I’ve started, John. I needed to mention it to you some time anyway.’ She ignored the query in his look. ‘No, you’re not a celebrity. Probably better that you’re not. But that’s not important. You’re well known. And you work for TV as well. TV brought us together, John. It would be good to talk this through now.’ She almost gabbled her words, so keen was she to explain her point.
She could see that he wasn’t convinced. ‘But perhaps you need something like this. The woman fronting this for the film company is Sarah Marchant. I know her well. She’s discreet. And good. What do you say?’
‘What do you mean “need something like this”, and that she’s discreet?’ he asked.
‘Those years in the children’s home. The abuse you suffered. Perhaps you need to work through it.’
Mention of the home always cut him to the quick, however hard he tried to fight off the feeling. Like all victims of abuse, he wasn’t able to control the deep hurt and sadness of his memories, not even as an adult his age.
‘John, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you but those years have affected you badly and they will always have an impact on your personal relationships.’
‘What are you saying, Lucy? That I need to work through years of abuse to improve our relationship? And on television?’
‘That’s distorting what I said and you know it. All right, forget about any catharsis then. You’d be an ideal subject. It would make compelling television.’
‘But at what cost to me?’ he asked.
‘There’s always a cost, John, in matters like this. And then there are those first four years of your life in Poland. They’re lost to you but they keep resurfacing to haunt you. You’ve never searched out the truth there. I just don’t understand why. I would’ve done.’
‘I’ve told you,’ he replied. ‘I’m scared of the demons there. I just can’t deal with it. Better to leave well alone.’
‘But a doctor will tell you that a wound thinly skinned is still a wound, John. You have to resolve it. For your sake.’
‘Perhaps I don’t want that part of my life opened up for all to see.’
‘I’m sure you’d have some editorial rights about what’s included.’
‘Do you really think so?’
She screwed her face into a smile and shrugged her shoulders.
No, probably not, he thought. ‘I can’t give you an answer right now, Lucy. I need to think it through. Do I want it? Could I bear the intrusion? It would be invasive almost. And I would need to speak to this Sarah Marchant.’
‘What about if I get Sarah to write to you in a few months’ time? Give you a chance to mull it over.’
‘Yes, you can do that,’ he said, more in order to escape from the decision than to confirm it.
And these words gave her some hope. Perhaps he was coming round to the idea. She knew, though, that what she was now going to say would rock him, set him back. He’d probably throw the television idea back in her face. She should have mentioned the programme before. What a fool I am, she thought, but she had to go on. She took a deep breath before continuing.
‘John, I’m sorry but this can’t go on.’
The words shocked him in their abruptness and they shocked her too. They were a bolt out of the blue. Yes, the two had quarrelled before, even separated, but he knew for sure that each time this happened they would return to each other. But this felt patently different. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Surely the words are clear.’ Again she was stunned by her own brusqueness.
‘No, it’s not that. It’s why are you saying this to me? Why now? I know we’ve had our moments but there’s been no argument this time or recently. I don’t understand.’ A feeling of desperation crept over him. This was more than just a step farther than before.
She shifted her position on the couch uneasily and let go of his hand.
‘What does this mean?’ he asked again.
‘We meet once a week in this hotel, in this same room. The relationship’s going nowhere, John. It feels so empty. We’ve spoken about this before.’ She looked around at the room.
He followed her eyes, listening to the hum of the Marylebone traffic through the double-glazed windows, and recognised what was going through her mind. ‘And whose fault