A Corner of My Heart Read online

  Mum and Dad were great about it, although I think Mum was a little concerned that if I did discover who my birth parents were and met up with them that I might not love the two of them in the same way anymore, or want to spend so much of my time with them.

  “If you do find your mum, Mary, you won’t move away will you? You’ll still let us be a part of yours and Jenny’s lives?” She paused, her voice beginning to crack. “We love you both very much, you know that, don’t you?”

  “Don’t be daft; you’ll always be my real mum. You and Dad are the best parents anyone could ask for, and certainly the best grandparents any little girl could want, you ask Jenny.” I gave her a hug. “Whatever happens, Mum, this will always be our home – at least I hope so?” Mum laughed, wiping a tear from her eye as she did so.

  “You silly thing, of course it will, for as long as you both want.”

  “Well that’s settled then.” I hugged her again and smiled. “Time to put the kettle on, I think.”

  We spent the next 20 minutes drinking our tea and chatting together as I explained in greater detail why I needed to know more about this woman who hadn’t apparently loved me enough to keep me, nor wanted me as much as she and Dad had. I couldn’t comprehend why any woman wouldn’t hold the same affection for their child as I did for Jenny, in loving them, caring for them, and protecting them for as long as a breath of air remained in their body.

  “I just can’t understand why she didn’t feel the same way about me as I do about Jen.”

  I looked at Mum and sensed her need for reassurance.

  “Or in the same way that you and Dad feel about me, okay, Mum? Never doubt that I know absolutely how much the two of you love me, and Jenny, that’s a given, yeah? But I need to know the reasons she made the decisions she did. I need to make some sense of how and why she let me go, and maybe in the process discover more about myself as a person?”

  Mum said she understood and would talk to Dad about what they could remember from the time of my adoption. “Your dad’s better at detail than me, Mary, especially about that time. I just wanted to get you home and didn’t think too much about the logistics of it all or the paperwork.”

  True to her word they both spoke to me a day or two later and told me everything they could recall about how I had come into their lives after they had discovered they couldn’t have any children of their own and so had made the decision to try and adopt.

  “We weren’t given much detail about your mother,” Dad said, “except that she was a young girl who had got herself pregnant by an unnamed man. Apparently she had no desire to keep you or means of supporting the two of you even if she had done and so you were taken into care. As far as I can remember you were put up for adoption pretty much as soon as you were born, with your mum and I agreeing to take you just a few weeks later.”

  They said they didn’t really know much beyond that as it wasn’t deemed advisable or appropriate at that time, in the late 1940s, for the birth mother and the adoptive parents to have any form of contact between them, nor any discussion regarding the adoption itself, or in the physical handing over of the baby.

  “We were told this was best for all parties as it allowed for a clean break for the mother and a fresh start at life for the baby and its adoptive parents.”

  I was grateful for their honesty and that they had chosen me to be their daughter, bringing me up as their own, but I still couldn’t reconcile how any woman, even a young teenage girl as I had been, could give up her child, her own flesh and blood without at least some form of protest or fight to keep it. I also knew that in those days the birth mother wasn’t allowed to make contact with the child’s new family, but times had changed and I was determined to discover the truth, no matter how painful that truth might prove to be for the both of us, even accepting that she had obviously learnt to live her life without me. There still had to be a reason why she hadn’t at least tried to keep me and I wanted to know what that reason was, as much for myself as in responding to Jenny’s own curiosity. Perhaps these questions had lain dormant in my heart for years and Jenny’s interest had acted as the catalyst needed to stir them back into life, but alive they were and I knew they wouldn’t go away again until they had been answered.

  Dad helped me with those early letters to the adoption agency in trying to trace my birth mother and getting permission for me to approach her.

  The law has changed in more recent years and it is easier now to obtain that sort of information, but back in the late ’40s such legal procedures were carried out very differently and so I needed to get the detail right. I was really nervous, and if I’m honest a part of me had half hoped they would say no, but they didn’t and so after staring at the mountainous pile of forms and paperwork that arrived for a few days, Dad agreed again to help me fill in the required detail and send them off.

  It was a few weeks later that I received a letter informing me that my mother had replied and given permission for me to contact her. The envelope was lying on the table when I arrived home one day, and Mum was looking at it nervously as I entered the room. She could see where it was from because of the post mark and official stamp on the front. “There’s a letter for you, love.” She nodded towards it trying to look indifferent but failing miserably. “It looks like the one you’ve been waiting for.”

  I felt a sense of trepidation as I picked up the envelope, staring at it for a moment before opening it carefully in some form of needless deference to its official status. I knew deep inside, for all my misgivings, what I wanted to see and hear the letter say, but I was also fearful that if it was the yes I had been hoping for then perhaps I would now be opening a Pandora’s Box that couldn’t be closed again and one that would potentially change all of our lives forever, but to what end?

  The letter itself, whilst looking very official, didn’t say much in truth apart from the fact that she had agreed for me to get in touch with her. It also offered me an address that I could write to if I decided I wanted to progress our contact to the next level. It wasn’t her home address but one that would act as a sort of intermediary between the two of us; this in turn would allow her the space and time to decide if she wanted to continue the process further herself. I suppose it was also to ensure that I couldn’t simply march round to her house demanding answers to a list of questions she may or may not wish to answer, or even feel entirely comfortable in doing. Also, progressing slowly in this way meant that if things didn’t work out we could both simply return to the lives we already knew without any undue embarrassment or the potential for either of us to do or say something we might later regret. Either way I felt in agreement that this was probably the best way to proceed, certainly at this early stage, although a part of me was disappointed not to have been able to arrange a meeting there and then to get the whole thing out in the open and dealt with. But I also recognised that in maintaining some sort of distance between us, at least for now, would also allow us to have second thoughts and to act on them if the prospect of what we were contemplating became too much for either of us.

  Until that letter arrived I had felt increasingly confident about the detail of what I wanted to know but now, having been given permission to pose those questions, my thoughts became more confused and I was unsure about how best to couch them or what to say.

  I must have started writing my reply a hundred times but nearly always beginning with the same obvious demands to know about how I came to be in the world and why had she let me go. I would look at this page of self-centred rage and indignation for a moment before tearing it up in frustration and starting again.

  Sometimes I would attempt to be polite and make small talk but would quickly find myself going off at the deep end once more, ranting on about what sort of an awful woman she must be and demanding to know how could she desert me, her own child, a baby of only seven weeks?

  This went on for ages until in the end Mum sug
gested that I write just a very simple letter, introducing myself and asking only the essential questions such as where I was born and what could she tell me about my father?

  “You’ve waited all this time, Mary, so another few weeks of taking things slowly won’t hurt. Just go gently to begin with and see what happens. Remember this is probably as difficult for her as it is for you, maybe harder. After all she’s the one who let you go; she’s the one who has to explain herself, not you. You don’t want to scare her off at the first hurdle.”

  Mum said by moving slowly this would allow for the opportunity to establish some common ground between us and not make her feel under any immediate threat or pressure to address the more difficult issues and harder to answer questions so early on in our relationship. Also, that once we had established some sort of basic rapport this might hopefully facilitate the two of us being able to move forward more easily, thus allowing her to feel more relaxed when addressing the more exacting detail of what had actually led to her letting me go at such a young age.

  “You need to gain her confidence, love; you can’t simply bully her into answering you. I’m not sticking up for her but I bet she’s every bit as nervous as you are about all of this, and for both your sakes you need to get it right. Once you’ve gained her trust and she knows you’re not just out to vilify her you’ll both be in a better position to open up to each other and address the things you’ve probably both wanted to say, or ask for years. I’ll bet there are a hundred things she’s desperate to know about you, whatever your misgivings or feelings about her might be. She’s still a human being, Mary, and your dad and I have brought you up to value and respect everyone as an individual no matter how hard that might be to do at times. Once you know more about each other and why she was happy for you to be adopted by your dad and I then you can decide for yourself whether you want anything more to do with her or whether you’re simply happy to say thank you and goodbye. At least you’ll have the answers you’re looking for then, for both you and Jenny. And remember sweetheart, whatever you ultimately decide your dad and I will stand by you.”

  I accepted this as good advice. After all, as Mum had said, I didn’t know this woman and all of these events that were bothering me so much had taken place some twenty-eight years ago; times had changed and perhaps she had as well? Maybe, like me, she had made a mistake in getting pregnant and had agreed to let me go in a panic, having no-one to support her as I had been so fortunate to have had in James and Carol? And now after all this time perhaps she has managed to put all that happened in the past behind her and feels it is too late for us to start over again, or maybe she has a new life and doesn’t want me to be a part of it? And what if she hadn’t really wanted to have a baby at all and that had been the reason for her letting me go? After all, she’d apparently never made any attempt to get in touch with me during the past twenty eight years, or more recently since the laws regarding contact between adopted children and their birth parents had changed. But if that were true, why agree to any further contact now unless it is to tell me to leave her alone once and for all?

  I continued to torment myself with these thoughts for a few more days until in the end I did as Mum advised and just wrote a short and simple letter asking where I’d been born, who my father was and why she’d agreed to my adoption. I said I didn’t want, or need, to know about her life as we would probably never meet and that as we’d survived this long without each other, why get into a lot of personal details that had no bearing on the people we were today, nor would go on to become in the future.

  As I sealed the envelope I was suddenly filled with regret that I hadn’t listened to my head which still wanted to know more, but in the same instant my heart reminded me it couldn’t bear the disappointment of hearing things that might potentially break it, or call into question the sanctuary and security I already knew in my life with Jenny, Mum and Dad. I couldn’t and wouldn’t threaten those precious relationships at any cost.

  Four

  We were to be sent to the death camp at Birkenau, although we had no awareness of this as we journeyed by ship, road and rail over the next week towards our final destination.

  I remember the German soldiers arriving at our house on the morning we left; they banged on the front door, shouting at us to come out. “SchnelI, Schnell. Come quickly.”

  I looked out of my bedroom window and could see them standing in their uniforms laughing with each other, their dogs barking at our door as if telling us to hurry as well.

  I looked up the road and saw two women and a little girl making their way down the street carrying their bags and battered cases as they walked side by side flanked by more soldiers and their dogs. I noticed one of the women, a friend of my mother’s, Mrs Goldhirsch, turn to pick up her little daughter, Hannah, who was moving too slowly for the soldiers. She handed a bag to the other woman as she swept Hannah into her arms, struggling to hold onto her case as she did so. The case dropped to the ground and as she moved to pick it up a German soldier kicked it forward and shouted at Mrs Goldhirsch. I couldn’t hear what he was saying but he pushed her so hard that Hannah nearly fell from her arms. As she stumbled and picked up the case I could see she was upset but trying not to cry as she held Hannah close to her in an effort to reassure her. The soldier forced her forward with the butt of his rifle and yelled at her again. I watched as Hannah began to cry and Mrs Goldhirsch did her best to comfort her as the soldiers continued barking orders at them to keep moving. My parents called for me to hurry. “Come on, Ruth, quickly, we have to go now.” I felt a shudder of fear run through me as I made my way down the stairs carrying my own small bag containing a few treasured belongings including my favourite doll. I had already determined in my own mind that she wouldn’t be knocked from my grasp by the bullying soldiers outside no matter what they did to me.

  Once outside we were forced on to the back of a truck and taken to the port ready to board the ship that was preparing to sail to France for the next part of our journey. The weather on the crossing was rough and did little to ameliorate the mood of the guards towards us as we sat huddled on the windswept deck with both the rain and the spray from the sea soaking into our clothing and dampening more than just our spirits.

  Mama and I felt seasick for most of the journey and so were relieved to see the French coastline ahead of us as we approached the calmer waters of the harbour.

  After disembarking we were taken to a large warehouse along with many other Jewish families who had been rounded up from various towns and villages, both locally and from other districts. Like us, they had the Star of David attached to their clothing and wore the now familiar look of fear on their faces as we all stood cramped together in almost total silence, exhausted and waiting for whatever it was the German’s had prepared for us next.

  A short while later a German officer entered the building accompanied by two other soldiers carrying rifles. They pointed the guns menacingly towards us as the officer stood on a wooden box to speak.

  “Soon you will board a train and be taken to a special camp where you will be held for the duration of the war. Once you are there you will be given work to do in supporting the glorious German war effort against our enemies, and in defending the German people from attack.” He stood to attention and threw his arm forward outstretched in front of him. “Heil Hitler.”

  One of the men standing near the front of the crowd stepped forward.

  “Please could you give us a little more detail of exactly where it is we are being sent to and what will happen to us when we arrive?” There was a murmur of approval from those standing nearby and another man stepped forward.

  “Can we also have some food and water as well? Many of us haven’t eaten for some time and the children especially are hungry and thirsty.”

  The soldiers pointed their rifles directly at the men and forced them back into line as the officer bellowed his dismissive reply.


  “I do not have time to concern myself with feeding your Jewish bellies; my orders are to get everyone loaded onto the train and transported to the camp as soon as possible. There will be no more discussion about this. You will follow my orders and those given to you by my soldiers without question.” He stared menacingly at us and especially towards the two men who had been brave enough to speak; “Is that clear?” The officer stood motionless for a few seconds his gaze focused on those who had been foolish enough to question him as if daring them to speak out again. They recognised from his brutal response any further attempt at discussion or protest would, not only be futile, but more than likely be met by some form of active aggression against them as a chosen means of reply.

  When the soldiers had satisfied themselves there would be no further questions or complaints, at least none that we felt brave enough to verbalise, they left. There was a moment’s stunned silence as we processed in our minds what the officer had said; then just as suddenly the building was filled with raised voices and the cries of children as the realisation of what we had been told took on a terrifying reality of its own. Whatever the Germans had in mind for us it clearly wasn’t too make our immediate, nor presumably, longer term existence anything less than uncomfortable.

  Some of the men started suggesting we should stand up to the Germans and demand to know what they were intending to do with us.

  “There are not that many of them, perhaps we could overpower them.” A large woman pushed herself through the crowd. “Are you mad? There may be more of us but they have guns, and listening to that officer I am sure he would be more than happy to tell his soldiers to shoot us if we made a move against them.”

  Another woman spoke out. “And then what will happen to us, with many of our men and perhaps even some of our children dead? They would still send the rest of us of to the prison camp. If I am going to have to live as a prisoner I want it to be with my husband and children beside me, not dead and buried in the ground hundreds of miles away.”