A Foreign Letter

The mailman delivers the mail daily at midday on Piccadilly Row.

At exactly half past, I walk out of the comfortable flat and retrieve the contents of mailbox before leaving the flat to tutor a class of teenage art students.

A gust of wind rushes down the narrow street, throwing my sensibly curled honey blonde hair into my face.

Shuffling the envelopes as I re-enter the flat, one, in particular, is unusual, stamped with 'Par Avion', addressed to me.

I place the rest of the mail for my former housemate, now fiancé, in the kitchen and inspect the envelope.

Opening the envelope, I remove the contents and am met with yet another envelope.

Addressed to Natalia Buchholz-Landau.

Stamped with the symbol of the German government.

A flash of terror dances in my mind.

This should not happen. It is 1955. How could they find me?

Delicately, I open the secondary envelope and recognise the characteristic German typewriter font.

The letter is entirely in German, and for the first time in years, I read my mother tongue.

Translating effortlessly in my mind, I read.

Dear Miss Buchholz-Landau,

The German government has begun paying reparations to Jewish families who were affected by the policies of the Nazi regime.

It is our understanding that you are the sole survivor of the Buchholz-Landau family. A lump-sum payment has been set aside for you to collect at your convenience.

To collect your payment, please contact your local German embassy to schedule an appointment. Please bring this letter and any past German identification documents.

Yours sincerely,

The National Department for War Compensation, Deutschland.

Glancing at my small watch, I notice the time. I quickly untie my cooking apron from over the top of my calf-length skirt and smooth my elbow-length blouse.

Collecting my small purse and keys, I lock the flat and hail a taxi to my class.

I arrive precisely half an hour before the class. I open my personal locker and retrieve my art apron while stowing my purse.

I begin mixing various pigments for my class and one of my more eager students enters the room.

"Good afternoon Miss Lander, soon to be Mrs Joseph Litten!" She squeals.

"And good afternoon to you, Miss Martin," I reply.

"Miss, may I ask you a question?" She asks, eagerly.

"Yes, Miss Martin," I reply, looking up from the paint.

"Will you be continuing teaching us, Miss Lander?"

"Why wouldn't I be, Miss Martin?"

"Because I know you are getting married and most ladies leave their jobs to stay at home for their husbands and children and don't most husbands want that too?" She asks, looking bewildered.

"No, I will continue teaching here. I refuse to leave and my fiancé supports me and thankfully, the school has accepted this. Not many women are so fortunate to have such benevolent employers." I say, returning to preparing the canvases for class.

Before she can reply, the class bell is rung in the hall and students flood into the art room.

The class passes by very quickly, and before very long the students are helping me clean my classroom.

Miss Martin approaches me again, holding a pot of paint brushes.

"I think it is very bold of you to continue working after you marry, Miss Lander. Maybe one day I will too." She says before she places the pot down and exits the classroom.

"My parents would have wanted it no other way..." I mutter to myself, continuing to clean.

As I look up into the doorway, I see my fiancé waiting by the door.

"Ready to leave?" He asks, offering me his arm as I collect my things from my locker.

"One small change of plan. We must visit the German embassy as a matter of urgency." I state as we approach the car.

"As you wish, my dear." He says as we drive away from the school building.

Parking outside the embassy, I check my purse for the letter and documents.

I exit the car with my fiancé close on my heels, and he asks one question.

"Why exactly are we at the German embassy?"

"The past." I simply reply as we enter the building and approach the receptionist.

"Natasha Lander, here about reparations." I say, presenting the letter to the receptionist.

"Right this way, ma'am." She says, directing me to a smaller office.

Opening the door, there is a small young woman behind the desk.

"Good afternoon Miss Lander, I am Sofie Lorenz. I assume this is your husband. Take a seat." she says in her strange hybrid German and English accent.

"Fiancé, thank you." I correct her, my fiancé taking a seat beside me.

I present the requested documents on the table. I notice her eyes scanning them, curiously.

"Ma'am, you have an unusual case. May I ask why your name has changed?"

I see my fiancé puzzled by the question.

"My name was changed in France when I fled the Nazi regime with a close friend. He was discovered, but I carried on, moved to England and worked as a secretary during the war."

"But you are German, yes?" She asks, firmly.

"Yes. I was born and raised there, and left to study art in France."

"Considering your family's position in society, was it not unusual for a girl to have an extended education, in Nazi Germany?" She asks, quizzically.

My fiancé frowns. I give him a reassuring look.

"Yes. It was very unusual where I lived back then; nowadays less so. But my father, he was such a man that he could start with one pfennig and work and work until he got it all back. At some point, I convinced him to let me do the same. It might have just saved me from the world that killed him." I reply, feeling wistful at the mention of my father.

The ambassador smiles softly at my response as she puts an envelope on the table.

"This is yours. You may do with it as you please." She says as we stand and move to leave.

"I hope that the next generation thinks more like you and less like those beforehand." she continues before we depart.

My fiancé drifts behind me as we depart the embassy, envelope tightly in hand.

"I know it is still not easy for Jewish people here, especially those who were displaced and lost their families to the Nazis." He begins, grasping my other hand tightly.

"It is far better here, now, compared to before under Nazi rule in Germany." I say, avoiding his eyes.

"I know." He says to me as we reach the car, as he turns to face me.

"There will always be war. Someone will always be persecuted for means beyond their control and someone will always pay the price." I say, staring squarely at him.

Following him into the car, I note the check is of a sizeable value.

"We will donate this to the Displaced Children's home. They need it far more than we do." I state as we drive towards our little flat on Piccadilly Row.

Author's note:

Thank you for reading! Don't forget to vote and comment!

Xx,

Avi.