Papa flagged us into the drawing room, where we were encouraged to say goodbye. Uncle Stephan gently stroked the top of my head, and then he let his hand slip down on to my shoulder. And then he did the same to Margot. We stood on either side of him, but he said nothing. It was Papa who spoke.
'I shall walk with my brother to the end of the street.'
I cannot remember any formal leave-taking, any shaking of hands, or kissing or embracing. I do, however, remember Margot and me peering out of the drawing-room window as Papa and his brother emerged from the house. For a moment they paused, and Papa glanced up at the window. And then they turned and began to walk away from the four-storey house. Tall Uncle Stephan, with his long strides, and a frustrated Papa scurrying along beside him. Papa liked to have his own way. Even as I watched the pair of them walking, I sensed how much pain his brother's departure was causing Papa. But Uncle Stephan walked with a firm step. A decision had been made.
Once Uncle Stephan returned to Palestine, he disappeared without trace. The police would occasionally visit and ask after him, and Mama would always make these men coffee and offer them cakes. I remember Papa's patient tone. Everything was polite and civilized while they were here. No, he had still not heard from his brother. Yes, he would most certainly let them know if he did hear. But after these men had gone, Papa would fly into a rage at the thought that his brother could place him in a situation that required the police to visit the house. And then there were the men who turned up either early in the morning or late at night, and who invariably needed a bed for a night or two, a meal, a bath and some money, before they went on their way. Neither Mama nor Papa ever turned these idealistic young men away, knowing full well that they were either on their way to, or on their way back from Palestine and Uncle Stephan. However, when asked, none of them ever delivered any news of Uncle. They were being schooled in the same methods of evasion which Uncle Stephan had mastered, yet they remained pupils. Uncle Stephan would never have shrugged his shoulders as these men did. He was both more skilled and kinder.
And then, some two years after Uncle Stephan's departure, a gaunt-looking man arrived one morning while we were still having breakfast. He was inadequately dressed for the cold, in a thin jacket and with a long scarf wrapped three or four times around his neck. His eyes were watering and his cheeks seemed to have been hollowed by the wind. He stood at the door to the kitchen, grateful that some warmth was seeping into his bones. Papa asked Hannah first to give him a cup of coffee and a piece of bread, and then to show him to the spare room where he might sleep.
That evening, Papa asked the man to dine with us. Clearly this was a special man, for Papa had never extended such an invitation to any of the others. The man sipped gingerly at a glass of red wine as he ate, but soon the bottle was empty. However, the man kept his tongue and spoke only when spoken to. Once the plates had been cleared, Papa and this newly rested man retired to the drawing room. I asked Margot what she made of him, but all she would say was that he was not as old as he looked. To her mind, he was a young man who had thrown away his youth. Mama and I stared at Margot, who began to colour. She then stood and asked if she might be excused from the table.
Papa had used all his contacts and resources to let it be known that he would happily reward anybody who might help him solve the mystery of what had happened to his brother. It transpired that this man, who now sat in the drawing room, clumsily sucking on one of Papa's finest cigars and introducing himself to a second bottle of red wine, was prepared to help Papa solve this mystery. Margot and I eavesdropped by the door to the drawing room as the man explained to Papa that Uncle Stephan was one of the leaders of the Palestine underground army, and that among these young idealists he was something of a legend. As the story of brave Uncle Stephan's exploits began to be told, I found myself thinking that perhaps Uncle had been right to try to make a new home in Palestine. Things in our country had raced rapidly downhill since the morning when Papa had walked with his brother to the end of the street.
According to this man's report, Uncle Stephan had not been seen or heard of for six months, but the man was sure that nothing adverse could have happened to Papa's brother. Apparently, the nature of Uncle Stephan's work meant that occasionally he would have to undertake secret missions, but he had always emerged at the conclusion of his duties as though nothing untoward had occurred. Papa seemed painfully unconvinced, but the man pressed on and began to speak now of the world he was rediscovering, with its restrictions and new laws, and he expressed both surprise and anger that we should be treated in this fashion. Fortifying himself with the dregs of the second bottle of wine, he encouraged Papa to abandon the land of his birth while he still had time. Papa glared at this scruffy young man, who clumsily pawed at the expensive cigar and who swilled down his fine wine as though it were water. And then, as though a cloud was suddenly lifted from his evening, it occurred to Papa that the vulgar rogue was simply waiting for money. Papa reached for his wallet, and Margot and I looked at each other. And still the young man puffed away.
Later that same evening, Papa told his wife and daughters that his brother Stephan might be dead in a hot country, among people who did not know him, or love him, or care for him. Papa paused, the look on his face so poignant that only now do I realize how desperately unhappy Papa must have been. Papa needed his family. He needed his wife. He needed his daughters. He needed his brother. At this stage, he even needed his parents. Mama looked on helplessly, and then she smiled in the direction of her girls.
I think of Uncle Stephan sitting on the bench in the garden and making his decision while the night blackened the trees. Uncle Stephan trudging up the stairs to pacify the children who teased him relentlessly, but only because they were so proud of him. Uncle Stephan steeling himself for a life of commitment, trying to justify to himself the enormity of the crime of leaving his wife and daughter. Perhaps he saw something that we did not see. Perhaps he knew that he had to throw himself into the building of another world, even if this meant setting himself adrift from those who loved him. Including us. Two annoying young girls. I like to think that, wherever he is, Uncle Stephan might sometimes remember Margot and Eva. Two annoying young girls.
IT WAS raining heavily now. Through the window of the cafe I could see passers-by bent almost double, leaning into the wind and trying to shield their eyes from the rain. Occasionally the wind would roar and catch an innocent, holding him or her for a second or so, a single leg hanging half-suspended, and then the wind would stop its foolishness and let the victim fall back to the ground. I felt particularly grown-up as I observed the world bustling by on that dark November afternoon, for I was out with Papa. I looked across at him, but Papa had no interest in anything beyond his own thoughts. He idly stirred the spoon in his coffee, seemingly intrigued by its circular journey.
A drenched couple stepped inside from the rain. They peeled off their coats and hung them on the brass hooks by the door. Then they looked around and began to push their way across the cafe towards us. Once they reached our table, the man took off his glasses and asked if anyone was sitting opposite us. Papa looked up and shook his head. The man bowed quickly and asked, 'May we?' meaning would it be all right if they shared our table?