Three Sisters (The Tattooist of Auschwitz #3)(102)

‘And so do you!’ Livi snaps. ‘We all do. Now please, Ziggy, you have your father still, your brothers. I have my sisters. Let’s just take our good luck and appreciate it. Do you think it matters whether you had more soup than me? Or that you had two blankets instead of one? We were prisoners, they took us from our homes for no reason and killed our families.’

Ziggy sets down his cup and takes Livi’s hand. ‘I live with my father in Rishon, Livi. I would very much like you to meet him.’

Livi is surprised. She has been with Ziggy for months, but he never once mentioned his father. But at the same time she also knows there is nothing sinister about Ziggy; that this part of his life is so closely entwined with the tragedy of his past, to talk about one he would have had to discuss the other, and, until today, he just wasn’t ready.

‘I would like to meet him,’ says Livi, trying to control the tension in her voice. She too is ready is move on from their stories for the moment.

‘Good, because he is dying to put a face to the beautiful girl I have been telling him about.’ Ziggy opens his mouth to say more, but closes it, peering at Livi intently.

‘Have I got something on my chin?’ she asks.

‘It’s just that odd feeling that I’ve seen you somewhere before, Livi. It’s driving me crazy.’

‘Well, I guess we might have been on the same ship, and we might have just caught each other’s eye at some point.’ Livi is grinning, relieved that Ziggy is not dwelling on the past, that they can now move on and .?.?. something snags at the back of her mind and now she is staring at Ziggy just as intently.

A group of show-offs surrounded by adoring girls.

‘You’re a Peacock Boy!’ she whispers, delighted.

‘I’m a what?’ Ziggy looks appalled.

Livi remembers the young man, standing alone while his ‘fly boy’ peers basked in the golden attention of pretty girls.

‘That’s what Magda called you. Not just you – the group you were with on the boat. The pilots, technicians. Fly boys.’

Ziggy is quiet, and then his face breaks into a huge grin. ‘Of course! You’re the girl who always looked so serious. You didn’t give any of us a second glance.’

‘That’s not true, Ziggy. I gave you two, at least.’ Livi is blushing.

This coincidence thrills Livi. She hadn’t met Ziggy on the whim of a fruit picker she met on a farm; Ziggy was her kindred spirit, and maybe even more than that: her destiny.

They drink more coffee and share another pastry. Livi is unsettled, though: Ziggy has moved on – now he recounts funny stories of his workmates, tells her of his engineering ambitions and mulls over the best cafés for iced coffee, as though he has entirely forgotten that moments ago he was crying for his dead mother.

*

Mrs Weizmann greets Livi with a big smile.

‘My husband returned home last night and as he hasn’t had a chance to meet you, I wondered if you’d like to come along to his office and say hello.’

‘Say hello to President Weizmann?’ Livi asks, with a tiny tremble in her voice.

But Mrs Weizmann is striding ahead. She knocks on the president’s door and opens it without waiting for an invitation. ‘Chaim, this is Livi, the new maid who is keeping us all on our toes.’

‘Hello, Livi.’ The president rises from behind his desk. He has a goatee beard and round glasses; he looks like a university professor. ‘I’ve heard a lot about you.’

His eyes are friendly and Livi finds herself warming to this man. He holds out his hand and Livi takes it. As is her instinct, she slides her left arm behind her back, a gesture the president is quick to catch. He reaches for her arm and, very gently, he pushes up her sleeve. Tenderly, he traces his fingers over the tattooed numbers.

‘There is quite a journey in these numbers, isn’t there?’ he says, softly.

Livi nods.

‘Will you tell me about it?’

*

‘When he held my hand, I thanked God for a man like Chaim Weizmann, a man who has such vision. I really felt, probably for the first time, that I was making a contribution to the promise of Israel.’ Livi is having dinner with Magda and Yitzchak, regaling them with every nuance of her meeting with the president. ‘He didn’t say one word as he listened to my story. Not one, he just let me talk.’

‘Poor man,’ says Magda, laughing. ‘That’s the second time he’s heard our story then.’

‘Mine is different to yours,’ says Livi, regretting her words the moment they leave her mouth. ‘I didn’t mean it like that, Magda. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.’

Magda smiles. ‘Don’t worry, Livi. I know you didn’t.’

But Magda once again feels the dual twinges of guilt and despair whenever any reference is made to the fact that her sisters spent two long years in the camps while she was at home with Mumma, oblivious to their suffering. ‘Well,’ she says, now. ‘All I know is that he’s earned the right to be called Father of Israel, and I think Mrs Weizmann should be called Mother of Israel by now.’

When Magda retreats to her bedroom to lie down after dinner, Livi joins her. Magda can tell her sister is still feeling contrite.

‘Livi, it’s fine. I didn’t for a second think you were trying to hurt me.’