Three Sisters (The Tattooist of Auschwitz #3)(107)



‘You said you’ll marry me.’ Ziggy is grinning, reaching into his pocket for a small box. He flips it open and takes out a ring which he slips onto Livi’s finger.

She holds up her hand to admire the tiny green stone. ‘It’s the same colour as the woods in spring in Vranov,’ she exclaims.





CHAPTER 31

Rehovot

1952

L

ivi wanders through the rose gardens of the Weizmann household, her arms full of blooms with which to make new flower arrangements. She places them on a garden bench and continues her journey amongst the bushes, alert for the tiny buds which will return an abundant crop of roses the following year. The gardeners have turned the soil earlier that morning and the rich earth is dark and so inviting that Livi bends to pick up handfuls of it, which she lets sift through her fingers.

‘You are my land now,’ she whispers to the earth. ‘My home. Thank you for taking us in.’ Livi does not hear the president approach with Prime Minister David Ben-Gurion; when she turns back round, the men are sitting on the bench where she placed the roses, watching her intently.

‘Ah hem,’ President Weizmann says.

Livi is startled, the soil still falling from her hands. ‘I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, I—’

‘Livi, what ever are you sorry about?’ says the president, laughing. ‘You are right, this is your land.’ He turns to the prime minister. ‘David, maybe you would agree it’s more Livi’s land than ours.’

Ben-Gurion nods, with a sad smile.

‘You have lost so much, Livi, suffered more than any of us can imagine; if anyone has earned the right to be here it is you and your sisters,’ continues the president.

Livi rubs her hands on her apron, stepping off the soil onto manicured lawn. Briskly, she walks over to the bench and gathers the flowers.

‘The president’s right you know, Livi. This is your home now, and it is our honour to watch you claim it.’ Ben-Gurion stands and gives Livi a short bow.

‘Thank you, Mr Prime Minister. I will leave you both as I’m sure you have important matters to discuss.’ Livi is blushing, keen to be on her way.

‘Have we, David? Do you have anything important for us to discuss?’ President Weizmann asks, playfully.

‘Oh, I’m sure we can think of something,’ Ben-Gurion replies, as Livi hurries away.

*

Livi no longer skips to work and she hasn’t for a while: the president is very sick and Livi’s worst fears are realised when, in November, she arrives in the kitchens to be told that he died in the night.

For the rest of the day, Livi watches hundreds of men, women and children gather outside the gates to weep for the man who had dedicated his life to giving them their promised land.

Livi thinks about promises as her own tears fall. Vows and pacts and bonds and pledges, they all amount to the same thing, really: a declaration to fulfil a dream. Israel has already given her more than she dared to hope for. Her sisters have looked after her, as they promised their father they would, and she knows she has looked after them. Her fingers close around the small knife; it’s always on her person, whether it’s in her bag or in a pocket. She remembers how Cibi used it to feed her slices of onion – such a small thing, but as much a part of their pact as Mumma’s candlesticks. Hell had escaped its moorings and risen to earth in the shape of Auschwitz and Birkenau and all the other camps, and yet, and yet, she had found the knife, and the sisters had found Magda, and Magda had kept them alive on a march to their deaths. Even in hell, they found enough hope to help them fulfil a promise.

As Livi watches Chaim Weizmann’s coffin being carried through the house and outside to await the thousands gathered at the gates to pay their respects, she bows her head and whispers a prayer of thanks for the man who had given the sisters a safe place to heal, and to create a new family of their own. His coffin is laid on the heavy framework of a catafalque in the rear garden within a canopy of heavy white drapes, beside his beloved rose garden. From the foyer of the Weizmann household, Livi watches as his wife, Vera, on the arm of Prime Minister Ben-Gurion, is escorted outside to sit with her husband one final time.

Livi is still in the foyer with the other staff when the first lady returns. They haven’t exchanged a single word from the moment the coffin was taken into the garden.

‘Why don’t you go now and pay your respects to Chaim before the public is allowed in?’ Mrs Weizmann suggests. ‘I know you all loved him and I hope you know he loved you.’

‘I did love him,’ says Livi, fervently. She realises she must have been scratching her tattoo when Vera takes her hand and presses it to her heart.

‘It meant so much to him to have you here, young Livi,’ she says. ‘You have no idea.’

When Mrs Weizmann leaves, the prime minister steps forward. ‘And it means so much to me,’ says David Ben-Gurion, with a short bow to Livi. ‘Please, all of you, go and say goodbye to your president.’

Soldiers stand to attention at each corner of the catafalque in the dazzling sunshine. Livi’s knees almost buckle as she approaches the president’s coffin, but fortunately the gardener is there to catch her as she stumbles.

‘I don’t know what to say,’ Livi croaks.

‘You don’t have to say anything, Livi,’ the gardener says. ‘All you need to do is stand here and feel the love Chaim Weizmann had for this land.’

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