Three Sisters (The Tattooist of Auschwitz #3)(34)

‘Let’s go, girls!’ Yitzchak leads the way down the front path of their home.

Today’s expedition is just to the end of the street, to the Catholic church – a large mosaic above the wide wooden doors shows an image of Christ, a hand raised to bless all who pass through – and priest’s residence. As they draw closer, the church bells ring out. The girls have grown up to their chiming rhythm. It is a comforting, reassuring sound because it calls forth the devout to celebrate baptisms and weddings, and to mourn the loss of loved ones.

The girls would run to the end of the road when the bells rang to admire the brides dressed in white, and dream of the time when it would be their turn to become wives.

Today, the bells tell them it’s midday. They gather at the foot of the steps and stare up at the doors; the priest will appear as soon as the final bell chimes.

‘Come on, hurry it up!’ Livi mutters, jumping up and down on the spot; she has important work to do.

With a flourish both doors creak open and the priest steps out. Dressed in black trousers, a black shirt and with his clerical collar, he raises a hand in welcome to Yitzchak and the girls. His face breaks into a wide smile and he walks down the steps to greet them.

‘Shalom, Yitzchak,’ the priest says, gripping the old man’s hand. ‘How are you, my friend? Your dear wife Rachel is still very much in my prayers.’

‘I am well, Father, even now, during these troubling times,’ Yitzchak replies.

‘Can we go now, Grandfather? It’s my turn to climb the tree and shake the branches,’ Livi pleads.

‘Patience, Livi. Remember your manners. Say hello to the Father first,’ Yitzchak chastises.

‘I’m sorry, Father. How are you?’

‘I am very well, young Livi. And you?’

‘I’m fine. It’s my turn to climb the tree, you know.’

‘I do. And we will leave very soon.’ The priest turns to Magda, who is shivering. ‘Are you sick?’ he asks her.

‘She’s fine, Father,’ Cibi says. ‘She just feels the cold. We’re all well.’

‘Well, then, let’s go and find that tree you seek. Which one is it again, Livi? The large oak out the back?’ he teases.

‘No, Father! It’s the linden tree. We’re to fetch flowers from the linden tree,’ an exasperated Livi fires back.

‘Of course. To the linden then. Follow me.’

But the girls run ahead and the priest and Yitzchak walk slowly behind, knowing that their young charges will wait by the gates to the priest’s home. He will open it and release the girls into the yard, in the centre of which stands the great linden tree.

He pretends to fumble with the keys, prolonging the girls’ excitement, but finally the gate is open and they stream through. The old man and the holy man watch the sisters shriek and chase each other onto the manicured lawn. They are twelve, fourteen and sixteen years of age, but they might as well be toddlers.

The magical tree dominates the garden. It is shelter on a summer’s day, a peaceful place any time of year, its soothing presence guaranteed to ease the worst of moods. The eldest of Vranov’s parishioners don’t remember a time when the tree wasn’t there, making it easily over one hundred years old. The tree, straight and very tall, looms above the town, the highest point for miles.

The girls dance around the tree, kicking up the early fall of flowers. They are there to shake the remaining flowers off its branches.

‘It’s been a good summer,’ Yitzchak observes, taking in the prolific flower growth: delicate pale yellow petals snuggled amongst the emerald green leaves.

‘It has indeed,’ says the priest. ‘There should be enough to keep the neighbourhood in tea for many months.’

‘Come on, Grandfather,’ yells Livi. ‘Spread the sheet. I want to start climbing.’

Yitzchak and the priest unfold the sheet and spread it on the ground.

Cibi reaches up and grabs a branch, shaking it gently. A veil of flowers tumble down.

‘No, Cibi! Let me get up there. You know it’s my turn to shake the branches first,’ Livi yells at her sister.

Cibi giggles. ‘Sorry, I couldn’t help myself.’

‘Give me a hand, then. Help me up.’ Livi lifts her arms to grab the lowest branch and her sisters hoist her up. She climbs and climbs.

Then: ‘Here I go,’ she yells. Slowly, rhythmically, she starts bouncing on a thick limb, holding on to others above for balance. Cibi and Magda below twirl around as thousands of the delicate flowers float down, landing on the white sheet.

Livi moves around the tree, shaking and bouncing. She has flowers in her hair, covering her clothes. She squeals with delight. ‘I’m going to climb up higher,’ she calls.

‘Livia Meller!’ commands her grandfather. ‘You are not to climb any higher.’

‘But, Grandfather, I can do it. Don’t worry! And there are so many flowers up here.’

‘It’s time to come down, my dear. Look at the sheet. We have more than enough for our needs. You must learn to always leave plenty for others.’

With one last strong bounce, Livi reluctantly begins to climb down until she is back on the ground. The sheet is indeed densely laden with the fresh flowers which, once dried, will provide the tea – the elixir, as her mother calls it – to not only warm their bodies, but also to ward off and even cure any ailments that may befall them in the coming winter months.