Toxic Distortions

By Teddy Goldstein

This novel takes the reader breathlessly from extraordinary revelation to nail-biting resolution.

The year is 1965.

London, Dr. Michael Turner receives a lawyer's letter. Misty photographs - a three-year-old boy with long blond hair. A teenage girl full of sensuality, full of hope. A woman in her twenties, faded dress, slim frame, hollow cheeks, painful rictus grin, haunted eyes. Michael is drawn inexorably into an ancient nightmare. The stench of potato-sacks, the perfume of almonds and cinnamon, the kiss of a fairy princess, the barking of dogs, the screech of trains, a woman tearing at his shirt, her wail of loss.

Paris, Delphine Garrigue at last understands her courageous act of madness.

Frankfurt, Franz Sterberbett watches television -thick smoke rising from a brick chimney. A cremation. His cremation.

Geneva, Vittorio Bruneschini entwines two silken puppets in an erotic splaying of legs, a lifting of buttocks,and weeps for his unfaithful wife.

Bournemouth, on the festival of Chanucah, Willy Krillinck and Reuben Levy compete by lifting a huge Menorah from their shoulder. A fight to the death.

Endorsements:
"It has all the appropriate elements: Mystery, brutality, history, emotion,strong characters, dialogue...One of the most powerful and poignant narratives I have read in a very long time."
Cal McCrystal.

"...evoked many dark memories of my earliest days." Marcel Ladenheim, the survivor on whom part one of this book was based.

"An important and timely project which alerts us to the venal nature of fascism." Peter Majer, child of survivors, senior lecturer, drama and performance studies, university of Roehampton.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Teddy Goldstein
• Release date: Dec 13, 2010
• ISBN: 9781458153838

Teddy Goldstein

ABOUT THE AUTHOR: After Oxford, Teddy Goldstein's fascination with the written word was never far from the surface. His career was largely spent in areas where he could express his creativity - educational publishing, creating training programmes, scripting and directing industrial films. But it was not until later in his life that he really found his voice. In his late sixties he took a series of courses at Skyros and Birkbeck College, London. He then went on to do a degree in Creative Writing at Middlesex University where he won a short story prize as a part of the annual literary festival. As a result he gained enough confidence to start 'writing through the skin.' It was then that he found himself returning again and again to subjects which had troubled him all his life - the random injustice and irony of the Holocaust. The greed of the Nazis. But it was not until 2010 when he heard Marcel Ladenheim's poignant story of sacrifice and rescue that he was inspired to write this book.

Book preview

TOXIC DISTORTIONS

by

Teddy Goldstein

SMASHWORDS EDITION

PUBLISHED BY

Teddy Goldstein on Smashwords

Toxic Distortions

Copyright 2010 Teddy Goldstein

Smashwords Edition License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. It may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return it to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the author’s work.

Disclaimer

Although this book was inspired by the accounts of Holocaust Survivors like Marcel Ladenheim, and informed by a number of unassailable historical facts, gleaned from rigorous research, it is nevertheless a work of fiction. There are occasional references to real people and events from history, but these are simply intended to add to the authentic nature of the narrative. The names have been carefully chosen not to offend the living. The novel is a figment of the author’s imagination. No more. No less.

Teddy Goldstein, January

Note: See end of novel for Book Club Discussion Points

*. *. *

"Tell me what you blame on the Jews and I will tell you what you are guilty of yourself."

Vasily Grosman

TOXIC DISTORTIONS

PART 1

Chapter 1

London, 10 August 1965

No premonition. Narrow hall, serene in the early morning. Pastels seeping through fake Victorian glass. Door locked and chained. Barbour, umbrella, Hush Puppies and running shoes in their appointed places. The usual Guardian and a few letters litter the floor. Eyes blurred with waxy sleep, he scoops up the debris and takes it to the breakfast table. Swiss muesli, Cox’s apple and rapidly cooling cup of tea. He glances idly at the paper, the editorial, words of sense in this anarchy. Now the post. Gas bill, junk mail. Then he sees it. Sad, grey envelope, Swiss stamp. He opens the envelope with one precise incision and removes the letter. Strange anachronistic, governmental motif, badly drawn eagles glaring anxiously at one another above the photocopied text. Two smaller sheets – misty copies of old photographs.

Andreas Federiz, Avocat

Geneve

Confederation Helvetique

Telephone: Geneve 7342190888

5th August 1965

Dear Sir

Re: Michael Turner,

We are seeking an individual who was born in early 1939. I enclose two photographs, one was taken in the early days of 1942 of a child whose name was Michel at the age of three, with a girl of a similar age. The other is an image of the boy’s mother, a 25 year old lady whose name was Augustine Rosenberg and her sister Mathilde Auslander who was then 17.

If you recognise any of the people in these photograph copies, please can I know because I have something urgent and very important to communicate to the male child who will be an adult man by now.

Yours faithfully

Federiz, Andreas,

He fumbles with the photocopied images. First sheet, a chirpy three year old boy with long blond tousled hair, almost plump in patterned romper suit, grinning broadly at a new toy car, awkwardly holding hands with a skinny little girl, grumpy in a white dress which contrasts with the curtained background, a big bow in her skimpy hair, a foot thrust forward, a thin arm held up as if to ward off a blow from the photographer. Who is this girl? The sister he had never known. What was her name? Second sheet, two women. The younger, in low cut blouse and tight skirt, deliberately standing in profile to accentuate her figure, arching her back, holding her skirt and thrusting her left leg forward, her head turned towards the camera, one arm draped over the other’s shoulder, hair lustrous, eyes alive, painted lower lip full, sensuous, her smile brilliant, brilliant in spite of – no, because of the small gap between her teeth. A woman full of life, full of sensuality, full of hope. The other, dank unkempt hair, faded diagonal patterned dress, slim frame, hollow cheeks, painful rictus grin. She clutches her sister’s arm and gazes at her for strength. Haunted eyes, pinpricks, stressed into dark hollows, eyes he knows, his eyes. He looks at the photographs again. The light is brilliant; perfect. But there is something wrong. It takes him several minutes to work it out. In the first photograph a dark shadow imposes itself, draws the eye away from the image on the page. The shadow of a man, the photographer perhaps? He remembers the man, his deep foreign voice. The birthday party where he saw a green jelly rabbit for the first time and thought it was real, where they all cried after they had sung ‘Happy Birthday’. His best present that day, a red Schuco car which somehow changed direction when you shouted into the grill in its roof.

And then, like crows glimpsed from a speeding train, the images have gone. He looks out of the kitchen window. Everything just as it was ten seconds ago. The line of poplars changing partners like dancers, the swaying oak, the broken swing. A thousand worlds away.

* * *

Highgate Woods. Murmurs of ancient coppiced trees, oak, hornbeam, beech. Thinning holly bushes. Gentle slopes growing imperceptibly steeper, harder, as he increases pace. Familiar, comforting exhaustion comes at last and with it an openness, an ability to see beyond the sunlight filtering through sparse branches. Beyond the filigree flashes staining the leaves and mud and paths, beyond the flicker in the eyes to the flicker in the mind.

Images invade his pounding blankness. A woman clutching his arm fiercely, scratching at him, tearing his shirt, screaming as he is dragged away. The stench of potato sacks, dust, earth in his mouth, in his nostrils. The smell of almonds and chocolate mingling with the perfume of a fairy princess; her lingering kiss; her tears, her last embrace, her wail of loss.

* * *

It is two days before he can look at the photographs again. Augustine. Augustine Rosenberg, his mother. The mother he cannot remember. Her eyes. Distraught. Destroyed, even then. And his aunt. Such confidence, such strength. The arched back, the wanton leg, the gap in her teeth. He looks again at the first photograph. The thin girl, his sister, his twin sister perhaps? The defensive arm. Did they fight? Did they share things? And this contented blond boy, was he really so happy? But where was his father? Was he that shadow in the photograph? The deep foreign voice. Why does this lawyer want to see him? To tell him how much they suffered before they died? To say they are alive? Will he see his mother, his real mother, again?

So the trap has been shut. There is no going back to the days of defensive formality, the nights of terror. He must move forward. How? Should he contact this lawyer? Tell him he is the boy in these photographs? Receive reparations? Impossible. One step into the past would shatter his eggshell self, leave him as he was when he first came to England.

All those sessions trying to break free. Unhooking endless webs of pain, visualizing himself falling into nothingness, released into an emotionless void. He had drowned in amnesia for so long. Would this new knowledge destroy him? His chest is bursting. His asthma breaks through. He struggles for his inhaler.

* * *

The phone grows slippery with tears. Outside, it starts to rain – more tears trickling down the window of the sordid phone booth. Floor littered with fag ends and condoms. Stench of urine and ancient cigarette smoke, prostitutes’ cards promising oblivion for an instant. He can hardly make out the endless numbers on the soggy grey Swiss letterhead. At last the receiver purrs, an unfamiliar tinny sound.

Federiz Avocat, j’ecoute.

Young woman, indeterminate accent.

My name is Michael Turner, Mr Federiz please, he is waiting to hear from me.

"Michael Turner – you say?

Yes.

I am the secretary of Mr Federiz, perhaps I can help you?

No I’m sorry but I must speak to Mr Federiz himself. It is very urgent.

One moment please.

Pounding migraine. How did he get here? He had spent days deciding that he would do nothing. He was determined to wait for the agony to pass, for the images to stop invading. And then, on his way to the hospital, he found himself walking into this phone booth. Why? What possessed him?

Mister Turner?

A voice lacking authority. Some minor functionary, a government clerk perhaps.

This is Doctor Michael Turner, is that Mr Federiz?

I am Federiz. You have receipted my letter, yes?

It’s hardly likely that I would be ringing you otherwise, wouldn’t you say?

I am sorry, I do not understand. A pause, Oh, yes this is the famous English sense of humour. So Dr. Turner, are you recognizing any of the photographs I have sent you?

Yes, the boy, that is me. There is no doubt.

No doubt you say. Good. Good.

Look, Mr Federiz, I don’t really want to revisit my past unless it is really necessary. I have no idea who you are and why you have…

…Dr Turner, of course I cannot force you to help with my enquiries. But many people have died in my country during the war, in terrible ways. I am determined to find the people who did these things, to bring them to justice. Will you help me?

Michael cannot answer.

Dr. Turner, are you there?

Yes, yes. I will. I will help you. But I cannot see how I can prove...

…Please Dr. Turner, say nothing more to me at this time. It is very important that you say nothing now. I will be in England within five days. I must now make an arrangement with you for the time I am in your country. We must meet. Is it OK for you?

I suppose so, what day?

Thursday fifteenth August at the Ritz Hotel in Piccadilly London, at midday? Is OK?

Yes, I’ll ask for you at the Reception.

Good. I will a see you in five days at the Ritz Hotel in Piccadilly London. Good bye Dr. Turner, and thank you for your gentle co-operation. Oh, one more thing. Please, do you have any photograph of yourself as a child?

As a child? The one they took at Calais. The label round his neck. The look of terror still in his eyes.

Yes, yes I have one photograph, from when I left France.

Excellent. Bring it with you please. Oh, I am not sure if I said that I will also need to see your passport. Until 11am on the fifteenth then. Goodbye.

Wait!

Michael is stunned by the panic in his voice.

Sorry… sorry, can you tell me please. Are any of my family alive? Is my mother alive, my sister?

The lawyer is firm.

I regret that I am not at liberty to divulge any information until I have personally verified your identity. I am sorry Dr Turner. This is the law. I will give you all the information on the 15th.

Michael replaces the receiver without a word. His pain is too intense.

* * *

Unusually pallid August day, polished Americans hovering around the exquisite Art Deco entrance. Why has he never noticed this beautiful glass canopy before? Why is he fixating on it now of all times? Over-dressed, embellished porters sneer behind ingratiating smiles.

Endless queue at reception. Ice forms on his forehead as he inches forward. A short man with silvering hair is looking at him, his eyes questioning.

Mr Federiz?

Yes, Dr. Turner?

Impeccable in dark suit and crisp white shirt. Florentine reds in swirling tie. Doubts intrude. It was not too late. He could give a false identity, accuse the lawyer of profiting from his grief, plead another appointment, or insanity. At least that would be nearer to the truth.

Uncomfortably deep armchair. Sipping tea from delicate porcelain. Federiz is poring over passport, driving licence, his only early photograph. The lawyer looks up occasionally, appraising, smiling constantly, reassuring, encouraging. Too smooth by half. He frowns slightly.

What I have to tell you now, is not, how do you say it, pleasant. But you already know this. You have, no doubt, like so many others I have met, always asked yourself what happened to your parents, to your sister.

My twin sister?

Twin sister. Yes….yes of course…sorry, so sorry. Tell me, do you recognise the young woman in the photograph?

My aunt.

Yes, your aunt, Mathilde Auslander. She has been seeking you for twenty years. She resides here in London, at a special nursing home for Survivors. She was with your mother until...I have ascertained that she will talk only to Michel Rosenberg, no-one else. It will be difficult for her. She knows this, but she is very ill and she wishes to...to atone for her survival.

He extends his hand.

Here is the address and telephone number of the home. I will inform them today. They will expect your call.

Michael reaches for the piece of paper, studies it, then pauses. An unworthy thought perhaps, but he must ask.

Forgive, my frankness Mr Federiz, but you have gone to a lot of trouble to find me, coming here to England, doing all this research. Can I…I mean, what your, your, motivation is in all this?

The little man smiles ruefully and opens his hands.

If your researches lead you to...to a significant material conclusion, then you will find ways of recompensing me. That is all. No contract, just...just, as you say, a gentleman’s agreement.

Federiz stands, clearly embarrassed by the turn which the conversation has taken. His hand is cold. Michael feels reassured by this change.

Thank you Mr. Federiz. This information, it was very helpful. I have wondered, as you said, for many years about ... my escape... my, my parents. What happened to them ... to my sister. I will act on your...this address at once and write to you if I find anything out.

The lawyer’s charm has evaporated.

I must warn you Dr. Turner. You may find nothing. You may find painful things, very painful things. Be prepared for both of these eventualities.

Michael nods his head, turns and threads his way nervously through the chattering, over-dressed women filing into lunch.

* * *

The nightmare is unfamiliar. He is wrestling for his life. A dark force is pushing him, forcing him, dragging him towards a bright light. He knows he must resist. It is no use. He grows weaker and weaker. The light is searing. Blinding. He starts awake before the final moment. Tomorrow, he will see her. His aunt Mathilde. Will he be able to keep his emotions in check? Will she recognise him? ‘Very ill’ the lawyer said. How ill? Will it be too much for her? He must use his training to help her. To give her hope, make her live again. His sleep returns. Fitful, fractured.

Chapter 2

London, 16th August 1965

Discreet, bronze plaque, italicized capitals, ‘CAMERON HOUSE’. Chipped bark path winding gently through wide garden decked in summer shades. Hydrangeas with pink and blue mop heads, spiky mauve dahlias, blousy white petals hanging on precariously to tortuous, knotted rose bushes. The building itself, classic Hampstead 1890s, substantial, stately, broad, bay-windowed, Clematis mauving the deep red brick. A home, not an institution.

Ebony double door, ancient polished bell-pull. The noise sounds deep within, a hollow, jangling peel.

The door opens after an agonising five minutes. A tiny, severe-faced woman stands in the claustrophobic lobby, hand-outstretched.

Dr. Turner? Felicity Slewitt.

She didn’t need the badge, this was Matron. She had been Matron all her life.

Thank you for being so prompt.

She looks briefly at the watch pinned to her dark blue uniform.

"Early, in fact. Good. Good. Mathilde has been preparing herself since six o’clock this morning.