Ivan's Legacy

By Kathryn Collis

Ivan, a violin maker in his 70s, had cancer. He takes in Kelly, a pregnant 14-y-o drug addicted street kid. When he goes for chemotherapy Kelly overdoses. Ivan refuses to have further chemotherapy as he doesnt want to leave Kelly on her own. He dies (otherwise thered be no legacy, would there?). He leaves Kelly everything he owns (he has considerable assets). Will Kelly come good, or did Ivan sacrifice his life in vain?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris AU
• Release date: Dec 18, 2013
• ISBN: 9781493131860

Kathryn Collis

Kathryn Collis has published sixteen books through Xlibris, including Siblings, Eating Well for Less Than $30 a Week, Not So Grim Fairy Tales, and R.I.P. Details of her works can be found at www.kathryncollis.com. Kathryn lives on Queensland’s Sunshine Coast.

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IVAN’S LEGACY

Kathryn Collis

Copyright © 2013, 2014 by Kathryn Collis.

ISBN:   Softcover        978-1-4931-3185-3

eBook        978-1-4931-3186-0

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted

in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system,

without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the

product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance

to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Rev. date: 03/20/2014

To order additional copies of this book, contact:

Xlibris LLC

1-800-455-039

www.xlibris.com.au

[e-mail]

513869

CONTENTS

PART 1

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

PART 2

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

PART 1

A LEGACY OF SACRIFICE

CHAPTER 1

Ivan Skavinski stirred in his bed as sunlight peeped tentatively through his bedroom window.

He rose, attended to his toilet and shower, then went to the kitchen to prepare his breakfast of cereal, toast and coffee. Once he had finished, he left the house and made his way to the special work room that he’d built in his shed. He had received another small order for violins, and these days it seemed to take him longer to do everything.

Ivan’s daily routine rarely changed. It was always regimented, with each task, every activity, set into a well established pattern. He had lived this kind of lifestyle ever since he’d been interned in the Polish labour camp in World War II.

He flicked on his cassette player, and the soothing strains of Tchaikosvky filled the room.

At the workbench, he picked up his current project and caressed it lovingly, admiring the texture of the wood as he did so. Though the materials were the same, each of his violins had its own uniqueness. None were identical. This was the one thing that gave him the advantage over the companies that now mass produced musical instruments. He had made his name years ago, and his name on a violin—especially as it was linked to that of the great virtuoso, Yehudi Menuhin—was worth more than gold. It was like buying a work of art, a piece of music, a designer label article of clothing, or any other valued original creation.

This violin had reached the stage of stringing: winding cores of finely drawn steel wire with aluminium, silver, or stainless steel. Ivan preferred silver. His quality of materials, combined with his skill for making individual instruments, were the factors that kept bringing business to him. Slowly, methodically, Ivan allowed his fingers to create their special kind of magic, and lost himself in the pleasure of it all.

When he heard the telephone ring, he felt as if his unique, private world had been invaded. He was tempted to ignore it, but curiosity eventually got the best of him.

When he did finally answer it, he heard the familiar voice of his doctor. Ivan?

Yes.

Your test results have come back. I’m afraid you’re going to have to come into the surgery as soon as possible. Could I see you today?

Ivan looked at the precious instrument in his hand, the instrument he had been planning to finish today. Having to go to the doctor’s was such an inconvenience, but whether it was today or any other day he would have felt the same.

What time would you like to see me? he asked, suppressing a huge sigh of resignation.

Two o’clock? the doctor suggested.

I’ll be there, Ivan said. He hung up feeling very resentful, as he always did when something interrupted his routine.

He shouldn’t even have gone to the doctor in the first place. So what if he’d noticed blood in his stools when he went to the toilet? He was old, what did it matter, even if it turned out to be something fatal?

Yet there were so many more violins he wanted to make, and in the end he had gone, only to be referred for several tests. Whatever the results, in one way it no longer mattered to him, but he still wanted to know. If it really was serious, could he accept any more orders for violins? In the end, it was curiosity that prompted him to go and find out the verdict.

At 1.45 in the afternoon he set out for the doctor’s surgery, rounding the corner then walking past the small row of shops. Most were curio shops that offered Devonshire teas, or antiques, but a real estate agent had established himself at one end of the street, heralding that major changes might be on the way, threatening the town, its lifestyle, and over a hundred and fifty years of tradition.

Opening the place up would bring people, strangers who would not appreciate the beauty and peace the place offered. No, they’d bring their noise, their stress and their problems with them and inflict them on everybody else.

He encountered Catherine Briggs and her three year old daughter Amy as they passed. Catherine’s husband was the local vet.

Good afternoon, Catherine, he greeted, then smiled at the little girl and said, Hello Amy, how are you today?

Before Amy could answer, Catherine said, I’m not happy! She inclined her head up the road. You know Mrs. Lehman from the curio shop, and Mr. and Mrs. Timms from the cafe next door have sold up?

Sold up? But… they’ve been here forever. Why are they leaving?

Got a good offer. From a supermarket. Catherine mentioned it in a whisper, as if she was saying a dirty word. Enough for them to retire and live like royalty, apparently.

She handed him a pamphlet. We’re having a meeting, in the local hall. To discuss what we can do. You’ll come?

Ivan thought of his violin orders, and his health issues. I’ll try. What is happening, it is not good. I don’t want this place changed. I like it as it was, when I first came here.

Before I was even born, Catherine said solemnly.

Yes, and long before you were married. He bent down to Amy. What has Ivan got here?

Amy looked at him expectantly. Old Ivan always had a treat for the children. Now he produced it: a big white, green and red lollipop. The child took it eagerly and began licking it.

Caroline shook her head. Oh Ivan, you’re such a sucker for the kids. And they love you for it.

It hadn’t always been that way. When Ivan first came to town, his strange looks and unfamiliar accent had made him an object of wariness and suspicion. He remembered Catherine’s mother, Thelma, pulling her child closer whenever Ivan passed them in the street, a protective gesture that he had not missed. Other parents had been the same.

Time had gradually worn down the suspicion and mistrust, but he was well aware of the fact that many people in town still thought of him as odd.

His blue eyes twinkled. I never had any children of my own, but yes, I do love them all.

Catherine switched gears. So, you’ll try to get to the meeting?

Yes. I think it’s very important.

On that note, she and Amy both moved off.

Doctor Cleveland’s nurse, Helen Bridges, a plump little lady with short brown hair and a pretty, rounded face, looked up as Ivan entered the surgery. He seemed such a lonely, dejected old figure. She felt sorry for him, but because he was so different to everyone else in town—with his strange looks and that foreign accent that he’d apparently never managed to ditch—she had felt reserved in the few dealings she’d had with him.

The doctor won’t be long, Ivan, she told him. He should have been free by now. I’m sorry about the delay.

So am I, Ivan admitted, but I have to see him and that’s that. The time isn’t really important.

Thanks for being so understanding, Helen said, and smiled.

He had known Helen for some years, although only on a casual basis, because he saw the doctor only when he was feeling extremely unwell, which was rare. She’d always been very nice to him on the few occasions he’d gone to the surgery.

Ivan picked up a magazine and flicked through it. Some film star was talking about her bad marriage and even worse divorce. He’d watched a couple of her movies on television, and from what he could tell, she was a very mediocre actress anyway. A doctor was giving advice about cholesterol levels. There was a great gaping hole in the ozone layer. Goodness, when he was young, no-one even knew there was an ozone layer.

And look here, they had cloned a sheep! Dolly, they’d called it. Something about copying its genes or some such. Maybe that was a bit like photocopying?

Ivan could get his head around the idea of photocopying. You laid something on the bit of glass and the machine took a photograph of it. Yes, that he could understand.

Those things called fax machines were an entirely different matter. How was it possible to put a document through a machine and have an identical copy come out of a machine hundreds, even thousands of miles away?

And now there was this new thing called the internet. He wasn’t even going to think about that!

He shook his head.

Helen called his name and he was shown into the doctor’s office.

Doctor Geoffrey Cleveland was a tall, slim man in his mid-forties. He had dark brown hair—rapidly turning to grey—and dark skin. His chiselled face might have been handsome if it hadn’t been set in a permanent scowl. People who didn’t know him would probably have attributed that scowl to arrogance or indifference, but patients knew that his expression evidenced a deep concern for his patients, and an unwavering dedication to his chosen profession.

Ivan, I’m afraid your test results were not good, he said, without preamble. You have bowel cancer.

Ivan pondered this information, then said, That is really bad, isn’t it? Doctor Cleveland nodded. Yes Ivan, I’m afraid it is. I’m sorry to have to tell you, but you’ll need an operation, as soon as possible.

But my work… Ivan protested.

The doctor shook his head. Ivan, if you don’t go through with this operation, you may not live to finish your work.

Ivan gasped. Please, tell me what I have to do. He could not stand the thought of someone else trying to finish off his masterpieces.

He completed and signed heaps of paperwork, which was very daunting. Give him a piece of wood, and he could do anything with it. But shove a form in front of him and he was lost. He loved to read, but even after all these years, writing English was difficult for him.

The following week, he went to hospital and had part of his bowel removed to rid him of the insidious cancer growths. All the staff, from the doctors and nurses, to the ladies who cleaned the floors, were wonderful. They chatted to him, reassured him, and treated him with consideration and respect. Despite the pain from his operation, he spent many hours comparing their caring, considerate attitude to those he’d encountered in the labour camp. There was no comparison. These people who were looking after him now were angels. In those awful circumstances back in the Polish labour camp, the inmates were treated so badly that he and his new found friends would all have perished if not for the survival strategies they had developed.

While the aftermath of his operation was painful, his recuperation didn’t feel much better.

Still, he had been through worse and knew that compared to a lot of other people, he certainly didn’t have much to complain about.

Because his recuperation was slow, completing this recent order for violins was taking longer than he’d expected, and longer than he wanted it to. Always a patient man, Ivan nevertheless felt frustrated by his delayed progress.

Six weeks after the operation he again visited the doctor, as ordered, and had another series of tests.

The test results arrived back and Ivan received a call from Helen at the doctor’s surgery.

They wanted to see him as soon as possible. It was such a nuisance. He only had half a dozen violins to make. Why should he go back to the doctor? Any pain he was feeling was probably an aftermath of his operation.

Helen Bridges again afforded him her usual patient smile when he entered. Ivan couldn’t help but give her a gentle smile in return.

Well, Ivan, she remarked. Two visits in such a short time. We’ll be putting you on the staff next. He acknowledged her little joke with another tiny smile, then she said, Doctor won’t be long, Ivan. Just sit down and make yourself at home."

He sat, and flicked through a magazine. There was an article about the possibility that microwaves were dangerous. Ivan was glad he had never bought one of those contraptions.

He got halfway through the article before being called into the doctor’s office.

Doctor Cleveland looked very grave, but he always did tend to have an air about him that was reminiscent of the Grim Reaper featured in the advertising campaign about AIDs in the 1980’s. He asked Ivan to sit.

Ivan, your test results are not good. Unfortunately the operation was not successful in removing all the intestinal tissue containing cancer cells.

Ivan thought again of his unfinished violins. So… what will happen now? he asked.

We believe it may be possible to kill these remaining cells with chemotherapy. They’re in the infancy stage of growth so that should work. We don’t want to perform another operation at this stage. Doctor Cleveland paused, then said, I won’t lie to you Ivan, chemotherapy will make you feel quite ill. And it will also make your hair fall out.

Ivan thought of the thin ring of long grey hair around the huge bald patch on his crown. The illness I will have to put up with, he said, and as far as the hair goes, well, you can see I don’t have that much to lose.

Even the taciturn Doctor Cleveland saw the humour in that remark and favoured Ivan with one of his very rare smiles.

We’ll schedule the chemotherapy for you, he said, then I’ll let you know the details.

Ivan returned to his home and thought no more about cancer or chemotherapy, instead concentrating on his violins. He almost jumped out of his skin, therefore, when his phone rang two days later. It was Helen Bridges.

Ivan, Doctor Cleveland has scheduled you for chemotherapy at Royal Prince Alfred next Tuesday. You will have to be there at 8 a.m. Can you do that?

Ivan thought of the violin that wouldn’t get finished, and sighed. Yes, I can do it.

And Ivan, you must fast from 6 p.m. on Monday.

He felt a twinge of anger as he replaced the receiver. It was a feeling he rarely experienced, but now it was very raw and overpowering. The Nazis had ruled every aspect of his life during the war, and now the medical system here was trying to do the same thing to him. But he had to go along with them and have this chemotherapy. He had to produce his precious instruments for as long as he could. They were his passion, and his life.

CHAPTER 2

Early the following Tuesday morning, Ivan caught the train to the city, then another to a station that was not too far from the hospital. The people at the hospital were very kind and reassuring, and the man in the bed next to him was friendly and easy to get on with.

As predicted, he was very ill after the treatment, but if it bought him another year, or even another month, it would be worth it. He had so much to do.

He felt a strange sense of abandonment and loss as he left the hospital. An institutionalised environment did that to you. He had grown to love his friends at the Polish labour camp during the war so much they had been like brothers to him. That type of environment threw people together and forced them to abandon their selfishness and give to each other in a way that they would not normally do. His stay in hospital—though brief—had caused him to vividly recall those feelings.

As Ivan left the hospital and stepped into the street, an icy gust of wind hit him. Rain began to fall. It was freezing. He headed for the station, taking as many short cuts as he could.

He reached an alley and glanced into it, looking for some kind of shelter in case the rain beat him in the race to the station. That was when he saw her.

She was tiny, and at first he mistook her for a child. She was holding her long, lank blonde hair behind her and vomiting into the gutter. The clothes she had on were totally unsuited to the weather: a little nylon skirt, and a small cotton knit top. He hadn’t seen such a forlorn looking creature since the war.

Anxious to catch his train and escape the possible downpour that was building up, Ivan moved on. Whatever problems that girl had, they were none of his business. She was probably one of the street kids he had read so much about in the papers. Unlike himself, and so many other victims of Hitler’s war, whatever misery she was suffering she’d probably brought upon herself.

Suddenly, he was forced to think of his friend Yuri, who had helped him years ago, during the war. Because he had tuberculosis and knew he would soon die anyway—there was no way he could get to a sanatorium—Yuri had taken Ivan’s identity and boarded a truck in his friend’s place. After the war, Ivan had realised that truck was destined for one of the Nazis’ infamous extermination camps. Yuri had saved his life. He could not repay his friend for the sacrifice he’d made—after all, Yuri had died years ago. But he could at least honour his friend’s memory by helping someone else, couldn’t he?

Even if this girl was one of the street kids he so often heard about, even if she was on drugs, and stealing from people to pay for them, that poor little creature was a human being who was obviously in trouble and needed a lot of help. And the kind of help she needed was hardly going to cost him his life, the way it had cost Yuri his life so many years before.

Ivan was not by nature an impulsive person, but today, for some reason, he felt something tugging him, urging him to do something.

He turned back into the alleyway, and approached her. She was still retching and looked utterly dejected.

Although it was an effort, he crouched down beside her.

Are you all right? Can I do something for you?

She turned to face him, and he almost reeled with shock. She had such a pretty little elfin face, so gentle and vulnerable. It was not the face he’d have expected a hardened street kid to have. Her eyes were deep, soft brown pools of emotion. They showed a lot of unhappiness and fear, and some other deeper feeling he couldn’t quite fathom.

I-I don’t think you can, she said. But thanks anyway.

Is there someone I can call?

She was instantly hostile, suspicious. No!

But you are obviously ill. Let me help you to the hospital.

She shook her head vehemently. No! I can’t go to any hospital. If she went to hospital they would know, straight away, about her habit.

I can’t leave you here, like this. Do you need a fare home, or something?

Home? she snorted. "Look around you. For me, this is home."

Ivan looked around the dank alley way, then back at the girl. This is not right. You are ill. You need somewhere to stay, somewhere warm.

Now she became aggressive. Look, old man, I don’t need anything, and I don’t want anything—except to be left alone. Okay

But…

I don’t know how else to say this, but would you please just piss off and leave me alone!

Her tone was brave, but Ivan didn’t believe for a minute that she honestly meant it. She looked too vulnerable for that.

What is your name? he asked.

She hesitated for a while, then said, K-Kelly.

Kelly, my name is Ivan. I don’t want to cause problems for you, but if you’re actually living like this, on the street, then obviously, you don’t have family to look after you, do you? When she didn’t answer, he added, You need a friend and a place to stay, don’t you?

Well, yeah, I might. Tears sprang to her eyes then spilled down her cheeks. Plenty of people had seen her on the streets but none of them seemed the least bit inclined to help her. The looks that they gave her made her feel like some dried up dog turd on the road.

He handed her his handkerchief and was glad it was clean.

When she’d finished dabbing her eyes, he said, Kelly, please try and trust me. I wouldn’t harm you.

She looked at him dubiously. That’s what her mother’s boyfriends had said… and look what arseholes they’d turned out to be!

I-I- She looked again. He was so weird looking, what with that big nose—which was set in a face that had virtually no wrinkles—and long strands of thin grey hair that fell from the bald patch on his head, almost to his shoulders. But those striking blue eyes were kind.

At a school Christmas party, Kelly had received a book as a gift: a beautifully illustrated version of Robin Hood. She realised now that this old man reminded her of the pictures in the book depicting Friar Tuck. Yes, that’s who he looked like.

She had noticed what a gentle voice he had. Could that also mean he had a gentle nature? Anyway, he was obviously very, very old. Surely he was too old to use her as they had?

She had to take a chance on the old man anyway. She couldn’t keep living on the streets for much longer. That had become obvious today, in this sleety rain that froze her bones.

I… if I do go with you, I don’t have any money. I couldn’t pay for fares, or food, or stuff like that.

Again, that strange but kindly smile. Kelly, you wouldn’t have to.

But… why would you put me up for nothing? You’d want something from me, I just know it. Why else would you invite someone like me—a stranger—to go and stay with you?

He smiled again. Kelly, if you had a home, and you saw a stray dog that had been abandoned and was obviously not well, wouldn’t you take it in?

She could see what he was getting at, though she wasn’t sure she liked being compared to a stray dog.

Suddenly the paper bag full of medications he was carrying, which had become wet while they’d been arguing, disintegrated, spilling the contents onto the wet, muddy ground.

As Ivan scrabbled to retrieve his medications and stuff them in the pocket of his coat, Kelly’s eyes homed straight in on the precious articles. Those looked like strong drugs.

Well, that definitely changed things.

She looked around the alley. It was freezing, and she had nowhere to sleep unless she picked up some guy who might feel a bit guilty about screwing a young