A Voice for Rebekah: A Story of Love, Survival and Betrayal

By Elizabeth J Dennis

In the years following the deaths of her parents and brother in a vehicle crash, Australian Anna O’Reilly is surprised to learn her mother, Elizabeth, had been adopted at birth. Curious to know more and, armed only with her mother’s date and place of birth, St Catherine’s Orphanage in Devon, Anna begins her search.
Because of the time that has elapsed and the closure of the orphanage in the 1950s, Anna believes the possibility of finding anything is remote. She is wrong.
Anna discovers her grandmother was a young Jewish girl, Rebekah Kominski, who struggled to survive and escape persecution in war-torn Poland. At the end of the war, she, with other children, is taken to the Lake District and later assigned to a foster family, but questions remain.
What happened to cause Rebekah to be banished from what was to be the start of a new and better life to an orphanage and a harsh existence? While at the orphanage, she became pregnant. Was she raped? Why and how, after giving birth at aged thirteen, did she disappear?
Anna continues her search until she finds the answers and reveals the shocking truth behind Rebekah’s disappearance.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Austin Macauley Publishers
• Release date: Feb 28, 2022
• ISBN: 9781398409552

Elizabeth J Dennis

Elizabeth J Dennis lives in Perth, Western Australia, with husband, Paul, and aging cat, Bindi. The bushland setting of her home provides a peaceful backdrop for her writing. Elizabeth has always had a passion for reading and writing, but it was not until her two daughters left home and she left the workforce, that she concentrated on writing, producing her first novel, A Voice for Rebekah.

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About the Author

Elizabeth J Dennis lives in Perth, Western Australia, with husband, Paul, and aging cat, Bindi. The bushland setting of her home provides a peaceful backdrop for her writing.

Elizabeth has always had a passion for reading and writing, but it was not until her two daughters left home and she left the workforce, that she concentrated on writing, producing her first novel, A Voice for Rebekah.

Dedication

Dedicated to husband, Paul, for his love, support and encouragement.

Copyright Information ©

Elizabeth J Dennis 2022

The right of Elizabeth J Dennis to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by the author in accordance with section 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers.

Any person who commits any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

ISBN 9781398409545 (Paperback)

ISBN 9781398409552 (ePub e-book)

www.austinmacauley.com

First Published 2022

Austin Macauley Publishers Ltd®

1 Canada Square

Canary Wharf

London

E14 5AA

Acknowledgement

I would like to thank my daughters, Dianne and Julia, for their support.

Karina McRoberts, writer of the Harker Investigates series, for her friendship and support.

Members of the West Australian Region of the Speaking Made Easy Club for their encouragement.

Chapter 1

My family—parents, Elizabeth and Bill O’Reilly, and brother Brendan—were killed four days after my fifteenth birthday. My home had gone too; years of perseverance and hard work of little consequence. Three large packing boxes contained what remained of the family farming property. The bank took the rest.

In the following weeks, the struggle to cope with the range of emotions I felt from the loss was immense. Disbelief turned to shock then alternated between anger and sadness.

Thinking clearly, eating and sleeping were difficult. A recurring nightmare haunted me—Brendan and my parents in a small truck skidding on gravel, and the shouts of disbelief followed by a loud crash, then silence. Each time, the realism of the dream shook me awake and my heart would start pounding.

Yes, there had been counselling, but it was Bridget O’Reilly, my aunt and dad’s sister, who gave me the home and loving support I needed, remaining strong in spite of her own grief. There were unresolved issues that existed between my father and aunt. I had no idea what they were. Bridget kept them to herself.

I could only imagine the sorrow and regret Bridget felt. Occasionally, she spoke fondly of how close she and Dad were growing up, and how he left England to start a new life in rural Western Australia. Bridget followed him two years later, but preferring the city to country life, she settled in Perth and a teaching profession.

***

In time, with encouragement from Bridget and support of close friends, I learnt to replace unhappy thoughts with treasured memories without sadness—pets, birthday parties, Christmases, Brendan on his prized motorcycle with his then-fiancée Georgia, my father proudly sitting aboard his new combine harvester, my mother’s support and sense of humour, barbeques, local fairs, school and social activities. Life improved; university and the start of a teaching career followed.

Living with Greg Hollingsworth was the next significant event in my life. It didn’t work and after two years, I moved back with Bridget while property matters were settled.

***

Since the loss of my family, the boxes had been stored in Bridget’s spare room. There were times I attempted to open them—the last as I prepared to move in with Greg—but each time the emotional struggle proved too great and the boxes stayed where they were, unopened. Now, as I prepare to pack up ready to move, I tell myself I am strong enough. It has to be done.

‘You know the boxes can stay here, Anna,’ Aunt Bridget said as she prepared to leave. ‘You don’t need to take them right away. I don’t need the space for anything and rarely go in that room.’

I told her no, I’d just be putting it off yet again.

Bridget nodded. ‘I understand,’ she replied fumbling in her handbag for her car keys. ‘I’ll leave you to it. See you later.’

I kissed her goodbye and closed the door behind her.

***

I braced myself for the task ahead. While the rest of the house was immaculate, this room with its bags of pre-loved clothes, books, board games and other miscellaneous objects had clearly not seen any recent activity. I shuddered as I brushed past old cobwebs which hung from the ceiling while pushing them aside with my sleeve. I opened the window in the hope that clean fresh air would alleviate the stuffy atmosphere. Outside, magpies warbled while a light breeze stirred up the dust in the room causing me to sneeze. I continued to tread between bags and piles cursing as I tripped over a small box containing various remote controls, none of which were compatible with any present-day devices Bridget had in the house.

I moved bags that were directly in front of the boxes. My heart thumped hard as I stripped off the already peeling packing tape and pushed the lid flaps aside. On top lay a large beautifully made wooden box with a hinged lid unfamiliar to me. A small key protruded from a brass lock. I unlocked it, lifted the lid and stared in disbelief at the contents. Here was my craftwork from kindergarten and primary school—collages, paintings, misshapen papier machè objects, and hand-made cards for various occasions. Mum kept them all. My throat felt tight. I brushed away tears with my hand and took a minute or two to settle before carefully returning the objects to the box and placing it to one side.

Photographs in albums and bundles had been stacked below the box; each image a reminder of my childhood and my family’s life in country Western Australia. The good years followed by periods of drought and no wheat, only hectare on hectare of stubble. Some growers walked away, others like Dad persevered. Mum continued her nursing career at the district hospital until Brendan was born. Two miscarriages followed and she resigned herself to having no more children until I came along seventeen years later. Mum was forty-seven.

Mum called me her miracle child. With such doting parents and a big brother, life was good. I loved the spirit of the community, our large homestead of stone and mud-brick with its wide verandas, and large eucalypts providing shade during the summer months.

***

‘Ah, there you are!’ Bridget stood in the doorway. ‘It’s almost dark,’ she said flicking the light switch. ‘How’s it going?’

It startled me. I hadn’t heard Bridget come in. I told her I was finished for now and admitted the day had been an emotional rollercoaster. I gathered up some papers I’d been reading, shuffled them into a neat pile and placed them on top of others stacked on the floor.

‘Looks like you’re keeping most things,’ Bridget said pointing to an almost empty bin.

I nodded reaching for a bundle of photographs. ‘Yeah. Lots of memories stirred up. I just don’t have the heart to throw much away. I wondered if you would like to see these.’ I handed Bridget the photographs unsure how she would react. ‘There are some family shots I’ve picked out. Some include you.’

Bridget nodded. Taking the bundle, she slowly examined each photograph. ‘So many memories,’ she said quietly shaking her head sadly. ‘I remember when some of these were taken. All so long ago before…’ she said wistfully.

Taking the photographs, I hugged her. ‘I just thought you might like to see them, even if it made you sad.’

Bridget bit her lip and nodded. ‘They remind me of how much you look like your dad now, you know, the Irish colouring,’ she remarked. ‘You’ve turned into a lovely young woman.’

I laughed recalling how, as a lanky child, I was convinced of my ugliness. Only on reaching my teens, when the budding attributes of womanhood appeared and the teasing stopped, did I become, not what I would call lovely, but not ugly either.

‘I mean it,’ said Bridget. ‘Now, c’mon, brush off the melancholy. We have pizza. I know it’s my turn to cook but I suspected you could use some comfort food.’

***

The pizza smelled good. I was hungry, but my mind was elsewhere. I was scarcely aware of the grandfather clock in the hallway chiming the top of the hour or Bridget telling me about her day. Leaning across the table, she gently squeezed my hand causing me to jump.

‘Hey, what is it?’ she said, looking concerned. ‘I can almost hear the cogs whirring.’

There was something bothering me and had been most of the afternoon. ‘It’s just, you know, starting on the boxes got me thinking on something, something I didn’t know about before today.’

Reaching for a second slice of pizza, Bridget raised her eyebrows questioningly. ‘Oh? What exactly?’

I thanked her once again for always being there for me. She met my eyes and said we had been good for each other and what did I really want to talk about.

Thoughtfully, I took a bite of pizza. Bridget sighed and leaned back in her chair while she waited for my response.

‘Did you know my mother was adopted?’ I asked.

‘Um, yes, I did,’ she replied.

I took a deep breath. ‘I didn’t. I found her birth certificate and some correspondence among the documents. I wondered why she didn’t tell me. It wasn’t that much of a deal, was it?’

Bridget shrugged. ‘I assumed you knew,’ she replied. ‘She found out as an adult that she was adopted. It came as a shock to her. Her adoptive parents were loving. Your mother didn’t want for anything, but she felt betrayed and guilty for feeling the way she did. She didn’t like to talk about it.’

That’s true. Mum never wanted to talk about her parents other than to tell me they died before Brendan and I were born. ‘Do you know anything about my adoptive grandparents?’ I asked.

Bridget pursed her lips considering the question for a moment. ‘Hm, yes. I can’t remember their names,’ she replied. ‘They visited once but found the West Australian heat and the travel difficult to cope with. As I recall, they were city people and didn’t appreciate the farming life your mum and dad had settled into. Hanson was too far from Perth and civilisation as they knew it—a frontier land they called it.’

I told Bridget I’d found correspondence showing Mum had been trying to trace her birth mother with just her place of birth, St Catherine’s Orphanage in Devon and, of course, her own date of birth. Bridget told me she knew Mum had no luck finding anything else.

‘At the time she was looking,’ she said. ‘It was difficult to get information. Besides, St Catherine’s had long gone and, presumably, the records lost or destroyed.’

Chapter 2

I’m excited to be in my new home. A few more sticks of furniture and pictures on the walls should finish it off nicely. Bridget has loaned me a couple of armchairs and a bed—I’d let Greg have our furniture, which was second-hand and not worth a cracker anyway, not because it was used but everything had been ruined by his bloody dog. Alfie chewed anything within reach that didn’t move and Greg was too lazy to discipline him.

I’ve joined the local surf lifesaving club and taken on additional teaching duties, which I’m enjoying, but I’m looking for something more. Bridget suggested I apply for a teacher exchange program and the more I think about it, the better I like the idea, but I feel that I may not have enough experience. Bridget told me to think positively. ‘You’ve got nothing to lose and you’re a good teacher,’ she said. ‘The selection process takes months and at the end of it, you will have more than the desired experience.’

‘You might as well,’ Michelle Donovan, friend and colleague, said over a glass of wine at our favourite pub. ‘No man in your life to consider, no one serious anyway, and you have Bridget’s blessing and mine for that matter. Face it Hun, you’re in a rut!’

I rolled my eyes suppressing a desire to tell her what she could do with her advice.

She was a good friend, fiercely loyal, and she and her partner, David, were supportive of me during my break-up with Greg, but she had an irritating habit of overstating situations while prodding the air with a chubby finger.

‘I didn’t realise I had such a miserable existence,’ I replied.

Unperturbed, Michelle shrugged and drained her glass. ‘You know me. I say it as I see it. Now, how ’bout another drink? Your shout.’

It’s done. I submitted my Teacher Exchange application two days before the deadline.

***

Regardless of my aunt’s belief in my success, I still had doubts about my selection, particularly as my first choice of the UK is a popular one, but months later, when John Reed, my school principal told me he had been contacted for his report as part of the selection process, I almost kissed him. I still have to attend a personal interview, so it’s looking good but not definite yet.

‘You’re looking very pleased with yourself,’ remarked Michelle when she caught up with me in the staff room. ‘What’s up?’

I assured her nothing was up.

‘What? You’re not going to tell me?’ she replied raising her eyebrows.

I told her there was nothing. I was just in a good mood. This didn’t satisfy her. She studied my face as if looking for clues. ‘Ah ha, you’ve got a new man!’ she persisted. ‘Well, it’s about time.’

I told her no, but that still didn’t satisfy her.

‘Hmm, now let me see. Ah, yes, of course! The Teacher Exchange programme. I’d almost forgotten about that. You’ve heard something?’

It was hard work trying to keep anything from Michelle.

‘Okay,’ I admitted. ‘Yes, just waiting…hoping for the confirmation letter.’ I didn’t want to say anything in case I jinxed it.

Michelle nodded as if understanding my reluctance to talk, then: ‘But it’s not definite yet,’ she said frowning. ‘Not until you receive the confirmation letter.’

I rolled my eyes. ‘No, I know, but could you at least be pleased for me?’

Michelle smiled. ‘Sorry, didn’t mean to browbeat you. I’m happy for you and you know you always have my support.’

It’s been two weeks since my interview and the notice advising that my application has been successful has arrived. All that remains for me now is to ensure I’m passport-ready and begin discussion and negotiations with my exchange partner, Carl Jenkins. The school I’ve been assigned to, Brenton Primary School, is in Brenton Dale near Bristol, and has five hundred pupils. Carl provided photographs and videos of the area and his home. He tells me his flat is small but comfortable.

Michelle flicked through the images on my laptop. ‘Looks a bit pokey to me.’

I groaned. ‘Less housework!’ I said trying to hide my irritation. ‘Hey, I’m lucky to get this. There is huge competition for Teacher Exchange assignments in the UK, you know!’

‘Yeah, I know. Sorry. When do you leave?’

‘The exchange starts next month. Carl tells me he’s looking forward to his stint in Aus. He’s delighted my unit is close to the ocean. Bit of a beach bum it seems.’

Chapter 3

The knowledge of my mother’s adoption and lack of information on her birth mother remained at the back of my mind.

‘So, found out anything?’ Bridget asked while on an impromptu visit.

I shook my head. ‘Not so far. Early days. I’ve set up a Facebook page though, Friends of St Catherine’s. I’ve found a few photos of the orphanage as it was in the forties and posted them. Here, I’ll show you,’ I said logging on to my laptop.

Bridget seated herself next to me. Looking over her glasses, she squinted as I navigated between screens.

‘There! Pretty grim don’t you think?’

‘Good, God!’ Bridget exclaimed. ‘Looks more like something out of a Dickens’ novel.’

I agreed. ‘I know it’s unlikely I’ll get anywhere. I don’t have a name and being so long ago…’

‘But it’s something you need to do,’ Bridget interrupted. ‘I understand, and you never know.’

‘Here’s my post,’ I said indicating the only comment on the page.

Seeking information on my grandmother, name unknown. She was an inmate of St Catherine’s who gave birth to a daughter, my mother, on 15 September 1947.

‘I’ll be trying other social media sites too.’

Bridget nodded her approval. ‘Worth a try.’

‘Now, how about a bit of afternoon tea?’ I suggested as I logged out of my laptop. ‘I’ve got some of your favourite choccy biscuits.’

Bridget shook her head. ‘That sounds very tempting, but I’d better be going,’ she said rising to her feet. ‘Sorry, it’s been such a flying visit but I have to be at the bridge club in an hour. I just popped in to see how you were going.’

‘Come around for dinner this evening,’ I said. ‘It won’t be anything special, but you’re welcome. It’ll be you, me and Bob and Rhonda from next door. They’re good fun and I know you’ll like them.’

Bridget chuckled. ‘Thanks, I’d love to, but I’ve got a date tonight.’

Now I was curious. ‘Really! I don’t know, the moment my back’s turned…’

Bridget held up a warning finger. ‘Don’t sound so surprised and don’t get any ideas. It’s nothing serious, just a theatre date with an old friend.’

At the front door, I hugged my aunt. ‘Anyone I know?’

‘You may, then again…’

‘Okay, you don’t want to say,’ I responded amused by Bridget’s unwillingness to talk about her mysterious suitor. ‘Have a great time!’

‘And you can wipe the smile off your face,’ Bridget replied good-naturedly.

It concerns me that Bridget has remained single. I know from my dad there have been several men in Bridget’s life. A short time after I moved in with Bridget, she admitted she had just not found the right one and sixty-five was too old anyway. Shrugging it off, she explained she enjoyed her life just the way it was. As far as I know, the only man Bridget is close to now is Father Andrew, her priest.

***

To my amazement, the Friends of St Catherine’s Facebook page received a hit from a Mary Smith who claimed to have known my grandmother. My excitement grew as I read.

I came across St Catherine’s page by accident while idly navigating and learning my way around Facebook with my new laptop—a gift from my children. What a surprise it was for me to find it.

From the date of birth given in your post, I’m almost certain your grandmother’s name is Rebekah Kominski. She was transported to England from Poland with other children immediately after the War. We met at school and became best friends. She often spent time with my parents and me.

I happen to know there was only one baby, a girl, born at St Catherine’s on the date you’ve provided. Sadly, Rebekah disappeared from the orphanage immediately after giving birth. The nuns said she had been fostered, but I know that’s not true. She would have contacted her friends if it had been. I missed her. My memories of that time remain clear to me.

Where are you located? I live in Torquay, Devon. Perhaps we can meet if you are not too far away. I have a few personal things of your grandmother’s which I’ve held on to. I’d love you to have them. I can arrange to send everything to you if it’s not possible for us to meet.

Kind regards,

Mary Smith

I’d become resigned to my grandmother’s disappearance remaining a mystery. Now, although Mary can’t tell me what happened to Rebekah, at least I have a name. I’m keen to know more. A meeting with Mary will give me an insight into Rebekah’s life and their friendship.

Hello Mary

Thank you so much for your message. It was more than I hoped for. Having my grandmother’s name and the information you provided means a lot to me. It’s a sad story and I can only imagine how you felt when Rebekah disappeared. Thank you for holding on to Rebekah’s personal items all this time.

I’m keen to learn all I can about my grandmother. I live in Perth, Western Australia, but will be starting a teacher exchange assignment shortly at a primary school near Bristol. I would love to meet up with you.

Regards

Anna O’Reilly

Chapter 4

With a mixture of excitement and anxiety—I’m not keen on flying—I checked in and noted my early morning departure was on schedule. The terminal was busy. A low hum of conversation interspersed with occasional laughter permeated the surroundings as people went about their business.

‘Let’s go and have some breakfast,’ suggested Bridget. ‘I have something for you.’ Curious, I asked what it was.

‘You’ll see,’ she replied. ‘Now, let’s find a table.’

As we made our way towards one of the cafés, I was surprised to see Michelle and David; Michelle waving and calling out to me as they eased their way through the crowd. ‘I wasn’t expecting this! Not at this ungodly hour,’ I said as they