The Unexpected Heiress: A Family Saga From Concentration Camp to Gold Mining Empire

By George Mallory

She inherited a legacy of ambition, betrayal, longing and secrets.

In the shadow of Poisson Gold, a multi-billion-dollar gold mine conglomerate, a family's legacy unravels in a compelling tale that dives deep into the human psyche.

At the helm of this empire stands the enigmatic Abe Silver, a

• Language: English
• Publisher: GM Publications
• Release date: Apr 29, 2024
• ISBN: 9780645960914

George Mallory

George Mallory's literary journey is a testament to the transformative power of storytelling. Born in Serbia to Russian parents and raised in Australia, his multicultural background offers a unique perspective that enriches the tapestry of his narratives. From his early years at Lithgow High to pursuing an engineering degree at UNSW in Sydney, George's academic journey laid the foundation for his literary pursuits. His love for literature, kindled in childhood, eventually led him to pursue a Bachelor of Arts at Sydney University. In The Unexpected Heiress, he brings to life a character inspired by the untold stories of concentration camp survivors who amassed wealth. Through dual-perspective narratives, George weaves themes of corporate glass ceiling, sexual orientation and dysfunctional families, offering readers a compelling and thought-provoking reading experience. George's extensive corporate background sensitised him to social prejudices and discrimination. His novels reflect his commitment to shedding light on these issues while delivering engaging stories. He features determined women who defy societal norms, demonstrating resilience and determination while retaining their femininity.

Book preview

Part 1

Abe & Ellie

Prologue

A shtetl in Poland, 1942

Six-year-old Abram’s heart raced. His younger sisters Malka and Rywka, with their saucer-sized eyes, faces and mouths contorted like the Munch painting in the living room, clutched Mameh’s skirt when men in grey-green uniforms, toting Schmeissers, came for the Silverstein family on that gloomy morning. Brooding clouds swirled in the sky to the sound of snarling dogs and screams of schnell, schnell.

Mameh pleaded pitifully, ‘Where are you taking us?’

Papeh tried to instil calm. ‘Don’t worry, we’ll be alright,’ he placated, as though expecting a silver lining.

Of course, no one knew then what was to come.

Chapter One

Abe, May 2010

Vaucluse, Sydney

At 5:30 a.m. Abe Silver woke short of breath, flailing his arms at the growling German Shepherd held on a leash by Sarah, his daughter-in-law. His tortured attempt to scream in the inky darkness came out as a muted nooooo.

His nightmare subsided into a shaking fit as sweat, like a dripping faucet, rolled down his cheeks. He crossed his arms over his chest and squeezed his shoulders with his hands. Eyes shut tight, he rocked back and forth.

The trembling receded.

Abe’s heart ached. The cunning Sarah had his eldest son Simon by his short and curlies. That woman didn’t give a stuff about the business, she was just desperate to see Abe die. Then they would buy a private jet and fritter away his hard-earned fortune. Years of sweat and toil down the toilet.

He spread out his palms and gave thanks to Adonai for protecting Abram Silverstein (Abe Silver, now that he’d changed his name by Deed Poll) since 1936, when his Mameh had presented Papeh with a son, Abe, the oldest of the three children they were to have.

God hadn’t done such a good job with the rest of the Silversteins, including the five uncles, aunts and their children. They’d finished up subsisting on mere breadcrumbs, and perished in the Majdanek gas chambers. The Silverstein family had been much respected, and a bright future had awaited them, but for the Second World War. Why hadn’t they left when there was still a chance? Papeh had often talked about the Gershwins, Tucker, Sarnoff, Berlin, Rand, and countless others who had fled. Why not the Silversteins? But no, Papeh Herszel had been an optimist whose favourite saying was: ‘Things will get better, just you wait.’

Well, waiting around for something better to happen was never on for Abe. In 1969 he had bought Poseidon shares for eighty cents each. He’d sold them for $190, before they crashed, and made a motza – a tidy couple of million dollars – before capital gains tax became law. Abe had invested the proceeds in gold mining leases that came good. From there grew Poisson Gold Limited, the multi-billion-dollar gold mining and processing conglomerate. Abe thrust out his chest. Not bad for a penniless boychik from Poland, adopted by his sole surviving uncle, after the two came to Australia in 1948.

After taking a shower, then being shaved by Mario, the in-house barber/hairdresser, Abe strode onto the back patio of his home and descended towards the water. Vaucluse Bay shimmered in the morning light as the sun’s rays danced upon the blue waters.

‘Good morning, boss.’ Stan, the chauffeur, gave a mock salute at the jetty. He doubled as the boat captain, engineer and general dogsbody on the Silver Sprite, Abe’s thirty-metre yacht now swaying on its moorings in the bay. Stan was a small, wiry man named Stanley White. Dan Oliver, the other chauffeur, was tall and fat. For several years now – no one knew the culprit responsible for starting the prank – everyone called them Stan and Ollie.

‘Good morning it is, Stan.’ Abe pointed with his chin at the boat. ‘How is she running?’

‘The port engine’s a tad rough. Ordered the part yesterday. They’re sending the mechanic to fit the thingie and tune the works. He’ll need enough gear to fly a space shuttle. Bloody robbers. I always fixed things myself, but it’s all computerised now.’

‘Hope they do a good job.’ Abe chuckled. Ah, the simple second-hand FJ Holden, his first car. It had been a labour of love, tinkering with the engine.

‘I’ll make sure. She’ll be right. No worries.’

Shit, almost everyone, from the people in the mines to waiters in restaurants, had no worries.

‘Will you require the Roller, sir?’

The business waited for no man, even on Saturdays. ‘Yes Stan, about eleven.’

‘No worries.’

Abe rolled his eyes. Heading back uphill, the twelve-bedroom turn-of-the-twentieth-century building loomed large. He’d snatched it for a song many years before. The imposing old stone edifice had not commanded the stratospheric prices of today. Stately home was the superlative description used by the slick salesman, superbly positioned on a large absolute water frontage block, own pier, manicured lawns, established gardens and separate house-help quarters. Servants had become a dirty word in the Whitlam era of populism. Only buffs who had discovered a newly found interest in historic values used the heritage moniker.

Now, there were many things Abe wanted to change, but the heritage label was proving to be a pain in the arse when altering anything but the light bulbs. Even those were changing to LED and fluoro and did not fit into the old-fashioned fittings.

At the flagged terrace, fond memories brought back the time when Abe had presented this jewel of a property to Deedee, his wife. He smiled. At least, she believed it was hers – or half hers. In reality, the whole shebang was in a labyrinth of trust deeds and companies, the ultimate trustee and controller being Abe, of course.

Before the purchase, the place had had an insipid name. One day he might tell Deedee why he’d rebranded this baby Poisson d’Or. He chuckled. Perhaps not. The lawyers would include a letter attached to the will. Wouldn’t that be a hoot?

The iridescent morning clouds sped past the bastions and the turrets of the house. Ah, the perfect morning in the most beautiful harbour in the world. Abe inhaled the crisp air. Like Peter Allen, he had been to Rio, old London town and many places, but still called this place home. Even the grotesque gargoyles above the oriels had a perverse appeal.

Reaching the patio, Abe sat on a garden chair at the table set for breakfast. The morning papers cascaded to one side of the gold- and silver-decorated china, all monogrammed Pd’O.

‘Morning, sir,’ the maid cooed as she poured fresh orange juice into the glass. ‘Looks like a beautiful day.’

‘Good morning, Tracy. Nothing like an autumn day in Sydney, eh?’

The leading article in a paper screamed the government’s proposed tax on the miners. Abe rubbed his forehead. Buggers.

‘No, sir, better than Oberon.’

She often talked about the freezing temperatures in her birthplace. Abe grinned. At twenty-three, she was a fresh addition to the household, found by an agency Deedee had employed. She had a lovely, rounded body. Good choice, Deedee. For once, she’d managed not to screw up. Tracy performed her duties with an efficient and pleasant demeanour, unlike the cheeky cook. He should’ve fired Rachel long ago, but for the delicious gefilte fish, the cream cheese blintzes and the many other creations that were her specialty.

Tracy bent over to fill the coffee cup and revealed her flat chest. Oh, well, perfection was an illusory concept, not limited to body types. Why wasn’t the world in better shape? Deedee herself could have done with more brains and been less capricious. Maybe the world was too full of people like her?

Hell, it’d be great if the government backed off this stupid proposed Super Profits Mining Tax. What super profits? Talk about plucking the goose that laid golden eggs. Well, this goose had plenty of hissing to do yet.

‘Will madam grace us with her presence?’ Abe asked as he unfolded a newspaper.

‘Princess said she is indisposed and has requested breakfast in her bedroom, sir.’

Princess, pig’s arse. From the beginning of their marriage, in front of the servants, he’d called her Madam. Alas, the staff heeded her instruction.

It had been 1973 in Paris when someone had introduced her as Princess Claudia Lenidze. ‘Call me Deedee,’ she’d whispered in a sultry tone. Oh, how impressive. Later he’d discovered Deedee worked at the makeup counter at Galeries Lafayette. She’d said her family originated from Tbilisi in Georgia, her grandfather having been a colonel in the Tsarist army. Had he been involved in the pogroms of the Jews? No, the emperor had entrusted the Cossacks with the job of doing his dirty work. Abe had accepted her claim to the Circassian royal bloodline because of her smouldering beauty, and later because she’d turned out to be a fantastic screw.

After the honeymoon bliss had faded, his sentence, ‘My darling Deedee, in the Caucasus, anyone who owned more than a couple of sheep was a prince,’ had made her burst into tears. Kissing them away calmed things somewhat. As time went on, the jibes about her ancestry had provoked less-violent reactions but had brought forth defensive irony.

‘At least they weren’t tinkers, tailors or candlestick makers…’ Deedee would follow this with a contemptuous face and the devastating coup de grâce, ‘…or usurers.’

Abe chuckled. He’d deserved it.

As his mind returned to the present, he said, ‘Tell Rachel I’ll have the lox omelette.’ The departing girl’s undulating backside was a welcome distraction from his thoughts.

The glance back to the offending newspaper article darkened his mood. Canberra should stop whinging and start negotiating with the miners. If it hadn’t been for the mining industry’s performance in the last decade, the Australian government would be in deep doodoo. Where would they find the money to finance all the big promises they’d made? Not to mention the insulating of homes and the building of school halls?

His son Simon joined him at the table. ‘Good morning, Papa.’

Abe threw the paper on the table. ‘What’s good about it?’

Simon scanned the front page and poured himself some tea. ‘You think the government will buckle?’

Abe swallowed the lump in his throat. The words were right, but… his poor browbeaten boy couldn’t cope. The teaching and preparation for him to take over the running of the business wasn’t working out. Since Simon had graduated with a diploma in accountancy twelve years ago, Abe had urged him to take an interest in the company, but his son had shown little enthusiasm. Though the lad had tried, immersing him in the finance department hadn’t fared better. Putting him through the legal hoops at Kravitz & Feinstein had been a non-event. Al Kravitz had refused to accept the offered fees. He’d said he would be delighted to make sure the lad got the right experience. Well, after twelve months, Simon had come back to Poisson Gold, none the wiser.

Kravitz & Feinstein was not a large law practice. What they lacked in size they made up for with their in-depth expertise on extraction industry matters. What they didn’t know about Poisson Gold Limited, and about the Silver family’s legal affairs, wasn’t worth knowing. Abe’s fees amounted to more than half of their billings. If they lost this lucrative account, they would have to move to less luxurious premises and search for new clients. Not a simple task in tough economic times. Probably wouldn’t happen, but hey, Al was not to know that.

Abe fixed his glare on Simon. ‘I’ve told the Mineral Council we’ll contribute a further half a million to their advertising campaign against the proposed tax legislation.’

Simon picked at a cuticle on his finger.

Abe leaned over and took hold of his son’s shoulder. ‘It’s bupkis compared to what it’ll cost us if the proposal becomes the law.’

Simon leaned away and sipped his tea. He brushed the crumbs from the table with the back of his hand.

‘I told you not to do that.’ Abe’s mind cast back to a fight in Majdanek over some crumbs.

Simon grimaced.

‘Simon.’ Abe locked his stare on his son’s face. ‘They’ve intersected a gold vein at our Ybongo lease. You and I are flying to Ghana next weekend.’

Simon frowned. ‘I can’t. Sarah is away. I have to take Junior to the synagogue.’

‘Ollie can do that. He’s done it before.’

‘Junior has an important soccer match.’

‘Stop mollycoddling my grandson. For fuck’s sake, I was with the partisans in the Tatra Mountains blowing up Nazi trains when I was younger than he is now.’

Silence.

‘Son…’Abe swallowed hard. ‘Speak to me.’

‘It’s a father and son bonding thing, Papa.’

‘You’ve been bonding a lot of late.’ Abe bit his lip. But not with him.

‘You and I should have bonded more when I was young.’

Abe slammed his fist on the table, rattling the china. ‘We take care of the shop…’ he stabbed a stiff finger at Simon’s chest and raised his voice, ‘…first.’

Simon fiddled with his napkin. ‘I can’t do it. Sarah will kill me.’

The azure Sydney May sky mocked Abe with its jolliness. ‘Who is the fucking boss in your family?’

Simon busied himself with his tea.

His son’s bloodhound-shaped eyes twinged Abe’s heart, and he let out a deep sigh. His sweet boy wanted to please his old man. It was all that witch’s work. How he detested his daughter-in-law.

Changing a man at age thirty-four was a hopeless task. Simon’s increased absences from key meetings and decision-making processes meant no rest for Abe. Not that Abe would relinquish control. He snorted. Not in a year of Sundays. But scaling down his hectic lifestyle would be good. Even just to go game fishing sometime, or whatever.

Soon, he’d have to change his succession plans. But which of his children could run his empire? Davey? He scoffed. Ellie? Nah… so who?

Something brushed against Abe’s legs. He lifted the tablecloth and jumped up. ‘Get that fucking dog away from me!’

‘It’s just Sarah’s toy poodle, Papa.’

Acute pressure in Abe’s bladder produced a strong urgency to urinate. A few drops escaped to wet his underwear. He sprinted to the nearest bathroom and unzipped his pants in a hurry.

But as had been the case for many weeks, his stream was erratic and he found himself forcing the bladder.

Shit, what the hell was this? He saw a skein of blood in the toilet bowl.

There had been a similar episode five years ago, but it’d been after an unprotected one-night stand with a waitress in Perth that had turned out to be a severe case of bladder infection. A week’s course of antibiotics had gotten rid of it.

Abe did up his fly and went to the basin to wash his hands. Where the hell had this infection come from? He’d not screwed anyone since… when… last year. He’d made no love to Deedee; being busy with trips to his mines in Western Australia, New Zealand and a couple in Ghana was an excuse. Hell, making love implied at least some love remained between them. He was fed up with bickering and sparring with Deedee. What had happened since those heady days in Paris? He closed his eyes. When they couldn’t keep their hands off each other.

She’d called him Tiger from the first time they’d screwed. ‘Come and take care of your kitty,’ she’d purred.

And Tiger had been on the job, taking care of her kitty – his kitty. They’d owned it, together.

What pleasure there had been in joint ownership – him caressing it, kissing it, occupying it, filling it, washing it – she observing it in the mirror, with him by her side. Her whispering, ‘Tiger, do you like your kitty?’

He’d drop to his knees to show how much he liked all of her, and she’d hold his head against her as he devoured every delicious nook and cranny of his Venus. But his goddess had arms and hands, unlike the limbless, cold marble in the Louvre. What magic those hands and fingers had woven.

It had been years now since she’d stopped demanding his affection. Was her reaction the result of his neglect? Was she having an affair and didn’t need him to satisfy her needs? Did she suspect he was unfaithful to her? Did she care? How had it come to this?

The initial fire that had ignited their lust had masked everything else. Shagging had been enough. Abe had never needed to open up. She had not demanded it, nor had she volunteered. There had been no necessity to plumb each other’s minds. It’d taken him years to understand this, and now there was no road back. Even if there were a path, he had no inclination to undertake such a journey. He sighed deeply. He was sure she didn’t either.

Abe’s heart raced. What the fuck was he doing reminiscing? The blood in his urine needed attention. He got out his mobile and dialled Dr Fulton’s surgery. Don would fix it like last time.

The canned voice told him the surgery would be closed until Wednesday.

Shit, what was Don up to? Abe called his mobile. The same voice gave him the identical message.

Fuck.

Chapter Two

Ellie, May 2010

Vaucluse, Sydney

Ellie Silver woke from her erotic dream. Someone who was the spitting image of Penelope Cruz had passionately kissed her.

She touched her lips. Nice. A woman’s kiss? It wasn’t the first time.

Still dark outside, the 6 a.m. weather report said the overnight temperature had bottomed at thirteen degrees. Ellie put on her jogging gear and set out for her regular run, which took her downhill to Rose Bay and back up Heartbreak Hill. Upon returning home she slipped on her bikini and plunged into the backyard pool. A row of sculptured Japanese box shrubs bordered the grounds of Papa’s mansion. The sun was making its way from New Zealand to beyond the Blue Mountains.

Ellie was a little shaky and still focused on her dream. She frowned. Oh, for crying out loud, at age thirty-two it was high time to get clear about her sexual orientation. She had not had sex with a woman. But then, the few occasions she’d hooked up with men were neither satisfying nor memorable. From the initial fumble in the back of a boyfriend’s car, right up to the loss of her virginity, she had never experienced the excitement other girls talked about. After such episodes, she blamed the boys’ immaturity for her lack of arousal, Peggy Lee’s ‘Is That All There Is?’ in her head. But it soon became obvious that she couldn’t always blame the men. One thing was certain, though, she wanted to be in love.

Maybe the early fumbles with Suzanna in the Ascham dorm were telling her something? Ellie blinked back the image of her best and only friend, Suzanna Liebner. Years ago, when she’d mentioned her to Papa, he’d remarked, ‘Ah, the blonde with the square jaw and wired teeth.’

‘You leave her alone!’ Ellie had shouted at a class bully when they were in Year 7. She had been ready to defend Suzanna, who had been picked on because of her appearance, but it never came to that. Maybe Ellie’s lessons in Taekwondo had forced the girl to back off.

Ellie shuddered. Ascham Boarding School for Girls. All these years later, she still smarted at Maman, who had sent her to board there when it was just a few kilometres from home.

For about ten minutes, Ellie did flip-turns at each end of the pool, and the rhythmic pulse in her ears still pounded as she climbed out and wrapped herself in an oversized beach towel. She threw on her bathrobe and towelled her hair in front of the antique mirror behind the ever-piddling replica of the cheeky Manneken Pis. Ellie giggled. Oh, my, the little urchin had first peed in the garden after Papa had imported him from Brussels some twenty years ago. That brought memories of her, at age four, changing the nappies on her baby brother Davey – the cuddly tot. Maman had been forever absent, socialising on the world stage.

Now, the sound of the tiny fountain dribbling from the miniature weenie created the urgency to pass water. Ellie started her dash towards the house, an unattractive idea of an Australian architect’s Middle Ages manor, which Papa had mysteriously named Poisson d’Or. After many additions and alterations, it had turned into a mishmash of Tudor, Gothic and Teutonic styles.

Ellie was halfway to the house when she noticed her brother Simon on the patio talking in his supercilious manner to the cook. The skin on the back of her neck prickled. Ever since early childhood, her brother had never missed a chance to belittle her and was often malicious. He resented Papa taking her side in conflicts between them. When she was six, Simon appointed himself a dentist. He’d persuaded Ellie to sit in a chair while he fetched a pair of pliers and was ready to do a tooth extraction. A nanny walked in just in time and stopped the procedure. Years later, Ellie had asked him if he’d meant to do it.

‘Of course,’ had been his offhanded reply. ‘You complained about your toothache. The problem with you is that you don’t appreciate a good turn.’

She took off her flip-flops, tippytoed behind his back and gave Rachel a finger-on-the-lips sign. The lady bobbed her head, and Ellie assumed she got the message, rather than she was agreeing with the creep. He would have taken her head movements as absolute obedience.

Inside, Ellie went to the bathroom, and after she put on a white tunic and a turquoise Capri pants, worked her way to the barber’s chair in what Mario had christened many years ago, the Salon.

‘What can I do for you today, Ms Ellie?’ he asked.

She combed her wet hair with her fingers ‘Why don’t you wash it and give it a slight trim.’ She preferred a longish layered lob cut.

‘I remember when it was down to your culo…’ He blushed. ‘Scusi my language, Ms Ellie.’

She laughed. ‘No need to apologise, Mario. You’re like family.’

‘Ms Ellie, you are molto gentile.’ Mario straightened up. He gave one of his impish smiles. ‘Did I tell you that when I first started to work for the padrone, I told my signora your laughter is like the peal of St Mary’s bells?’ He combed her twisted hair-strands. ‘And that your hair is belissimi.’

Ellie glanced up. She had heard that story often. Mario had done her hair since she was seven, unless she was away for extended periods, like her stint in Boston. Not that it needed much doing as a simple wash and blow-dry was sufficient most times. She relied on Mario to select shampoos and conditioners to give it that extra body and lustre.

She settled in the reclining chair. He attached the washbowl and began rinsing her hair. The delicious warm water and the gentle lather that he massaged into her scalp were akin to Penelope’s soft hands on her nape.

Mario’s memory about the long hair reminded Ellie of Al calling her ‘The Vaucluse Rapunzel’. Al Kravitz, the managing partner at Kravitz & Feinstein, and a frequent visitor to the Silvers’ home, was both her mentor and her personal lawyer. After her HSC, he’d suggested Ellie could do worse than study Arts/Law. Instead, she took a Bachelor of Commerce degree at Sydney University. On graduating, she had worked for an accounting firm and then asked Papa if he would support her studies at Harvard Business School. He’d expressed little enthusiasm, but she’d convinced him, and two years later, got her MBA. On her return from America, Al had recommended she do a law degree. This time, she’d agreed it would be an excellent adjunct to her CV and had earned her J.D. while she clerked at Sachs & Associates. Al had been annoyed, but hey, it had been a way to be free of any conflict. Another nose out of joint had been Simon’s, who’d barely scraped through his accountancy diploma. Up yours, Simon.

Papa had been too busy with his business to take a deep interest in Ellie’s career. But on her admission to practice law, he’d found time to throw a lavish party for her at Poisson d’Or. As usual, Maman had been absent, probably at Hippodrome de Longchamp, or Monte Carlo, putting on the Ritz.

As they’d danced that night, Papa said, ‘Mazel tov, Precious. What will you do with all this knowledge?’

‘S & A have offered me a permanent position, and I want to accept it. Any problems with that?’

‘They don’t handle any of my legal matters, so it’s okay. But… you should think about a suitable fella. Start a family.’

Ellie wrinkled her nose.

‘Maybe I can assist—’

She placed a finger on his lips. ‘If I need help in that department, I’ll ask.’

‘Feisty.’

She gave him a playful smile. ‘I got it from my Papa.’ She’d hoped that’d be the end of that. Slim chance, though.

‘I love you, baby.’

‘I love you heaps, Papa.’

The following week, Ellie had told Mike Sachs she’d stay on as a junior lawyer with the firm.

Mario interrupted her musings when he pointed to a mag on her lap. ‘Matt Damon, handsome man.’ He winked. ‘Maybe for you—’

‘Not you too, Mario.’

‘Your… how you say… Orologio biologico going tick-tock, tick-tock, all the time.’

‘I’ll make a deal with you – you can be the godfather to my first bambino…’ Oops. Ellie looked up at him. ‘Anyway, I’ll invite you and Filomena to mitzvah.’ It was a joke, of course. Children required a father.

‘What is that?’

‘Like Confirmation in your church.’

‘Ms Ellie, if you don’t hurry up, Mario dead by then.’

‘I’ll keep that in mind.’

Mario