‘That was years ago, Hede. I can’t see –’
‘I finish, madam, very quickly. For two days, maybe three, you were with this friend, Herr … Mr … What was his name? My memory is not good.’ Hede tapped her fingers on the tablecloth. ‘I have it! Mr Ross. Michael Ross, an artist Herr Landau tells me. It is a big surprise, I almost fainted. Jude! Herr Landau tells me your friend is a Jew!’ Hede flapped her hands, patted her chest. ‘I say to myself, Frau Landau is young and English. She knows no better in her friends.’
‘He’s the brother of an old schoolfriend of mine, Hede. And this really isn’t any concern of yours. I’m –’
Hede held up her hand to silence Karen. ‘Soon baby Antje comes along and she is so beautiful a baby as I have ever seen. I say to myself, Antje cannot be the only little girl whose Mutti and Pappi and big Bruder all have blue blue eyes but she is not the same. She has brown. Brown as a nigger.’ Hede looked out at Antje gathering blossom on the grass. ‘Brown as a Jew.’
Karen waited. Her skin was cold. ‘What are you saying, Hede?’
‘It is not saying that will hurt, madam. It is plain to see for anyone who looks at Antje.’
‘I’ve no idea what you’re talking about.’ Karen stood up and began to stack the plates. ‘I’ll put the children to bed. You may go now. Thank you, Hede.’
Then Hede reached across and grasped her arm. ‘I am not so simple as you think.’ she said softly. ‘Trouble will come and it is no good saying it will not.’
Karen pulled her arm away. She sat down again.
‘Good,’ Hede said. ‘So. Antje’s Pappi is the Jew. Hush, don’t tell me he is not. It is too late for stories. You see, madam, I love our baby girl but I am cut in half. What would you have me do? I am German and have one duty. No, do not frown, this fault is not mine. Herr Landau loves his little Antje as any pappi would and he pretends he does not see, or perhaps he cannot bear to. But soon he must because others will – men like Herr Bölling and Doktor Grundmann. The story will come out, and if they ask, I cannot lie. You understand this must be so, madam, although it breaks my heart.’
Karen’s mind was frozen still.
‘Herr Landau is dismissed, young Stefan is no longer in his boys’ corps, and you, madam, what happens to you? But Antje is the one who suffers most.’ Sweat had appeared above Hede’s lip. ‘I ask myself, what can we do to keep her safe? I have thought and thought and I cannot see a better plan.’
The quiet thickened in the room and Karen knew some horror would come to life when Hede spoke. Outside Antje ran to and fro throwing up handfuls of blossom and dashing through the petals.
‘I will say it now,’ Hede whispered. ‘It is this. They say put washing bleach into the eyes and this will make them blue. The sight is lost and there is pain, but in time the pain will go.’
Karen could not move. She should slap Hede’s face, dismiss her, call someone, but who? ‘I’ll tell my husband,’ she said at last – the most stupid thing of all.
‘Ja, you tell him, madam.’ Hede stood up. She leaned across the table and Karen felt a breath of hatred burning her. ‘You think I cannot see? You break Herr Landau’s heart not once but twice. You torture him – a good fine man who loves you. I try to help, to find a way to help us all. You think Antje is invisible?’ A blade of evening sunshine cast silver in Hede’s eyes, and Karen saw that they were depthless, like metal. ‘You think the Führer will turn away his head because you are a pretty Party wife? No, madam. He will not.’
‘Mutti?’ Stefan was standing at the door. How long he had been there Karen had no idea and she got up, flustered. ‘Oh, darling, don’t creep about so! Is Antje still outside?’ Stefan gazed at her. ‘We were gossiping as usual.’ Karen smiled, holding out her hand. ‘I shall come outside. What should we play, do you think?’
She knew that Stefan was not easily fooled. His eyes were as unfathomable as Hede’s. He stood at the door for a moment, then he turned and she heard him walking back along the passageway, out into the garden.
27
Salzburg
Michael,
I shall hope your mother sends this letter on to you. You might tear it up and if you do, it would be no more than I deserve, but will you meet me one last time?
In June I shall come to Kent for a few days. If you contact the bookings clerk, Mr Stubbard, at the Metropole Hotel in Folkestone, he will tell you the dates I shall stay. If you would telephone me at the hotel, I will meet you anywhere you suggest. I must talk to you, Michael. Please say you will.
Karen
• • •
Ronald Stubbard smoothed the pages of his bookings ledger in preparation for the guest coming up the steps. In a blink, he had folded up his newspaper and tucked it behind the cash tin where Mr Tart wouldn’t poke about. The position of Head Clerk for twenty-seven years should give a person privileges and a bit of slack, Stubbard thought, but old Lemon Tart still prowled around, checking up. It was an insult if a man couldn’t read the paper when business was quiet.
The news was grim with things coming to the boil in Europe and Spain tearing out her own heart. The pompous little German Führer had pledged support to Señor Franco, and young men from countries who shouldn’t get involved were swarming south to help the Spanish rebels who sounded like a pack of savages. The Orientals were at each other’s throats, and if Mr Chamberlain didn’t take a stand in Europe, they’d all be back fighting in the trenches though they vowed they never would again in all eternity. The promises that there would never be another war weren’t adding up to much.
But perhaps it was all best forgotten on such a sunny optimistic day. Stubbard tweaked back his sleeves to show the buttons on his cuffs – nice nigger-brown enamel his mother had given him last Christmas.
He composed his professional smile but the young woman still did not come through the door. She had stopped in the shadow of the entrance and a pleasing picture she made, with her pretty silhouette against the grassy Leas and yellow gorse, the splintery sea and, far away, a streak of nothing that was France.
Stubbard couldn’t see the woman’s face but her figure was shapely and her coat was nicely tailored, square shouldered, flared to just below the knee. She wore her hair up with her hat at a hopeful angle and it had an embellishment of some sort on the brim with a little veil over her eyes. She carried a vanity case on her arm.
He noted that her neck was fine and her waist was trim; this was his personal method of assessing the quality of lady he was receiving. Neck and girth were signs of class.
Years ago, when the hotel was residential chambers, he used to pride himself on his skill at guessing which gentleman a visitor would ask for. The atmosphere in the place was more congenial then and one could even have a brandy occasionally after hours in the little staff room adjoining the Snug. In his time he’d smoked in the presence of an Indian prince and a minister of His Majesty’s government.
These days, the place was modish but rather dull, although it was still the second-best hotel in Folkestone.
Through the glass door, Stubbard could see the doorman, old Mr Pearce, fixed in a half-bow with his gloved hand holding the brass handle, his epaulettes frisking in the breeze and his buttons winking. The young porter, Awkward Sidney, stood to one side waiting for instructions although it seemed the woman had no luggage.
She patted her hat edgily and tucked back a wisp of hair. The three figures were sharp and black against the sunshine and the glittering sea: the woman, old Pearce and Sidney. Then Pearce pulled open the door, a little too flamboyantly perhaps, and in she came.
An oval face, bright auburn hair and a nice enough complexion, clear grey eyes, but no lipstick or powder. Stubbard was a touch disappointed. She was pretty but not as sophisticated as her figure promised.
She was perhaps twenty-five, twenty-six, it was hard to tell. Her chin and nose had pinked as if she’d caught the sun and her lips were full; not to his taste. But her faults gave maturity to her childish face and mad
e her rather fetching. He had assumed she was reluctant to enter because of shyness, but she had a look of wary excitement he’d seen so many times in the past. She must be visiting a gentleman.
She leaned forward as if they might be overheard. ‘Good morning. Is Mrs Landau here?’ she said. So he was wrong about the gentleman.
The tall and plainly dressed Frau Landau was not to his taste either. She was a beauty, that could not be denied, but she had an arrogance that spoiled her in spite of the exquisite eyes and golden hair.
She had been here two days and a small mystery had gathered itself around her; she had reserved adjoining rooms and given permission to disclose her booking dates to a gentleman, a Mr Michael Ross, who would telephone to enquire. Stubbard had enjoyed the prospect of overseeing the smooth running of a discreet liaison, as he had often in the past. The gentleman’s call was put through to her room on the first evening of her stay, but she didn’t go out and no one came. It was anyone’s guess what that was all about.
The Frau was demanding, as if she considered herself more than just a visiting foreigner – and mean with tips. The room staff squabbled over who should answer her bell and he’d had to intervene. He told them there was a policy of appeasement to the Hun. They looked blank. He shouldn’t have expected them to read the newspapers.
‘Perhaps madam would like to wait comfortably,’ Stubbard said to the Frau’s visitor, gesturing to the winged leather chairs arm to arm along the wall.
‘Oh, thank you, no, I really don’t need to sit down.’ She seemed to think he was being kind. ‘I expect Mrs Landau will come as soon as she knows I’m here.’ On the desk was a bouquet in a glass vase and she sniffed a lily. ‘The flowers are lovely. They always make me cheerful, don’t they you?’ Her smile was so innocent Stubbard forgave her for her embarrassing friendliness. The blooms gave off a feeble joyous scent of the outdoors which Stubbard found uplifting too, and he warmed to this novice guest who now had pollen on her nose. She looked too gentle and too nice to be a friend of the Frau.
‘Who would madam wish me to inform Mrs Landau is here to see her?’
The woman stared. Stubbard tried again. ‘Madam, may I ask your name?’
‘Elisabeth. Thank you. Mrs Elisabeth Mander.’
Sidney was sent to alert the Frau. She came down directly and Stubbard took on the colours of his background so he could observe.
‘I’m fatter and you’re thinner,’ he heard Frau Landau say bluntly as soon as she set eyes on Mrs Mander. ‘You’ve got pollen on your nose.’
Poor Mrs Mander looked overcome and cautious all at once. She scrubbed at her pretty nose while tangling with the Frau’s embrace.
‘Your room is next to mine,’ announced Frau Landau when they’d got over all the kissing and dishevelment of meeting. ‘We can see the sea and we’ve got a door in between so we can leave it open and talk. Let’s take up your bag.’ And off they went together.
• • •
Elisabeth wondered why Karen had never mentioned the chaos of the last time they were together. Has Artur forgiven you? Elisabeth asked in her letters more than once, but Karen seemed absorbed in married life, and in the Führer whom she spoke of as often as she spoke of Artur. They had another child, a little girl, Antje Eva, so Karen’s marriage had survived.
To George’s delight, Elisabeth had fallen pregnant at last. She gave birth to a daughter in the same month as little Antje was born. Karen sent an embroidered shawl for baby Christina, Elisabeth sent a teddy bear for Antje and a matinee coat she knitted herself.
Karen’s letters became infrequent, so it was a surprise when she wrote to say she would be coming to England again, on her own this time. She would book a hotel in Folkestone for two nights. It’ll just be us, she wrote, like it used to be before we had husbands and children.
Elisabeth had packed her case, aware that her excitement was tinged with dread that something she could not foresee would send everything into chaos again. She resolved to keep her distance this time, wondering if Karen knew where Michael was and if this visit was another excuse to see him.
The hotel was expensive. There were flowers on the reception desk and oil paintings on the walls.
When Karen came down the stairs, Elisabeth saw that these last five years had altered her. She seemed more guarded somehow. She put her arms around Elisabeth, hugging her as if nothing had happened. ‘I’m fatter and you’re thinner. You’ve got pollen on your nose,’ she said.
Elisabeth thought the man at the desk could have warned her about the lilies. She had felt nice in her new hat – although the veil was like looking through a cloud of smuts – but with a yellow nose she must look ridiculous.
Their rooms were at the front and the long bay windows looked out along a crescent of white seafront villas. The furnishings were modern: maple wood and pale green watered silk. There were chrome lamps and glass tables. Elisabeth took off her hat and coat and put her vanity case in the mirrored bathroom where a dozen reflections spat on their hankies and scrubbed at their noses with their hair lopsided from the hurricane on the Folkestone bus. She powdered her face and applied some lipstick.
‘What are you doing in there?’ Karen called out. ‘It doesn’t matter if you look a sight. The place is full of geriatrics and they’re all as blind as bats.’
Downstairs in the sun room, some elderly ladies were drinking sherry. Ironed newspapers on poles were hanging on a rack. The cotton blinds were drawn down against the morning sunshine, and a young man with oiled hair played popular ballads at the grand piano. He stared into space as if he had no interest in the fingers on the keys.
‘This is nice,’ said Elisabeth.
‘I hate hotels,’ Karen said. ‘How’s George? I liked your hat. He must be giving you more money for clothes these days.’
‘Thanks,’ said Elisabeth. ‘He always gave me plenty, Karen.’
There was a time when Elisabeth made almost all her clothes, but the foundry was doing well and money wasn’t tight at home any more. George had taken her to London shopping more than once this year already. He had engaged a man to do the bookkeeping, and also a wages clerk, so Elisabeth no longer helped out in the office. It was strange that this comfortable life was thanks to Karen’s Führer, whose belligerence had provoked rearmament. The foundry had orders for months ahead, although it troubled George. ‘We should be grateful, shouldn’t we?’ Elisabeth had said to him. ‘We’re only making rivets and bolts and things, not guns. Mr Chamberlain says having weapons will stop another war, not make one. You’re keeping us safe, George. You’re helping peace.’ She always wanted him to say, yes, that was it, but he never did.
The young man at the piano finished the piece with a sardonic rippling chord.
Karen said, ‘I always knew George would be a good husband for you.’
‘What an odd thing to say. Yes, he is. I’m very lucky.’
After they finished drinking coffee in the sun room, they walked along the Leas promenade and sat in deckchairs looking out over the Channel. A brass band in the bandstand honked ‘Hello, Mr Sunshine’ and when the conductor closed his music and the boys put down their instruments and started on their sandwiches, Karen took Elisabeth’s arm and they followed a little zigzag path down the cliff through mock grottos of shell-encrusted rock where lizards basked, down steep steps with a wooden handrail, beneath pines and tamarisk, down to a path by the sea.
They walked with their faces to the afternoon sun as far as the cottages at Sandgate, where they teetered along the sea wall, holding their arms out for balance, or their skirts down for modesty. Elisabeth knew they were too old to behave like this but she was slipping up through the silt of wifeliness and motherhood that had settled over her, and popping like a bubble in the air where she and Karen would always be the same.
The upset of Karen’s last visit was disappearing. Those days were only four in the thousands of their lives together. So few should not matter.
They had forgotten lunch. El
isabeth had a headache and her face was sore from the sun and the salt air. A little weatherboard shop sold ices and when they’d finished they left the saucers and spoons on a tray outside, then sat on the pebbles with their backs against a wooden groyne to watch the fishing boats waiting for mackerel to come in on the evening tide.
After a while, Karen said, ‘I’ve always known you would be happy because you’re good.’
‘I’m not good at all.’
Then Karen grasped her hand. ‘I’m sorry for what happened last time I was here. Can you forgive me?’
Elisabeth was astonished. She had never known Karen to be ashamed of anything she’d done and it came to her in an instant of bleak certainty that there was something false in this whole day together. Karen wanted something and she was waiting for her moment, biding her time.
But Ma had taught them that forgiveness must follow an apology, however unresolved the battle, so Elisabeth put her arms around Karen and held her close. It wasn’t affection that made it hard to let go but the blankness when they touched. The feel of Karen was baffling, like hugging a bolt of cloth. Elisabeth looked over Karen’s hair, not knowing when the reconciliation was complete, and she watched the old ladies knitting and gossiping in the sun outside their painted cottages and the children turning somersaults on the promenade railings.
After a while, Karen said meekly, ‘Thank you.’ They walked in silence back to the hotel.
When she dressed for dinner, Elisabeth put on the opal earrings George had given her. She had bought a new cashmere jacket and an expensive lipstick. For the first time, at least in one way, she and Karen would be equal.
The German Boy Page 28