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by Peter Haden


  ‘Would it be possible,’ he asked her, ‘for you to choose where we might dine? Somewhere you would like to go,’ he added quickly.

  ‘Not a problem,’ she said simply. Hannah walked to the side of the fireplace and rang a bell. ‘Herr Raschdorf’s coat, if you please, Heidi,’ she requested. He thanked Herr Rosenthal for his hospitality and Hannah walked him to the hall. Heidi held his Loden.

  ‘Thank you for coming, Günther,’ she said quietly. ‘Perhaps you could call for me at seven on Wednesday?’ There was a brief pause. ‘I shall look forward to it,’ she concluded, as Heidi held open one of the two double doors.

  The following Wednesday Hannah was ready, well wrapped up against the cold, when he rang the bell. They took the tram almost to the Stadtmitte, the city centre. Gli Olivi was another German-Italian restaurant offering the cuisine of both countries. The menu, he noticed, was not dissimilar from that on offer at Giulio’s, but whereas the latter was a basic, value-for-money eatery, Gli Olivi was decidedly upmarket. Giulio’s served a house wine. This restaurant had a wine list as long as your arm, not to mention damask table linen, silk-covered padded chairs, silverware and crystal. Nothing he couldn’t cope with, not that different from home, really, but whereas Hannah had a menu without them, on his version the prices made his eyes water.

  Again, the conversation was light and interesting. But when he asked if she enjoyed working at Giulio’s she simply said ‘Yes’ and changed the subject. Clearly it was not something she wished to discuss. He noticed that she barely glanced at the menu. Declining an antipasto, she asked simply for a breaded veal cutlet and salad. He could see that it was one of the least expensive choices. Wondering whether she was being considerate, he ordered the same. When he offered wine, the sommelier at his elbow, she smiled at him and asked for the house white – her usual, please. Günther was puzzled, he hadn’t seen any house wine on the list, but by then the sommelier had whisked it away. He returned with a white burgundy and poured a little for Günther to taste. It was delicious and chilled to perfection. His hand invited the waiter to Hannah’s glass. With the wine set in a silver bucket on a stand alongside their table, Günther was not inclined to lift the napkin and inspect the label. But he recognised the quality that his father also served. This was definitely not house wine.

  They both enjoyed a gelato. Hannah declined coffee, preferring to sit and talk whilst they finished the wine. Mostly she wanted to know about his life at home, and what he would do when his studies were completed. Time just dissolved, until it was half past nine and Günther had promised that she would be home at a respectable hour. He called for the bill.

  The maître d’hôtel bowed. ‘Herr Rosenthal’s compliments,’ he informed Günther, ‘and he would be grateful if you would allow him the courtesy of being your host this evening.’ He bowed again and walked from the table before an astonished Günther had chance to reply. He looked at Hannah, who in turn was looking at the tablecloth but could not conceal a faint smile.

  ‘All right,’ he said not unkindly, ‘I’m embarrassed. But what’s going on?’

  ‘We should be getting back,’ she said, glancing at her wristwatch. ‘But Father said to bring you in for a nightcap. I’ll tell you everything on the way home.’

  The tram was almost empty. She sat next to the window and half turned towards him. It felt strangely intimate.

  ‘You have probably worked out by now that we… that is to say Father… owns the restaurant,’ she began softly. ‘He also owns Giulio’s, as well as a couple of bars in the financial district of the city. They also serve lunches but they don’t open in the evening.’

  ‘Which explains why you are working there, at Giulio’s, I mean,’ observed Günther.

  ‘Not entirely,’ she responded. ‘You see, I’m an only child. I can hardly remember my mother – she died in childbirth when I was four. My baby brother didn’t survive, either. To cope with his grief, father hired a nanny and threw himself into the business.

  ‘He’s a very enlightened man,’ she went on. ‘I was well educated, albeit privately, and he would have allowed me to go on to university. But I guessed what he really wanted, and when I asked if I could come and work with him, he was over the moon.’ She smiled at the memory. ‘But he’s also wise. He insisted that I start at the bottom, otherwise, he said, I would never fully understand the business and sooner or later a member of staff would take advantage and steal from us. I’m in the middle of a training programme that he devised. I worked as a commis chef at Gli Olivi for a year. Believe me, if any of our kitchen staff over-ordered to take home or sell food, I would know in an instant. And if I say so myself, I’m not a bad cook, although I don’t do it at home unless I want to try out a new dish.’

  Günther began to see Hannah in a new light. Most girls – young ladies – of her social standing barely knew where the kitchen was. But he thought it best not to comment.

  ‘I’ve also done Front of House,’ she went on after a short pause, ‘and as you know I do a spot of waitressing from time to time. I’ve worked in the bars, too, although Father took some persuading.’ She laughed. ‘It was good fun, but most of the city types think that just because you’re serving drinks they can be over-familiar whenever they choose. My next job is to learn the office side, so that if father wants me to, and he says he does, one day I can help him to manage the business.’

  She had chosen the restaurant deliberately to spare him the expense, Günther realised. And he knew now why she had barely glanced at the menu. In her time, she had probably cooked her way through the entire list. As for the “house wine”, her choice had probably been given to the sommelier before they arrived.

  It was a short walk from the tram stop to the house. Günther stayed long enough only to enjoy a glass of Armagnac with Herr Rosenthal and to thank him profusely for his hospitality, particularly at the restaurant. Hannah showed him out herself, Heidi having long since been sent off duty. He paused by the door.

  ‘Thank you for this evening,’ he said quietly, ‘I have enjoyed it very much. Could we perhaps meet again? And this time, you will be my guest.’

  ‘I would like that too,’ she said with a smile. ‘Let me talk to Father – perhaps you could come for lunch or dinner one day soon?’ She offered her hand, palm down. Günther’s lips brushed it for just a half second longer than was strictly decorous but she did not seem to mind.

  When Hannah rejoined her father, he wanted to know all about her evening. ‘If you don’t tell me,’ he teased, ‘I shall find out everything from the staff.’

  ‘Well,’ she said with a laugh, ‘thank you for the kind gift of our meal. But all they could tell you is that we each enjoyed a Schnitzel, an ice cream and a bottle of your best white burgundy!’

  He was not to be put off. ‘Even if he’s not one of us, he seems a well brought up young man,’ he persisted. ‘How did you get on?’

  ‘Vati,’ she said seriously, deliberately using the diminutive, ‘I like him. In fact, I think I might come to like him rather a lot. Will that do for now?’

  ‘Hmmm,’ muttered her father under his breath, and poured himself another Armagnac. Hannah excused herself and went upstairs.

  Günther reached his lodgings a few minutes after eleven. Fortunately, Frau Hesler had waited up for him. He placated her with a very edited account of his evening.

  After a weekend at home with his parents Günther was disappointed when he visited Giulio’s on Thursday evening and she was not there. He had resolved to ask when he might see her again. But as he sipped his beer a waitress whom he knew only by sight came to his table.

  ‘You are Herr Günther Raschdorf?’ she enquired with a smile. Günther confirmed that he was. She reached for a pocket underneath her apron and offered him an envelope. ‘My name is Irma. Hannah, Miss Rosenthal, said to give you this.’

  He opened it immediately. In her own hand she had written:


  Sorry to have missed you this evening.

  I am working in the accounts office this week.

  Father says please come for lunch on Sunday.

  If for any reason you can’t make it, Irma will let me know.

  Hannah

  From the grin on his face, Irma, who was still standing there, guessed that there wouldn’t be a reply. ‘Thank you very much, Irma,’ he said. ‘That’s fine… in fact, that’s more than fine.’ Still she stood there. ‘There’s no message,’ he told her.

  ‘I’m not waiting for a message,’ she replied with a knowing smile. ‘I’m waiting to see if you want to order.’ The decor wasn’t Gli Olivi, but the breaded cutlet tasted every bit as good.

  Hannah was nowhere to be seen when Heidi showed Günther into the drawing room. ‘You’ll take a glass of fino?’ her father asked. The sherry was very pale, very dry and just the right temperature. Günther resolved to raise an issue that had been troubling him since he had first met and rather fallen for Hannah. ‘Will we have a few minutes to talk privately, Sir?’ he asked.

  Herr Rosenthal indicated that they would. ‘I would like to continue to see Hannah,’ Günther went on, ‘and you have been very courteous in inviting me to your house. But you told me that you are of the Jewish faith. And I have to tell you that I am not. I would never want to hurt Hannah’s feelings or see her under false pretences. So, with the utmost respect, I feel it is only fair at this early stage to ask if this might be a problem?’

  To his utmost consternation, and he suspected also to her father’s, Hannah had appeared and was standing in the open doorway. She had obviously heard everything. Before either of them could say anything, she joined her father on the sofa and placed her hand affectionately on his knee. ‘May I answer, please Father?’ she said gently.

  Taking his silence for assent, she turned back towards Günther. ‘My mother was religious,’ she began, ‘and she followed our customs closely. Although as a family we were Jewish, dear Father was not particularly observant, but he was happy to go along with Mama’s wishes. Well… most of the time,’ she added with a smile. ‘So, we remembered Shabbat at sunset on Friday evenings, even though a certain person was berated for checking on his restaurant after our meal.’ She paused, ‘I can remember what father used to say: “The good Lord doesn’t have to earn a living. I am not so fortunate”.’

  Günther noticed Herr Rosenthal’s sad smile at the memory. ‘We have not observed Shabbat for many years,’ she went on. ‘Father does not go to the synagogue any more, either. I think after my mother died he found it too painful. So yes, technically our faith is Jewish, but it is not that strong.’

  ‘Let me continue,’ said her father. ‘And this is not directed at you, Günther. A couple of years ago Hannah asked me if I would prefer that she married someone of our faith. I told her that I would – if only for the sake of her mother’s memory.’ He paused to look directly at Günther. ‘But I told her something else as well. It was that if ever there was a choice between observance of our religion and happiness, I would without hesitation want her to be happy.’ He paused for a moment, as if gathering his strength. ‘I have known great happiness, and for Hannah that has to come first. Does that answer your question?’

  Günther was still searching for a reply when Herr Rosenthal moved to the sideboard and removed the silver and glass stopper from the decanter. ‘And now,’ he said, ‘I hope Hannah will tell me that there is time for another glass of this excellent sherry wine before we eat.’

  ‘You can pour me one too, please,’ said Hannah, ‘and whilst you two are punishing the sherry, I am going back to the kitchen to make a sauce.’ She picked up her glass and walked to the door. ‘Don’t panic, gentlemen,’ she said with mock irritation, ‘I’ll take my time and stir it slowly.’

  Hannah rejoined them in time for Heidi to place a chafing-dish on the sideboard. On it were three poussins, spatchcocked and halved, covered in a cream sauce and surrounded by a selection of vegetables.

  ‘You are honoured, my boy,’ said Herr Rosenthal, serving himself after Hannah and Günther. ‘She doesn’t even cook for me these days!’

  ‘I wanted to try out a new dish,’ she replied. ‘Tell me what you think of the sauce? Although whenever I take over the kitchen, cook goes into a sulk for at least the rest of the day!’

  Her father put an index finger in the sauce on his plate and licked it off, smacking his lips appreciatively.

  ‘Father!’ admonished Hannah.

  ‘Once a chef, always a chef,’ he said simply. ‘But the sauce is good – it has a hint of game.’

  ‘I used a woodpigeon to make the stock for it,’ she told him. ‘I think it’s more interesting than just a plain cream sauce and it flavours the poussins ever so slightly.’

  Despite his daughter’s protest her father did the same thing again. ‘I like it,’ he concluded, ‘this could go on the German section of the menu in Gli Olivi.’

  Hannah turned to Günther. ‘I don’t want to seem too pleased with myself or to be immodest,’ she said with a smile, ‘but in this house the praise doesn’t come any higher than that!’

  Günther had never tasted anything quite like it. ‘Thank you for making it,’ he said sincerely. ‘It’s absolutely delicious.’

  The rest of the year nineteen hundred and twenty, after the horrors of war, was the happiest Günther had known. Most Sundays he was invited for lunch. Often, they walked in Stettin’s parks and occasionally hired horses from a local stables for a hack into the country. By the end of the year, with Christmas approaching, Günther knew that he had to introduce Hannah to his parents. Actually, there was more to it than that – he also knew that he had met the woman with whom he intended to spend the rest of his life.

  ‘She’s a what?’ asked his mother, when Günther told his parents that Hannah’s family were Jewish.

  ‘Calm down,’ soothed his father. ‘I’m sure they are also good Germans. And we should respect Günther’s choice. If he is old enough to fight for the Fatherland, he’s old enough to choose a wife. Have you asked her yet?’ he turned to his son.

  Günther shook his head. ‘I wanted you to meet Hannah first,’ he told them.

  ‘And so we shall,’ said his father kindly. ‘If you would like to bring her here for a weekend, she will be made most welcome. Will she not, my dear?’ he asked pointedly. ‘After all,’ he went on, ‘my parents were not that pleased when I told them that I wished to ask you to be my wife. But we have been happy, have we not?’

  Günther knew that whereas his father’s family had been wealthy “gentlemen farmers”, people who hoped that he would marry someone with the prospect of inheriting land, his mother’s parents had been rather more middle-class and not of the same social standing.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ his mother said quietly. ‘It came as a bit of surprise, that’s all. So, bring your Hannah here,’ she told him, ‘and let’s see if she approves of us country folk.’

  They loved her. That Christmas he had arranged to stay in Stettin for the festivities, then they would go to his parents for New Year. Presents were opened on Christmas Eve. For some reason, Hannah noticed, her father absented himself for a few minutes when Günther handed her a beautifully wrapped small box. Inside was a ring – a large square sapphire surrounded by diamonds. ‘Will you marry me?’ he asked simply. She pulled him to his feet, threw her arms round his neck and whispered ‘Yes, yes, yes!’ in his ear. ‘But have you spoken to father?’ she asked anxiously.

  He had. A while back. Herr Rosenthal had been delighted. His only comment, although there were tears in his eyes, was ‘I hope she has the good sense to accept.’

  They decided to wait until Günther had finished his studies before they married. In the meantime, Günther’s father had a small but very pleasant cottage built on the estate. ‘You’ll take over the big house one day, my boy,’ he t
old him, ‘then you can let this one out for extra income. But it’ll do for now.’

  Towards the end of nineteen twenty-one, Hannah became Frau Günther Raschdorf. They could marry neither in Hannah’s local synagogue nor the Raschdorf’s local church, not that Günther’s parents were regular attendees anyway. But as a favour and mark of respect for Herr Raschdorf senior, the civil ceremony was not conducted in the local Standesampt. Instead, the registrar formalised the marriage in the main drawing room of the Raschdorf residence.

  Herr Rosenthal was clearly disappointed at not being able to host the ceremony himself, so when he took Günther’s parents to one side and begged to be allowed to host the wedding feast they agreed instantly. A small army of chefs and assistants, together with a veritable cartload of provisions, descended from Stettin to the Raschdorf estate. After the ceremony, which was attended by only the immediate family, the wedding party and every one of the estate’s workers and their family settled down in the barn for a meal that – even to Günther’s parents, never mind the assembled guests – was of a standard most of them had never experienced, nor ever would again. It was the talk of the village for weeks.

  Just before Christmas Günther’s mother handed him a letter that had been addressed – fortunately – to the estate house. Opening it, he saw immediately that it was from Meta Bielefeld – she must have copied the address from the letter he left with her to post to his parents. She began by hoping that he was keeping well and wishing him greetings of the season. In a firm, educated hand, she went on:

  …I am also writing to tell you that by the time you receive this letter I shall be Frau Meta Holtzer. Klaus is older than I and lost his wife a few years ago. He has no children of his own, but has been very kind to Hans and Gisela – she was born in August just over two years ago, and I wanted a name beginning with this letter in memory of the help that you gave us. She is a beautiful little girl.

  Klaus is the assistant manager of a local bank, and he will sell his own house so that we can develop the cottage and land, which will become more of a country home than a small farm. Perhaps in time we may even be blessed with children of our own.

 

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