One Last Summer (2007)

by Collier, Catrin

  ‘Carolyn sends her love.’

  ‘Love back.’

  ‘Stand godmother to our daughter?’

  ‘Aren’t you afraid a journalist might hex her?’

  ‘I’m prepared to take the risk. Phone me from Poland.’

  ‘As soon as we reach the hotel.’

  ‘Check the time difference first. I like my sleep.’

  The aircraft was swaddled in cloud. Inside, silence reigned and headsets were plugged in, as people prepared to listen to the programmes they’d chosen to be shown on their personal screens.

  Only Charlotte’s remained abandoned, as she adjusted the reading lamp, making its gentle light fell directly on to the page of the diary she’d opened on the tray in front of her.

  *……*……*

  Dawn, my bedroom, Grunwaldsee

  SUNDAY, 20 AUGUST 1939

  So much has happened since yesterday. I don’t even feel like the same person I was then. I am the most fortunate and happiest girl in the world. Greta is furious, although she dare not let it show, especially to Mama and Papa. Her face was a most unbecoming shade of green when I came upstairs.

  I am supposed to be sleeping, but I am far too excited, so I am writing this in order to have a complete record of my eighteenth birthday and the most important day of my life to date. One day I will show this diary to my children and grandchildren. I know they will be beautiful but I wonder what they will be. Soldiers, musicians, academics? Will the boys look like their grandfather?

  This is supposed to be a record so I must stop daydreaming and concentrate on exactly what happened.

  Everyone was excited when the train finally reached Allenstein station. Herr Schumacher warned us during lunch not to tell our families about the accommodation we were offered in the smaller towns and country areas of Russia, especially the houses where we were expected to share a bed with our entire host family. I shudder even to think of it. Irena and I watched in horror as grandparents, parents, four sons and three daughters all undressed and climbed into the communal bed on top of the stove, but, as I told Herr Schumacher, no serious harm was done. The cells in the police stations, although not very clean and generally cold and draughty, were at least reasonably private. Irena and I promised not to carry any tales. Although we warned Herr Schumacher that we couldn’t vouch for Hildegarde, Nina and the other girls.

  Of course, the boys all thought it a huge joke, but the only one Herr Schumacher can rely on to keep quiet is Irena’s brother, Manfred. The tour has made no difference. He is still a fanatical Communist. ‘A lost cause’, as Irena says. It was as much as Irena could do to persuade him to keep his opinions to himself for some of the time. She confided that their parents are terrified he will try to recruit someone into the Communist Party who won’t make allowances for his youth and family.

  If he does, he will end up in one of the dreadful camps people whisper about, like Dachau. Nothing he saw in Russia has affected his loyalty to the Communists, and he has sworn not to rest until Germany is a Communist state. Poor boy – he will never rest again.

  Politics! It is all the boys talk and fight about when they are not huddled into corners sniggering over photographs of naked girls. Georg dropped his dirty pictures when Nina passed his seat on her way to the bathroom. He went bright red when she picked them up from the floor and handed them back to him.

  She said they were more comical than disgusting, and the model looked stupid dressed only in beads and feathers. I don’t know why the boys spend so much time drooling over such things. Irena and I discussed it and agreed we wouldn’t want to spend hours studying photographs of naked men.

  Paul was waiting for me at the station with him. They stood side by side, both of them tall and blond like the romantic knights of Aryan legend. He was wearing his uniform. Peter elbowed me aside and shouted for everyone to look at his brother because he had been promoted to major. I was angry that I hadn’t noticed first. Peter was quite right. He is no longer a captain but a major. At only thirty years of age.

  There was so much pushing, jostling and sheer bad manners that I returned to my seat and allowed everyone to leave the train before me, including Irena, who was irritable because Wilhelm wasn’t there. Paul explained that they had brought a new horse back from Königsberg for Papa and, because it was half-wild, Wilhelm had stayed behind to lend the men a hand to get it into the stables.

  Paul also said Greta had wanted to come to meet me, but he told her there wasn’t room for her, Paul, him, Peter, me, and Peter’s and my luggage in his car. I was glad. Greta wouldn’t have come on my account, and I enjoyed having him and Paul all to myself. As Peter wanted to go straight home to Bergensee he left the station in Georg’s father’s car.

  While I was talking to Paul, he sent a porter to fetch my luggage and take it to his car. It is an open-topped tourer, racier and more modern than Papa’s big cars. Paul shook hands with everyone in the orchestra and reminded them of their invitations to our ball tonight. Herr Schumacher and his wife, who had come to the station to meet him, appeared quite overwhelmed that they’d been asked.

  It was wonderful to drive through the town out into the countryside; past the lake, down the lane and into the courtyard of dear old Grunwaldsee. It never seems fair that life goes on here without me to see it.

  Paul insisted I visited the stables before going into the house. Mama, Papa, Wilhelm and Greta were there, and I discovered that Paul had not been truthful about the horse. It is a grey mare, not a stallion, and the most beautiful riding horse a lady could want. He and Wilhelm had bought her for my birthday! They named her Elise after my favourite Beethoven piece. There was an elegant lady’s saddle, too, and Wilhelm had tacked her up so I could ride her straight away. There was nothing for it; I had to go into the house and change into my riding clothes. Mama made me use the side entrance and servants’ staircase so I wouldn’t see the hall, ballroom or my presents until after dinner.

  Paul and Wilhelm brought four horses around to the back of the house. Greta didn’t want to ride, but the twins couldn’t wait to see how Elise liked me, and he came with us. It was glorious. Elise canters and gallops like an angel. We flew around the lake. Paul and Wilhelm had difficulty keeping up with us, and to think all I had for them were first editions of Schiller and gold tiepins.

  We were having such a good time Mama had to send Brunon to remind us to get dressed for the ball. He drove home to Bergensee, and the twins and I handed the horses over to the grooms and went into the house.

  Papa ordered trestle tables to be set up in the yard so all our tenants, workers and servants who weren’t helping at the ball could make merry and have a party of their own to celebrate our coming of age. He told Brunon to set aside twenty barrels of beer and eighty bottles of wine for them. Greta said it was too much. She’s jealous because our party was bigger than the one Papa organized for her coming of age. She should remember ours are for three, hers for one.

  Mama sent Minna to help me dress because Maria isn’t fully trained. My evening gown had arrived from the dressmaker that morning. It is a sleeveless, textured silvery-blue silk. The bodice is fitted and the neck lower than anything I’ve ever worn before. Mama told me not to wear any jewellery, so I guessed what my present from Papa and her would be.

  I insisted on wearing my hair up, and not in a plait. When Greta saw it she went wild. She ran to Mama, shrieking that no girl should wear her hair out of plaits until she is over twenty-one. Fortunately, Mama agreed with me. Eighteen is quite old enough to dress like a woman. Besides, it was my night, not Greta’s.

  Papa relented and allowed us to see our birthday tables before dinner. Mama had excelled herself. She had stitched red and cream roses around the edges of the tablecloths, and covered the spaces between the presents with French truffles, bon-bons, miniature champagne bottles and chocolate beetles. It looked wonderful, but we weren’t allowed to open a single parcel until after dinner. One hundred of us sat down to the meal, and two hundred and
fifty more came for the ball.

  Mama and Papa gave me a gold watch and a pearl necklace and earrings. The twins came into the inheritances Opa and Opi had left them, and Papa and Mama gave them keys to cars – one each. Papa had hidden them in the barn, so we all trooped out to see them. They are open-topped Mercedes tourers. The twins were hoping for a new car, although they thought they’d have to share. As Papa pointed out, they can’t expect to go on doing everything together now they are men.

  Everyone laughed because Irena followed Wilhelm the whole present opening time like a little dog. When all the presents had been admired and the smaller ones carried upstairs, the dancing began. I tried to hide my disappointment at not getting a special present from him. His family gave me a jewellery casket carved from cedar wood and set with panels of amber. It is over three hundred years old and very valuable. His name was on the card as well as his parents and Peter’s, but I had hoped for something just from him. Not anything expensive, but a single rose that I could have pressed between the leaves of this diary and treasured for ever.

  Papa opened the ball with me, Mama danced with Wilhelm, and poor Paul was stuck with Greta, who was in a disgusting mood because she wasn’t the star of the party. Mama had worked very hard to decorate the ballroom. Because we so seldom use it, I always think of it as a big, cold, empty space, but last night it looked enchanting. Mama had ordered the servants to drape the ceiling and walls with garlands of roses and evergreen, and the chandeliers had been washed, polished and filled with candles. I’m glad Papa didn’t have electricity put into that part of the house; it is so romantic to dine by candlelight in the formal dining room and dance under flickering flames in the ballroom. Papa had hired the orchestra from the Hotel, which was excellent, but not as good as the Allenstein Hitler Youth orchestra, although I would never tell Papa that in case he thought I was boasting.

  Georg played the violin for us. He gave me another rose and a silver bracelet, and begged a dance. I don’t want roses or bracelets from Georg, foolish boy that he is, but I did keep a dance for him. It would have been bad manners not to. The bracelet is pretty, with interlinked roses and musical notes. Manfred gave me a book. I could tell what it was without unwrapping it, and I was afraid to remove the paper in front of other people in case it was by a banned author like Karl Marx. Manfred is always reading prohibited literature. Not even Irena knows where he gets his books from. I promised him that I would open his gift later when I was alone, and he had to be content with that.

  Papa wouldn’t allow me to hand anyone my dance card until the ball was formally opened. As it was, I had to fight to keep a polka free for Georg. I didn’t have a single dance left two minutes after Papa and I had finished the opening waltz. It was full ten minutes before Greta’s. He booked the last waltz before supper and the final three of the evening, but before then I had to partner all sorts of boring boys …

  ‘Can I get you anything, Ms Datski?’ Lost in the past, Charlotte gazed blankly at the stewardess. ‘A drink, a newspaper?’

  ‘Nothing, thank you.’

  When he finally walked across the room to claim the supper dance, I almost died of happiness. In his dress uniform he was the tallest and most handsome man in the room. He clicked his heels, bowed and said, ‘The last waltz before supper is mine, I believe, Fräulein Charlotte.’

  I felt as though everyone in the room was watching us as he led me into the centre of the ballroom. I tried to concentrate on my steps, to my shame; I think I even counted like they told us to in dance class. One, two, three – one, two, three – one, two, three ... all the while trying to remember the refinements my dancing teacher had taught me. It would have been dreadful if he’d thought me clumsy.

  When the music ended he suggested we walk out on to the terrace instead of going into supper. I hoped Greta would notice. I have never forgiven her for the time last summer when she caught me watching him from the balcony in the west wing. She said I was a stupid child to moon over a man who is far too old for me. I have longed to prove her wrong ever since. I may only be eighteen, but I will never, never love anyone as absolutely and completely as I do him. All the love I possess, my whole heart and soul, are his and his alone. And a twelve-year age difference is not so great. After all, Papa is ten years older than Mama.

  The garden looked enchanting in the moonlight, but because I didn’t want to soil or damage the long skirt of my dress we stayed on the terrace. The lights from the house shone out behind us, gilding the trees and flowers. Although everyone was at supper, the orchestra was still playing a soft, gentle piece by Brahms. I’m not ashamed to say that I hoped I would get my first real kiss. The one Georg stole from me on the tour doesn’t count because I moved my head and he ended up kissing my ear, which was all wet afterwards. Besides, I didn’t want Georg to kiss me then, or ever.

  We stood side by side, looking out over the garden, sipping the champagne he had taken from one of the waiters, happy in one another’s company, not needing to say a word. A sign of true camaraderie and affinity of spirit.

  He looked splendid in the moonlight, just the way I always hoped and imagined my own Prince Charming would. His blond hair shone like a halo, and his blue eyes were deep, dark and mysterious. He asked my permission to smoke. I told him that I loved the smell of his cigars. Then he said I looked beautiful in my silk dress, like a goddess.

  I wasn’t sure how a lady should answer a compliment like that, so I said nothing, but I did step a little closer to him, still wishing for a kiss – I hope he didn’t think me shameless, but considering what happened afterwards he couldn’t have. The air was pleasantly cool after the heat of the ballroom and I could smell the roses. We could hear laughter and Brunon’s accordion in the courtyard on the other side of the house. I murmured something about the servants taking father’s directive that they should enjoy themselves to heart, and then he interrupted.

  He told me he loves me. Me! He loves me. And all along I thought he came to Grunwaldsee to visit Greta. I can’t remember saying much afterwards but then he finally kissed me. At last I know what it is to receive a proper kiss. He put his arms around me and held me very tight.

  The sleeves of his uniform were itchy on my bare back. I know it’s not in the least romantic to write that, but I have promised myself that this diary will be truthful in every possible way.

  Close up he smelled of cologne, leather oil from his army belt, hair pomade and tooth powder. After the kiss I confessed I fell in love with him when I was twelve but I was convinced that he’d never noticed me, only Greta. I hadn’t meant to say her name, but he made no mention of it. Instead he kissed me again. A wonderful kiss that quite took my breath away. Then he took a small box from his pocket and asked me to open it.

  Inside was the most beautiful diamond ring I have ever seen. He told me that his great-grandmother wore it as her engagement ring and that it was given to one of his ancestors by Frederick the Great.

  It is a little too big for my finger but he laughed and said that I will grow into it. Then he lifted my chin very gently with his fingertips and asked me to be his wife. It was the proposal every girl dreams of. Everything was perfect – my dress, the terrace, the ring and, above all, Claus von Letteberg. I am dizzy with happiness. I am to become his wife. Charlotte, the future Grafin von Letteberg. His wife.

  The stewardess rolled the drinks trolley alongside Charlotte’s seat. Charlotte asked for a mineral water, closed the diary, wrapped it in the silk scarf and replaced it in her handbag. It was strange how the passage of time enabled her to see events and revisit emotions with dispassionate clarity. Now she realized that Claus would never have been able to sweep her off her feet if Greta hadn’t also been in love with him.

  Greta’s sneering that she should stop mooning over men who were too old for her and stick to inexperienced boys like Manfred and Georg had hurt, and she knew her sister too well to suspect that they had been casual comments. Greta had intended to cause her pain, and she had been t
oo naive and insecure to question her sister’s motives.

  She recalled all the nights she had cried herself to sleep before Claus’s proposal because she suspected Greta was right. Why would a man of the world, like Claus, Graf von Letteberg, with title, estates, money, and the entire eligible female population of aristocratic East Prussian society swooning at his feet, waste time on an unsophisticated girl like her? The question still remained. Why had he?

  True, she had been younger than Greta and possibly, in view of his attitude towards her later, he had considered her a better breeding proposition. No prettier, but more malleable perhaps, for all her spoiled, headstrong attitude. Or had Claus seen that, for all her youth and inexperience, she had never wanted anything in her short life as much as she’d wanted him, and her blatant adoration had simply flattered him into proposing.

  Nurtured by the romances she read in bed every night instead of the philosophical works recommended by her tutors, before Claus’s proposal she had tried to imagine her future without him. She had decided that if he married someone else, she would simply cease to exist. Fade away as Cathy had done in Wuthering Heights, or die coughing up her lungs and whispering her lover’s name like Marguerite Gautier. She’d even consoled herself by picturing Claus, grief-stricken, returning to her after her death, like Heathcliff or Armand, who had dug up their lovers from their graves.

  Only reality was never as romantic as fiction.

  Samuel Goldberg stood at the barrier and watched a stream of loud, excited American tourists push heavily-laden trolleys out of the customs hall, towards the gates and waiting couriers. Behind them, looking more perfectly groomed and alert than anyone had a right to after a three-thousand-mile flight, was Charlotte.

  ‘You look wonderful.’ He kissed her cheek.

  Charlotte returned his kiss and hugged him. ‘Don’t lie, Samuel. I’m a wreck. My hair always goes greasy on planes. It must be something to do with the air conditioning. But you look splendid, not a day older than when I last saw you.’