Would we have met a less suspicious Russian officer? Or would I have still lost Alexandra? Would you and Mama and Minna have been killed anyway?
I realize that, in spite of my determination to become a good English wife and mother, I spend far too much time living in the past, which is not fair on Erich, Jeremy and Julian. Whenever life goes badly and I am unhappy – as I am now – I turn to this diary, if not to write in it then to read it.
So I have promised myself for the second and final time that this will be the last entry. When I have finished writing I will lock it away in my old suitcase in the attic and not look at it again until I am an old, old woman.
I must live in the present and think of Julian, Jeremy, and Eric, who is Erich Graf von Letteberg no longer, but Eric Templeton, a very English fifteen-year-old boy, who has ambitions to study international law at Oxford. I like to think that his father and grandparents would be proud of his accomplishments, if not his nationality.
So, Sascha, this has to be our final goodbye.
For all of Charlotte’s determination that would be her last entry, there were seven more.
SATURDAY, 30 SEPTEMBER 1955
So much has happened and, like every other crisis in my life, I have only this diary to turn to. Erich and I are on a boat going to West Germany. I cannot bring myself to think of it as my homeland. That was and always will be East Prussia, but now that the Russians, Americans and British have divided the country between Belorussia and Poland I am resigned to never seeing Grunwaldsee again. However, the unbelievable has happened. I will see Claus.
Three weeks ago I received a letter in the afternoon post from the Red Cross, informing me that Standartenführer Claus Graf von Letteberg was not dead, but newly released from Soviet custody and the Siberian prison camp where he has been held since 1945. He is not the only one. Hundreds if not thousands of women all over Germany have received the same news about their husbands, sons and brothers, and I can’t help wondering how many wives, like me, have remarried and made new lives for themselves and their children.
When I read the letter I broke down and cried, and that was how Julian found me when he came home that evening from work, crying in the kitchen with no dinner cooked.
He telephoned Greta, who came round at once. She urged me to contact the Red Cross so they could inform Claus that I had married again and wanted nothing more to do with him. But all I could think of were the vows I had made to Claus in Grunwaldsee church and the lectures Mama had given me on the sanctity of marriage.
I know that I never made Julian – or Claus – happy, but if Claus needs and wants me, he has prior claim and it would be my duty to go to him. So, I told Julian and Greta that I had made up my mind to go back to Germany and meet Claus and talk to him.
Poor Julian, he looked dreadfully confused. He arranged to take the following day off from work, and we drove to Erich and Jeremy’s school. Fortunately, Erich’s summer examinations had finished, and when we told his housemaster that we had serious family business to discuss with him, he arranged for us to see Erich in private.
Erich says he can only just remember Claus, which is not surprising given how few times Claus was able to visit Grunwaldsee during the war. I sensed that, after eight years of trying to conform and be accepted as English, it was hard for Erich to grasp that he has a German father who wishes to see him. But he agreed to meet Claus, although he has reserved the right to finish his education in England; at Oxford if he is offered a place there.
Telling Jeremy that I was leaving the country with Eric was much, much worse. Jeremy cried, he screamed and then begged me to stay with him. He even said Erich should go to Germany by himself. Jeremy has never liked Erich and Erich has never liked or accepted Jeremy.
I knew that Erich was jealous of Jeremy when he was a baby because Jeremy stayed at home with me. By the time Jeremy started school, the eight-and-a-half year gap between them was an insurmountable barrier. I had hoped that if they couldn’t be friends as children, they might be as young men, but it looks now as if that will never happen.
Being a gentleman, Julian told me that he will wait for me to write to him after I have seen Claus. I promised I would do so. Then he surprised me by asking me to sign a paper giving him full custody of Jeremy should I decide to remain with Claus.
I pleaded that it was far too soon for me to make any decisions about my own future, let alone Jeremy’s, but he was most insistent. I think I even half-promised him that I would return to him as soon as I had seen Claus, but all he said was if that happened, he would tear up the paper.
The only time I had ever seen Julian so adamant before was when he refused to discuss taking Erich out of boarding school. The last thing I wanted to do was quarrel with Julian or part from him on bad terms, so I signed his paper. After he had locked it into his desk drawer he asked me if I knew what I would be giving up if I decided to stay with Claus.
It was then I realized that Julian has never loved me or Erich, or even considered us as people in our own right. We are nothing more than pets to him. Pets he treats kindly enough, but only when we do what he wants us to, while conforming to his idea of what a wife and stepson should be.
I couldn’t believe that he was trying to keep me with him by threatening to take away my child and I told him so. He said he couldn’t believe that I was prepared to walk out on him after all he had done for Erich and me: caring for us when we had nothing; buying our food; paying my hospital bills when I had a breakdown; marrying me when most Englishmen would have walked away from a German widow.
Like the time Irena said dreadful things to me, I knew that Julian wanted to hurt me because I had caused him pain, but I couldn’t listen to any more of his ranting, so I went upstairs and packed my bag. He was very cool when he saw Erich and I on to the boat train at Victoria station.
Now I have to face Claus. What will he think of me and my marriage to an Allied soldier? Will he see it as a betrayal of him and my country? Will he hate me for allowing Erich to be educated in an English public school? How can we ever pick up the pieces of what little life we had together, even if we want to?
TUESDAY, 2 OCTOBER 1955
West Germany
Before I saw Claus, a major came to speak to me. He told me that conditions in the Russian prison camps were harsh, and tens of thousands of German soldiers died in Siberia. All things I already knew. Didn’t he think I read the papers?
Some say that the suffering the Russians inflicted on our soldiers is just retribution for what the Germans did to the Jews in the concentration camps. I think it is just one more example of the sickness that stems from war.
After the major left, Claus’s doctor came to see me. He warned me that Claus’s health was completely broken in Russia and he will be an invalid for the rest of his life. He will never be strong enough to do any physical work again and, because of the lack of any kind of medical care, he is susceptible to infections and illness. He finished by bluntly informing me that Claus needed a nurse more than a wife.
He was right. When I went into the ward and saw Claus and his fellow patients, I felt as though I was looking at Sascha and his men back in the barn at Grunwaldsee.
Claus’s eyes reminded me of those of the stags my father and brothers used to corner in the woods before they shot them. He has aged thirty years in the ten since I last saw him. His skin is yellow, like parchment, his hair white, and his hand shakes like that of an old man.
Among other things, the doctor is treating Claus for exhaustion, malnutrition and stomach ulcers. Claus’s right arm was amputated in the field by a medic at the end of the war and the stump has never healed properly, so the doctor is trying skin grafts.
When the medic removed the arm, he took off Claus’s jacket; all his personal possessions, including his watch, were in it. Claus thinks it must have been left behind when the Russians captured him and his men, and that is why I received the contents of his pockets together with a letter saying that he had b
een killed.
It doesn’t take much imagination to picture just how many soldiers’ bodies were left lying unattended, so it was an understandable mistake.
The first question Claus asked me was how long I intended to stay in Germany. I told him as long as he needed me and I meant it. He looked so lost and broken I felt I couldn’t say anything else.
Claus did not say anything for ten minutes, and when he finally spoke his voice was hoarse. If I hadn’t known him better I would have thought that he was crying. He said that I was his wife and he would always need me. Claus didn’t mention my marriage to Julian – or Jeremy – although I know the Red Cross told him about both of them.
After we spent half an hour together I went to the waiting room and fetched Erich. Claus couldn’t believe how tall he has grown. He was so proud of him, and I was happy when I saw that he was prepared to love Erich just as a father should. I am glad I insisted that Erich keep up with his German.
Once the initial awkwardness was over they couldn’t stop talking to one another. Claus has agreed that Erich can return to England to finish his education and, if he is accepted at Oxford, study law there.
So, father and son are happy in their reunion. I have a new role as a nursemaid and I am content. Both Claus and I have received some compensation from the West German government for the loss of our pre-war bank accounts. It is not much, but, together with Claus’s back pay, we hope it will be enough to buy a small apartment in West Germany, Claus favours the south of the country. As we cannot return to Allenstein it doesn’t matter to me where we go.
Claus’s pension won’t support us, but, as he is sick, it will be up to me to go out and somehow earn money. I am looking forward to working. It will give me something to do other than housework.
Now that I have finished writing this, I will write to Julian and ask him to arrange to annul our marriage. I will also write to Jeremy and try to explain why I have to stay with Claus in Germany. He is very young, but in time I hope he will understand that, much as I love him and need to be with him, Claus is very sick and needs me more.
WEDNESDAY, 21 SEPTEMBER 1955
I have been applying for positions as a translator. While I was waiting in a publisher’s office for an interview I looked at some children’s books. The illustrations were very poor so I went out and bought some art materials. Once the paintings I am doing are finished I will return to the publisher, who has agreed to look at them. The von Letteberg name is still good for something.
There was the longest gap yet before the next entry.
FRIDAY, 2 SEPTEMBER 1966
Claus died at two o’clock this morning. It was a release from a long and painful illness. Or rather, his body died. I think his soul died somewhere in Siberia in 1945.
The stomach cancer that killed him was slow-growing, dehumanizing and agonizing. He pleaded with his doctor more than once to give him something that would kill both the pain and him, but the end when it came was calm and mercifully peaceful.
I nursed him and I was sorry for him, but there was nothing left between us at the end except my sense of duty, Claus’s gratitude for my presence – and Erich.
Claus never touched me or shared my bed after he returned. Sometimes I think he saw me as a reminder of a past he regretted so much he could never move on.
As there is nothing left to keep me here, I am making arrangements to leave Europe for America. My publishers say they will continue to commission me no matter where I live, and dear Samuel Goldberg, who persuaded so many publishers to put work my way after he saw my illustrations in an English copy of Hansel and Gretel, has agreed to act as my European agent.
Sascha, who would have thought those drawing lessons you gave me in the tack room all those years ago would have led to a career and the means of supporting Claus, myself and Erich, until Erich left Oxford to take up a position in a West German law firm.
I am looking forward to making a new start in a country that holds no memories. Erich is married and successful in his chosen career, but there is no love left between us. He never forgave me for allowing Julian to put him in an English boarding school, or, once Claus returned, for remarrying when there was a possibility that his father was alive. I showed him the official notification that I received of Claus’s death together with his gold watch and other effects, but he still insisted that a wife ‘should have remained faithful and hoped’.
I saw Jeremy last month. He was in Germany on a walking holiday with friends. He still condemns me for leaving him when he was so young. He has decided on a career in the army and has already applied for a place at Sandhurst.
Both fathers have every right to be proud of their sons. They are carbon copies of the officers and gentlemen Claus and Julian were. And, if there should be another war between England and Germany, I am sure that they would be only too happy to shoot one another in the name of patriotism.
Erich and Jeremy were acutely embarrassed to see my photograph in the newspapers when I joined the anti-apartheid and anti-nuclear demonstrations. They cannot understand why I have become actively involved with so many organizations that are working towards a free and peaceful society, or how I see blind compliance with authority and political apathy the route to allowing another Hitler free rein to dictate to the world and wreck tragedy and destruction all over again.
Who would have thought that Wilhelm and Paul’s nephews could turn out to be such stuffed shirts?
WEDNESDAY, 28 MAY 1969
New Haven, Connecticut, America
I never thought it would happen, but in this book I can be truthful. There is another man in my life, an editor. He is not like you, Sascha, but no one could ever measure up to you. Anthony is kind and thoughtful. I met him at a publishing party in New York a year ago. His wife is in a psychiatric hospital in New Hampshire, but I would not marry him even if he were free. Two failed and unhappy marriages are enough for one lifetime and, in truth, I now like living alone.
You taught me what true love is, Sascha. Even if you didn’t love me and only used me to survive, you made me love you, and I now know that loving someone means wanting the best for them and forgiving them no matter what.
Anthony still loves his wife, although she doesn’t know who he is any more. In the absence of anything better we have settled for friendship, companionship and, for the sake of our respective children, discretion. So this is how my life is to end. In a new country, with work and new friends to fill my time.
Chapter Twenty-one
Showered, stretched out on the bed in a pair of Mickey Mouse pyjamas Ahmed had hated, and which she’d packed on principle, Laura poured herself a vodka and took it and the book she’d bought in the hotel shop to the bed. She placed her drink within easy reach on the bedside cabinet and settled back on the pillows.
Considering she hadn’t opened One Last Summer in years, she was surprised to discover that she could recall the opening paragraph almost word for word.
When sleep fades and I stir into consciousness, the first emotion I feel is fear. What am I? Where am I? With recollection comes knowledge – and wonder. There is such a miracle as life. I am part of it and I touch the woman lying beside me, intensely thankful I am not alone.
I embrace her body as I embrace her soul. But the caress brings new fears. They linger like a hidden cancer that consumes the body below the outwardly healthy skin; silent, contaminating, defiling every moment that might have brought perfect happiness.
They corrupt every loving touch and smile. Fears that go beyond the dark primeval one of death that has spawned so many religions and mercenary priests.
She and I have accepted the inevitable slow process of decay and disintegration that comes to all living things. When that happens, as it must in the course of time, we will even welcome it, if we can share the same earth. We dream of a tall and beautiful tree, its roots reaching down into both our bodies, the only regeneration and resurrection I can bring myself to believe in. And, although she has her
God, the dream is now hers as much as mine. The fears are of something far worse: of losing one another. But for now, I am grateful that we have been given another morning, another day. I try not to think beyond it.
Our bed is soft, clean and warm. The linen crisp, bleached by the sun and scented with forest air. Our cover light, stuffed with down and feathers. A clean bed is the ultimate luxury.
I kiss her lips. She returns my caress without breaking the rhythm of her sleep. Leaving the bed, I slip on my old green and white towelling robe and creep to the door. Treading softly over the gnarled floorboards, I look in on our children. The baby, lying in the cot I carved while he was still in his mother’s womb; his arms raised above his head, his fists curled loosely alongside his sleep-flushed face, his white-blond hair, the same shade as my own, plastered damply around his face. Close by, his two-year-old sister, a perfect miniature of her mother, is coiled like a cat beneath the covers on her tiny bed. Only her blonde curls can be seen above her eiderdown.
My flesh and blood, so small, so vulnerable. Fear returns. How can I protect them if I am no longer with them? Then I remember, I have been given this morning. For the moment they are safe. I am able to watch over and care for my family.
I walk to the head of the narrow wooden staircase, avoiding the most rickety and warped floorboards. All the woodwork in the cottage is dry, old and creaking. I stop to gaze at my wife’s paintings on the white-washed walls. Watercolours of the children and the countryside, painted with love and care. My favourite is an ink wash of a dacha. The building is small, little more than a summerhouse, yet it is exquisitely proportioned, Eastern European in style and architecture. I trace the lines of the single gable above the door with my finger. It is a simple rustic cottage and our home.
One Last Summer (2007) Page 33