The Rose Gardener

by Charlotte Link

  Beatrice relaxed a little. He didn’t seem to be mad at her, at any rate. She decided at once to turn his softening mood to Will’s advantage.

  “Sir, Will drove Mae home because you had ordered him to earlier that day. He was trying to do what was expected of him.”

  Erich poured a fourth whiskey. In a soft voice, he said, “you are perhaps too young to understand this, Beatrice. As my personal aide, Will enjoys a certain privilege. In return, a certain amount more is demanded of him. Yes, he must do what is expected of him, but what is it, ultimately, that is expected of him? He must follow my orders, of course, but over and above this he must be capable of acting on his own initiative when circumstances would appear to demand it. I must be able to rely on his possessing this capability. I have no need for slaves. Slaves I’ve got, they are the two Frenchmen who look after the roses, and they are the people who build roads and walls and bunkers here. I need someone who thinks for himself.”

  Hearing him speak it was clear that he had drunk a great deal, but his voice was emotionless. By now Beatrice knew that it was in moments like this that he was at his most dangerous. When he was angry and out of control, as he was at midday today, he might put those around him, particularly Helene, in a state of blind fear and hopelessness, but in truth there was little behind it. You had to be on your guard with Erich when he became docile, when he spoke softly, when he meticulously and matter-of-factly presented his thoughts and motives. It was then that he was planning an attack. He would carry it out without emotion, and this made him dangerous.

  Nevertheless, Beatrice dared to say, “Will couldn’t know that something like that would happen. No one could have known something like that.”

  Erich smiled. It was an icy smile. “Helene is a hysterical person of the highest order. You don’t know this, because you haven’t known her long enough. Will hasn’t known her long either, of course. But he is an adult. An adult can judge such things better. I am certain that it was quickly apparent to him that he was dealing with a neurotic person. A person who is at great risk of attempting suicide.”

  Beatrice’s eyes opened wide. “Has she already tried …?”

  “… to take her own life? No. But you can believe me, I have witnessed a great deal of unpleasant scenes with her. Crying fits, fainting, bouts of fever. It’s astonishing the kinds of illnesses Helene can come up with in order to put pressure on others or to make it clear to me that I’m mistreating her. She is inventive. She can’t be left alone when she gets hysterical. She’s capable of anything at that point — as, indeed, has again been demonstrated.”

  “She was sad because you yelled at her so much, Sir.”

  “Was she?” Erich fished a cigarette out of his pocket and lit it.

  “I want to tell you something, Beatrice. Helene is always sad. It’s in her nature. From morning to night, Helene thinks only about herself, about her troubles and her little injuries, her made-up worries and problems. Her sole preoccupation is herself, and this is exactly what leads to the extreme behavior that she displays time and time again.”

  Beatrice did not feel it was necessarily so extreme for Helene to fall apart after her husband’s assaults, although it did seem to her very drastic to go and cut your own wrists open.

  “What do we do now?” she asked matter-of-factly.

  Erich stared at her. “What do you mean, what do we do now?”

  “Well, Sir, you see, I assume Mrs. Feldmann will be back again soon, and I … we have to make sure that she doesn’t do it again. I mean, that she doesn’t try another time to … hurt herself. She just can’t be left on her own at all anymore.”

  Impatiently Erich flicked the ash from his cigarette onto the table top. “Listen up, Beatrice. More than anything, we cannot allow her to feel that we’ve been deeply shaken by what she did. If she gets the idea that she can get our attention with idiot gestures like this, then she’ll always have it in mind to do something of the sort. She wants to be the center of attention, constantly, at all costs. Even if she has to slit her wrists night after night.”

  “Maybe she’s looking for affection?”

  In his eyes there was a glint that Beatrice took as a danger sign. “You mean to say that she doesn’t receive enough from me? This affection?”

  “I don’t know, Sir.”

  “But you are thinking something or another. I’m certain there’s a whole lot going on in that head of yours. Tell me your opinion, Beatrice.”

  She shrugged her shoulders and didn’t answer. Erich put his cigarette out on the table — how careful Mommy always used to be about polishing it, thought Beatrice — and stood up. “I’m going to call the hospital again,” he said finally.

  Helene was doing well, considering the circumstances. Her heartbeat had stabilized. She was sleeping.

  “We can go to bed,” said Erich. “We don’t have to worry ourselves anymore. Helene is safe. Nothing more can happen to her.”

  Again he reached for the whiskey bottle. “You did a good job, Beatrice. Really good. You’re a sensible girl. I’m proud of you.”

  Why should he be proud of me, Beatrice thought angrily, but she said nothing. Gradually, the tension eased and weariness took firm hold of her. It was three o’clock in the morning and all she longed for all of a sudden was her bed and a deep, dreamless sleep that would let her forget the turmoil of these last hours, the blood-spurting Helene, the pale Will, the drunken Erich.

  Exhausted, she said to herself, I can think it all over tomorrow.

  She woke up knowing that she wasn’t alone. There was someone else in her room. It must have borne its way into the depths of her sleep somehow, this feeling that another person was near. She had been enjoying the sound, dreamless slumber that she had wished for so deeply. Now she saw the gray light of morning coming through the window. It must have been early still. The radiant late summer weather looked to have shifted during the night; Beatrice knew from the color of the gloomy light that there would be fog outside.

  Whiskey-laden breath pressed against her nose. Erich sat on the edge of her bed and leaned over her. “Are you awake?” he whispered.

  For a second it seemed best to pretend she was asleep, but she suspected he wouldn’t be satisfied with this. He wouldn’t move until he had woken her. She might as well go ahead and open her eyes.

  She felt her stomach clench. She was afraid of something but didn’t know exactly what. Up to now, Erich had respected the privacy of her room. He had taken possession of everything, but he had never once set foot in this room. And Beatrice had trusted that he would never do so. It was as if there had been a tacit agreement between them, setting borders that neither would cross.

  Now Erich had crossed this border. He hadn’t just come into her room. He was actually sitting on her bed.

  Too close, Beatrice heard a voice within her, much too close. He must never come this close.

  Finally she opened her eyes.

  It was bright enough in the room for her to make out his features. His face was very pale, but that might have been a result of the light coming from outside. It swallowed all the colors of the dawn and lent a gray tinge to every object, every person it touched. Erich’s eyes were unnaturally bright. Sweat covered his forehead.

  “Ah, you’re awake,” he said. He sounded relieved.

  “What’s wrong?” Beatrice said. She sat up. “What time is it?”

  “Almost eight o’clock. No …” He had noticed her trying to get up, and laid a calming hand on her arm. “Lie back down. It was a long night. You should rest now.”

  “I’m not tired.” She sat up again. “I’ll …”

  Once more he pushed her back down, gentle but insistent. “No, my brave little girl. You rest now. It’s no use to anyone if you go falling apart all of a sudden.”

  She couldn’t quite grasp why he was
worried or why he was behaving as if she was made of porcelain. She knew only that there was no sense in resisting him. There was never any sense where he was concerned, she thought. She was suddenly very tired.

  He took her hand between his and stroked it gently. “If I didn’t have you, Beatrice. If I didn’t have you …”

  She didn’t dare pull back her hand, but she wished, fervently, that he would just go away. She realized her heart was pounding violently. She was wide awake and ready to escape at any moment — but she knew it was impossible for her to flee.

  “There is no one in this world who understands me,” said Erich. “Not one person. Can you imagine something like that, little Beatrice? How it feels when no one in the whole world understands you?”

  “Helene understands you, Sir.”

  “Helene? She understands me least of all. Helene only acts like she’s gentle and loving and full of kindness. What Helene wants is for others to bend to her will, and she has an especially malicious way of making this happen — batting her eyelashes and using that squeaky voice of hers, plus her self-pity, which constantly causes you to have these feelings of guilt. Eventually, you do whatever she wants, and only to assuage a guilt that in truth doesn’t even exist.”

  Erich was silent for a moment. He stared gloomily ahead of him. Although he was obviously drunk, he expressed himself clearly, and what he said seemed to Beatrice both logical and well thought-out. She remembered something that her father had once said: that certain people find their way to a greater clarity in their drunkenness. This seemed to be the case with Erich.

  “You probably think that I’m the strong one in the relationship between Helene and me,” he was saying. “Everyone thinks that, because Helene is always crying and complaining. But in her own way she is very strong, Beatrice. Very strong. In all likelihood you will notice it too. She brings people under her yoke. Including me.”

  Why is he telling me this, Beatrice asked herself, uncomfortable. These are all his problems, his alone. I don’t want any part of them.

  “I’m always searching for someone who understands me.” Erich sounded tearful now. “A person with whom I can share everything, all of my feelings. More is happening in my head than you might think. Often I have thoughts that are rather beautiful. Profound thoughts, do you understand? And there are times when they are also very, very sad thoughts.”

  He looked at her. Beatrice had the feeling that he was waiting for her to say something.

  “I’m sorry, Sir,” she murmured.

  “There is a great melancholy within me,” Erich solemnly confided. “I would like for you to know this, Beatrice. It will help you to understand me better. Perhaps I seem strange to you at times. It’s then that I’m caught in the jaws of this horrible sadness.”

  Beatrice was asking herself if by this point he didn’t quite know what he was saying, but then she thought of his strange mood swings. She had certainly thought these odd at times. All too often and all too fast his behavior would fluctuate between euphoria and a brooding withdrawal from the world, between aggression and melancholy. Beatrice had thought sometimes that in his calmer phases he was mulling over some dark plan, that he hid his face in shadow in order to cover up what was happening in his head. But perhaps there actually were gloomy thoughts hanging over him.

  “There is an enemy within me,” said Erich. Suddenly his face seemed weathered, as if he had grown years older in the span of a few moments. “It is more wicked and more dangerous than any enemy on the outside could ever be. It sits deep within my soul. I cannot run from it. I also cannot fight it, for how am I supposed to lead a war against myself?”

  Is he expecting me to answer? Beatrice asked herself apprehensively. She chose to say nothing, and after a minute’s uneasy silence Erich continued. “We Germans are a victorious people. We are poised to conquer the entire world. Do you know of a single country that is capable of offering us serious resistance? There is nothing, no one, that can stop us. The whole world belongs to our race — and I am a part of this. I am part of a proud and victorious nation. And I feel all the more pathetic when I think that this thing here within me …,” he put his hand over his heart, “… this merciless enemy inside me … I will never overcome it. It is stronger than I, strong as all hell. Sometimes I’m able to quiet it. Then it sleeps for a while and leaves me in peace. But it’s almost as though it gathers strength in these moments. When it awakens, it is strong once more, as fierce as an attack dog. And then it falls upon me and sinks its teeth into my flesh and it doesn’t release me.”

  “Maybe it’s not really as strong as you think,” Beatrice said tentatively. She would have liked to sit up; lying down, she felt so hopelessly outmatched. She was certain, however, that he would push her back down onto her pillow yet again, and so she gave up the attempt. It was doomed from the start. “Maybe it only seems that way.”

  Erich looked at her with surprise. “What do you mean?”

  Beatrice thought about what she had meant. It had to do with things that were hard to understand, hard to put into words. Andrew had often spoken to her about fears and how to deal with them. It had been important to him to make clear to her that she could be in control of any kind of fear, that she didn’t have to let the fear take control of her.

  “When you’re afraid of someone,” she said, repeating her father’s words, “then most of the time you take a step backwards. And the other person comes towards you. He has more room, and you have less. In that way he appears stronger, but it only looks that way because you’ve made room for him.”

  “And what do you suggest.”

  She reflected. “Maybe you just have to stand your ground. And look closely. Maybe the other isn’t that powerful at all.”

  He gave a slight smile. “How simple it seems when you speak of it, little Beatrice. How is it …” He looked at her intently. “Are you actually afraid of me?”

  “No,” said Beatrice.

  “Are you being honest?”

  “I believe so, yes.”

  His eyes filled with admiration. “I believe you. You are strong. Stronger than Helene and I. Come here!” He pulled her towards him. “Take me in your arms. Would you do it? Just for a moment.”

  She jumped back reflexively. Erich gently stroked her cheek. “I want nothing more. Really. If you would only hold me.”

  Hesitantly, she put her arms around him. The fabric of his uniform felt rough. He pressed his face against hers. She was more keenly aware of the smell of whiskey and felt the coarseness of his stubble. It was not unpleasant for her to feel him up close. Despite the alcohol fumes he had a smell that she liked, somehow — a mixture of quality aftershave and of his own skin, which was redolent of bitter, dried herbs.

  “You can give me so much strength,” he muttered into her neck. “I need you, Beatrice.”

  She realized in surprise that in this moment he really might have meant what he was saying. He held onto her like a lost little child. How much harder, she thought, how much harder this is all going to get.

  Softly, Erich started to cry.

  11

  There is no month more hopeless than January, thought Franca. Many people said that November made them feel melancholy, but Franca’s experience was quite different. She liked this month. For her, the short gray days, the fog, and the cold wind brought with them a sense of security. In November it was acceptable to hole up indoors. You were justified in retreating from the world. You could abandon yourself to candlelight, hot tea, Christmas music, and a fire in the hearth. In November, Franca felt that the way she lived could be in harmony with the rest of the world, if only for a short time.

  In January it was exactly the opposite. January was like a door thrown wide open. The year flooded in, with all the thousand options and dangers that it held in store. Franca had tried to explain this feeling to Michael once, and
she remembered all too well with what irritation he had reacted to her words.

  “Options and dangers! My God, Franca, if only this combination weren’t so horribly typical for you! Options and dangers! You automatically give the word ‘option’ a negative connotation. It doesn’t even occur to you that ‘option’ can also mean something positive!”

  “Well, I …”

  He hadn’t let her speak. “You sense danger everywhere, and it’s just sick. The worst part is that you’re not getting any better. Can’t you imagine that there’s anything in your life that can happen without danger? Or why not be a bit more audacious in our thinking: that you can face up to and overcome this danger?”

  The thought did in fact seem audacious to her.

  He can’t comprehend it, she had thought. He can’t understand me.

  This year, January was even nastier. It brought in not just a new year, but a new century and even a new millennium. It seemed to Franca as if the threats had multiplied. They swarmed all around her, hostile, ready to pounce.

  “I wish it were summer,” she said. They sat at the breakfast table. The kitchen smelled of coffee and scrambled eggs. The Advent wreath lay by the window, dried out and shedding its needles. Its four red candles had burned down low. A dusty, decrepit relic.

  “Everyone wants summer to come,” Michael said in reply to Franca’s comment. Already he sounded impatient again. “Summer is warm and colorful and it smells good. Winter doesn’t do anybody any good.”

  “January,” said Franca. “January doesn’t do me any good.”

  Michael stirred his coffee. “Here you go again already with your talk about January! I mean, if you were to say that January is cold and ugly and therefore you can’t stand it, then I could understand. But no, it’s all these vague fears that get you so out-of-sorts, right?”

  Feeling intimidated, she admitted he was right.

  Michael let out a deep sigh and leaned back in his chair. His air was that of a person who has dutifully consigned himself to the fate of having to debate a particular topic but who is not, however, inclined to hide his irritation or how fed up he is.