The Rose Gardener

by Charlotte Link

  Her face took on a mocking expression. “Maybe your circulation is a little weak. Whatever it is, I’m not cold at all.”

  He noticed the bluish shadow over her lips — her soft, full, warm lips — and knew she was lying. She was cold, but the coat would have hidden too much of her body.

  Get her out of your head, he thought with equal parts scorn and despair. You can’t be happy with her. No man can. A woman who walks around in this weather without a coat on, just so everyone can see her legs and her breasts, isn’t worth a thing!

  His thoughts came as a shock to him. He had never been so unsparing in his judgment of her, and he regretted how harsh he had been. It was unjust. She was young and eager for life, she did all sorts of foolish things, but all young people do, some of them more, some of them less. Maya perhaps somewhat more … But he couldn’t label her worthless on that account, the woman he so longed for, the woman he so desired …

  “My flight doesn’t leave for two hours,” he said. “Do you want to get a coffee with me?”

  She thought about this for a moment. “Is your car close by? We could drive to the beach. I love the ocean on days like this.”

  He took his car keys from his pocket. “Okay. Let’s go.”

  Sometimes Helene asked herself why it was, really, that she absolutely had to stay on Guernsey. On days like this she was particularly helpless to think of an answer. The leaden gray sky; the howling wind; the sight of the bare trees in the garden, bent by the storm’s fury — all of it made her depressed. For whatever reason she felt homesick on days like this, homesick for a country she hadn’t set foot in in over half a century. On warm, calm, blossoming days, Guernsey acted as consolation for the Germany she had lost. But on cold and dark days it was as though an old, badly scarred wound was opening up. It was then she thought of Berlin, of her old house, the familiar streets, the paths she’d followed, the people she’d known. Friends from school, men she’d gone out with before Erich had shown up. Innocent flirtations, a few whispered kisses and romantic walks in snow-covered Grunewald. Nothing had gone any further; only with Erich had she seriously committed herself. But today, looking back, some of these long ago liaisons seemed like missed opportunities, chances at having another life that she had passed up and that now couldn’t be brought back. It was foolish, really, to give any thought to such things at her age, when the fact was that it was too late for everything. Beatrice would say that she shouldn’t waste her energy brooding over things that she couldn’t change, things that belonged to the past. But Beatrice was just different: pragmatic, matter-of-fact. To an almost radical extent, she only looked at what was ahead of her. Beatrice didn’t entertain dark or gloomy thoughts. Or was she just better at hiding her bad moods?

  Helene left her room. She had been pacing restlessly and had tried to tidy up a bit, but all she had done was move a few things from one place to another. It hadn’t changed a thing.

  She went downstairs and listened for a noise somewhere in the house that would mean another person was around. But everything remained quiet. Beatrice had probably gone shopping, she often went around this time. Helene went into the living room. The room was heated throughout the day and was comfortably warm, but Helene considered whether she should light a fire anyway. The sight of the flames and the crackling of the burning logs — she always found it so soothing.

  Erich had made use of the hearth at every opportunity. On foggy winter days as well as cool summer evenings. She was suddenly made to think of that first autumn on Guernsey, on the weeks after her return from the hospital. She had been very miserable, weak and downtrodden. October and November had brought no warm Indian summer weather but rather unusually cold temperatures, and on top of that a never ending run of rainy days. For a long time she wasn’t able to recover. On account of the bad weather, but perhaps also because her soul couldn’t aid her body in restoring its health. She was depressed, homesick, and couldn’t come to terms with herself.

  The only nice thing about this time was that Erich acted far more caring towards her than at others. He criticized her for what she’d done, yes, but while doing so he avoided using any harsh tone of voice. She knew she had really shocked him this time. He became nervous when he didn’t find her right away in the house or when she didn’t answer when he called. At times she was so deep in thought that she didn’t hear him. She wasn’t asleep by any means; rather she was staring out the window or trying to find warmth by the fire. Erich railed against Will, as if he was responsible for everything, but Helene declared that he wasn’t guilty in the least and that she didn’t want him to leave the family. It was one of the few moments in her life when she had stood up to Erich and expressed a wish, and it led to the likewise rare result that Erich respected that wish. His depression was causing him a great deal of trouble; he took massive amounts of pills and suffered violent moodswings. It took Helene a long time to find out that, more and more often, he fled to Beatrice when he wasn’t doing well.

  Even today she remembered the burning horror that coursed through her when she discovered the strange complicity that was developing between her husband and the twelve-year-old girl. There didn’t appear to be any kind of sexual attraction between the two of them, and Helene considered it unlikely that it could come to that. She knew Erich’s moral convictions and knew that he wouldn’t lay a hand on Beatrice. It was something else he was after: he wanted to make her his confidant, his accomplice; he wanted to gain her understanding and her affection.

  Jealousy struck Helene with the force of a blow. Her thoughts weren’t directed at Erich, however — rather at Beatrice. Erich’s moods and unpredictability were becoming more and more exhausting for her, and it seemed only right to her that he should seek out another person to absorb his rage and his tears. But it couldn’t be Beatrice. She wouldn’t let him have Beatrice. Beatrice belonged to her, and he should cease all his efforts to claim her.

  The day was still alive in her memory on which she chanced to overhear a conversation between the two of them. It had been a day in January, 1941, a day like today, with cold wind and clouds racing across the sky. Helene had slept late and had come down the stairs in the latter part of the morning. She wore a bathrobe, and felt cold. Since that day in September she had always felt cold, and she was on the verge of resigning herself to this: that she would feel cold as long as she lived. She longed for a cup of hot, strong coffee, but as she went to open the door to the kitchen, she hesitated. She heard Erich’s voice on the other side. Helene was puzzled. She thought he had left long ago.

  “It’s the cold,” he was saying, ironically touching upon a feeling that was a constant concern of Helene’s. “It’s the dreadful cold within me. And the emptiness. It will never end.”

  “I don’t know anymore what I’m supposed to say, Sir. We’ve talked about this so many times.” It was Beatrice. She spoke German, still with a heavy accent but for the most part free of mistakes.

  How quickly she learns, thought Helene admiringly. What an intelligent thing she is.

  The feeling of admiration sent a surge of warmth rushing through her. It had become a rare and precious thing, this warmth. But at the same time her stomach twisted in a brief, vicious bolt of pain. They’d talked about it so many times. So he was confiding in her. Confiding in her the demons within him, the enemies in his head, the agonizing thoughts that plagued him so often. And she was letting it happen, opening herself up to him, giving him her time and her understanding, and speaking to him in a gentle voice.

  “It’s not as if I had no purpose,” said Erich. “Of course I have a purpose. All Germans do. We are leading a great struggle for a new world order, and this struggle is the goal that I serve. My life has meaning because of this. It is splendid, this meaning, don’t you think? Splendid and important.”

  Beatrice said nothing in reply to this — how could she, thought Helene, as a citizen of an occupied co
untry — but she with her pretty eyes was probably giving him her full attention.

  Erich asked dejectedly, “Why can’t I feel this meaning? I recognize it, my mind and the rational part of me recognize it, but I cannot sense it. I feel meaninglessness. It’s absurd. Absurd and preposterous in light of the great goal that so completely fulfills me. I don’t understand how that can be. If I could understand it, then things might be a little more simple.”

  Helene walked away from the door. Her knees were weak. She sat down at the foot of the staircase. She couldn’t make out exactly what it was that Beatrice said in response. She said something, something evasive; she certainly didn’t give the answer that the situation itself demanded but that a twelve-year-old perhaps couldn’t grasp: that the grand goal that Erich evoked was questionable enough; that it weighed on Erich more than he cared to realize, not necessarily for its moral implications, but at least in the respect that he could not be absolutely certain of a positive outcome.

  He is afraid, Helene thought, with a sudden clarity that she knew to be the true clarity of instinct. He is frantically afraid of the end, and he flees into depression so that he won’t have to face his panic and his fear.

  The door opened and Erich came out. His face was pale and his eyes were red with weariness. He barely slept at night, Helene knew.

  “Oh, Helene” he said, not exactly puzzled to find her there. “What are you doing here? You’ll catch cold.”

  “I was going to go in and have breakfast. But I got dizzy and I had to sit down.”

  “Are you taking the iron compound that Dr. Mallory prescribed for you?” He bent down to her. His lips brushed her forehead with a kiss. “I have to go. Beatrice is here. She’ll keep you company at breakfast.”

  His shoulders were straight and he kept his head aloft as he crossed the corridor and walked outside. It was possible that it cost him more effort than it appeared. Helene knew what his stiff neck and his tight posture meant: he needed every ounce of will to play the role of the imposing officer and make sure no one realized that in truth he felt rotten.

  The door closed behind him at the same time Beatrice came out of the dining room. She looked pretty this morning. The expression on her face showed a level of maturity well beyond her age.

  “Why,” Helene asked harshly, “are you not in school?”

  “We start later today. The German class was cancelled.”

  German had been instituted as a mandatory course of study in all the schools on the islands, but there were not enough teachers and the classes took place only sporadically.

  “I see. Why was it cancelled?”

  “The teacher is sick. Flu. And there’s no replacement.”

  With an effort, Helene stood up. She had to grab hold of the bannister.

  “And rather than once, just once, coming to check on me, you’re happy to chitchat for hours with Erich,” she spat.

  Beatrice looked at her in surprise. “We were talking for fifteen minutes, no longer.”

  “You haven’t talked with me today at all. Not even for fifteen minutes!”

  “You were still asleep.”

  “Who said so?” Helene’s voice grew loud and shrill. “Who told you that I was asleep? And not that I was lying awake and hoping that someone would come check on me!”

  “I couldn’t have known that,” Beatrice answered politely, at the same time fed up with the whole matter. “Sorry.”

  “Oh, you’re not sorry, not one bit!” Helene screamed. “I’m not a part of your life at all! The only thing I ask myself is why you didn’t just let me die. It would have been better for all of us!”

  Beatrice said nothing in reply. Helene turned around and stormed up the stairs.

  “I can do it again! I will do it again!” She disappeared behind the bathroom door, turning the lock after she’d slammed it closed. Breathing heavily she sank onto the side of the tub and wiped the sweat from her face. It was a cool dampness, a cold film that covered her whenever she made too sudden a movement.

  It filled her with satisfaction to listen as Beatrice hurried up the stairs. She pulled at the door. “Helene, open up! Please! Come out!”

  Helene didn’t answer. For a long time she let Beatrice plead and cajole. She didn’t move. Finally Beatrice went off and came back with Pierre, who kicked the door in. The wood splintered and the lock sprang from its brace. It flew against the sink and broke off a piece of enamel. Pierre, Beatrice, and a German guard rushed into the room, their eyes wide with fear. Helene was still sitting on the edge of the bathtub and stared up at the three of them.

  “Everything alright, madame?” asked Pierre in broken German after quickly scanning the room for blood stains, or anything else that would have indicated a suicide attempt.

  “Don’t ever do that again,” said Beatrice, who had needed a minute to regain composure. “It’s not fair. Don’t do it ever again.”

  Naturally, she’d done it again. It got to the point where these kinds of scenes had become the norm. The clearer it had become to her that their effect was diminished — after a while Pierre would no longer kick the door in, and eventually Beatrice would no longer be so ghostly pale after the incident — the more wildly she behaved. When she could barely summon a response from the others, she had taken refuge in a new strategy. She had conjured up illnesses: bouts of fever, migraines. Once she had lost so much weight that they all feared she would have to be taken to the hospital.

  It was through all of this, she now thought, that I lost Beatrice’s love. If I ever had it at all, that is. I was only ever a burden to her — and I still am today.

  She went to the window and looked outside. The wind grew ever stronger, by evening they’d have a storm on their hands. Somewhere in the house a door shut, and Helene turned around full of hope.

  “Hello?” she called out in question.

  There was no answer.

  They parked on Petit Bôt Bay right in front of the old stone mill building which housed a small bistro in the summer. Desolate tables and chairs stood in the garden, and here and there a seagull wandered around pecking at the gravel. Past the empty beach you could see the ocean; grey and dark, it thundered against the shore. The steps leading down from the cliff path glistened, wet with the moisture that hung in the air. The trees’ bare skeletons bent dangerously low and swayed crazily to and fro. The gulls let out wild cries; they rode the stormy wind, darting up through the air then plunging downwards as if riding a roller coaster.

  The flight to London will not be pleasant, thought Alan.

  When he tried to open the car door, the wind had raged so strongly against it that he had to force it open.

  “I think we should skip the walk,” he said irritably.

  Maya laughed. “We’d probably be blown off the cliff path after a few yards anyway. Let’s sit here all nice and cozy in the car and smoke a cigarette.”

  She fished a pack out of her purse and held it to him, but he declined. He took the cheap plastic lighter with the words Rainbow Colours printed on it from her hand and offered her a light. As he did so he remembered that Rainbow Colours was the name of a disco a little ways outside St. Peter Port. It had a bad reputation on account of the dissolute activities that went on there. When was the last time she’d been? Last week? The day before yesterday? Last night?

  She looked captivating when she danced, that he knew. Her body could be as agile and fluid as an artist’s. She had an unbelievable feel for rhythm and movement. And a sex appeal that bowled men over. She was a sensation even when she was just walking through the supermarket, but put her in a club and all the other women there faded into nothingness. How many men had she danced with recently? How many had she wound up in bed with?

  That thoughts like these still hurt so badly! He felt ashamed of how intense his pain was, of this pubescent feeling
of being hopelessly in love, but was unable to rationally defend himself against it. She toyed with him, she led him around by the nose. Whatever goal she had in mind — if she even had one — he didn’t know it.

  The storm made the car shake. Maya laughed. “The way the car’s moving it’s like we’re in here having sex,” she said, amused. “Anybody watching from off in the distance would think so.”

  Alan wasn’t looking at Maya. “Would you like to have sex right now?” he asked.

  She took a long drag from her cigarette. “Would you?”

  “I asked you.”

  “It was always real nice with you.” It sounded like the truth, but he knew you could never be certain with her. “It was you who suddenly didn’t want it anymore!”

  “That’s not quite accurate,” he corrected her. “I just didn’t want it anymore under the given circumstances.”

  “Oh, right! First I was supposed to swear off all of my joy in life and become a serious person, or something like that!”

  “I wanted us to get married.”

  “That’s the same thing.”

  “I really don’t think that getting married and the end of one’s joy in life are the same thing. Of course, if one’s definition of joy in life derives exclusively from the number of different people one shares a bed with, well then, that’s something else entirely. One should dispense with that particular custom if one is to get married.”

  She blew cigarette smoke in his face. The gesture was meant to provoke him. “My God! Do you not realize that you’re talking like a schoolmaster again?”

  He rolled down his window and made a show of waving the smoke away. The storm brought a cold blast of water inside the car.

  “You won’t always be able to dismiss every person who suggests that something’s not right with your way of life by calling him a schoolmaster. But all your boyfriends aside — don’t you think that you should start thinking about the future? About a career? You can’t just always hang around in bars and clubs, let your grandmother support you and live from one day to the next, without any order to your life whatsoever. Eventually, even you will have to do something sensible!”