When Franca got back to Le Variouf, Beatrice was standing at the front door, waiting for her. She seemed not to have brushed her hair at all that day — it hung tangled and disarrayed about her head — and she had also not changed out of the clothes she’d been wearing while working in the garden at midday: dirt clung to her jeans, and the oversized man’s shirt that she wore over them was adorned with grass stains. Her face had grown more gaunt in the last two weeks, thinner and older. For the first time, Franca thought that she was looking as old as she was.
“How good that you’ve come, Franca!” said Beatrice with relief. “I’ve been constantly trying to reach Maya, I thought, maybe she knows where Alan is. A few minutes ago I finally got her at home. She said you two met at the cemetery? She was sitting with Alan in The Terrace today at noon, and apparently Alan was rather far along again in his drinking. I’ve been hoping so much that you’d come home, Franca. Otherwise I would have called a taxi, but now …” She took a deep breath, she’d been talking so fast that she’d forgotten to breathe. “Franca, could you drive me to St. Peter Port? I’d like to go get Alan. I have the worst feeling. He’s probably so drunk by now that he can’t drive anymore, and I don’t want him to fall in the harbor unconscious tonight or do something even more horrible!”
“Of course I’ll drive you,” Franca said at once, “I’ll just go and get my handbag.”
She ran up the stairs to her room, grabbed a pill out of her nightstand drawer, swallowed it without water. She had taken one that morning and had noticed just then on the way back from the cemetery that the effects had worn off: A light tingling in her fingertips had signaled this, and a nervousness that very slowly began to spread within her. She was now taking the anti-anxiety pills regularly, in the morning and at night, and this at least she considered progress: her uncontrolled consumption had stopped; she no longer took the packet of medication everywhere she went in order to be able to reach for it quickly in the event of a sudden bout of panic. The attacks had actually stopped, and had morphed into the mounting unease that she was beginning to sense again now. She guessed that, were she to allow this development, the subtle nervousness would at some point hit its peak as a full on panic attack, but the two doses of medication could be relied upon to prevent this.
Eventually, she thought, I’ll live without the pills. It might take awhile, but eventually it’ll happen.
As she went back down the stairs, she had to smile at the thought that she and Beatrice would be heading out together to keep Alan from the fatal consequences of his drunkenness, while she herself, in order to be at all capable of accomplishing this, had to take her obligatory anti-anxiety pill. Really, I’m not one bit different than Alan, she thought, I’m just lucky that abusing pills is less conspicuous than overindulging in alcohol.
When they were sitting in the car, Beatrice said: “I hope you don’t feel taken advantage of, Franca. You’ve ended up in quite the drama here, and I have the sense that we’re all unloading a rather large burden on your thin shoulders.”
“Don’t worry about it. The drama of my life lay elsewhere and isn’t at all connected with Guernsey or with you. I’ll be alright.” She hesitated and then added, “I’m more alright than I’ve ever been. But I already said that earlier today.”
“I’m happy that you’re here,” Beatrice said quietly. “For the first time in my life I feel completely outmatched. For the first time I feel that I can’t come to grips with the things that are happening around me. I could just sit in the middle of a room all day, arms at my side, staring at the wall. And even that would exhaust me.”
Franca threw a quick look to her side. “You don’t look good, Beatrice. Have you eaten anything at all today?”
“No. Somehow I can’t get a bite down right now.”
They’d arrived in St. Peter Port. Franca found an open parking space right in front of the church, turned into it without hesitation and braked.
“Whether Alan’s there at The Terrace or not,” she said, “we’re going to sit there and eat something, and I’m not going to let you go before you’ve cleaned your plate.”
“Franca, I really can’t …”
“No objections. You should just see yourself. No question you’ve lost ten pounds, and that in such a short amount of time. No wonder you’ve got no energy and feel outmatched. You’ve got to see to it that you keep up your strength.”
The Terrace was at its busiest. The restaurant was open this evening and the warm air lured people to come sit in the open. Beatrice and Franca wound their way through the whole restaurant but couldn’t find Alan anywhere.
“He’s gone somewhere else,” Beatrice said, resigned. “He’s probably hitting his eighth bar by now and is just about halfway on his way to alcohol poisoning. Oh God, Franca, we’ve got to …”
Franca pushed her down with gentle insistence onto a chair. “It doesn’t help anybody if you fall apart. You stay here, and I’ll get us something to eat. One hour won’t make a difference. When we’re finished, we’ll go look for him, but we’ve got to build up strength beforehand. You know it could be awhile till we’ve made the rounds of every bar in St. Peter Port.”
She left Beatrice where she was and joined the long line inside. She couldn’t help but think of the first time she had been here, in September of last year. Panic had overcome her, she’d run off, and there’d been a few broken dishes, too. This time she’d clear the hurdle without embarrassing incidents. She was a different woman — wasn’t she? She could see herself in a mirror set into the wall, and she had to admit that she’d transformed, at least in appearance. She wasn’t as pale or nondescript as she was last year, not by a long shot. She had a different way of holding her head, her shoulders were straight. Her gaze was clearer, didn’t flit from side-to-side as nervously as before. It had even occurred to her that she sometimes drew a look from a man or two.
Not bad, she thought, not bad for a woman who Michael said wasn’t at all capable of living on her own.
She ordered two of the same Thai dish — an indefinable something or other, with noodles and vegetables — and also got two glasses of wine to go with it. Beatrice could certainly use a bit of a drink.
Naturally Beatrice again claimed right away not to be able to eat absolutely anything, but Franca said that they wouldn’t look for her son otherwise, and Beatrice began to pick listlessly at her plate.
“My world has gone out of joint,” she said, and it sounded so helpless, Franca had never heard the like from her. “And I can’t get my balance back.”
“Helene’s death?” Franca asked gently, “or is it because of Alan?”
“Helene, Alan … just all of it. When the balance is gone everything gets so much heavier. There’s no foothold any more, everything’s up in the air.” Beatrice’s eyes were clouded over with sorrow. “Of course I’ve asked myself before what it was I did wrong. When your own child is so incapable of getting a grip on his life, you have to put the question to yourself as a mother. Of course, Alan grew up without a father. Maybe that played a role as well. He grew up in a household with two women, one of whom, neurotic and unstable, idolized him, and the other, his mother, always tried to balance this out, and so possibly sometimes was too severe.” Beatrice finally brought her fork to her mouth, but brought it back down again before she’d eaten anything. “I often think that both of us, Helene and I, each in our own way, asked too much of him. We wanted the ideal son, the ideal student, the ideal man, the ideal lawyer. We expected that he would fulfill our wishes and what we’d imagined — which, however, were often contradictory, because we were each living out our own conflicts. Alan’s alcoholism began after he had failed a few tests. We’d already set the course for him. Alan always believed that failure wasn’t allowed to happen in his life. And eventually he couldn’t bear the pressure anymore. Then all it needed was something to trigger it. One day, inevita
bly, it came … and since then it seems like nothing can put an end to the drama.”
“Don’t be so hard on yourself Beatrice,” said Franca. She laid her hand on the old woman’s for a moment. “You did what you could for Alan. Who can claim to be an ideal mother? If you demand that of yourself, you’re asking for something impossible.”
“Maybe I should have been more firm about keeping Helene away from him. Our so-called family life was basically dictated by her. By a sentimental, eternally pessimistic woman, a woman caught in a constant state of declaring the end of the world, who acted like she’d be exposed to certain death if I didn’t look after her.” Beatrice laughed, it sounded bitter. “There was no end to her whining. She whined about the weather, the royal family, the conflict in Ireland, food, the illnesses she invented, her age. Most of all she whined about her loneliness and how she got such a small pension that she’d be dependent on me forever. ‘I’d have to live in a rat hole of an apartment if I didn’t have you,’ she’d often say.” Beatrice made a face. “This whiny, dissatisfied woman was in truth a rather cunning person, who knew how to turn things to her advantage. Looking back, I’ve got to hand it to her. All my life I wasn’t at all as clever as she was, not by a long shot.”
Franca looked at her closely. “You’re speaking about her differently than before. It’s true I never had the impression there was real friendship between the two of you, but somehow … your tone has gotten harsher, Beatrice. More cynical. Usually it’s different when something horrible happens to someone close to you. Usually you think more fondly of her, become more accepting and understanding of her failures and weaknesses. What’s happened?”
Beatrice put her silverware aside. The evening was still bright, and Franca was again struck by how miserable the old woman looked. “I can’t eat anymore. Please don’t force me, Franca. My stomach’s tied in a knot.”
“What’s happened?”
Beatrice shook her head. “I can’t speak of it. It’s all … too close. Too fresh. I have to work through it, and for that I need time.”
Franca didn’t press any further. In a casual tone she said, “Maya said something strange today. We saw each other at Helene’s grave, and there it occurred to both of us that she and Erich both died on the same day — on May 1st. A strange coincidence, don’t you think?”
“There are no coincidences,” said Beatrice. The look in her eyes was more alert. “What was it that Maya said?”
“We were talking about the day Erich died, and I talked about how he might well have been saved, if it had been possible to find a doctor — which however wasn’t possible on account of the general chaos on the island. Maya acted surprised. Her great-grandmother had told her that Dr. Wyatt had in fact been at your house that afternoon; he’d been called there to help on account of an incident with a French prisoner. The way I’d understood it, though, was that the misfortune with Erich had already happened that afternoon, and he spent the afternoon in his death throes. But then Dr. Wyatt would have been able to attend to him, right?” Franca shrugged her shoulders. She looked at Beatrice. “But it’s possible I’ve gotten something wrong somewhere.”
It had gotten darker, the restaurant garden lay deep in shadow. Beatrice’s pale face looked gray in this last dusky light of the day — but maybe, thought Franca, it has nothing to do with the light. She’s suffering from a deep pain. She is gray with sorrow.
“That May 1st, back then,” Beatrice said softly, “That May 1st, 1945 … My God, what a day! A very fateful day. Everything was decided within a few hours, and we influenced the decision, without fully grasping the consequences.”
Franca leaned forward. For the second time in a few minutes she laid her hand on Beatrice’s. She felt the old woman’s rough, wrinkled skin and was aware of the soft trembling that filled her body.
“What happened that day, Beatrice?” she asked, her voice quiet. “What happened on that May 1st, fifty-five years ago?”
GUERNSEY, MAY 1945
Since the beginning of that year Germany had been steering towards the final catastrophe, and the voices that swore on final victory became quieter and more hesitant. The Deutsche Guernsey Zeitung still carried slogans of endurance on its front page, but there was likely no one left on the island who would actually have believed in them. We won’t give up appeared again and again in boldface type, even on April 20th; on the Führer’s birthday, the German newspaper, the Star, and the Evening Press all tried to outdo one another with hymns of praise for Adolf Hitler that emphasized his unflagging, enduring resolve to lead his people to victory. At this time Berlin was already surrounded by the Russians, Poland was liberated, East Prussia and Silesia had been overtaken by Russian troops, hundreds of thousands of refugees crowded into the bombed-out cities, one German unit after the next was surrendering. Not even a miracle could have saved the collapsing Reich. The war was decided, and whoever still proclaimed that things would turn again in Germany’s favor was either lying or so hopelessly trapped in ideology that he closed his eyes even to undeniable facts.
Erich, by then promoted to lieutenant colonel, changed his mind at least five times a day. His moodswings, which had always been noticeable, had gotten even worse; they were now completely arbitrary, such that no one could figure out anymore when and in what way he had to be approached. For the first time Erich admitted openly that he took pills, that he needed pills. On the islands, which were cut off from the world outside, there was hardly any food left, hardly any medicine left, and certainly no more mood-stabilizing remedies. Erich was high and dry. The further that spring progressed, the more hopeless his situation became. He was defenseless, abandoned to his fears, his phobias, and his depression. Sometimes he went for hours without speaking a single word, would just sit in a corner and stare into space. Then he became aggressive again, searched through the whole house, every dresser, every drawer, looking for remnants of medicine that could have been forgotten. Once, in February, he had found a box in an old suitcase that had been in the attic for years and contained a packet with two last pills. Since then he had been obsessed with the idea that there had to be further reserves in the house and that he would find them if he only searched doggedly enough. He rummaged through places that he had already tried a hundred times before, but when Helene asked him why he thought that in the meantime some invisible hand had deposited a fresh supply, his reaction was aggressive and uncomprehending.
“You said back then that there wasn’t anything left in the house!” he screamed. “And then I still found something! So just be quiet! You have no idea! You never wanted me to take the stuff, and now you think you can beat me. But I won’t be discouraged, do you understand? I’m going to get some pills, and you’re not going to stop me!”
When things were bad with him he could go berserk. He threw the entire contents of drawers on the floor with no concern for whether anything was ever cleared up again. He ripped Helene’s clothes out of the dresser and threw them wildly in the middle of the room. He tore through the kitchen, breaking glass and some pieces of china in the process. Afterwards he would often be sitting in a pile of rubble, exhausted and disappointed, staring into space and muttering, “I know that something’s there. I know it.”
The lucky break from February didn’t repeat itself of course; never again did he find a forgotten supply. Sometimes — often immediately after a particularly violent outbreak of aggression — he escaped into conspicuously companionable behavior; announced that everything would turn out alright, though he didn’t define more closely what he meant by “everything”; and put together plans for the time after the war. He left open what the end of the war would look like, but he gave the impression that he saw how things were developing in a positive light.
“I think we’ll stay on Guernsey, Helene,” he said. “I very much like it here. The island has a pleasant climate. What do you think? Could we get by here?”
> When he talked like this, Helene would always look pale and tense and would seem completely outmatched. She obviously didn’t know whether she should explain to him how absurd what he was saying was, or if she should act like she agreed with him. Mostly she escaped with a weak, “Oh, Erich …,” which he almost always took as consent. Only once did an evil glint come into his eyes all of a sudden, he stared at Helene and asked menacingly, “What do you mean by that? What do you mean Oh, Erich?”
Naturally Helene fell to stammering at once. “I don’t know … I just wanted …”
“Yes? What did you want?”
“Erich …”
He gave her a sinister look. “I’d like to know your opinion, Helene. And I’d like you to be completely honest, do you understand?”
“I don’t exactly know what you mean, Erich. I really just wanted …”
“Yes? Speak up, tell me what you really just wanted!”
“I think it will become difficult for us after the war,” said Helene, gathering all her courage. “We don’t have any way of knowing if the people on Guernsey will still want to have us here.”
“Why shouldn’t they want to have us?”
“Well, we … we put the islands under occupation, and it could well be that later … I mean, when the war is over, it could be that we won’t be allowed to stay here.”
He gave her an ominous look. “Does that mean you believe that Germany will lose the war?”
Helene looked like a cornered animal. “None of us really knows exactly what’s going to happen,” she whispered.
“We don’t know? Maybe you don’t know, Helene, but I know what will happen! I know!” And with that he had planted himself in the middle of the room and given a long, confused rant about the final victory, rattling off a slew of convoluted reasons that, in his view, proved that victory had to come and was completely inevitable. No one had dared contradict him. Beatrice, who had quickly tried to leave the room, was immediately ordered back and commanded to stay. Later she always thought that she and Helene must have looked like two well-behaved schoolgirls, who sat up straight and silent on their chairs and let a wave of lessons flood over them, hoping that afterwards they wouldn’t be asked to repeat what had been said. At some point Erich was at the end, had stopped and had sunk onto the sofa, pale with exhaustion. “You two’ll never understand,” he’d murmured. “You’ll never grasp the essence of any of it.”
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