This was the next morning, and the three of us were in the dining-room, eating breakfast. Gerda Mannheim sat opposite to me. She was a sturdily built young woman in her late twenties, with thickish legs, an otherwise good figure, and quietly watchful brown eyes; attractive rather than pretty. Her hair was chestnut and glossy; she wore it braided around the back of her head in German peasant style. She had a frank warm smile, good teeth, and a mouth and chin that were firm without being severe. Sarah had talked more about her at supper, and I now knew that she wasn’t a criminal, after all, but a refugee from Nazi Germany. I liked her, I thought. Or rather, I thought that I could like her if I ever again found myself able to take an interest in anyone except Jane, Jane, Jane, Jane.
‘But the Monks aren’t Welsh, of course,’ Sarah added. ‘They came originally from the east of England—Suffolk, wasn’t it, Stephen?’
‘Yes.’ I answered rather curtly because Sarah’s question irritated me. She knew where the Monks came from as well, or better, than I did, and her appeal to me for confirmation was merely part of a would-be-cute family act, put on for Gerda’s benefit.
Involuntarily, I glanced up at the big oil-painting which now hung above the Dutch-tiled fireplace. This was another of the surprises that Sarah had prepared for me. She had had it sent out from the boardroom of the Philadelphia office of our family firm, as soon as she knew that I was coming to Tawelfan—because, as she put it, ‘it seemed only natural and fitting that he should be here to greet you’. Part of the surprise had gone wrong, however. For the painting hadn’t been there to greet me; it had arrived late (actually a few minutes after I had, yesterday, while I was still upstairs in my room) and with its wire broken. So Sarah had had to hide it from me in the barn and phone Gerda to bring some more wire back with her from town; and the two of them had had to rise extra early this morning in order to get it up on the wall before I came down to breakfast. And now here it was, staring me gravely in the eye. I felt touched and embarrassed by its presence; touched because of all the trouble Sarah had taken, embarrassed because I still mildly disliked my Father, or rather, his legend—there had been a time when I’d hated it passionately—and was certainly in no mood to be reminded of him right now, when I’d done just about everything he could possibly have disapproved of.
The portrait, which was a slightly better-than-average school-of-Sargent product, showed him as a handsome, conscientious-looking man in his late forties, every inch a company president. It wasn’t altogether a Quaker face; for impatience appeared in the nervous lines around the mouth, and perhaps, behind the straightness of the thick eyebrows, doubt.
‘Don’t you think Stephen’s like his Father, Gerda?’
Gerda looked at me, looked at the portrait, looked back at me, and smiled. ‘No,’ she said, quietly but decidedly, ‘No, I do not think so at all.’ Her voice was low, with a slight, agreeable accent. I grinned at her, pleased.
Sarah was not so pleased. Gerda had committed heresy, for the likeness was an important dogma of the family creed. ‘No, I suppose you wouldn’t, my dear,’ she conceded, with bright impartiality. ‘Unless you’d actually known them both, you could hardly be expected to see what I mean. Now, I find many, many resemblances. And not only physical ones, either. Stephen has his Father’s lovely whimsical sense of humour—’
‘Aunt Sarah,’ I interrupted, blushing in spite of myself, ‘I’m sure Gerda isn’t interested in any of this—’
‘And then, of course,’ Sarah continued imperturbably, ‘they had deep spiritual values in common, too.’
My stomach gave a big squirm. But I wasn’t going to let Sarah get me down. ‘Look, is that a hint that I’m to come with you to Meeting, this morning?’
‘Stephen, you know I never beat around the bush! You’re old enough to make your own decisions, I should hope … Though I’m sure everybody would be very happy to see you there—’
‘You know quite well there’s no one who could possibly remember me.’
‘Dolgelly has a long memory, you’ll find.’
‘Oh—you mean you’ve been spreading the good news?’
It was Sarah’s turn to be embarrassed. ‘Well, no—I only just happened to mention to Martha Chance—oh yes, and to Dr Harper over at the College—that you were returning here—’
‘They must have been thrilled.’
‘Well, naturally they were interested. After all, they knew the Family … Stephen dear, I didn’t do wrong, did I? You aren’t displeased?’
‘No, of course not.’
‘I certainly never even hinted that you’d come to Meeting. Or that they’d see you at all, for that matter. I’m sure everybody here will respect your privacy—’
‘Okay, okay. I’ll come … That is, provided Gerda comes too.’
‘Naturally I come,’ said Gerda quiedy, with a smile at Sarah.
‘Well, that’s splendid, then.’ Sarah beamed at both of us. ‘I think we should start about twenty minutes of eleven. I never like to have to hurry to Meeting. You get there all in a fluster, and then it’s so hard to still yourself. At least, that’s what I find. But then, I’m afraid my mind is just naturally restless.’
When it was time for us to leave the house, Saul made such a commotion that Sarah was obliged to lock him in her room. ‘I hate to have to do that,’ she said. ‘It’s so dreadfully humiliating for both of us. I always wish I could take him with me to Meeting. Saul has every right to share in the silence. He understands it perfectly, in his own way—and I’m sure he needs it just as much as any of us. He’s such a searching, unquiet little person.’
And then the telephone rang. ‘That was Emily Bradbury,’ Sarah told us, when she had finished speaking. ‘You’d both enjoy her, I know. She has such a beautifully clear, dedicated mind … Well, Emily has a deep concern about the plans for our new community centre. We’ve been working on them together, you see, and they have to be laid before the committee to-morrow, so there’s very little time. She’s coming by for me in her car, so she and I can talk on the way … I don’t imagine you young people will mind sharing each other’s company? I’m sure you’ll find plenty to talk about.’
‘You aren’t a Quaker, are you?’ I asked Gerda, as we started out.
‘I? Oh, no. I do not believe anything, I think. At least, not formally. But I can respect that you and Miss Pennington believe—very, very much.’
‘I’m not a proper Quaker. In fact, I’m not one at all, any more. I was just raised that way, because my Father and Mother were. I’m only coming along this morning to please Sarah.’
‘I also. Still—it is very good sometimes to be quite quiet.’
I thought perhaps this meant that she didn’t want to talk. But, when we turned out of the driveway into the lane, she drew in a deep breath of pleasure and exclaimed: ‘Oh, it is so good to be here!’
‘You think you’re going to like America?’ It was the sort of inane question you ask with a sixteenth of your mind, when your thoughts are miles away.
‘I did not mean America. I mean the green trees. To be in the country again.’
I glanced down at her, walking beside me with relaxed, easy movements. All women pretend to like the country; it’s part of their act. But she meant it. She seemed really to belong here. Jane had never belonged. Jane, as soon as she got outdoors, needed all kinds of equipment, like blankets and cushions and umbrellas and deck-chairs. I caught a brutally vivid, split-second glimpse of her, oiled and brown and stark naked, on the terrace of the villa at St. Luc; and the pang of lust was so painful that I almost gasped out loud.
‘In the camp,’ Gerda was saying, ‘there were no trees. Nothing grew there at all.’
‘You mean, in the—’ (I felt a sort of respectful hesitation in uttering the words) ‘the concentration-camp?’
‘Oh no! Not so bad as that, thank Heavens! The internment-camp. In France. You see, my Husband and I, we were living already in Paris when the War started. So he enlists in the French Army. An
d I am interned.’
‘That was a pretty rotten thing to do to you.’
‘It was the same for all German civilians. The French had to be careful. There were some Nazis amongst us, also.’
‘Was it very bad in there?’
‘Bad for those who were sick or old. For the rest of us, it was only the problem not to be too bored. I had always my routine. Most important was to wash.’
‘That doesn’t sound very exciting.’
Gerda laughed. ‘You think I am joking? No. If you are dirty, you become sad. And it was so easy to be dirty. We had not enough washing-place for all of us; So I would wait and wash myself at night, when everybody was asleep. Also I would make callisthenics. One hour. And study the English language. So I was quite busy, you see.’
‘And then they let you out again?’
‘When the Nazis invaded, yes.’
‘And you got away to Portugal?’
‘Not immediately. First Marseille. Then North Africa … It was rather difficult to arrange. Why are you smiling?’
‘Because you make it all sound so matter-of-fact.’
‘Do I? Well, I think I was more lucky than most.’
‘Maybe that’s just your way of looking at it. Sarah’s been telling me some things. How you were all crowded on to that leaky old freighter. And then the storm, when you nearly sank. And then the mixup in New York.’
‘Oh, that was worst of all! Though to think of now, it seems rather funny. We thought we shall be sent back to Europe. Suddenly, at the Immigration, they tell us that the Society which has guaranteed for us cannot longer give the money. They do not know what to do with us. We have no right to be here, We do not legally exist. And then Miss Pennington comes and she saves our lives … Does she do such things often?’
‘Yes, all the time. Sarah’s incredible. Once, it was a party of Letts who’d arrived here in a sailboat without any passports. And then there was a Negro who’d escaped from the chain-gang; they were trying to extradite him to Georgia. And I don’t know how many others … If she sees someone in a jam, she doesn’t even stop to think. She rushes right into the middle of it—like the kind of sailor who gets into fights in bars without even knowing what they’re all about. And if she can’t find any humans who need help, she picks up stray dogs and cats.’
‘And you? You are not like that, I suppose?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Miss Pennington told us all what you have done for us. You sign our affidavits. You pay for food, clothes, everything we have. And to me you give a home in your house.’
‘But, Gerda, you don’t understand. I simply have an arrangement with my lawyer that Sarah can go to him and ask him for whatever she wants. The lawyer sends me papers. I sign them. Half the time, I don’t even read them properly. Why, until yesterday evening, I didn’t realize you existed—let alone those six others who were with you on the boat. And I don’t suppose I’ll ever meet them … As for this house, it was standing empty anyway. I just told Sarah she could use it and invite who she liked … Don’t you see? All this has really nothing to do with me—’
‘Nothing? I believe you! To me it is not nothing.’
‘Besides which, I happen to be filthily rich.’
‘Others are rich too. They do not give.’
‘Now listen here, Gerda—I suppose Sarah’s been building me up into a little plaster saint? She does that whenever she gets a chance, because she hates it when people thank her. You don’t know anything about me yet, not really; and there’s lots of things I hope you never find out. You wouldn’t like them at all … If I’m expected to walk around wearing a halo—well, I just can’t take it. So will you do me a favour? Let’s not ever talk about this business again.’
‘Very well, Stephen. I am glad you say this, because I do not like plaster saints either—’ Gerda smiled up at me: ‘Even when they are not so little.’
We walked on for a while in silence, downhill. Just beyond Tawelfan, the lane dipped steeply into a hollow, skirting the big pasture or town common, which looked like an oversized English village green. Dolgelly is one of the very few places in America where cricket is played; not by villagers, however, but by the College boys, as a kind of sophisticated traditional joke.
Gerda asked suddenly: ‘You are married?’
‘Yes. I’m married.’
‘She is an American girl?’
‘Yes.’
‘But you are not American?’
‘Technically I am. My Father was American, and I was born here. But I went to England when I was five years old. You see my Mother was English, and after my Father died, she preferred to go back there.’
‘Miss Pennington is her sister?’
‘Oh, no. I just call Sarah ‘Aunt’ because she’s such an old friend of the Family. She came along with us to England. In fact, she more or less raised me. You see, my Mother died too, while I was still quite young. Sarah and I lived together until I left college. Then I started to travel around; I was hardly ever in England after that. I came back here once—only on a short visit, though. Mostly, I was on the Continent: Austria, Germany, France, Italy, Spain, Greece—all over the place … So now, I don’t really belong anywhere.’
‘That must be strange. I feel so very German. Never to be homesick—I cannot imagine it.’
‘I get homesick for people, I guess, instead of countries.’
Gerda looked quickly at me, her eyes shining. I saw that what I’d said had somehow moved her deeply. ‘Oh, how I know what you mean! There are some people, they are like countries. When you are with them, that is your country and you speak its language. And then it does not matter where you are together, you are at home … You have known such people, Stephen? They are not many.’
‘Three or four, perhaps. But one especially.’
‘Who was that?’
‘An English writer named Elizabeth Rydal. Maybe you’ve heard of her? She’s quite famous.’
‘Rydal? No—I do not think … What has she written?’
‘Stories. Novels. The best-known one is called The World in the Evening.’
‘The World in the Evening? Die Welt am Abend … Funny—that was also the name of a Communist newspaper in Berlin. Before Hitler came.’
‘Really? Well, this book hasn’t anything to do with politics. It’s about some people spending a weekend at an old house in the country. They all talk, and gradually you begin to discover that three of them—no, I’ll only spoil it for you if I try to describe it … I wish I had a copy with me. Maybe Sarah has one. You ought to read it.’
‘I shall read it. But tell me more things. This Elizabeth—you know her already a long time?’
‘I married her when I was twenty-two.’
‘Married? Oh, but I thought—’
‘This is my second marriage. Elizabeth died, six years ago.’
‘I am sorry—’
‘No. I love talking about her. And it’s been quite a while since I had anyone I could tell … I wish you could have met her, Gerda. I wish everybody I know could have met her … Only, I want you to read this book first. It’ll give us something to start on.’
At the far corner of the common, there was a bridge over a creek. Button Creek—the name came suddenly back to me. Then the lane began to climb again, over gently rising ground, through a ramshackle district of shabby frame houses in gay, untidy gardens, lively with children and dogs. Negroes lived there. They were sitting out on their porches in the sunshine; laughing and calling across to each other. Far ahead, at the turn of the road, you could see the Meeting House; a long low building, showing grey amongst the trees.
Looking down at Gerda, I saw that she was smiling to herself.
‘What are you thinking?’ I asked.
‘Only that what you say makes me very happy. You see, I also—there is someone I wish to talk about—’
‘Someone who’s like a country?’
‘Peter, my Husband.’
‘I w
as wanting to ask you about him. Where is he now?’
‘I do not know. He was taken a prisoner—it must have been near Abbeville—just before the fighting ended. We have heard that he with many others are sent into Germany, to work in the factories. But this is not sure.’
‘Is there no way of finding out?’
‘There are ways. But I am afraid to try too much. You see, Peter must pretend to the Nazis that he is French. He will have a false name—papers too, I hope. He speaks French well. It may be possible, if his comrades will help him. He is very clever at such things. But if the Nazis discover who he is, that will be bad.’
‘Yes, I can see that. He fought against them.’
‘Not only this. His name is on a special list. You see, he worked against them always. From the beginning. In Hamburg, before Hitler became Chancellor and there was still time, he made speeches openly and wrote, to try to warn people. Then, when that was no longer possible, in thirty-three, he began to print an illegal newspaper. And to hide those who are running from the Police.’
‘You did that, too?’
‘Yes, naturally.’
‘Were there many of you?’
‘Many at first. But the organization was not good. So, one by one, we get caught.’
‘They didn’t catch you?’
‘No. We got the warning in time, and so we could escape into Denmark. But the Nazis know all what we did. They printed our pictures with a reward. So it can be that now someone will recognize Peter. It can be that he is already dead.’
‘Gerda—you don’t really believe that, do you?’
‘No. I do not believe it. Until I know for certain, I will never believe it. But it can be. One day, I shall know.’
Then, after a long pause, Gerda said quietly ‘Elizabeth and Peter,’ as if she were thinking aloud.
The World in the Evening Page 4