Читать книгу A Peaceful Summer - Ace Anthony - Страница 3

“Admit it, there’s nothing like Italian air. Especially at this time of the year…”

“It’s still cold…”

“No, it isn’t. Not for walks.”

“Well, it is for swimming… Just look at them! The water temperature must be murderous!”

He was old, grumpy, wrapped in rugs and his sister’s shawl. She was sitting by his side, a plump woman in her sixties, flushed and smiley, determined to enjoy every bit of that sunny day at the seaside.

“Don’t grumble, Berthold, you promised, remember?”

She surveyed the sparkling surface of the sea from under her old-fashioned sunhat. There were only but few swimmers splashing daringly in liquid turquoise.

“What are these brats after? Pneumonia?”

“They are young and healthy… They can do what they want.”

“Your hat is ridiculous.” The remark missed her as she had just turned to a girl sitting to her left:

“You look so pretty today, Irma. The sea air certainly agrees with you.”

The girl smiled. She was very thin, and her dress of bleached linen seemed to have more colour than her skin.

“Thank you.”

The woman was in the mood for a talk:

“Yesterday’s evening was magical, wasn’t it?” she said. The girl nodded.

“Magical,” the man grumbled. “What did you drink last night? You’ve been giggling like an idiot ever since.”

“You really should have come, Berthold. It was wonderful…”

“Will you give me another rug, this one is itchy… If that baby doesn’t stop squeaking, I’m going back to the hotel,” he hissed when his sister bent to tuck the rug round his knees. She only laughed:

“If I let you have a smoke, do you promise to stop growling for a change?” She fished his pipe out of her handbag. “Here’s your toy.” He snatched at it eagerly and immediately lost interest in the world around him. “Men are like children,” she winked at the girl and moved her chair under the tent to join other women.

“When did you say your husband is coming?” she asked the mother of the whining baby.

“Oh, he’s not coming… Some last minute change of plans, I suppose…”

“Pity. He was so looking forward to it. May I?” She took the baby and rocked him in her arms with the nonchalant ease of someone used to it. “There, young man, if you behave, a mermaid will give you a precious pearl.”

She began to hum a tune, and the baby went quiet, listening. Everybody, except her brother, gave smiles and gasps of appreciation.

“For God’s sake, Gabi, stop embarrassing people with your enthusiasm!”

She took a deep breath:

“I can’t help it! Oh, there he is… Helmut, darling,” she beamed at a boy who was just going past the tent. “What a lovely performance it was! We are all looking forward to…”

The boy didn’t even smile, rolled his eyes (“not that again”), and passed without slowing down.

“Forgive him, he’s still adapting,” his mother said.

“Oh, nothing to forgive! What a talent! That melody he played yesterday – what was it?” She hummed the tune again.

“I’m not sure.”

“Dvorak,” somebody prompted.

“I remember him as a small child,” another woman looked up from her magazine. “Is it true he’s been in England all this time?”

Helmut’s mother didn’t answer.

“He did the right thing to return now when he’s still very young,” the old man said, puffing at his pipe. “In another year or two it could be too late – German Reich wouldn’t forgive him.”

“Don’t listen to Berthold, it’s his ulcer speaking. Germany will always embrace its great sons.”

They were all silent watching the boy walk into the sea and thrust his body into the froth of a high wave.

“The weather will get worse in the evening,” the man said.

***

The languid rondo of the mid-spring, middle-aged, middle-class holidaying was a living hell for the youth. Even older people had to admit that they could do with some entertainment, but evenings had very little to offer: the same movie in a local theatre, wine-drinking on the terrace, reluctant dancing. The season hadn’t started yet and social life in the resort town was still hibernating.

No wonder that sporadic piano concerts given by a young tourist from Germany instantly stirred a bit of a sensation and drew a growing audience to the steps of the hotel he was staying at. Sometime after dinner more and more people were passing by the hotel, some of them strolled undecidedly to and fro, others perched themselves at the tables of nearby cafes, sending waiters and children to make enquires about the evening.

“Oh, wait a moment, I’ll go and find him,” Frau Krauss literally had to chase her son around the hotel, cafes, beaches or even search the dark inside of the movie theatre.

This time she was lucky to catch him in his room.

“Darling, the people are gathering, what shall I tell them? Are you playing today or not?”

“I thought I made myself clear. I’m not playing any more. Why do you keep giving promises on my behalf?”

“But, Helmut, sunshine, they love you. It would be a shame…”

“We initially agreed upon one private evening for close friends only. I had no intention of starting a career here… This isn’t funny, Mother. If it goes on like that, I’ll have to change the hotel.”

“It’s your fault,” she tried a flattering tone. “You play so well…”

“It was supposed to be a holiday. I’d rather have the evening to myself.”

“Irma will be disappointed.”

“Life is one big disappointment for Irma. It’s time she’d grown used to that.”

“Rudeness doesn’t become you, young man.”

He peered down at the vast terrace through the Venetian blinds. Few people were already flocking at the tables, sipping wine, casting glances in the direction of the hotel entrance. One of the women (Helmut recognized his most devoted admirer) beckoned a call boy. The boy came up to her, listened then shrugged his shoulders. The woman said something, giving him a tip, which he accepted with a bow.

“Very well, then. Mussorgsky, I suppose. I feel like Mussorgsky today.”

Her smile faded before its time:

“Is he Polish?’ she asked in low voice.

“Really, Mother, the world would be a kinder place if you refrained from commenting about music.”

“Why don’t you play someone with a German name for a change?”

Helmut liked to think that steering away from German classics was his clever way of being difficult. He was slightly disappointed to see how easily the German part of his audience closed their eyes to his naughtiness.

“It’s either Mussorgsky or nothing at all.”

“Shall I do your tie?”

“Leave me alone.”

Most conversations with her son were like that: in the end she wasn’t sure whether she had won or lost. But she couldn’t help smiling at his sour face as he was fumbling with his tie. She had already forgiven his rudeness.

Helmut Krauss was easy to forgive. One was never sure why he was so enigmatic: was it in spite of, or rather because of his spiky manner. He had that rarest type of charm, the charm of a good-looking boy who genuinely didn’t care how he looked. He frowned, pouted, grimaced, pulled faces – assumed countless expressions that distorted his regular features. He was hardly ever aware of that, and when he was, he never gave it a second thought. His confidence was bedazzling. Despite his average height and adolescent physique, he had an extremely powerful presence, and he managed it with the ease of an experienced public figure. To his English aunts’ credit, he wore good clothes, and he wore them well, but that was more like an old habit which existed independently from its master. He never minded a bad photograph of himself; passing a mirror he never checked his hair or tie, he never posed, he never preened. His wit, energy, honest sense of humour, and easy attitude to his own radiant attractiveness could be enough to secure him the reputation of a likable personality if it wasn’t for his second natural gift – music – which had taken a serious toll on his character. Since he remembered himself, he knew that he was exceptionally talented, and in the end it made him simply unbearable to be around with. Nobody seemed to be good enough for him; nobody remembered him holding a half-civil conversation – he always had to be caustic and sarcastic. Regardless of people’s age and status, mocking and teasing was his rule; arguing when nobody wanted to argue was his signature. One would wonder what he despised more: compliments or criticism. In the end people wouldn’t believe he was the same enchanter who had wrought their hearts with a sublime rendition of Chopin half an hour ago. But first, he was very young. Second, objectively and to say the least, he was a very solid pianist with a dazzling career in front of him. For these two reasons his bad manners were easily forgiven and put down to artistic eccentricity. Forgiveness he dismissed; reputation, though, he didn’t mind, feeling quite snug in his aura of a difficult genius.

The next day Helmut fled to Florence to pay his grandmother yet another visit.

He had waved aside his mother’s concerns about the old woman’s age and delicate health.

“Helmut, you are tiring her…”

“She doesn’t mind. In fact, she insists I visit her more often… Have you seen my shoes? God, I’m bored with this place. I need a change of scenery.”

“Darling, the whole idea of coming here was to spend time together like families do. You seem to be looking for every excuse to run away…”

“With these daily public concerts it doesn’t feel like a family holiday anyway…”

“Will you ever stop harping on your concerts? Just don’t play if you don’t want to…”

“Oh, it’s my fault now! You were the one who spoilt it from the start, Mother!”

“I am surprised you still call me that…”

“Pathetic…”

“No sense of responsibility! No sense of duty to your family whatsoever!”

“Grandmother is also my family.”

“Liar! Hypocrite! You don’t give a damn. You only care about yourself. And do you know what the most unsightly thing in the whole picture is? You secretly relish your small fame round here! Your complacency’s revolting! Who do you think you are? Striding around the place like the world’s greatest pianist… Just let me remind you that you are nobody yet!”

“I’ve had enough of that…”

A delicate knock on the door interrupted the scene.

“A call for Signor Krauss.”

Frau Krauss looked at her son sharply:

“Again?”

Helmut shot past her, stormed down the stairs to the reception desk, and grabbed the receiver.

“Yes?” He signed the receptionist to give him something to write with. “Yes… What’s that again?… I understand… Do you have any idea how long it might take?… Right… I see… Any news about the other business?… Oh, I thought it… No, there can’t be any mistake. Tell him to keep looking, it’s very important… Yes. Thank you… No, there will be no need. I’ll be in Florence in the next four or five days… See you there. Good bye.”

He went back to his room to pack, and as he was passing his sister’s room, he saw her sitting on the edge of her bed with her coat on.

“Irma. Damn it. I forgot. I’m sorry. It’s too breezy for walks anyway.”

“It’s fine really. Are you…?”

He passed on before he heard the question.

His mother was still in his room. She was standing with her back to him looking out of the window.

“I’ll pack your suitcase for you,” she said dryly, exhaling cigarette smoke. “Now, don’t be a finished pig and take her out for a walk.”

Helmut didn’t know which of the extremities was worse: thunderous quarrels with his mother or dead silence with his sister. Irma and he hardly knew each other. She was used to awkwardness in her presence and bore it with greater ease. After ten endless minutes of silence she suddenly spoke almost giving him a start: “Do you remember the scarf?” she asked. Helmut glanced at the piece of brightly coloured cloth wrapped around her neck. He didn’t remember. It must have been from Celia. Buying presents for Irma had always been Celia’s responsibility.

“Yes, of course…”

“I wore it for the Fuehrer’s birthday last year.”

“How charming… I didn’t know you were invited.”

“No, silly. We went to see the parade.”

“Oh, I’m sure he spotted you in the crowd and was blinded by your elegance.”

Irma didn’t mind jokes at her expense, she was glad the conversation had started moving.

“It’s a pity we can’t see the parade this year,” she said. “But Mutti was so particular about this trip to Italy. We really wanted to do something special for you…”

“I am sorry to be a disappointment.”

“You don’t like being with us at all then?”

“On the contrary, I thoroughly enjoy myself.”

“It’s not too cold for swimming?”

“It’s all right.” A heavy pause. “Can you swim?” he asked.

She giggled:

“Helmut, I can barely walk.”

After more than a week’s absence he returned from Florence fresh and rested, and he came in peace. Frau Krauss had also reconsidered her behaviour. She’d probably wanted too much from him in such a short time. It’s no use losing patience with each other. After all, he’s got so many things to accommodate – grandeurs, large-scale things. Someone so young and short-tempered can’t do it overnight.

The weather had turned warmer. He swam a lot and with pleasure, talked little but politely. In the evenings he played Beethoven’s sonatas on request, and he played them to a standing applause. His mother was happy, but she didn’t trust the feeling. “Something’s about to happen,” she sensed. And then there were those calls from Florence which she didn’t like at all. Something was building up. She watched her son but saw nothing behind his breezy calmness. “Shall I talk to him?” She didn’t know how. Soon enough it cleared up by itself.

“I have to go back to Berlin,” he suddenly announced.

“When?”

“Immediately.”

“Darling, we are staying for another month minimum.”

“You are. I’m not.”

“Helmut, what is it?”

She followed him to his room. Irma was in hers; she opened the door slightly and listened.

“It doesn’t work for me. It never will.”

“…”

“Everything…”

“…”

“I betray nothing, Mother. You are the traitor here…”

Irma sneaked out of her room and stood in the corridor.

“Grandma has found two sponsors for me in America.”

“What sponsors…?”

“The people who agreed to sign the Affidavits of Support…”

“I don’t understand. Who are these people?”

“One is Grandma’s cousin twice removed; the other is her friend’s husband living in New York. Both have already signed the papers.”

“Is that what you’ve been up to all this time? Helmut, I am your mother and you…”

“I didn’t want to tell you until the American immigration office gave its approval. Well, now they have, and my decision is official. There’s a stack of immigration papers to be filled, so I’m going back to Berlin. I’ve got no time to waste. It’s good bye, Mother. And I can’t say that I am sorry.”

There was a shocked silence.

“I should have known that she was up to no good. She almost ruined my marriage. And now she got her hands on you.”

Irma went in and sat on a stool.

Helmut was folding his clothes and putting them in neat piles.

“It was my decision. She only helped.”

“Oh, I bet she did. She’s always ready ‘to help’. Now hold your horses, son. We’ll hear what your father has to say on the subject.”

“He knows. Grandma has written to him, and they talked by phone.”

“And all that is happening behind my back!”

“It has nothing to do with you. It’s my choice, they are only helping me.”

“You are not getting a single pfennig from us. I wonder what you are going to buy your ship ticket with…”

“Father has promised Grandma to consider the question.”

“Oh, damn your father, his mother, and their entire rotten family! They’ve done enough to kill me a thousand times, but I’m still alive, Helmut, and I’m not giving up now.”

She turned to leave and saw Irma in the corner.

“Irma, girl, the holiday’s over thanks to your brother. We’re leaving together.”

“I’m not going in your car, Mother,” Helmut warned. “I’m taking the Rome-Berlin express.”

Frau Krauss signed Irma to leave and took her place on the small stool.

“One day you’ll realize how cruel you’ve been to me. Where’s my fault, Helmut? What have I done to deserve this? You could have faked up some sort of fondness at least for Irma’s sake.”

“Oh, about Irma. You really shouldn’t have dragged her all the way down here, not in her state and not in the car.”

“Helmut, look at me!” her stern voice rang with indignation. “I dragged her all the way down here because she wanted it! We did it for you! You hadn’t seen your country for years. We wanted to introduce you to your own Fatherland, to show you the new Germany.”

“You mean the autobahns and the swastikas? I got the picture all right. I don’t need to see it again.”

He called Irma. She appeared instantly – she had been waiting behind the door.

“Irma, would you rather go back by train?”

She hesitated.

“Don’t look at Mother, look at me. Would you rather go by train?”

She dropped her eyes.

“Leave the poor child alone, she wants to go with her mother.”

Frau Krauss rose and walked out slamming the door hard.

“Give it another thought. You’ll rest properly on the train, and we’ll get home much faster…”

“Are you going to America?” Irma was on the verge of tears. Helmut hated it; he never knew how to handle girls’ tears.

“Not tomorrow. It will take another month or two to get a visa.”

“Could you at least stay until September? To celebrate your birthday with us…”

“I’ll think about that,” he lied. “Are you going with me or with Mother?”

She said nothing.

***

There were six of them. Six tired, gloomy people heading to unknown destiny in a shaky covered lorry.

One of them, Rilke, a young man with a stubborn look on his face was of a tougher sort. He studied the ashy faces of his companions again and again, thinking that he would never be reduced to their state.

His throat felt dry. He felt dust grind on his teeth. It’s been a long journey with very little food or water. But the greatest inconvenience of all was the uncertainty. He scanned the blank faces again. The question on everybody’s mind but not lips: “Where are we being taken?”

“Transported to another place? But why so few of us? To be killed? Why waste the petrol to take us so far? To work? Makes little sense. Only two of us are strong and healthy. That one is old. This one is too skinny. And Red Cross has hardly any life left in him.”

Red Cross was the only man present that Rilke knew: they were from the same barrack. A sad man of few words, worse for wear, with that haggard look on his thin face which Rilke didn’t like in people. He had to make an exception for Red Cross, though, because the man was kind, truly kind – weak, foolish – but kind. At the risk of being beaten, he often engaged in negotiations with guards about medicines or blankets for sick people, and he sometimes got what he’d asked for. This had earned him the nickname Red Cross. The man laughed when he knew about it. That was the only time he was seen laugh. He said his real name, but nobody remembered it; they kept calling him Red Cross. “Good man.” Rilke thought. “Good man… But spineless. By the looks of him he gave up a long time ago. Pity, because his kind doesn’t survive. I’m different. I’ll never give up.”

They stopped off several times, for meals, apparently. They could smell food and hear the guards chatting. Rilke’s stomach groaned. He rubbed his aching thighs to help circulation. “This has to end soon.” Nobody obliged him with a supporting remark.

Rilke tried to focus on happier things. It was a sunny day, judging by the bright light peeping through cracks and holes. They could hear sparrows chirp briskly. The noise was growing. It sounded like somebody was throwing bread crumbs around, and more and more birds raided the place to sample the treat.

“Unbelievable,” Rilke thought. “An inch of wood separating me from normal life. Spring, freedom. Sunshine. Chats with friends over a beer or two. Girls. Better not to think about it.” He caught Red Cross’s eye and pointed at the elderly man, signing: “How is he?” The man had been sitting for hours with his face buried in his hands. Red Cross touched his arm: “You’d better lean on my shoulder.” The man shook his head. Maybe he was concentrated in a prayer, and just as Rilke thought about it, something biblical happened: the back side of the lorry flung open, and a bucket of water was shoved in, a whole bucket of fresh, cool water. “Hey, things aren’t that bad,” Rilke cheered splashing not unlike one of those sparrows. Red Cross nodded rubbing water into his scalp covered with thick jet-black stubble – the only convincing evidence of his young age, Rilke noted.

The doors slammed and the engine started. Red Cross supported the old man, who nearly fell off his seat. It was getting hotter. The cheerful mood was wearing out. The lorry was speeding along a smooth road, and the men were rocked into stupor again. It was another half an hour before the lorry came to a halt. Hurried footsteps. Barking reprimands: “… supposed to have arrived fifteen minutes ago…” Inaudible voices delivered explanations. Then the back of the lorry flung open again.

“Frankel!’ the barking voice called.

“It’s me,’ Red Cross said quietly. Five heads turned towards him. They stared with that indefinite expression on their faces, not knowing what to think or say.

“Frankel! Out!”

Frank rose carefully, bending his head. He took a few seconds to balance his thin, tall body, then shuffled to the exit and jumped off the lorry. For a moment Rilke thought he was sitting in a dark cinema and watching a film. The bright rectangle in front of him shows a man down to his waist, a glimpse of grey road behind him, dusty bushes. The man looks around, blinking and shielding his eyes from bright sunlight. Then he turns his head and walks away slowly; the camera doesn’t follow him. The film finished with a sharp howl of rusty hinges. It was dark again. The lorry started with a jerk, and Rilke came to himself. It felt empty. He wondered if the remaining four men felt the same. Nobody commented. “I didn’t even have time to say good bye,’ Rilke thought.