Читать книгу A Peaceful Summer - Ace Anthony - Страница 5

When other inmates nursed the idea of a miracle that could divert the bleak course of their fate, Frank only smiled and said nothing. A coup. A new law. A powerful friend. He thought he was the last person to have a chance, and the Krausses were the last people he was expecting that chance to come from. In fact, he had almost forgotten his little Helmut.

“How could this have happened? Back in America he was my lucky charm, I wrote stacks of piano music imagining I was writing for him. But when the nightmare descended, I didn’t remember him once… How could this have possibly happened? A passing thought about that bouncy child with a cheeky grimace on his little face would have been enough to last me through any misery.”

There had been a lot of misery to handle. With the arrival of spring he picked up a bit only to realize that there was a slow death ahead of him. “I won’t survive another winter.” It was as simple as that. He resigned to the idea the way he had been resigning to everything since Sachsenhausen had become his home.

His story wasn’t extraordinary. He returned hastily from America after the news of his father’s arrest. He knocked on every door, appealed to every form of authority. Some friends tried to help but couldn’t stretch too far, others completely abandoned him. And everybody without exception advised him to sail back to America without delay. All his attempts failed leaving him completely drained. It wasn’t long until he ended up in prison himself. A mistake, he still hoped. Just as it was with my father. A ridiculous misunderstanding. It will clear up soon. It didn’t. It only gained momentum downhill until one day he realized he would never return to normal life, he’d never see his family, and the world outside – inside, everywhere – would never be the same. Music, his second self, was now something alien and distant. His life, once filled with playing and composing, was like a chapter from somebody else’s biography. It was only a short matter of time before his physical death – and he thought about it only yesterday.

Today he was standing in the sunlit, spacious kitchen waiting for Frau Krauss to speak. It was late morning, the time after breakfast. The staff had apparently been sent away. An untouched cup of tea was steaming on the table. She smoked a cigarette after cigarette. She didn’t look at him because she didn’t want him to look at her. She had aged.

“So, Herr Frankel. We meet again.”

Her eyes swept over him up and down, down and up, resting briefly on his face:

“You remember Helmut?” She sipped her tea. “Answer.”

“I remember him.”

“He hasn’t changed.”

She took her time, savouring the tea.

“How long have you been in Sachsenhausen?”

“A year and a half.”

“And you belong there, you know. You belong there with other rats.”

She shivered and reached out for another cigarette. The pack was empty.

“You married?” she suddenly asked.

“No.”

“My husband is concerned that you might run away. Or do something stupid. Like make a call to somebody. Or put some ideas into Helmut’s head.” She tore open a new pack of cigarettes. “If you do run, you’ll be caught of course. And hanged.”

Frank said nothing. She looked him full in the face.

“If you compromise this family, you compromise Helmut, is that understood?”

“I understand.”

“You’d better. You wouldn’t be standing here if it wasn’t for him.”

“I understand.”

She leant back in her chair and gave him a long stare. Her face, Frank suddenly realized, expressed curiosity. Satisfaction and curiosity. She almost smiled.

“Once you said he had a great future, and you wished him happy. Do you still feel that way?”

“I do.”

“So I told my husband.”

She rose.

“Follow me. There’s something you must see.”

They went up a few stairs, through sun-soaked rooms to the part of the house where they had first met the day before. The dining-room was cool and dim.

“Open the curtains.”

Frank did. When he turned, he stopped in his tracks. The long dining table was paved with glittering rectangles of photographs. She looked back at him relishing the effect.

“Come here.”

Colour pictures were her greatest pride. She showed them first. “You don’t feel the truth unless you see it in colour. The way we, German people, see it.”

They were bright pictured of some big celebrations in the centre of Berlin. May 1st, she explained, last year. The streets and avenues were bathing in the blood-red drapery of the Nazi regalia. Frank recognized Lustgarten Park, Stadtschloss, Humboldt University. There were many other streets and parks that didn’t look familiar.

He was drawn to the photographs of people’s faces. She noticed his interest and became more excited and talkative. “I knew you wouldn’t miss those. I took them during the parade. Look carefully, they are very important.” Nicely dressed women with flowers. Cheering children. Close-ups of grinning faces. Families, groups of friends, many were not aware of being photographed. Moments of carefree joy, triumph, togetherness.

Their eyes met for a second. Hers were shining with infinite pride.

She signed him to go over to the other side of the table. “New Berlin. The Berlin of future,” she announced and pointed at a large laconic building: “This one was completed not so long ago. You haven’t seen it of course.”

“No,” Frank thought. “But I might have made bricks for it.”

“I like the clean lines. And the proportions,” she said. “I like the simplicity of the new architecture.”

Then there were idyllic scenes of the country side.

“Bavaria,” Frank recognized the landscapes. She nodded.

“Our friends invited us last autumn. I’d been planning it as a welcoming trip for Helmut, but he stayed in England for another year, so eventually we went without him.” There were pictures of ordinary people doing ordinary things: a woman digging in her garden, a fruit vender sorting apples, a family picnic by a lake. A small Kneipe. A group of rejoicing elderly men raised their mugs of foaming beer to the camera. That one came out particularly well. The old faces expressed some roguish, almost schoolboy camaraderie, and each in a different way – a curious display of human characters. Frank smiled.

“I don’t know these people,” she said, “but at the same time I know them very well. My fellow Germans. Over the years we were going through the same joys and hardships.”

“Olympic Games,” she introduced the next series. “The only time in eight years when Helmut came to visit us.”

There was indeed a picture of Helmut against a big stadium richly adorned with swastikas. He had that sour, toothache expression on his face. “You can always count on him to spoil a holiday.”

Finally, there were regular lines of Hitler youths doing some sort of drill. The same group having a rest in the shade, chatting, eating their snacks. Then they apparently agreed to pose: they formed an orderly group and performed the Nazi salute to the camera.

“Helmut could have been one of them.”

She walked over to the central window and corrected the curtains.

“It’s the Auldridges, of course. It’s their fault. He could be an entirely different man if he hadn’t insisted on staying with them. They never disciplined him. He always did what he wanted. Had he been in Hitler Youth, he would have never turned out like that. He needs to be reminded that he is German, Herr Frankel.”

She had visibly softened. Her face had relaxed, her movements were calmer, and there was no mockery in her tone now. This time she put “Herr” in front of his name with emphasized politeness.

“He’d been brainwashed by his uncle. He’d been told lies about this country – his own country —and about our Fuehrer. And he got hold of some preposterous ideas about our policies. He refuses to see that this is a young land surrounded by enemies. He… he sides with these enemies. It hurts even to say that.”

She offered him a cigarette.

“Thank you, Frau Krauss, I don’t smoke.”

“Helmut does. You must tell him to quit.”

She opened the French window and motioned him to follow her. It was chilly in the shaded terrace. She leant on the railing.

“There’s plenty of remedy for arrogance. Alfred says that a few months in a Hitler youth camp before his birthday could sort him out all right. But I don’t think it is as easy as that. It’s what in his mind.” She plucked a dried flower and chucked it.

“He told you about his plans to go to America of course.”

“He did.”

“I hold you responsible for that.”

She narrowed her eyes, peering at something at the far end of the garden. She had long curly eyelashes and a beautifully carved profile.

“You are responsible for a lot of damage, Herr Frankel. It’s time you returned your debt to this family… You’ve been to America. Now look me in the eye and tell me what prospects my son has there.”

The time had come for him to say something.

“Helmut doesn’t fear the unknown,” he said. “On the contrary, it thrills him. He’s an accomplished musician, and America holds a wealth of opportunities. Everything’s possible there…”

He stopped in the middle of the sentence; he simply knew that whatever he said didn’t count. She waited tactfully smiling a condescending smile.

“You finished?” she said after a pause and raised her head proudly. “Germany is the country where one thing is possible – complete and common well-being. You’ve been in a labour camp, you have first-hand knowledge of what the modern Germany is about. Hard work. We all work hard here, Herr Frankel, to raise the country to its imminent glory. Make him see that. He may go, but one day he will come back – like you did – and he will be drowned in remorse. Because it’s going to be a totally transformed Germany; an immense power, towering proudly above the world. Imagine his disappointment when he realizes he has had no part in all that. He’ll have matured by then. He’ll see the things the way he doesn’t see them now. And he’ll be sorry for his short-sightedness… The future of this land rests on the shoulders of the boys of his age. He must take his place in their ranks and do his bit. He is German, and he is rooted here in German soil.”

She shivered again. Before he knew what he was doing, he picked up a shawl from one of the seats. She declined. He muttered apologies and put it back. They stepped down the terrace and took a path along freshly preened bushes. Frank went goosefleshy when he felt the sun on his skin and smelled the unripe aroma of cut twigs.

“I understand that the Auldridges” influence was very strong. I don’t expect overnight changes. You may tell him that I don’t mind waiting. But bit by bit he must reconsider the lies he has been fed by the British propaganda and agree to give Germany a chance.”

She put out her hundredth cigarette hastily.

“He’ll be back any time. Come on, you must help me to put the photographs away.”

Each photograph was designated to its place in one of the carton boxes. She tendered her treasure with motherly care. He was helping her without saying a word or providing one-syllable responses to her voluble comments. Hitler Youth series had a special place in her heart. She extolled the boys exuberantly. “Fine young men, very industrious, very respectful. The Fuehrer’s favourites.” When she asked Frank directly about his opinion, he told her the truth: he thought she had a great eye of an experienced newspaper reporter.

She was silent for a long minute. Then she said slowly:

“I am glad you said that. Not because I am flattered. Point is – I am not a reporter, I’ve never been. I am an ordinary woman. I could have shown you newspaper cut-outs, posters, or postcards – they are more colourful, more panoramic and generally much better than these pictures. But I chose not to. I wanted you to see Germany with the eyes of an ordinary woman who lives here. Nothing’s beautified here, this is the truth. Look at these people. They are not posing in front of important-looking journalists, they are completely sincere. Look how happy they are. There was a time when they had no jobs, no prospects, no means to raise their children. It has changed. Germany has changed, it’s a new country now… Remember the day when you said that Helmut deserves a great future.” She made a broad gesture to encompass the table: “What is a better place for him to have this future? He is German. He belongs to…”

She suddenly broke off, thinking she had heard Helmut’s voice somewhere in the depth of the house. She was mistaken.

“He doesn’t like photography,” she explained. “It would be best if you didn’t tell him about this little exhibition.”

But Helmut arrived earlier then she expected. His bright voice exploded outside like a Christmas cracker:

“Where’s Frank?” The incoming tide of his brisk step woke the house room by room.

He lent through the doorway and surveyed the rows and piles of white boxes.

“Jesus, Frank,” he drawled with distaste. “She hasn’t been showing you around her cemetery, has she?… Come on. I’ve got you a violin. The best I could find in such short time.”

Frank jumped to his feet, then looked at Frau Krauss hesitantly. She dismissed him with a short shrug.

“Has she been lecturing you?” Helmut asked loudly in English. “Has she?”

“Helmut, please. If we don’t play something here and now, I’ll drop dead.”

“I’ve been making a list of the things we must play,” Helmut was sailing through rooms swiftly, waving a piece of paper in the air like a flag signal. Frank could hardly keep up with him; he snatched the paper with two fingers. “It doesn’t make a lot of sense; throw it away,” Helmut shrugged, “because we must play everything.”

When they entered the library, Helmut closed the door wings and drove an old telephone receiver through the handles – a routine precaution by the look of it. “To secure privacy,” he explained, shed his jacket, and dropped on the piano stool.

He still didn’t see – or didn’t want to see – Frank’s bruised hands with broken nails, his haggard face, and unhealthy thinness. He didn’t pay attention to his shuffling, slightly lame step and ill-fitting clothes. His perfect ear turned deaf to occasional tremor in Frank’s voice and his nervous stammer. As it was usual with Helmut, it was hard to say whether he was demonstrating concern or its complete absence. But Frank was infinitely grateful for whatever it was. The last thing he wanted was retailing his ordeals and wallowing in his sorrows.

When he saw the shiny shape of the violin, he panicked. Helmut cut short his excuses: “Just get on with it. You never know with Mother; she might send you back to your camp first thing tomorrow morning.” That was convincing enough. Frank picked the light body of the instrument and touched the strings with the bow. “Help me, God; dear God help me…” The sound, to his tearful surprise, came out clean and forgiving. Frank immediately felt better, and Helmut’s flippant mood was making it even easier. He was distracting Frank with their old jokes; they were laughing, warming up. The rambling sounds of their instruments suddenly brought order into the world: the shadows dispersed, the curses were lifted, and the chimeras retreated to their caves.

They played Liszt’s Consolation No. 3 arranged for piano and violin. First Helmut played solo, and he played exactly the way Frank liked it played. He made the piano sing, speak, and whisper – the evocation of human voice and intonations was breathtaking. The first attempts at duet didn’t come out very well. “It’s a fine arrangement,” Frank said. “It’s just that the duet version turns the piece into dialogue; the mood necessarily changes from reflective to confessional. I don’t feel it yet… Now, if this phrase is a question…” just as his violin enunciated the phrase, Helmut’s piano yielded the answer. The contact was so precise and crisp, like a spark of static electricity. They looked at each other involuntarily and laughed. Moreover, they both felt that the very fact that Frank had been out of practice for a long time suddenly had deep meaning in the context of that very piece. The confident piano, smooth and flowing, supported the diffident violin like a current of air, and together they achieved the rounded interpretation of consolation. “I like it,” Helmut said. “I like it that way. I don’t want it to be a virtuosic stunt.” Frank agreed; when they were polishing the piece, they made sure that the effect remained. “I still disagree about these teardrop notes…” Frank grumbled, “this place again…”

The telephone receiver rattled in the restraints of the door handles: “Dinner, darling.”

Frank came back to reality with a shudder. It was early evening.

“We are busy.”

“Darling, you haven’t eaten today yet… And Father wants to see you.”

“Tell him I’m busy.”

He then rose impatiently:

“What the hell, I’ll go and see him. Wonder what he has to say. We need a break anyway. You must be starving.”

They didn’t play after dinner. The magic simply wasn’t there anymore. After talking to his father Helmut was in the right mood for committing a murder.

“Is it because of me?” Frank asked.

“Oh, no, never mind. It’s the same farce every day.”

He threw himself on the sofa and covered his face with a cushion.

“Shall I close the curtains?”

“No… But I wouldn’t mind some jazz.”

Frank sat at the piano and after some thinking improvised a jazz variation on Consolation.

The evening light gilded the furniture, the piano, the carpet, accentuated the shadows, and gave the place the mysterious air of tastefully arranged theatrical scenery. Frank realized with a jolt of surprise that even though he had spent the whole day in the room, he hadn’t seen it properly yet. He looked around curiously. Taking advantage of the asymmetry of the house, the library was a larger, happier, and better planned sister of the dining room. He particularly liked the semicircle of large windows letting in light during most of the day. There was also an exit to the garden. Helmut explained that the books had been left by the previous owner, nobody in his family read them. Frau Krauss had been long planning to refurbish the place and possibly transform it into a photo studio. As soon as Helmut knew about it, he installed his piano there and claimed the territory for his practices.

“It’s a nice room,” Frank said quietly.

He thought Helmut was asleep, but then a voice droned under the cushion:

“You should have seen my music room in the Pillars.”

“Do you miss your life in England?”

“Missing is a useless feeling.”

“Why did you return?”

“And why do you think?” Helmut sat up. “I only have Mother to thank for everything… A friend of hers, a journalist, was in charge of some sort of campaign aimed at rounding German expatriates of important standing back to Germany. Although I was nobody, she somehow talked him into writing about me. A ray of Arian light wasted on a stale swamp of British public. Something along those lines. So silly… Mother doesn’t care about music; the man who wrote about me had never heard me play. The whole case was built on the cut-outs from English newspapers Mother had supplied him with.”

“What was in those cut-outs?”

“English critics liked me, and the reviews were positive. But I also had a rival – who doesn’t? He was older, bolder, and the critics enjoyed arguing about him. The German article made it sound like I’d been ‘pushed aside, overlooked, and underrated’ because of my German origin. The stench immediately reached London; I had a hard time proving that I had nothing to do with that publication.”

“Did your mother really do that?”

“It’s a war, Frank. A never ending war between me and her. She couldn’t have chosen a better time. It stirred so much silt and dirt… The Auldridges stood by me of course, but I thought I’d been abusing their hospitality long enough…”

Politically things were developing faster than he could follow. One day he simply realized that a German relative within the frame of the family portrait didn’t exactly help his uncle’s career and reputation.

“It was time to move on, that’s all. It was an easy decision to make because I had no intention of staying in Germany anyway.”

“As soon as you get your visa, you must go to America. I’ll be all right.”

“Of course you’ll be all right. I’ll find a lawyer to look into your case. Surely something can be done. But it’s going to take time.”

“You’ve no idea, child,” Frank said warily.

He was longing for Consolation with all his being, he wanted to play. Instead, he had to listen to Helmut’s daring plans verging on fantasies. “It’s important not to rush things… Visas are difficult but not impossible… We’ll have to contact your friends in America…” He talked and talked – well into the night. One thing Frau Krauss was right about: Helmut was too young to see the things as they really were, he was a stranger in his own land. There were many things he didn’t know, and he refused to listen. “He doesn’t see that our paths have crossed only to diverge again, perhaps forever, that this little time together is not to be wasted. We must play every day, every minute, play everything we didn’t have time to play back in Leipzig.” Frank’s eyes were fixed on the piano of liquid gold shimmering in the horizontal rays of the setting sun. He was straining his ear for the noises outside the room. The house hadn’t gone to sleep yet, it wasn’t too late to play.

“Frank! Are you listening to what I’m saying?”

It wasn’t just the futility of Helmut’s plans. With heavy sadness in his heart Frank gave way to the feeling he had had the day before: grown Helmut was the final proof of irreversibility of time. Nothing could bring together the pieces of the life Frank had had in Leipzig, the time which had forever defined happiness for him. “What was it earlier this day if not a miracle? It felt exactly as it used to be, I caught a whiff of old times. Like mother’s favourite perfume, or a glimpse of that girl I was in love with… This boy has changed, but the formula of his musicianship is the same – the formula of life potion. He can bring it back to me, at least part of it, no matter how small, I’ll be complete with the tiniest particle of the bliss we used to live in. He needs it as much as I do after all. Before we go our separate ways, we need to close the chapter and seal the past.’ He slipped into the thought, completely forgetting that he was indulging in the same weakness he had been accusing Helmut of – clinging to fantasies and turning a blind eye to facts.