‘My motives were purely selfish. I needed someone to tend to me in cantankerous old age.’
‘You’ll never be old, Oma.’
‘I’m growing older by the minute, and I need to make those calls and pack.’
‘Seven-thirty,’ he reminded. ‘And don’t go carrying any heavy suitcases downstairs.’
‘The courier is coming tomorrow morning to pick up the paintings.’
‘You’ve finished them?’ Carolyn handed Charlotte a piece of cherry pie and a bowl of whipped cream.
‘All forty-eight oils and twenty-four pen and ink sketches, and I never want to read or illustrate another of Hans Christian Andersen’s fairy tales again.’
‘I’d love to see them all hung next to one another.’
‘That is in your hands. I’ve asked the publisher to send them to you, not the gallery, when he’s done with them. You liked them so much, Carolyn, I thought they might make an acceptable christening gift.’
‘Acceptable!’ Carolyn reached across the table and grasped Charlotte’s hand. ‘I’m overwhelmed. They’re going to look wonderful in the nursery. How can we ever thank you?’
‘Great,’ Claus broke in with mock indignation. ‘Now my son will grow up surrounded by politically-incorrect depictions of aristocratic castles and princesses, and scary, psychologically-damaging images of wicked witches and hobgoblins. Not to mention the heartless, icicle-firing Snow Queen.’
‘Have I got news for you, sweetheart, the world is politically incorrect.’ Carolyn rose from her chair and poured hot water on to herbal teabags.
‘And the sooner he or she learns to cope with it, the better,’ Charlotte agreed.
‘She,’ Carolyn divulged, savouring the effect her revelation had on her husband and Charlotte. ‘I know I said I didn’t want to know the baby’s sex but I was looking at a baby catalogue and there were the sweetest little blue romper suits and pink dresses, and I couldn’t make up my mind between them, so I telephoned the doctor.’
‘Then we’ll call her Charlotte.’ Claus put his arm around his wife and dropped a kiss on her bump.
‘Don’t you think she deserves her own name?’ Charlotte asked. ‘Carolyn and I like Charlotte,’ Claus smiled. ‘We agreed on it months ago.’
‘If you must use it, shorten it to Charlie,’ Charlotte suggested. ‘It’s more suitable for an American girl.’
‘Charlie,’ Carolyn mused. ‘Sounds like a tomboy’s name.’
‘I don’t want a tomboy for a daughter,’ Claus protested.
‘Only a man could say that. Tomboys have much more fun than prim little girls in lace dresses. More tea?’ Carolyn asked, as Charlotte left the table.
‘No, thank you, dear. I need a good night’s sleep before travelling.’
‘Is Uncle Jeremy meeting you in London?’ Claus fetched Charlotte’s wrap.
‘Samuel Goldberg. We have agent-client things to discuss and he offered to drive me to Jeremy’s.’
‘We’ll take you to the airport,’ Carolyn said decisively.
‘Oh no you won’t, I’ll order a taxi,’ Charlotte contradicted.
‘I need to do some shopping. Baby things,’ Carolyn protested gleefully, ‘and it’s not often I can persuade this one to leave his workshop to drive into the city.’
Charlotte looked at both of them. ‘You really do need to shop?’
‘You heard the boss.’ Claus draped the wrap around his grandmother’s shoulders. ‘I’ll walk you home.’
‘You’d intrude on my thoughts, and your girls need you.’ Charlotte kissed her grandson on the cheek and hugged Carolyn before leaving.
‘Is she all right?’ Carolyn asked, as Claus closed the door.
‘I hope so. I think she’s just preoccupied with the past now that she’s finally decided to make this trip.’
‘She must have loved your grandfather very much.’
‘I’m not so sure. You’ve met my father and brother. They must have inherited their personalities from someone, and it sure as hell wasn’t Charlotte.’
She patted her bulge. ‘What will we do if this one turns out like them?’
‘There’s no chance of my daughter turning out anything other than perfect with you for a mother.’ He pulled her down on to his lap and began to tickle her.
Charlotte heard Claus and Carolyn’s laughter as she walked along the shore path that led from Claus’s house to her own. Kicking off her shoes, she stepped into the lake and splashed through the sandy shallows, revelling in the feel of cold water on her stockinged feet.
The moon hung low, a huge, golden orb in an indigo night sky, the same moon that was shining down on her childhood home. A few more days and she’d be there. Everything was ready, the tickets waiting to be picked up at the departure desk, her cases packed, her papers stacked neatly in her safe. She’d redrafted her will when Claus had left Germany to join her six years before. The decisions she had made then still held. Would this trip make her feel any differently about the choices she had made in life? Why was she going? What was she hoping to find after all this time? And – most importantly of all – had she been right to ask Laura to accompany her?
She climbed the steps to her veranda and walked into her living room. Her diary was already packed in her hand luggage. She took it from the bag and unwrapped it. The words she’d written on the morning of her eighteenth birthday stared up at her from the page:
It feels as though I’ve been away for ever. I can’t wait to feast my eyes on the dear, dear house and hug Papa, Mama and the twins …
Greta didn’t get a mention, even then. But what was the point of returning to Grunwaldsee now? There would be nothing left of the house but bricks and mortar, and, after decades of Communist neglect and misrule, decaying bricks and mortar at that. Or worse still, a burnt-out ruin, or a factory erected on the site. Wouldn’t it be better to cling to her memories?
She delved into her bag again and brought out another book, a hardback, its jacket yellowing with age. She ran her hands over the title and illustration.
One Last Summer
by Pyotr Borodin. A picture of a substantial house, white, wooden, gleaming through a pine forest. Totally wrong, of course, but how could the American artist who’d designed the jackets of the Stateside copies know what an East Prussian country mansion looked like?
As she opened the book, two sketches fell out. One was of Grunwaldsee as she had last seen it: a long, low, classically designed, eighteenth-century manor, the simplicity of its façade broken by a short, central flight of steps that swept up to a front door flanked by Corinthian columns. The second was of a young man drawn from memory. She stared at it for a long time. When she finally laid it aside, she knew why she had to go back.
‘Laura, it’s Claus.’
Laura hesitated. Had her grandmother shown him the photocopies? It hadn’t occurred to her that she might discuss them with Claus, but her grandmother and Claus were so close …
‘Laura, are you there?’
‘Yes.’ She mouthed an apology across the restaurant table to her librarian dinner date and headed for the Ladies. ‘It’s just a surprise to hear from you. I wasn’t expecting you to call but it’s great to hear your voice. How’s Carolyn?’
‘Burgeoning. It’s going to be a girl.’
‘Wonderful. Our family can do with all the women it can get. Does Oma know?’
‘We told her last night. We took her to the airport this morning. She said you’re taking time out to go to Poland with her.’
‘Are you checking up on me or her?’ she asked.
‘Neither.’
‘Pull the other one, Claus. As you’re obviously dying to know, we’re booked on a flight from Berlin to Warsaw on Friday.’
‘You’re in Berlin?’ he said in surprise.
‘Aren’t mobiles great? No one ever knows where anyone is. But yes, I’m in Berlin. To be precise, in an extremely good Turkish restaurant. I’ve been working here for a month on a documentary about the Stasi for the History Channel, which I’ve just wrapped. So it’s the perfect time for me to have a break. And I can’t think of anything I’d rather do than take a trip with Oma.’
‘Oma didn’t tell me you were in Germany.’
‘Possibly to keep the peace. Before you ask, I haven’t called on your parents. It’s so bloody between you and your father I’d rather not get involved.’
‘Also, you can’t stand him,’ he pointed out mildly.
‘That, too,’ she agreed.
‘It’s just as bloody between my father and Oma as it is between me and him,’ he added defensively.
‘Perhaps at her age she may want to bury the hatchet.’
‘The only place to do that is in his head,’ Claus said, not entirely humorously.
‘I suggested she rest here for a few days before going on.’
Laura deliberately changed the subject. Once Claus began to talk about his father he didn’t know when to stop. ‘A transatlantic flight is tiring for anyone, let alone someone her age, but you know Oma: now she’s finally made up her mind to go, she won’t be happy until she gets there.’
‘Have you given a thought as to how you’re going to get around Poland?’
‘I passed my driving test when I was seventeen, dear cousin.’
‘You’ve rented a car?’
‘It will be waiting at the airport.’
‘Be careful –’
‘Claus, if you’ve rung to lecture me, you can stop right now. I can look after Oma just as well as you.’
‘I wasn’t suggesting you couldn’t.’ He paused for a moment. ‘But I don’t think you should let her drive.’
‘There’s something wrong with Oma?’ she asked in concern.
‘Apart from the stomach ulcers – she has told you about her ulcers?’
‘No.’
‘According to her, they’re minor and the only treatment is diet. She looks as though she’s going to go on for ever –’
‘Then why shouldn’t I let her drive?’ she interrupted.
‘She seems a bit peculiar. Nothing I can put my finger on but … preoccupied. It’s difficult to explain but I have a feeling that something isn’t right.’
As it was obvious that her grandmother hadn’t told Claus about the existence of the documents, Laura made a swift decision not to mention them. She didn’t take pleasure in withholding the knowledge from Claus but the secrets weren’t hers to tell. ‘Oma’s finally decided to go home after sixty years in exile. Wouldn’t you be feeling a bit peculiar if you were in her shoes?’
‘I’d be running like hell in the other direction, and I only left Germany six years ago.’
‘You do like to play hard done by.’
‘If that means army discipline, cold showers and a father with the temperament of a Rottweiler, then yes, but to get back to Oma –’
‘Are you genuinely worried about her, Claus, or simply peeved that it’s me, not you, who is making this trip with her.’
‘Bit of both,’ he conceded frankly. ‘I always assumed that the three of us would go together.’
‘You were the one who got Carolyn pregnant.’
‘Why do I have the feeling I’m being got at?’
‘Because you are,’ she said flatly.
‘It’s not just Oma. It’s Poland and the Eastern bloc. According to the press, it’s not the place to be right now.’
‘Since when have you believed anything printed in the papers?’
‘Since you took up journalism.’
‘I work for television now.’
‘That’s even worse. Go for maximum audience impact and to hell with the truth.’
‘Only in America.’ She changed the subject again. ‘Oma keeps telling me that you are blissfully happy. The full fairy story. Happily ever after.’
‘She’s right. I don’t know what I’ve done to deserve Carolyn and the baby, but I’m afraid to think about it too much in case the spell breaks. You?’
‘I have my moments and my work.’ ‘You’re welcome to visit any time.’
‘I know. I’ll try to come after Carolyn’s had the baby.’
‘Come back with Oma. She’d love to have you, and you wouldn’t have to see us unless you wanted to.’
‘You live at the bottom of her garden.’
‘Like English fairies.’
Remembering her abandoned dinner date, Laura said, ‘This phone call must be costing a fortune.’
‘It’s only money,’ he answered carelessly. ‘Laura, you will take care of Oma, won’t you?’
‘As well as you would, Claus.’
‘Carolyn sends her love.’
‘Love back.’
‘Stand godmother to our daughter?’
‘Aren’t you afraid a journalist might hex her?’
‘I’m prepared to take the risk. Phone me from Poland.’
‘As soon as we reach the hotel.’
‘Check the time difference first. I like my sleep.’
The aircraft was swaddled in cloud. Inside, silence reigned and headsets were plugged in, as people prepared to listen to the programmes they’d chosen to be shown on their personal screens.
Only Charlotte’s remained abandoned, as she adjusted the reading lamp, making its gentle light fell directly on to the page of the diary she’d opened on the tray in front of her.
*……*……*
Dawn, my bedroom, Grunwaldsee
SUNDAY, 20 AUGUST 1939
So much has happened since yesterday. I don’t even feel like the same person I was then. I am the most fortunate and happiest girl in the world. Greta is furious, although she dare not let it show, especially to Mama and Papa. Her face was a most unbecoming shade of green when I came upstairs.
I am supposed to be sleeping, but I am far too excited, so I am writing this in order to have a complete record of my eighteenth birthday and the most important day of my life to date. One day I will show this diary to my children and grandchildren. I know they will be beautiful but I wonder what they will be. Soldiers, musicians, academics? Will the boys look like their grandfather?
This is supposed to be a record so I must stop daydreaming and concentrate on exactly what happened.
Everyone was excited when the train finally reached Allenstein station. Herr Schumacher warned us during lunch not to tell our families about the accommodation we were offered in the smaller towns and country areas of Russia, especially the houses where we were expected to share a bed with our entire host family. I shudder even to think of it. Irena and I watched in horror as grandparents, parents, four sons and three daughters all undressed and climbed into the communal bed on top of the stove, but, as I told Herr Schumacher, no serious harm was done. The cells in the police stations, although not very clean and generally cold and draughty, were at least reasonably private. Irena and I promised not to carry any tales. Although we warned Herr Schumacher that we couldn’t vouch for Hildegarde, Nina and the other girls.
Of course, the boys all thought it a huge joke, but the only one Herr Schumacher can rely on to keep quiet is Irena’s brother, Manfred. The tour has made no difference. He is still a fanatical Communist. ‘A lost cause’, as Irena says. It was as much as Irena could do to persuade him to keep his opinions to himself for some of the time. She confided that their parents are terrified he will try to recruit someone into the Communist Party who won’t make allowances for his youth and family.
If he does, he will end up in one of the dreadful camps people whisper about, like Dachau. Nothing he saw in Russia has affected his loyalty to the Communists, and he has sworn not to rest until Germany is a Communist state. Poor boy – he will never rest again.
Politics! It is all the boys talk and fight about when they are not huddled into corners sniggering over photographs of naked girls. Georg dropped his dirty pictures when Nina passed his seat on her way to the bathroom. He went bright red when she picked them up from the floor and handed them back to him.
She said they were more comical than disgusting, and the model looked stupid dressed only in beads and feathers. I don’t know why the boys spend so much time drooling over such things. Irena and I discussed it and agreed we wouldn’t want to spend hours studying photographs of naked men.
Paul was waiting for me at the station with him. They stood side by side, both of them tall and blond like the romantic knights of Aryan legend. He was wearing his uniform. Peter elbowed me aside and shouted for everyone to look at his brother because he had been promoted to major. I was angry that I hadn’t noticed first. Peter was quite right. He is no longer a captain but a major. At only thirty years of age.
There was so much pushing, jostling and sheer bad manners that I returned to my seat and allowed everyone to leave the train before me, including Irena, who was irritable because Wilhelm wasn’t there. Paul explained that they had brought a new horse back from Königsberg for Papa and, because it was half-wild, Wilhelm had stayed behind to lend the men a hand to get it into the stables.
Paul also said Greta had wanted to come to meet me, but he told her there wasn’t room for her, Paul, him, Peter, me, and Peter’s and my luggage in his car. I was glad. Greta wouldn’t have come on my account, and I enjoyed having him and Paul all to myself. As Peter wanted to go straight home to Bergensee he left the station in Georg’s father’s car.
While I was talking to Paul, he sent a porter to fetch my luggage and take it to his car. It is an open-topped tourer, racier and more modern than Papa’s big cars. Paul shook hands with everyone in the orchestra and reminded them of their invitations to our ball tonight. Herr Schumacher and his wife, who had come to the station to meet him, appeared quite overwhelmed that they’d been asked.
It was wonderful to drive through the town out into the countryside; past the lake, down the lane and into the courtyard of dear old Grunwaldsee. It never seems fair that life goes on here without me to see it.
Paul insisted I visited the stables before going into the house. Mama, Papa, Wilhelm and Greta were there, and I discovered that Paul had not been truthful about the horse. It is a grey mare, not a stallion, and the most beautiful riding horse a lady could want. He and Wilhelm had bought her for my birthday! They named her Elise after my favourite Beethoven piece. There was an elegant lady’s saddle, too, and Wilhelm had tacked her up so I could ride her straight away. There was nothing for it; I had to go into the house and change into my riding clothes. Mama made me use the side entrance and servants’ staircase so I wouldn’t see the hall, ballroom or my presents until after dinner.
Paul and Wilhelm brought four horses around to the back of the house. Greta didn’t want to ride, but the twins couldn’t wait to see how Elise liked me, and he came with us. It was glorious. Elise canters and gallops like an angel. We flew around the lake. Paul and Wilhelm had difficulty keeping up with us, and to think all I had for them were first editions of Schiller and gold tiepins.
We were having such a good time Mama had to send Brunon to remind us to get dressed for the ball. He drove home to Bergensee, and the twins and I handed the horses over to the grooms and went into the house.
Papa ordered trestle tables to be set up in the yard so all our tenants, workers and servants who weren’t helping at the ball could make merry and have a party of their own to celebrate our coming of age. He told Brunon to set aside twenty barrels of beer and eighty bottles of wine for them. Greta said it was too much. She’s jealous because our party was bigger than the one Papa organized for her coming of age. She should remember ours are for three, hers for one.
Mama sent Minna to help me dress because Maria isn’t fully trained. My evening gown had arrived from the dressmaker that morning. It is a sleeveless, textured silvery-blue silk. The bodice is fitted and the neck lower than anything I’ve ever worn before. Mama told me not to wear any jewellery, so I guessed what my present from Papa and her would be.
I insisted on wearing my hair up, and not in a plait. When Greta saw it she went wild. She ran to Mama, shrieking that no girl should wear her hair out of plaits until she is over twenty-one. Fortunately, Mama agreed with me. Eighteen is quite old enough to dress like a woman. Besides, it was my night, not Greta’s.
Papa relented and allowed us to see our birthday tables before dinner. Mama had excelled herself. She had stitched red and cream roses around the edges of the tablecloths, and covered the spaces between the presents with French truffles, bon-bons, miniature champagne bottles and chocolate beetles. It looked wonderful, but we weren’t allowed to open a single parcel until after dinner. One hundred of us sat down to the meal, and two hundred and fifty more came for the ball.
Mama and Papa gave me a gold watch and a pearl necklace and earrings. The twins came into the inheritances Opa and Opi had left them, and Papa and Mama gave them keys to cars – one each. Papa had hidden them in the barn, so we all trooped out to see them. They are open-topped Mercedes tourers. The twins were hoping for a new car, although they thought they’d have to share. As Papa pointed out, they can’t expect to go on doing everything together now they are men.
Everyone laughed because Irena followed Wilhelm the whole present opening time like a little dog. When all the presents had been admired and the smaller ones carried upstairs, the dancing began. I tried to hide my disappointment at not getting a special present from him. His family gave me a jewellery casket carved from cedar wood and set with panels of amber. It is over three hundred years old and very valuable. His name was on the card as well as his parents and Peter’s, but I had hoped for something just from him. Not anything expensive, but a single rose that I could have pressed between the leaves of this diary and treasured for ever.