Papa opened the ball with me, Mama danced with Wilhelm, and poor Paul was stuck with Greta, who was in a disgusting mood because she wasn’t the star of the party. Mama had worked very hard to decorate the ballroom. Because we so seldom use it, I always think of it as a big, cold, empty space, but last night it looked enchanting. Mama had ordered the servants to drape the ceiling and walls with garlands of roses and evergreen, and the chandeliers had been washed, polished and filled with candles. I’m glad Papa didn’t have electricity put into that part of the house; it is so romantic to dine by candlelight in the formal dining room and dance under flickering flames in the ballroom. Papa had hired the orchestra from the Hotel, which was excellent, but not as good as the Allenstein Hitler Youth orchestra, although I would never tell Papa that in case he thought I was boasting.
Georg played the violin for us. He gave me another rose and a silver bracelet, and begged a dance. I don’t want roses or bracelets from Georg, foolish boy that he is, but I did keep a dance for him. It would have been bad manners not to. The bracelet is pretty, with interlinked roses and musical notes. Manfred gave me a book. I could tell what it was without unwrapping it, and I was afraid to remove the paper in front of other people in case it was by a banned author like Karl Marx. Manfred is always reading prohibited literature. Not even Irena knows where he gets his books from. I promised him that I would open his gift later when I was alone, and he had to be content with that.
Papa wouldn’t allow me to hand anyone my dance card until the ball was formally opened. As it was, I had to fight to keep a polka free for Georg. I didn’t have a single dance left two minutes after Papa and I had finished the opening waltz. It was full ten minutes before Greta’s. He booked the last waltz before supper and the final three of the evening, but before then I had to partner all sorts of boring boys …
‘Can I get you anything, Ms Datski?’ Lost in the past, Charlotte gazed blankly at the stewardess. ‘A drink, a newspaper?’
‘Nothing, thank you.’
When he finally walked across the room to claim the supper dance, I almost died of happiness. In his dress uniform he was the tallest and most handsome man in the room. He clicked his heels, bowed and said, ‘The last waltz before supper is mine, I believe, Fräulein Charlotte.’
I felt as though everyone in the room was watching us as he led me into the centre of the ballroom. I tried to concentrate on my steps, to my shame; I think I even counted like they told us to in dance class. One, two, three – one, two, three – one, two, three ... all the while trying to remember the refinements my dancing teacher had taught me. It would have been dreadful if he’d thought me clumsy.
When the music ended he suggested we walk out on to the terrace instead of going into supper. I hoped Greta would notice. I have never forgiven her for the time last summer when she caught me watching him from the balcony in the west wing. She said I was a stupid child to moon over a man who is far too old for me. I have longed to prove her wrong ever since. I may only be eighteen, but I will never, never love anyone as absolutely and completely as I do him. All the love I possess, my whole heart and soul, are his and his alone. And a twelve-year age difference is not so great. After all, Papa is ten years older than Mama.
The garden looked enchanting in the moonlight, but because I didn’t want to soil or damage the long skirt of my dress we stayed on the terrace. The lights from the house shone out behind us, gilding the trees and flowers. Although everyone was at supper, the orchestra was still playing a soft, gentle piece by Brahms. I’m not ashamed to say that I hoped I would get my first real kiss. The one Georg stole from me on the tour doesn’t count because I moved my head and he ended up kissing my ear, which was all wet afterwards. Besides, I didn’t want Georg to kiss me then, or ever.
We stood side by side, looking out over the garden, sipping the champagne he had taken from one of the waiters, happy in one another’s company, not needing to say a word. A sign of true camaraderie and affinity of spirit.
He looked splendid in the moonlight, just the way I always hoped and imagined my own Prince Charming would. His blond hair shone like a halo, and his blue eyes were deep, dark and mysterious. He asked my permission to smoke. I told him that I loved the smell of his cigars. Then he said I looked beautiful in my silk dress, like a goddess.
I wasn’t sure how a lady should answer a compliment like that, so I said nothing, but I did step a little closer to him, still wishing for a kiss – I hope he didn’t think me shameless, but considering what happened afterwards he couldn’t have. The air was pleasantly cool after the heat of the ballroom and I could smell the roses. We could hear laughter and Brunon’s accordion in the courtyard on the other side of the house. I murmured something about the servants taking father’s directive that they should enjoy themselves to heart, and then he interrupted.
He told me he loves me. Me! He loves me. And all along I thought he came to Grunwaldsee to visit Greta. I can’t remember saying much afterwards but then he finally kissed me. At last I know what it is to receive a proper kiss. He put his arms around me and held me very tight.
The sleeves of his uniform were itchy on my bare back. I know it’s not in the least romantic to write that, but I have promised myself that this diary will be truthful in every possible way.
Close up he smelled of cologne, leather oil from his army belt, hair pomade and tooth powder. After the kiss I confessed I fell in love with him when I was twelve but I was convinced that he’d never noticed me, only Greta. I hadn’t meant to say her name, but he made no mention of it. Instead he kissed me again. A wonderful kiss that quite took my breath away. Then he took a small box from his pocket and asked me to open it.
Inside was the most beautiful diamond ring I have ever seen. He told me that his great-grandmother wore it as her engagement ring and that it was given to one of his ancestors by Frederick the Great.
It is a little too big for my finger but he laughed and said that I will grow into it. Then he lifted my chin very gently with his fingertips and asked me to be his wife. It was the proposal every girl dreams of. Everything was perfect – my dress, the terrace, the ring and, above all, Claus von Letteberg. I am dizzy with happiness. I am to become his wife. Charlotte, the future Grafin von Letteberg.
His wife.
The stewardess rolled the drinks trolley alongside Charlotte’s seat. Charlotte asked for a mineral water, closed the diary, wrapped it in the silk scarf and replaced it in her handbag. It was strange how the passage of time enabled her to see events and revisit emotions with dispassionate clarity. Now she realized that Claus would never have been able to sweep her off her feet if Greta hadn’t also been in love with him.
Greta’s sneering that she should stop mooning over men who were too old for her and stick to inexperienced boys like Manfred and Georg had hurt, and she knew her sister too well to suspect that they had been casual comments. Greta had intended to cause her pain, and she had been too naive and insecure to question her sister’s motives.
She recalled all the nights she had cried herself to sleep before Claus’s proposal because she suspected Greta was right. Why would a man of the world, like Claus, Graf von Letteberg, with title, estates, money, and the entire eligible female population of aristocratic East Prussian society swooning at his feet, waste time on an unsophisticated girl like her? The question still remained. Why had he?
True, she had been younger than Greta and possibly, in view of his attitude towards her later, he had considered her a better breeding proposition. No prettier, but more malleable perhaps, for all her spoiled, headstrong attitude. Or had Claus seen that, for all her youth and inexperience, she had never wanted anything in her short life as much as she’d wanted him, and her blatant adoration had simply flattered him into proposing.
Nurtured by the romances she read in bed every night instead of the philosophical works recommended by her tutors, before Claus’s proposal she had tried to imagine her future without him. She had decided that if he married someone else, she would simply cease to exist. Fade away as Cathy had done in
Wuthering Heights
, or die coughing up her lungs and whispering her lover’s name like Marguerite Gautier. She’d even consoled herself by picturing Claus, grief-stricken, returning to her after her death, like Heathcliff or Armand, who had dug up their lovers from their graves.
Only reality was never as romantic as fiction.
Samuel Goldberg stood at the barrier and watched a stream of loud, excited American tourists push heavily-laden trolleys out of the customs hall, towards the gates and waiting couriers. Behind them, looking more perfectly groomed and alert than anyone had a right to after a three-thousand-mile flight, was Charlotte.
‘You look wonderful.’ He kissed her cheek.
Charlotte returned his kiss and hugged him. ‘Don’t lie, Samuel. I’m a wreck. My hair always goes greasy on planes. It must be something to do with the air conditioning. But you look splendid, not a day older than when I last saw you.’
‘Five years ago. Five long years since you paid a fleeting visit and left me alone with my broken heart,’ he complained.
‘A broken heart must suit you.’
‘I see you’re as cruel as ever.’
‘Thank you for picking me up.’ She leaned on his arm. ‘Travelling is dreadful when you reach your destination and there is no friendly face to greet you.’
‘It’s part-payment for all the lunches I owe you; I’ve made excellent commission from the sales of your work. I hope this visit means you intend to spend more time in Europe in the future.’ He signalled to the porter to follow them with Charlotte’s luggage.
‘This is a last visit, Samuel.’
‘You can’t say that.’
‘Yes, I can,’ she contradicted.
He looked into her eyes and took a deep breath. ‘So, that’s why you’re intent on going back?’
‘Yes. You ever thought of going back to Eastern Europe to visit your old home town, Samuel?’
‘Sometimes, in my dreams and my nightmares, I do just that. It saves me the bother of booking an actual trip. I hate packing.’ He patted the hand she’d hooked into the crook of his elbow. ‘Now for the good news.’
‘Jeremy invited you to dinner and you refused,’ she speculated.
‘I told him I had to dine with a client.’
‘It might be good news for you, but it isn’t for me. Is it the truth?’
‘I arranged it five minutes after I spoke to him. I’ll drop you off at Jeremy’s and my chauffeur will pick you up anytime you choose. You will spend the night in my house and allow me to take you to the airport tomorrow?’ he pressed.
‘That would be putting you to too much trouble on my account.’
‘Not for your first visit in five years. Besides, my housekeeper has put fresh sheets and flowers in my spare room, and bought melons and strawberries for breakfast. You wouldn’t want to disappoint her, now, would you?’
She laid her hand over his. ‘You’ve been a good, faithful, and loving friend for over sixty years, Samuel.’
‘You gave me the sixty years.’ He winked at her. ‘Are you sure you want to dine with Jeremy and his family? My date is an old client who’d love to meet you. We could indulge in all sorts of debauchery after we’ve eaten.’
‘Don’t tempt me.’ ‘Is that a yes?’
‘No. Jeremy disapproves of me, but his sense of filial duty demands he pay lip service to my existence, which means a dinner invitation every time I land in Britain. And my maternal duty demands that I accept.’
‘A short meeting over coffee would be better. You wouldn’t end up spitting food at one another,’ he coaxed.
‘I know, and you know, that Jeremy and I find it painfully embarrassing to be in one another’s company because we have absolutely nothing in common. Sometimes I wonder if the fairies took my baby and left a changeling. But let’s not talk about Jeremy. I’ll see him soon enough.’
‘Here’s the car.’ Samuel held up his hand when Charlotte opened her handbag. He thrust his hand into his pocket and tipped the porter for her. ‘Charlotte, meet Hassan, my chauffeur. He’s Kurdish.’
Charlotte shook the man’s hand. ‘You’re a refugee?’
‘I was until Mr Goldberg offered me a job and a home.’ He returned her smile before wheeling her luggage around to the back of the car.
‘People helped me when I needed it,’ Samuel said, almost apologetically.
‘And you’ve been helping everyone you can ever since.’
‘I had a good teacher in you, Charlotte.’ He opened the back door of the car. ‘There’s a fridge. Mineral water, wine or, given that the next stop is Jeremy’s house, brandy and soda?’
‘Mother, how nice to see you.’ Jeremy Templeton extended his hand as he opened his front door. Charlotte shook it, and recalled the first time he had offered her his hand. He had been seven years old, and she had been forced to leave him outside the dormitory of his boarding school. The memory brought back the bitter tang of remorse, rekindling her guilt over both the separation and the handshake. But would Jeremy’s life have been any different if she had insisted on bringing him up herself? Could she have done anything to prevent his father from turning their son into a mirror image of himself, an embodiment of the English military gentleman?
‘Mother, how nice to see you,’ her daughter-in-law, Marilyn, echoed. She stepped forward and pecked her cheek. ‘Will this be a long visit?’
Charlotte smiled at the direct question. ‘Not long enough to unpack more than my overnight case in Samuel Goldberg’s. I’ve accepted his invitation to stay the night and he is driving me back to the airport tomorrow.’
‘I didn’t mean …’ Marilyn flushed with embarrassment. ‘You would have been most welcome to have stayed here.’
‘I know, Marilyn. Have you heard from Laura?’
‘No,’ Jeremy snapped irritably. ‘She hardly ever rings. We don’t even know where she is half the time.’
Charlotte almost reminded him that he had the number of Laura’s mobile and it was just as easy to make a call as to receive one. Then she remembered the parsimonious attitude he had inherited from his father. And her reason for visiting him. Annoying him needlessly wouldn’t achieve anything.