A Peaceful Summer

A Peaceful Summer

Ace Anthony

Photograph Berlin, Staatsbibliothek, Unter den Linden Bundesarchiv, B 145 Bild-P014772 / Frankl, A. / CC—BY-SA

Photograph Matt Hobbs

Illustrator Ace Anthony

© Ace Anthony, 2021

© Berlin, Staatsbibliothek, Unter den Linden Bundesarchiv, B 145 Bild-P014772 / Frankl, A. / CC—BY-SA, photos, 2021

© Matt Hobbs, photos, 2021

© Ace Anthony, illustrations, 2021

ISBN 978-5-4474-0176-4

Created with Ridero smart publishing system

A PEACEFUL SUMMER

Ace Anthony

I M P R I N T

A Peaceful Summer

by Ace Anthony

© 2014, Ace Anthony

All rights reserved.

Author: Ace Anthony

Contact: apeacefulsummer@gmail. com

Cover: designed by Ace Anthony

Berlin, Staatsbibliothek, Unter den Linden

Bundesarchiv, B 145 Bild-P014772 / Frankl, A. / CC – BY-SA

The piano image by Matt Hobbs

This ebook, including all its parts, is protected by copyright and must not be copied, reselled or shared without the permission of the author.

Chapter 1

‘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… 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 make the most of her holiday by the sea.

‘Don’t grumble, Berthold, you promised, remember?’

She surveyed the sparkling turquoise of the sea from under her old-fashioned sun hat.

‘Oh, look!’ she said. ‘Today even more people are braving the chill!’

‘What are these pups after? Pneumonia?’

‘They are young and healthy… They can do what they want.’

‘Your hat is ridiculous.’

She let the remark pass and leant over to the girl sitting next to her:

‘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, Frau Nolf.’

The woman was in a mood for 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 get me another rug, this one is itchy… If that baby doesn’t stop squeaking, I’m going back to the hotel,’ he said in a hissing whisper when his sister bent to tuck the rug round his knees.

She only laughed:

‘If I let you have a smoke, will you promise to stop grumbling for a change?’ She rummaged in her handbag and fished out his pipe roll. ‘Here’s your toy.’ He snatched at it eagerly and immediately lost interest in everything else. ‘Men are like children,’ she winked at the girl and moved her chair under the sunshade 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’m afraid…’

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

She began to hum a tune, and the baby went quiet, listening. Everyone, except her brother, smiled and gasped with 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 an adolescent boy who was just going past their sunshade. ‘What a lovely performance it was! We are all looking forward to…’

The boy didn’t smile back, rolled his eyes as if to say, ‘Do me a favour,’ and walked past her without slowing down.

‘Forgive him, he’s still adjusting,’ the boy’s mother said.

‘Oh, nothing to forgive! What a talent! That piece he played yesterday – what was it?’

Frau Nolf hummed the tune again.

‘I’m not sure.’

‘Dvorak,’ somebody prompted.

‘I remember him as a small child,’ another woman said, looking up from her magazine. ‘Is it true he has lived 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 mumbled, puffing at his pipe. ‘In another year or two it could be too late – the German Reich wouldn’t give him a chance.’

‘Don’t listen to Berthold, it’s his ulcer speaking. Germany will always welcome its great sons.’

They were all silent watching the boy walk into the sea and dive into the foam of a rolling wave.

‘The weather will get worse in the evening,’ the man grumbled.

The languid rondo of the mid-spring, middle-aged, middle-class holidaying was a living hell for the youth. The evenings were dull and had little to offer: the same film in the local cinema, wine-drinking on the terraces, reluctant dancing. Even older people had to admit that they could do with more entertainment, but the season hadn’t started yet, and the resort town was still hibernating. So, it was no wonder that sporadic piano recitals 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 strolled past the hotel, some of them sauntered back and forth, others nestled themselves at the tables on shaded terraces, sending waiters and children to make inquires about the evening.

‘Oh, wait a moment,’ Frau Krauss would say. ‘I’ll go and find him.’

Sometimes she literally had to chase her son around the hotel and neighbouring cafes or search the dark inside of the cinema. 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 making promises on my behalf?’

‘But, Helmut, sunshine, they love you. It would be a shame if…’

‘We initially agreed upon one private evening for friends only. I have no intention of starting a career here… This isn’t funny, Mother. If it goes on like that, I’ll have to move to another 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 got used to it.’

‘Rudeness doesn’t become you, young man.’

He peered down at the terrace through the Venetian blinds. A 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 an errand boy. He hurried over to her table and listened to her request, bowing and shrugging all the time. Helmut watched the pantomime curiously: an imposing, dignified woman and a fidgety little Italian trying to communicate with each other with the help of gestures.

‘Very well, then. Mussorgsky, I suppose. I feel like Mussorgsky today.’

The smile on his mother’s face faded.

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

‘Really, Mother, the world would be a nicer place if you refrained from commenting on music.’

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

Helmut liked to think that steering away from German composers was his clever way of being difficult.

‘It’s either Mussorgsky or nothing at all.’

‘Let me 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 the sour face he pulled as he fumbled with his tie.

‘I need some time to prepare,’ he said rummaging through his music. ‘Do you mind?’

‘Of course not!’

She smiled again and tiptoed out of the room without another word. She had already forgiven his petulance and rudeness.

Helmut Krauss was easy to forgive. One was never sure why he was so irresistible: 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, smiled, pouted, grimaced – 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 self-confidence was dazzling. 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 aunt’s credit, he wore good clothes, and he wore them well, but it 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, dry sense of humour, and easy attitude to his own radiant attractiveness could be enough to secure him the reputation of a likeable personality if it wasn’t for his second natural gift – music – which had taken a serious toll on his character. Nobody seemed to be good enough for him; nobody remembered him holding a half-civil conversation. He absolutely insisted on being caustic and sarcastic with everyone, regardless of people’s age and status. Mocking and teasing was his rule. Arguing when nobody wanted to argue was his signature. There was no way of pleasing him, and one was often left to wonder what he despised more: compliments or criticism. But, first, he was very young. Second, objectively and to say the least, he was a very solid pianist with a brilliant 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 he suddenly announced that he was going to Florence to spend a few days with his paternal grandmother.

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

‘Helmut, you visited her last week. You are tiring her…’

‘Nonsense. She doesn’t mind. In fact, she insists I visit her more often… Have you seen my black shoes?’

‘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 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…’

‘We are as good as strangers to each other!’

‘Better leave it that way.’

‘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 picture is? You’re secretly relishing your small fame here! Your complacency is revolting! Who do you think you are? Striding around like the world’s greatest pianist… Just let me remind you that you are still a nobody!’

‘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?’

There was no phone in the room, so Helmut went downstairs to take the call.

‘Yes?’ He motioned to 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 for the next four or five days… See you there. Good bye.’

He went back to his room to pack his things. 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 was gone before she could finish 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 about ten endless minutes of silence she suddenly spoke almost giving him a start: ‘Do you remember the scarf?’ 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 had been 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 she had managed to start a conversation.

‘It’s a pity we can’t see the parade this year,’ she said. ‘But Mutti was so determined to take you on this trip. 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’m thoroughly enjoying myself.’

‘Isn’t it too cold for swimming?’

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

She giggled:

‘Helmut, I can barely walk.’

After less than a week’s absence he came back from Florence fresh and rested, and he came in peace. Frau Krauss had also changed her line of behaviour. She had probably expected too much from him in such a short time. It’s no use losing patience with each other. After all, her son has so many things to comprehend and accommodate – grandeur, 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 and almost politely. In the evenings he played Beethoven’s sonatas at the request of his ever-growing audience. Frau Krauss seemed to have every reason to be happy, but somehow she wasn’t. ‘Something’s about to happen,’ she thought. And then there were more calls from Florence, which she didn’t like at all. Something was building up. She watched her son closely but couldn’t see much behind his breezy calmness. ‘Shall I talk to him?’ She didn’t know how or what about. The denouement came soon enough.

‘I have to go back to Berlin,’ he said one day, with ill-concealed relief.

‘Darling, we are staying for at least another month.’

‘You are. I’m not.’

‘Helmut, what’s going on?’

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

‘It doesn’t make sense to 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 with bated breath.

‘Grandma has found two sponsors for me in America.’

‘What sponsors…?’

‘The people who have signed affidavits of support…’

‘I don’t understand. What are you talking about?’

‘One of them is Grandma’s cousin twice removed; the other is her friend’s husband living in New York…’

‘And why do you need their support, may I ask? Helmut, look me in the eye!’

‘You know why. They are helping me to get a visa.’

‘Is that what you’ve been up to all this time? 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 completed. I have to go to Berlin immediately. 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 slipped into the room and sat in the chair by the door. Her presence caused another long silence. Frau Krauss lit a cigarette. Helmut was folding his clothes and putting them in neat piles.

‘It was my decision,’ he grumbled. ‘Grandma 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 already knows. Grandma has written to him.’

‘And all that is happening behind my back!’

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

‘Helping you? One can help someone who has at least some means and experience. You have nothing, Helmut, you’re a child. She’s ruining your life! What are you going to do? What are you going to live on?’

‘Father has promised 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… 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 asked Irma to leave and took her place in the chair.

‘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 display some semblance 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 of health, and not in a car.’

‘Helmut, look at me!’ her stern voice rang with indignation. ‘I didn’t drag her here. She wanted it. We did it for you! You hadn’t seen your own country for years. We wanted to introduce you to your Fatherland, to show you the new Germany…’

‘You mean the autobahns and the swastikas? I saw the picture, full-sized. I don’t need to see it again…’

He called Irma and she came instantly, as if she had been waiting behind the door.

‘Irma, would you rather go by train? Don’t look at Mother, look at me. Would you like to go by train?’

Irma blushed and dropped her eyes.

‘Leave the poor child alone, she wants to go with me.’

Frau Krauss rose and walked out slamming the door hard behind her.

‘Just give it some thought,’ Helmut insisted. ‘You can rest on the train, meet new people. And we’ll get home much faster…’

‘Are you going to America?’ Irma was on the verge of tears. Helmut turned away in annoyance – he hated dealing with crying girls.

‘Not tomorrow. It will take another month or two to get a visa.’

‘Could you at least stay until mid-September? To celebrate your birthday with us.’

‘I’ll think about it,’ he lied. ‘Are you going with me or with Mother?’

She didn’t answer.

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

One of them, Rilke, a young man with a stubborn look on his pock-marked face, was of a tougher sort. He rested his elbows on his knees, clasped his hands, and studied the ashy faces of his companions, telling himself again and again that he would never be reduced to their pitiful state.

His throat felt dry. He felt dust grind on his teeth. But the greatest inconvenience of all was the uncertainty. He scanned the blank faces again. The question on everyone’s mind, but not their lips: ‘Where are we being taken?’

‘Transported to another place? But why so few of us? To be killed? Why waste petrol to take us so far? Besides, we’ve been showered and given clean clothes… To work? Makes little sense. Only two of us are strong enough. That one is old. This one is too skinny. And the Red Cross is as good as dead.’

The Red Cross was the only person Rilke knew: they were from the same barrack. A sad man of few words, worse for wear, with that dejected look on his thin face that Rilke didn’t like in people. He had to make an exception for the Red Cross, though, because the man was kind, truly kind – clumsy, foolish – but kind. At the risk of being beaten, he often engaged in negotiations with guards about medicines and blankets for sick people. This had earned him the nickname ‘The Red Cross’. The man laughed when he first heard about it, and that was the only time he was seen laughing. He said his real name, but nobody remembered it. They just kept calling him the Red Cross. ‘Good man,’ Rilke thought. ‘Good man… But spineless. By the looks of him he gave up a long time ago. People like him don’t survive anyway. And he knows it. Pity, really…’

The lorry stopped for about half an hour. They could smell food and hear people chatting. Rilke’s stomach groaned. He rubbed his aching thighs to help circulation. ‘This has to end soon,’ he said. No one bothered to make a comment.

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. ‘A few millimeters of plywood separating me from normal life. Spring, freedom. Sunshine. Chats with friends over a beer or two. Flirting with girls. No, better not to think about it.’ He caught the Red Cross’s eye and pointed at the elderly man, as if asking, ‘How is he?’ All this time the man had been sitting with his face buried in his hands. The Red Cross touched his arm and said quietly: ‘You can lean on my shoulder.’ The man shook his head. Maybe he was praying, and as soon 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 said, splashing and cheering just like one of those sparrows. The Red Cross nodded, rubbing water into his scalp covered with thick jet-black stubble – the only convincing evidence of his young age, Rilke noted to himself.

The doors slammed and the engine started. The Red Cross supported the old man, who nearly fell off his seat. It was getting hotter. Their spirits flagged again and they were almost rocked to sleep when the lorry stopped with an abrupt jerk. No more than fifteen minutes had passed since the previous stop. Rilke thought it was strange. Perhaps, there was something wrong with the lorry. Then they heard hurried footsteps and barking reprimands: ‘… Supposed to have arrived half an hour ago…’ Inaudible voices delivered explanations. The back of the lorry flung open again.

‘Frankel!’ the barking voice called.

‘It’s me,’ the Red Cross said quietly. Five heads turned towards him.

They all sat in silence, not knowing what to think or say.

‘Frankel! Out!’

Frank rose carefully, bending his head. He took a few seconds to balance his tall, thin 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 showed a sad man, a glimpse of grey road behind him, dusty bushes. The man looked around, blinking and shielding his eyes from bright sunlight, then slowly walked out of the frame. The camera didn’t follow him. The film finished with a howl of rusty hinges. It was dark again. The engine roared, and Rilke finally came back to reality. It felt empty. He wondered if the remaining four men felt the same. Nobody said a word. ‘I didn’t even have time to say good bye,’ he thought.

Chapter 2

Frank was now sitting in the back seat of a car. He was still none the wiser as to where he was being taken, or why he had been separated from the group. He knew he was in no position to ask questions. He didn’t even dare to lean back in the seat. He was sitting stiffly, looking at his coarse, heavy hands lying on his lap. He noted with some dull resignation that he didn’t want any answers. Not now, not yet. This intermission was too precious to be wasted. Every pore of his being was soaking up hungrily the fragmented glimpses sliding past him.