One Last Summer (2007) (14 page)
I can’t understand Irena lying naked and unashamed in Wilhelm’s arms. Is she a better actress than me? Or can it be that she really likes making love?
Is my disgust with the things Claus does to me all my fault? Should I try harder to be a wife to him? I wish I had someone to talk to. I have always been closer to Irena than Greta. We can and do talk to one another about everything. Perhaps after she marries Wilhelm I will be able to discuss the private side of married life with her. I do hope so.
Laura leaned out of the open carriage to check that the coachman was only pretending to whip the pair of greys pulling their carriage. Reassured she sat back and said, ‘This countryside reminds me of some of the more isolated areas in Maine. That stretch of woodland looks as though it hasn’t changed in centuries.’
‘It probably hasn’t,’ Charlotte agreed absently. She scanned the shoreline for a sign of the lakeside summerhouse below Grunwaldsee. If it was there she couldn’t see it, or the walls of the outbuildings. But where she remembered young saplings, tall trees now towered, and bushy undergrowth that would have hidden any surviving walls from view.
Laura watched a pair of dinghies race towards a jetty. ‘Did you ever sail on this lake when you lived here, Oma?’
‘Yes, but our boats were not as dashing or colourful as those.’
‘You used to live here?’ A brash, elderly woman with dyed blonde hair and an American accent interrupted their conversation.
‘A long time ago,’ Charlotte conceded, wishing she hadn’t given in to the coachman’s plea that they share the carriage with two other hotel guests. He’d offered a discount which hadn’t swayed her. But the hour’s wait for the next carriage had.
‘So did I,’ the women said eagerly. ‘My family used to live in Lake Street. Perhaps you remember them, the Schulers?’
Charlotte shook her head. ‘The only family I knew in that street were the Adolfs.’
‘I remember them. They had a Communist son, who was always in trouble with the police, and a beautiful daughter, Irena. She married well, one of the aristocrats, a von Datski. But then everyone knows what happened to them; it was such a disgrace at the time …’
‘A disgrace?’ Laura looked at the woman questioningly, then at Charlotte.
Charlotte interrupted. The last thing she wanted was this stranger telling Laura a gossip-laden version of the family history. ‘Have you come back to look at your old home?’
‘I wanted to show my daughter where I was born.’ She nodded to the younger version of herself sitting next to her. ‘Mrs Charles Grant the third.’
‘Pleased to meet you.’ Charlotte offered her hand. ‘This is my granddaughter, Laura Templeton.’
‘You’re English.’
‘I am,’ Laura answered.
‘We’re turning.’ Charlotte took Laura’s arm. ‘If you’ll excuse us, I would like to concentrate on the view.’
‘So would I. Of course, none of this was developed in our day, and now look at it. All the woods on this side of the lake cut down to make way for those small huts, summerhouses and vegetable gardens. They’ve completely ruined the scenery.’
‘Probably not for the people who live off those vegetables,’ Charlotte observed. ‘Food prices have rocketed since the Communists fell from power.’
‘And a good riddance, too. Did your family own property in Allenstein?’
‘Some,’ Charlotte answered guardedly.
‘Of course, the Germans who fled in nineteen forty-five can’t claim it back, although Poles who fled the Russian army can. I’m here because I heard that my father’s old house was up for sale.’
‘You’re going to buy it?’
‘I already have. It was a snip. Only forty-five thousand dollars.’
‘What will you do with it?’
‘Renovate it for a start. It hasn’t been touched by so much as a paintbrush since we left. Once it’s modernized, I’ll rent it out to tourists. A rented house is cheaper for families than a hotel, and this is a good base from which to tour the Masurian lakes. There you are, Ranolf,’ the woman greeted an elderly man, who walked towards the carriage as it slowed to negotiate the drive to the hotel. ‘I’ve just met this charming woman and her granddaughter. She’s another refugee come home to show her kinsfolk the old country. We must bring our grandchildren here next year.’ She turned to Charlotte. ‘My husband, Ranolf Hedley the fourth. I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name?’
‘Charlotte Templeton. If you’ll excuse us, we must go. We’re expecting a telephone call.’
‘Templeton?’ Laura repeated when they walked towards the outdoor café area. ‘I’ve never heard you use Grandfather’s name before. Why didn’t you tell that woman who you were?’
‘Because she’s a snob. You heard her talk about the aristocratic von Datskis and their disgrace.’
Laura braced herself. ‘What was the disgrace?’
‘It was only a disgrace to Nazis old enough to remember the Hitler years.’ Charlotte avoided answering the question. ‘And to those who aren’t, a mystique has grown up around the Prussian Junker families. Who’s to say now how rich, splendid and powerful any of them were? There is nothing like loss, time and distance to lend distinction to any background, not to mention a vast increase in numbers. I have heard people who lived in the slums of the town claim that their family owned large estates.’
‘You never corrected them?’
Charlotte smiled. ‘What was the point? Nothing could be proved either way for years, and why upset them?’
‘You’ve never spoken to me about your childhood.’
Charlotte took Laura’s hand. ‘That ruin over there was a fourteenth-century watchtower. My brothers and I used to take a boat, row over the lake and picnic there as children.’ She hesitated. ‘I will tell you more, Laura, after we have visited Grunwaldsee. Until then I want to hold on to my memories, because while they remain imprisoned here,’ she tapped her forehead, ‘they remain entirely mine. Once I have told you about them they will become the past – history. For the moment, apart from Bergensee, my dead are alive again, and I would like to live with them for a little while longer.’
SUNDAY, 16 JUNE 1940
It is a long time since I have had the leisure to write in this diary, but, as we are constantly told on the wireless, everyone must work hard in a country at war, women as well as men. With Mama ill, and the twins in France, just as I anticipated, the management of Grunwaldsee has fallen to me. Wilhelm suggested to Greta that she give up her BDM work to help, but she said her job implementing the Reich’s resettlement programme was far too important, as it didn’t only concern the war effort but the entire future of the Third Reich.
I pleaded with Wilhelm not to argue with her. I am happy to assume sole responsibility for our home, because I would hate to live with Greta again. Running the estate is a burden, but a welcome one, as it leaves me little time to think about how much I miss Papa or my marriage to Claus.
I have discovered just how much hard work it takes to make everything run smoothly at Grunwaldsee. So many things I always took for granted need a great deal of organizing. I was used to reaching for cleaned and polished tack; ordering the stable boys to saddle my horse; walk into the animal feed store and see the bins full. Now, just writing the weekly work sheets takes a full day; and that’s without keeping the accounts up to date, filling out invoices, war department forms and paying the bills. The office work takes two, sometimes three, full days a week; time I would prefer to spend helping Brunon supervise the workers. There is so much that I need to learn.
I wish I had taken the trouble to listen more to Papa when he was alive, but I thought we had all the time in the world. And in those days I couldn’t imagine Grunwaldsee without him or the boys.
I work in Papa’s study, and frequently look at the framed document that hangs on the wall opposite his desk. It is a copy of the charter that granted the lake of Grunwaldsee and the surrounding lands to the first Wilhelm von Datski to live here. It was signed by the Grand Master of the Order of Teutonic Knights in 1286. Sometimes I feel weighed down by the long line of von Datskis who have lived here before me, sensing their disapproval at the decisions that I, a woman, and a young one at that, am forced to make on the family’s behalf.
Before going to bed, I often stand on the balcony outside my bedroom, looking down at the lake and imagining not only all those dead von Datskis stretching back through the centuries, but all the von Datskis who will live here after me. I hope I won’t earn their disapproval as well. It would be frightful to go down in family history as the Charlotte von Letteberg, née von Datski, who ruined the estate, or ran it into bankruptcy, but hopefully, with Brunon’s help, I will avoid making any serious mistakes.
God willing, one day my grandchildren will play here with Wilhelm and Paul’s. Irena is expecting a baby in September. She and Wilhelm are ecstatic but no one could be happier than Mama. She says she knows that Irena will have a boy who will ensure continuity of the von Datski line into the Führer’s thousand-year Reich. I cannot begin to imagine what Grunwaldsee will look like a thousand years from now. With luck, unchanged and as perfect as it does now.
I rely completely on Brunon. Papa always said that he is the best steward Grunwaldsee has ever had. He knows more than anyone about the estate. I am glad that he is too old to serve in the army because in place of the able-bodied men who have been conscripted, we have been given girls from the land army and Polish civilians.
The land army girls have been billeted with the families of the men who are away fighting. At first it was difficult, but once the wives realized that they would get paid for lodging them they agreed to take them.
We housed the Poles in some of the older cottages Papa always meant to renovate but for various reasons never did. Their food allowance is less than ours, but I have supplemented their rations. They were nowhere near enough for farm workers.
Brunon told them to make the cottages as comfortable as they could, and gave them wood to repair the doors and windows as well as some of the old furniture we had in the attic. They have done a good job; the cottages now look better than they have done in years.
It took a while but now, at last, everything seems to be going smoothly, although we have to keep the groups entirely separate because the German girls look down on the Poles and never miss a chance to belittle them. We received a directive from the Gauleiter’s office stating: ‘All Germans must treat the Polish workers in the Reich with an attitude which corresponds to our national dignity and the aims of German policy.’ I was confused when I read it but Brunon says it is a warning that we must not get too friendly with the Poles. They needn’t have bothered to send us the paper. I barely have time to see my own family.
The harvest this year will be a good one, but we will not make much money because three-quarters of it has been requisitioned by the army and we have to sell it to them at the prices they have fixed. But it will be a small sacrifice if it means a swifter end to the war.
So many have been killed in France during the last two weeks, including four boys from my orchestra; Peter was one of them. Dear Peter who was so much fun, if a torment and a tease at times. Mama and Papa von Letteberg received the telegram three days ago, but he died on 30 May. It was a great blow to both of them, as it will be for Claus. My poor brother-in-law; we were related for such a short time.
I haven’t yet come to the reason why I have picked up my pen after all this time.
My son, Erich Peter Claus von Letteberg, was born at two o’clock this morning, two days after our flag flew from the Arc de Triomphe and our soldiers paraded up the Champs-Elysées.
The birth was agonizing. The doctor gave me as much morphine as he dared, and if it hadn’t been for Minna and Mama von Letteberg I think I would have died, but when it was over and I saw my darling son for the first time, I couldn’t believe it. A beautiful, blond, blue-eyed boy, so alive, angry and perfect, and exactly like his father, or so Mama and Papa von Letteberg assured me.
They drove down from Berlin to see me as soon as they received the news of Peter’s death because they wanted to tell me themselves. It was thoughtful of them and truly made me feel like their daughter. And they stayed when I went into labour soon after they arrived.
They dote on little Erich. Poor Peter was killed before he became an uncle. Claus had already written agreeing that if we had a son he was to bear my father’s name but I also called him Peter after his brother.
I know Claus tried to get leave but I was glad he didn’t, because he would have come home to hear my screams filling the house for two days and nights. Papa von Letteberg told me that no German soldier could be spared from the big push into France, but he used his influence to telephone Claus to tell him that he has a son.
Claus said that now the English and French armies have surrendered and Germany has freed Europe from the presence of the Allied forces, he wants me and his parents to visit him in Paris. Papa von Letteberg said it is out of the question for him, but not for me and Mama von Letteberg.
Poor Mama von Letteberg; all she wants to do at the moment is nurse Erich and talk about Peter. He has been buried in France so there won’t be a funeral, only a memorial service for him.
As for me, Claus will have to wait until I am well again. The doctor warned me that as Erich’s birth was such a difficult one it will take me at least two years to recover; besides, Erich is far too young to travel. I am glad that I have an excuse. Perhaps I will feel differently about seeing Claus again in a month or two. Although I don’t think so.
As I look at my son sleeping beside my bed in the cot that was used for Greta, my brothers and me, I pray the war will end soon and that there will never be another one. The thought that eighteen years from now Erich could be conscripted and killed like Peter makes me want to gather him into my arms and hide him from the world, so he will never know hurt or pain.
FRIDAY, 23 AUGUST 1940
A train travelling from Paris to East Prussia via Berlin
I am returning to Grunwaldsee after spending two weeks with Claus in Paris. Since he has been promoted to colonel it is impossible for him to get leave. I wasn’t sorry until Greta arrived in Grunwaldsee at the beginning of the month with Helmut Kleinert, a distant relative of Papa’s second cousin. She announced that they were staying for two weeks because they needed a holiday, although why she thinks that they deserve one more than the soldiers at the front escapes me.
Greta was as irritating and catty as ever, and wherever I went in the house or on the estate, she followed, so I finally accepted Claus’s invitation. I told Mama I could go because Greta was there to look after her.
Greta met Helmut in Berlin. She was transferred to the BDM headquarters there at Easter. She and Helmet celebrated their engagement with their fellow workers, which is just as well, given the food situation at Grunwaldsee. Papa would have approved of Helmut – he is a quiet and pleasant enough boy – but he would have hated Greta’s vulgar engagement ring. Greta told me she had chosen it herself. I would have been ashamed to admit it. I wouldn’t have the courage to wear such an ostentatious diamond, especially in these days of wartime austerity.
Helmut’s father manufactures armaments and has used his influence to secure a staff post in Berlin for his son, which means that Helmut will never have to fight at the Front. Greta always did look after her own interests to the exclusion of all else, even the welfare of the Fatherland.
When I left Grunwaldsee I was worried about taking Erich to a city that might be bombed, but there was only one air raid warning the whole time we were in Paris and that was a false alarm. I remained with Claus for fourteen days – and nights. It was such a long way to travel he insisted it would be ridiculous of me to make the effort for less time. I only agreed because I didn’t want to return to Grunwaldsee until Greta had left. That way I could go back to running the estate without worrying about organizing formal dinners and entertainments for her.
If Greta’s attitude is an example of what’s going on in Berlin, it’s time everyone there took notice of what’s happening in the rest of the country. Everything is in short supply – food, clothing, petrol. Sometimes it is impossible to find your allocated ration of food, and heaven only knows it is small enough. Yet Greta and Helmut carry on as though there isn’t a war. They assume that we have limitless supplies of meat, butter and eggs just because we live in the country.
Irena said her father is so short of labour to run his building business that he has asked the authorities for prisoners of war. I wouldn’t like to have English and French prisoners at Grunwaldsee. I would be too afraid that they would sabotage our efforts to increase production.
I have written about everyone except Claus. The best reason for our marriage is sleeping in his pram beside me. Claus used his rank to get us a carriage to ourselves, in case Erich came into contact with someone with a contagious disease. It couldn’t have been easy, even for a colonel. All the trains are crowded and travel warrants scarce, but Claus, like his parents, adores our son and would do anything to protect him, even use his rank to gain privileges, something he would never do for himself or on my account.
For the first time I saw a touch of tenderness on his face when he kissed Erich goodbye. I think we have a strange marriage. It is nothing like Irena and Wilhelm’s. Wilhelm has only managed two leaves since his wedding at Christmas but Irena will travel miles, beg rides and sit on trucks with all sorts of strange men just to spend an hour or two with him. When they are together they can barely keep their hands off one another, and Irena is as bad as Wilhelm.
Claus is always formal and polite. But then he is a colonel, and always has to be seen to be behaving correctly, unlike Wilhelm, who is only a lieutenant and allowed to be outrageous.
Claus wasn’t at the station to meet me when I arrived in Paris, but he sent his driver. The sergeant apologized and said there was a problem with the English bombing the guns we had pointed at their coast. I was too polite to say anything to him or Claus, but I knew it was an excuse.
Claus has a suite in a beautiful hotel overlooking the Seine. It has a sitting room, private dining room, two bedrooms and two bathrooms. For the first time Erich didn’t sleep next to me. Claus had asked the hotel to place the cot in the maid’s room. I took Brunon’s daughter, Maria, with me. She has helped me care for Erich since the day he was born and she promised faithfully to call me if he woke, but she didn’t. I think Claus warned her not to, and she, like all our servants, is terrified of him.
Claus, or more likely his aide, had been most thoughtful. There were fruit and flowers in all the rooms, perfume and cosmetics in the bathroom, iced champagne and brandy in the sitting room, and his driver was at my disposal to take me to the couturier where Claus had opened an account for me. Claus had left a note to tell me that he had booked opera tickets to celebrate my first evening in Paris and afterwards there would be a formal dinner in my honour.
I was glad Claus had made the arrangements; it is easier to be his wife in public than private. I bathed and changed out of my travelling clothes, went to the couturier and chose a selection of day frocks and three evening gowns, one of which they altered immediately, so I could wear it that night. Then I visited the hotel beautician and had my hair washed and set and a manicure. When Claus arrived at the suite at six o’clock I was dressed and waiting for him.
I was almost as nervous as I had been on our honeymoon. We have been married a year but until this holiday had spent only seven days and nights together. Before he arrived I took his photograph from my suitcase and set it on the dressing table to remind myself what he looked like. Terribly handsome, a little remote, and every inch the Wehrmacht colonel. I was taken aback when I saw how deferential everyone was to us. Doors opened and people bowed – not only German military personnel but also French civilians.