The French Promise (13 page)

‘Who cares who he is … or was? You are who you are. Knowing him changes nothing about you.’

But she was wrong then and
she was still wrong. Knowing who fathered him had the capacity to change everything. It would give him the second chain he craved to anchor his life … especially now that the main chain was about to be severed. He looked back to his mother’s sunken but affection-filled face.
Don’t leave me
, he heard himself plead inwardly.
I’m not ready
…

‘So, not marriage material?’ his mother wondered,
breaking into his gloom.

‘No!’ he scoffed. ‘I’m not ready to marry.’

‘Max, you’re turning twenty-four. Eligibility is your middle name now … and especially with your surname.’

It was true. In Switzerland his family’s name was all too well known and each summer a parade of young and exquisitely pretty women would flash their smiles his way. And, given that Lausanne was something of a summer playground
for the wealthy, well-heeled mothers would find excuses to introduce him to their daughters on the pretext of visiting his ailing mother.

‘I think I’ll deliberately marry an Australian – one of those fresh-faced farm girls, with few airs and graces.’

‘I hope you do marry a stranger from a faraway place, actually, darling. Snub all those social climbers from Vienna and Geneva. Dare to be different.
You’ll make me proud.’

‘Why did you never marry anyone? I don’t mean my father, whoever he was, but why not someone? I know there were many who interested you.’

She gazed at him with soft exasperation. ‘None of them interested me as much as you.’

He gave her a withering look.

‘I’m glad you mentioned your father,’ she said, lifting the lid on the shoebox.

He pounced on the opening. They
never discussed his father. ‘Why? You’ve told me all my life you don’t even remember his name! Know absolutely nothing about him.’

She looked up, her gaze tender … heartbreaking, in a way.

‘That you were a mistake?’ she said. He nodded but she continued as if he hadn’t. ‘Conceived in a reckless moment?’ She looked away, her memories stealing her attention elsewhere momentarily. ‘I know. But what
a beautiful, wonderful mistake you are, child. You were a gift. You kept me sane.’

‘You’ve always maintained the insanity of war,’ he argued.

‘I meant you kept me sane from heartbreak,’ she said softly.

He caught his breath. ‘What does that mean?’ he whispered, confused.

‘In here,’ she said, suddenly returning her attention to the shoebox and trying to sound conversational but not succeeding,
‘are letters from a man who—’

‘My father?’ he said, in a stunned tone, before she could say it.

She nodded, not meeting his gaze, her fingers fluttering haphazardly on the box like moths around a flame.

‘But—’

‘I know, darling. I know. I lied and I’m asking your forgiveness. I had my reasons for—’

‘Reasons?’ He looked at her with such raw pain blooming in his expression that it prompted her tears
to well. He’d not seen her cry once through her illness; she’d never complained
or pitied herself but she grieved now for hurting him. And it did hurt. The countless times he’d asked about his father and been fobbed off with excuses. He’d certainly developed the impression that his conception had been a torrid moment of ill-advised ardour in the back room of someone’s house at a party when the
talk of war had depressed her enough that she’d got drunk. In truth he had never been able to imagine his mother ever being that out of control.

‘Don’t cry,’ he entreated, relieved his voice was steady. ‘But why the lie?’

She dabbed her cheeks with the sheet. ‘Because you were such a proud little fellow. Knowing your father seemed important even from your young years; I wanted to be
enough but I knew that I never was.’

‘Don’t say that,’ he began, although he felt the honesty of what she said slip like a stiletto beneath his skin, cutting away to the truth in his heart.

She didn’t let him finish. ‘Max, I didn’t want you to hate him.’

‘Hate him?’

‘You’ll understand soon.’ She looked away. He was baffled. Understand what? His mother turned back. ‘Besides, I didn’t want to break
your heart with the knowledge of him. I never wanted you to think he didn’t care enough but that’s exactly what your young, intensive, ever-curious mind would have driven you to believe. I know you too well. You can’t leave something alone once it fascinates you. And you would always have arrived at the wrong answer where your father was concerned. It was easier to keep you – and your grandparents,
I might add – in the dark about him because I refused to allow you to
grow up wondering about the man who deserted me.’

‘And did he desert us?’

She shook her silk-clad head wearily. ‘Not us, darling. He never knew of your arrival. He would have so loved you.’

‘You never told him?’

She looked wanly towards the window, seeking the sunlight. ‘I had no access to him. He was a soldier at
the Front.’ Max swallowed. ‘Is he dead?’

‘Yes.’ She finally broke down and wept, allowing the tears to fall silently down her sunken cheeks. They didn’t last. She rallied herself briskly, again wiping away the damp with her sheet. ‘But I only learnt of it long after the war.’ She sniffed, back in control.

He looked into the box and the tightness in his throat increased. ‘So these are letters from
my father,’ he remarked, softly awed, a thrill of excitement unexpectedly passing through him like an electric current. He wanted to be angry but all he felt was elation: a father, a name, a brave man, the second chain to the anchor.

She nodded, dabbed once more at her eyes and her voice steadied. ‘He wrote only a couple of times. The one from Paris,’ she gave a soft sigh, ‘it was his last; a
rolling letter, written over a couple of months. He dated each entry and died within a day of the last.’

He frowned. ‘How do you know?’

‘Because it was sent by someone else. By a Frenchman who was with him when he died.’

Max felt sick. ‘How did my father die?’

‘He was killed by a French rebel during the Fall of Paris in 1944.’

‘His killer wrote to you?’ he asked, astonished.

‘No.’ She’d fully
regained her composure and could now speak without a tremble in her voice. ‘The man who wrote to me was the one who stayed with your father until he died of his wound – a single bullet, I believe. It seems your father and this French Resister were enemies and yet friends.’ At his perplexed glance, she shrugged a shoulder. ‘You need to read it to understand. It gets even more complex; your father’s
companion was fighting for the French but he is German. His name is Lukas Ravensburg.’ Her mouth twisted as though in apology. ‘That’s how he signed off.’

‘He wrote separately to you?’

‘Yes, it’s all there. His letter accompanied your father’s. I want you to have these. It’s right that you should know about Markus.’

‘Markus,’ he repeated, his voice filled with quiet wonder.

She smiled,
lost in the memories that the name prompted. He waited until she returned her attention.

Ilse’s gaze cleared and she looked at her son as intently as he could recall in a long time. Her voice was insistent, firm when she spoke. And she found the strength to raise herself from the pillow to reinforce her words. ‘Colonel Markus Kilian is the only man I loved; ever could love,’ she said through a
watery smile. ‘It’s why I could never say yes to all those earnest proposals. Markus came into my life like a blazing meteorite and everyone else afterwards glowed dully. But he gave me you, Max.’ She gripped his hand surprisingly firmly. ‘I met him in 1938. We became lovers almost immediately. I didn’t know I was pregnant; the situation was turning dangerous in Europe so I returned to Switzerland.
Markus was recalled to Berlin and then posted. We both knew it was pointless to discuss a future that could be snuffed out at any
minute. He was determined to go to the Front as a bachelor with no ties. His last spoken words to me explained that it was too hard for him to stay focused on leading men into battle and to make the tough decisions if he was worried about a wife, family … I understood,
of course, because you know what a practical person I am.’ She smiled. ‘However, at the time we said goodbye, I didn’t know we’d made a child. I didn’t think it was goodbye so much as adieu.’’ She shook her head. ‘It was a mad time, a frightening time, and everyone was heading back to their homes. I came here but figured we’d see each other again soon enough and work things out.’

‘But
you didn’t,’ he finished for her.

She shook her head sadly and fell back against the pillow, looking spent. ‘I never saw him again,’ she said, her voice suddenly monotone. ‘He wrote infrequently and spoke to me as a good friend might. He’d tell me things about his life but never talked about the future, never once discussed us, although he always hoped I was well and safe.’

‘Did you write back?’

‘Yes, once. I don’t think he ever wanted me to, though – I’m assuming it was painful for him; your father was such a tough leader of men and yet here,’ she pointed at Max’s heart, ‘he was a tragic romantic.’ Ilse sighed. ‘It’s what I loved most about him. I was a scientist, a realist. Your father probably deep down wanted to believe in the tooth fairy. That one letter I sent was taken for me by
a friend from Berlin, who could get the letter to your father through Wehrmacht means. I pieced together that Markus was in Russia for the early years, then I heard a rumour that he’d defied Hitler and was cast into exile somewhere in Germany. I had no idea he’d been posted to Paris. Just two letters in six years, but they’ve sustained me. I always thought
he’d come back into our life and be a
proper father for you.’

‘You got news of his death in 1946?’

She shook her head. ‘He wrote his last letter in 1944 and the letter was posted in 1945. It went to the Geneva flat – it was the only address that he knew and it became lost for a while. It found me finally in 1948. He’d been dead for four years and I didn’t know. But perhaps I felt it and perhaps my body reacted to it in some
roundabout way.’

Max knew she was referring to the cancer.

‘It’s uncanny how much alike you are to him,’ she continued in a sad voice. ‘Identical eyes of a blue whose colour I can’t quite pin down; a colour that seems to change with your mood. Wintry today, should I be worried?’ He shook his head, said nothing. ‘And this bright golden hair. He wore his short, precisely parted, always neat. I’m
not sure he’d approve of your slightly longer version.’

‘I’m considered conservative,’ he assured.

She touched his face. ‘And this face. It’s all Markus; so Nordic. You’d make a good Viking, Max.’ She grinned. ‘It’s why I never needed anyone but you, darling. Markus was always here through you. You’re every bit as handsome.’

His mind was numbed from the revelation but he sighed for her benefit.
‘That’s what every mother says.’

‘No, really,’ she replied wearily, breathing more shallowly. ‘Kilian was the most stunning man I’ve ever known. Tall, broad, with that fine Prussian bearing. And you echo him in every way, not just looks. Most of all, Kilian was also a good man, Max. Never forget that. He was a man of duty and strong principles.’ She pointed to a thick cream envelope lying at the
bottom of the box. ‘In this I’ve tried to record everything I remember about him. I didn’t know him for very
long but I didn’t have to in order to know him well. We were inseparable during our time together. And he would have been very much in love with you. You’re named Maximilian because he told me if he ever had a son that’s what he’d call him.’ Her head turned towards the window again and
she looked exhausted. Pain was roaring in; he knew the sign. ‘You’d better call Arne,’ she murmured.

He summoned Klein and took his shoebox to his mother’s writing desk by the window. He stared at the large, bold handwriting on the front of the top envelope. It was posted from Scotland, of all places. On the back was a name –
L Ravens
– and an address somewhere in the Orkney Islands.
He didn’t even know where those were. He’d have to look them up.

Klein moved to his side and spoke softly. ‘I’ve given her some morphine tablets. They’ll take a few minutes but she’ll drift off soon enough. It’s close, Max. Will you stay with her?’

Max nodded, numb. When the doctor had departed again, she opened her eyes and winced. Even this small gesture was taking its toll.

‘Read
it to me, Max,’ she said, sounding breathless.

‘Read what?’

‘His last letter … let me fall asleep with your voice and your father’s words in my mind.’ Max dipped into the box.

‘Read Ravensburg’s later. Your father’s is below it,’ she slurred slightly.

Right enough, he pulled out a small white envelope bearing Nazi insignia. There was a brown smear across it. And he knew instinctively that this
was his father’s blood. He touched the stain and felt the dark ball of tension loosen fully in his belly; he was unravelling. He refused to cry but he felt so
emotionally charged that he was sure every hair was standing on end as he unfolded the letter of several tissue-thin pages. His father’s handwriting contrasted with the Frenchman’s. It was neat and spare in stark black ink and initially
dated 3 May 1944. Max sat on the bed and held his mother’s hand.

‘My dearest Ilse,
it begins,’ he said.

‘It’s spring
… Go on,’ she slurred, her head turned away from him, facing the wall.

He smiled sadly.
‘It’s spring’,
Max began for her,
‘and I find myself in Paris, in another pen-pushing role, but if I’m going to rot at a desk, I’d rather it be here in this most
beautiful of cities than anywhere else.’

He read to his mother about Kilian’s new position as a conduit between German High Command and the French church, about how living in the Hotel Raphael was decadent in the extreme, and how the French had adjusted to life under German occupation. Kilian shared his pain at the Nazi tolerance for easy brutality towards citizens – not just in Paris,
though – and lamented the ugliness of the swastikas draped all over the city, especially upon the Eiffel Tower, amused that the first had blown away, so a smaller one had to be flown. ‘
The French are quietly proud that even though the Führer conquered Paris, he never conquered
la Tour Eiffel,’ Max continued, glancing at his mother, whose face now wore a soft smile as she lost herself in memories.
She knew the letter by heart, it seemed, but it appeared she was enjoying the novelty of having it read to her.