cabin complex which capped the rocky island blended early Canadian with classic Black Forest. Carved shutters decorated every window, empty flower boxes begged spring’s return, and cedar bird feeders on long poles poked through the snow, spilling brown seeds below, which attracted noisy chickadees tossing their food in delight. Opening the door, Franz called out loudly, “Mutti, we have a visitor.”
Inside, Heidi’s chalet had been reborn. Instead of drywall, tongue and groove boards lined the walls. And the woodwork continued in copious pine and oak cupboards, carved stairs with newel posts, and an ornate Victorian sideboard sprinkled with porcelain figures. Three doors led from the great room to bedrooms or a den, perhaps. Over an easy chair spread with what Belle’s Aunt Marian called an antimacassar, stood a large and unfamiliar tree. “How unusual, Franz. What is it?” she asked, touching its tender leaves with care.
“From the homeland. A linden, dwarfed to keep inside, safe from your Canadian winters. A German version of bonsai. You have heard of our famous street, Unter den Linden?”
“I’ve seen it in pictures.” Belle admired the delicate hues of a table of violets, artfully arranged to graduate from white to pink to dark purple. “And what heavy blooms in the middle of winter. Your mother must have a true green thumb. Violets are too tricky for me. My pathetic plants either dry up or rot.”
A spicy smell of baking met Belle’s nose as a Dresden statue of a woman glided in, blonde hair turned to silver. In her youth, perhaps, the Teutonic ideal of Leni Riefenstahl’s films, a terribly innocent beauty. There was a paleness to her skin, a translucency which suggested vulnerability under strength.
The woman extended her hand and held Belle’s warmly, as if welcoming feminine contact. Her gentle, reassuring voice made Belle instantly regret the tactless stereotype. “A visitor. We are honoured. Please call me Marta.” She smoothed the creases of a spotless dirndl apron, and a small, dry cough punctuated her conversation.
“This is Belle Palmer, Mutti, from the other side of our lake. I told you about the attack on her dog.”
Marta shook her head and gestured toward the wall at several black and white pictures of German shepherds. “We love our dogs as our family. I was so glad that Franz could help you.” As she spoke, her light accent gave a rich European charm to the room.
“Look what Belle has brought us,” Franz said, unwrapping the gifts.
Marta clapped her hands in a gesture touching in its total spontaneity. “Schokolade und Wein. Danke.” She examined the bottle. “Woodruff. A delicate white flower. I have tried to grow it in my herb garden.”
Belle said, “I have a chive patch which thrives on neglect. That’s it. What are your specialties?”
“Natural medicines are my hobby,” she explained, a glow brightening her face. “You have probably seen the bitters, the essences at the health food store. My mother taught me the healing properties of common plants, but she taught me even better the deadly properties. Pokeweed, for example, the tender fresh shoots in the spring have a tonic effect, but any leaf, root or berry from older growth can cause death. Our ancestors learned to be very careful.”
Belle waved her arm at the violets. “And your flowers are so cheerful in the winter. I thought of bringing roses, but I didn’t think they’d weather the trip.”
“The roses are my greatest challenge. Of them all, it is the Maria Stern variety that pleases me the most. Her colour is like a ripe peach. And very hardy in winter. Sadly, some of the most lovely varieties I knew in the old country will not thrive.” For a moment her eyes glistened. “But you must have some coffee and strudel. Franz, bitte, hilf mir.”
He followed her through a wide doorway into the kitchen, where shiny copper pots hung over a mammoth wood cookstove. Belle strolled around the room, conscious of the Old World flavour in the paintings: King Ludwig’s castle and some dark nineteenth-century Flemish works, their varnish spiderwebbed with age. In the only modern note, a Böse stereo system and radio. No television. Despite the dry winter air, a croton spread riotously in a large pot by the picture window, its leaves a rich tapestry of burgundy, green, and yellow. She moved over to the mantel above the massive stone fireplace. A picture of Franz, compelling even as a youngster. Who was that actor in The Blue Max? George Peppard? Several others depicted a balding man displaying fish catches. The father? But a photo of a young girl on a diving dock puzzled her. Who could that be?
Over the coffee, as they sat in front of crackling birch logs behind a brass fire screen, Belle petted Blondi and praised her obedience. With a flicker at the corner of her mouth, Marta slipped the dog a morsel of cake. “Mit Blondi hier, I fear nothing. We don’t have many guests, but the snow machines, what a nuisance.”
Belle sat back on the soft couch. “It’s so comfortable. How old is the original building?”
Franz answered with pride in his voice. “Older than anything in the region. In 1820 a Hudson Bay factor had the first cabin raised in an effort to regulate the fur trade, decades before any mineral exploration or logging. This room would have been the original shelter. Look at the darkened beams above the fireplace. What a desolate and fearful place it must have been in those days, almost like a fort. Of course everything has been redone with each new owner. We are always discovering small evidences of their lives every time we dig the gardens. Bits of crockery, clay pipes, coins and the rare shard of glass.”
“Like living in a fine museum, but with all the conveniences.”
Marta gave her son a wink. “Not as many conveniences as I would like. Wolf and I, Franz’s father, who is gone from us now,” (she crossed herself) “was not only a master carpenter, but an electrician and a plumber. For power, you saw the wind generator.”
Belle nodded. “Enough to run your appliances?”
“It’s the heating devices that drain the batteries. And as you can see, we have the fireplace and a cooking stove. We can store from the wind for only so long until we must start that awful gas generator. So loud that I hate to have Franz pull the cord. But my radio can use batteries.”
“Do you enjoy classical music? It’s frustrating up here,” Belle said, “Only the satellite can pull in those selections.”
Marta reached forward and touched Belle’s arm gently, looking deeply into her eyes. “It doesn’t matter to me, Liebchen. You see, the radio is the voice of freedom. During the war, we were forbidden to listen to the BBC. Mutti would turn it on so very quietly that we would sit with our ears on it. Once a nosey neighbour came and she had to switch it off quickly. Mutti was so frightened, but she laughed as if it had been a mistake. And we children laughed, too.”
No one spoke for a minute, until Franz asked, “How are the Burians, Belle?” He turned to his mother. “I haven’t seen them since the funeral. Sometimes there is smoke at their lodge when I pass, but I don’t want to intrude.” Marta excused herself and went into the kitchen.
“As well as you’d expect. They’re strong people. Probably won’t be at their lodge much anymore, Ben said. How long have you known them?”
“Oh, only to say hello. Jim was a good deal younger, but I got to know him when we organized the rally against the park. As the representative from the Forestry Management program, he was covering the impact to the woodland.”
“I’ll try to be there. None of us wants this development. It’s going to bring chaos to the lake.”
“And
