They never disciplined him. He always did what he wanted. Had he been in Hitler Youth, he would have never turned out like that. He needs to be reminded that he is German, Herr Frankel.”
She had visibly softened. Her face had relaxed, her movements were calmer, and there was no mockery in her tone now. This time she put “Herr” in front of his name with emphasized politeness.
“He’d been brainwashed by his uncle. He’d been told lies about this country – his own country —and about our Fuehrer. And he got hold of some preposterous ideas about our policies. He refuses to see that this is a young land surrounded by enemies. He… he sides with these enemies. It hurts even to say that.”
She offered him a cigarette.
“Thank you, Frau Krauss, I don’t smoke.”
“Helmut does. You must tell him to quit.”
She opened the French window and motioned him to follow her. It was chilly in the shaded terrace. She leant on the railing.
“There’s plenty of remedy for arrogance. Alfred says that a few months in a Hitler youth camp before his birthday could sort him out all right. But I don’t think it is as easy as that. It’s what in his mind.” She plucked a dried flower and chucked it.
“He told you about his plans to go to America of course.”
“He did.”
“I hold you responsible for that.”
She narrowed her eyes, peering at something at the far end of the garden. She had long curly eyelashes and a beautifully carved profile.
“You are responsible for a lot of damage, Herr Frankel. It’s time you returned your debt to this family… You’ve been to America. Now look me in the eye and tell me what prospects my son has there.”
The time had come for him to say something.
“Helmut doesn’t fear the unknown,” he said. “On the contrary, it thrills him. He’s an accomplished musician, and America holds a wealth of opportunities. Everything’s possible there…”
He stopped in the middle of the sentence; he simply knew that whatever he said didn’t count. She waited tactfully smiling a condescending smile.
“You finished?” she said after a pause and raised her head proudly. “Germany is the country where one thing is possible – complete and common well-being. You’ve been in a labour camp, you have first-hand knowledge of what the modern Germany is about. Hard work. We all work hard here, Herr Frankel, to raise the country to its imminent glory. Make him see that. He may go, but one day he will come back – like you did – and he will be drowned in remorse. Because it’s going to be a totally transformed Germany; an immense power, towering proudly above the world. Imagine his disappointment when he realizes he has had no part in all that. He’ll have matured by then. He’ll see the things the way he doesn’t see them now. And he’ll be sorry for his short-sightedness… The future of this land rests on the shoulders of the boys of his age. He must take his place in their ranks and do his bit. He is German, and he is rooted here in German soil.”
She shivered again. Before he knew what he was doing, he picked up a shawl from one of the seats. She declined. He muttered apologies and put it back. They stepped down the terrace and took a path along freshly preened bushes. Frank went goosefleshy when he felt the sun on his skin and smelled the unripe aroma of cut twigs.
“I understand that the Auldridges” influence was very strong. I don’t expect overnight changes. You may tell him that I don’t mind waiting. But bit by bit he must reconsider the lies he has been fed by the British propaganda and agree to give Germany a chance.”
She put out her hundredth cigarette hastily.
“He’ll be back any time. Come on, you must help me to put the photographs away.”
Each photograph was designated to its place in one of the carton boxes. She tendered her treasure with motherly care. He was helping her without saying a word or providing one-syllable responses to her voluble comments. Hitler Youth series had a special place in her heart. She extolled the boys exuberantly. “Fine young men, very industrious, very respectful. The Fuehrer’s favourites.” When she asked Frank directly about his opinion, he told her the truth: he thought she had a great eye of an experienced newspaper reporter.
She was silent for a long minute. Then she said slowly:
“I am glad you said that. Not because I am flattered. Point is – I am not a reporter, I’ve never been. I am an ordinary woman. I could have shown you newspaper cut-outs, posters, or postcards – they are more colourful, more panoramic and generally much better than these pictures. But I chose not to. I wanted you to see Germany with the eyes of an ordinary woman who lives here. Nothing’s beautified here, this is the truth. Look at these people. They are not posing in front of important-looking journalists, they are completely sincere. Look how happy they are. There was a time when they had no jobs, no prospects, no means to raise their children. It has changed. Germany has changed, it’s a new country now… Remember the day when you said that Helmut deserves a great future.” She made a broad gesture to encompass the table: “What is a better place for him to have this future? He is German. He belongs to…”
She suddenly broke off, thinking she had heard Helmut’s voice somewhere in the depth of the house. She was mistaken.
“He doesn’t like photography,” she explained. “It would be best if you didn’t tell him about this little exhibition.”
But Helmut arrived earlier then she expected. His bright voice exploded outside like a Christmas cracker:
“Where’s Frank?” The incoming tide of his brisk step woke the house room by room.
He lent through the doorway and surveyed the rows and piles of white boxes.
“Jesus, Frank,” he drawled with distaste. “She hasn’t been showing you around her cemetery, has she?… Come on. I’ve got you a violin. The best I could find in such short time.”
Frank jumped to his feet. Frau Krauss dismissed him with a short shrug.
“Has she been lecturing you?” Helmut asked loudly in English. “Has she?”
“Helmut, please. If we don’t play something here and now, I’ll drop dead.”
“I’ve been making a list of the things we must play,” Helmut was sailing through rooms swiftly, waving a piece of paper in the air like a flag signal. Frank could hardly keep up with him; he snatched the paper with two fingers. “It doesn’t make a lot of sense; throw it away,” Helmut shrugged, “because we must play everything.”
When they entered the library, Helmut closed the door wings and drove an old telephone receiver through the handles – a routine precaution by the look of it. “To secure privacy,” he explained, shed his jacket, and dropped on the piano stool.
He still didn’t see – or didn’t want to see – Frank’s bruised hands with broken nails, his haggard face, and unhealthy thinness. He didn’t pay attention to his shuffling, slightly lame step and ill-fitting clothes. His perfect ear turned deaf to occasional tremor in Frank’s voice and his nervous stammer.
