A Peaceful Summer. Ace Anthony

The cheerful mood was wearing out. The lorry was speeding along a smooth road, and the men were rocked into stupor again. It was another couple of hours before the lorry came to a halt. Hurried footsteps. Barking reprimands:”… supposed to have arrived twenty minutes ago…” Inaudible voices delivered explanations. Then the back of the lorry flung open again.

      “Frankel! ’ the barking voice called.

      “It’s me, ’ Red Cross said quietly. Five heads turned towards him. They stared with that indefinite expression on their faces, not knowing what to think or say.

      “Frankel! Out!”

      Frank rose carefully, bending his head. He took a few seconds to balance his thin, tall 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 shows a man down to his waist, a glimpse of grey road behind him, dusty bushes. The man looks around, blinking and shielding his eyes from bright sunlight. Then he turns his head and walks away slowly; the camera doesn’t follow him. The film finished with a sharp howl of rusty hinges. It was dark again. The lorry started with a jerk, and Rilke came to himself. It felt empty. He wondered if the remaining four men felt the same. Nobody commented. “I didn’t even have time to say good bye, ’ Rilke 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 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.

      What a beautiful day it was! It looked as beautiful as it had sounded through the walls of the lorry. Frank knew he wasn’t supposed to see or enjoy it. He watched stealthily from the corner of his eye, devouring ordinary scenes of ordinary life. Life. A man repairing his car by the side of the road. His little son squatting nearby and hitting a stone with a spanner. The car overtook two girls pedalling away on their bicycles. One of them shouted something to the other over her shoulder. She had blue ribbons in her pleated hair; a bunch of flowers sat between the handlebars bobbing their white heads cheerfully. Then there was a dog chasing a group of screaming children, two women hanging up their washing. Lovely pictures which had no idea how lovely they were; they flashed too fast for his disabled senses to take them in. He was stringing them hurriedly like beads. Later, if there’s still any later for him, he’ll be savouring each, rubbing their bright colours between his fingers, imagining their smells and sounds. Forbidden joy, stolen, or borrowed, surely, there was a price to pay for it. “I’ll soon find out…”

      The car speeded on smoothly, purring like a sate cougar. It slowed down slightly then gained speed with a soft jerk, and the leather seat accepted obligingly the weight of his reclining back. His body relaxed before he could command it not to do so. He could almost hear his shoulders, spine, legs moan with grateful pain. He stole a glance at the driver, who didn’t seem to have noticed anything.

      Meanwhile, the silent movie was reeling away outside the window. The stretch of the country life remained behind. It was a landscape now, fresh and cheerful in its spring attire. The green leaves yet untouched by heat and dust glittered brightly, and he imagined he could hear them rustle in the wind. The day began to wane, he noted; long shadows were stretching across the road sweeping their cool, loosely knitted shelter over him. Just as he wondered again when and where this bliss was going to end, the car turned off the main road. In a few minutes it pulled up in a driveway. Frank stepped out on the warm gravel and looked around to see a white villa of exquisite Neo-Renaissance beauty half-hidden in the midst of a small park.

      He was led inside through the backdoor, through cool corridors and rooms towards the lively commotion brewing somewhere in the centre of this maze; the sound grew louder and louder until he was left to wait at the entrance of a large sunlit room.

      It looked like the end of a family dinner. About half a dozen of children were chasing each other around chairs, enjoying the fun they were allowed to have at this phase of the evening and doing it reasonably, because they knew that the adults might be busy with their conversation but not too busy to tolerate the noise if it gets too loud. The adults were not far away, sipping their drinks, talking. Frank stiffened at the sight of a couple of SS uniforms. The bursts of laughter and animated voices contrasted with the forgotten radio mumbling monotonously in its corner.

      Frank hadn’t been noticed yet. Maybe it was the dim air sliced by the slanting rays of the evening sun that made the trick. He stood still, mesmerized; he thought if he stirred, he’d become visible.

      A woman in a white apron went in through the opposite entrance, carrying a tray with lemonade. The children surrounded her, pushing each other, screaming. One of the women put down her cup and went over to help to hand out the glasses. “Erich, be a darling, switch off the radio. Erich! ’ Erich, whoever he was, didn’t bother, and the radio remained as it was, grumbling a happy tune now. The company of men suddenly laughed in unison at something a large man was saying. He looked very pleased with himself; his shiny face flushed, he leant back in his armchair trying to say something over the laughter and gesticulating with his cigar.

      Just after the woman with the tray left, a teenaged boy stepped in: “What is it now?” “Your parents wanted to see you…” His face was bored and sour. He thrust his hands into his pockets and leant against the doorpost. In the cheerful family scene he stuck out like a guest on a reluctant courtesy visit. And he meant it: he was wearing a crisp shirt, a tie, and a new suit – a perfectly fitted tweed jacket and knee-length trousers, not particularly German in style. His wavy blond hair was neatly cut and parted on the side. Fresh suntan, peeling nose. He was a splendid picture of healthy Arian youth. When he caught the sight of Frank, his blue eyes widened and stared.

      Frank looked around as he suddenly heard a woman’s voice behind his back:

      “I knew you’d be surprised, dearest. You remember your early teacher, Robert Frankel. He is here to mentor you again.”

      The woman Frank recognized immediately – Frau Krauss, thinner and older than he remembered. And her son is… “He can’t be…” Frank turned to look again, but the boy was already dragging him away by the elbow:

      “It’s bedlam in here – we are going to the garden.”

      “There are rules, young man… ’ a man’s voice roared warningly through the noise of the living room. “Magdalena, tell him…”

      “Your father is saying that Herr Frankel is not a guest…”

      “Have a nice squabble, you both, I think I’ll miss this one,” the glazing gave a sharp tinkle when he pulled the French window shut.

      “Sorry about that,” he said in English when they were walking across the loan. “That’s the only manner of speaking they understand…”

      A gust of warm wind threw the maddening smell of lilac blossom into Frank’s face. Now that he knew the ultimate purpose of his journey – to play music – he almost fainted and could barely move his legs. The garden, the sun, the warm fragrant air, the dandified boy walking by his side, kicking the grass – everything suddenly felt so wonderfully dizzy and real.

      “Your English has improved,” Frank said cautiously to cover up the fact that he’d been barely listening.

      “Yeah, to think only I couldn’t say „Tea for Two“ once without making five mistakes,” he laughed. “I’ve lived in England with my relatives for the last eight years. I only returned two months ago. It’s awful here; the place is nothing like I remember. I’m moving to New York, actually. But first I need to reclaim my German to explain to my family what insufferable