Читать книгу: «A Peaceful Summer», страница 2

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 knew 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 just as beautiful as it had sounded through the walls of the lorry. Frank knew he wasn’t supposed to see or enjoy it. Out of the corner of his eye he stole glances at the 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. 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 and a lavish bunch of wild flowers balanced between the handlebars of her bicycle. As the car overtook the girl, the buttercups glided past Frank, bobbing their bright heads cheerfully. Then there was a dog chasing a group of screaming children, two women hanging up their washing. Lovely pictures that had no idea how lovely they were. They flashed by, far too quickly 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 be paid. ‘I’ll soon find out…’

The car sped on smoothly, purring like a well-fed cougar. The scenery was changing in the meanwhile. The countryside was left 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; the shadows stretched and swept across the moving car like a cool, loosely knitted shawl. Houses peeked through the thick canopies and quickly slipped out of view. Just as he wondered again when and where this bliss was going to end, the car turned off the main road, slowing down slightly and then gaining speed with a soft pull. He swayed back and the leather seat obediently took the weight of his reclining back. He could almost hear his shoulders, spine, legs moan gratefully and he was suddenly in so much pain he could barely breathe. Fortunately, the fit soon subsided, and trickles of air started seeping into his contracted lungs. He opened his eyes and looked stealthily at the driver, who apparently hadn’t noticed anything. In a couple of minutes the car pulled into a driveway. Still feeling a little giddy, Frank stepped out onto the warm gravel and looked around to see a white villa of exquisite Neo-Renaissance beauty, half-hidden behind lush lime trees.

He was led inside through the back door, along dim corridors. The air was cool, fragrant of citrus fruit. He could hear a lively commotion somewhere in the house and as he walked, the sound grew louder and louder until he reached its source and was left to wait at the entrance to a large sunlit room.

It looked like the end of a family dinner. About half a dozen of children were chasing each other around, enjoying the fun they were allowed to have and doing so reasonably, knowing that the adults might be busy with their conversations but not too busy to tolerate the noise if it got too loud. The table had already been cleared. The adults were sitting at the far end of the room, sipping their drinks, talking. The radio was mumbling in its corner, sullen and forgotten; its monotonous singing was drowned out by the animated conversation and bursts of laughter.

Frank stood still, mesmerized by the scene and the sound of a dance tune played on the radio. He hadn’t been noticed yet. Maybe it was the slightly hazy air sliced by the slanting rays of the evening sun that did the trick. For a moment he considered going back to the corridor and wait there, but he couldn’t move. He thought that if he stirred, the magic would dissipate and he would become visible.

A woman in a white apron came in through the opposite entrance, carrying a tray with lemonade. The children surrounded her, clamouring and pushing each other. One of the women got up from her chair, put down her cup, and helped to hand out the glasses. ‘Children, quiet! Erich, be a darling, switch off the radio. Erich!’ Erich didn’t bother, and the radio remained on. A group of men suddenly laughed in unison at something a large man was saying. He looked very pleased with himself, his fleshy face was red with excitement. He leant back in his armchair, gesticulating with his cigar and trying to speak over the laughter.

The maid collected empty cups and glasses and headed for the door almost bumping into a teenage boy who had just entered the room. He stepped aside to let her pass and lingered by the door instead of joining the company. ‘What is it now?’ ‘Your parents wanted to see you about something…’ 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 jacket and knee-length trousers. His wavy blond hair was neatly cut and parted on the side. Fresh suntan, peeling nose – a splendid picture of healthy Arian youth. When he saw Frank, his blue eyes widened and stared.

Frank turned around as he heard a woman’s voice behind his back.

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

Frank recognized the woman immediately – Frau Krauss, thinner and older than he remembered. ‘And her son is… He can’t be…’ Frank turned to look again and was slightly startled to see that the boy was now standing right in front of him.

He grabbed Frank by the arm and spoke in a brisk, categorical tone:

‘It’s bedlam in here. We are going to the garden.’

‘There are rules, young man…’ a man’s voice warned loudly over the noise of laughter and chatter. ‘Magda, tell him…’

‘Your father is saying that Herr Frankel is not a guest…’

‘Have a nice squabble, you both,’ Helmut said dragging Frank away. ‘I think I’ll miss this one.’

The French window rattled as he closed it behind him.

‘Sorry about that,’ he said in English. ‘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. Had he heard right? Could it really be true that the ultimate purpose of his journey was to play music? Or was it just another cruel dream? That and everything else around him – the garden, the sun, the warm, fragrant air, the dandified boy walking beside him, kicking the grass.

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

Helmut laughed.

‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘To think only I couldn’t say ‘Tea for Two’ once without making five mistakes… I lived in England with my relatives for seven years. I only moved here two months ago. This place is awful, nothing like Leipzig. It doesn’t really matter, because I’m going to New York soon… But first I need to reclaim my German to explain to my family what insufferable idiots they are, and how much money I need.’

He glanced at Frank sideways and said after a moment’s hesitation:

‘I thought you were in New York.’

‘I was. I returned home about two years ago.’

‘But you did very well there. They talked about you even in London.’

‘You’re exaggerating, of course…’

‘I’m not!’ Helmut protested, getting more and more excited. ‘I knew many people who admired your band and sought out your records… And I have quite a collection of magazines I bought in London – I read everything there was to read about jazz… I’ve watched the films you wrote the score for, about a thousand times each! Your ‘Matilda’ is an absolute masterpiece, by the way, we must play it here and now. Oh, you’ll never guess! I have your recording of Chopin’s E minor Concerto. Can you believe it?’

Frank was surprised and touched. He also felt deeply embarrassed because he didn’t have much to say in return.

‘I couldn’t always follow your progress, Herr Krauss, but I’ve heard from my colleague about your successful debut in London…’

‘Herr Krauss?! You don’t remember me at all then? Frank, it’s me! Call me Helmut. Or just Hell.’

Frank was trying to tell his age. ‘I’m twenty-six,’ he counted, ‘that makes him, what, seventeen or eighteen?’

Helmut looked younger, maybe because of his medium height, or maybe because of that healthy thinness and springiness about him that suggested he had been routinely exercising since an early age. Swimming and tennis, Frank remembered. And of course he remembered everything else. Good old days in Leipzig. Frank was studying at the conservatoire then; Helmut was a small boy, spoilt, ill-bred, but distinctly talented. They practised duets for almost two years, very successfully. In fact, they were inseparable then and simply adored each other. Frank smiled at the memory of that time. But he just couldn’t project that dear funny face on the features of the stranger standing in front of him.

‘How long do you think you could stay with me for?’

Frank’s face fell again.

‘As long as your family will have me here, I suppose.’

‘Really?!’ Helmut jumped and grabbed Frank’s wrist. ‘But, Frank, this is wonderful! Think of what we can do together! And we don’t have to stay here in the first place. We’re going to America. We’ll rise to dizzy heights, you and I!’

Frank didn’t know where to begin.

‘I can’t go anywhere, Helmut. I’ve been in a camp. Strictly speaking, I’m still a prisoner.’

Helmut hesitated then raised his eyebrows understandingly:

‘Ah… The camp…’

‘I think your parents were trying to say that I’m not allowed to leave the house.’

‘Nonsense… You are with me,’ Helmut said slowly and bit his nail.

His mother’s little plan sank in at last.

‘You are with me,’ he said again, resolutely, shrugging off some unspoken thoughts. ‘We start tomorrow, and today you play Gershwin for me. Please,’ he remembered to say. But he forgot to ask whether Frank was tired or hungry.

Chapter 3

When other inmates dreamed out loud about all sorts of miracles that could change the bleak course of their fate, Frank only smiled and said nothing. A coup. A new law. A powerful friend… He thought he was the last person to have a chance, and the Krausses were the last people he was expecting that chance to come from. In fact, he was ashamed to admit that he had almost forgotten his little Helmut.

‘How could this have happened? When I lived in America, I thought about him all the time. I wrote stacks of piano music imagining I was writing for him. But when hard times came, I never once remembered him… Our music lessons, our friendship… How could I have forgotten all that? A passing thought about that bouncy child would have been enough to get me through any misery.’

And there had been a lot of misery to get through. His story wasn’t extraordinary. After receiving the news of his father’s arrest, he hurried home to seek any help he could find to get his father out of prison. He knocked on every door, appealed to all the authorities. Some friends tried to help, but there was little they could do; others simply advised him to sail back to New York without delay. He kept trying to save his father, but all his attempts failed, and it wasn’t long until he himself was arrested. A mistake, he still hoped. Just as it was with his father. A ridiculous misunderstanding. ‘It will clear up soon enough.’ It didn’t. It only gained momentum downhill, and before he knew it he was no longer himself. Music – his life and soul – was something alien and distant. His past, filled with playing and composing, was now a chapter from somebody else’s biography. It was only a short matter of time before his physical death. He resigned to the idea the way he had resigned himself to everything since Sachsenhausen had become his home. As the camp routine dragged on, he found it increasingly difficult to attach any emotion to what was happening to him. When he came down with pneumonia, he wasn’t afraid of dying; when he recovered a little with the arrival of spring, he wasn’t happy to be alive. ‘I won’t survive another winter in this place anyway…’ And he had thought about it only yesterday.

Today he was standing in a sunlit, spacious kitchen and waiting for Frau Krauss to speak. It was late in the morning, past breakfast time. The dishes were already washed and dried, the staff had been sent away. An untouched cup of coffee was steaming on the table. She smoked slowly, avoiding looking at him. She had aged.

‘So, Herr Frankel. We meet again.’

Her eyes swept over him, up and down, down and up, and finally rested on his face.

‘You remember Helmut?’ she asked calmly. ‘Answer.’

‘I remember him.’

‘He hasn’t changed.’

She took her time, sipping her coffee leisurely.

‘How long have you been in Sachsenhausen?’

‘A year and a half.’

‘And you belong there, you know. You belong there…’

She shivered and reached out for another cigarette. The pack was empty.

‘Are you married?’ she suddenly asked.

‘No.’

‘My husband is worried that you might run away. Or do something stupid. Like make a call to somebody. Or put some ideas into Helmut’s head.’ She tore open a new pack of cigarettes. ‘If you do run, you’ll be caught of course. And sent back to the camp.’

Frank said nothing. She looked him full in the face.

‘If you compromise this family, you compromise Helmut, is that understood?’

‘I understand.’

‘You’d better. You wouldn’t be standing here if it wasn’t for him.’

‘I understand.’

She leant back in her chair and gave him a long stare. Her face, Frank suddenly realized, expressed curiosity. Satisfaction and curiosity. She almost smiled.

‘Once you said he had a great future, and you wanted him to be happy. Do you still feel that way?’

‘I do.’

‘So I told my husband.’

She rose.

‘Follow me. There’s something you must see.’

They left the kitchen and went up a short flight of stairs, through a narrow corridor and a sun-drenched entrance hall to the part of the house where they had first met the previous day. The dining-room was cool and dim.

‘Open the curtains.’

Frank did as she said, turned around, and stood dead still.

The long dining table was paved with glittering rectangles of photographs. She watched him closely, savouring the effect.

‘Come here.’

The colour pictures were her greatest pride. She showed them first. ‘You don’t feel the truth unless you see it in colour. The way we, German people, see it.’

The bright pictures showed a big celebration in the centre of Berlin. ‘May 1st,’ she explained. ‘I took them last year.’ The streets and avenues were bathing in the blood-red drapery of the Nazi regalia. Frank recognized the Lustgarten Park, the Stadtschloss, Friedrich Wilhelm University. There were many other streets and parks that didn’t look familiar.

He was drawn to the photographs of people’s faces. She noticed his interest and became more excited and talkative. ‘I knew you wouldn’t miss these. I took them during the parade. Look carefully, they are very important.’ Nicely dressed women carrying flowers. Cheering children. Close-ups of grinning faces. Families, companies of friends, many were not aware of being photographed. Moments of carefree joy, triumph, togetherness.

Their eyes met for a second. Hers were shining with infinite pride.

She motioned for him to go to the other side of the table. ‘The new Berlin. The Berlin of the future,’ she announced and pointed at a large laconic building: ‘This one was completed not so long ago. You haven’t seen it of course.’

‘No,’ Frank thought. ‘But I might have made bricks for it…’

‘I like the clean lines. And the proportions,’ she said. ‘I like the simplicity of the new architecture.’

Then there were idyllic scenes of the countryside.

‘Bavaria,’ Frank recognized the landscapes. She nodded.

‘Our friends invited us last autumn. I had planned the trip as a welcoming present for Helmut, but he stayed in England for another year, so we went without him.’ Frank looked at the pictures of ordinary people doing ordinary things: a woman digging in her garden, a vegetable vendor chatting with a postman, a family picnic by a lake. A small Kneipe. A group of rejoicing elderly men raising their mugs of foaming beer to the camera. That one came out particularly well. The wrinkled faces expressed roguish, schoolboy camaraderie, and each in a different way – a curious display of human characters. Frank smiled.

‘I don’t know these people,’ she said, ‘but at the same time I know them very well. My fellow Germans. Over the years we’ve been through thick and thin.’

She took a pause before introducing the next series.

‘The Olympic Games. The only time in seven years that Helmut came to stay with us.’

There was indeed a picture of Helmut with a stadium in the background. He stared past the camera with a sour, toothache expression on his face.

‘The best picture I managed to take of him that summer. You can always count on him to spoil a holiday.’

The remaining photos were of Hitler youths standing in rows and doing some sort of drill. The same group having a rest in the shade, chatting, eating their snacks. Then they apparently agreed to pose: the last picture showed them lined up in front of the camera and performing the Nazi salute.

‘Helmut could have been one of them.’

She walked over to the central window and straightened the curtains.

‘I blame the Auldridges. It’s their fault. He could be a completely different person if he hadn’t insisted on staying with them. They never disciplined him. He always did what he wanted. Had he been in the Hitler Youth, he wouldn’t have turned out like that… He needs to be reminded that he is German, Herr Frankel.’

She had visibly softened. Her face was relaxed, her movements were calmer. There was no trace of mockery in her tone now; she put ‘Herr’ in front of his name with emphasized politeness.

‘He has been brainwashed by his uncle. He has been told lies about this country – his own country. And he has some preposterous ideas about our Fuehrer and his policies. He refuses to see that we are a young state surrounded by enemies. He… he sides with these enemies. It hurts to even 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 they stepped outside. It was the beginning of a warm, sunny day, but the terrace was still in the shade of the house. Frau Krauss shivered with chill and leant on the railing.

‘There are many cures for arrogance. Alfred says a Hitler youth camp is still the best option; a few months of discipline and training will knock sense into him. But I don’t think it’s that simple, Herr Frankel. It’s what on Helmut’s mind.’

She plucked a dry leaf and chucked it away.

‘Has he told you about his plans to go to America?’

‘Yes, he has.’

‘I hold you responsible for that.’

She narrowed her eyes, looking at something in the distance. She had long curly eyelashes and a beautifully carved profile.

‘You are responsible for a lot of damage, Herr Frankel. It’s time for you to make amends to this family… You’ve been to America. Now look me in the eye and tell me what prospects my son might have in that country.’

Frank stared at the ground, unable to move or say a word. His insides cringed, breathing was painful again. The question caught him off guard. He could only wish he had more time to come up with a helpful answer.

‘Helmut… Helmut doesn’t fear the unknown,’ he stammered. ‘Quite the opposite: it thrills him. I heard him play yesterday. Your son is a very talented and accomplished musician, Frau Krauss, but I’m sure you have been… told that many… I mean… 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 matter. She waited, smiling a condescending smile.

‘You finished?’ she said after a pause and raised her head proudly. ‘Germany is the country where only one thing is possible – 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 the heights of unrivaled power and prosperity. Make him see that. He may go, but one day he will come back – just like you did – and he will regret every minute wasted away from home. Because Germany will be a completely different country: an immense power, towering over the world. Imagine how disappointed he will be when he realizes he has contributed nothing to the common cause. He will have matured by then… But right now he’s young and stubborn… He doesn’t understand many things, he refuses to understand. 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 duty. He is German, Herr Frankel and he is rooted here, in German soil.’

She shivered again. Before he knew what he was doing, he picked up a shawl from the back of a chair. She declined his gesture with a dismissive shrug.

‘Let’s just walk a little,’ she said abruptly.

He muttered apologies and put the shawl back.

They stepped off the terrace and took a path along freshly trimmed bushes. Frank got goose bumps 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,’ she was saying. ‘I don’t expect overnight changes. You may tell him that I don’t mind waiting. But little by little he must reconsider the lies he has been told and agree to give Germany a chance.’

His silence was beginning to annoy her.

‘He should be back any time now,’ she said, finishing her cigarette hurriedly. ‘We must put the photographs away.’

Frank followed her back to the house, feeling helpless and awkward. Fortunately, the tension thawed when she started sorting through her photographs, providing detailed comments about each. This time he tried to respond and ask questions so that they could have some semblance of a conversation. The Hitler Youth series had a special place in her heart. ‘Fine young men, very industrious, very respectful. The Fuehrer’s pride and joy.’ When she asked Frank directly about his opinion, he told her the truth: he thought she had the perception and skill of a professional photographer.

She was silent for a moment.

‘I am glad you said that,’ she said slowly. ‘Not because I am flattered. I am not a professional and that’s the point. You are looking at Germany through my eyes, Herr Frankel, the eyes of an ordinary woman who lives in this country. Nothing’s staged or 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 you said that Helmut deserves a great future.’ She swept her arm encompassing the table: ‘Where is a better place for him to have this future? He is German. He belongs to…’

She broke off, thinking she had heard Helmut come home. She was mistaken.

‘He doesn’t like my hobby,’ she explained. ‘He thinks that photography is a form of taxidermy… It would be best if he didn’t know about this little exhibition. Give me that folder, please. We’d better hurry…’

But Helmut was back earlier then she expected. His bright voice blasted outside like a signal flare:

‘Where’s Frank?’

The incoming tide of his brisk step flooded the hall and corridors until he stormed into the room with a strident ‘There you are!’ His smile vanished in an instant, he surveyed the scene with distaste.

‘Jesus, Frank,’ he drawled. ‘She’s been showing you around her cemetery, hasn’t she? Come on. My father bought you a violin. The best I could find in such a short time.’

Frank jumped to his feet, then looked at Frau Krauss hesitantly. Helmut let out an impatient snort.

‘Let’s go,’ he said in English and grabbed Frank’s hand. ‘You don’t need my mother’s permission.’

Frank could barely keep up with him as they were marching through rooms.

‘Has she been lecturing you?’ Helmut asked loudly. ‘About the mercies and bounties of Adolf Hitler?’

‘Helmut, please,’ Frank mumbled, already out of breath. ‘If we don’t play something here and now, I’ll drop dead.’

‘Something? I’ve been making a list of the things we must play,’ Helmut waved a piece of paper like a signal flag and crushed it in his fist. ‘It doesn’t make sense. Because we must play everything.’

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 appeared to remain endlessly unaware of his shuffling step and ill-fitting clothes; his perfect ear was deaf to an occasional tremor in Frank’s voice or hoarseness in his breathing. As it was usual with Helmut, it was hard to tell whether he was demonstrating concern or its complete absence, but Frank was infinitely grateful for whatever it was. The last thing he wanted was to talk about his ordeals and wallow in his sorrows.

When they entered the library, Helmut quickly closed the doubled doors behind them and slid an old telephone receiver through the handles – a habitual precaution by the look of it. ‘To ensure privacy,’ he explained. ‘My family tends to think this is some kind of concert hall and they can come here at will…’

Frank stared at the gleaming shape of the violin lying in its open case.

‘No, not right now,’ he said, starting to feel panicky. ‘Trust me, you don’t want to hear me play. Not today. Perhaps we could…’

Helmut cut short his stammering excuses:

‘Just go ahead, Frank. You never know with my mother. She might send you back to the camp first thing tomorrow morning.’

That was convincing enough. Frank picked up the light body of the instrument and passed the bow across the strings. The sound, to his tearful relief, came out clean and forgiving. ‘The violin… It’s perfect…’ he said. ‘Helmut, thank you… Thank you…’ The words quivered as they came from his constricted throat; he blushed and smiled, clearly embarrassed at how overwhelmed he felt. Helmut went on with his forthright, no-nonsense strategy: he nodded, barely acknowledging Frank’s expressions of gratitude and attacked his own warm-up routine with iron-hard confidence.

Frank hesitated another moment and tucked the violin under his chin again. The plain sound of exercising quickly did its work and brought order into the world. It felt like waking up on rocks after surviving a shipwreck: his body was bruised, his soul was shattered, but there was life to be lived and work to be done…

He quickly sorted through the sheet music that Helmut had prepared and picked Mozart’s Violin Sonata in F Major, K 547, the most obvious and merciful choice. The decorous, mellow discourse between the piano and the violin developed smoothly, like breathing, and the notes glittered like tiny gems, lining the path to the most refined ends of expression that no words could ever reach. What a wonderfully aching feeling it was, what a delightful walk home through the enchanted forest of Mozart’s music. It was an absolute, primal peace that had never known turmoil, or suffering. Liszt’s language, on the other hand, was the language of revelation: it voiced human emotions and disturbed Frank’s memories, inviting him to release his painful experiences musically.

Together they chose Liszt’s Consolation No. 3, arranged for piano and violin. First Helmut played the original version for piano solo, and he played it exactly the way Frank liked it played. The piano sang, pleaded, whispered – the lyrical nuances and confessional intonations were breathtaking. Their first attempt at playing the duet was also decidedly successful. Frank didn’t have much time to dwell on what was happening. Perhaps the very fact that he had been out of practice for a long time was deeply meaningful in the context of that piece: the piano, in every sense of the word, accompanied the diffident voice of the violin, wrapped the sorrows with its soothing flow, and carried them to the moonlit bay of peace and tranquillity.

The telephone receiver rattled in the restraints of the door handles: ‘Helmut, darling, dinner’s ready.’

Frank came back to reality with a shudder. It was already evening.

‘We’re busy,’ Helmut snapped.

‘Darling, you haven’t eaten today yet… And your father wants to see you.’

‘Tell him I’m busy,’ Helmut shouted again and then rose impatiently. ‘What the hell, I’ll go and talk to him.’

‘I… I’d like to thank your father in person… For the violin… For everything…’

‘Don’t bother. You don’t owe him anything. I just wonder what he has to say… We need a break anyway. You must be starving.’

They didn’t play after dinner. The magic simply wasn’t there anymore. After talking to his father Helmut was in the right mood for committing a murder.

‘Is it because of me?’ Frank asked.

‘Oh, no, never mind. It’s the same farce every day.’

He threw himself on the sofa and covered his face with a cushion.

‘Shall I close the curtains?’

‘No… But I wouldn’t mind some jazz.’

Frank sat down at the piano and after some thinking played a jazz improvisation of Consolation.

The evening light gilded the furniture, the piano, the carpet, accentuated the shadows, and gave the place the mysterious air of tastefully arranged theatrical scenery. Frank realized with a jolt of surprise that even though he had spent most of the day in the room, he hadn’t really seen it yet. He looked around curiously. Taking advantage of the asymmetry of the house, the library was a brighter, happier, and more spacious sister of the dining room. He liked the old-fashioned bookcases soaring to the ceiling, the semicircle of large French windows that let in plenty of light… Helmut explained that the books had been left by the previous owner, nobody in the family read them: Doctor Krauss had his own book collection, Helmut still felt more comfortable reading in English, Frau Krauss preferred magazines… She had even been planning to refurbish the library and convert it into an art studio. As soon as Helmut heard about it, he installed his piano there and claimed the territory for himself.