The House by the Lake (18 page)

But Wil was right behind her. “It’s only been a few weeks,” he said. “It’s natural that you’d be in turmoil. Just take it step-by-step, Anna.”

Anna kept walking, but she nodded.

“The sun,” she said. Her voice was bright. “Look at the way it’s shining on the Schloss.” She had reached the top of the island, which afforded the most stunning view of the entire old palace that she had seen so far. Somehow, being up on a slight rise made all the difference.

“It’s beautiful out here,” he said, close behind her. He moved toward the boat. “We’d better get you back.” Wil climbed aboard and held out a hand for Anna.

She glanced across at the Schloss. It was tinged with pink light now.

They were both standing in the boat, face-to-face.

“Let yourself grieve for him.”

She had been fighting tears on the way back to the boat. How Max would have loved to be here now! But Wil was making her want to laugh again, and as he said, she would focus on the good times she had been lucky enough to have.

She had to get past Wil to get to the wooden seat on the boat. As she did so, she slipped a little, almost toppling over. Surprisingly, the little boat didn’t move too much. It was clearly stronger than it looked. Wil caught her arm and held her up. Anna caught her breath.

“That was close,” Wil said. He didn’t let go of her arm. “Are you okay now?”

Anna nodded. “I’m fine. Thank you, Wil.”

He rowed in silence back to the shore of the lake.

Anna stared out at the exquisite landscape that surrounded her forebear’s old home.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Paris, November 1939

The trees that lined the footpath in the cemetery at Montmartre were bare of leaves. Isabelle avoided looking at the tumbled mass of graves that had been there since the cemetery’s opening in 1825. While her thoughts ran inevitably to questions—
who were these people buried here? What had their lives been like?
—there was only one person here who mattered—Marthe. That one constant in her life was gone now.

The old woman had not fought death. She had not raged against its slow grip on her deteriorating frame, had not complained about the pneumonia that had gripped her chest, sending her into coughing spasms that had rent the apartment at night. Isabelle had sat with her grandmother during those long, cold hours, sponging her forehead, holding her ragingly hot hand, but she didn’t know what she would have done without Camille. The girl’s silent practicality, her acceptance of things, were blessings that taught Isabelle there was only so much she could control.

Camille had not talked when Isabelle wanted silence. The maid’s quiet presence had been an utter balm to the wretchedness that Isabelle had felt at the thought of losing her grandmother.

Camille had kept everything in the apartment in order, and that in itself had helped. She had patiently dusted all Marthe’s precious things, had kept the silver sparkling and the porcelain shining and clean. She had not once complained of exhaustion nor asked for anything extra for all the long hours she was putting in.

Isabelle, in turn, had made sure that Camille had her evenings off. Isabelle knew that Camille was friends with the young girls whom she had met at secretarial school. And Isabelle knew that Camille had given up her hopes of working away from domestic service because of loyalty to her and to Marthe.

When Marthe had closed her eyes for the very last time, she had thanked Isabelle. She had thanked her for bringing such joy into the second half of her life. She had thanked her for all that she had done to bring life back into the apartment on Rue Blanche.

Virginia had been called home to Boston the following week. With Nazism spreading its talons throughout Europe, her parents had insisted that she return to America. Isabelle had accepted this too with a new practicality—a sense that there were forces in the world right then that were far stronger than those of idealistic youth.

And now, as Isabelle stood at Marthe’s grave, her eyes running over the inscription on the tomb, she tried to let go of the swirl of thoughts that raged constantly in her head these days. Where should she go? What would become of her?

Max’s last letter still sat by her bedside table. It had been there three months now. It had arrived, just as its counterparts had, bound up with sticky tape that didn’t even attempt to hide the unmistakable diagonal slashes across the envelope.

Max had been on leave in Siegel for a few days in August, and he had written, among other things, of the lakes and woods around the Schloss where he had sailed and walked. Isabelle had read his words over and over, picturing it all in her mind—the forest, the folly hidden away in the trees, the lake, everything.

Max had also told her in his letter that his father had been called up. Now Germany and Poland were at war, and Isabelle had no idea where Max was, where his Vati was. German troops had entered Poland in September, driving the Polish in front of them, taking prisoners. Warsaw had been bombed, encircled, then taken.

She had not heard from Max since he had been called up again, and two things kept her awake at night—her terror that Max would be killed or was dead, and the circular question that she could never answer: What was the point of this war?

Isabelle brushed a few stray sticks from Marthe’s grave.

It all seemed so useless. Power? Money? Conquering others? What was the use of those things to anyone? What about freedom, tolerance, respect, and opportunity?

When another letter arrived a few weeks later, Isabelle had just returned home from one of her walks around Paris. She combined these with errands to ground herself, but the simple act of just walking around the city was the only thing that seemed to soothe her these days. When the letter arrived, she tore into her room, collapsing on her bed to indulge in every word.

Max wrote that his father was in a military training camp. His grandfather had been called up too, offered a position as a colonel—and Polish prisoners of war had started to arrive at the estate, taking up the work that young Germans had always done.

People had lost their cars—Max’s father’s luxurious six-seater had been taken for the conveyance of army personnel. Max’s car was gone too. Riding horses were requisitioned by the army, and fuel for farm tractors was severely rationed.

All the young men in Siegel had been drafted, friends of Adolf Hitler or not.

Mutti was working for the Red Cross and covered meetings, inspections, and rallies of the troops. Nadja was training as an air-raid warden. Resident guards ran Schloss Siegel now, taking over for Max’s father—and Max.

Everyone on the whole in Germany had returned to horses and bicycles for their means of getting around. Food was rationed because money had to go to the war effort—bread, butter, margarine, milk, cheese, sugar, eggs, jam, flour, beans, meat, coffee, and even soap.

The Schloss had increased its fruit and vegetable production to try to supplement people’s diets. To get any rationed food you had to produce your ration card, and the relevant amount would be snipped off. Luxury items had given out, and no more were being produced. No chocolate, no sweets. Clothes and shoes were another casualty. Production in factories was practically all used for the armed forces, and the severest shortage was, of course, manpower. The women ran everything now, from farms to factories.

Hitler was beyond everyone’s control.

But Max also wanted to know how Isabelle was doing. He told her he would come to get her one day. One day in the not-too-distant future, he hoped. He hoped when it was all over he could bring her home with him to Siegel for good.

Having read the letter three times, indulging in every word, Isabelle tucked it into the pocket of one of her winter coats and went back out into the salon.

The radio had become the most important feature of the room. Every day, she listened along with Camille to the bulletins as the war ground on, feeling desperately unable to help, while worrying constantly about Max.

It was so hard to imagine all those young men she had met that Christmas at Siegel participating in the skirmishes, as weeks turned into months and the New Year relentlessly rolled in.

When a German cargo ship slipped past a British blockade in the neutral waters of Norway in the spring of 1940, the British navy got wind of it and sent a destroyer on the attack, killing a number of German sailors. These small victories caused Camille to look at Isabelle in hope while they listened to the droning, professional voice on the wireless. Isabelle pretended to return Camille’s smile, but she started to feel ill.

Her need to hear bulletins became more frantic. All the time her ears were pricked for any sliver of information about the German army. What was she hoping to hear? A daily announcement that one man, Max, was safe? A reassurance from that bodiless voice on the radio that he would survive and return to her?

As the calendar turned to June, Isabelle came to understand that she was going to have to leave Paris, and fast.

Berlin, 2010

Wil turned back into Berlin’s old West, stopping at the first set of traffic lights on Kurfürstendamm. He seemed to be thinking for a moment.

“What have you got planned for tonight?” he finally asked, turning to her.

Anna exhaled. Well, what did she have planned? Nothing? Surprisingly, jet lag was not bothering her at all.

She shrugged. “I might go for a walk around Berlin.”

“Would you like to come over to my house?”

Anna bit her bottom lip.

“I have some friends coming over for dinner,” he said.

The traffic started to inch forward.

“You might like to meet some fellow Germans,” he went on, keeping his voice light. They were close to Anna’s hotel.

The idea was appealing. “Great. Thank you. I’d like that,” she said.

“I’ll pick you up from your hotel at around eight. It’s very casual.”

Anna nodded. She turned to him. She had to, in order to say goodbye, even though it was becoming a little uncomfortable to look straight at him. Those feelings that had stirred down by the lake were evolving into something that was taking over every moment she was with him. Here Wil was, a sophisticated man, being kind, listening to her, cheering her up, helping her with her family’s past. That was all it was. Anything else in her head was there only because she had not encountered a man like this for a very long time.

“Excellent,” she said. “Thank you.”

Wil looked amused. “Excellent to you too,” he said. “And, by the way, Ingrid wants to meet us at Schloss Beringer tomorrow at ten. She’s rented out a private room there so that we can talk. Interesting choice, I must say.”

“Oh,” Anna said. “Is she always so dramatic?”

“I couldn’t comment.” That wicked smile again.

Anna smiled back and climbed out of the car.

Anna was ready just before eight. She had chosen to wear a pair of jeans, a black polo sweater, and a scarf. She layered on a few of her favorite bracelets, put on her black boots over the jeans, and left her long hair loose. A few sprays of Van Cleef & Arpels First and she was done.

She had been businesslike getting ready—had forced herself to focus on the task at hand. There was no point getting carried away thinking about what might happen, though her mind had wandered a little when she stood in the shower. Eventually she had shaken away any unbidden thoughts and given herself a stern talking-to in the elevator down to the hotel lobby.

Wil was only five minutes late.

“Sorry,” he said, appearing like some sort of ridiculously handsome god.

“That’s fine.” Anna smiled. “You’re only five minutes late.”

“Don’t like being late.” He grinned. He leaned down and kissed her on the cheek.

So that was friendly. If he had feelings that went beyond friendship, then he would not have kissed her on the cheek, Anna rationalized. Then she kicked herself again. What was she thinking? It was highly likely that his guests were going to include a girlfriend.

“Anna?” Wil said. “You’re on another planet. It’s quite cute, actually, and I don’t want to interrupt you, but the others will be arriving in the next half hour, so . . .”

“Sorry.” Anna shook her head. She had to get herself in line. Was she so starved of male company that her mind went into a spin as soon as some came along?

She was not in a spin! She hit her head with the palm of her hand.

“Anna!” Wil was laughing now. “Do we need to take you to the hospital or are you just in need of one of our gorgeous German wines?”

Or a gorgeous German man, Anna thought.

“I was just thinking about Siegel,” she said as she followed him out the sliding doors. His car was parked around the corner.

“Mmm hmm,” he said. “You could have a break from thinking about that tonight, if you wanted to. But if you want to talk about it, I’m happy to do that too.”

Once they were in the car, Anna looked out the window as he drove toward his house. That was the spot to focus. When Wil turned into his street a little farther into the old West a few minutes later, Anna couldn’t help but stare.

“This was an old suburb of Berlin,” Wil said, slowing the car down a little.

Graceful houses sat behind immaculate front gardens. The car’s headlights threw shapely trees and handsome old dwellings into focus.

“What I like about my house,” Wil said, “is that my great-grandparents owned it and used it as their city base.”

“Really?”

“They built it,” Wil said, “but sold it soon after the war. I was looking to buy a house a few years ago, just after my grandfather died. He used to drive me past this place when I was a child to show it to me. Told me of all his memories here. They always came for the concert season in the winter. The restaurants, the theater, and the social life were all in full swing that time of year.”

“Sounds idyllic,” Anna said.

“It was—for them.” Wil sounded wry now. “I approached the owners, made them a fair offer, and—”

“That was too easy.” Anna snapped her seatbelt open when the car came to a stop. Picked up her bag.

Wil looked at her curiously. “You know, you almost sounded European then—if I didn’t know better I’d say I heard a bit of an accent.”

“You couldn’t have,” Anna said. She felt slightly irritated now—who knew why? Honestly, she hardly seemed herself lately.

Wil’s front garden was in shadow, but the semicircular driveway leading up to the front door was well lit. Large trees were dotted about on the lawn.

Anna turned to the house. It was ornate—art nouveau details decorated the window tops—and yet his home had a relaxed, welcoming feel. Garden beds softened the exterior, and a climbing rose made its way up one part of the front wall.