The Star of Kazan (34 page)

‘Oh, Oswald wants me to buy him a boat now, does he?’

But she did in fact book two rooms at the Riverside Hotel on the edge of the city, and when she and Oswald arrived in Vienna she was glad she had done so, because the weather was fine and warm and the hotel, with its verandas over the water and its riverside walks and its view of the landing stage where the steamer unloaded its cargo of passengers, was a very pleasant place to be.

‘I have business to attend to in the morning, as I told you,’ Edeltraut told her brother-in-law when they arrived. ‘I shan’t need you for that. But in the afternoon I want you to come with me to fetch Annika. I have full legal rights as her mother, but I don’t trust these professors.’

‘You don’t think they suspect something?’

‘Don’t be silly, how could they? Zed’s with the gypsies in Hungary and no one else knows anything.’

So now she was busy creating herself in readiness for another day. Her morning dress of coral silk was protected by a chiffon peignoir; her coral earrings and matching necklace were waiting on the jewellery stand. She had powdered her face and darkened her eyelashes. Her long hair, washed the night before by the hotel hairdresser, hung loose down her back and she was brushing it. One could never brush hair hard enough, or for too long.

She was interrupted by a knock at the door and a hotel page announced that there was a young lady to see her.

‘Did she give her name?’

‘No, madam. She’s very young; just a child. Shall I send her up.’

‘Yes, you had better do that.’

Annika had been awake the whole night. The professors’ accusations went round and round in her head, and every time she pushed them away they came back again.

The professors were lying; they had to be. They may not have meant to lie but they had lied just the same. It was not possible that her mother was a thief. If she was guilty, she had not only stolen the trunk but blamed Zed for the theft – and that was impossible.

Annika remembered the joy of that first meal in the Hotel Bristol, the excitement and pride of finding that she belonged to such a beautiful woman. The hope with which she had travelled to Spittal . . .

Perhaps Uncle Oswald had done it? He was always doing things for her mother; yes, it could be that. And her mother hadn’t known till it was over.

Oh God, she had to believe that her mother was good. How did people live if they thought their mother was dishonest?

As soon as it was light Annika had got dressed and crept out of the house. She had to see her mother at once and she had to see her alone and find out the truth. Nothing mattered except that.

The journey to the Riverside Hotel was long and wearisome: the tram to the terminus, then the little train which steamed along the Danube, and a dusty walk from the station to the hotel.

But as she came up to the front entrance with its flowering trees and its awnings and verandas, her mood lifted. This was a place for summer and happiness, not for lies and intrigue. In ten minutes, in five, the nightmare would be over.

Her mother would put her arms round her and tell her the truth. And the truth would set her free!

‘Come in,’ called Edeltraut. She sprayed herself with scent once more and shook out her hair so that it mantled her shoulders. Then, her brush still in her hand, she rose quickly and went to the door.

‘Annika, my dearest child! My own darling! What is it – you look so pale?’

Annika had not come forward. She was still standing, very straight, her back against the door.

‘What has upset you so, my child? What have they been telling you to make you look like that?

‘They told me that it was you who stole La Rondine’s trunk,’ Annika said steadily. ‘You and Uncle Oswald – because the jewels in it were real.’

Her mother’s hand went to her throat.

‘How
dare
they? How dare they tell you such dreadful lies! No wonder you look so upset.’

‘Zed came – he’s in Vienna. He heard the story from Baron von Keppel and—’

‘Zed! Zed is in Vienna?’

‘Yes.’

For a moment there was complete silence. Annika had not moved from the door, nor had her eyes left her mother’s face. When she spoke again her voice was very low, but each word was absolutely clear.

‘Could you please tell me the truth,’ said Annika. ‘Just the truth, Mama. Nothing else.’

Edeltraut had slipped off her peignoir; in her coral silk dress, her wonderful hair mantling her shoulders, she was dazzling. Her scent was different; not strange and exotic but light and summery. Beautiful people always surprise one afresh, but Annika stood her ground.

‘Please, Mama.’

Then something extraordinary happened. The tall proud woman in her silken dress seemed suddenly to crumple. She took a few faltering steps – and then she dropped on to her knees in front of Annika.

‘You shall have the truth,’ she said brokenly. ‘Yes, I did it. I made Oswald fetch the trunk – it was addressed to me, remember? I took the jewels and took them to Switzerland. But before you call the police, would you try to understand? Not to forgive, that would be asking too much, but to understand.’

‘I shan’t call the police,’ said Annika. ‘Not ever. You’re my mother. But I’d certainly like to understand.’

‘Of course, of course . . .’ Edeltraut rose from her knees and fell back into a low chair. She stretched her hands out to her daughter, trying to conceal the relief she felt. Annika took them, but her eyes were still fixed steadily on Edeltraut’s face.

‘If you could try to imagine,’ said Edeltraut, ‘I was only twenty when I married – far too young to be a judge of character – and when I realized that my husband was a compulsive gambler I was very much afraid. There was no one to turn to, no one to help me. Week by week, month by month, I saw the house stripped of all its treasures; the paintings, the books, my own jewels, and my sister’s. Well, you know all that – but remember, my darling, I was a von Tannenberg. We’re a proud family. The shame of being beggars . . . of people turning their faces away when they met me – people I’d known all my life . . . oh, it was dreadful!

‘Then my husband fled to America and I was quite alone at Spittal, with a young son to care for. I didn’t know what to do; I saw Spittal becoming a ruin . . . and there have always been von Tannenbergs at Spittal. And then my father died and I had an idea, which lifted my spirits; no, more than that – it made me wonderfully happy. Can you guess what it was?’

Annika shook her head.

‘I would find my little daughter, the one I had been forced to abandon when she was only a few days old. And suddenly life seemed to have a meaning and a purpose once again.’

Edeltraut had soaked a handkerchief. She crumpled it into a ball and picked up another.

But still Annika did not speak.

‘It was hard to find you. I went to Pettelsdorf and there I learned that you’d been adopted and taken to Vienna, and then I tramped the streets, trying to find out where you were. I found a lawyer, a famous man – Herr Pumpelmann-Schlissinger – and he helped me . . . and then at last I found you. Oh, Annika, when you came in through that door in the professors’ house and I saw you there before me with your father’s eyes and hair and that look of trust . . . I think it was my first happy day for many years.’

‘Yes. I was happy too,’ said Annika quietly.

‘But of course I was worried about bringing you to Spittal. We were living . . . well, like peasants, with no money at all.’

No, Annika wanted to say. Peasants don’t live like that. They cook and clean and chop wood and make do – but she did not speak.

Edeltraut got up and walked to the window.

‘But you see, Annika, the lawyer had found out something else about you. An old lady who lived in the square had left you a trunk full of keepsakes; the will was still being proved and you knew nothing about it. Then, when I went back to Spittal to get ready for your arrival, my uncle told me the story about La Rondine’s jewels and that they were real but nobody knew it.

‘Of course I should have told you – but I didn’t know if the story was true; the jewels might have been fakes, as everyone believed. And I had this dream, Annika – the dream of making Spittal great again and you and Hermann living there in comfort. I have made a will, you know, leaving you a share of Spittal. Not just Hermann, you. Oh, Annika, I have been so very foolish.’

‘I would have given you the jewels for Spittal. I would have given you everything I had,’ said Annika quietly.

‘I know – oh, I know now, my darling. But remember, I hardly knew you then. I could see that you were sweet and pretty, but a little girl can have her head turned by sudden wealth. I should have trusted my own daughter – my own flesh and blood – but I had been hurt so much.’

Annika was very tired. Something seemed not to fit, but she was too weary to work it out.

And Edeltraut’s eyes had filled with tears again. She put a hand on Annika’s shoulder. ‘We could start a new life together, you and I. We could make my dream for Spittal come true together. There is a lot of money left, and you shall decide how it is spent. Without Hermann I am so very much alone. Say it isn’t too late. Say you’ll come, my darling. I need you so very much.’

‘I won’t go back to Grossenfluss. Not ever.’ In spite of her exhaustion, Annika’s voice was firm.

‘No, no, of course not. It was wrong of me to think that you might be happy there. I thought you needed companionship of your own age, but the school has changed completely in the last few years. I should have taken you there and seen for myself instead of letting you go with Mathilde; I have been guilty there too – dreadfully guilty. You shall never go back there, I swear it.’ She had found another handkerchief and managed to smile through her tears. ‘My poor, pale darling, don’t stand there by the door. Let the sun warm your face, come out on to the balcony.’

Annika let herself be led out of the French window. In front of her was the dazzling water with its gaily painted boats. Tulip trees were in flower along the bank; children splashed in the shallows. The world was still there and it was very beautiful.

‘Look, there’s the steamer just going off to Regensburg.’

Annika nodded. ‘It’s the
Princess Stephanie
.’

Her mother had put her arm round her and her scent stole into Annika’s nostrils.

‘There’s so much to see, so much to do. Couldn’t we do it together?’

Still Annika was silent. She did not think that she had ever been so tired.

‘I’ve had such an idea,’ said Edeltraut eagerly. ‘We could go back home on the steamer. Go back by river. The boat goes quite a long way into Germany, we’d have days on the water before we had to change to a train. You’d like that, wouldn’t you? You like travelling by boat.’

‘Yes.’

‘You’ll come then, my darling? You’ll forgive me?’ She stretched out her hands imploringly and looked deep into Annika’s eyes. ‘Because if I don’t have your forgiveness I don’t know . . . how I shall live.’

N
obody could believe it.

‘You’re not going to do anything about the jewels? You’re going to let her have them and say nothing?’

Everybody was amazed and distressed, but Pauline was furious.

‘You must be completely mad,’ she said.

They had all gathered in the courtyard to find out where Annika had been.

‘Would you give your mother up to the police?’ asked Annika. ‘Would you, Ellie?’ She turned to the professors. ‘Would you?’

For a moment she had silenced them. Ellie remembered her mother, who had once taken a small wilted sprig of parsley hanging down from the side of a market stall because the stallholder was busy serving a queue of customers and she was in a hurry. The following day she had sent Ellie to walk five kilometres in the heat down a dusty road to find the woman and pay her.

‘You see,’ said Annika, ‘you wouldn’t. Not your own mother.’

But what they minded – what was almost impossible to understand – was that Annika was going back of her own free will to Spittal. She wasn’t even going to try and stay in Vienna.

‘She asked me to forgive her; she went down on her knees to me.’

Pauline snorted and the professors frowned at her, but it was true that they too were very much upset. They had given Annika a way out and she had not even tried to take it.

‘It’s just snobbishness,’ said Pauline. ‘You really like being a “von” and having people bow and scrape to you. You must like it or you wouldn’t be so feeble.’

‘No.’ Annika’s wretchedness was beyond tears. ‘I don’t like it.’

The boredom of life at Spittal came back to her. The long empty days, not being allowed to help . . . and she would go back without Zed, without Rocco’s whinny of greeting when she went down to the farm. Without the farm . . .

She set her teeth. She had given her word and she could see no other way. Perhaps people who had always had mothers felt differently, but to her, her mother’s arrival after the years of daydreaming about her had been a miracle. She could not now turn her back on the person who had given her life.

‘It’s in the Bible,’ Annika said wearily. ‘It’s where Ruth says, “Whither thou goest, I will go; and where thou lodgest, I will lodge: thy people shall be my people, and thy God my God.”’

But it was not wise to quote things to Pauline, who had always read more than anybody else. ‘Ruth didn’t say it to her mother, she said it to her mother-in-law, and that’s completely different.’

But Annika had fought her battle on the way back from the Riverside; no one could shake her decision. If people did not forgive those closest to them, how could the world go on?

‘It’s in the pictures too, everywhere.’ She turned to Uncle Emil. ‘The whole museum is full of mothers holding their children.’

Emil, however, could see no connection between Frau von Tannenberg and the Holy Mother of God, and said so.

The person who said the least and perhaps understood the most was Ellie – but her hurt was absolute. She knew that Annika was not a snob and that she was unimpressed by riches. Annika was a person who was interested in doing things, not in having them. Only an overwhelming love for her mother could make her behave as she had done.