The Rose Gardener Read online

  Have either of them ever considered where I go with my problems? Beatrice asked herself bitterly.

  Before, she had spoken with her parents about the things that were weighing on her, and if she hadn’t wanted to talk to them, then she had gone to Mae. But she couldn’t really relate to Mae any longer. She felt years older than her friend; she felt like she had seen too much. She was constantly exposed to things that Mae didn’t have a clue about. Mae also had to live under the German occupation; like Beatrice, she also had to suffer through radical changes in her day-to-day life. But she was still under her mother and father’s protection, same as always. As Beatrice saw it, Mae was a naïve little girl. She saw up close what the German occupation really meant. She had been separated from her parents and had no idea when she would see them again. In a single day her life had been ripped from its moorings, and it was she who had to make sure she made it through this completely changed situation in one piece. Sometimes she felt like an old lady compared to Mae. Mae giggled a lot. She had taken to idolizing a boy from St. Martin. He didn’t pay her any mind, but she always wanted to talk about him, her voice full of excitement. Sometimes Beatrice responded with irritation, sometimes with boredom. She felt that no one understood her anymore.

  The Germans advanced in Russia in their usual unimpeded way; every evening Erich announced new victories and new stages.

  More and more the Channel Islands were being reconfigured into fortifications, into a kind of offshore rampart for the defense of the French coast. The occupation force had trains brought over from France for transporting materials. New tracks were built; abandoned tracks were put in use once more. Walls, towers, and underground passageways were appearing all over. Columns of captive laborers could be seen tramping through the streets — ragged, hungry figures, their eyes filled with fear and despair. After Hitler’s war on Russia had begun, many of the prisoners brought to the islands were Russian. All kinds of horrifying rumors circulated among the population. There was talk of abuses and random shootings, of men who collapsed from hunger and exhaustion or who faded away or died in filthy barracks without medical attention. On Alderney, it was said, a concentration camp had been built. Jews from the mainland were meant to be brought there. The whole situation seemed to be getting more dire. The occupation force was becoming more nervous and therefore more dangerous.

  “The Germans are overextending themselves in Russia,” Dr. Wyatt said on one occasion, when Mae had invited Beatrice over to dinner. She sat with Mae and her family in their small, cozy dining room. “It’s going well still, but they’re at war with too strong a foe. And now they’ll start to notice that the air’s getting thinner.”

  They heard of the heavy bombardment of London, and many on the island were afraid for relatives who were staying there. Same as before there was no contact, no connection to England, but news, rumors, and messages continued to slip through.

  “People in London can’t sleep anymore at night,” it was said. “They sit in their basements, and all around them buildings are collapsing and whole streets are burning. They’re sending all the children to the countryside. They say that many people are dead.”

  Hopefully Mum and Dad are going to the countryside too, thought Beatrice.

  More often now, Erich would be away in France for days at a time, sometimes even for one or two weeks, without informing Helene or Beatrice of what exactly he was doing there. Helene guessed that he was watching over the transport of building materials, mainly reinforced concrete, to the island. In any case, Beatrice found life significantly easier when he wasn’t there. She could go to the Wyatts’ more often. Even though she didn’t have much in common with Mae anymore, she preferred to spend an evening in the company of the English doctor and his family than together with Helene and her eternal whining. Helene always tried to talk her into staying home, but she never forbade her from going as Erich did. Beatrice could move more freely. Sometimes she even slept over at the Wyatts’, if it had gotten too late and Helene couldn’t expect her to venture out past curfew.

  Erich’s depression grew worse, starting in the fall and continuing on into the winter. It reached a peak on December 24th, his birthday. After German custom, Christmas Eve was supposed to be observed as a proper Holy Night, replete with tinsel, candles, and a Christmas tree. Pierre and Will had brought the tree in and placed it in the living room, and at midday Beatrice and Helene set to trimming it. Erich had disappeared into his bedroom. For hours they didn’t hear from him, until finally Helene grew nervous and said Beatrice should go up and check on him.

  “It’s his birthday, after all. He hasn’t opened his presents yet, plus at some point we should get around to cutting the cake. Go tell him he should come down.”

  “Why don’t you tell him?”

  Helene looked like a frightened rabbit. “Oh, I don’t know … he’s so sensitive about his birthday … do you think you could …?”

  He’s her husband, Beatrice thought bitterly as she went upstairs. Why does she always have to use me whenever it’s something to do with him.

  Erich did not respond when she knocked. The door was unlocked, however, and Beatrice finally just walked in. When she did she was hit at once with a strong smell of alcohol mixed with an unpleasant stink of sweat. Erich stood at the window, looking out at the early winter twilight that was just then falling over the garden. It grew blacker and darker with every minute. He hadn’t turned any lights on in the room; all you could see were the outlines of the furniture.

  “Beatrice?” he asked without turning around. “Is that you?”

  “Sir, we wanted to know if you’d like to come down. Helene wants to cut the cake.”

  “Isn’t it an awful time of year?” He didn’t respond to her question, and still didn’t turn around. “So dark, so cold. Did you notice that all day long there was never any light in the sky? Just heavy, gray clouds. A day that never brightened. The darkness of morning gives way to the darkness of evening. In between there’s nothing.”

  “Sir …”

  “Have you ever thought about whether it plays a role in a person’s life, what time of year he’s born? Whether it’s bright and warm, or cold and dark? Do you think it influences his life?”

  “Actually, I don’t believe that.”

  “You were born at the beginning of September, Beatrice. It’s late summer then, and the world is blossoming and fragrant. It grows more fiery and more colorful with every passing day. You came into the world and it greeted you with brightness and beauty. You must have believed you were in paradise.”

  He spoke a little haltingly. Every now and again he left long pauses in between words. It cost him some effort to concentrate, but he had obviously brooded over these thoughts for so long that he could still formulate them in spite of it all.

  “I was born in the darkest time,” he went on. “On December 24th. December 21st is the shortest day of the year. The twenty-fourth isn’t much better. Really it’s not a day at all. It’s an endless night.”

  Outside, past the window, the darkness grew thicker. It was hard for Beatrice to think of a way to contradict him.

  “But there’s Christmas,” she said finally. “It’s something really special.”

  Erich laughed. It sounded pained and unhappy.

  “Oh yes,” he said. “Something really special. This hellish December twenty-fourth is so special that no one ever thinks anything else could have happened on this day other than the birth of Christ. My own birth, for example. Nobody was ever interested.”

  Finally he turned around. Beatrice could just barely see his face. She thought he looked gray, old, and tired.

  “I’ve never been important. To anyone. Do you know what my mother would often say to me? ‘Erich,’ she would say, ‘you really spoiled Christmas for me that year. Everybody was sitting around the Christmas tree and celebrating. I lay in be
d and had to bring you into the world. Couldn’t you have picked another day?’ ”

  “She was joking,” said Beatrice.

  “Of course she was joking, of course. But no joke is ever just a joke, do you understand? There’s always a flicker of seriousness, of truth. On that holy night in 1899 my mother must really have thought, Damn! Why today, of all days? Couldn’t the little brat have come a little earlier, or a little later? Why today?”

  “Nobody has a choice with something like that,” Beatrice said matter-of-factly. She noticed she had a slight headache. It always happened when she spoke with Erich. It was as if something tightened inside her head. Why couldn’t he just sort his problems out on his own every once in awhile?

  He stared at her. “My life is as dark as the day on which I was born.”

  “Wouldn’t you like to come down?”

  “I’ll come later,” he said and turned back to the window.

  He didn’t show for dinner. Helene and Beatrice sat by themselves to a meal of herring salad and wine. Helene was tense and nervous.

  “Every year this day is a drama,” she said. She fidgeted anxiously with her napkin holder. “I don’t know exactly what it is he can’t get over. Probably that he’s a year older.”

  “Probably just that he’s not the center of attention,” was Beatrice’s response.

  Erich came down just as Beatrice and Helene had decided to go to bed. The candles on the tree had burned down low, the table had been cleared; an atmosphere of sleep filled the room. The wine had made Beatrice feel foggy. It was the first time she had drunk alcohol. She found it a little difficult to concentrate on her surroundings.

  Erich was in a brilliant mood, and very intoxicated. Beatrice guessed that he had taken pills as a pick-me-up. He didn’t want to eat, but he complained about the candles on the tree not being lit, and finally Helene had to go and find new ones. He had her put them in the holders and light them. Erich said they should all sing “Silent Night” together, but it was just he and Helene singing — Beatrice didn’t know the lyrics in German. Then Erich stood in the middle of the room and began to declaim on the subject of the war. He made use of pretentious words, wild gestures, and theatrical facial expressions. The final victory was close to within reach; the Führer was on the verge of proving his greatness to the world; the master race was wiping the world clean of all inferior subjects. Erich hurled slogan after slogan into the room in a hoarse, drunken voice — but with something false in his gaze, in his gestures, in his bearing.

  He doesn’t believe anything he’s saying, Beatrice thought. He speaks in words that somebody else has thought up because he doesn’t want to think about them. But it’s foolishness, and he knows that it’s foolishness.

  “I’m going to sleep,” she said and made to stand, but Erich pushed her back down onto her chair. “Sit down. I’m not finished yet.”

  He kept talking. He opened a bottle of wine and, despite their protests, poured glasses for Beatrice and Helene. He drank one himself, and then another right afterwards. It grew less and less clear what he was saying. Phrases sometimes appeared not to refer to anything. Later they won back a certain meaning, but were simply repetitions of what the Nazi propaganda machine was constantly spitting out.

  Eventually the candles had burned down for a second time and Erich was no longer standing. He sat there, holding himself up on the table, and announced that his name was Erich Feldmann and no one could do anything to change that.

  “Maybe we should take him upstairs,” Beatrice said.

  They grabbed him on either side and led him up the stairs. Erich didn’t protest. He tried to speak but he could no longer manage a single word. In his bedroom upstairs Helene and Beatrice steered him towards the bed. He lay down and in the next moment was asleep.

  “He’s going to feel dreadful tomorrow,” Helene said with a sigh. “Sometimes I ask myself if it will ever be possible to have a Christmas with him that isn’t horrible!”

  Beatrice thought that just about every day with him was horrible, but she said nothing. She longed for quiet and sleep, and more than ever she longed for Deborah and Andrew.

  She woke very early the next morning, even though she had been so late in getting to bed. A foggy, cold day greeted her through the window. Gray and dark. She remembered what Erich had said about this time of year, and for a moment she could feel the shudder that would run through his body when he opened his eyes and saw the fog. But then she remembered that it was December 25th and that in earlier times she would have thought it was a nice day despite the cold and the fog. A warm fire would have been burning in the living room hearth. The house would have smelled of coffee, eggs, and bacon, and she would have kneeled on the carpet in her nightgown to open her presents. She would have felt enveloped in warmth and love, would have listened to Deborah warbling Christmas songs in a soft voice.

  She stood up, dressed, and went downstairs. An unwelcoming scene awaited her in the dining room. Cold candle smoke hung between the walls. Empty glasses and bottles stood on the table — the remnants of the alcoholic excess Erich had abandoned himself to the night before.

  Beatrice had the feeling, all of a sudden, that she wouldn’t be able to bear spending the morning in this house with Helene and Erich. It would be too hopeless, too sad. She put on her coat, snuck outside, and made her way to Mae’s.

  The air was cold and damp, and she could only see a few feet ahead of her on account of the fog. Silver hoarfrost lay over the fields on either side of the road. Now and again a stray beam of sunlight would steal through the wall of fog. It pooled on the grass and on top of the walls. Not a sound could be heard. The island was wreathed in complete silence; the fog seemed to have swallowed up all life. Beatrice hunched forward, shivering. She knew it wasn’t only on account of the cold that she was freezing.

  The Wyatt’s cozy house, with its lattice windows and its garden full of fruit trees, appeared before her at the entrance to the village. There wasn’t a light on anywhere. Beatrice was confused. Was the family still asleep? But the shutters were open, and after a bit of hesitation, Beatrice tried the steel doorknocker.

  Nothing stirred. She tried again, but still everything remained quiet. She went around the house to the back, walked to the kitchen door, and peered in through the glass pane. She saw Julien sitting at the table drinking coffee.

  He caught sight of her at the same moment she saw him and jumped up. For a short second he looked like he was going to run out of the kitchen and hide, but he seemed to grasp the uselessness of such a reaction. And so he remained standing, and they stared at each other, Beatrice full of amazement, Julien full of terror.

  Then Julien came to the door, turned the lock and opened up.

  “Beatrice!” His voice sounded cheerful. “Are you alone?”

  “Yes. There’s no one with me. Julien … I don’t even know what I …”

  He took a step back. “Come in!” He whispered. She was barely inside before he’d bolted the door again.

  “I knocked on the front door.” Before she knew it, Beatrice was whispering as well. “But when no one came …”

  “I didn’t hear a thing,” said Julien. He looked very pale, very much deeply in shock still. “Oh God, it was awfully careless of me to sit here in the kitchen. It could have been Germans looking through the window all of a sudden.”

  “Or neighbors who could give you away,” said Beatrice. “How long have you been here?”

  “Since the third day after my escape. First I hid in the cliffs along the shore, but I couldn’t survive there of course. Dr. Wyatt was the only person I knew — and the only one I trusted. He took me in at once.”

  “I’ve been here so often,” said Beatrice, “and I never noticed anything.”

  “I live upstairs in the attic,” Julien made a face. “Not the best place to stay, but bette
r than working for the Germans. Dr. Wyatt is always thinking of how we might be able to get me off the island, but he thinks it’s too dangerous. The Germans keep watch over every shore.”

  “Does Mae know?” Beatrice asked. Julien nodded.

  “Of course. It wouldn’t work if she hadn’t been told. It seems that she’s held her tongue, though.”

  “That she has.” Beatrice was stunned. The silly, childish Mae had actually managed to keep quiet about such a sensational piece of information. She wouldn’t have thought her capable of such a thing.

  “Where are Mae and her parents?” She asked.

  “With friends. They were invited to a Christmas breakfast. They’ll be back around midday. Would you like some coffee, Beatrice? Have a seat!” He pulled up a chair for her. Gradually, he seemed to relax. “I just had to come down from the attic for a bit. You go crazy up there. Sometimes I get really claustrophobic. I’d like to open a window and scream, but of course I don’t do it.” He took a second cup from the cabinet, placed it before Beatrice and poured her coffee. “Here, drink. You look rather frozen.”