The Rose Gardener Read online

  5

  “Yes,” said Beatrice. “That’s how it was. The war was actually over. Only, we were still sitting around with our occupiers and asking ourselves what would happen. The chief commander of the islands’ armed forces surrendered on May 9th. And then our people were there at once, English soldiers. By mid-May all the Germans had left Guernsey and the other islands as prisoners of war. It was actually over.”

  They were still sitting on the boulders by the sea. By then the wind had driven the last clouds from the sky, and the sun had gotten astonishingly stronger. Franca had turned so that its rays no longer fell on her face; her skin was very sensitive and still pale from winter, and she was afraid of getting a sunburn.

  “But before that,” she said, “before May 9th, before the surrender, Erich shot himself.”

  “Yes,” Beatrice affirmed. “He shot himself before the surrender. On May 1st, fifty-five years ago.”

  “Why did he do it?”

  “I don’t know. Was he really so afraid of the victors’ revenge? Later on I would still think often of our conversation that New Year’s night. He’d articulated his fear, but I hadn’t really taken it seriously. He had been drinking, he had taken pills, and his talk was marked by that sentimentality that the Germans …” She cut herself off, laughing. “Forgive me, Franca. You’re also German. I didn’t mean to speak ill of Germans in general. I mean the Nazis. The Nazis could be monstrously sentimental. They were always bursting into tears when they spoke of the burden of their fate. Maybe that was why I never believed anything Erich said. And after that New Year’s Eve I immediately got sick, and I certainly wasn’t going to give it any thought then. I’m afraid, though, that I wouldn’t have even if things had been otherwise. I just took it all for the normal, sappy blathering he was inclined to fall into at times.”

  “How was he in the days before he shot himself?” Franca asked. “Could you notice anything about him?”

  Beatrice shook her head. “He was hyper-nervous. But so was everyone else, English or German, and indeed the Germans even more so. There was an almost indescribable tension on the island. Everyone was glued to the radio, morning and night. No one knew what was to come. Above all, it was the officers who were on edge. For weeks they had received no orders. They were starving, and they’d been completely cut off. I think even their role wasn’t clear to them anymore. They maintained command over a group of islands off the French coast, but on account of their nationality found themselves in circumstances of catastrophic defeat. Their presence as an occupying army was a farce, and they didn’t know if or how they should end it. Their fate of becoming prisoners of war was clear to them. Hundreds of captives had died of hunger and abuse on the islands. There had been prop trials and summary executions. They couldn’t hope that they’d be treated delicately.”

  “But there were,” said Franca, “friendly relations with the islands’ residents.”

  “Friendly might be saying too much. But there were a great deal of established relationships between German soldiers and English girls. And since the summer of ‘forty-four, everyone had been going through hard times together. There was almost no actual hatred of the occupation force.”

  “Then Erich didn’t have that much to fear,” Franca said. “It was obviously different than with the Germans in Czechoslovakia, for example. They were having to reckon with an uprising, with bloody revenge, and that’s exactly what happened too. But here …”

  “I think,” said Beatrice, “that Erich simply couldn’t get over the feeling of defeat. He had failed. The idea that he had believed in, that he’d given himself to, had come to nothing. He couldn’t come to terms with this. The disgrace, the humiliation, do you understand? He was running away from it, and there seemed to be no way out for him but death.” She looked out over the water. From her gaze it seemed she was tracking something on the horizon, but Franca knew that her thoughts had gone back to that day in May 1945, that she was seeing images from back then.

  “We couldn’t save him. Like I’ve said, we couldn’t get him a doctor. Wyatt was out somewhere on the island, his wife had no idea where. I ran to St. Martin, but neither a German nor an English doctor could be found. Later, it came out that most of them were in the prisoner of war camps. The Germans were panicking on account of the bad state that all the prisoners were in, and they were trying, with the doctors’ help, to bring about a last second improvement. In most cases there could hardly have been anything to be done — especially since the doctors had hardly any medicine left, not even bandages. But no,” she again turned her gaze back to Franca, and back to the present, “in any case, we weren’t able to find anyone who could help him. He died, and we had to look on. Maybe it was for the best. Anyway, it was what he’d wanted.”

  Franca gave her a close look. “Did you mourn him, Beatrice?”

  Beatrice laughed. She took a crumpled cigarette and a lighter out of her jeans pocket. She lit the cigarette. The wind coming off the ocean tore at the tiny flame, she finally succeeded on her fifth try. “Mourn Erich? First I thought: He’s dead, and that’s good. I had no inner attachment to him. He was a Nazi, he was an enemy. He had persecuted Julien, he had destroyed our love. No, I didn’t mourn. Not then, and not later.” She brushed hair from her forehead. “But eventually it became clear to me that I too was a loser in the game he’d played with death. Perhaps I was even the biggest loser of all.”

  “How come?”

  “He left me Helene,” Beatrice said tersely. In her eyes was a dislike that Franca’s senses told her was bordering on hatred. “He left me Helene, and there were times when I only mourned for myself.”

  6

  The flight arrived in London at 5:30 p.m. — right on time. Maya’s heart was pounding when she stepped off the plane. She had been to London twice in her life, each time for the birthday of her great-grandmother Wyatt, which was in August and which for a while now had no longer been celebrated. Ever since the woman who was the focus of the celebration, upon reaching her ninetieth year of life, had decided that henceforth each additional birthday could only be embarrassing, and she would like to do without the gifts and well-wishing. Maya found that idiotic. She herself would let the presents and praise pour over her, even at one hundred. Besides, great-grandmother Wyatt’s fussiness had mucked up her opportunity to at least get to come to London once a year — and on Mae’s dime, since in the case of a family celebration, she would have paid for the airfare.

  And, so she had to get to be twenty-two years old before she got to come back. She had had to give out her last penny, and even that hadn’t been enough; she’d incurred debts yet again. Mae had made up the remaining amount. Not, however, without giving her endless reproaches and demanding, over and over, that Maya absolutely go and visit old Mrs. Wyatt.

  “You don’t have to give me back the money if you go and check up on Mum every now and again. Will you promise me that? It would make her so very happy. And you’d be doing me a nice favor.”

  Maya had little interest in spending even one afternoon with a ninety-five-year-old woman, but she promised Mae to check in on Mrs. Wyatt “every now and then.” She needed the money, and it had been hard enough to get her to swallow her plan of moving to London to live with Alan.

  “Do you think that Alan would even like that?” Mae had asked, doubt in her voice. “I mean, you just pop into his life and assume he’ll take you in with open arms. What are you going to do if he won’t go along with it?”

  Maya laughed. “Grandmother, Alan has gone down on his knees and begged me to come live with him at least a hundred times. He’ll hardly believe his luck when I’m suddenly standing at his door.”

  “When was the last time you spoke to him?”

  “Early January. Why?”

  “It’s April now. You don’t know what might have changed in his life. Maybe there’s another woman. Maybe he doesn’t l
ive at the same address anymore. Maybe …”

  “Grandmother, you’re such an old pessimist! Nothing changes with Alan. He’s hopelessly wrapped up in me and would pine away for me till he was old and gray. You’ll see, everything will go exactly the way I want it to.”

  Mae had sighed and reached for her wallet, taken out a check and filled it out in the amount of four hundred pounds. “This is only in case you need it! In principle, I’d like it back without your having cashed it. But in case something should go wrong with Alan, this way you have money for a hotel and a flight home.”

  “It won’t be necessary, but thanks very much.” Maya had casually put the check away. “I’ll call when I’m there, Grandmother. Don’t worry. I always land on my feet.”

  She had meant just what she’d said, but now, on the evening of her arrival in London, she began to feel a little bit queasy after all. Hopefully Mae wasn’t right with her naysaying. The fact was that she had heard nothing from Alan since their last conversation in January. Normally he would call every two or three weeks, would ask how she was and talk about the things that were going on in his life.

  His withdrawal and complete silence were suspicious. On the other hand, there might have been some strategy behind it. After lapping at her heels for years without any real success, now he had changed tactics: he pulled back. Didn’t let a word of him get through, sealed himself off completely. He wanted to make her nervous, wanted to force her to take action.

  And he’ll think he’s succeeded, thought Maya, now that I’m showing up at his doorstep all of a sudden. Not that I wouldn’t have come one way or another anyway. But let him go ahead and chalk it up as a victory. The main thing is I’m able to stay with him.

  Alan lived on Sloane Street, and for a second Maya was about to try and take a taxi to his place. But then the last of her cash would have been gone, and she would have had only the emergency check from Mae, which she really shouldn’t even cash — which she would cash, though, as she already knew. But she had to hold onto her reserves a little bit longer, and so, with heavy heart, she opted for the subway.

  London’s Underground at rush hour was hell, all the more so when you had to drag two rolling suitcases behind you and were also carrying a heavy bag on your shoulders. The April day was warm, the air in the train car was thick enough to cut. At one point Maya went in the wrong direction and had to go the whole way back, and when finally — it seemed like it had been hours — she walked back into daylight again on Sloane Street, she was bathed in sweat. She felt sticky, dirty, and completely unattractive.

  Fantastic, she thought, now I look just like a woman who seeks a man out in his apartment to throw herself at him and make clear that from now on he’s to put her up and take care of her financially.

  Panting, she put down her suitcase, took her address book from her handbag and made sure she had the right address. Then she wearily proceeded on the last step of the way.

  Maya was the last person in the world that Alan would have expected. He stood in his living room drinking a whiskey — his second of the day — when the buzzer rang. For a second he wondered if he should even answer; it had been a stressful day, and he didn’t want to see or speak to anyone else that evening. But the buzzer rang a second and third time, and finally he went to the door, hoping that it wasn’t Liz, a young woman he had been seeing for the last couple of weeks. He had broken up with her a few days earlier, not really knowing why, since she was attractive, intelligent, had a good sense of humor, and was very much in love with him. It was probably because she wasn’t Maya. He would probably break up with every woman simply because she wasn’t Maya.

  He opened the door, and there was Maya standing in front of him.

  He was literally struck dumb — but she did the talking.

  “Hello, Alan. Down by the door to the building there are two of my suitcases that I can’t get up the stairs. Could you get them? And please tell me where the bathroom is. I just have to have a shower.”

  Dazed, he opened the bathroom door for her; quick as lightning, she vanished inside. He heard her turn the lock, and shortly thereafter heard the water splashing. He felt like a kowtowing fool as he trudged down the stairs and lugged up the two suitcases, one after the other. They seemed like they were filled with millstones.

  How long is she planning on staying? He asked himself.

  To judge from her luggage, she had to have brought almost everything she owned with her. Slowly he got a hold of himself, and noticed that he was getting angry. It was so unbelievably typical of Maya to drop in on him like this, to force her will and her decision on him. And he played along, too, carried out her orders without a word. On the other hand, he couldn’t very well have left her suitcases sitting downstairs, or blocked her from entering the bathroom. He heard the hum of a hair dryer and Maya warbling some tune. Apparently she was in the best of spirits.

  Naturally. Everything’s going just the way she wanted it to.

  He went in the living room, poured himself a third whiskey, and wondered if he had any champagne in the refrigerator. Maya would want a glass, or several, and after that she probably planned to go out to eat at an expensive restaurant, somewhere chic and fashionable.

  What had she come to London for?

  He paced around the room, restless. It was a good long while before Maya appeared. She was wrapped in a large, fluffy bath towel. A few drops of water glistened decorously on her shoulders. She had to have sprinkled them there afterwards, since really it had been too long since her shower. Her hair was shining; she had put on lipstick, fresh mascara, and had sprayed herself liberally with perfume. When she had come in the door earlier she had looked exhausted and somewhat ruffled, but there was nothing more of this to be seen. She looked rested, fresh, young, and full of energy. Her eyes were radiant.

  “Do you have a cigarette for me?” she asked. “And something to drink?”

  He handed her the cigarette pack without a word. When he gave her a light, she bent so close to him that he could smell her hair and her skin. All the thoughts, full of longing, that in countless days and nights he had linked to her, assailed him once more. Why the hell couldn’t he get over them? Why couldn’t he get over her? He felt the pressure to say what he knew he’d now have to say to her. He would have to tell her that she could of course stay the night, seeing as how she was already here, but that next morning she had to pack her things and go. She shouldn’t expect that he would let himself be pushed around, that he would act just how she wanted him to, that he …

  Oh God, he thought wearily, I’m not going to say it. Yet again I’m going to snap up the few crumbs she throws my way. The victory will be hers, because things always happen exactly the way she wants them to.

  She stretched out her hand, softly ran her fingers across his forehead. “You’ve got a worry line over your nose,” she said. Her voice sounded tender and a bit husky, and a shiver ran down his spine. “What’s wrong? Aren’t you happy I’m here?”

  He laughed, quietly and in resignation. “What do you expect, Maya? For me to be jumping for joy? I don’t even know why you’re here. I don’t know what your plans are.”

  “You were going to get me something to drink,” Maya reminded him.

  He stood up and went to the kitchen. As luck would have it, there was in fact an ice-cold bottle of champagne sitting in the fridge. He put it on ice and took it back into the living room. Maya was sitting on the carpet, her back against the white sofa. Her gaze swept the room, alert and critical. She didn’t try to hide the fact that she was weighing the precise value of each object.

  She’s still the same greedy little girl, he thought, and she always will be.

  She drank the champagne in hurried sips, and immediately had him pour her another.

  “It’s a nice place,” she said then. “The apartment is very elegant. It suits you. I like
it.”

  “Thanks. You haven’t answered my question yet.”

  “You haven’t asked one.”

  “I said, ‘I don’t know what your plans are.’ That, in certain respects, is a question.”

  She smiled coquettishly. “Well, what do you think my plans are?”

  He was aware that he was furrowing his brow again. “No, Maya. Let’s talk sensibly. All of a sudden you stand there at my door with two giant suitcases, take over my bathroom for a good half hour, sit here all pretty and picturesque in my living room and bat your eyelashes. You want something then. I’m guessing a free place to stay in London.”

  Her mouth dropped, her expression turned into a sulk. “Alan, you can really be rather cold and ugly. I …”

  “Maya!” he said sharply. “Don’t even try it! It’s not going to soften me up if you make puppy dog eyes and talk in a squeaky little voice. Please behave like a grown woman.”

  She seemed to realize he was serious. She sat up and pulled the bath towel tighter around her body. The expression on her face was now cool and focused. She looked so desirable, what he most wanted was to reach out his arms and pull her to him.

  “Ok, Alan,” she said. “Let’s speak completely openly with one another. I’d like to stay in London. I’m hopelessly fed up with life on Guernsey. It’s boring, and I don’t see any future there for me. My family thinks I’ll only be gone for a few months, but the truth is that I’d like to never go back. I’m here, and I’m staying here. And I’m hoping you’ll help me.”

  “What are you going to live on?”

  “I’ll look for a job,” Maya said boldly, “but that’s certainly not going to happen overnight.”

  “Certainly not. What did you have in mind?”

  Maya’s composure began to crack a bit. Alan knew he had asked the pivotal question, which she probably didn’t have an answer for. She took a quick pull on her cigarette.