River's Edge (2 page)
Authors: Marie Bostwick
Chapter 1
M
y eighth birthday party, January 30, 1933, was a small one, as always. The same five people were in attendance every year: Mother, Father, Uncle Wilhelm, Cousin Peter, and me. Mother's health did not allow her to entertain large groups, and even small adult celebrations were taxing for her, leaving her weak for days afterward. Inviting other children was simply out of the question. Even if I'd had any little friends to include in the festivities, their parents would have forbidden them to attend. They were afraid of contagion. I don't blame them. If Mother hadn't been consumptive herself, I am sure she would have felt the same way.
y eighth birthday party, January 30, 1933, was a small one, as always. The same five people were in attendance every year: Mother, Father, Uncle Wilhelm, Cousin Peter, and me. Mother's health did not allow her to entertain large groups, and even small adult celebrations were taxing for her, leaving her weak for days afterward. Inviting other children was simply out of the question. Even if I'd had any little friends to include in the festivities, their parents would have forbidden them to attend. They were afraid of contagion. I don't blame them. If Mother hadn't been consumptive herself, I am sure she would have felt the same way.
Captain Wilhelm Canaris, whom I always called Uncle, was my nominal godfather. Father had served under him on his first posting, as a midshipman aboard a U-boat. Like Father, Uncle Wilhelm came from a distinguished German family, and though Father was then only a young officer in training, just sixteen years old, Captain Canaris had taken a liking to him. Over the years, they had become good friends. In 1935 Uncle Wilhelm would become Admiral Canaris and head of the
Abwehr,
the German military intelligence office. He made Father part of his staff.
Abwehr,
the German military intelligence office. He made Father part of his staff.
Though Uncle Wilhelm came to our home only rarely, I looked forward to his visits. He was very prompt and always arrived for my birthday dinner at precisely the appointed hour; yet I came downstairs fifteen minutes early to wait for him just the same. I sat dressed in my very best on the bottom step of the staircase, hugging my knees in close as I rested my chin on them and stared at the face of the old grandfather clock, willing it to strike seven.
When at long last the magical hour arrived, the heavy brass knocker sounded waltz time, one-two-three, on the front door. I rushed forward to open it, only to be impatiently pushed aside by the uniformed housemaid who had been hired to serve for the evening. Uncle came in the door smiling, murmuring inconsequential complaints about the cold to the housemaid, and bearing a simply enormous and extravagantly wrapped gift in his hands. Though I knew I wouldn't be permitted to open it until after dessert, it was difficult to keep my eyes off the beribboned box. Guessing what was hidden inside gave me a way to occupy my mind during the long, dull meal and grown-up conversation that I was expected to endure as the silent guest of honor. Uncle always insisted on bringing my present into the dining room and placing it on the sideboard, directly across from my place at the table. I think he knew how gazing at it helped me to pass the time.
Upon handing his coat and hat to the maid, who hung them up and then went to announce the arrival of Captain Canaris to my parents, Uncle pretended to suddenly notice me perched on the stair where I had retreated after being pushed aside by the maid.
“Well, well, well!” he said cheerfully, drawing his considerable eyebrows together into a single, bristly bunch, like a well-used scrub brush. “What do we have here? A mouse hiding on the stair? Come here, little mouse, and let me see how you have grown.” I stood up, and he kneeled down, so we were eye to eye as he looked me carefully up and down, declaring, as he did every year, that I must have grown a meter since he last saw me.
I smiled timidly in response, but before I could say anything, Father emerged from his study, wearing his full dress uniform, complete with highly polished shoes and rows of shining medals. Mother followed slowly behind, using a cane to steady her uncertain steps. She was beautiful, dressed in one of the dozens of elegant evening gowns that hung in her dressing room, a glittering reminder of the gay life she had led before I was born, before she first became ill.
Uncle rose from his knees to clasp Father's outstretched hand. The room always seemed smaller when Father entered it, and, not for the first time, I reflected that it was a good thing Mother and I were so petite or there wouldn't have been room in the house for us.
“Lale, my darling,” Uncle purred as he leaned down to kiss Mother on the cheek, “You are looking radiant, my dear.” It was true. Mother's face was always radiant. Her cheeks were twin flames in her thin face, feverish reminders of the specter that haunted us all.
The welcoming rituals having been observed, we filed into the dining room and sat down at the table, Father at the head, with Uncle at his right hand and Mother at his left. I sat next to Uncle. This left an empty place next to Mother where Cousin Peter was meant to sit, but he was late. The grownups talked quietly of things that did not interest me. From time to time, Father looked impatiently at his watch. Finally he said, “I don't know what is keeping Peter. He is always late.”
“I am sure he is not
always
late,” Mother disagreed gently, but I knew she was wrong.
always
late,” Mother disagreed gently, but I knew she was wrong.
Whenever Cousin Peter came to dinner he was at least ten minutes late and would enter the dining room breathless and beaming, full of good cheer and complicated explanations. Unlike Uncle Wilhelm, Cousin Peter was an actual relative, descended from our common ancestor, General Yorck, hero of the Napoleonic wars. Father was very proud of our connection to the great General Yorck. When expounding on the shameful state of the German military, as he did tonight to Uncle, he often quoted Yorck's 1813 speech to the troops in which he declared that the chief virtues of a Prussian soldier were courage, endurance, and discipline.
“And then,” Father said, fixing his eyes skyward and stabbing the empty air with his index finger to emphasize his point, “the Great Yorck said, âbut the Fatherland expects something more sublime from us who are going into battle for the sacred causeânoble, humane conduct even towards the enemy.' ”
Finishing the quote, his hand dropped to the table and his lip curled in disgust as he complained to Uncle, “These Allied generals know nothing of the honor that should exist between warriors, both victor and vanquished.” Uncle nodded in agreement as he sipped wine from his glass. “But, neither do we anymore,” Father continued. “We have forgotten our tradition and honor. That is our shame.”
Father put a great store on honor and tradition. Although Cousin Peter was an actual count, titled, and more closely related to the great Yorck than we were, he was far less Prussian than Father, lacking the stiff formality that was the mark of a German military aristocrat. They were nearly the same age, but Peter seemed much younger than Father. Peter was handsome and fun-loving, and I was a little in love with him. I suspected that Father disapproved of his cousin taking up the law, just as he disapproved of his habitual lateness, but he still liked Cousin Peter. However, Peter's lack of punctuality rankled.
“Whatever can be keeping Peter?” Father growled as he pulled out his pocket watch to confirm that his cousin was now late by a full quarter-hour.
“I am sure he has good reason for his tardiness,” Mother said gently. “You know what the traffic is like this time of night, Herman.”
Father grunted. “Captain Canaris had to deal with the same traffic, and he is not late. I don't think it is fair to keep everyone waiting for their dinner just becauseâ”
But before Father could finish his sentence, the door to the dining room burst open and Uncle Peter was in the room, pushing past the housemaid, who looked irritated that he had not given her a chance to announce him properly, kissing Mother on the cheek, shaking hands with Father and Uncle, winking at me as he put his birthday gift on the sideboard next to Uncle's, all the while offering his profound apologies, saying it simply couldn't be helped, the shop assistant who had wrapped his gift had taken forever and ...
“Well,” Father said gruffly but not unkindly, “you are here now, and that is what is important. Please, sit down.” He got to his feet and motioned toward the empty place next to Mother. Turning to the maid, he inclined his head slightly to indicate that she could begin to serve.
The meal consisted of three courses and two wines and one birthday cake. I ate my slice of cake with relish and thought with pleasure about what was to come next.
When the plates were cleared I would finally be allowed to open my gifts. What would I find in those boxes? A bright-eyed Steiff bear? An elegantly dressed doll? One year I received a hand-painted miniature tea set imported from England. What about this year? Uncle Wilhelm and Cousin Peter never failed to give me the perfect gift, and I never needed parental prompting to bestow sincere kisses of thanks on their cheeks. Afterward we would retire to the music room, and the grownups would sip sherry from tiny crystal glasses while I played the piano for the prescribed half-hour, always opening the concert with my favorite, “Für Elise,” and closing with Uncle's favorite, “The Blue Danube” waltz. When the clock struck nine, Mother would suggest that it was time for me to go to bed. With my bedroom door left slightly ajar, I would fall asleep to the sounds of pleasant, rumbling male voices punctuated by Mother's tinkling laughter and occasional cough.
Certainly, my birthday celebrations were quite subdued and predictable compared to many other children's, yet I liked them just the way they were. Growing up in the shadow of my mother's illness made me cherish the tradition and regularity of the occasion, as though observing our little rituals with exactness and precision would keep anything from changing. But it didn't work that year, my eighth. I didn't realize it yet, but that was the year when everything began to changeâfor me, for my family, for Germany, for the entire world.
As I scraped the last bite of icing off the plate and onto my fork, I heard a faint murmur of voices outside that grew in strength and volume as the moments passed, like a distant sound of rushing water that grows and swells when a current carries you to the edge of the falls. I saw a flicker of candlelight that became a glow through the darkness, illuminating the white lace curtains of the windows, bathing them in heat and yellow light. I looked around at the faces of the grownups to see if they'd heard it too. They had. The stiff, uncomfortable set of Father's jaw and the studied indifference of Uncle's expression told me that they were as aware that something was happening outside as I was. Mother started making aimless small talk with Cousin Peter about the cake, commenting that she didn't think it was as moist as it should have been. They were all working so hard to ignore the noises outside that I somehow sensed I should do the same, but when the swelling voices began to sing, I couldn't help myself. I jumped out of my chair, pushed open the French doors, and ran out onto the dining room balcony. The grownups followed me, slowly, and stood framed in the door behind me.
The street below was crowded with young people, singing and carrying torches, marching in the direction of the Brandenburg Gate. There were so many of them that the sky glowed orange-red with the light of the torches they carried. The air was electric with their excitement, and, for one silly moment, I was excited too, thinking that the parade was somehow connected with my birthday. The marchers finished singing, and a handsome young boy dressed in a brown shirt with military-looking braid, no more than fifteen or sixteen years old, saw me leaning over the balcony railing and grinned at me. Raising his arm at a stiff, sharp angle, he shouted, “Heil Hitler!” and, as if in answer to his call, the other marchers shouted lustily, “Heil Hitler!” They began singing again, even more loudly and enthusiastically than before. The sound was so powerful and the atmosphere so thick with their expectation that I could feel the hair standing up on my neck.
I spun around to face the grownups, too excited to take much note of their serious expressions. “Mother! Father! Look how many people there are!” I exclaimed breathlessly. “There's no end to them!” I pointed down the street in the direction that the marchers had come from. It was true; the crowds of people stretched down Wilhelmstrasse as far as the eye could see, as though the parade stretched to the horizon and the marchers had been mysteriously summoned from the bowels of the earth.
“What are they so excited about?” I asked. I was young and knew nothing of the political turmoil of recent days. “Who is Hitler?”
“He is the new chancellor,” Mother answered without offering further explanation.
Father snorted derisively at her simple description. “He is a thug with delusions of grandeur. He is a former wallpaper hanger and a former
corporal.
” He spoke this last word with a sneer. Worldly I was not, but I was an officer's daughter, and even at the age of eight, I knew that corporals ranked very low on the list of persons one must concern oneself with. Corporals were not people who merited parades.
corporal.
” He spoke this last word with a sneer. Worldly I was not, but I was an officer's daughter, and even at the age of eight, I knew that corporals ranked very low on the list of persons one must concern oneself with. Corporals were not people who merited parades.
Father's eyes narrowed as he scanned the columns of torches advancing past him. “Stupid sheep,” he commented to no one in particular. He shook himself as if in response to a sudden chill. “Come, Lale,” he said. “Elise. Come inside. It's cold. Come inside before you catch a chill.”
Mother and I did as we were bid. Father and Uncle followed behind, and I heard Uncle say, “Flash in the pan, Herman. Nothing to worry about. He may be chancellor, but the strength of Germany still lies with the military. He needs us more than we need him. He can be managed. You'll see.”
“I am not so sure about that,” interjected Cousin Peter. “He becomes stronger every day. Two years ago, or even one, could anyone have imagined that this would have happened? He may only be a former corporal, Cousin Herman, but now he is chancellor of Germany. He is powerful, cunning, and ambitious. A year ago you might have been able to manage him.” He turned his head and scanned the crowds of chanting young people streaming by, their eyes unnaturally bright and fixed, as if they were gripped by some feverish delirium. A cloud of concern passed over Peter's normally cheerful face. “He doesn't need you anymore. He has them.”
Other books
The 51st Thursday by Mercy Celeste
The Egyptian by Layton Green
West Wind by Mary Oliver
Michael's father by Schulze, Dallas
Secrets to Hide 3: Just a Little More by Ella Sheridan
The Journalist and the Murderer by Janet Malcolm
Persuasion (Barnes & Noble Classics Series) by Jane Austen
Flash Fiction: 72 Very Short Stories by James Thomas and Denise Thomas and Tom Hazuka
A Share in Death by Deborah Crombie
Rough Weather by Robert B. Parker
