Staff Nurse in the Tyrol (10 page)

She smiled up at Sonia, and the girl felt the angry hurt, still lingering after Michael’s words, slip away as if it had never been. Here with the babies there was peace. She took the first baby from the nun and began to give it its bottle. She tried not to remember the uncertainty that Michael’s attack had left behind. She attempted to tell herself that his remarks were only an echo of her parents’ foolish over-anxiety. She was perfectly capable of managing her own affairs. She began to regret that she had agreed to go with him this afternoon. Instinctively she knew that he didn’t really want her to come with him, but she also guessed that if she endeavored to break the arrangement his anger would be stronger than his reluctance.

Sonia felt the heat of the sun strike her as she emerged onto the terrace. She was as shy as she had been attending her first dance as she approached the deck chair where Michael waited for her.

He glanced up with a smile that became slightly rueful as he saw her slow walk. “Poor Sonia! Was I as unkind as all that? I’m sorry. I don’t think I really meant to be.”

She echoed his smile. “I didn’t mean to be a nuisance.”

He rose to his feet and put his arm through hers. “Apologies given and accepted. Come on, let’s enjoy ourselves. I’m sure you’ll like the Burckhardts. They’re poor, but they haven’t lost their gift of laughter. I hear the tram. Come on!”

Hand in hand they ran down the sunlit drive toward the cool shadow of the forest. Presently the little red tram would appear, pick them up, and transport them down the valley to where Innsbruck shimmered in the heat of the afternoon.

Sonia leaned her head against the window frame and let the breeze blow against her face. “To think that I would ever feel too hot! At home one dreams of lying in the sun and soaking up the heat into one’s very bones.”

Michael glanced at her. “Reality is always a very different thing,” he commented dryly. “Still sure that nursing in a foreign language is all that you thought it would be?”

Sonia considered the question.
“Yes ...
mostly, but some things haven’t been what I expected.”

“What, for instance?”

“I think I hadn’t allowed for the dissimilarity between the Austrian temperament and our own,” she said slowly.

“Quite the Little psychologist, aren’t you? Tell me what your analysis has uncovered so far in the few days that you’ve been here.”

Sonia flushed. “Do you have to tease me? Can’t you ever give me credit for a single serious thought?”

“I hadn’t given the possibility due consideration, I see,” Michael replied with mock gravity. “All right, I’ll listen for five minutes.”

Sonia resisted the impulse to give him an angry retort. Of all the
pompous, insufferable
—
“It’s the way they swing from the
heights to the depths and back again. It happens so quickly that you never know what to expect.”

Michael snorted. “You make them sound like manic-depressive types from a psychiatrist’s notebook. Why should you even look for the same kind of people that you find in your own stodgy suburbia? They come not only from a different country but from a totally dissimilar background, education, upbringing, outlook and so on. Of course they won’t be the same as the people you know. Don’t forget, too, that most of them have known the soul-wringing poverty that follows in the footsteps of wars, for more generations than you can count. You say their moods change quickly. Wouldn’t yours, if you never knew who your friends
were ...
if the one you trusted today was a deadly enemy tomorrow? How can you expect to know? You’ve never been up against a decision more important than which pretty dress to wear. Have the sense not to bother your foolish little head about things you can’t help.”

Sonia was silent for a space of minutes. “Are you so very sure then that only you can know about things more important than choosing what to wear? I’m not a child.”

He turned, regarded her for a moment, and then patted her on the shoulder. “Aren’t you? Think your serious thoughts if you want to, but don’t expect me to listen. I have no patience with dreamers.”

“You’ve had your own dreams!” Sonia retorted.

He looked at her a little sadly. “Have I? This is where we get off.”

“Do we have to change?” she asked.

“It’s not worth it. It’s probably quicker to walk. Come on.”

Sonia had only seen this district from the tram before. It seemed to be a conglomeration of new apartment blocks, old shabby houses crowded close together, and open spaces where children played among the heaps of rubble. Michael followed the direction of her eyes.

“British bombers,” he said laconically
, “...
or it could have been the Americans. I met two brothers the other day wh
o
served with one of the Norwegian squadrons in the RJLT
. They
had escaped from their own country. They
were
doing a holiday tour of the places they had bombed. Sounds rather morbid to be drinking wine with the people whose relatives you’ve killed.”

Sonia shivered in spite of the hot sun. “Sounds horrible to me. Where do your friends live?” She changed the subject.

He turned off the main street and led the way down a narrow alley where the houses sagged tiredly; the plaster peeling from the walls; doors and windows looking as if it had been a very long time since they had been painted. Children sat on the curb or played noisily in the tiny neglected yards, their liveliness contrasting strongly with the weary decrepitude of their surroundings.

Michael noticed Sonia’s movement of withdrawal. “You needn't worry. Only the respectable live here.”

Sonia was silent. She was slowly learning not to argue with Michael when he was in one of these moods. What made him delight in lashing out at any sign of softness that she showed? Was sympathy a crime, an unforgivable weakness, in the harsh world he had forged for himself?

He spoke to one of the children sitting on the steps of one tall house whose only claim to distinction was that it seemed even shabbier than the rest. He was speaking in German, and idly Sonia wondered where he had acquired such fluency.

The child rose to her feet and smiled gravely at them.

She led them into the house, down a dim passage that seemed damp in spite of the scorching summer heat outside, up a flight of stairs whose treads were worn and hollowed by the passage of many generations of feet, around so many corners that Sonia felt lost. Soon the child stood aside and gestured for them to go in.

“Meine Grossmutter. Bitte.
”

Through the open doorway Sonia could see an old woman sitting by the window slowly fanning herself. Michael drew her into the room, and then he and the old woman were exchanging greetings in rapid German. Sonia guessed that Michael was explaining her presence from the lively interest with which the old woman kept glancing in her direction.

“Are you English?” the old lady asked falteringly, at the same time Sonia’s hand in hers and stroking it gently.

“Yes, Frau Burckhardt.” Sonia was warmed by the old woman’s pleasure and saw that she didn’t seem to mind, relapsing into German, that Sonia knew little of what she was talking about.

“Frau Burckhardt would be grateful if we would drink tea with her. Her granddaughter—not the child who brought us here—has baked a cake,” Michael explained.

Sonia’s eyes had already taken in the poverty of their surroundings, made more painfully apparent by their scrubbed cleanliness. “Are you
sure...?”
she hesitated.

Michael nodded. “You would hurt them more by refusing. This is a special occasion for them, and God knows they have few enough.”

Sonia was touched by his gentleness with the old woman. He seemed to have become a different person from the rather brusque, bitter man she thought she knew. She watched Frau Burckhardt’s face light up until it no longer resembled that of the weary, defeated woman who had been sitting by the window. Sonia wondered what manner of experiences had etched the many lines that gave character to her features and had put tragedy in the still beautiful eyes. The rattle of teacups roused her interest, and she looked toward the inner doorway.

A tall, long-legged child with fair braids encircling her head that gave her the air of a young princess, came through the door very solemnly carrying a laden tray. She put down the tray and curtsied in Sonia’s direction.

“Good morning, miss,” she said gravely. Then catching sight of Michael her dignity deserted her. She ran to him and standing on tiptoe kissed him excitedly. “Michael! You have came!”

He disentangled himself and smiled at her. “Come, not came, Anna. Your grandmother tells me you have baked the cake especially for us.”

“Yes! When I know that you are ... coming ... I make the cake. I polish the silver. I make ready the party.” She did a little dance around the room until catching her grandmother’s eyes upon her she subsided suddenly and began to arrange the cups and plates on the table.

“I make the English tea, no?” Anna asked.

Michael laughed at her. “We will have the Austrian tea today. Sonia would like to enjoy the tea party as you would have it for your friends.”

Anna clapped her hands excitedly. “I go quickly,” she exclaimed.

The old woman seemed to have captured some of the child’s pleasure, and she was smiling as Michael helped her toward the table.

Sonia noticed that she was lame.

“She broke her hip during the war and it did not get proper medical attention. I’ve been trying to do something about it,” Michael explained in an undertone.

So that was how he had met the Burckhardts. Why was it that he seemed more at home here, more natural and at ease than she had ever seen him? She wondered a little about his own background. He had said so little except that they had been poor. Perhaps that was the answer.

“Come, Sonia, Frau Burckhardt is asking you how you like your tea. They have it strong with a dash of lemon and a tot of rum.”

Sonia noticed, for the first time, the tiny little glasses arranged on the tray each with its portion of dark liquid.

“What does it taste like?” she asked hastily.

“Warm and nice.” Michael’s face softened into a smile. “But you may prefer lemon only since it’s such a hot day.”

Sonia hesitated. “Lemon, please.”

She looked at the large slice of beautifully decorated cream cake that Anna presented to her with a little bow. “Is this all for me, Anna?”

A warning glance from Michael made her hurry on. “Thank you, Anna. It tastes wonderful.” Smiles all around told her that she had said the right thing, and that they thought it was a beautiful cake too.

When it was time to leave, it was nice to feel that they were as reluctant to see her depart as she was to go.

“Auf Wiedersehen.
Come again, Sonia. Come again, Michael.” Anna kissed him as unselfconsciously as the child she still was.

Sonia watched Michael as he bent over the old woman, his arm around her, as he kissed her warmly.
“Auf Wiedersehen, mein Mutterchen,”
he said softly.

The old lady smiled and patted his cheek.
“Auf Wiedersehen, mein Kleiner.”

The heat of the afternoon hit them like a blow when they emerged into the bright sunlight again.

“Does Fra
u
Burckhardt remind you of your mother? Was that why you called her little mother?” Sonia asked curiously.

“Yes, perhaps she does, although I’d never thought of it like that.”

“Possibly she gives you the affection that your mother
didn’t...”
Sonia began.

“Possibly,” Michael said curtly. “We haven’t much time. It’s later than I thought.”

“I don’t have to be back before six,” Sonia reminded him hesitantly.

“I have to be. I promised Stefan to stand in for him. He won’t thank me if I’m late. He has some sort of meeting.”

Sonia tried to keep up with Michael’s long strides, but she was almost running before he noticed and slowed down again. “Sorry. Well, how did you enjoy your afternoon?” He seemed to have thrown off the annoyance aroused by her thoughtless remark.

“Very much. Where are Anna’s parents? They
aren’t ...
dead, are they?”

He shook his head. “No, not that, although perhaps there are times when Carl wonders if it was worth while surviving the concentration camp. He sells English newspapers to the tourists and works at any other odd job he can get. His wife runs a mountain hostel for climbers and doesn’t return home until the end of the season. With Anna’s help, the grandmother looks after the family. There is a boy as well as the small child you saw, but the old woman refers to him rather bitterly as the
balb wald,
which is the Austrian equivalent of Teddy Boy. I feel sorry for him in a way, as he has caught the backwash of the clash between the two generations. He swings between over-indulgence from his parents and over-severity from his grandmother. Neither generation is willing to admit that the clock will never be put back. Humanity may deteriorate, but it can only go one way—forward.”