The Girl Behind The Curtain (Hidden Women) (27 page)

In the end, I did manage to pull her out of the car but I was too exhausted to move far away, so that when the petrol in the engine caught fire, I couldn’t move quickly enough to avoid being engulfed by the fireball.

What happened next, I don’t remember. I can only tell you what I was told. Apparently a farmer was coming in the other direction. By some strange providence, he was a volunteer fireman and knew at once what he should do. He pulled me clear of the car and put out the flames with his shirt. He thought I was dead, so he left me while he tried to resuscitate Silke. When a further vehicle came along, he sent the driver to find the nearest phone and call for help. He didn’t have a mobile phone. My own was burning along with the car.

The fire service and an ambulance arrived quickly, but not quickly enough. They kept me alive while we waited for a helicopter to land in the farmer’s field. I was taken in the helicopter to the nearest burns unit. Silke – who hadn’t been caught in the flames – was taken by road to a closer emergency room.

I would never see her again.

That’s it. That’s what you wanted. You wanted me to put the whole story down so that I can be released from my guilt by the truth. But guess what? In this case, the truth isn’t going to set anybody free. It hasn’t worked. Silke is still dead and it’s still my fault. Even this living death is more than I deserve for what I did to her. So please don’t try to tell me my guilt is unnecessary. I killed my lover and my best friend.

I don’t deserve to live. I want you to consider this my confession and my suicide note. By the time you read this I will have settled the score. Please apologise to Silvio, since he will almost certainly be the one to find me. I hung around for too long. It’s time to make amends.

Chapter 34

As I read Marco’s description of the accident and his desperate last paragraph, my heart ached for him. How cruel it seemed. One moment to be driving along a country lane on a blissful summer’s day. The next to be having an argument that might have been avoided and an accident that changed two lives for ever. Ended one life altogether.

I don’t know why I hadn’t guessed that this would be the outcome of his story. Silvio would not have tormented me with so much detail about their short relationship otherwise. He wanted me to know something about the depth of Marco’s feelings for Silke because it would help make sense of how he had been since. But the diary stopped at the suicide threat. Had Marco tried to kill himself? Was that how Silvio came to be in possession of his diary?

Suddenly, it felt as though there was no time to waste. Though Marco had written this story out in 2001, his threat was as real to me as if he had made it that day. I had to reach out to him. I had to break the silence.

Dear Marco,

I know I said you would never hear from me again but I find I can’t keep my promise. I am writing to you with somewhat strange and embarrassing news. I find myself in possession of one of your diaries. It is from the year 2001. I am ashamed to say I read it. I am sure you know what it contains.

You’ll want to know how I came across your diary, of course. I toyed with the idea of telling you that I stole it on the day I discovered your secret office but the truth is stranger still. I was going to say I stole it because, if not me, then it seems the real thief could be only one person. It was given to me by Silvio, via Bea, my former colleague at the university. He tracked her down and was insistent that the diary end up in my hands.

I know I should not have opened it. Or I should have sent it straight back to you as soon as I realised what the parcel contained. But perhaps it is a good thing that I didn’t follow my moral compass. I feel I know you much better now.

Why didn’t you tell me what really happened in 1999? If you had shared this information with me, then so much misunderstanding might have been avoided. Our relationship seems to have been characterised by secrets and concealment when I might have been able to support you.

I think I was unduly harsh when I wrote to you back in September. I was heedless of your hurt as I reacted from my own. I understand at last why you might feel you need to hide away. If you can bring yourself to forgive me for that, then perhaps we can start again?

Sarah

What next? Would my email open up a dialogue or another wound? I sat in bed with Marco’s diary on my knees. I pressed my lips to the cover, as though I hoped I might be able to absorb some of the pain. Like kissing a small child ‘better’. Poor Marco. For all this time, I had always assumed that he was behind the wheel when the accident happened. That would have been enough to make anyone feel bad, but in time, had it been that straightforward, his feelings of guilt might have passed. Anyone can make an error of judgement on an unfamiliar road. This was different. Marco believed that Silke had crashed the car through darker reasons than lack of experience. He thought the accident was a direct consequence of his inability to accept the way she looked. His prejudice. And it wasn’t difficult to follow his logic.

Was it his fault after all? No. It couldn’t be. Silke might have put her foot down because Marco’s actions – or lack of action – had hurt her, but that could not make him as responsible as if he’d grabbed the wheel and yanked it, sending them into oblivion. Of course we are responsible for our actions towards other people but we’re equally responsible for the way we react to insult, aren’t we? Silke could have told Marco to grow a pair when he refused to take her to the party. She could have told him to fuck off there and then and taken the train back home. She could have refused to get into the pretentious car in the first place.

My head ached with questions.

‘Oh Marco,’ I silently begged him. ‘Please write back.’

Chapter 35

Monday 13th November 1933

Dear Diary,

I got another letter from Mummy this morning. She says the news coming out of Germany is playing on her nerves. Papa had a conversation with the Major who thinks it won’t be long before there is war in Europe again. All the signs are pointing towards it. ‘Sabres are being rattled,’ he said.

‘Come home now,’ said Mummy. ‘And bring your dear boy with you. Bring his mother too. And his sister. His whole family. We’ll make space for them. But we would rather that you were here than over there. Herr Hitler is a strange sort of fish and the Major says one just can’t know what he’s going to do from one minute to the next.’

I wrote back assuring Mummy that all was perfectly fine where we were. The Major retired so long ago, how can he possibly know what’s going on?

I certainly didn’t tell Mummy about Marlene. Or about the incident at the Beluga. Or about the doorman from the Paradise Club who turned out a couple of SA boys who got a bit rowdy. He was found kicked to death in an alleyway two days later. You don’t need to be a detective to work out who did it, though of course the detectives are not working especially hard to solve the crime at all.

The newspaper reports are right. Berlin is changing. Since Hitler gained power, he has been steadily changing the law to take even more. There is a feeling in the air, like when you know that it’s getting too hot and there has to be a storm. There has been a drop in visitors to the club, even on amateur night. Schluter says this is how Hitler works. Just the threat of violence is enough to keep people away. Rumour is a powerful weapon of control.

I won’t be bowed by it, however. I have been working on a new act. Marlene is making me a special costume based on one worn by the Follies in New York. When I first come out on to the stage, I will be wearing a long dress and looking as chaste as a novice nun. But the skirt will be held on only by poppers, so that I’ll be able to whisk it away in a jiffy. I am also working on two new songs and a dance. I’m doing ‘Burlington Bertie’ as an opener. People need a laugh more than ever.

Tuesday 14th November 1933

Otto and I almost had our first argument this evening. We were talking about the Paradise Club murder. An arrest has been made, but not of any member of the Sturmabteilung. Instead, the police have arrested the old man who runs the tobacco kiosk near the U-Bahn station. It was obviously a set-up. That old man can barely speak for coughing. How could he possibly have kicked another man to death?

‘I don’t like what’s going on. Perhaps you should go back to England like your mother suggests,’ said Otto.

‘What? And leave you here? No way.’

‘I would follow you as soon as I finished my studies.’

‘If Berlin is safe enough for your mother and your sister then I’m staying too.’

‘I’m not sure it is safe enough for them, but you are different. You have an English passport. No one will stop you from leaving. Please. Go home to Surrey. At least, visit your parents so you can reassure them in person that you’re OK.’

‘I have been writing to Mother almost every day.’

‘It’s not the same. She will be much happier if she has seen you. Besides, don’t you need to start planning our wedding? I’m sure it will be much easier for you to make arrangements if you are there in England yourself.’

‘We should set a date,’ I said. ‘We don’t need to worry about money. Papa will take care of all that. Just tell me when you want to do the deed.’

Otto got a faraway look in his eyes as he considered his diary.

‘June 20th,’ he said. ‘I’d like it to be that day.’

‘Is there a particular reason?’

‘It’s my father’s birthday. My mother is always so sad on that day. I would like her to have a reason to remember the date with a smile. I think he would approve.’

‘Then that’s the day we will marry,’ I said. ‘How exciting! I’ll be a June bride.’

I threw my arms round his neck and kissed him passionately.

‘I’ll wear white,’ I said. ‘Though I know I really oughtn’t.’

‘You are a bad girl,’ Otto agreed. I flung myself on to the bed and he followed afterwards, biting me on the bottom.

‘When you are Frau Schmidt, I shall have you tied to the bed all day long.’

‘Darling,’ I told him. ‘I can’t wait.’

Chapter 36

Berlin, last October

Marco Donato. It seemed that ever since the first day I heard his name, I had been waiting to hear from that man. Since I had confessed to him that I’d read his diary, my wait was more agonising than usual. I couldn’t help but imagine what might be going on in the palazzo. Had my confession cost Silvio his job? Had my prurience cost me any chance of being able to reconcile with Marco and apologise for the misunderstandings that had driven us apart?

I could not concentrate on anything. My English-language students’ mistakes went uncorrected. When I tried to finish reading Kitty Hazleton’s diaries, the words swam before my eyes. My thoughts were always with him. Sometimes, I saw him as the broken boy in the hospital bed. Sometimes as the broken man who hid himself away in the Palazzo Donato. Sometimes I saw the man of my dreams, damaged but enigmatic. Still sexy as hell.

Then at last, he wrote. It had taken three days. I opened his email with trepidation, expecting a short message of bile. I would deserve it. But that was not what I got.

Dear Sarah,

What can I say? I was surprised to get your email. I was even more surprised by the contents. You have my diary with you in Berlin? That was not what I expected to hear at all.

What do I think about it? I’m still not sure. I was angry, definitely. I have known Silvio my entire life and I would have called him the most honest man in Venice, Italy, the world. I have always been able to trust him. But perhaps there are moments when trust has to be broken for our own good. I have no doubt that Silvio sent you my diary with the very best of intentions. Don’t worry about him losing his job, dear Sarah. It is I who needs to worry that Silvio might find reason one day to leave me. I would be lost without him, as I’m sure you appreciate now that you and I have met in the flesh. The broken flesh, in my case.

Still, I wish he had discussed my diary with me. I wish he had discussed with me how I feel about you. Perhaps I could have saved him the effort of subterfuge. Perhaps I would have sent you the diary myself. If I had believed that you would want to read it . . .

The truth is out. You know about the accident and the circumstances leading up to it. That you’ve written to me gives me hope that you don’t think I’m the devil. Or perhaps you’re saving your bile for later.

Of course, you know part of what happened next. I woke up in hospital in a room so white and bright that for a moment I wasn’t sure I hadn’t died and gone somewhere. Not Heaven, exactly, but somewhere else for sure. It would be a couple of days before the hospital was able to track down my parents. My father was in the States with his lover. My mother was in Sicily at the family villa with hers. I was entirely alone.

At first, I couldn’t find my voice. And when I did find it, I could remember only a fraction of the English I had learned over the years. The nurses didn’t seem to have a lot of time for me. I didn’t know at the time that I was in one of your NHS hospitals and they were rushed off their feet. Overworked and underpaid, they didn’t have time to try to decipher my Italian as well.