Chapter 2
Chapter 2
Widowhood had its highs and lows: on the one hand freedom, on the other loneliness and depression. Kind words from former patients did a lot to increase her confidence, but she could not depend on many of them for long-term friendship. In her memory lurked the pain and anguish of being an alien during the last war. If a second war broke out, as many considered inevitable, it would be a war to defeat communism on Germany’s eastern front border. There would be no Willy to support her now. As the weeks progressed these thoughts grew more powerful. Her blood was not German and never could be. Yet if it was Scottish, it was surely severely diluted.
One morning she rose early, before her alarm clock sounded. She parted the curtains and the sun pierced her eyes and lit up the bedroom. From the movement of the trees outside, she detected the wind. She felt invigorated. The house needed a thorough spring clean. She had dreamed of a pristine house the night before, and now she would make that dream come true.
She took a feather duster to the cobwebs festooning the high ceilings, and then hung rugs out on the clothesline by the side of the house.
She took her wicker cane beater to them, assaulting them with a fury she did not know she possessed. Puffs of dust drifted skyward, and colour reappeared in the pile through the haze. She was so absorbed in her task that she did not hear footsteps approach.
‘Post, Frau Richter.’
She looked up and stopped in her tracks.
‘I thought I heard some beating. Goodness me, I’m glad you were not my class teacher. You have a strong right hand.’ Hans laughed loudly, competing with the rooks on a nearby rooftop.
‘You surprised me,’ she laughed.
‘I could see that.’ He sorted the letters, holding them in one hand and flicking the fingers of the other through them at a tremendous rate. Hans was in his late fifties. He had been Hilda’s regular postman over the last two decades and knew her well. He handed her letters over.
‘There’s one from abroad in this lot.’
Her face lit up. ‘Thank you... yes... from home... excellent.’
News from home was always welcome. Her parents’ letters following Willy’s death had been a source of great comfort. This letter would add to her growing satisfaction with this near perfect day. She wondered if they had received her last letter, written a month ago. Would this letter just be a response to that, or would there be fresh news from home? She gave the rugs one final thrash then looked upwards. A single spherical cloud made its way toward the sun. It would only interrupt the sun’s rays for a brief moment, a superb day made even better by the letter in her hand. She left the rugs to recover while she prepared the rituals she performed only with her personal correspondence. Prolonging the opening of the letter heightened her excitement.
The kettle whistled on the stove as she washed her hands thoroughly in warm water and carbolic soap. Then she cleared the kitchen table and brewed some hot black coffee before taking a sharp knife to open the letter from Scotland, her eyes lingering on the Aberdonian franked envelope. She lifted the envelope to her nose, and detected two different glues.
The letter itself was brief. It contained news that made her anxious from several different perspectives.
She sipped her coffee and held the cup with both hands. The letter lay flat on the table before her tear-filled eyes. She read it twice then sat back to decide how to respond. What would suit her, her parents and Otto? The letter could not have come at a worse time. Nethybrig Hotel,
Elgin,
23rd April 1938
Dear Hilda
I trust you and Otto are keeping well. We are too, although age is creeping up on us both, especially your father. He’s really not too well. What worries us most is the developing situation in Germany; and as a widow, you will be feeling the pain of loneliness during this time. We would love to see you of course, and I hope it would be sooner than later. I am delighted to have learned that the Hamburg to Aberdeen ship still sails regularly once a week. I hope Karl and Renate will understand, and of course Otto too. I suspect he will not be able to spend time in Scotland again for some time. He must finish his schooling and then head for university.
I seem to have left you with much to think about. But it is a letter I am sending with more love than enough to sink Hitler’s latest battleship!
With our fondest love,
Mother and Father.
Hilda cringed at her mother’s last line. She hammered the table twice in disgust. Criticism of the state provoked dire consequences. What on earth was her mother thinking?
Perhaps the censor only skimmed the letter, and might have read ‘more love, enough to launch Hitler’s latest battleship’. She hoped so. Her mind struggled to find another interpretation. She feared a knock on the door was not out of question later in the day. She shook her head in despair at her mother’s casual and potentially dangerous comment.
Her parents’ ageing was a constant concern. She had not visited them for eight years, and when she left them that time, as each time before, she wondered if she would ever see them again. Now it was more pressing, not just because of their age but also because of the tensions in Germany.
Whenever she felt anxiety taking hold of her, there was one comfort she could rely: the contents of her black box. She had not opened it much since Willy had died, but now she retired to the sitting room, unclipped the lid and assembled the double reed into her oboe. Anton Bruckner’s Symphony No 5 in B flat major seemed appropriate for the occasion; she placed the music on the stand and sat on a hard ladder-backed chair to play the Adagio. While she played, she remembered Anton Bruckner was not German, but Austrian. She dedicated her music that day to all who might suffer because of the recent forcible acquisition of Bruckner’s land and people.
She spent the rest of the day dusting and polishing while reflecting on her options. She left her mother’s letter on the dining room table for Otto to read when he returned home from school. A few minutes after four she sat down in the lounge and began to read a novel that she had started before Willy had died. She soon remembered what she had read and settled comfortably by the log fire, tired after a day’s hard work.
At 4.25 on the dot, the key turned in the latch. The door closed with a click, and a bag thumped down on the hall floor. Otto was home.
‘Hello, darling. I’m through here,’ she said, marking her novel with her mother’s envelope and resting the book on her lap.
Otto came into the lounge holding a glass of water. He raised it to his lips, drank it all in one gulp and burped loudly.
‘Otto,’ she said reprovingly.
‘Sorry, mother. I was thirsty.’
‘All the same. Not what I’d expect you to do in public.’
He replaced the glass on the side table, with a solid thud. ‘Of course not,’ he replied. Clearly he felt the reprimand was unnecessary.
Hilda said no more and waited for Otto to find the letter. He sat down, somewhat exhausted, having run home from school. The letter remained untouched.
‘Mother, I don’t think I could be a doctor just yet.’
Her heart sank. If he wasn’t going to follow in Willy’s footsteps, then what? ‘Why ever not?’ she asked.
‘Well, the Hitler Youth takes most of my time up in the evenings, and its preparation for joining the army. I can’t see me studying medicine as well. By the way, I’ve just learned that when I turn eighteen, I could be sent to the 7th Hamburg Motorized Unit. That should be good.’
The thought of her son in army uniform and dispatched to far-flung places gave her a shiver. To her he was still a young boy, yet to the state, he was potentially a soldier.
‘Maybe so, Otto, but even the army needs doctors.’
Otto looked uncomfortable. ‘True,’ he said bending down to remove his school shoes.
‘Give it some thought. Or perhaps you might like to be a dentist. The army needs them too, and your Uncle Karl can advise you on that profession, can’t he?’
‘Hm... maybe.’
Still he had not seen the letter, and her impatience got the better of her. ‘There’s a letter from your grandparents on the table for you to read.’
Otto stood up and gathered up the letter. He read it as he returned to sit by her.
‘You’re not going, are you?’ he said hopefully.
‘I probably will.’
‘What will I do?’ he said, his tone half-incredulous, half angry.
She gave him a moment to calm down. ‘Karl and Renate would be pleased to have you to stay with them while I’m away.’
‘So it’s all agreed? You have made your mind up. You have decided to go to Scotland. For how long?’
‘I’m not sure, Otto. Your grandparents are ageing. I’m not sure if I’ll see them again if I don’t go soon.’
She could see him adjusting his indignant outburst. He did have feelings for his grandparents and her home in Elgin. This time his tone was less sullen. ‘So when are you going?’
‘September, I think.’
‘I’ll have three months left at school. That means Christmas with Karl and Renate.’
‘Yes, of course. That should be fun.’ She smiled at him, glad he had decided to behave like an adult after all. ‘You are very much my young man now. You remember your father left a sum of money which you will receive on your twenty-first birthday?’
Otto looked thoughtful. ‘I may need it then. Once communism is defeated, I can start to study medicine.’
Hilda smiled. His attitude might have irked her earlier, but he was a good boy at heart and she knew he would like to follow his father’s profession in due course. ‘Otto, you make me proud. Come here.’ She lifted her book and placed it on the fireside table. She opened her arms to him.
They hugged for a moment, and his show of affection warmed her. Otto smiled at her, perhaps realizing his future plans had met with her approval. His arms tightened around her and he whispered quietly, ‘Give my love to Grandmother and Grandfather. I miss them.’
She patted his back. ‘Of course I will, Otto. Of course I will.’
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Miller Caldwell writes with a felicity that all writers need to be able to emulate.
Ron