46 Christoph
46
Christoph
May, 1952 – Effelsberg
Christoph sat on the bench overlooking the vegetable patch. It was summer. His first proper summer at home since 1941. It was a miracle that he was here at all.
No German will return until Stalingrad is rebuilt , the Russians had declared. His letters home had been lost; Christoph’s mother had heard nothing from him since his capture in 1944 until he had rung her from Berlin last year, in 1951, telling her, ‘Yes, I’m alive. I’m coming home.’
But home wasn’t the same any more. Christoph watched the oxen make their way back towards the lane. Hilde’s father was bringing in the hay, as he’d done every year since Christoph left.
Lotte’s absence was the biggest, most heartbreaking difference. During his time in Russia digging foundations or laying bricks, Christoph had prayed that she’d survived. Now, with more knowledge of the murders that had taken place in the concentration camps, Christoph knew that she hadn’t.
Why Hilde hadn’t married during the long years of his absence, Christoph didn’t know. He’d come back a wreck, while Hilde had blossomed: talking of the horses, her costumes for Karneval, the future.
‘When will we marry?’ she’d asked the week after he returned. She’d sat on his bed, her shoulders back, glowing with vitality.
Christoph had sighed and watched sunlight dapple the window.
‘I’m not the man I was, Hilde. In all honesty, I don’t know why you’ve waited. If you’ve had second thoughts …’
There, he’d said it. Presented her with an escape route, and himself too. He’d twisted the sheet in his hand, praying she’d changed her mind.
‘Don’t be silly, Christoph,’ Hilde had said. ‘We belong together.’
Now, a year after his return, the wedding was due to take place in two weeks. Hilde had taken care of everything. He’d been too weak, too griefstricken about Lotte to resist.
Now, he sighed and checked his watch. Hilde would be back soon. She’d gone to visit her sisters. All day he’d waited for a quiet moment to read the letter, and now that he was alone, he was afraid to do so.
Not long after he came back from Russia, when he had recovered a little, he’d contacted a man he’d heard of in Bonn, an investigator who for a fee could trace people lost during the war. Now, after months of waiting, a letter had arrived. His hands trembled. If there was a chance of finding Sylvie, he would call the wedding off.
Christoph ripped the envelope open. His eyes darted over the words.
Herr Baumann
Thank you for the money you transferred. I’ve returned from Paris, where I gained access to the National Archives. I found a record of Sylvie Dubois. It stated that she died at Drancy in September 1942 of typhoid.
It’s never easy in these circumstances, but I hope you take consolation from knowing the facts.
Best wishes
Friedrich Weber
Christoph read it again, stunned. Sylvie. Dead. The freshness of the evening turned to dust. All the time he was in Russia, when the thought of Sylvie had kept him alive, she’d been dead. Her lips, her skin, her laughter – all extinguished only months after she’d left him. Christoph’s stomach heaved. He ran to the hedgerow, just in time, retching into the bushes.
Hilde would be back soon. Christoph wiped his mouth and thrust the letter into his pocket. What the hell would he do now that Sylvie was gone? What was left for him? Sylvie’s voice drifted into his mind: You must go back and study the piano when the war is over. Pick up where you left off. Promise me you’ll do that.
‘Christoph,’ Hilde called. ‘What are you doing?’
She walked over to where he sat.
‘I’m just looking at the view,’ he said.
She sat on his knee, her floral scent comforting, the weight of her pressing his anguish down. For better or for worse, he was tied to Hilde now.
‘We can’t stay here after we’re married, you know,’ he said.
Hilde narrowed her eyes. ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
‘I’m not a farmer. I never have been. Your father and brother have organized the work between them. They’ve no use for me.’
‘They assumed you’d start work when you were ready.’ She tilted her head slightly. ‘Why, has something changed?’
Christoph thought of the letter. Yes, something had changed, but he couldn’t tell Hilde. He’d go mad with grief living here, stifled by the farm.
‘I want to take up my place at the music conservatory in Bonn,’ he said. ‘I’ll never be a farmer, but I know I can be a good pianist and earn a living for us, for our children.’
‘So that’s your plan.’ Hilde put her arms around his neck. ‘I can’t wait to be pregnant.’
Christoph held her close. This was the solution to Sylvie’s death. To plunge himself into music and forget about the past. ‘We’ll have a townhouse in Bonn. I can make a success of the piano, I know I can.’
I can make a success of this marriage too, he thought, if I put my mind to it.
Hilde nestled against him. ‘Very well,’ she murmured, ‘if you promise I can decorate the place from top to bottom.’
Christoph held her tight. What else could he do? If he took Sylvie out of the equation – and she was unalterably out of the equation for ever – he had a steadfast, determined woman at his side and the prospect of a promising career. He had to let go of the past and grasp the future.