4.
THE FLIGHT OF STAIRS on each side of the foyer had wonderfully ornate dark wood balustrades and a small mezzanine where they joined at the first floor that overlooked the foyer and front door. Johanna’s packing boxes had been neatly stacked on the Versailles-style oak parquet. An oak dressing table under the stairs hosted a large gilt-edged mirror. The glass was chipped in one corner, and she looked wider and shorter in its reflection. Heavy patterned wallpaper lined the walls from floor to ceiling, two storeys high. From the centre hung a damaged chandelier. The design told of its rich history, its current state of neglect.
She glanced through the door to the right, down the length of the dining room, and beyond into what appeared to be a kitchen and a small round table. The space was very open and lacked the private rooms she was more familiar with.
“Can you bring the box with photographs through to the dining room?” she asked.
The soldier assigned to help her clicked his heels.
A highly polished rosewood table that would seat twelve people ran the length of the dining room to her right, on the driveway side of the house, and to its left, under the light of the window that gave a view of the gardens at the rear of the house, was a stunning Pleyel grand piano.
Her heart skipped a beat, and she let her fingers trail across the surface of the piano’s wood housing, tracing the name of its maker. How she longed to be in Berlin, playing in the orchestra. She went to the window and gazed out over the neatly tended garden. Astrid would enjoy the swing and climbing the big oak tree that it hung from. Maybe they could all sit out on the patio of an evening before the winter set in and count the stars. A loud droning sound stole her attention from the dream, her heart pounded against her ribs. She watched the airplanes fly overhead, relieved to see the swastikas on the underside of their wings.
“Where shall I place the box, Frau Neumann?”
She indicated to the floor next to the piano seat, and he set it down, opened it and retreated to the foyer. She pulled out a silver-framed photo of Ralf as a young boy, stroked his baby face, and placed it on the top of the piano. He was a young man now and more knowledgeable about the world, and she hoped that the zest for life he’d always had as a boy hadn’t dulled already. She would think about him when she sat here, and it would bring her immense joy to be reminded of the times he used to sit and listen attentively to her.
She pulled out the oil painting of Gerhard’s father in military uniform, and the one of her own father wearing a dark grey suit. If he had been dressed in his uniform, she would have set the two men side by side as a powerful demonstration to their guests of the longevity of service that their families had given to their country and their evident solidarity. That she considered both men to be aggressive bullies was something she would keep to herself. She called the soldier in and instructed him to mount the paintings on the wall, one at each end of the table. It amused her to think of the fathers in a duel.
“And take the remaining pictures upstairs. I will place them along the landing.” She was too tired to think of what to do with the contents of the other boxes and needed to take account of all the rooms before deciding. “I’ll look through the rest tomorrow.”
He clicked his heels, took the box and exited the room.
Johanna wandered into the kitchen. She lifted the lid of the pot on the countertop. Potatoes ready to cook. Carrots too. There was the faint hint of herbs and onion and a strong whiff of garlic. She checked out the contents of the fridge. How delightful. The food might not be of the standard she had been used to in Berlin, though God knew that had deteriorated over the months, but at least they wouldn’t go hungry. The impression of the people standing in a queue in town, etched in her mind, reminded her she was lucky to be on the right side of the war.
The door inside the kitchen behind her opened. Her heart thundered at the unexpected noise. Astrid appeared, followed by Nanny. “You made me jump! What’s down there?”
“It’s smelly and cold.” Astrid pulled her nose up and shuddered.
“It’s just a wine cellar,” Nanny said.
Johanna was quite partial to French wines, most of the orchestra had been, although she couldn’t admit that to anyone now of course. “I don’t suppose there’s anything decent?”
“A few bottles of Riesling that Hauptmann Kohl has acquired.”
“I think I need to take a look,” Johanna said. “Did you decide on a bedroom, Astrid?”
Her daughter shook her head. “We haven’t gone upstairs yet.”
Johanna indicated towards the kitchen window overlooking the back garden. “Did you see the tree swing?”
Astrid ran to the sink and pulled herself up so she could see out. “Can I have a go?”
Nanny frowned at Johanna and shook her head. “Let’s go and find you a room first,” she said.
Johanna felt the tug at her heart. She wanted her daughter to be able to play rather than err on the side of caution all the time. Johanna’s childhood had been thwarted by war; she hated that her daughter’s was heading that way too. Hilda was right. They didn’t know how safe it was, though she hoped there would be some benefits to living in the countryside.
Nanny and Astrid made their way through the dining room. Johanna went down the steps into the wine cellar. It was a lot bigger than she’d anticipated, almost the same size as the ground floor of the house. The stale wine odour was accompanied by a sour smell that she couldn’t put a name to. She walked around, running her fingers along the racks, imagining what it would be like filled to the brim with a selection of wines from her homeland and from France and Italy. The clinking of glasses, lively chatter and laughter among friends. The unbridled pleasure, without the constant nagging fear, that had been absent from their lives for too long already. Her heart ached recalling the memory of such joyful times. She wished she hadn’t taken those days for granted.
Movement low in the corner of the room, a scratching sound, shocked her from her reverie. She shivered and rubbed her arms. They would have to get hold of some traps or failing that, a cat. She returned to the kitchen, turned off the light, and closed the cellar door.
Kohl was standing in the doorway to the dining room. “Frau Neumann. These women are here to cook for you.” He entered the kitchen and waved them in. “Come, quickly.”
She addressed Kohl. “You may leave us.” She watched him walk back through the dining room and into the foyer, then turned to the two women standing next to each other, hands clasped in front of them, staring at her.
“Welcome, Frau Neumann,” the older one said. “I am Odile Tussaud, and this is my granddaughter Fabienne Brun. We live in the cottage across the way with my other granddaughter, Nancy.”
Johanna looked from the older woman, who smiled at her, to the younger woman whose appearance remained stern, contemptuous even. Johanna couldn’t blame her, but wondered if she was either a fool who was asking to get shot, or just simple-minded. She hoped she wasn’t going to cause them trouble, although the disdain directed at her now through those dark brown, haunting eyes suggested she had the potential to.
“I assume you worked for the previous kommandant and know your way around the house,” Johanna said.
“This was our house bef—”
“Yes, Frau Neumann, we know the house well,” Frau Tussaud interrupted.
She grabbed her granddaughter’s arm, presumably to silence her before she spoke her mind any further. Wise woman. Johanna held the fraulein’s intense gaze, matching it with her own silent caution. Then she gave her attention to the older woman and smiled. The younger one continued to glare at her.
“We were not asked to serve the previous kommandant,” Frau Tussaud said.
“If you have any special food requirements, please do let us know,” Fraulein Brun said.
She didn’t hide the cynicism in her tone. Fortunately, Johanna wasn’t a stranger to being challenged, nor was she phased by it, any more than she was na?ve to the impact of rationing and the injustices between them that became more evident as the war went on. She was just fortunate, but she also had her duties to perform for the Reich, hosting important guests from the Gestapo and the SS, and to that end Fraulein Brun would have to learn to rein in her anger and curb her tone.
The older woman tightened her grip around her granddaughter’s arm. “We have prepared a chicken and some vegetables for this evening, and a peach tart, which we hope will please you, Frau Neumann. It is not a lot, but it is fresh…mostly.”
“I’m sure the kommandant will be very happy. And chicken is one of my daughter’s favourites.”
“And what about you?” Fraulein Brun asked.
Johanna held her gaze and gave a tight-lipped half-smile. “I do not eat meat these days, nor do I like peaches.”
The older woman looked down. “We are very sorry, Frau Neumann. We were not informed of this.”
The younger woman bit the inside of her lip as if holding back, then looked Johanna up and down as if assessing her. She seemed to register something amusing because she half-smiled, and her eyes gained a slight sparkle. “We can grow vegetables more easily, Frau Neumann. I would advise Hauptmann Kohl not to kill any more of the hens. We can make omelettes instead and that way the food will last longer.”
Johanna couldn’t disagree with her logic. The woman reminded her of herself before the war, and of many a student Johanna had mentored and debated with. She admired her spirit given her inferior position, though she knew Gerhard and the other officers would not be as empathetic. Nor would they be pleased to eat eggs when they could have meat. She hoped Fabienne Brun was smart enough to not speak her mind in front of the men, otherwise she would get herself shot before they got the chance to know each other a little better.
Fabienne smiled at her as if she’d read Johanna’s thoughts.
Johanna cleared her throat and got down to the matter of business. “My husband and our nanny will take breakfast at six in their rooms, unless they say otherwise. Astrid and I will eat at seven-thirty in the dining room. The bedrooms will need to be cleaned every day before ten. Astrid will take lunch with Nanny at twelve-thirty, and I will eat alone at one. Dinner will be served when my husband returns. Nanny will take hers before us. She will tell you when. I will discuss the meal options with you daily. The house must always be kept spotless, and any repairs and maintenance must be carried out as quickly as possible. It seems the gutter at the front, over the archway, needs fixing and I noticed there are lightbulbs missing from the chandelier in the foyer.”
“Lightbulbs!” Fabienne said. “We are under strict instruction to minimise the use of electricity. Bulbs are not available, and we do not have access to proper cleaning materials either.” She lowered her gaze. “Frau Neumann,” she added, softly.
“I will speak to my husband about acquiring what you need. A soldier will always be with you when you move around the house.” She didn’t want a guard in the house all the time, but Hauptmann Kohl had insisted these were the kommandant’s instructions and until she found the time to speak to her husband, she had no choice but to obey. “If you need assistance with maintenance tasks, he can help you. Now, I must get ready for dinner.” She turned away, then remembered the issue in the cellar. “There are rats in the wine cellar. Can you get hold of traps?”
Both women shook their heads.
“Can one of you get me a cat?”
“Yes,” Fabienne said.
“Good.” Johanna turned away.
“Excuse me, Frau Neumann.”
The fraulein’s steady gaze was slightly unnerving, though Johanna couldn’t say why exactly. Perhaps she was more of a threat than she had thought. “Yes.”
“I have been working at the dairy, with the kommandant’s approval, of course, before coming to the house. Can I assume that this will still be possible? It is important to make sure the soldiers get milk, cheese and butter.”
Even with the polite request, Johanna felt an unease about the way the woman looked at her and her tone. She was impressed with her work ethic though not entirely convinced by her justification. However, they needed workers at the dairy probably more than she did at the house. “As long as the work is done here, I see no reason why not.”
Fabienne bowed her head. “Thank you, Frau Neumann.”
Johanna softened inside, as if released from the fraulein’s hold over her, and made her way through the dining room, aware that she was in direct sight of both women, feeling the heat of the gaze of the gutsy young French woman on her back. There was something about her that Johanna liked, but there was also the voice in her head that reminded Johanna they were on opposite sides.
***
“You must be careful not to antagonise her,” Mamie said. She took the chicken from the fridge and cranked up the fire in the stove.
“Guarded while we work. Putain, c’est fou!” Fabienne took the packet of Gauloises from her trouser pocket and lit a cigarette. The simple act of inhaling the smoke deep into her lungs and releasing it slowly helped to calm her.
“Yes, it is crazy, but it is as it is. I’m sure the new guard will soon get bored, as has Captain Kohl.”
Fabienne took another deep draw on the cigarette. “He is not like the other German officers. Are you going to be able to manage breakfast and the bedrooms on your own?”
Mamie rubbed mixed herbs under the skin of the chicken. “I will have to start earlier.”
“And you will have to work quickly. We are no better than slaves, Mamie.”
Mamie sighed. “Frau Neumann seems reasonable. We could have been given someone far worse to look after.”
The kommandant’s wife had stared Fabienne down, but she hadn’t verbally asserted her position over them. Fabienne hadn’t thought for one minute that Frau Neumann would carry a gun, let alone that her first response would be to shoot her. Fabienne wasn’t that stupid. But she wasn’t going to be any more subservient than was necessary to remain alive, and to gain favour.
“Yes, you are right.”
Fabienne picked up the wood basket and headed through the back door to fill it and get a breath of fresh air. She contemplated the tall, fair-haired kommandant’s wife, with her sky-blue eyes that had held her gaze with the sharpness of an eagle, and the pale skin that gave her a fragile appearance. She was slender, the opposite of Fabienne’s muscular build, and exuded vulnerability, and yet she carried herself with unwavering confidence. The combination fired Fabienne’s curiosity. Frau Neumann had been unfazed by Fabienne’s gentle provoking, and that lack of reaction was a good indication that she didn’t fear being challenged. If anything, Fabienne would guess, Frau Neumann enjoyed it. Still, it would be best not to antagonise her unnecessarily.
Sometimes, though, Fabienne just couldn’t stop from speaking the truth.
Fabienne was going to have to manage her time well though, to do the milk run, get Nancy to school on time, and attend to her other commitments. She would bring one of the kittens to the house tomorrow, after she’d moved the French airmen from the woods. The last thing she needed was for Frau Neumann to take an active interest in the wine cellar.