Stranger at the Gates (2 page)

‘Minden,' Louise said slowly, ‘is the name of the German officer who was billeted upon us during the war. Heinz Minden. Now do you understand?'

Sophie de Bernard went up to her mother and put her arm around her. ‘I'll send her away,' she said. ‘I'll say you're not here. Don't worry; you just stay up here. I'll get rid of her.'

‘No, Sophie.' Louise shook her head. ‘If it's a woman it must be his wife. I'll have to see her. I'll have to find out what she wants.'

‘No you won't,' her daughter said fiercely. ‘You're not having the past brought up again—you've gone through enough because of that bloody war. You and Papa! I don't care what she wants—you're not seeing her. I'll go and get rid of her now!'

‘No,' Louise repeated. ‘No, I'll go. I'll see her. Tell Gaston to show her into the salon and say I'll be down in a few moments. Don't argue, Sophie, do as I say. I don't know what she wants or why she's come here, but I've got to see her!'

‘Why?' her daughter demanded. ‘You don't owe her anything! How dare any of them come here!'

‘I'll come down in a moment. Ask if she wants anything—some coffee—please, go and do as I ask.'

‘All right,' Sophie de Bernard said. ‘But you're not seeing her alone. I'll be there with you!'

The door closed and Louise could hear her hurrying step go down the passage and run down the staircase to the hall. Minden. She hadn't thought of him for years. There was no association with him in the Paris house. That had been bought after the war ended, when she wanted to escape from St. Blaize and never see it again. He came into the eye of memory and it was as he had been, as a young man in his thirties, neat and efficient in his uniform, with that expression she knew so well in his eyes as he watched her, following every movement she made. And there were other memories, pictures she refused to see, fighting to shut them out. Hands reaching out, words whispered to her in the darkness. Shame and fear and love. Above all, love. But not for him. And not for the father of Sophie and Paul.

That memory, more than any of the others, she had struggled to suppress over the years. Her daughter, sweet, undisciplined, immature at thirty, talked of lovers, without the least understanding of what love itself could mean. But Louise knew. The moment of panic passed; when she was arguing with Sophie her hands were trembling, now they were still. If Heinz Minden's wife had come to see her, then she wasn't going to run away. She paused for a moment, smoothing her hair, steadying herself. If the past had come back then it had to be faced. She opened the door and went downstairs.

Ilse Minden had refused to sit down. She followed the tall French girl into a large room, splendidly decorated in shades of pale green with touches of blue, and some gilt furniture which she recognised instinctively was very valuable. She shook her head when it was suggested that she might like to have coffee, or wait in comfort. She stood in the middle of the carpet looking round her, holding a large plastic handbag in both hands like a shield. Sophie offered her a cigarette. Minden's wife could sense her hostility in spite of an attempt to be polite.

She refused, her tone abrupt because of nervousness.

‘Thank you. I don't smoke.'

She couldn't have afforded to smoke, even if Heinz had approved of the habit. She didn't smoke and they lived so sparingly that she had forgotten the smallest luxuries of self-indulgence. It was so long ago since she had been to a hairdresser, or bought new clothes. Everything they had went to their children, who seemed to take it for granted and were busy running as far away from them as possible, now that trouble had overtaken them. Bitterness bolstered her courage. Underneath her timidity there was a worm of hatred, slowly uncoiling as she waited, taking stock of the wealth and good taste in the room, of the casual self-confidence of the young woman, in spite of her mannish clothes and bizarre appearance. Ilse Minden moved towards a table, covered by a blue velvet cloth. There was a small Louis XVI ormolu and porcelain clock on it, and two photographs. One was a studio portrait of a young man, dark and good-looking, smiling towards the camera. The other showed a woman standing with a little boy and girl on either side of her, a fountain in the background. The woman wore the long skirt and clothes of twenty-five years ago. She turned towards Sophie.

‘Is that your mother?'

‘Yes. With my brother and me. Taken at our home in the country during the war.'

‘I see. Does she still look like that?'

‘I think so. But you'll be able to judge for yourself. I hear her coming now.' There was something in the German woman's face that made Sophie uncomfortable, a look of sullen menace mingled with uncertainty. And the menace was predominating, as she gained confidence. Ilse Minden turned towards the door. The picture showed a young woman, very beautiful … When the door opened she stiffened. A tall woman walked towards her; a beautiful woman in an elegant brown dress, with a silk scarf round her throat and pearls knotted through it. Dark hair and eyes, expensive scent. Hate suffocated Ilse Minden at that moment; jealousy constricted her so that when the woman held out her hand she couldn't move to take it.

‘Madame Minden? I am Louise de Bernard. What can I do for you?'

‘I have to talk to you.' The woman facing her spoke with a thick accent. She glanced towards Sophie.

‘This is my daughter,' Louise said.

‘I am Heinz Minden's wife; I've come from Bonn to see you.'

‘Please,' Louise said, ‘won't you sit down. Did Sophie offer you some coffee, Madame?'

‘She didn't want anything,' Sophie said. She walked up close to Ilse Minden. ‘Why do you want to see my mother?'

The German didn't answer her. She walked across and settled herself in a chair, clasping the ugly handbag on her knees. She spoke to Louise.

‘I don't speak very good French,' she said. ‘I would like to speak to you alone.'

‘My daughter knows about your husband,' Louise said slowly. ‘You can speak in front of her. Why have you come here?'

‘She knows about my husband?' The blue eyes turned to Sophie; there was a sarcasm in them now, stronger than the hostility which had been there before. ‘All about him?'

‘Yes,' Louise answered her. ‘There are no secrets in our family, Madame.'

‘How lucky,' Ilse Minden said, ‘that you have nothing to hide. Please let me talk to you alone. I've come a long way.'

‘Sophie,' Louise said quietly. ‘Leave us alone, darling. Please.' There were times when it was unwise to argue with her mother. For a moment Sophie hesitated. Her lover said that being a rich American gave Louise de Bernard her authority. But to Sophie that was a superficial lie. Her mother commanded others because she was fully in command of herself. Which was something that Gerard, riotously self-indulgent, would never understand. She got up and went out.

‘Thank you,' Ilse Minden said. There was a pause; they looked at each other. Jealousy was rending the older woman's purpose. She was beautiful, she looked young, she would turn any man's head as much now as she had done then … Suddenly tears came into her eyes and overflowed. She dug into the handbag and brought out a paper handkerchief. She pressed it tight against her face.

‘Don't, please.' The American woman's voice was gentle. She felt a hand on her shoulder and took the handkerchief away. She had a speech prepared, rehearsed over and over during the long journey overland from Bonn, repeated in front of the mirror in her dingy pension bedroom that morning. Now she remembered none of it. Old sorrows and present fear came out in a rush of words.

‘You've got to help him! You've got to pay back what you owe him—he sacrificed everything for you! Oh God, God help us …'

‘Don't cry,' Louise said. ‘Try and calm yourself.' She pulled a chair next to Ilse Minden and sat down. ‘I don't understand,' she said. ‘How can I help your husband now? I haven't seen or heard of him since the war.'

‘No,' the other woman said, using the handkerchief. ‘No, you wouldn't. You didn't need him any more, did you? You were safe then because we'd lost—while he … Do you know what he's suffered for all these years, do you know how we lived after the war was over? How could you …' She spoke with angry vehemence. ‘You had everything you wanted. You were the victors!'

‘Madame Minden,' Louise said. ‘I knew your husband many years ago when he was living in my house. You talk about a debt; all right, I owe him a great deal. You say you've come to ask for help. Would you please explain what kind of help you want? And try not to be so hostile towards me; I never did you or your husband any harm.'

She moved away and got a cigarette. She felt disturbed and distressed. There was something ugly about the other woman's tears, something more than emotional turbulence which is always disconcerting to a stranger. There was hatred, and there was a subtle suggestion of threat. For all her tears, there was a determination and a toughness about Heinz Minden's wife which made Louise uncomfortable. She had come to demand something, rather than to plead.

‘You say you never did him any harm?'

‘Never. If he told you anything different, then I'm afraid he's lying.'

‘Oh, he wouldn't describe it that way!' She gave a short, unpleasant laugh. ‘Everything you ever did was perfect, Madame de Bernard. You couldn't do wrong in Heinz's eyes—surely you know that?'

‘You're talking about years ago,' Louise pointed out. ‘About the distant past. None of that matters anymore.'

‘Not to you, of course. But it matters to us. It's mattered to me, Madame, knowing my husband didn't love me any more because of you! It may be years ago for you, but it's day to day for me! How do you think I felt, living in dirty back rooms, taking what jobs I could to support us, starving myself and him to give our children a chance, and knowing that nothing I did,
nothing
, stopped him thinking about you!'

‘I'm terribly sorry.' Louise looked away from her, from the anguish and bitterness assaulting her from so close. ‘Please believe me, I did nothing to encourage this …' And then she stopped, remembering. ‘I'm sorry,' she said again. She put out a hand to Ilse Minden, who jerked back from being touched.

‘Helping you caused all the trouble,' she said. ‘When the war was over the organisation which took care of people like Heinz found out about it, and they threw him out. They stopped helping him. We were on our own then, hiding, running from place to place frightened to settle anywhere. We could have been in South America by now if he hadn't compromised himself for you!'

She could have argued with Ilse Minden; she could have pointed out that what her husband had done only reflected credit on him, that it was not because he was in love with her. Any man, anyone with decency or sensibilities would have done the same. But she didn't say anything. To the woman facing her, it was an incomprehensible folly, committed by an infatuated man for a woman he loved. And the knowledge of this made Madame Minden, dull and plain and tearful, a very frightening person.

‘Surely by now that kind of thing is over,' Louise said. ‘There are thousands of people living in Germany without having to fear for what they did. Or what they were.'

‘My husband was a brilliant man,' Ilse Minden interrupted. ‘You call working in a pharmacy, selling tubes of toothpaste and bars of soap, living without fear? And that's only in the last five years. Before that he was doing odd jobs, sweeping, digging, anything he could find where nobody would notice him. And now, Madame de Bernard, even that miserable life is over. He's in prison!'

Suddenly the German woman's tears were dried up; she looked calm and grim waiting for Louise to react. In all the years of running a large household, managing her family and the complicated affairs of a large fortune, Louise had never felt as lost and disconcerted as she did now.

‘Why is he in prison? What's the charge?'

‘War crimes,' his wife said. ‘For all these years they've been hunting him; that filthy Jew in Vienna had his name on a list. And two months ago they found him. He was arrested and he's in jail waiting to be tried.'

‘It shouldn't be,' Louise said slowly. ‘Your husband wasn't like the others—he didn't …'

‘He did his duty,' Ilse Minden broke in harshly. ‘He fought for his country and his Führer as we all did. Then it was patriotism, now it's a crime. The only time he failed was when he put you first.'

‘It wasn't me he put first,' Louise said. ‘Surely you can see that?'

‘Can't see anything but my husband facing a sentence of fifteen or twenty years,' came the reply. ‘That's why I'm here. I've used my savings to get here and see you.'

‘What do you want me to do?' Louise asked. ‘If you need money for his defence …'

‘No thank you,' Ilse Minden said. ‘Money would be easy for you, wouldn't it? I don't need money. There are lawyers in Germany who will undertake a defence for someone like my husband. Someone who's being persecuted by the politicians and the Jews. No, Madame de Bernard, I need a different kind of help. I want you to stand up in court and tell them what my husband did for you. I want you to testify that he saved lives, and risked his own. His counsel knows what happened. He says that if you appear for the defence it will make all the difference. He could get a suspended sentence.'

‘I can't give you an answer.' Louise stood up suddenly. ‘I've had no time to think about it, no warning. I can't just promise to go to Germany and stand up in a court—I'll have to talk to my family.'

‘I see.' She opened her handbag, took out another paper handkerchief and wiped her mouth with it.

‘You had a sister-in-law, didn't you?'