Xanthe
St Helier, April 2019
A blessing and a burden. Hugh Jackson’s words echo in Xanthe’s head as she drives towards Royal Square in the early evening. The lanes she passes are lined with hedgerows covered in frothy white blossom, but right now she is preoccupied with thoughts that blot out the beauty all around her.
Once again she is struck by her connection with this man whose feelings so often mirror her own. Unlike him, however, she is more familiar with the burden of medicine than its blessing – the pressure to be in control, to know the answers in life-and-death situations, and to deny or conceal ignorance and uncertainty.
As she follows the curves of the road, she casts her mind back. Over the years, she has observed that pressure on her family in their need to appear omniscient and strong, to share the triumphs but sweep the failures into a shadowy corner, beyond the searchlight of doubt. For them, the blessing was the satisfaction of curing the sick, and having their expertise reinforced by gratitude; for her, it was knowing she had achieved her lifelong goal and met her family’s expectations. But the burden has almost destroyed her. She sighs. These reflections are threatening to ruin an evening she has been looking forward to, and she tries to shake them off as she parks the Nissan outside the Trattoria Sorrento.
Daniel is already sitting at a table for two. He is looking out of the window, holding a pink aperitif that looks like Campari, and raises his arm in greeting when he sees her. As the mâitre d’ ushers her to their table, she hears French and Italian spoken, but the loudest voices belong to a lively group with north of England accents.
Fishing nets are draped against the back wall, jars of scarlet capsicums and chilli peppers are lined up on a shelf, and on red and white checked tablecloths candles are stuck into raffia-covered bottles of chianti. In the background, a tenor is singing ‘Come Back to Sorrento’.
‘Just in case we miss the point,’ she says as she sits down.
It’s a warm evening, and Daniel has rolled up the sleeves of the casual jacket he is wearing over a white T-shirt. Trendy as usual, she thinks, as she smooths down the skirt of the turquoise Zimmermann outfit that her mother had persuaded her to buy before she left Sydney.
He is looking at her and self-consciously she flicks her hair back from her forehead. This evening she has left her hair down instead of twisting it into her usual knot, and the loose strands annoy her.
‘You’ve done something different to your hair,’ he says. ‘I like it.’
She is flattered and irritated at the same time. It’s not as if they’re on a Tinder date. Her mouth twitches in an involuntary expression of annoyance.
Without missing a beat, he picks up on her reaction. ‘Are you one of those women who find compliments politically incorrect?’
‘Only when they’re inappropriate.’
A smile flickers on the upturned corners of his mouth. ‘So is my comment inappropriate?’
He is mocking her, and she feels foolish. Why did his well-meant comment irritate her? Was it something about him? She recalls that when they had met for brunch, he was amused by the fuss she made about the weak coffee. Maybe it’s her.
Daniel motions for the waiter, who brings them large, leather-covered menus and calls her signorina in a fake Italian accent. She takes a deep breath and turns page after page listing antipasti, primi, secondi, contorni and dolci.
‘Too much choice,’ Daniel says as he closes his menu. ‘I read somewhere that when you look at a menu, you should choose the first dish that takes your eye. I reckon that’s not a bad idea.’
She can’t help baiting him. ‘Is that your recipe for life?’ she asks. ‘Avoiding choice?’
‘On the contrary, when I see what I want, I don’t waste time looking any further. What about you?’
His eyes are resting on her face. She senses that he is challenging her, and as she scans the menu, she wonders if he is talking about food.
Confused, she reminds herself that she agreed to meet him to hear about his research, not to arrange a rendezvous. So why is she so stroppy? Then it strikes her. It wasn’t anything he’d said. It was Hugh Jackson’s description of medicine as a burden that evoked the painful memories she has been trying to suppress. She wishes she could go out and come in again, to make a fresh start.
‘Actually, I don’t find it easy to make decisions,’ she says, looking up from the menu and meeting his gaze. ‘About anything.’
‘But you decided to come to Jersey. On your own.’
She shrugs. ‘The need to escape is a powerful motivator.’
Although she knows he can’t possibly understand the desperation behind her words, she is relieved he doesn’t question them.
‘Life can be tough,’ is all he says.
They place their orders. Xanthe takes a piece of bread from the straw basket on the table, and is tearing it into small bits when the waiter brings her eggplant parmigiana, and Daniel’s cotolette Milanese, and they make small talk as they eat. He has always lived in Melbourne, is divorced, and shares a terrace in Fitzroy with two housemates, another lawyer and an IT guy. She wonders if he is in a relationship, but decides to steer clear of personal issues. She certainly doesn’t want him to start asking about hers.
The English guy at the next table is shouting, ‘Can’t you see, we’re controlled by the Brussels bureaucracy!’ His companions look around with an embarrassed smile, and try to shush him, but he won’t be silenced. ‘The sooner we’re out of the bloody EU the better!’
Xanthe takes the opportunity to steer their conversation to Brexit, relieved to find a neutral topic that won’t push any buttons. When they have finished eating, and are sipping their complimentary glasses of limoncello, she leans forward.
‘You’ve told me you chose your research topic because there weren’t many Jews here during the Occupation, which makes it easier to trace what happened to them. I get that. But I’ve been wondering, is there a personal reason as well?’
He hesitates, and she supposes he is weighing up the urge to be frank with the potential cost of being honest. Or perhaps he is merely trying to find the words to express his feelings about something that might be deeply personal, and totally inappropriate to reveal in the course of a casual dinner with a stranger.
‘There is,’ he says slowly, ‘and it’s connected with the Holocaust, but probably not in the way you imagine.’
Intrigued, she places her liqueur glass on the table and tilts her head to one side. ‘Do you feel like talking about it?’
At the far end of the restaurant, the barista is grinding coffee beans, and Daniel says, ‘I’m going to order a short black. Are you brave enough to risk another flat white?’
She knows he is teasing her, and this time she laughs. ‘I’m over flat whites. I’m going to have a macchiato.’
Small almond-flavoured biscotti arrive with their coffees. She bites into her biscuit, brushes the spray of crumbs off her top with a deprecating comment about being messy, and waits for him to speak.
‘The Holocaust had a huge impact on my life,’ he begins, ‘but in a way that’s probably different from the stories you’ve heard. I’m not descended from Holocaust survivors. You could actually say I’m descended from the perpetrators. My family name was Müller, with an umlaut over the u, and the family home was in a charming flower-filled German town called Mittelberg.’
Xanthe has seen countless movies set during the Holocaust. She had some Jewish friends at school, and she has even met a Holocaust survivor during an emotional high school visit to the Sydney Jewish Museum. But she has never come across anyone prepared to admit to being related to one of the perpetrators. As she fiddles with the linen napkin, she wonders how to react if it turns out he is related to one of Hitler’s henchmen.
‘My grandfather Hans Müller was a judge during the Third Reich,’ Daniel begins. ‘While I was growing up, he was always held up to me as a model of legal excellence and ethical behaviour, and it was always assumed that I would follow in his footsteps and study law.’
She nods. That’s a scenario she recognises, the pressure but also the pleasure of continuing a family tradition.
His eyes rest on her. ‘But they couldn’t have predicted what my study of law would lead to, and how it would impact them.’
Xanthe sits still, anchored to her chair as she watches him.
‘I’m sure you’ll appreciate the irony. Because I admired my grandfather so much, I travelled to Germany to gather information about him for my Master’s thesis. I was looking forward to vindicating a jurist who lived through that terrible period with his principles intact. But what I discovered was a huge disappointment. It made me realise that the legal profession during the war had a lot to answer for.’
She frowns. ‘What do you mean?’
‘There were hundreds of pernicious laws enacted during Hitler’s regime, laws that restricted political freedoms and civil rights, and enabled the Nazis to dispossess, detain, deport and murder millions of Jews as well as dissidents, homosexuals and gypsies. Judges could have used their position to challenge the legitimacy of those laws, but the overwhelming majority – including my grandfather – never did. The documents I found showed that they not only upheld those laws, but they often interpreted them in ways that facilitated Hitler’s agenda.’
Questions whirl in Xanthe’s head, but she refrains from voicing them. She doesn’t want to interrupt his train of thought.
‘All lawyers have an unshakeable respect for the law. Any law,’ he continues. ‘Faced with the implementation of evil laws, the lawyers of the Third Reich concentrated on the laws, and ignored the evil.
‘When people talk about those who were responsible for the Final Solution, they mention Hitler, Himmler, Eichmann and other high-profile Nazis, but I sometimes wonder about the role of the professional people, especially the lawyers. Without their acquiescence, would the Holocaust still have happened?’
He stops talking as the noise behind them intensifies. Voices are raised, chairs are scraped against the floor, and the English group make their way out of the restaurant, still arguing about Brexit.
Xanthe uses the pause to process his statement. ‘That’s huge,’ she says after the door has closed behind them. ‘So you’re saying that the hands that signed the papers might have helped to put the guns in the hands of the murderers.’
He nods, and she thinks she sees a gleam of approval in his gaze.
‘So when you examine the documents here, will you be looking to see how the Jersey lawyers acted with regard to the Nazi racial laws?’
‘That’s right. And I’ll be looking at the behaviour of the administrative officers as well.’
They are the last diners in the restaurant, and the waiter is hovering to see if they want anything else. Xanthe finds it easier to think now the dining room is quiet, and she asks, ‘How did your family react when they found out that you’d knocked your grandfather off his pedestal?’
‘Not well. My father, Hans Müller’s son, didn’t want to know. He said I’d become part of what he called the Holocaust industry, blaming innocent Germans for Hitler’s crimes. He argued that Hans had no choice. Which is the usual excuse, but it isn’t valid. Anyway, that’s what he chose to believe, and he never forgave me for sullying his father’s reputation. My older sister sided with him so I don’t see her anymore either.’
‘And your mother?’
‘She’s an Aussie, and she never got on with the old man apparently. She said he was rigid and Germanic, so she was open to what I said. Unfortunately, the controversy about Hans didn’t help their marriage, and they ended up divorcing a few years ago.’
‘What about you?’ she asks. ‘Did you know your grandfather?’
‘I did, but he died when I was eight. He used to take me for long walks. One day, when I complained I was too tired to keep walking, he told me that after the war the Russians deported him to Siberia, and when he was released, he walked thousands of kilometres, all the way back to Germany. That was the only time he ever alluded to his past. He took me for walks in the Melbourne Botanical Gardens and taught me the names of trees and plants, and told me stories about ancient Greeks and Romans. I loved spending time with him.’
‘So it must have been hard when you realised he hadn’t been the heroic figure you’d been led to believe.’
Daniel looks thoughtful. ‘It took me a while to come to terms with it, but in time I came to understand that he was the product of the legal profession and the German culture at the time, both of which reinforced unwavering obedience and unquestioning enforcement of laws.’
‘Do you know if he ever talked to your mother about the war?’
‘She said he refused to talk about it, and if anyone asked, he changed the subject. I suppose he knew that people would have already made up their minds, and it was probably too complicated to explain to anyone who wasn’t there and hadn’t lived through it.’
Their conversation has moved into dark waters, and Xanthe tries to imagine what it might have been like to be part of the judiciary at a time when the law was used to support an evil agenda.
‘Do you really believe he had a choice?’ she asks. ‘I mean, Hitler wasn’t exactly tolerant when people refused to enforce his laws.’
Daniel seems to be considering her question. ‘There’s always a choice. Even the members of the einsatzgruppen, the killing squads, could have refused to gun down thousands of men, women and children. Raising objections about the legitimacy of those laws might not have made any difference, but it would be nice to know that he’d at least expressed dissent. But from the documents relating to his judgements that I read in Germany, it was obvious that, like most of his peers, he chose to rubberstamp rather than dissent.’
She wonders whether to take the risk and ask the question that has been on her mind ever since this conversation began, but she knows it won’t let her rest. Taking a deep breath, she says, ‘Have you ever wondered what you would have done in his place?’
He pauses, and she has braced herself for a retort, when he says, ‘As a matter of fact, I have. Often. All I can say is that I hope I would have behaved with more principle, but hindsight is a great teacher. The trouble is, we have to live life forwards, and I don’t think we can ever know how we would behave in any situation until it arises.’
For a moment, she feels the urge to confide in him about the toxic situation at the hospital that she had failed to denounce, but decides against it. ‘Does that mean we don’t know our own character until a crisis forces us to reveal it?’
‘Probably.’ He is surveying her with interest. ‘You’re very perceptive.’ Then he adds, ‘I hope I’m not being inappropriate!’
‘No, but you’re being sarcastic,’ she says, laughing now. ‘So how did you come to terms with your grandfather’s behaviour?’
‘This might sound odd, but eventually I decided that this research I’ve embarked on is his gift to me. I became so disillusioned with the practice of law that I was on the point of abandoning it, but then I decided to do my Masters and go into the academic side instead, and research the responsibility of lawyers during genocide. Not just during the Holocaust, but in Rwanda, Bosnia and Myanmar.
‘This has given me the opportunity to do something meaningful with my law degree. Who knows, maybe in the end it will enable me to add something to our understanding of what makes events like the Holocaust possible.’
She envies him. It must be fulfilling to use your training to achieve something worthwhile. Reflecting on his words, she realises that he has trusted her sufficiently to share a deeply personal story. ‘That’s a great way to look at it,’ she says, ‘turning a negative into a positive.’
He makes that self-deprecating gesture with his hands, as though pushing away the air to make space for his next words. ‘I’m sorry, I’ve been talking way too much about me. What about you? What’s going on in your life?’
‘Nothing nearly as interesting as in yours,’ she says lightly, and adds, ‘I still haven’t figured out how to turn my negatives into positives.’
When the waiter places the bill on the table, she suggests splitting it.
He is smiling. ‘Will it offend your feminist sensibility if I pay for dinner?’
Of the several replies that occur to her, she selects the one that implies they have a future. ‘Not if I can pay next time.’
The square is quiet as they walk towards her car, except for shrieks of laughter that come from revellers drinking outside the Cock and Bottle.
She turns to him. ‘I’ve been thinking about your relative Edward de Courcy. How does he fit in to your research plans? You must have had some reason for making contact, other than to get his back up.’
‘Not only is he the current Bailiff, but his father was the Bailiff here during the war. So his father was the most powerful local figure at the time, and I believe the Germans deferred to him even during the Occupation.’
‘Well, from his reaction it’s obvious he won’t help you. I imagine he’d like to put as many obstacles in your way as possible. Do you think it might have been better not to tell him why you were here?’
‘I believe in being upfront. Anyway, he can’t prevent me from getting hold of the documents that have been released. So tomorrow I’m going to spend the day at the Archive Office.’
Before getting into her car, she wonders how to end the evening. She feels she has painted herself into an awkward corner. What’s the nature of their relationship? Are they friends, colleagues or casual acquaintances? A kiss would be too familiar, a handshake too businesslike. Maybe a casual comment like Catch you later, or Let’s keep in touch?
While this is going through her mind, he is gazing at her.
‘That outfit you’re wearing is exactly the same colour as your eyes,’ he says. Then he bends down and as his warm lips brush against her cheek, she breathes in the scent of his aftershave.
‘I’m going to make sure you keep your word about paying for dinner next time,’ he calls out as he walks off.
‘You’re on!’ she replies.
The tantalising scent of his aftershave lingers in her mind for the rest of the evening. That night, she dreams she’s in a courtroom. The judge is wearing a white wig and holds a gavel. He looks accusingly at her and she realises that she’s the defendant, although it isn’t clear what she has been charged with.
He is about to pronounce sentence, and although she doesn’t hear what he says, from his furious expression and the way he bangs his gavel, she can tell that it will be severe. ‘But you don’t understand!’ she is shouting. ‘You can’t judge me when you weren’t even there.’ She turns and sees that people in the packed courtroom are shaking their fists at her. Panic-stricken, she tries to run from the court but her feet are stuck to the floor and she can’t wrest them away. There’s no escape.