Part Three

Thirteen

It was a cold Tuesday evening when Andrew White parked his Ford Escort in the narrow spot which was allocated to his flat in the dark back alley. Today it seemed particularly dark because the weather was bleak with low clouds and even a touch of sea-mist pushing in from the English Channel. He locked his car and realized that it could actually do with a wash, it was so dirty, but then what was the point with such an old car? It was a faded red and looked its age carrying an “M” registration, which belonged to the old system of registration marks and identified it immediately as a car from the last century. But he didn’t mind, not belonging to the category of car-buffs like most of his friends. Any old banger would do for him as long as it took him from A to B.

He climbed the stairs to his flat. It was his first flat, and he was quite proud of being a property owner. Although, if you looked at it carefully, you had to admit that it was really the bank who owned most of it. He had just been lucky to get it on his minimal deposit. True, what had made it possible was not only the special deal offered by the bank to young people they called “first-time buyers”, but also his parents’ generous contribution. Both he and his sister Lisa had received fifty thousand pounds each on their twenty-first birthdays. Their parents had made it a condition that the gift was meant to help them buy their first homes. His twenty-first had been more than three years ago, while Lisa had only had hers last year. She was still at university up North, although at the moment she was down in Sussex because she could work better on her M.A. thesis in her parents’ home. He, on the other hand, had left all academic efforts and ambitions behind him. True, he had his bachelor’s degree in Social Studies, which had got him a part-time job in the local council offices, but what interested him much more these days was his piano. He knew he could never become a proper pianist, but his ambitions as an amateur were a constant challenge for him while he felt he could truly express himself through his musical activities. He never performed for an audience; his piano music was for his own enjoyment and personal fulfilment. On this Tuesday evening he was just coming home from his piano lesson. In his mind, he was still going through the Bach Fantasy which he’d been working on with his piano teacher.

The warmth of his flat surprised him. He found the switch and turned down the temperature on the thermostat. He took the sheet music from his briefcase and stacked it on his piano, which was a middle-aged Yamaha. Usually, when he came home from his lesson, he immediately sat down at his piano to try out his new achievements, to check if the things he’d been working out with his teacher still worked at home. But tonight, he had other plans.

He got himself a quick snack of bread and cheese with a glass of orange juice before settling down in front of the TV set. He wanted to watch the pictures of the Inauguration Ceremony for the first Black American President. He saw this as a historic date. Today, on the 20th of January 2009, the world was entering a new phase because its greatest super-power was about to change. Of this he was certain. This was going to be the end of America’s backwardness and brutal inhumanity driven by its pioneer-mentality. At last the United States might find its way to democratic values propagated by figures like Abraham Lincoln. Some of the worst black spots in American un-culture might be overcome at last, such as the redneck madness with guns, the death penalty or the concentration camp of Guantánamo. Andrew felt that he was full of hope and expectation.

After his TV session, he felt tired. He walked to his small kitchen to make himself a sandwich. He loved a ham and tomato sandwich in the evening, often late at night. He had the illusion that it helped him fall asleep when he went to bed. As he was putting the remaining pack of ham back into the fridge, his eyes fell on his mobile phone that he had left next to the coffee machine earlier. It was still switched off from his piano lesson. He switched it on. Once it had made its connection with the provider, it beeped. There were two messages, one from his friend Dave and another from his sister Lisa. Dave’s message suggested they meet for a late pint at the pub. He ignored it. It was too late now. He opened Lisa’s message.

“Please call me asap. It’s about Mum. Urgent! Love. L,” it said.

Andrew sat down with his sandwich and wondered what Lisa could possibly have to tell him about their mother which was so urgent. He dearly loved his little sister, but he knew her well enough to understand that she tended to overreact at times. She was so emotional. Sometimes he listened to her emotional outbreaks in silence, knowing full well that what she was going on about was only half as dramatic in reality, and often he managed to calm her down once her energy was spent, and they could discuss the matter at hand much more realistically. So, he decided to wait until the next day before calling her.

When he woke up in the morning, he found three more messages on his mobile. They were all from Lisa, urging him to call her. She was considerate enough not to call him in the middle of the night, but she wanted to speak to him as soon as possible. It was now just seven o’clock, and it was still dark outside. Andrew loved getting up early in the morning. It gave him an opportunity to settle his thoughts, to look ahead at the new day and to sort a few things that needed sorting. For example, he usually answered his email messages and often did his on-line banking in the early hours of the morning. There was only one message from Amazon, the cheap on-line bookshop, informing him that the book he’d ordered had now been despatched. It was quite an expensive book about Germany in the Second World War, with lots of pictures and a host of facts. He was fully aware of the fact that he could find most of this information on the Internet, but he somehow felt that things were more accurate in properly researched books.

Andrew had inherited his mother’s keen interest in history and particularly European history of the twentieth century. Lisa often teased him about it. Sometimes they had heated arguments about the usefulness of history, but he didn’t mind. He was convinced that humanity could learn a great deal from a critical view on all history, particularly on more recent history. Besides, his mother had inspired him too much. History was in their blood, he felt. He knew his mother had found out lots of things about Grandfather’s time in Germany, things she was keeping to herself. True, she’d told him a few facts, but there were still lots of open questions.

Just before eight he called Lisa. She answered on the first ring.

“So, what’s up?” he demanded.

“Oh, my poor Andrew, it’s so terrible,” she answered, hardly able to suppress her sobs. “Mum had a stroke. She’s in hospital. It’s so unexpected, it’s so early. She’s only in her early fifties. Oh, poor Mum!”

“That’s bad news, indeed,” he said. “But what about her chances?”

“Oh, it’s all so sad! I couldn’t sleep all night. Why didn’t you call me last night? What if I died and you never knew because you’re not getting important messages! You have no consideration for your family, you have no feelings!”

“Oh, come on, Lisa. Calm down. Just tell me where she is, so I can visit the hospital and speak to the doctors.”

Lisa sniffed for a moment before she managed to answer her brother in a level voice. “She’s at the DGH, and I’m also going there this morning.”

“Okay, I’ll tell my office, and I’ll be there by half nine.”

“Oh, thank you. You’re such a good brother. It’s so kind of you to come, too.”

“Of course. No problem. See you there.”

He quickly organized his absence from his office and managed to be at the hospital by half-past nine, as promised. Lisa was already sitting there in the reception area. He kissed her on her cheek, which was still wet from crying, and sat down beside her.

“I’ve already asked to see the doctor,” she informed him. “We can’t visit Mum until later. She’s in intensive care. Also, I’ve spoken to Dad on the phone. He’s in New York, but he’s flying home tonight.”

Soon the doctor arrived. He introduced himself as Dr Banerjee. He was a friendly man of medium height with an extremely winning expression on his brown face. His sparkling eyes were nearly black. Andrew liked him immediately, feeling he could trust this doctor.

Dr Banerjee gave them a full report of their mother’s case. She’d had a stroke, but she had a good chance to survive with only minor complications. One couldn’t say much more at this stage. The doctor gave them a lecture on the exact medical condition. They understood that their mother might come out with a small handicap such as a partly paralysed left arm and possibly a weakened mind. Time would tell.

Later, Andrew and Lisa could visit their mother, but she was too weak and drugged to talk coherently. They held her hand for a while, then left. In front of the hospital, Andrew had to calm his sister down. She threw her arms in the air and concluded at last, “Such is life! In the middle of life, we are near death!” Andrew knew better than to respond to this, so he just took his leave. They agreed to visit again as often as possible. Lisa said she was planning to stay for another two weeks anyway before returning to her university.

Andrew spent the afternoon at work. At one point he got a bit bored. He had to fill in some lists. He stopped and sank into deep thoughts. What if his mother was dying? Dad would be shattered, but he’d be able to cope. He was more worried about Lisa. She was so close to Mum emotionally, while he himself was rather close to her intellectually.

Suddenly, the idea struck him that if she died a lot of valuable information would be lost, things she had researched about Granddad all those years ago. A pity Granddad was no longer in a condition in which he could talk about his own past in any coherent and comprehensive way. He was in a nursing home in Southfields Road. At eighty-six, he was suffering from a special form of dementia. Andrew had tried to talk to him on his last visit at the nursing home, but the answers he got from Granddad didn’t make sense. Andrew always felt rather depressed after every visit, and he wondered how much the old man still realized.

He picked up his mobile and called Lisa.

“When’s Dad due home?” he asked her.

“He’ll be arriving at Heathrow early tomorrow morning. But Auntie Margaret’s coming down from London. I’ll pick her up from the station in twenty minutes and take her to the hospital.”

“Okay, shall we all get together later?”

“Yes, let’s meet at home, say after half six?”

They rang off, and Andrew fell back into his deep thoughts. He thought of Auntie Margaret. She was a very courageous woman who called a spade a spade. More than seventeen years ago, she’d left her family, her husband and her two children, back in the States, and moved in with her best friend Helen from Newcastle. At first, the two lovers lived in Newcastle before moving down to London. They’d now been in London for over five years and after some initial problems, the family - i.e. Mum and Dad - had accepted the situation. After all, this was the twenty-first century. Most people had a gay person in their families. In a way, he quite liked both of them, Margaret and Helen. Helen still had that funny Geordie accent, and they seemed to be very happy together.

Then his thoughts again took him to Granddad, who’d been in Germany during the last war. Now that his mother might be incapacitated to a certain degree it seemed even more important to talk to her about what she knew of Granddad’s past. He decided to take up the subject with her again as soon as possible. Once she would have recovered from the worst of her stroke.

In the evening of the following day, the family assembled at their home in the Meads. It was an unusual situation. George, their father, was still suffering from a slight jet-lag, and the absence of his wife, Andrew’s and Lisa’s mother, created a strange emptiness in the living-room where they all sat down. There was no mother to serve them tea, so Lisa went to the kitchen and put the kettle on. Aunt Margaret hadn’t arrived yet.

“I’ve been to see your mother,” George began. “The doctors say she’ll be left partly paralysed in the left half of her face, and she’ll probably have difficulties moving her left arm. But he was quite confident that physiotherapy might improve things for her in due course.”

“Did she speak when you were there?” Andrew wanted to know.

“Oh yes, she uttered a few words. Although they were quite slurred, her efforts at comprehensible speech made me confident that she might eventually be able to speak properly again. Let’s be optimistic.”

Despite his words, the father couldn’t hide his worst fears from his own children. Lisa came through from the kitchen and put her arms round her father. There were tears running down his cheeks.

When they had their teacups in their hands, the beverage not only warmed their hands but gave them encouragement. They agreed to visit their mother at the hospital as often as possible and to exchange any information about new developments in her condition.

When the doorbell rang, they knew it had to be Aunt Margaret. As it so often happens, a stupidly funny idea flashing up in the middle of a serious situation, while appearing almost insolent, could reveal itself as extremely humorous and alleviating. This was the case in Andrew’s mind when the ring of the bell reminded him of Algernon Moncrieff’s statement that “only relatives or creditors ever ring in that Wagnerian manner”, in Oscar Wilde’s fantastic comedy, The Importance of Being Earnest. This unburdening thought brought a smile to his face, which made his sister frown at him.

“Hi, everyone,” Aunt Margaret boomed as she was striding into the living-room, followed by her friend Helen behind her. Helen only uttered a quiet hello and left the field to her more powerful friend.

While all the different members of his family were chatting away, exchanging various ideas as to the way their mother ought to be looked after once she was out of hospital, Andrew followed a different train of thought. He decided to visit his grandfather in the nursing home, a thing he hadn’t done for a long time. This time, he admitted to himself, it wouldn’t just be a matter of doing his duty towards the old man. He felt a real urge within himself. Could it be what was just happening to his mother? Or was it the effect of his thoughts about certain aspects of his grandfather’s history being lost unless he was going to do something about it? Whatever it was, he had to see his grandfather as soon as possible. During these ruminations, he felt as if he was drifting away from the other persons in the room. He was drifting away in a cloud, seeing his family as if they were the figures in a pantomime or, even more stunning for him, a shoal of fish in a tank. It was the first time in his life that he experienced anything like this. Up till now he had always felt connected with the people around him, even more inseparably so with the members of his family. Despite the small age difference, for example, with his sister Lisa, he had always felt this strong bond between them. A bond he’d never questioned. But now, although he knew they were just reacting to the situation with his mother, he somehow considered them all, even Lisa, to be running after destiny. They were all discussing things they couldn’t influence in the slightest way. Was this all that we humans could do? Couldn’t we try to make an impact? To learn from the past and apply those lessons learnt accordingly?

* * *

He was surprised at the relatively young nurse who received him at the nursing home. She could hardly be older than he was.

“Your grandfather is sitting in our sun-lounge,” she informed him.

“Thank you. Is it this way?”

“Yes, just go through that door, and you’ll see him.”

Andrew did as the charming young nurse had instructed him. He pushed the door open, and indeed, there was his grandfather, about twenty feet away, sitting in an armchair by the large window. He crossed the room and stood by his chair. The old man didn’t react to his approach.

“Hello, Granddad,” Andrew addressed him cheerfully.

“I’m not buying anything from you. Go away.”

Andrew waited for a moment before he tried again. “Granddad, it’s me, Andrew, your grandson. I’ve come to see you.”

“And you think you can hoodwink me, young man? I know what’s going on.”

“Of course, you do.” Andrew sat down on a chair opposite. He gave the old man a pleasant smile. He hoped it was a natural smile.

“What’s so funny, young man?”

“I’m just smiling because I like you.”

“Ah, I see. I know what’s going on.”

Then the two men looked at each other in silence. Andrew decided to give him time, not to rush things. He knew from what Lisa had told him that it was quite possible for Granddad suddenly to see things clearly, just as suddenly as it was possible for him to slip away from a clear mind into the darkness of oblivion. He was wondering if he ought to keep up some sort of conversation, absurd as it might turn out, when the old man stared at him with a fixed expression.

“He, he, du bist ein frecher Pimpf. That’s what you are.”

Andrew’s German was not very good. He’d studied it up to his O-Levels, but then lost most of it again. So he wasn’t sure what a Pimpf was. It was probably something like a chap, a bloke, a fellow.

“It’s all those things they tell you. Mich können sie aber nicht hinters Licht führen. Mich nicht. Nein, mich nicht! I know what’s going on.”

He tried again. “Granddad, can you remember your wife, Emily?”

“Who?”

“Emily! You loved her. She was your wife.”

“I never married her. - Anna war so schön. Sie war so schön. - Why did you take her away?”

Andrew realized he’d never get anywhere. So, he just waited in silence to give his grandfather more time to remember who he was. He scrutinized the old man’s face, then he looked out of the window at the nicely tended garden of the nursing home. He wondered how much of his physical environment his grandfather was able to take in.

Suddenly the old rasping voice began again, “The Führer didn’t even give me a medal when he visited our camp. But I know what’s going on.”

“What do you mean?” Andrew enquired.

“Ah, I see, young man. You’ve come to get me. But I know what’s going on. You don’t know me, do you?” he chuckled. Then he laughed, louder and louder. “Ha ha! You think you know me, but you don’t know me. I cha scho Bärndütsch! Ja, jaaa, I bi kei Souschwab, nenei,” he eagerly stated, nodding then shaking his head.

Andrew didn’t understand what language his grandfather was falling into. Could it be Dutch or Russian? He knew that the old man had always been a very gifted linguist, but he wasn’t sure how many languages he still spoke. Besides, it was highly uncertain whether any of his utterances really made sense at all. He was probably mixing together all sorts of different things in his life, even mixing them with his own dreams and fantasies. And in all this, despite some angry outbreaks, he appeared to be reasonably happy.

After another half hour of listening to the old man’s ramblings, which were interspersed with bits from other languages - most of which he identified as German phrases and a few Latin proverbs - Andrew decided to leave. He stood up and bent down to kiss his grandfather on his forehead, which the old man allowed without protest.

“Good-bye, Granddad.”

“Hey, don’t leave your old Granddad like that,” came the rasping voice.

Andrew turned round and saw that his grandfather was looking at him with great tenderness. Obviously, this was a brief moment of mental lucidity.

“Why didn’t you bring your sister Lisa? And where’s Emily? My dear girl, Emily?”

Andrew hesitated before he answered truthfully. There was no need to tell lies at this point, but he didn’t remind his grandfather that Grandma had died years ago. “Lisa will come to see you soon, but Mother isn’t very well. That’s Nora. She had to go to hospital. But she’s going to get better. Do you want me to give her a message from you?”

“Oh, I see,” the grandfather said. “It’s true. Tempora mutantur et nos mutamur in illis. Isn’t it? If only Emily could be here. Tell her, it was all for the best. Tell her I didn’t mean to do bad things.”

“Yes, I will tell her.”

After this, they talked about the weather, and Andrew told his grandfather about the first Black American President. Then old Didi was losing his grip on reality again.

Soon, Andrew left the nursing home. As he was passing through the front hall, he happened to see the young nurse again, the good-looking young nurse who had received him earlier. She smiled at him, and he smiled back. He wondered what her name could be and decided to ask her next time. He walked towards the station and turned right at the library. In Grove Road, he went into the newsagent’s to get a paper. Of course, the headlines were full of the new American President. Andrew folded the paper away. As he was walking on he was thinking of all the things his grandfather had said or insinuated. If he put all the puzzle-pieces together it appeared that his grandfather was begging for some kind of understanding or even forgiveness.

He would really have to talk to his mother about this as soon as she was getting better. Hopefully, that would be soon enough.

When he reached his flat in the evening he first called his father, who told him that Mum was recovering slowly. He said she might have to remain in hospital for quite some time. After this call, Andrew had a snack and turned on his TV-set. He watched some more commentaries about the possible achievements the world could expect from Mr Obama. Some journalists believed he could really introduce a new era in American international politics, but more commentators were uncertain and warned of too high expectations. After all, there was too strong an opposition from the Republicans in the House of Representatives. Andrew found it hard to understand some aspects of American politics, particularly the prevailing frontier mentality, which was responsible for the power of the National Rifle Association, in spite of all those mass murders in public and shootings at schools. How primitive can you be to believe that the right to carry a loaded gun was a sign of freedom?

He was getting tired. As he was nearly dropping off to sleep in front of the screen he remembered the good-looking nurse. Lucky Granddad! To be looked after by such a charming young woman...

The next few days, he was very busy with various things. There were email messages to be answered, there were two of his friends who wanted to meet him for a chat, and there were the regular visits to his mother in the hospital.

Nora was gradually getting better. As Dr Banerjee had predicted, it appeared that she would remain partly paralysed in her left side and it was difficult for her to use her left hand. Otherwise, she seemed to be in excellent health. However, this stroke had an important effect on her mind. As she told Andrew after a week in hospital, she got the shock of her life.

“I suddenly realized how limited my life was,” she explained.

“Oh, come on, Mum. You’re going to live for much longer,” he insisted.

“You’re talking like your father. In his case it’s inexcusable, but you are still young, so I can forgive you for your ignorance.”

“Okay, I’m young. But can’t you see that Dad must believe the same thing? He loves you. When a man loves a woman, he cannot imagine the end of her life, or vice versa. Or can you imagine the end of Dad’s life?”

“I couldn’t, up to now. Now I can. Does this sound harsh?” she asked, looking deep into her son’s eyes.

He thought about it before he answered. “I guess it isn’t, after what you’ve just gone through. But still, I don’t believe it can help you to have such thoughts. Life is still so full of joy. I mean, you’re only in your early fifties. There are still so many good things waiting for you in your life. It feels strange for a son to have to tell his own mother such basic truths, but I strongly believe in them.”

“That’s perfectly all right for you, my dear. But my perspective is a different one. I’ve seen things that can destroy even the strongest man’s convictions. So, I’m also more realistic about my own life. You can’t take this away from me.”

The son frowned. “What things do you mean? What have you seen?”

The mother remained silent for a longer period before she took up the conversation again. And when she did, she spoke in a strange voice, a voice her son had never heard from her. It sounded as if she was speaking to him from some other sphere, but it was still his mother’s voice.

“I have thought about these questions for a long time. Now, lying in bed here, with the prospect of going through my remaining days as a cripple–”

“Don’t say that! You’re not a cripple,” Andrew protested. But she cut him short.

“Don’t interrupt me. This is important, and I’m only telling you this once. I’m never going to repeat it. But the fact is, I’ve found out things that make you lose all confidence in humanity. Before this time in hospital I always thought I’d take those things into my grave with me. But now, I’ve come to the conclusion that someone in the family ought to know. Those things shouldn’t be forgotten. They should never be allowed to be forgotten. But the problem is, they’re so heavy. They nearly crushed me, and whoever is going to preserve them for the next generation might not be strong enough.”

She broke off and directed her eyes to the window. He was just going to ask her a question when she continued in the same outlandish voice.

“Don’t ask me to explain what I mean at this point. Listen, Andrew dear. I know you’re a very strong man. You have enormous potential. Lisa is a good girl, but she’s far too weak. She has such a soft nature, and you know how her emotions can get the better of her. So I’m convinced you are the person to be trusted when the time comes. You will know what to do.”

“I still don’t understand what you mean,” he faltered. He felt a thick lump in his throat. “Why don’t you want to explain?”

“Because the time is not ripe. But there will come a day when you can understand everything. One day, my heavy knowledge will pass on to you. It’ll probably be after I’m gone, but it might be while I’m still alive, depending on my medical condition.”

“You sound like Old Major in Orwell’s Animal Farm,” Andrew was joking, but he realized it was not the right time for lightness. “Sorry, but you scare me with such sombre predictions.”

“I didn’t mean them to be sombre. Knowledge is never sombre, though its contents may very well be.”

“So, what do you want me to do?”

“Nothing. When the time comes you will know. Now, leave me, please. This has made me tired. I’d like to rest. Please.”

With her right hand she grabbed both his hands and held them for a while. Then she dropped her hand, laid it down on her bed and closed her eyes. Her actions were a clear dismissal.

Andrew understood. He stood up from his chair by the bedside, kissed his mother’s forehead, muttered a soft “good-bye, Mum,” and quietly left the ward.

Fourteen

Life for Andrew continued very much within its normal groove. He did his job at the local council offices, he spent his free time either practising the piano or with friends playing tennis or football. Sometimes he went for a drink at the Dolphin or at the Dewdrop Inn opposite, about every two of three days or so he visited his mother at the hospital, and once a week he went to the nursing home to see his grandfather.

After what his mother had told him that afternoon, he often wondered what she could have meant, but he never asked her again. She never returned to the subject. As time went on, he put the matter to the back of his mind, although he couldn’t forget it completely.

One day, about two weeks after his mother’s stroke, he was sitting at his piano teacher’s instrument. It was a fine Bechstein grand. Sam Westfield, his teacher, was talking about the piece they were in the process of getting to know. Andrew was immediately caught by the magic of the piece. It was Rachmaninov’s Prélude in c sharp minor. Its general mood, especially in the opening bars, took hold of him in a very strange way. It reminded him of what his mother had told him about a hidden truth he was going to find out one day. Somehow, the heaviness of the first section of the Prélude drew him back into the emotions he’d felt at that time. The fast middle section, on the other hand, had an urgency that turned what he’d felt in the first section into some black being that was constantly escaping his consciousness, only to arrive, in the final section, in a land of superior knowledge. He wondered whether he should tell Sam. Even though they had quite a personal relationship - which was really a perfect thing between teacher and pupil in such an intimate subject as the piano - he wasn’t sure if Sam would understand. After all, he didn’t know Mum, and he hadn’t been there when his mother spoke to him about those things.

Back at his flat, he practised the Prélude very diligently, trying to create the different moods in the piece according to his own sensibility. After a few days, he found he couldn’t go back to his mundane every-day life after playing such a piece. He looked for a different piece that he could play as a buffer between the Prélude and the outside world. He tried the Bach Fantasy in c minor BWV 906 that he’d learnt only a few weeks back. It was only the Fantasy, without the Fugue, which had the right effect for him. But after a few more days he felt that Bach was altogether too logical, too mathematical and also somehow too deep to satisfy him. So he reverted to another piece within his repertoire that finally functioned for him as it should. And this was Schubert’s Impromptu op.90 no.1. Its marching rhythm, together with its wistful main theme, gave him what he’d been looking for. Henceforth, he would practise the Rachmaninov Prélude to get it as near to perfection as possible - which was no child’s play in the middle section - and always play the Schubert Impromptu before returning to normal life and the banality of his physical presence in his flat.

Today, he not only played the Rachmaninov, the Bach and the Schubert, but he leafed through his stack of sheet-music and pulled out various other pieces that took his fancy at this particular moment. Among others, he spent quite some time to work his way through Mozart’s K 331, leaving out the all too often-heard last movement, but repeating several of the variations of the first movement. In the end, however, he got tired of the deceptively graceful A major of the Sonata and returned to the mood of the Rachmaninov. He was just reaching the climax of the third part with its gorgeous fortissimo, when his phone rang.

It was his friend Dave. He wanted him to come for a drink at the Bibendum, a pub-cum-bistro at the corner of Grange Road and South Street. Andrew had liked the pub a lot better before its recent refurbishment, when it had still been called the New Inn.

In the pub, Dave smiled, “Hi Andrew, old man, how are things?”

“Hiya, good to see you. I’m glad you drew me out of my place. I’ve been spending too much time on my own recently, you know, cut off from the world.”

“Oh, have you? The good old piano, wasn’t it?”

“Yes. That and other things.”

“Aren’t we growing into two old buffers? You with your music and I with my books?” Dave pulled a sour face.

“Well, I don’t know. On the other hand, I think we are learning a great deal about the world, about humanity, only different things from what we can learn in a pub, for instance. Don’t you think your extensive reading gives you insights you could never reach without your books? And I feel the same about my music.”

Dave was indeed an extremely avid reader. Whenever he could, he had his nose in a book. Wherever he went, he always carried a book with him in case he might have some time to kill. Andrew envied his encyclopaedic knowledge of literature. He knew quite a bit about English and German literature, too, but Dave’s expertise extended into many other literary fields. He was very well-read in all the Postcolonial literatures in English, and in French, German, Italian, Spanish and Russian literature. While he read most of those in their original languages, he also read Scandinavian, Chinese and Japanese texts in translation. No wonder Dave was working his way up the academic ladder and was hoping to get a chair in Comparative Literature one day. Andrew never stopped being impressed. The two friends respected each other’s keen interests.

They got their drinks and sat down by the large window. Outside, the forecourt was full of smokers who were holding their pint glasses in one hand while gesticulating in the air with their other hand which also held their cigarettes.

“I can never understand how anyone can still be a smoker these days,” Dave remarked. He had rather strict views on this, while he condoned the other most popular drug of today, alcohol.

The friends got into discussions about drugs, about the general decay of society and about their own positions between optimism and pessimism. Dave said he believed English society particularly was getting vulgarized more and more terribly year by year, much more so than other European societies. Andrew countered that he was obviously forgetting the banlieues of Paris. This got them talking about the general dangers of growing parallel societies in many European contexts. In the end, they arrived at the question of whether or not a society needed some sort of moral standards, some set of shared moral values, in order to keep its general coherence.

“What happens to individuals who violate such moral standards? And why do they commit such violations in the first place? That’s what I’d like to understand!” Andrew said.

“Well, think of Raskolnikov! Every individual has the potential to commit a crime, for various reasons. The important thing, however, is for him to be guided back into the social system, to be reprimanded. That’s Dostoyevsky’s original title, you know. The Russian Prestuplenie i Nakazanie, generally translated as Crime and Punishment, really means ‘Transgression and Reproof’. It is really that process of being reprimanded by the powers that govern human behaviour which is the important issue. Some individuals manage to survive such a process, albeit through phases of extreme difficulties, you know, through complete collapse and rebirth, while others are destroyed in the process, like Meursault in L’Etranger by Camus.”

“It’s funny how you’re just trying to make me understand such important issues through some Russian mind. I mean Dostoyevsky. When you called me, I was just grappling with another great Russian mind, Rachmaninov.” Andrew was quite excited about this coincidence. “The mood of his famous Prélude, you know the c sharp minor, especially in its third part, I now feel, has a lot in common with what you’ve just been explaining.”

“Yes,” Dave said and took another sip from his drink. He rubbed his chin and continued. “I used to think it was the Germans who carried with them a constant sense of guilt. I mean, just look at most of their classical literature. But more recently I’ve come to the conclusion that their hereditary guilt complex was nothing compared to the great Russian soul. Whereas with Tolstoy you never really know where you are, whether in the land of light or in the valley of darkness, it’s a constant struggle for the spiritual survival of one’s soul in Dostoyevsky, especially if a character allows himself to be separated from the essence of his society and from the healing power of love.”

“I agree completely,” Andrew nodded. “But why did you bring in Camus before? Surely, that’s an altogether different case, isn’t it?”

“You’re right there. Meursault is different. He’s the hero and the victim at the same time. The only insight he gains is the recognition of his own existence. He can be seen as the personification of Nihilism, in which case there’s no parallel to Raskolnikov, but the similarity, at least for me, lies in both men’s overstepping of absolute limits, their utter abandonment of the values of the society that nourishes them.”

“But what about such cases in real life? What course of action remains for such individuals in our time?”

“Do you mean the Idi Amins, the Ghaddafis and the Saddam Husseins of this world?”

“Not even just those. They are lost to the world anyway. But take any minion within those dictators’ machineries? Take the Stasi thug responsible for ordinary men’s disasters, or the KGB agent helping to send innocent people to the Siberian Gulag. Those aparatchiks go to their offices like any ordinary employee but the results of their seemingly ordinary office jobs kill or destroy people. In their eyes, they’re just doing their jobs. Remember Adolf Eichmann and all those defendants at Nuremberg who claimed they just obeyed their orders. How guilty can they ever be?”

“Of course, they’re as guilty as their leaders. Remember Hannah Arendt’s dictum, ‘No-one has the right to obey.’ But listen, Andrew. We’ll have to go on with this conversation some other night. It’s time for me to go home. I’m expecting a phone call from a colleague in the States who promised to let me know something I asked him the other day. He’s due to call me within the next half hour. It’s only late afternoon in Washington now.”

Andrew was disappointed. He was enjoying such conversations with Dave, and his friend’s insights often gave him a big boost. But he agreed to call it a day, and the two friends parted in the street in front of the pub.

Back in his flat, he sat down at his piano and played a light-footed Arietta con Variazioni by Haydn to unburden his spirit after the heavier pieces that he was normally working on. He added the second movement of Bach’s Italian Concerto, to conclude his day. This relaxed him enough so that he could go to bed.

* * *

When, two days later, he ran into his Aunt Margaret in front of W. H. Smith’s in Terminus Road he greeted her with real joy. She kissed him on his cheek and suggested they go for a cup of coffee together.

“I’ve just been to the hospital,” Margaret explained when they were settled with their coffees at a wobbly table at the back of the café. “Nora is feeling a lot better. I’m glad. You know, we were all so worried.”

“Of course, we were worried. She’s given me such a shock as well. All of a sudden, I realize that my Mum is not going to live forever. But I guess that’s a lesson every person has to learn sooner or later, isn’t it?”

“Well, yes. Just think of your grandparents. My mother dead for ages and my father in a terrible state...”

“I don’t think he is so terribly unhappy. Do you?”

“Not really. You may be right, it’s more the people around him - that’s us - that are unhappy. He may very well be okay within the cocoon of his dementia.”

“On the other hand,” Andrew mused, “there are obviously things that worry him a great deal. I mean things from his past. Mostly his experiences in the War. Don’t you feel he seems to worry a lot about those?”

“Probably. But to tell you the truth, I am sick of all that talk about the War and all that. Nora has been going on and on about it for most of her life. I can’t take any more.”

Andrew mildly protested. “But I think it’s important.”

“Oh yes, I’ve nearly forgotten that you’re just like her in that department. How come you also take such a keen interest in history, the War, Nazi Germany and so on? Does that really matter?”

“To me, it does.”

“Just like your mother. Nora kept at it through most of our time as youngsters. But I understand she’s no longer so keen. We all criticized her until she went on that trip to Germany, which seemed to have satisfied her at last. She certainly lost a great deal of her zeal after that trip.”

“Have you ever talked to her about that trip?” Andrew asked.

“Well, yes, we did talk about it for a bit. But I don’t think she told me everything. To tell you the truth, I wasn’t all that interested.”

Andrew wanted to tell his aunt how very much he would like to learn more about his mother’s trip to Germany back in the 1990s. But he understood that his interest was not reciprocated, so he changed the subject. When, at the end of their time at the café, they said good-bye, Aunt Margaret quickly returned to the former subject. “Why don’t you read her diary?” she suggested.

He was surprised. He’d never known his mother to be a diarist. But he decided to find out if such a diary really existed.

He was still lost in his thoughts when he walked into the National Westminster Bank. He wanted to ask something about his mortgage, but his mind was still engaged with his mother’s diary. So he was turning the corner through the heavy wooden doors in an absent-minded state when he bumped into another person.

“Oh, I’m really sorry,” he croaked. Looking up he saw the other person was a woman. They stood facing each other, dumbfounded for a moment.

“Can’t you keep your eyes open?” the woman snapped, rubbing her nose.

“Sorry again. I don’t know what else to say. Just that I’m sorry.” He clearly felt it was all his fault. “Are you hurt?”

The woman took a moment to calm down. As it appeared, she felt a pain in her nose, which had hit Andrew’s chin head-on, and she said she had a pain in her knee.

They stood aside to let other people pass by. They both felt a little awkward, not knowing what to say and still feeling reluctant to part without another word or some sign of reconciliation. While Andrew was searching the woman’s face for signs of forgiveness, the woman was first looking down, avoiding his eyes. Eventually, she raised her face and met his. Then they just looked at each other. Neither of them managed to find the appropriate words. Andrew had never felt like this in his life. He didn’t want to give up looking into this woman’s dark green eyes. He forgot everything around them.

At last, he mumbled, “My name’s Andrew.”

“Hi Andrew. I’m Rebecca,” she answered. She began to smile.

Suddenly, he panicked. He said something to the effect that he was busy and just walked away. He’d forgotten the bank and just walked across to the entrance to the Arndale Shopping Centre. He didn’t look back.

Andrew spent the rest of the day in a state of nervous agitation. He was not himself. He went back to his office, but he didn’t realize what he was doing. He functioned like a robot. After a fruitless hour of pretended work, he decided to go home.

Back in his flat he sat down to a glass of Chardonnay and tried to find out what was going on with himself. But his thoughts went round in circles, he felt drugged, and the wine added to his sense of intoxication. So he fell into a light sleepiness, a sort of trance. Like this, he spent what seemed to him something like ten hours but in reality, was only about half an hour.

Then it hit him like lightning.

“It’s that woman,” he breathed to himself. “What was her name? Rebecca. Yes, Rebecca. Her deep stare, her dark green eyes, her fascinating face, her breathing, her posture, her perfume.”

The only adequate response to this shock was the piano. It had to be Beethoven. He sat down at his piano and played the Grande Sonate Pathétique from end to end. When he’d finished he first took some time to regain his normal breathing, then he felt utterly exhausted. So, even though it was only just after six o’clock, he went to his bedroom and collapsed on his bed.

He dreamed of Rebecca, of course. In his dream, she was staring at him in the same intensive way as in front of the bank, her face just a few inches away from his, and he wanted her to come closer, to put his arms around her, to kiss those lovely lips of hers, but whenever he had the impression that she was sinking into his arms and her lips were coming closer and closer, she vanished from sight, only to reappear in the same position as at the beginning of the dream. This scene repeated itself several times. Every time he wanted to draw her to him and to kiss her she vanished. In time, the dream became more blurred with every repetition, and he fell into a deep and dreamless sleep.

He woke up some time after two in the morning. After tossing and turning in his bed for another half hour, he got up and walked to the kitchen to pour himself a glass of cold milk. Normally, this helped him to go back to sleep. But back in bed he still couldn’t relax enough, his mind kept racing around what had happened to him. That woman. Rebecca.

He thought about his experience with women. Most of the time he had been too busy with his studies and his piano to take note of women’s charms. During his university years, he had been to several parties where he was attracted to one of the girls, he had even been drawn into some hot cuddling and kissing sessions with girls he liked very much. He had to admit to himself that he was really very fond of female beauty, and he still remembered how deeply he’d been impressed with the erotic quality of the Toilet of Venus by Velazquez in the National Gallery. He used to go back again and again, standing in front of the alluring painting, following the wonderful curve of the woman’s back with his eager teenager’s eyes and admiring the perfection of her naked pink skin. Of course, he knew perfectly well what a naked girl looked like. After all, as a child he had often played naked with his sister Lisa during those hot summer afternoons. At the time, the fact that she looked different had just been a natural observation, without any particular attraction. The change had come when Lisa suddenly began to grow into some alien being, with her giggles and - more visibly - with those budding breasts. That was the time when they’d stopped their carefree games in the long summer afternoons. Lisa had begun to go out to play with other girls, while he had turned his interests to more academic subjects and to music. So, when the awareness of female beauty re-entered his consciousness during those hot university parties he experienced the whole matter as a pleasant but not very important aspect of his life as a young man. That was what men and women did, didn’t they? Eventually, they’d get ready to produce children. But for Andrew that eventuality was still miles away. Although he was more than just aware of women and he loved looking at beautiful and sexy women, he still couldn’t imagine himself wanting to be with a woman for more than a relaxed cuddling session, for an evening when he had nothing better to do perhaps. He liked the erotic quality of nude women in men’s magazines or in French films, particularly with Isabelle Huppert or Eva Green, and at the other end of the scale he liked several women as friends or colleagues, just as fine persons. But up to now he’d never managed to build a bridge between these two quite contrasting images of women in his mind. Until now.

That Rebecca woman caused an earthquake within Andrew’s entire being. He could neither categorize her among those erotic models and actresses, nor could he merely see her in the same sphere as his female friends, say like Zoe, the young woman who worked in the same office and with whom he often exchanged pleasant chats about everything under the sun. Zoe was a friend, yes, but what was this new woman, Rebecca?

He checked himself, telling himself that his feelings were ridiculous. He’d only bumped into Rebecca, they had looked into each other’s eyes, and they had only spoken a few words. He knew next to nothing about her. Even if what was happening to him now could be called falling in love - a process which was utterly new and represented dangerous, unmapped territory - it was as futile as waiting to win the National Lottery.

He suddenly remembered the old Jewish joke of Samuel who went to the synagogue every day, praying to God for the jackpot in the lottery. Every day he would look up towards heaven and pray with the same words, “Please dear God, arrange it for me to win the lottery!” Back he went to the synagogue, day after day, until one day after many years, when he’d just completed his regular prayer, he suddenly heard a deep voice coming down from heaven: “Oh Samuel, please give me a chance. Buy a lottery ticket!”

Andrew had always considered that joke a bit silly, but now it suddenly struck him as a piece of old wisdom. It might apply to his predicament. He wanted to see Rebecca again. And the only chance he had was to do something about it, but what? He went through several courses of action in his mind.

He got up and had a shower. Over his early-morning coffee, he decided to explore his possibilities during the day. He was quite confident he would find her eventually.

In his morning break at the office, he happened to get his cup of tea at the same time as Zoe. He asked her if she had ever tried to find a person.

“How do you mean?” Zoe asked. “Do you mean someone whose name you don’t know?”

“Yes, someone whose surname you don’t know, so you can’t consult the phone directory. Besides, many people no longer have a land-line. What would you suggest?”

They went through various options, most of which were too unrealistic, until Zoe concluded, “Your best bet is to place an advert in the Herald.”

In the evening, Andrew went for a drink at the Dolphin in South Street where he ran into Dave, who was already on his third pint of London Pride. The two friends talked about their day and the latest news. Dave had some gossip about some scandal in the Labour Party, and Andrew told his friend what had happened to him the day before in front of the National Westminster Bank.

“So, what are you going to do about it?” Dave asked.

“I guess I’ll have to put an advert in the paper to trace her down.”

“Yeah, that’s probably your only chance. Are you sure you didn’t get her full name? I mean, if you were so taken with her, why didn’t you ask her for her number?”

“I couldn’t speak. I was so dumbstruck. Then, I would’ve found it vulgar to ask for her number. It’s so crude. It’s what people do in films, not in real life.”

“That woman really got you, eh?” Dave chuckled.

Andrew just nodded. He decided to try the idea with the advert, and he changed the subject.

The next day, he went to the newspaper office to place his advert. He had concocted the following text under the bold title “Rebecca”:

We bumped into each other in front of the NatWest in Terminus Road on Monday. I can’t forget your beautiful green eyes. Where are you? If you’d like to see me again, just come to the Dolphin Inn in South Street on a Tuesday or Thursday between 7 and 9pm.

Andrew.

After the text had appeared in the Herald, he made sure to be at the Dolphin at the right time every Tuesday and Thursday. But it was all in vain. Rebecca didn’t come. The first two weeks, Andrew still hoped for a miracle, but after that he gave up and told himself he would have to forget her.

Life went on in its usual grooves. Andrew was at his job, sometimes chatting to Zoe, he spent time with Dave, discussing politics and other things, and he played his piano. When his mother was getting better she was released from hospital. The next day, Andrew visited her at her home. After discussing various practical matters, her health, her therapy, her chances of a full recovery, as well as Andrew’s latest news, they came to talk about some news items.

“Did you see the report about that old man who was charged with terrible crimes during the War? He’s very old now, but they say he was involved with mass murder in a concentration camp.”

“Yes,” Andrew eagerly answered because it was an item that interested him as much as his mother. “He was an Unterscharführer of the SS at Auschwitz-Birkenau.”

They discussed what had emerged about this case in the news. Then Andrew decided to ask his mother about her trip to Germany more than ten years ago.

“You know so much more about what happened in Germany during the War,” he began. “So, I’m sure you could tell me a lot more. Aunt Margaret told me you’d been writing a diary.”

Mother hesitated before she answered. “You see, I discovered so many things that nobody wants to know about these days. I just believed that one day, perhaps, someone might be interested, especially someone in our family who has enough understanding about history. Some of the things I found out are so terrible. You see, my boy, it’s a proper dilemma. On one hand, I don’t want to destroy our family’s belief in the good things my father did, but on the other hand, I feel it as my duty to preserve the truth for the future, so that it can be recognized and assessed by the right minds when the time comes.”

They remained silent for a while. Andrew poured himself another cup of tea from his mother’s pot on the table. They were sitting in her lounge.

“You know, I’m just as interested in these things as you are. I envy you. You went to Germany to speak to the right people, but all I can do is guess.”

“I know, my dear. And I think the time will come when I’ll let you read my diary. But it’s too early now. You’re too young.”

At the pub in the evening, Andrew told Dave about it. Dave showed the appropriate interest in his friend’s news about his hobby-horse, Germany in the last war. But in reality, he only humoured him. What interested him rather more in this context than the raw historical facts were the philosophical implications.

“So, you keep blaming your granddad for his involvement in the atrocities of the Nazis in Germany?” he asked.

“Well, it’s not even proved that he was involved. All I have are insinuations I gathered from my mum. But I want to know for sure, sooner or later.”

“Why don’t you let sleeping dogs lie, like everybody? Who cares about those events nowadays? Or do you believe that Kant’s Categorical Imperative is still as valid for our moral behaviour as it was over two hundred years ago?”

“Of course,” Andrew stated with conviction. “‘Act only according to that maxim whereby you can, at the same time, want that it should become a universal law.’”

“Exact quotation, well done! But do you honestly believe it to be as valid as ever? Haven’t things changed dramatically during the last century?”

“You may be right in many respects, but I believe in the moral philosophy of the Enlightenment. Otherwise I couldn’t believe so passionately in Democracy and in the importance of Human Rights. These basic concepts can’t be overturned so easily by some new technology, by the landing on the moon, by the Internet or by the possibility of pre-natal genetic diagnostics, to name just a few achievements.”

“But some of the achievements you mention have obviously had some impact on some of our moral concepts, haven’t they?”

Andrew emptied his drink before he answered. “Indeed, we have to agree on how to adapt the limits of our moral concepts because of the new scientific territory explored by some of these achievements. But that doesn’t mean that our basic understanding of good and evil has to be changed. There are already enough challenges in the fact that other cultures are already drawing much narrower limits around even those basic concepts.”

“What examples are you thinking of?”

“Take the Saudis and homosexuality, take the fundamentalist Catholics and birth control, or take the Americans and the death penalty, to name just a few examples.”

Dave had nothing to add to this. So the two friends ordered another round of drinks and changed the subject.

“Tell me,” Dave said confidentially, “any news in the girlfriend department?”

Andrew drew a long sigh. “She still hasn’t come forward.”

“She may have missed your advert. So just repeat the procedure. She may see it the second time.”

“And then repeat it again and again? Spending all my money on adverts?”

“No. But give it just one more chance. Or let’s agree on three adverts. If she doesn’t respond the second time, I’m going to finance the third advert. And if there’s still no answer the third time, we’ll call it off. What do you say?”

“Okay, I’ll agree to a second try. But I’m not going to have you pay for a third, you know, you have to see that.”

The two men clinked their pint glasses on this agreement. Andrew was happy about Dave’s optimism. In a way, he was hoping for better success the second time, too, but at the same time he was extremely doubtful if Rebecca would see the second advert if she didn’t see the first. He even feared she might have seen the first advert but decided not to respond. Why should she get involved with a man she’d just seen once and hadn’t even talked to except giving her name?

He placed the advert in the Herald a second time. It appeared on the last week in March.

As he was sitting over a gin and tonic in the Dolphin Inn around seven thirty on the next Thursday evening, not really thinking about anything in particular, but with the principal tune of Chopin’s g-minor Ballad in his head, a soft voice behind his back asked, “Andrew?”

Utterly puzzled for a second, he turned around in amazement.

There she was. Rebecca was smiling at him.

Fifteen

The time came when Nora had recovered so well that her slight handicap was hardly noticeable, which was a development for which everyone in her family was grateful. Her sister Margaret still came down to Sussex at least once a month to help her, but recently her visits had become rarer and she seemed to prefer to stay in London with her partner Helen. Nora’s husband George, although very busy at work in Gatwick, continued to be a great help and a wonderful moral support for her. Her daughter Lisa had completed her M.A. at university and got started on a job in the City, living on her own in an old flat near Hampstead Heath. Her son Andrew and his girlfriend Rebecca were her most regular visitors. They had been an item for nearly two years now. Their relationship had developed like a poorly constructed love-story in some cheap bestseller from the airport bookstall. Only the pink sunset had been missing. Even after nearly two years, they appeared to be very much in love. This made Andrew’s mother very happy.

Andrew himself had hardly changed over the past two years, except for the fact that he devoted all his energy that wasn’t directed at his music to his great love, Rebecca. She was his first and only love, the only woman he had invited into his life, body and soul. Her dark green eyes still fascinated him every day. They remained the most alluring part of her, even though he’d had the pleasure of getting to know other phenomenally beautiful parts of her. When they had first explored each other’s bodies and made love for the first time - which hadn’t been so very long after their meeting at the Dolphin Inn - it was as if a new world revealed itself to him. One of the effects of this new existence was that he no longer discussed women with his friend Dave. The two friends still met for occasional drinks and they still shared a great many observations about the world, about politics, about history and philosophy, but no longer about women. They could still make a casual comment about a woman they might see at the pub, but they had left their former juvenile male sexist comments behind them. Andrew didn’t know why, but he felt his respect for women in general had been lifted to a higher level.

“I’m going to see Mum after work today,” he announced one cool Wednesday morning in July. Rebecca had just stepped out of the shower and was beginning to dry her beautiful body with her large green bath-towel.

“Will you be home later in the evening?” she asked. “Or shall we have supper together?”

“I think Mum wants me to stay a bit longer. She seems to have something on her mind. At least that’s what her short text message suggests. What about your plans for the evening?”

“I could stay out later, too, meet my Mum at the beach and take her for fish and chips on the Pier.” She smiled at him, stepping out of her wrapping, throwing the bath-towel on the washing-basket.

“That’s a very good idea,” he said, looking at his beautiful Rebecca, who was standing stark naked in front of him, wriggling her large breasts in jest in front of his eyes. He swallowed hard, dumbstruck with admiration and desire. Her beauty was so perfect. Of course, she was fully aware of her effect on him. She loved to tease him sexually, especially in the morning. She knew how much he admired her full breasts with their pink puffy nipples, so whenever she wanted to arouse him, even just to celebrate life together, she knew how to present her physical beauty to him for maximum effect. Today, he didn’t hesitate but immediately stepped up to her to fold her in his arms. She pulled off his light summer clothes, and they went back to bed to make love.

Afterwards, they got dressed and had a quick cup of coffee together, before leaving for work.

Throughout the day, Andrew found it hard to concentrate. His mind often returned to the love-making of the morning. In his mind, he could still smell her skin and feel the soft touch of her flesh. Even after two years, he still found Rebecca the most beautiful woman in the world, and their sex life hadn’t lost any of its initial fascination. If anything, it had become even better every time. He kept wondering how it was possible for a man like himself to be so happy, not only with a woman as a person, a companion, but also with a woman as a sexual partner, an object of such wild sexual desire with all those physical pleasures. He was convinced that it represented one of the great powers which lay behind all artistic creativity. How else could Velazquez paint such pictures, how else could Schubert or Chopin create such music, and how else could Keats or Wordsworth write such poetry?

Rebecca also proved to be a very pleasant and reliable partner in every-day life. She was very capable in practical matters, she was efficient and caring. Ever since they had moved in together she had been looking after their common flat. She did the cleaning, the washing and most other household chores. Andrew was very happy about this. He often offered to do more, to do what he considered his share, and she sometimes let him empty the dishwasher or allowed him to clean his own shoes, but she wanted to be the true mistress of their set-up. She had her standards in everything. So even if she let him do the occasional household job he had to do it to her standards. She was extremely opinionated when it came to standards of cleanliness and often reproached him for not having cleaned his hands enough, for having forgotten to clean his teeth after a meal or leaving a spot of water on the floor in the bathroom. And if he left a single stubble of hair in his face after shaving she would refuse to kiss him. He didn’t mind these things, he rather considered himself fortunate to be with such a beautiful, sexy and competent woman. If there was one drawback about her that he became aware of over the first few months that they lived together, it was perhaps her limited intellectual capacities. For example, her mind was not capable of abstraction. So she could never tell him what she’d just read in the paper, she couldn’t summarize a story, she couldn’t even tell a story so that it made sense, she mixed up marginal matters with the central issue of a story, a report or a news item. For example, only recently she’d gone to the cinema with one of her friends to see the new film about King George VI called The King’s Speech, which Andrew hadn’t seen yet. When she came home he asked her about it.

“What was it about?”

“It was a charming film, you know, we nearly cried when we saw the girls, Elizabeth and Margaret, that’s the Queen when she was young, and they were so cute. Their mother was very strict with them.”

“Yes, but what was the main plot about?”

“The Queen, that’s the queen we know as the Queen Mother, she was Helena Bonham Carter. I never really liked her, except in that old 1980s film about the girl playing the piano in Florence, you know when she had such a lot of thick hair. Wasn’t that impressive? Do you remember?”

“Yes, that was in A Room with a View, based on the E. M. Forster novel. But what about The King’s Speech? Was it more about the politics of the day, the Second World War, how the Royal Family coped, and the support they gave their people? Or what was the story?”

“Colin Firth, he was the King, you remember he used to be Mr Darcy. Well, he got together with some Australian and they became friends, but before he had to become king, he never wanted to become king, but it turned out he was a good king, his brother should have been king, and his wife, Helena Bonham Carter that is, she gave him a lot of support. Oh, it was a fine movie. They really got the atmosphere of those days during the War.”

Andrew gave up. He decided to see the film for himself. But it took him a lot of intellectual tolerance to cope with his darling Rebecca’s weakness in this matter. He admitted to himself that he had originally expected her to have higher intellectual abilities. He swallowed his slight disappointment and told himself that she was a charming woman anyway.

Another aspect of her intellectual limitation was something that often cropped up when they were sitting comfortably either at home or in some pub or restaurant, having a relaxed chat about things in general. As it can happen quite normally between any two people in such an every-day situation, he sometimes didn’t get what she had just said because there was some noise around or it was spoken too softly, whatever. When he asked her what she’d just said she almost invariably repeated the only bit that he’d understood instead of the part he hadn’t. At first, he thought he hadn’t asked her clearly enough, but eventually he found that she couldn’t grasp such a task, she just repeated what she considered the most important word of her utterance.

“Fiona said she’d seen him on the Pier.” She stressed the word “Pier”.

“Who - whom - did she see?”

“On the Pier!”

Or: “Fiona asked if we could meet at the pub next Wednesday,” stressing “Wednesday”.

“Sorry, I didn’t get where. Where does she want to meet you?”

“Wednesday.”

“Yes, but where?”

“Fiona, I said. On Wednesday.”

Situations like this were so frequent that the idea hit him that she might have a problem with her hearing. But he found out that it couldn’t be the problem, her hearing often proved to be excellent. So it had to be her intellect.

Over the months, Andrew learned to live with this. It was a small price to pay for being with such a lovely woman, after all. And weren’t all love-relationships a challenge? And, to top it all, the sex they had was so satisfying. He truly believed he’d won the jackpot when it came to finding his ideal partner for life. The sex, yes, the sex was so overwhelmingly fantastic.

By the time he walked up to his mother’s front door, after work, he had sufficiently recovered from his morning’s sexual earthquake to focus on what his mother might have to discuss with him.

“I wanted to talk to you, but now I find it difficult to begin,” his mother admitted. “You see, it’s not easy. I have been in two minds about it for quite some time. Should I involve you, yes or no? And if so, when was the right time?”

“Don’t say anything unless you really mean it,” Andrew warned. “Don’t say things you might regret afterwards.”

“Oh, it’s not that, my dear. I won’t regret anything. It’s only that I don’t know when you will be ready for it. How will it affect you if I involve you too early?”

“Please, Mum, don’t speak in riddles. I’m a big boy, and you know you can trust me with everything, even if you’re going to tell me you’ve had a career as a chain-saw murderer.” He thought this exaggeration could lighten the mood, but he was wrong. It was the wrong thing to say, he realized at once.

“I’m sorry, I was just–”

“I know. I’m sorry if I can’t joke about these things. They’re too serious.”

Mother and son went on beating about the bush for a while. Eventually, after a short moment of silence, she took a deep breath and said, “It’s that awful man, Wolfgang, again.”

“Now you’ll have to explain,” Andrew begged.

Then it was time for the truth. For the first time in her life, Nora White, née Woolf, who had always been such a strong woman, became a humble narrator of events beyond her control. She began to tell her son Andrew a story that was bound to affect his life as much as it had affected hers for so many years.

“You may remember, we used to talk about people who must have known my father, your granddad that is, in his young days. And in that context, you might have heard of a man called Wolfgang. What you probably don’t know is that Wolfgang tried to blackmail your granddad through the 1980s. But you know that I went to Germany in 1996.”

“Yes, I know. And I probably guessed more than you may think. You know that I’m also interested in the past. Just like you. And I’m equally intrigued by what happened in the last war, especially in Germany. Also, Granddad sometimes says very strange things when he’s so puzzled in his mind. He keeps on about having done bad things, but I can’t make head or tail of it.”

“There you are. This is the point. Are you ready to take my old diary and read it when it suits you?”

Andrew looked at his mother. With her question she gave him such a wonderful proof of her confidence in him. Was he worthy of such unconditional trust?

He realized that she might expect him to show some surprise, but he didn’t want to be too enthusiastic either.

“Your diary?” he only asked.

“Indeed. There’s only one problem,” his mother said. “I can’t find it. I know it must be somewhere, either in the attic or in the garage. I’m sure it isn’t anywhere among our books or our documents. So I’ll have to look for it. Only, at the time I simply haven’t got the energy.”

“Oh, you’ll find it. I’m confident. Or do you want me to help you?”

“No, I prefer to find it myself.”

“Perhaps Dad might know where it is,” Andrew suggested.

Nora hesitated before she answered. “Your father doesn’t even know this diary exists. He knows about my trip to Germany, of course. But I never told him everything. I only told him the more pleasant stories about my time over there. He knows I went to trace my father’s past, and he asked me a few general questions, but he has no idea of the depth of my enquiry. I also did tell him that my father had changed his name twice after the war, but he wasn’t really interested in the details. George said he married Nora Woolf and made her into Mrs White, and that was enough for him. He could never understand or even support my interest in my father’s past.”

“So, it’s a thing between you and me?”

“Absolutely. That’s why I want you to read my diary when the time is right. Oh yes, Margaret knows about the diary, too.”

“Has she read it?”

“Of course not. She hasn’t even seen it. I only told her in a moment of weakness shortly after my return from Germany. We both got a bit tipsy one evening when we were on our own. George was away on business and Helen was with her parents in Northumberland. So we spent a sisterly evening together, first at the Pilot and later back here. I can’t tell you how much we had, but the bottles of Pinot Grigio lost their contents pretty quickly. It was just one of those evenings. We both felt so relaxed and free, and very close as sisters. We’ve never felt like that again. Anyway, that’s when I confided in her. I told her about the diary. She’s never asked me about it, and it has never been mentioned between us again. So, there you are. Margaret knows but doesn’t seem to be so interested in it.”

“And what about that Wolfgang man?”

“Well, that... That’s another problem. He called here a few days ago, he was at the door. I was alone, and he gave me quite a fright. You know, he’s an octogenarian but looks a lot younger, quite threatening. The vulgar type of an ugly German, if you know what I mean.”

“What did he want?”

“Guess what. Money.”

“I can see. But what do you expect me to do?”

“Well, I was hoping you might have an idea of what to do, how to react to the fellow’s demands.”

Andrew was silent for a few minutes, while his mother went to the kitchen to make a cup of tea. When the kettle was boiling she asked him if he wanted a cup, too, and he said yes, please. Then they sat down together in the living-room again.

After they’d had their first sips Andrew came to a decision.

“Here’s my suggestion, Mum. You do your best to find that diary. How can I decide what to do if I don’t know the full story? Whatever that man knows, it can’t be all that bad. If he contacts you again, just put him off. Invent some story about ill health or so, just put him off. Let him think there might be some money if only he’ll be patient enough. Meanwhile I will think of an appropriate strategy.”

Nora sighed and nodded.

Back at home, Andrew gave the matter a great deal of thought. He told Rebecca that his mother wanted him to help her. He gave her a rough outline of the problem, playing it down as much as possible. He didn’t want her to worry too much but being so much in love with her, he couldn’t exclude her from something that occupied his mind so much.

“Do you want me to help in any way?” she asked.

“Not unless you desperately want to get involved with things of the distant past, I mean my grandfather’s time during the War.”

“I know how important those things are for you, my darling. I don’t need to get involved. Only if you want me to. I trust you will do the right things. But if ever you or your mother should need my help, just let me know.”

“Oh yes, there’s something you could do. You could help Mum with her visitors next week. Some old friends of hers from her young days in Newcastle are coming down south to visit. They’re quite decent women, in fact very nice people, and I’m sure Mum would love you to take them round, show them a few things, you know.”

“I’d love to do that,” Rebecca smiled. “You know I like your mother very much, and I’m glad to give her a hand with things.”

“Well, I don’t think she needs a lot of help, but she could do with some support with the tourist thing.”

“Okay, I’ll arrange things with her.”

“You are such a darling.”

Andrew decided to involve Dave. The next day, he called him, and the two friends met at Dave’s apartment at the bottom end of Grange Road. After some small-talk and a few comments about the current political situation, they came to what Andrew had on his mind.

“So, what’s that problem for which you need my help?” Dave asked.

“Don’t laugh, but it’s got to do with the past, with the time of the last war, and my grandfather’s role in it.” Then Andrew told him what he knew about his grandfather, his mother’s investigations and finally about that Wolfgang fellow and the blackmail. Then he asked Dave for advice.

“I think it’s clear,” Dave answered. “Just ignore the idiot. Whatever he knows - if he even knows anything that’s shameful or whatever - it can’t be that bad. Besides, who cares? Nobody gives a hoot about petty little crimes committed some sixty years ago. Why dig up the past? So, your granddad may have stolen a gun from some Nazi bloke, or whatever. Let it be. Let sleeping dogs lie.”

This advice appeared very sensible to Andrew. Even if that fellow published what he knew - say, in a TV talk-show or in some tabloid paper - it would never have a big effect. Granddad was an old invalid. So, what would be the worst thing that could happen? Neither Mum nor Dad were important people, people of interest to the general public. Nobody would blame an ordinary person, a law-abiding decent citizen, for anything that one of their ancestors had done during war-times in the last century.

Andrew’s decision was taken. He told his mother. She was uncertain. “And you’d really take the risk. You’d let the man publish what he knows?” she wondered.

“Indeed, I would. Let him do what he likes. Let him do what he wants with his scanty knowledge of no importance. Let him put it in his pipe and smoke it!” Andrew smiled.

“Well, if you think so,” his mother answered, hesitatingly.

They changed the subject. The mother was full of excitement over the impending visit of her friends. This was going to be much more than a casual visit, it was the first - and perhaps the only - reunion of Nora’s school friends. While she had been staying in touch with Debbie in London and Janet in Bristol, she had not seen any of the others since her school days. Debbie, who was still the great communicator and who kept in touch with many other people from her Newcastle days, had now organized this reunion. She had been planning this for over two years, but it had taken so long to get everyone to agree on a common date.

“There will be Janet, of course, but there will also be Christine, Sophie and Amy,” she’d informed Nora in her latest email message. Whereas Janet had kept in touch with Nora and had been to see her in Eastbourne on several occasions, neither of the other three women had ever been to England’s south coast, so Debbie invited them all for an extended weekend in Eastbourne, hoping that Nora would be their local guide.

“Are you going to natter about the good old days in Newcastle when you get together?” Andrew asked.

“Those good old days weren’t all that good. We had our disagreements, our rivalries and a few big conflicts. But we never really broke up as a loose group of girls in a male-dominated and narrow-minded society. The biggest conflict we had was about Janet, when she got pregnant at fifteen.”

“Was that when Bob was born?” Andrew had met Bob when they visited Janet in Bristol the first time. Bob was twelve years his senior. Andrew had never really liked Bob because he considered him vulgar. Bob was a hands-on type who only considered manual labour real work, he called all university graduates pussy-footers, and he used four-letter-words in almost every sentence; that is if he ever produced a full sentence.

“Oh, don’t judge him,” Nora said. “He had such a hard time when he was young.”

“Why?”

“Well, Janet and her child were social outcasts. You know, in those days it was considered a great shame when a girl got pregnant as a teenager and without being married. It was always the girl’s fault, never the boy who got her pregnant, and she was made to feel it. I remember in Newcastle, people pointed their fingers at her and warned their daughters not to have anything to do with such a bad girl.”

Andrew changed the subject and promised his mother he would help her when it came to hosting her friends. He suggested he might show them round, showing them Beachy Head, Pevensey Castle and other sights in the area.

When her old friends arrived, Nora put them up at the Hydro Hotel. It was arranged that Andrew would join them for the evening meal on their first day.

He parked his old car in the hotel car-park and walked through the lobby to the dining area. He was just stepping through the open doors of the elegant partition between the hotel lobby and the dining area when he was stopped by a middle-aged man in a dark suit and a silver-grey necktie.

“I’m sorry, sir,” the man said and stopped Andrew with his right arm.

“I’m just going to join some friends–” Andrew began.

“You can’t come in like this, sir.”

“What’s wrong about me?”

“We are an elegant hotel, sir. I’m afraid you have to wear a jacket and a tie.”

“But it’s summer, and it’s warm, as you must feel yourself.”

“Again, I’m sorry, sir, but these are the rules.”

So Andrew could only wave to the table where his mother was sitting with her friends before he walked out of the hotel. He found the situation too ludicrous to make any more comments. But he couldn’t help mumbling “ridiculous” as he left the hotel through the front doors.

Back in his flat, Rebecca asked him if he didn’t want to let his mother know. So he sent her a short text message and explained the reason for his absence.

The next day, he went to his mother’s house and walked to the hotel with her. In the lobby, at last, he was personally introduced to everyone. As he already knew Debbie and even Janet, he was particularly interested in the other three women. They all greeted him with enthusiasm, and Christine even kissed him on his cheek. He’d never been kissed by a middle-aged woman he’d never met before. And as the conversation among all of them took off, he soon realized that Christine was the most charming woman of the group, obviously a woman of the world, in her early fifties, with well-groomed clothes and a stylish hair-do. When she spoke, she betrayed a higher level of education than the others. She liked to round off all her statements with comment like, “Don’t we all know?” or: “I know you all agree.”

Observing the group of middle-aged women, Andrew tried to imagine them as teenagers when they were all schoolmates in Newcastle. It was difficult to imagine them as young girls. This made quite an impression on him.

The weather being nice, with only a few white clouds in an otherwise deep-blue sky, they went off for a walk along the seafront. Andrew went along with them as far as the Pier, then he excused himself and went to work.

In the evening, sitting comfortably in his living-room with Rebecca, he told her of his impression.

“I was trying to see those women as young girls, as a group of naive schoolgirls, but I found it extremely difficult.”

“Why should they have been naive? They may very well have been quite sophisticated. But I can see your point. Life goes on and on, and it has its impact on us. We won’t be the same at their age, too, and it’s a good thing.”

“Of course, you’re right, my darling. But it just made me realize how the ageing process works on us. My granddad used to like his Latin proverbs, and one of them was ‘Tempora mutantur et nos mutamur in illis,’ which means ‘Times change and we change in, or with, them.’ So, if our bodies change so much within only twenty or thirty years, what about our minds? Are we still the same persons at fifty or sixty that we were at twenty?”

“You worry too much. Is it about your granddad? About his past, as you told me several times? I can understand that we will always be confronted with such questions whenever we see our grandparents, or even when we look at ourselves in the mirror. It’s a fact, we’re all growing old.”

“Yes, but for me it’s much more.”

Rebecca just looked at him with a tender expression. She loved him so much. While she could understand his interest in topics like this she nevertheless tried to cheer him up when he fell into one of his gloomy moods. He was such a positive person, but sometimes he lost himself in such deep questions. It was clearly connected with his keen interest in history, particularly with the history in which his grandfather played some dubious role.

The next day, Andrew took the day off and devoted his time to his mother and her friends. He went with them on all those local excursions that they had talked about before the arrival of the friends. When they stood on the lawn in the middle of the ruins of Pevensey Castle, having paid their admission fee to the woman from English Heritage, Andrew gave them a lively and very informative lecture on the Norman Conquest, showing them where the coastline had been in 1066, and giving them a very lively, almost theatrical account of the hardships the Anglo-Saxon soldiers had suffered on their quick-march from Stamford Bridge in Yorkshire all the way down to the south coast. His audience was attentive, and they could all see how the Anglo-Saxons under King Harold of Wessex didn’t stand a chance against the waiting army of the Normans under Duke William.

So they were well-prepared for the next stop on their exploration tour, the battle-field itself. Andrew made sure they could visualize the battle, the battle-cries, the bloody fights, the dying men, the King’s death, William’s oath and his founding of Battle Abbey.

When he delivered the group back to their base camp at the Hydro Hotel they were a little tired but very happy. They thanked him for his interesting and entertaining tour. And of course, Nora was extremely proud of her clever son.

Sixteen

It was a pleasant summer evening. Andrew and Rebecca were sitting on the shingle beach, leaning against one of the wooden groynes, enjoying the light breeze and talking about their situation in life, something they had begun on a regular basis a few months ago.

Up to now, their talks about their relationship had usually consisted of what amounted to a celebration of their mutual love. More recently, they had sometimes brushed against the subject of a family. But they had never really spoken about it openly. Now it seemed the right time.

“Have you ever thought about the future?” Rebecca asked. “I know you’re so involved with the past, but there’s also a future for us, isn’t there?”

“Of course. Sometimes I try to imagine our lives in about twenty years or so. But it’s all a big blur.”

“Have you thought about a family?”

Andrew hesitated before he carefully answered. “Yes, I have. But I don’t know if it’s right, these days, you know.”

“Are you worried so much about the future?”

“Not really very seriously, but I just don’t know. Look, now with Fukushima I don’t know if it’s safe to have a family in the near future.”

“I see. But isn’t Fukushima a long way from here?”

“Indeed, it is. But it could happen here, in this country, in France, elsewhere in Europe. Yes, particularly in France. You’ve heard about the French unwavering belief in nuclear power, and they have some of the oldest and most dangerous power stations.”

Rebecca sighed. “I am confident the European politicians will have sense enough to phase out all the nuclear power stations, now, after what happened in Japan. It’s being discussed in most countries.”

“History even today remains true to itself in many ways,” Andrew mused. “There’s always some big danger looming just over the horizon, and there’s always hope. It’s this constant balance between danger and hope that we humans have to cope with. But can you see any great hope at this point in time? Anywhere in the world?”

“Yes. Isn’t there a great deal of hope in what’s going on in North Africa at the moment? You know, what they call the Arab Spring. Only this year, so much has already happened down there that can give us a great deal of hope for the future. Most of the dictators are disappearing, and more democratic systems are emerging, in Tunisia, in Libya, in Egypt. I know things are not perfect yet, but there are clearly visible movements that allow us to hope for better times.”

“I’m glad you can be so positive.” Andrew smiled at his beloved Rebecca. “So, you’d like to start a family?”

“Well, not right now. Let’s wait and see, but I think we should try for it soon.”

They let it stand at that. The sun was throwing longer shadows over the beach and they felt hungry. So they stood up and strolled off the beach, holding hands, still very much in love.

Over the following days, Andrew often returned to their talk about a family in his mind. Again and again, he asked himself if he wanted to become a father or not in the near future. For a while, his quest moved in circles, always returning to the same position of indecisiveness. His conclusion was always to put it off. He was confident that he - or he and Rebecca together - would eventually arrive at a positive decision. But not yet.

One day in October they drove up to London to attend a concert. He would later remember the date; it was Wednesday, the 26th of October. The traffic was horrendous, but they still made it in time to the Barbican Centre, where they parked their little red car in the car-park. Andrew had booked the parking on the Internet in advance. They walked the short distance through those doors to the lobby of the concert hall. When they entered the hall itself, looking for their seats, the gong sounded to announce the immediate beginning of the concert. They found their seats, settled down, sealed their pleasure about the treat to come with a quick kiss and relaxed.

The Leipzig Gewandhaus Orchestra was ready, all the instruments tuned. Their chief conductor, Riccardo Chailly, entered, bowed, turned round to face his orchestra, and the music began. While the maestro’s long wavy hair danced in the air and the musicians were getting into the strange mood of the modern piece, which was first on the programme, Andrew’s mind refused to be taken in straightaway. The music was a new composition of a man called Steffen Schleiermacher, something that Andrew had never heard. Although it was quite good, he just couldn’t really get into the music. And before he could adapt to the new sounds, the piece was over, and the audience applauded politely.

The next item on the programme was Beethoven’s first symphony. It was a great performance; the conductor and the musicians did justice to their reputation among the best of the world. It was during this symphony that Andrew’s mind travelled through galaxies and what he saw as a thick fog in his mind began to lift gradually. When the piece reached its end and the audience applauded frenetically, he knew he had reached an important decision, but he wasn’t quite clear as to what it amounted to.

In the interval, they drifted to their drinks that they had pre-ordered before the concert. He had a glass of prosecco, while Rebecca sipped her gin-and-tonic.

“You are very quiet,” she remarked, looking him in the eyes.

“Am I?”

“Yes, normally you have something to say about the music we just heard, the pieces, the interpretation, the musicians, the conductor... What about the new piece, the contemporary one? Did you like it? I quite enjoyed it. It was very unusual. But then, what can one expect from a contemporary composition?”

“For me it wasn’t a question of like or dislike. Both works, the Schleiermacher piece and the Beethoven symphony, had an unusual effect on me. I can’t tell you what it was exactly, whether it was the Germanic quality of the music, of both compositions, of both composers and of the orchestra itself, or the style of the performance. Two German composers, one who lived two hundred years ago and another one who is alive now, one from Bonn and the other from Halle. I just don’t know, but they have had a very strong effect on me. It’s even possible that the mood comes from my own subconscious quests, but it can be the music.”

“Well, you’ll have another chance after the interval. We’re in for another treat, Beethoven’s Seventh,” Rebecca smiled.

And it was just as she had predicted. The second half of the concert with that truly great symphony helped Andrew to get through to the end of the fog, and when the concert was over he saw light.

Again, he was silent. They walked back to the car-park and drove out into the late evening traffic of London. Rebecca must have felt that he needed the silence to come to terms about how to communicate to her what he felt. They drove out of the big city in silence. It was only when they reached the M23 and the movement of their car had become more regular that Andrew spoke at last.

“You must have wondered, my darling,” he began, “but I needed to sort things out first. But now I’m one hundred per cent sure I have come to an important decision.”

She glanced at his face in the semi-darkness of the interior of the car. But she did not say anything. She let him continue at his own pace.

“My first priority will be to find that diary of my mother’s. I want to read it, and I want to find answers to all those questions about the past before I’m ready to engage in the future. In other words, only when I’ve found out about Granddad’s role in the War can I take on the responsibility of parenthood. I promise you we’ll try for a child once I have my answers.”

She was silent for several minutes. The M23 had become the A23 before she answered in a level voice.

“I have been expecting this, and I respect your decision. I know how much all that means to you, and I love you. So, I will go along with it as long as it won’t be for years and years. For both of us and our happiness I can only hope it will not take too long.”

“Thank you, my darling.”

They didn’t speak anymore during the rest of the trip. They were both deep in their thoughts. When they were back at their home they prepared for bed in silence. It was a happy silence. In bed, they were happy to cling to each other, to feel the smooth texture of the skin of their naked bodies. Even though this gave them both a moderate erotic feeling they didn’t do anything to intensify it. They were both very happy as they were. It was a celebration of togetherness. In this happy and relaxed mood, they gradually fell asleep, the lovely music still in their ears.

The following morning, Andrew decided to make a special effort to find his mother’s diary. He wondered what new aspects he would find in there. Could it be that Granddad was all wrong about his fantasies? How long did he actually stay in Germany, how long did he spend in Switzerland? Was he really in Germany up to the end of the War? What role did he play when called up? Men of his age must have been called up in 1943 by the latest? Did he do his national service in the Wehrmacht? Did he fight against Poland, France, Russia, the Allies? What was his political allegiance? Was he perhaps even in agreement with Nazi doctrine? Or was he in the underground, fighting the Nazis?

Would the diary reveal anything in that direction? Did Mum actually manage to find out anything about the background of that Wolfgang? And what about the woman called Anna, for whom Granddad seemed particularly concerned? Was she his great love before the War? How long did the relationship last?

Questions over questions kept boiling up within him as he was planning to take a week off from work in order to search his mother’s attic and garage.

He started with the attic. Strange feelings crept up on him as he got started. He thought it was like going through his mother’s things after she’d died, but he knew she was still alive, and she had given him full permission to go through all her old things. She was too tired of such searches herself.

In the late afternoon of the first day that he spent in his mother’s attic he got tired of all this rummaging through his parents’ things. When his father got home the two men sat down on some wooden boxes in the attic. The father had brought some bottles of beer.

“So, you’re hoping to find some of Nora’s old stuff, she told me.”

They clinked their bottles, and each took a swallow of beer.

“Yes, it’s her diary. She wrote down everything she found when she went to Germany, back in the nineties.”

“Oh yes. She only told me a few days ago. I never knew she’d actually written a diary.”

“You don’t mind, then?”

“No. Why should I mind? She has obviously given you permission for this search. She trusts you to read it in the right spirit.”

“But wouldn’t you rather read it yourself first? There may be very personal passages. There usually are, in a diary.”

“Heaven forbid!” George exclaimed and slapped his left hand on his left thigh, leaning back on his box. “I have had just about enough of your mother’s crazy interest in all those old stories from the War. You just go ahead, and don’t mind me. You obviously have the same passion for that sort of stuff.”

In a way, Andrew was glad that his father didn’t interfere, but gave him carte blanche with his search. Even though he loved and respected his father, he still felt that what he was about to launch into was something between himself and his mother. Granddad would have been involved if he was still in a better mental condition. But as things stood, it was now a matter between mother and son only. They were the ones who cared about history.

“Let me ask you one thing, though,” George asked his son. “What are you going to do once you’ve found out things you didn’t know before? Not that I believe you’re going to find out any spectacular things, but what if you find out terrible things about your old grandfather? Would that change anything? Would that make the world a better place?”

“I don’t know.”

The father had just finished his beer and prepared to get up and climb down the ladder. He smiled at Andrew. “I’ll leave you to it.”

“I think I’ve had enough for today,” Andrew replied. “I’ll call it a day.”

After his father, Andrew also climbed down the ladder, washed his hands and left. He went back to his flat, where Rebecca was ready with a light supper. She had some good news.

“Dave phoned. He wants to celebrate with you. He’s been appointed as a full professor. He’s all over the moon, and he’ll call you again later or you call him.”

Andrew met Dave two nights later at the pub. Rebecca didn’t want to join them. “It’s a thing between you two. Old buddies celebrating. Only don’t drink too much,” she had warned.

The two friends discussed every aspect of Dave’s new position, his opportunities in research, his new routine, his new salary. Dave promised to remain Andrew’s best friend. Then, after their third round, their talk drifted to other topics, the weather, current politics, the general state of the world and such things.

“I think it’s a pity that Europe didn’t grasp the opportunity it had after German reunification,” Dave mused.

“Well, at least the former Soviet Republics of Eastern Europe freed themselves and became democracies. That’s something, isn’t it?”

“Yes, but what about leaving the Cold War behind? The way things are going these days Russia and Western Europe are in opposition as much as before the fall of the Iron Curtain. That guy Putin keeps heating things up whenever he can.”

“I can understand him,” Andrew suggested. “Imagine how the Russians have always been in fear of the West. They never trusted any Western leader. What could have improved the situation, built up some form of trust, would have been for the West to work together with Russia right from the early nineties. I know that Gorbachev shouldn’t have been ousted by Yeltsin. Gorbachev knew how important for world peace a good understanding between East and West was, whereas Yeltsin, and in his wake Putin, opted for confrontation, reviving old Russian nationalism, directed against the West. But even with Putin, we could have come to a better understanding. I think the worst mistake was for NATO to incorporate all those buffer states, from the Baltic States down to Bulgaria. Like this, the West poses a direct threat to the Russians. So if in the future, Putin is going to do some silly things to demonstrate his power, NATO will bear the main burden of guilt. But let’s hope Putin won’t have to go to extremes, even though one may never know with him.”

“But what could he do?”

“Well, just bear in mind that Stalin made sure most of the Soviet Republics had enough Russians living and working in them. He implemented a huge relocation programme in the 1930s. Like this, there is still a considerable proportion of Russians in all those new countries. What could happen if Putin should call upon them to rebel against their new governments? Is Western Europe going to help those countries if new civil wars break out, perhaps in Latvia, or in Ukraine?”

“You’re really painting a black picture. Putin must be interested in peaceful relations just like everybody else.”

“I only hope you’ll be proved right,” Andrew said and emptied his glass.

Discussions like these often took place between Andrew and Rebecca. With time, he realized that she wasn’t going to be of any great help, she just wasn’t involved enough. So he had to be satisfied with her general support without her enthusiasm. During the weeks that he spent looking for his mother’s diary he tried to get more information out of the other members of his family. He was looking for any bit of information concerning Granddad that might be helpful in his quest. Mother had already told him what she was prepared to share with him without her diary, while Lisa refused to discuss the topic and even warned him not to get crazy. “You’ll end up in the loony bin if you’re not careful,” she threatened.

One evening at the pub Andrew was surprised to find David in an extremely happy mood. Whereas usually his friend was a more serious person, always full of thoughts about literature and its contribution towards a better world but without the belief in its success, he now appeared to be a lot more relaxed. What could be the reason behind such a change of mood?

“I say, you really seem to be in a fantastic state. What’s up, old chap?”

“Well, guess,” David answered with a mysterious smile. “Can’t you guess? What can make a guy really happy?”

“A woman?”

“Bull’s eye, old chap!”

“Come on, tell me all about it,” Andrew urged his friend.

“Well, what do they say in such situations? I don’t know how to describe it; my feelings are beyond words.”

Andrew laughed. “You can say such a thing, you of all people? You, who are a man of the word, of the power of language?”

“It’s not so easy when it comes to your own feelings, you know.”

“If you were a poet you’d know what to say, wouldn’t you?”

“Not all poets wrote about the theme of love.”

“Those are poor quibbles. Just tell me in plain words.”

Then David told him about the woman he had met at that conference in Canterbury a while ago. They had kept in touch, and as things stood, they had fallen for each other and were now a serious item.

“Why did you never tell me?” Andrew asked, a little disappointed at his friend’s secretiveness over the past few weeks.

“Things were not clear to me for quite some time. But now I know where we stand. But what’s the problem? I have told you now.”

“What’s her name?”

“Marie-Claire. She’s French.”

“Great. I must say I’m very happy for you. When am I going to meet her?”

David promised a meeting in the near future. Then he continued telling Andrew about his feelings for her, about her fine character, about her gorgeous looks and about all her other attractions. In the end, Andrew had to put an end to their talk, otherwise David would have gone on and on with his eulogy. After a serious promise to introduce Marie-Claire to his best friend as soon as possible, David agreed to call it a day. The two men downed their last drinks and went home.

Over the following weeks, Andrew and Rebecca had the pleasure to make the acquaintance of Marie-Claire and to experience David in his new role as a fond lover. This new setting as a quartet, as Andrew remarked to David, gradually changed their friendship. Their old camaraderie as two buddies had disappeared, and they were now two couples, well, as he’d said, a “quartet”.

Marie-Claire proved to be a very charming woman, although Andrew was a bit disappointed at first. He didn’t really consider her beautiful. Her face was a bit too broad, with slightly drooping eyelids and puffy cheeks, and she wore a pair of quite thick spectacles. Her figure was a little too full for Andrew’s taste, and her legs a bit too short. However, he managed to check himself and to see her as his friend’s partner, in which role she didn’t have to be sexually attractive for himself, and her otherwise very charming nature had to be enough for him. As, during their second or third meeting, he reached this more mature view, he felt a bit ashamed of himself. He ascribed his former error of judgement to the silly old male camaraderie he’d enjoyed with David and admitted to himself how some of their comments had been of a sexist nature. He realized that as a man you no longer needed a sexist view of the world when you’d found true love with a woman. And, after all, he was very happy for his friend. It was so obvious that David loved Marie-Claire and found her the most lovable and beautiful woman in the world. This had to be enough for Andrew. And it was.

* * *

He coughed. The dust coming down from the top of the old wardrobe and spreading over his head was nearly choking him. He got an old dining chair and stepped onto its faded green fabric seat. He tested its stability before he planted his full weight on the chair and stood up, stretching to reach the whole area on top of the wardrobe. With the torch in his left hand, he searched the otherwise dark space and, to his surprise, he detected a cardboard box at the back, right in the corner. He had to put the torch aside to reach the box with both hands, before he pulled it out of its corner. When he got hold of the box at last, he carried it down, carefully stepping down from the old dining chair.

He cleared a space on the dusty floor of the attic, which he cleaned with a broom. Then he placed the grey box, which was heavier than he’d expected, between his feet on the floor and bent down to open its lid.

Andrew gasped.

The box, which he’d never realized had been hidden on the top of the wardrobe for so long without being detected, appeared to be full of old black-and-white photographs. But as he was carefully digging deeper with his hands along the rough sides of the uneven piles of photographs he felt the edges of what appeared to be old school-books, not the thick textbooks but the slim books you were given for your own school-work, exercise-books, books for mathematical constructions or for your own essays.

He pulled out one of the books. He found it full of hand-written texts. His heart began to race as he recognized his mother’s handwriting. This must be her diaries!

Andrew took the box. He went home, took a shower to get rid of all the dust and dirt from his parents’ attic, made himself a nice cup of tea and settled down at his desk with the old box in front of him.

With the air of a religious ceremony, he opened the box again and took out all the old photographs, placing them on his desk. Then he took out the pile of school-books.

When he’d cleaned their covers with a slightly wet cloth he detected the faint pencil-marks on them. Clearly legible, the captions said, “Quest 1”, “Quest 2” and so on. All in all, there were seven school-books, and as he flipped through them he saw that they were all full of written text in his mother’s fine and regular hand-writing.

This was it.

Andrew picked up his mobile phone from the living-room and called his mother.

“Hiya, Mum. Listen. At last! I’ve found your old diary.”

“Oh, my dear boy, are you sure you’re prepared for what’s written down there?” Nora responded.

“I think I am. But now is the time to stop me if you don’t want me to find out all those things you’d kept hidden from me, from us, from your family.”

“Our family couldn’t have coped with it. You know that. For one thing, they just don’t want to know about the past. Then there is the uncertainty of how they would react to the truth about my old father. They’re not interested in history and could never understand some of the things. Whereas you have always shown such a keen interest in history and in your grandfather’s life during those dark years, I feel - no, I’m fully confident - that you can deal with those things in the right spirit.”

“You may be right. I can only tell once I’ve read your diary in full.” He paused before he continued. “But tell me. Is it okay for me to read it now? Do I have your permission, your authorization?”

“Yes, you do. Now let me get on with my things. Remember, I don’t want to hear any comments about the diary from you before you’ve finished reading it right to the end. Is this understood?”

“Yes, Mum. I promise.”

With that, Andrew rang off and sat down at his desk again. He knew he had at least three hours before Rebecca would come back from her Sunday visit to her friend Karen. So he decided to start right now. He hesitated for a few moments, wondering whether he should take notes as he was working his way through the text of the diary, but eventually he decided against it. He would just read the whole thing as if it was a novel he was reading for his own pleasure.

Before delving into the diary, however, he let himself drift off in his thoughts. He knew he would find out more about events and people of the past. He wondered why he couldn’t find out anything about that woman called Anna, the woman who had been Granddad’s first love, or about that horrible old man called Wolfgang, who had tried to blackmail Granddad. He had tried to find their names on Peoplefinder and on Facebook, but no success. His mother wouldn’t tell him if any of those people were still alive.

Andrew suddenly realized that it would be a good idea if he brushed up his rusty German. Flicking through the pages of the diary he’d found several German words and expressions in the otherwise English text. Well, he would see. But he decided to do something about his German anyway. To be honest, he admitted to himself that he found it a very interesting language, and to him it sounded very nice. Somehow, the complicated word-order of the spoken language gave the English listener the impression of a higher degree of intelligence, to some people perhaps the aura of arrogance, but to him it sounded beautiful and intriguing. He remembered that Marie-Claire thought it a barbarian language. She believed that there wasn’t any language more beautiful than French, but that was a normal view shared by many people. In the end, Andrew thought, there was beauty in every language. Some sounded a bit nervous and stressful, like Arabic, while others sounded so languid and well-rounded, like Russian, and yet others sounded utterly mysterious, like Japanese. He regretted his lack of linguistic expertise and envied David’s vast competence in so many languages. Only a few days ago, David had told him in confidence that he was now learning Turkish, explaining to him the wonderfully sweet aspect of that language. Andrew remembered how he admired his friend’s ease with which he explained some Turkish grammar to him, the vowel harmony of the language, the agglutinative nature of its syntax and the fine simplicity of its vocabulary, enriched as it had become over the centuries by its contacts with Arabic through religion and with Farsi, the Persian language, through mysticism, while Turkish had for a long time influenced those other near-Eastern languages through government and military matters, due to the Ottoman Empire. To Andrew, yet another proof of how past history will always influence the future.

Andrew was shaken out of his thoughts by the town hall clock striking the hour of three in the afternoon.