Lynne Pemberton – Sleeping With Ghosts (страница 1)
LYNNE PEMBERTON
SLEEPING
WITH GHOSTS
This book is for my mother.
I love you very much.
‘
In the same impartial tone, the revelation was repeated, the words exploding like shards of broken glass that shattered the stillness.
‘
Kathryn felt her jaw drop and couldn’t stop it. The shock induced a faint trembling and she drew in a long breath as her aunt continued.
‘Freda refused to discuss the past. It never happened, she buried it, her childhood in Germany, the war, everything that had gone before 1945 ceased to exist. She reinvented herself, erasing her Prussian past to embrace a new identity here. I think she almost believed she was English.’ A harsh guttural sound tinged her voice with bitterness. ‘I never understood Freda, we were total strangers; how we ever sprang from the same womb is beyond me.’
‘Is this why you wanted to see me, to tell me that my grandfather was a Nazi?’ Kathryn sneered. ‘Is this some kind of joke? My mother’s father an SS officer? It’s ridiculous! Her father was Kurt Hessler, a factory worker killed on active duty in 1943. He was
Ingrid was shaking her head, eyes narrowing to thin slits full of derision, and Kathryn felt a strong urge to slap her aunt’s face.
‘Your grandmother was a Prussian aristocrat. She died in Berlin at the close of the war. She killed herself.’ Ingrid’s mind drifted back to a cold January in 1945. The memory of that night, repressed for so long, flooded her mind; so lucid it startled her, and she squeezed her eyes tightly shut. Yet the image had come to life, moving through her head like the jerky silent movies she had watched so avidly as a child. She saw herself sitting on the edge of her bed in the Von Trellenberg house in Berlin. She was shivering not from cold, but from fear, and she knew she must get down to the cellar quickly. With hands clamped to her ears, to shut out the terrible sound of bombs dropping all around, she remembered calling first for Freda, then her mother, as she ran out of her bedroom and down the long hall towards her mother’s room. Up till this moment the memory had always been in black and white, and now for some reason it was a vivid colour.
Her mother was dressed in an emerald green taffeta ball gown; her limp body looked like that of a rag doll hanging from the makeshift gallows erected from a bedpost and library ladders.
The sound of the air raid faded to nothing as Ingrid’s screams, and the hammering of her own heart, filled her ears. Luize Von Trellenberg was wearing matching green silk shoes, one of which hung precariously from her big toe, the other had fallen to the floor. With a shudder, Ingrid remembered tripping over that shoe as she stumbled out of the room. She also remembered banging her head, and thought how strange it was that she should recall this now – after fifty years. She remained lost in thought as Kathryn spoke again.
‘Are you trying to tell me that it was all lies: my mother’s childhood in Cologne; her parents; the house where she was born, and grew up; the house that was bombed to the ground? Answer me, Ingrid, was it all lies?’
Ingrid forced herself to concentrate on the beautiful face of her niece, not beautiful at the moment actually, she noted, but contorted with outrage. Still she did not reply.
‘Do you really expect me to believe that my mother’s entire past life has been a complete fabrication, and that this Von Trellenberg person, this Nazi, was my grandfather?’
Kathryn’s tone reeked of dissent and Ingrid sprang to her defence. ‘Your grandfather was an aristocrat, he was a wonderful man, well respected, much loved; you have Von Trellenberg blood, you should be proud. Your great-grandfather Ernst was a national hero, a highly decorated general in the First World War.’ Her speech slowed down, dropping pitch, and she emphasized each word distinctly as if speaking to a child, or someone who didn’t understand the language. ‘Your mother was born in our country Schloss, near Mühlhausen in East Germany, and Joachim and I were born at 42 Regerstrasse, our house in Berlin. We are aristocrats, born into great wealth and privilege; we had nannies, servants, private tutors, and we lived in grand houses, surrounded by beautiful things. If it hadn’t been for the war, we would have …’ Ingrid stopped abruptly and dropped her head.
When she lifted it again, Kathryn was certain her aunt was going to cry. Yet beyond the thin film of tears, there was something else: a burning resentment. And Kathryn had to resist the urge to remind her aunt that it was Germany who had started the war.
Ingrid stared for several minutes at Kathryn as if she was invisible. Her voice when she continued had returned to an even tone. ‘Your mother chose to deny her past; but now that she is dead, I wanted you to know, to understand. Even your father had no idea, he was told the same as everyone else.’
Shifting uncomfortably in her hard wooden chair, Kathryn tried to make sense of what the old woman opposite had just disclosed. After a few moments she rose, and pulling herself up to her full height of five foot ten, covered the few steps that separated them.
‘I
Kathryn loomed above her aunt who sat bolt upright in the centre of a small sofa, tiny hands clasped tightly in her lap, seemingly oblivious to Kathryn’s bewilderment.
‘You look just like your grandfather, Kathryn; in fact you’re the image of his mother, Eva. She was very beautiful, you have the same flawless skin, and honey-coloured hair.’
Silence so loud it was deafening filled the small room. An icy chill ran up Kathryn’s spine, and her blood went cold.
‘Anyway, I shouldn’t worry about your grandfather now; he died in active service, on 10th November 1944. Suddenly distracted, Ingrid looked past Kathryn towards the bay window overlooking the front garden. ‘I must prune the roses this afternoon. I’ve got a beautiful display, don’t you think?’
Following her aunt’s eyes to the cluttered foliage, Kathryn tried to pick out the rose bushes in the dense and gaudy profusion of untidy bedding plants virtually covering the tiny front garden. Forcing her voice to respond evenly, and thinking how incongruous it was to be discussing an English garden in the same breath as World War Two, and the Nazis, she said, ‘Magnificent, Aunt Ingrid. Mother always said you had green fingers.’
At this Ingrid reached forward, startling Kathryn as she grabbed her bare forearm. Her hand, callused by years of hard work, bit into the flesh as she forced her niece down on to the sofa next to her, so close their thighs touched. Kathryn recoiled from the smell of stale fish in the old woman’s breath when she spoke.
‘I can’t believe your mother ever said anything good about me. Freda hated me. I was the favourite you see, but she thought she was. Oh yes, Freda deluded herself all her life, always so vain and insolent, even as a child, kissing and cuddling
Kathryn thought ironically that had Von Trellenberg lived, he would have been disappointed to see exactly how far his younger daughter had gone. Married at eighteen to a brutal man who had systematically abused her and her son Stefan, one night Ingrid had retaliated – puncturing Karl Wenzel’s lung with a carving knife. He had survived, but only just, and afraid to face his wrath, Ingrid had fled to join her sister in England. Kathryn would never forget her own childish excitement at the prospect of her aunt and cousin coming to live at Fallowfields. She had anticipated fun and laughter to evict the numbing silence that had taken up residence after her father and mother had divorced.