time,' I said. 'I saw her only a couple of weeks ago.'
'She is well?' She looked up at the daughter and said, 'Are you bringing tea?' The younger woman gave a filial smile and went out of the room.
I hesitated about the right way to describe Lisl's health. I didn't want to frighten her. 'She might have had a slight stroke,' I said tentatively. 'Very slight. Even the hospital doctors are not sure.'
'And this is why you have come?' I noticed her eyes now. They were like the eyes of a cat; green and deep and luminous. Eyes of a sort I'd never seen before.
This old woman certainly didn't beat about the bush. 'No,' I said.
'But it means she'll have to give up the hotel. Her doctor insists it's too much for her.'
'Of course it is. Everyone is telling her that at some time or other.'
'It was your father's house?' I said.
'Sure. It has many wonderful memories for me.'
'It's a magnificent old place,' I said. 'I wish I could have seen it in your father's time. But the entrance steps make it difficult for Lisl. She needs to live somewhere where everything is on the ground floor.'
'So. And who is caring for her?'
'Have you heard of Werner Volkmann?'
'The Jew?'
'The boy she brought up.'
'That Jew family she hid away on the top floor. Yes, my sister was completely crazy. I was living in Berlin until 1945. Even me she never told! Can you believe that from her own sister she'd keep such a thing secret? I visited her there, it was partly my house.'
'It's astonishing,' I said dutifully.
'So the Jewish kid she raised is looking after her.' She nodded.
'He's not a kid any more,' I said.
'I guess not. So what's he getting out of it?'
'Nothing,' I said. 'He feels he owes it to Lisl.'
'He figures he's going to inherit the house. Is that it?' She gave a malicious little chuckle and looked at Gloria. Gloria was sitting on a carved wooden chair: she shifted uncomfortably.
'Not as far as I know,' I said defensively. So bang goes the whole purpose of coming all the way here. Did this vituperative old woman deliberately manoeuvre me into that denial? I couldn't decide. I was still thinking about it when the daughter arrived with tea and that sort of open apple tart in which the thin slices of fruit are carefully arranged in fanlike patterns.
'Ingrid made that,' said the old woman when she saw the way I was looking at it.
'It looks wonderful,' I said, without adding that after the 'light meal' on the plane almost anything would look wonderful. Gloria made appreciative noises too and the daughter cut us big slices.
During tea I asked the old woman about life in Berlin before the war. She had a good memory and answered clearly and fully but the answers she gave were the standard answers that people who lived under the Third Reich give to foreigners and strangers of any kind.
After forty-five minutes or so I could see she was tiring. I suggested that we should leave. The old woman said she wanted to go on longer but the daughter gave me an almost imperceptible movement of the head and said, They have to go, Mama. They have things to do.' The daughter could also show a hard edge.
'Are you just passing through?' Ingrid asked politely while she was handing our coats.
'We are booked in to the big hotel on the road this side of Valbonne,' I said.
'They say it's very comfortable,' she said.
'I'll write up my notes tonight,' I said. 'Perhaps if I have any supplementary questions, I could phone you?'
'Mama doesn't have many visitors,' she said. It was not meant to sound like an encouragement.
When we reached the hotel it was not the 'honeymoon hotel' that I'd described to Gloria. It was at the end of a long winding road – broken surfaced and pot-holed as are all local roads in this region – and behind it there was an abandoned quarry. In a bold spirit of enterprise someone seemed to have fashioned a car park gate from two cartwheels, but on closer inspection it was a prefabricated plastic contraption. A few genuine old wine
'She is well?' She looked up at the daughter and said, 'Are you bringing tea?' The younger woman gave a filial smile and went out of the room.
I hesitated about the right way to describe Lisl's health. I didn't want to frighten her. 'She might have had a slight stroke,' I said tentatively. 'Very slight. Even the hospital doctors are not sure.'
'And this is why you have come?' I noticed her eyes now. They were like the eyes of a cat; green and deep and luminous. Eyes of a sort I'd never seen before.
This old woman certainly didn't beat about the bush. 'No,' I said.
'But it means she'll have to give up the hotel. Her doctor insists it's too much for her.'
'Of course it is. Everyone is telling her that at some time or other.'
'It was your father's house?' I said.
'Sure. It has many wonderful memories for me.'
'It's a magnificent old place,' I said. 'I wish I could have seen it in your father's time. But the entrance steps make it difficult for Lisl. She needs to live somewhere where everything is on the ground floor.'
'So. And who is caring for her?'
'Have you heard of Werner Volkmann?'
'The Jew?'
'The boy she brought up.'
'That Jew family she hid away on the top floor. Yes, my sister was completely crazy. I was living in Berlin until 1945. Even me she never told! Can you believe that from her own sister she'd keep such a thing secret? I visited her there, it was partly my house.'
'It's astonishing,' I said dutifully.
'So the Jewish kid she raised is looking after her.' She nodded.
'He's not a kid any more,' I said.
'I guess not. So what's he getting out of it?'
'Nothing,' I said. 'He feels he owes it to Lisl.'
'He figures he's going to inherit the house. Is that it?' She gave a malicious little chuckle and looked at Gloria. Gloria was sitting on a carved wooden chair: she shifted uncomfortably.
'Not as far as I know,' I said defensively. So bang goes the whole purpose of coming all the way here. Did this vituperative old woman deliberately manoeuvre me into that denial? I couldn't decide. I was still thinking about it when the daughter arrived with tea and that sort of open apple tart in which the thin slices of fruit are carefully arranged in fanlike patterns.
'Ingrid made that,' said the old woman when she saw the way I was looking at it.
'It looks wonderful,' I said, without adding that after the 'light meal' on the plane almost anything would look wonderful. Gloria made appreciative noises too and the daughter cut us big slices.
During tea I asked the old woman about life in Berlin before the war. She had a good memory and answered clearly and fully but the answers she gave were the standard answers that people who lived under the Third Reich give to foreigners and strangers of any kind.
After forty-five minutes or so I could see she was tiring. I suggested that we should leave. The old woman said she wanted to go on longer but the daughter gave me an almost imperceptible movement of the head and said, They have to go, Mama. They have things to do.' The daughter could also show a hard edge.
'Are you just passing through?' Ingrid asked politely while she was handing our coats.
'We are booked in to the big hotel on the road this side of Valbonne,' I said.
'They say it's very comfortable,' she said.
'I'll write up my notes tonight,' I said. 'Perhaps if I have any supplementary questions, I could phone you?'
'Mama doesn't have many visitors,' she said. It was not meant to sound like an encouragement.
When we reached the hotel it was not the 'honeymoon hotel' that I'd described to Gloria. It was at the end of a long winding road – broken surfaced and pot-holed as are all local roads in this region – and behind it there was an abandoned quarry. In a bold spirit of enterprise someone seemed to have fashioned a car park gate from two cartwheels, but on closer inspection it was a prefabricated plastic contraption. A few genuine old wine
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