in Swiss uniforms under Swiss flags. There were white signs on trees and the posts that carried power lines: “Halt! Swiss territory! Crossing of the border forbidden. Violations of this order will be put down by armed force.”
Lucia put on a hat.
One of the brownshirts and one of the Swiss guards from the other side came forward and talked to her. She kept saying: “Household goods.” Then the brownshirt said it, and the Swiss said it and shook his head, and Lucia said, firmly: “Personal effects.” Then she pulled out all of her papers.
The brownshirts saluted. Nicholas was not at all surprised. If she could turn away a line of predators in the forest, she could cope with these frontier pen pushers, whose guns were only ornament.
The Swiss asked for passports. Lucia produced hers, which was, by right of marriage, Swiss. One of the Swiss said, a little sharply: “Welcome home.”
Then Lucia produced other papers, in a slim envelope. He consulted them, and was democratic with Lucia, but not sharp anymore.
There was a brief fuss about the drivers: whether they could be relied upon to go back. Lucia promised. The Swiss guards were not convinced. Lucia was welcome to cross; Nicholas was welcome to cross; there was no problem with the trucks, or their contents. But the drivers were another matter.
The bridge was at last a proper frontier, a place of suspicion and delays, of administration licking its fingers to turn the pages of passports and officials consulting each other out of earshot of the civilians on the road.
The drivers produced all the papers they had.
The Swiss soldiers had caps like turtle shells, rifles across their backs, sloppy trousers. One of them carried Lucia’s bags across the bridge for her.
She did not seem happy to be across the border. She kept looking back to where the trucks, their engines now shut down, bulked frozen in the low evening light.
“We’re here,” Nicholas said, and then regretted saying something so empty. It certainly wasn’t enough to take her eyes from the trucks.
She seemed to be willing their lights to catch, their engines to turn over, the whole convoy to roll over the bridge and into her brilliant future.
FOUR
He was all rusticity the next weekend, his memories stowed away: brown apron, pot belly, gray hair rampant, slipping peels off potatoes cooked two days ago for
Rösti.
The kitchen at Sonnenberg had always been Nicholas’s territory; not even Nora disputed it.
He listened for Helen’s car on the hill. The day was brisk, sky like a photograph, there must be a breeze: he hoped they could go for a walk. And Henry was coming, which would make it hard to find a corner for quiet talk.
The car stopped. Through the window he could see Henry and his stroller being unpacked at the roadside. The boy stared at the geese snapping about. The geese complained. Helen had a stuffed lion by the paw.
Henry, properly solemn, knocked at the door.
Nicholas smiled hugely, and he hugged Helen as though he needed to, and then he lifted up Henry, who said: “Geese,” and wriggled.
Then he was putting butter in pans, taking up great scoops of the soft, light gold of potato. Helen was trying to take over the process, teasing to work the grater or the peeling knife, but he resisted. “I never have anyone to look after,” he said.
Henry went upstairs to practice coming downstairs, which he had not quite mastered.
“I would have gone with you,” Helen said.
“They didn’t want you, either.”
She so obviously wanted to ask how it had gone, what he had seen, if there had been any insults to add to the simple, miserable fact of his exclusion. But she could hear Henry bump, bumping on the stairs, coming down on his buttocks, and she went to see that he was all right and when she came back the moment for questions had passed.
There was liver with the
Rösti,
and a salad made from cabbage that had been sweetened by the frost all winter.
“It was a country funeral.
Lucia put on a hat.
One of the brownshirts and one of the Swiss guards from the other side came forward and talked to her. She kept saying: “Household goods.” Then the brownshirt said it, and the Swiss said it and shook his head, and Lucia said, firmly: “Personal effects.” Then she pulled out all of her papers.
The brownshirts saluted. Nicholas was not at all surprised. If she could turn away a line of predators in the forest, she could cope with these frontier pen pushers, whose guns were only ornament.
The Swiss asked for passports. Lucia produced hers, which was, by right of marriage, Swiss. One of the Swiss said, a little sharply: “Welcome home.”
Then Lucia produced other papers, in a slim envelope. He consulted them, and was democratic with Lucia, but not sharp anymore.
There was a brief fuss about the drivers: whether they could be relied upon to go back. Lucia promised. The Swiss guards were not convinced. Lucia was welcome to cross; Nicholas was welcome to cross; there was no problem with the trucks, or their contents. But the drivers were another matter.
The bridge was at last a proper frontier, a place of suspicion and delays, of administration licking its fingers to turn the pages of passports and officials consulting each other out of earshot of the civilians on the road.
The drivers produced all the papers they had.
The Swiss soldiers had caps like turtle shells, rifles across their backs, sloppy trousers. One of them carried Lucia’s bags across the bridge for her.
She did not seem happy to be across the border. She kept looking back to where the trucks, their engines now shut down, bulked frozen in the low evening light.
“We’re here,” Nicholas said, and then regretted saying something so empty. It certainly wasn’t enough to take her eyes from the trucks.
She seemed to be willing their lights to catch, their engines to turn over, the whole convoy to roll over the bridge and into her brilliant future.
FOUR
He was all rusticity the next weekend, his memories stowed away: brown apron, pot belly, gray hair rampant, slipping peels off potatoes cooked two days ago for
Rösti.
The kitchen at Sonnenberg had always been Nicholas’s territory; not even Nora disputed it.
He listened for Helen’s car on the hill. The day was brisk, sky like a photograph, there must be a breeze: he hoped they could go for a walk. And Henry was coming, which would make it hard to find a corner for quiet talk.
The car stopped. Through the window he could see Henry and his stroller being unpacked at the roadside. The boy stared at the geese snapping about. The geese complained. Helen had a stuffed lion by the paw.
Henry, properly solemn, knocked at the door.
Nicholas smiled hugely, and he hugged Helen as though he needed to, and then he lifted up Henry, who said: “Geese,” and wriggled.
Then he was putting butter in pans, taking up great scoops of the soft, light gold of potato. Helen was trying to take over the process, teasing to work the grater or the peeling knife, but he resisted. “I never have anyone to look after,” he said.
Henry went upstairs to practice coming downstairs, which he had not quite mastered.
“I would have gone with you,” Helen said.
“They didn’t want you, either.”
She so obviously wanted to ask how it had gone, what he had seen, if there had been any insults to add to the simple, miserable fact of his exclusion. But she could hear Henry bump, bumping on the stairs, coming down on his buttocks, and she went to see that he was all right and when she came back the moment for questions had passed.
There was liver with the
Rösti,
and a salad made from cabbage that had been sweetened by the frost all winter.
“It was a country funeral.
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