The Dark Frontier

by A. B. Decker

“Oh really? What are you studying?”

  “Did Mr Breitner not tell you?”

  “No, why should he?” Frank sensed he was being tested as he struggled to come up with an explanation for knocking on her door.

  “No reason.” She smiled in a strangely coquettish way that was both alluring and yet out of place. Then threw in the words “History of Art” like a half-hearted tip she was leaving for the waiter.

  Another long silence followed. From the corner of his eye he watched covetously as she swept back the right side of her jacket and rested her hand on the slender curvature of her hip. There was an implicit impatience in her posture. And it brought a certain piquancy to the excitement he was already feeling over the gentle curve so exquisitely accentuated by her hand. Frank was floundering in his agitation.

  “All right,” he finally admitted. “There is no message.”

  “So who are you?” she asked, releasing the hand from her hip and letting the jacket fall back into place. “And why are you here?”

  A flash of anger lit up her ebony eyes. A look tinged with unease that verged on panic.

  “Sorry, I didn’t mean to upset you. I saw you in the hotel. And I was wondering.” He paused, aware that he was getting onto dangerous terrain. “Would you care to meet this evening for a drink? Or maybe dinner?”

  She said nothing. Simply buttoned up the jacket.

  Having come this far, Frank was not going to be put off now.

  “Do you know Lisettli’s wine tavern?” he asked. “On Spalenberg?”

  Still she said nothing. But he fancied that he saw a trace of acknowledgment in her expression.

  “I’ll be there at six this evening,” he insisted. “If you’d care to join me, I’d be delighted.”

  Frank turned and made to leave. Standing in the doorway, he turned back with a nodding gesture towards the nameplate outside: “What does the ‘P’ stand for?”

  “Patricia” came a reluctant reply.

  “My name is Eigenmann. Frank Eigenmann.” With that, he left. And felt ludicrously fulfilled by this venture. It all seemed worth the effort at the time. But he could not remotely envisage the trouble it would bring.

  No reasonable excuses could explain his lateness for the rendezvous with Achim. He had started the day full of expectation and excitement at the prospect of seeing him again. And the reasons for his distraction were only partly to do with Patricia Roche. After leaving her place, he had spent most of that morning wandering aimlessly through the streets of the old town and along the banks of the river recalling her every move, her every hint of injury in those sadly sparkling eyes. But she was not his sole preoccupation. He had other things on his mind. It was the sight of her with Willi Breitner that had brought them to the surface.

  Frank lost count of the times he crossed first one bridge, then another, on this planless journey through his thoughts. But every time he did so, he stopped, compelled by the strong current of the water as it swirled and eddied away beneath the bridge. Above him a faint winter sun eased its way through the cirrus clouds for the first time in more than a week. Close to the right bank of the river downstream of Frank, a boat bobbed in the water. A boat beneath a sunny sky, he mused. And time stood still with him as he watched.

  He stood mesmerised and confused by the message delivered by this river on its journey to the coldness of the North Sea, taking it through the heart of his homeland. A heart that had long since started to fail. Every eddy round the pillars of the bridge below brought the knowledge home to him: this water would soon be sweeping through the narrowing arteries of his home. Only then did the meaning of that message dawn on him.

  Frank was put in mind of a report he had read in the National-Zeitung. A student had recently taken his life in this city and left a suicide note describing his vision. The banks of this river would burn, he wrote, and their raging fire would not be put out until the river overflowed with blood. It was a vision that had robbed that student of the inner strength to cope with the senselessness of the coming chaos and the river of blood which he saw. And at that moment, standing on the bridge, Frank felt he could understand his motivation.

  Why it was that Willi Breitner brought this deeply depressing vision to the surface was not entirely clear. By all accounts the man was a villain with friends in the SS, someone to steer well clear of. But Frank had no reason to let the racketeer impinge on his life in this way. Perhaps it was due to his sense of disquiet at seeing Breitner in the company of such a fragile beauty as Patricia Roche. Or maybe it was simply the fact that he reminded Frank of Berlin: the smell of the spreading cancer in the streets, the harbingers of death and decay on every corner.

  It was these troubling thoughts which made him late that morning. And which presumably also left him so unprepared for the long-awaited reunion when finally he stepped into the restaurant where they had agreed to meet. A place out in the hinterland hard on the frontier between France and Switzerland.

  It was mid-week, and he was surprised to find the restaurant in this quiet little village bustling with custom. Frank stood close to the bar, searching through the smoke for a familiar face. The waitress jostled past, cursing under her breath. Or was she just telling him there was no room? It was hard to know. At all events, even allowing for the distortions of the smoke-filled atmosphere, no one looking remotely like Achim was to be seen. Had he run into trouble at the border maybe? One thing was clear. There was no room here to sit and wait.

  It occurred to him that a walk up to the castle ruins overlooking the village would not only enable him to kill time. It might also give him a good view of the surrounding area – in particular of the border where Achim would be crossing. He emerged from the restaurant into a long stream of people strolling past up the hill in animated conversation. Once the stream had passed, he followed on behind.

  By now, the sun was already beginning to lose the battle with the cumulus clouds gathering to the west. It brought a chill to the air on the steep walk up the hill. And he buttoned up his coat right to the neck. Every so often a pool of sun ran over the valley, lending the grimly naked trees an ephemeral glow that hinted at the capricious beauty of this quiet enclave. Frank could almost sense the perfumes and the resonance of spring as he pictured this place a month or two hence.

  When Achim had suggested in his letter that they meet in this village, Frank bought a guidebook of the area. And walking now behind the long trail of people up this road, which was little better than a farm track, he remembered that it was described as a path of pilgrimage. A description that seemed to be confirmed by the dense crowd ahead of him. Yet it was a Wednesday in early February. Frank was mystified as to what possible significance such a day in the calendar could have to attract so many pilgrims to this path.

  He slowed his walk to an amble and let the pilgrims move on ahead, stopping now and then to appreciate the setting until they had vanished out of sight and sound around the corner. About halfway up the hill, the castle ruins were now barely visible above the trees and seemed further away than ever. He grew impatient and decided to strike out across the fields. The castle stood on French soil, but there was no clear border to announce the fact, unless the thick undergrowth of the woods could be regarded as a boundary. Even in its state of undress, this belt of forest was forbidding enough with its clinging creepers, brambles and bushes to slow him down. And he began to regret his short-cut. He realised too that the path he had taken was not only much slower, but could also be utterly counterproductive, since he might easily miss Achim by coming this way.

  He struggled on as fast as the thicket would allow, cursing his impatience and wishing he had found a corner in the restaurant and waited there. But as soon as he reached the ruins and clambered up through the darkness of what must once have been the keep, his impatience instantly vanished. The moment he came out on top of the castle, and the vista opened around him, he felt the heaviness of his heart begin to lift. It was as if the city that held his memories in its oppre
ssive grip had released him for a brief reprieve. To the north-east in the far distance over the hills of the Black Forest hung an ominous scythe of dark cloud. Other than this, the clarity of the air was magical. The view breath-taking. Aside from the distant dark cloud, everything appeared deceptively peaceful. Frank was almost taken in by its idyllic beauty.

  He had often wondered what it was that fascinated him about the lofty views of the world offered by so many of history’s building projects. It was a spell that had been cast in early childhood from his very first climb up the steps of Cologne Cathedral during his school holidays, when his mother shipped him north each summer to stay with his aunt. It was an adventure to which he became so addicted that he was soon intimately familiar with the profile of every step. Once at the top, he would happily spend an hour or two transfixed by the miniaturised life displayed below. It all seemed so insignificant. And yet it impressed him deeply. At times he felt such a pull that he was almost compelled to let himself fall into its midst, to plummet headfirst smack into the ground where it traded in its bewitching insignificance.

  These castle ruins where he now stood had little to compare with the grandeur of Cologne Cathedral. But the view was still magnificent – and the sense of altitude had the same magical effect, luring him precipitously close to the edge. But on this occasion, when he peered down to the rocks and pathway below, he felt an unaccustomed dizziness surge through his head. Aware of the danger, he quickly stepped back to avoid toppling over. As he stood there holding his head in both hands, his eyes shut tight, the dizziness gave way to a flash of lights and a splitting pain. An ache the like of which he had never experienced in his life before. His skull felt as though it was cracking in two. And from the fissure that seemed to open up in his head, he sensed a peculiar otherness emerge. At that strangest, most alienating moment the headache started to ease, and he sensed this otherness at his side. Only for a brief instant, but very intensely. Just over his shoulder.

  Then, all at once, the air was rent by a thunderous roar that had him almost reeling in pain again. A jet airliner soared up in the sky on its take-off path over the Jura hills. It was a BEA plane. With the giveaway T tail of a Trident. The same aircraft he had arrived on. Frank buried his dazed and bewildered head in his hands. What was going on? His mind seemed to be spinning out of control. The sense of otherness had long since evaporated. All he knew was the harrowing roar in his head.

  It was some time before he felt able to let his eyes open. The relief to see the landscape around him at peace again, the wooded hills still standing, everything untouched by the thunderous roar, was more immense even than the open sky above him. He took in a vast vital breath of that clean air and stepped over to the edge again to celebrate the release. And there in the distance, on the road leading out beyond the hamlet at the foot of the castle ruins, he saw two people, a man and a woman, each carrying what appeared to be a child in their arms. They were far enough away to enjoy a curious kind of anonymity. Yet despite the distance, Frank’s heart leapt with excitement. Though little more than a speck on the landscape, the man was unmistakably known to him. Even with a child in his arms, that gait – with its incongruous coordination of spring-heeled confidence and hunched introversion – could belong to no one else.

  “Achim!” he shouted. “Achim!” Again and again at the top of his voice. But the couple were too far off. They continued on their way, over the open unwatched border, completely oblivious to Frank. Charged with a frustrated sense of elation, he swung round, almost slipping over as he went. His flailing foot dislodged a piece of masonry. But the crack that reverberated around the valley when it smashed against the rocks some fifty metres below was drowned in his excitement. As fast as the narrow winding steps of the castle ruins would allow, he went in pursuit.

  By the time he caught up with them, they were already installed in the restaurant where they had agreed to meet from the outset. The place was not quite as full as it had been before. But the smoke was just as thick and the cacophonous chatter round the tables almost as dense. His heart sank when he failed to find them in the commotion.

  “Frank!” The name strained to reach him through the clatter and hubbub. “Frank!” None of the faces in the room meant anything to him. But the voice was unmistakable. He quickly turned. Even in his eagerness to believe, he felt unable to trust his own eyes. It was difficult to make the link between the Achim he knew so well and the figure who stood before him now. In all the years they had known each other, Frank had never before seen him dressed in the hearty outdoor attire of a hiker. The walking boots, the thick red knee-socks, the breeches – even the rucksack. He was almost unrecognisable.

  It was his eyes that gave him away. Slightly bulbous – reminiscent of Peter Lorre’s Kürten, the child murderer in Fritz Lang’s film M – yet paradoxically so warm and affectionate. And now positively sparkling with the electricity of the moment.

  The two men both stood for some time between the thronging tables of the restaurant, gazing at each other in disbelief. Frank’s immediate impulse was to throw himself into his old friend’s arms and embrace him. And it was plain that Achim would have done the same. But they both seemed instinctively to sense the need for caution, for merging with the crowd, perhaps because they were still so close to the border.

  Frank surmised that this probably also explained Achim’s strange garb. So, trying to keep the lid on their excitement for the moment, they self-consciously shook hands. The gesture struck him as a preposterously formal pantomime. And he instantly abandoned all pretence, putting his left arm around his old friend’s shoulder, hugging it tightly. Achim responded. But it seemed a mannered reciprocation, as if playing to the audience, and he discreetly led Frank to a table in the corner. He really did appear a changed person to Frank since they had last seen each other. Worried or anxious in some way.

  “Gertrude,” he said as they reached the table, “you remember Götz. Likes to call himself Frank.”

  She smiled and gave him her hand across the table.

  “You look as lovely as ever, Gertrude,” Frank said, scowling at Achim’s introduction and thinking how ashen and drawn she looked against his memory of her. No longer the vivacious young woman, but visibly aged since they had last met. He turned to the two baby boys asleep on the bench seat beside her.

  “You two have been busy since I last saw you,” he said with a smile in Achim’s direction.

  “They’re very tired,” Gertrude replied. “It’s been a long journey.”

  “I can imagine. How was it? Did you meet with any problems?”

  “No. Not really,’ Achim said wearily. “I’d been told it was becoming ever more difficult to get into Switzerland, and I didn’t want to get caught with this,” he continued, pointing ponderously to the small rucksack beside him. “So this seemed a good way to come.”

  They had so much to say to each other. Yet a silence broke over the table which left Frank feeling uncomfortable. There was a furtiveness about his old friend that he had not seen in him before. He fixed his gaze on the rucksack.

  “What have you got in there?”

  “It’s a long story.”

  The words hung like a fly teetering on the outer strand of a web, wary of entering any further. And the curious silence that followed was drowned out by the cacophony of voices around them.

  “But tell me,” said Gertrude when the cacophony died down, “why do you insist on being called Frank? Götz is a wonderful name. It has such pedigree.”

  “Apparently, it was my mother’s choice,” Frank replied. “She was a great Goethe enthusiast.” This was all he offered by way of explanation. It was not a subject he wanted to dwell on. “Achim,” he continued, raising his voice again when the crowd around them resumed their cacophony. “You can’t imagine how pleased I am you’re here. Slowly I feel our dream could be coming true.”

  Achim looked suspiciously across the table. Frank saw himself confronted with a strange expression on his fri
end’s face that he could not recall ever having seen before – his eyes slightly sad and lips parted just a fraction, as if he was about to say something. Then his face relaxed again, and his lips broke into a smile.

  “What dream is that, my old friend?”

  “You know exactly what I’m talking about. We’ve discussed it so often in the past. The day we’d form our own theatre group and take the world by storm.” Frank reached over the table and touched his arm with wishfully conspiratorial zeal.

  “And there could be no better time or place than right here, right now. The place is teeming with opportunity. They have their theatres and cabarets all right. And attract huge audiences most nights. But a lot of them are quite introverted, all busy examining the Confederation’s navel. There’s a demand for something else. The interest is there. They want to know what’s happening on the other side of the border. And we could do that, Achim, the two of us.”

  Gertrude looked at Achim. She appeared anxious and worried. But her eyes betrayed more besides. There was the vague hint of some undefined entreaty. Achim said nothing. The two babies began to stir in the noise around them. This only added to the tension.

  “That was all idle talk, Frank. In idle times,” Achim said at last. “But times have changed. And when you’ve had all the sleepless nights that we’ve been through these last few months, you reach a point where dreams are just a forgotten luxury you can no longer afford.”

  At that moment, it was as if the whole substance of Frank’s life had been knocked out of him. All the meaning that his thoughts had been fixed on those past weeks was suddenly counterfeit and worthless. He reached across the table and placed an imploring hand on his friend’s arm. But Achim was unmoved.

  “As you said yourself, Frank, there are any number of theatre groups here already. They have everything they need, and more political cabaret than they can cope with. Look at Erika Mann. From what I hear, she had enough to contend with from the local fascist thugs, until they forced her to close and hounded her out of the country. That’s why they prefer to examine the Confederation’s navel. We have nothing to offer. Even here in Switzerland, the arm of the Third Reich is not far away.”