Sidney Chambers and The Dangers of Temptation

by James Runcie

  Sidney was saddened by the idea that there would never be a time when all his friends were happy, and the contrast with the children’s exuberance as they played their games of Pass the Parcel, Musical Chairs and Blind Man’s Buff only increased his sense of melancholy. He would have to pull himself together for Christmas and find his hope again.

  Perhaps, he thought, he could look to Mrs Maguire as an example? She had taught him how to understand all was to forgive all; and that by thinking beyond her immediate self, loving hopefully and sometimes beyond all reason, she had found a better way to live than filling her life with suspicion, fear and self-doubt. If that involved an element of misconception then was that really so bad? Who amongst us had not preferred the comfort of illusion or deceived themselves in order to deal with the difficulties of life – sometimes hoping for the impossible – knowing that even if their aspirations were implausibly far-fetched, it was better to take that risky highway rather than remain on the low road of caution and despair?

  He lit the five candles on his daughter’s cake and cheered as she blew them out in turn.

  ‘That’s so I get five wishes instead of only one, Daddy.’

  A German Summer

  As the Apollo 11 astronauts prepared to land on the moon, the Chambers family was engaged in a rather more prosaic adventure: a two-week visit to Rügen Island in East Germany. Hildegard had spent her childhood bicycling under its chalk cliffs and playing on its long stretches of silver sands and wanted her daughter to experience something similar, a holiday more memorable than the family’s usual two-week bucket-and-spade trip to Cornwall. Anna would see her grandmother, learn a bit more of the German language, and even experience a taste of communism.

  Sidney had initially been reluctant to come since, on a previous visit, just before the Berlin Wall went up, he had been arrested on a trumped-up charge of spying. Hildegard had needed to pull many strings in order to get him out. It was just as well that her father, Hans Leber, had been a martyred communist hero in the early 1930s. As soon as the Stasi realised who she was they had taken a more lenient view, but Sidney was determined to avoid trouble if he ever went back to East Germany and made it clear that he would have preferred an uneventful seaside holiday in England. He was, however, persuaded by his wife’s need to see her mother and for Anna to appreciate the delights of a country she had never visited. In other words, he was outvoted.

  They were staying at the Villa Friede, on the Strandpromenade in Binz, an imposing three-storeyed Bäderstil building with a white façade adorned with balconies, verandas and a decorated frieze containing symbols of peace and friendship. Hildegard remembered all the architectural details from her childhood and delighted in pointing them out to her daughter. A neat garden with white roses and sea buckthorn faced the sea and the wide stretch of sands. It was, Sidney imagined, the kind of place Thomas Mann would have stayed when contemplating the philosophy of time, illness and death.

  The villa was owned by local government official Günter Jansen, his wife Maria, and their son Jürgen. Günter was an old admirer of Hildegard from her schooldays. He was a small, wiry man with a neat moustache and sharp shoulders; a former athlete who still believed in keeping his body in shape and his wits about him. He was a middle-ranking official responsible for housing and construction in the Free German Trade Union Federation, an organisation that technically owned his establishment, since most hotels had been taken into state control in the early 1950s. But no one who visited the Villa Friede could be in any doubt that Günter and Maria Jansen still ran the show, and that this almost certainly involved a series of under-the-counter financial arrangements that required secrecy, energy and persistent watchfulness.

  Maria was a fine-featured, dark-haired woman with almost translucently pale skin, a high forehead and small but luminous amber-brown eyes that carried a melancholy allure. In the West it would have been assumed that she had perfected the stylish ‘no make-up look’ but in the East this was achieved simply by wearing no make-up. She dressed mainly in black and spoke little, clearly finding it pointless to keep up with her husband’s relentless front-of-house optimism. Instead she preferred to work behind the scenes, overseeing the hotel staff, the kitchens and the bedrooms, while keeping an eye on a son who had grown so large she could no longer believe that she had ever given birth to him.

  Jürgen was a quietly inventive eleven-year-old boy who was always making something out of wood or wiring, whether it was a crystal radio, a remote-controlled car, or a miniature helicopter. People at school called him a Mondgucker, a moon-gazing idiot, but he was far cleverer than he let on, a loner who clung to his parents, continually wanting their approval and their love, only to find that they did not have enough time to provide the amount he craved. His favourite activity was to ride in the sidecar of his father’s prized MZ motorbike along the sea front, urging him to go faster and faster, leaning into corners, and shrieking with delight if they ever had a near miss with a passing car.

  Hildegard watched with quiet amusement as every morning and evening father and son exchanged the Young Communist League salute:

  ‘Für Frieden und Sozialismus: Seid bereit,’ Günter declared. ‘For peace and socialism: be prepared.’

  And Jürgen replied with his right hand held high, fingers together, palm out, with his thumb aiming towards the top of the head and his little finger pointing towards the sky: ‘Immer bereit. Always prepared.’

  Sidney had wanted to ask his wife about her nation’s twentieth-century tendency towards ideological extremism – the full-circle swing on the watch from communism at eight o’clock over to fascism at four and then back to communism at eight again – but he hadn’t dared. Instead he listened carefully whenever Hildegard told fragments of its story through the memory of her father, while her mother presented family history as one of revolutionary struggle. Sibilla Leber was already ensconced in the hotel when they arrived and insisted that they all pay tribute to her husband’s memory by attending a special Friendship Festival that weekend. This was a celebration of socialist solidarity involving music, gymnastics, sport and military display. It would be a perfect opportunity, she said, to witness East German idealism in practice.

  After everyone had polished off a hearty breakfast of ham, hard-boiled eggs, Brötchen and home-made Sanddorn jam, the families got the children down to the beach. It was a mild summer’s day with a light breeze and the idea was to make the most of the good weather before the wind picked up. They settled into a couple of Strandkörbe: open-faced, sheltered and hooded wicker beach seats that could seat a family of four. Lena Jansen, the family matriarch, soon arrived to check that all was well and to reminisce with Hildegard’s mother, repeating their old sadness that it was such a pity their children couldn’t have married each other.

  It soon became clear that Günter, despite being wed, still carried a torch for Hildegard. While Sidney started to build a vast sandcastle with Anna, his host sidled up to her in a Strandkorb, leant in closely and spoke in rapid German: ‘I remember, Hildy, when you first came here. Your father was still alive. You thought you were lost in the woods and I brought you home. It was getting dark. Everyone was worried. You could see the moon. We held hands.’

  And Hildegard replied: ‘That was forty years ago. We were so little. So much has happened that I hardly remember my childhood. I often wonder what it would have been like if I’d never left.’

  ‘I wish you hadn’t.’

  Sidney’s German was not fluent, but he understood all too well what Günter meant. Maria was irritated too. She got out of her chair and vented her frustration on her son and on the equally annoying dachshund that yapped around them.

  ‘Go and swim in the sea and take Franzi with you,’ she shouted. ‘Play in the waves. Leave us in peace.’

  She put down a beach rug and laid out a little picnic with herring, dried toasts, apples and cheese, and handed out glasses of a drink made from sea buckthorn that was supposed to increase energy. Not
that Jürgen needed any more. The boy ate all the time. It was as if he was trying to consume his own hunger.

  As he ate, Günter made relentless pronouncements on contemporary politics, the evils of Western capitalist greed and the injustice of the global economic system. This was a man who was used to an audience. Despite his oleaginous approaches to Hildegard, Sidney almost admired their host’s authoritative way with those around him. Perhaps he could learn a thing or two from someone who managed to disguise his more outrageous assertions with bold gestures and confident laughter, implying that anyone who disagreed with him was an idiot.

  It was well known, he assured the Chambers family, that American interests were imperialist and corrupt and that their expansionist plans always punished the decent working class. He then demolished a salted hard-boiled egg and left, saying that he had both party and business matters to attend to. There was a building that he had promised to inspect on behalf of the trade union federation. It had once belonged to Thomas Pietsch, one of the family’s oldest friends, who had died in the spring.

  Lena Jansen told Hildegard’s mother all about it. The dead man had given up hope, she said, but then he had never been the same since he had lost his business after the war and been imprisoned on a charge of political corruption. It had been a shame, but Thomas Pietsch had never known how to play the system; unlike her son Günter, who knew everyone, had always been popular (and should have married Hildegard ).

  She suggested that they pay his widow a visit. ‘We have to stay true to our comrades despite what happens to them. It is easier for you, Sibilla. Your husband was a hero.’

  ‘But he died. What is the point of a dead hero?’

  ‘It is better than a living coward.’

  ‘Thomas Pietsch wasn’t a coward. He was naive and greedy. That is all.’

  ‘At least his son has learned. He is a clever boy; just like my Günter. And Jürgen is clever too. He could have been your grandson.’

  ‘That was not to be,’ Sibilla Leber replied, ‘but I never imagined my daughter would marry a priest. It must have been the shock after her first husband died. That’s the only reason.’

  ‘He seems decent enough for an Englishman.’

  Sidney realised that he was being talked about. He was now forced into a position in which he could not help but overhear the conversation but had to pretend that he was preoccupied with something else. This was a difficult act to pull off, particularly as he needed to listen intently in order to follow the German and understand what the two women were saying. Hildegard saw what he was doing and smiled. She was going to let him stew.

  Sibilla Leber dropped her voice and continued talking about her son-in-law without mentioning him by name. The wicker seats were cocoons that muffled sound and prevented anyone else listening in properly. Sidney wondered if they had been deliberately invented to avoid surveillance. Whether he sat on a picnic rug or joined people who were already talking, he could not feel he belonged in this strange lunar landscape, populated with myriad space-like modules amidst the craters in the sand. ‘The clergyman is perfectly respectable, I suppose,’ Sibilla Leber went on, ‘but he’s too curious. He pokes his nose in where he should keep well away.’ She kept repeating the German word for nosy: neugierig, neugierig, neugierig. ‘You can see him thinking about other people all the time and judging them. I don’t like it.’

  ‘You don’t have to see him so much, Sibilla.’

  ‘Hildegard tells me all about him. She won’t complain because of what happened with her first husband – you know he died in circumstances she has never explained to me – but I’m certain this one neglects her. Family comes last for him and not first. That man always has his nose in other people’s business.’

  Sidney could not decide whether or not he was meant to hear all this, much less understand it. It was so annoying that he was not able to interrupt and put his case. What business was his marriage of theirs? He began to dig so furiously around the moat of Anna’s castle that he showered her with sand, making her cross.

  The two women talked about their visit to Thomas Pietsch’s widow. Her son Otto had apparently done well in the construction industry. He had worked hard and kept his nose clean, unlike his father and unlike Sidney, who was still referred to as neugierig, neugierig, neugierig. These old biddies really had a nerve.

  Maria said in passing that she didn’t trust Otto Pietsch. His father had died too young. He was only sixty-four. Perhaps his son had helped him along the way?

  Her mother-in-law was appalled. ‘That’s a terrible thing to say.’

  ‘Perhaps I’m speaking the truth?’

  ‘There’s no need to say these things out loud.’

  ‘What does it matter?’ Maria said quietly.

  Lena Jansen leant close to Sibilla and whispered for all to hear. ‘Our hostess is unhappy. Her husband doesn’t love her, but how can he when he still has feelings for Hildegard? She should have her hair permed; wear some lipstick like your daughter.’

  Sidney had had enough. He picked up his bucket and spade and took his daughter off to make a better sandcastle nearer the water’s edge. Despite being ‘family’, they were some of the rudest people he had ever met.

  In bed that night he did not like to criticise them directly. He was well aware that to complain about his mother-in-law so early on in their holiday would be an act of folly, and to raise the subject of Hildegard’s friends and relations so soon after their arrival could only cause trouble.

  However, he didn’t want to let the matter rest and decided to try a roundabout route by talking to Hildegard about Maria Jansen’s unhappiness.

  ‘I have never known her to be content,’ his wife observed.

  ‘She seems to have given up on life.’

  ‘She finds her son difficult; her husband too. I don’t think she likes the politics. It makes them vulnerable.’

  ‘Do you think it’s also because she knows Günter would rather have married you?’

  ‘If you behave, you have nothing to fear.’

  ‘Did you ever think what that might have been like?’

  Hildegard sighed. ‘It was what our parents wanted.’

  ‘And Günter too.’

  ‘Maybe. But I had no intention of doing what everyone expected. I wanted to choose for myself; and I did so. Twice.’ She pointed her finger. ‘Don’t make me have to decide one more time, Sidney.’

  ‘I am always fearful of that possibility.’

  ‘Don’t be absurd.’

  ‘I am serious. You might think differently about our marriage now you’re back in Germany.’

  ‘This is a very different country now.’

  ‘I can’t help but feel this is where you belong.’

  ‘No, Sidney. We have made a new home in England. Although I cannot forget who I once was, nor the lessons of my childhood.’

  ‘Perhaps none of us can. Nor should we . . .’

  Hildegard continued. ‘The idea of belonging changes as you grow older, don’t you think? It’s hard when we don’t own our own home and you work in the Church. I think sometimes that you would prefer to be a constant pilgrim.’

  ‘I feel most at home when I am with you and Anna. It doesn’t matter where we are.’

  ‘But you need your distractions.’

  ‘That’s not always true.’

  ‘More often than not. You may be concerned about my feelings now that we have returned but I am also worried about you, Sidney. Will there be enough entertainment? So far there has been no crime and no lonely perfumed women. What are you going to find to amuse yourself? Perhaps, now that we are in a foreign land, you will be thrown back on your resources, without the protection of your past, your country, your church and your friends. Maybe I will see the real Sidney at last?’

  Anna Chambers was excited by the imminent possibility of men walking on the moon. She had brought her little telescope from home in the hope that she might be able to see them land. Her mother hadn’t had the
heart to tell her how improbable this was, but she did promise to wake her up in the middle of the night so that she could see the event on television – provided the East Germans showed it.

  This did not seem likely. There were only two state channels and there was so little chance of picking up reception from West Germany that Rügen was known for being part of Tal der Ahnungslosen, the Valley of the Clueless. Instead, the children watched the mishaps of Clown Ferdinand and his caravan.

  ‘Jürgen loves it when people fall over,’ said Günter, laughing loudly, believing that if he found something amusing then other people must too. ‘He thinks it’s the funniest thing in the world. He’ll try and trip you all up, just you watch. He likes his fun.’

  ‘Es ist so lustig,’ said Jürgen.

  ‘This is boring,’ Anna told her mother. ‘It’s not funny. I want to see the men on the moon.’

  Sidney wondered when they were going to go out and sample the delights of a local brewery. Günter finally obliged by taking him to his favourite Bierhalle, a large two-storeyed building that doubled as a cinema and community meeting hall, with bright yellow walls decorated with stucco reliefs of gymnasts, dancers and musicians.

  Outside, an oompah band played ‘Wein, Weib und Gesang’ and all around them people were toasting each other: ‘Prost, prost, Kamerad! Prost, prost, Kamerad! Prost, prost, prost, prost, prost, prost, Kamerad! Wir wollen einen heben: prost, prost prost!’ As they spoke they moved their glass to their head, chest and stomach – Zur Mitte, zur Titte, zum Sack, zack, zack – before downing the beer in one.

  Günter bought the first round of drinks and they spoke in a mixture of English and German, helping each other out whenever necessary. He said that he was surprised Sidney had agreed to come on such a holiday. ‘I thought the British preferred France.’