“They won’t be improved by wet clothes hanging round them,” retorted Katie spitefully, “and I shouldn’t be surprised if the colours don’t run when it’s wet!”
“It’ll be the shop who’ll be surprised if that happens,” snapped Moe, “for they’ll be getting a visit from me. Run, indeed! It’s a washing dress. You’re envious, that’s all.”
Robert came apprehensively into the kitchen. He was wearing his best jacket and shoes. Moe looked at him sharply. “You look seedy,” she said. “Come here.” She examined his face, felt his hands and forehead, and made him put out his tongue. He insisted nervously that he was all right. Moe couldn’t forget Carola. She hadn’t taken much notice when Carola had seemed lethargic and later complained that her legs wouldn’t walk. She took no chances now.
“Did you run all the way to church and back?” she asked the boy. Robert assented. It was the easiest way. She had made up her mind that she had found the cause of his pallor. “You’re a good boy,” she said. “Come and get your breakfast.”
Just as Krista was rushing off with Anna, Katie called, “Both back to midday meal?”
“No, neither of us. Preparations for tomorrow.”
No more was said. It was accepted that everyone might have some secret for the double birthday.
“Have a good time—and make the most of it,” called Anna to Krista as they left the tram, “and no backing out, or hurrying back, mind. I’ll do the necessary for you.”
Never had a morning seemed so long. She had finished with the cream vat. Now she was on the filling of the perfume bottles. The dainty glass containers came up in tens under the machine and were automatically filled. She had to watch very carefully so that not one drop of the precious liquid was wasted. It was all she could do to keep her eyes on the filler. She was so much on edge that it was a torture to have to sit there for the four-hour morning shift. The great clock in the airy work hall ticked so slowly that it seemed to have been purposely slowed up to lengthen her ordeal. With each tick the word Paul seemed to sound in her ears. Paul, Paul, Paul, until she longed to throw one of the cut-glass bottles at it.
“Have a sweet?” Her companion thrust a chocolate in her mouth as she bent, intent, over the filler machine. “My boy friend got them for me from the NAAFI. He’s British. Good, aren’t they?”
Krista couldn’t answer—the chocolate was too large. She smiled her thanks.
“Your boy friend’s an American, isn’t he?” went on the girl. She was small and dark with hazel eyes and pretty teeth. Krista nodded. “He’s a good looker,” she went on, “isn’t he? So’s mine. I’m getting engaged soon. Mother said I could be engaged to John as soon as his people wrote to me. His mother wrote this morning. I’ve got the letter here in my pocket. I’ll show it you. You read a bit of English, don’t you? You’ll have to if your boy’s American.”
“Doesn’t your mother mind your marrying an Englishman?”
“No, she likes him. She’s only sorry that I’ll have to go and live in England. But you can’t have everything, can you? I can’t get married until my young brother’s left school and can help mother a bit.”
“You’ve no father?”
“He was killed in the war.”
“How old are you?”
“Nineteen,” said the girl, stuffing another chocolate in Krista’s mouth, “and John is twenty-two. I suppose we’ll have to wait another year until my brother’s left school.”
At last the hooter sounded and, without waiting one minute beyond wiping the machine properly and turning everything off tightly, Krista was out of the hall and into the cloakroom and the first to take off her overall. Unpinning her hair, which had to be worn up at work, she combed it anxiously. It seemed to have no colour at all. It was shining now with the light from the glass skylight on it. She peered anxiously at herself and frowned.
“It’s all right. You look sweet,” said an older worker, laughing at her anxiety. The sun blazed through the skylight. The rain had washed everything and the world had a new tender look as she ran out of the gate. There he was. In the usual place, leaning against the wall. A feeling of intense happiness filled her at the sight of that motionless figure. She felt suddenly so light that there was no street, no pavement under her winged feet as she ran to him.
Bob’s car was round the corner, and they were just in time to catch the boat. The old boatman hurried them on board, laughing as they came panting up the gangway when he sounded his little warning bell.
Lunch was on deck, under the striped awning. Sitting by the boat rail at a table for two Krista had a vision of the long table at home. It would be noisy and filled with squabbling, chattering, and laughing, the clatter of plates and dishes and the eternal wrangling as to whose turn it was to fetch and carry. For in this glorious sunshine she was sure that they were eating under the acacia. Pa would be home. It was Saturday. Suppose he asked where she was?
“What’s the matter?” asked Paul, watching the changing moods on her sensitive face.
“I was just thinking that Pa will probably ask where I am.” Her voice was regretful.
“Look. This is our day. Can’t you forget that tiresome family for once? There’s only you and me this afternoon, so just relax, will you?”
“I’ll try,” she promised, laughing.
She was so entranced with everything that Paul was touched by her naive delight in the simplest things. The boat, the music, the water, the journey which he had made so many times, all enchanted her. He looked at her as she sat there with the breeze blowing the soft tendrils of hair all over her brow. The sun caught one outline of her face, the rest was in shadow from the awning. She was utterly lovely. About her was always a faint sweet perfume from the factory, and although she was unaware of it from constant proximity, Paul had come to connect it with her. It seemed part of her. A delicate flower scent—just right for her.
They passed through the village and she was excited to see her little breakwater and her sandy bay from quite a new angle. The woods with the silver birches where she loved to lie when it was hot; the marguerites and poppies, the blue chicory and the great masses of rushes all seemed touched with a new magic today. Even the water itself was mysterious and compelling as she gazed down at its translucent depths. Here, in the middle of the stream, it was different. She had never seen this water before, only its surface from a distance. And the church! That gave her immense pleasure as she viewed its white shape and its tower and weathercock. The seven poplars seemed much more beautiful from this side of the water.
“Eat your food,” urged Paul. He knew that she left home very early and that this was long past her usual lunch hour. He urged her to drink with him. She didn’t want to drink wine. They drank it at home at the week-ends—and at the wine festivals. There was always trouble afterwards. But she wanted to please him and she obediently drank.
“Happy?” he asked her.
She smiled. “It’s so lovely I can’t believe that it’s real. It’s more like a dream.” And that was what it really was, she thought. Soon I shall wake up, and there will be Pa and Katie and that lie I told. For Anna would tell it for her and that was the same thing. But she pushed it away now. The day was Paul’s. Hers and his. She had promised him.
Disembarking at Königswinter she was as excited as a child at the beauty of the landscape, at the gay little shops filled with souvenirs for the tourists, at the horses standing there with the old-fashioned carriages. In her pleasure Paul himself saw it all as if for the first time and realized its charm as he never had before. She was delighted at the ferry boats which took the cars across, at the crowds of visitors in the wide street by the river which had the air of a seaside town. He asked her suddenly if she had ever seen the sea. She was astonished. “How could I have? I’ve never been away from this piece of the Rhine,” she laughed, and asked him if it was really like the pictures and films of it.
They began the climb up the Drachenfels. Up the long stony path winding thro
ugh groups of little tourists’ shops and cafés, stopping all the way to drop their coins gaily in every peep-show they passed. All the fairy tales were here—Snow-white and the Seven Dwarfs, the Little Elves and the Tailor, the Sleeping Beauty, Hansel and Gretel, Red Riding Hood—all of them.
“Oh, oh, I must bring Franz Joseph and Robert here!” she cried in delight. “They’d love it all.” And the donkeys, standing patiently in their long lines waiting for the lazy sightseers who did not want to walk. Krista adored them and fed them with apples from her jacket pocket. Paul offered to hire her one to ride all the way up if she wished, but she was horrified at the idea that one of these small sad creatures should carry an adult, and looked with disapproval at the heavy giggling young women sitting on the patient beasts. Only by reminding her that they would pass them again on their way down could Paul get her away from them. She loved animals. All animals, she said. And birds, too—she had a tame robin, she told him, and several tits. But Hank killed birds. Her face as she told Paul this told him much more about Hank; but he insisted on her promise being kept. No talk and no thinking of the family. Had he any idea how difficult it was? How could he have? She was very perceptive, and sensed that in his lonely life he had never had to consider the effect of his actions on anyone else. She was part of the family. He would not see that. Didn’t want to admit it. But she was. They were part and parcel of her childhood, her whole upbringing. She couldn’t forget them; not for long, at any rate. She was surprised at the number of times she had put them out of her mind since she had known Paul.
The path was steep but not too steep. It was now very hot, but after the rain it was pleasant; the way led through trees and glades checkered with sunlight. Ferns grew in the crannies of the old grey boulders and small rock plants which Krista recognized with pleasure. Her old schoolmaster had been a keen botanist and had taught her all their names. They wandered hand in hand, and it seemed to the girl that there were still wings on her feet.
Afterwards when she thought about that day she could not remember the actual sensation of a single footstep. She seemed to have floated up, past the little chalet huts with the wooden benches outside under the trees where the boys and girls sat drinking lemonade and raspberry juice, past all the side-shows, and the cave where the dragon lived, from which the mountain took its name. Into all these they went, enjoying the simple delights offered in return for a few coins; and so up the last steeper climb to the large restaurant perched on the side of the mountain where they sat drinking coffee before they made the final stretch to the summit.
They stood there then by the great rocks where so many climbers had carved their names, and looked down at the little island in the middle of the Rhine, at the newly-built American Headquarters, at the evidence all round of the importance of the new capital and its surroundings. Amongst the lovely green of the woods, the flashing sunlight on the river with the range of dark hills behind it held Krista speechless. She just looked and looked.
“I like it up here,” she said at last. “It’s wonderful! It makes me feel very small.”
“You aren’t so large,” Paul smiled.
“I like to be in a big quiet place,” she went on. “I don’t like noise. I hate it when people shout. It shrivels me up. That’s why I often go down to the river, and lie in the reeds there. I can only hear the water and the birds. When it rains I go into the church. That’s the same. The feeling’s the same. Robert’s like me. He hates noise. When people shout at him he runs away and hides.”
“But no one shouts at you?” Paul’s horror was apparent at such a thing. He flung himself down on the hillside and pulled her down beside him.
“Only Katie. She shouts at everyone. But she’s unhappy. She loves Leo and he’s tired of her. Hank is always teasing her and taunting her about it. Poor Katie.”
“Now then, no family. Remember?”
She laughed up at him. “I’m sorry. But they seem to come into everything.”
“Don’t I come into your thoughts at all?”
She flushed. “Of course. Too much. Far, far too much.”
“Really? You mean that? You do think about me?”
“All the time,” she said simply.
He tilted her face up to his and searched it questioningly. The clear grey eyes met his unflinchingly, and there was in them something which filled him with joy.
He kissed her mouth. A long, long kiss. He had never kissed her like this before. He had never dared.
To his delight she did not resist as she usually did, but met his approach with the first feeling she had shown him. He put his arms round her slight body and held her close. She stroked his face, and when he turned her mouth to his again her long lashes veiled her eyes. Should he tell her that he loved her, that he wanted her? Would she be frightened? With a wisdom born of his love for her he sensed that he must walk very warily lest he lose all the ground he had gained in these last three months. She was less apprehensive of him, less alarmed at his caresses up here than she was by the river, but the slightest mistake might send her flying off. When he thought of how easy it was with most girls, he wondered at his own patience. But hadn’t he always known that she would be different? Wasn’t that part of her attraction for him?
Even now she suddenly pulled herself away and said shakily, “No, no, it’s wrong.”
“But why? What’s wrong?” He was gentle but persistent. “I love you. I wouldn’t harm you. If you love me you must want me to kiss you. Don’t you?”
Her voice was low and troubled. “Of course I do. I do. Really. But I’m frightened. I’m frightened of love—if this is it.”
“It’s frightening all right, but unless you have some courage you’ll never know how wonderful it is. Look, what do you think you were born a girl for? So that you can love and be loved and have children. You love children, don’t you?”
But at the word children he saw that he had made a mistake. Katie. Lise. Anna. All of them. Had they all loved like her? Anna had loved. Her baby had died. She pulled her hand away from his. “It’s wrong. Pa said so,” she said flatly.
“Krista,” he began, “listen to me. You must. You’ve got the wrong idea. How can you help it? That family of yours have blinded you to all the lovely natural things in life—to friendship, companionship and love between men and women. Your foster-parents—don’t judge everyone by them. All marriages are not like that. And the girls. Don’t judge by them. They had bad luck. Times were difficult—we don’t know what temptations there were. Forget all that and think of us. We can have it all different. The world lies before us—look at it down there. Isn’t it lovely? Don’t you think we were meant to be happy in it?”
“Father Lange said that.” She looked at him through the thick fringe of lashes. “He said God wanted us to be happy. But. . . why . . . why . . .are Pa and Moe, and Katie too . . . so terribly unhappy? Even Anna . . .” Her voice stopped.
“Krista.” Paul felt his way more carefully now. “That’s what I mean. You’ve got to leave all that out. You must. You aren’t meant to put other people’s lives straight. They must do that for themselves. No one can help you and me. We’ve got to take our chance. But if we don’t, it may never come again. Not like this. If we love one another, nothing else matters. Nothing. Get that straight. Love is something which you can’t order on a plate. It just serves itself—or doesn’t—whether you’re German or American. We must just take it—it may never be offered us again.”
Krista was silent. What had Moe said this morning? Something strangely serious for her. “You can’t repay love, but if you get it, take it and be thankful.” Wasn’t it much the same as what Paul was trying to tell her? She put her hand in his and her trembling began to subside.
“Don’t you trust me?” he asked her.
“Yes, oh yes. I do. It’s not that. It’s me. I’m frightened. I don’t know myself any more.”
“Who does? It’s one of the things which make life so exciting. Finding oneself through anot
her person. That’s how I’m finding myself—through you. It’s wonderful. If only you’d give it a chance.”
“I will,” she said tremulously, “I will. But it frightens me.”
“We’ll get married. And have our own home. I’ve never had a home. Never. All my life in places with hordes of others. Never any privacy. But now it can all be different. We’ll have a home. One of our own.”
But at the word “married” Krista was filled with apprehension again. Not at the idea of marriage, but marriage meant asking Pa. He would never, never agree. “Paul,” she began, “I can’t marry you. Pa will never allow it. Never.”
“But why not? What’s to stop you? You’re not his daughter!”
Not his daughter. Not his daughter. Whose daughter was she? She would never know.
“I’ll talk to him. That’s my job, not yours. So don’t go getting yourself all worked up about it.”
“No, no, Paul. Don’t! I beg you not to. We must wait. Not now.” There was such urgency in her voice and such anxiety that he was upset.
“What difference does it make when I do it?” he demanded impatiently. “He won’t like it anyhow. You said so.” And when she looked away with misery on her face he said angrily, “You don’t love me.” But at her stricken look he was immediately contrite. “Forget it,” he said, pulling her into his arms. “That was mean of me. I know you love me.” She clung to him now, and in her sudden unwonted kisses there was a new warmth and sweetness. He sensed in them the promise of surrender. Tempted as he was by her yielding to press further with this success, he knew that he could not. And with this knowledge came a sense of furious frustration, a sickness of the whole wretched situation. Why, he couldn’t even talk easily to her because of this damned language barrier. He was obliged to use the very simplest words; his German, fluent and adequate for everyday use, was hopeless when it came to these issues. He pulled her head down on to his shoulder and, stroking her soft hair, tried to talk calmly to her. He wanted to explain that there was a difference between love and lust; but when he tried the words stuck in his throat. What was the difference, anyway. Weren’t they sometimes almost the same thing? Now, for instance. He loved her with all that was best in him, and yet he wanted her. And he could have her—he sensed that. He was stronger than she was. But because of his love for her he couldn’t.
A House on the Rhine Page 10
