Shaking his head in disbelief, unable and unwilling to accept the words that had come out of her mouth, Rolfe cried out, ‘No! Marta…you can’t mean it.’
‘She means it,’ Kurt said, without a skerrick of doubt in his voice.
Papa sighed and when Rolfe looked in his direction, his expression, the way he stared back, made the blood in his veins curdle. He had lost. Marta, his father’s respect, his brother’s affection—everything. But, the question continued to hammer through his brain—why had Marta lied? Was it through fear? Was it a matter of survival or…? Then another horrible thought lodged in his head and would not go away, had she been amusing herself with him because Kurt was unavailable? As quickly as the disloyal thought came he rejected it. He didn’t want to think that the woman he was in love with could be so calculating.
‘Kurt, take Marta out, this has been enough of an ordeal for her,’ Carl said quietly.
When they’d gone Carl turned his full attention to Rolfe and from his stare Rolfe knew there was little point in trying to persuade his father that Marta, whatever her reason, had not told the truth. Papa had decided that he would side with Kurt and Marta. All of a sudden Rolfe became curiously detached from everything, as if he were living someone else’s bad dream. Rolfe stood very still, and waited. He watched his father rub his temples as if his head ached, and shift about in the chair for a more comfortable position. Those were the only outward signs of his agitation.
‘You…have shamed the proud name of Stenmark. You’ve made me ashamed to call you my son.’
Rolfe said nothing. In a strange way it was as if he was listening to a judge render judgement in court. He scarcely dared to breathe and saw a myriad of expressions transform his father’s face. Instinct told Rolfe that he was remembering him as a child at his mother’s knee, growing up and learning the whys and wherefores of winemaking. The trials, the triumphs, becoming a man, becoming independent. Finally his father shook his head and Rolfe waited for his pronouncement, the punishment intended for him.
‘Because of what has happened, the thought of you living at Stenhaus is untenable. Your brother will never forgive you, nor will I or Marta. You are no longer welcome here.’
Banishment. He had expected that and why would he want to stay where Papa and Kurt would remind him daily of the injustice of their accusation? He saw that Papa wasn’t finished and that what he intended to say next brought him much pain. Still, Rolfe remained silent, all the fight had drained from him since Marta’s utterings.
‘In fact, you are no longer welcome in the Barossa Valley.’
That made Rolfe respond. ‘Papa, what about Krugerhoff?’ It was his lifeline. All he had left. But his father didn’t bother to answer his question. As vineyards went Krugerhoff was small and unimportant to him.
‘You will leave Stenhaus, tonight. You will leave the Valley…forever. I…’ Carl rubbed his eyes, and then continued, ‘it gives me no pleasure but I disown you as my son and I’ll have my solicitor draw up a new will to that effect. From tonight on, I only have one son,’ he looked at Rolfe for a long time then his gaze dropped to the desk blotter, ‘and his name is Kurt.’
‘Papa, you can’t be serious.’ Rolfe was shocked beyond words. But in his heart he knew his father was serious, that he would stand by his decision. The family’s good name was all important to Papa. There had never been the whiff of a scandal against the name of Stenmark and his father intended that to continue.
‘Papa,’ Rolfe begged for mercy. ‘I don’t care about your will, don’t leave me a single pound. The only thing I have ever wanted from you is your love and your respect. I will go away, to Europe, for several years until all this…’ his calloused hand waved about vaguely, ‘has settled, is forgotten. Don’t, I beg you, cut me off from the family, from you and Greta and Lisel.’
Papa shook his head. ‘I must. What you did was unforgivable and Kurt has his pride. There is no longer a place for you in the Stenmark family.’ His hands came down hard on the top of the desk, a gesture he often made when a discussion was coming to an end. ‘That is all I have to say. Go. Go now.’
Somehow, he didn’t recall how he managed it, Rolfe stumbled from the room and headed for the haven of his bedroom. It was a bad dream, no, a nightmare of gigantic proportions. All because a silly young woman didn’t have the guts to tell the truth. But the nightmare was real, and he knew his father. He did not make pronouncements lightly and once he had he could not be persuaded to change his mind. Later on, but not right now, he would think how unfair Papa was being, that he was taking Marta’s word over his own flesh and blood, and that he was prepared to cut his second son loose to appease his eldest son and heir. All Rolfe could think now was that his life was a mess and that all sense of purpose, Marta, Krugerhoff, was gone.
Having little idea as to what he was going to do, moving like a robot, he took two suitcases from under his bed, plus a travelling bag, and began to fill them with clothes, books and the one trophy he had won in primary school—ironically, for winning the egg-and-spoon race. He glanced at the photograph of his mother and father. It had stood on his dresser for years. He wrapped a shirt around the photo and put it into the suitcase too.
There was a quiet knock on the door and a second or two later, Greta came into the room. She saw him packing and began to cry.
‘Oh, Rolfe. I can’t believe what Papa is doing. He is out of his mind with anger at you.’
‘I know.’ A smile was not possible as they hugged each other. ‘He didn’t believe me, neither did Kurt but,’ as Rolfe looked into her eyes, it occurred to him that it might be the last time he did so, ‘on Mutter’s grave, Greta, I didn’t seduce Marta. I love her and I thought,’ a growl of frustration preceded his next remark, ‘she loved me.’
Greta gave Rolfe a wan smile. ‘I believe you. Marta’s a cool one. That young woman knows where her bread’s buttered.’ She saw Rolfe’s questioning gaze and in her down-to-earth way, explained. ‘Why marry the second son when she can have the wealth and position the first son will give her. Marta Gronow is no fool, but she doesn’t fool me.’
He didn’t want to think that Greta was right, so he made no comment. Later he would come to agree with her. Throwing his wallet, toiletries and the journal he had been writing his thoughts in, into the travelling bag he zipped it up and lifted it onto his shoulder.
‘What are you going to do, Rolfe?’
‘I don’t know. Go to Krugerhoff tonight, I guess.’
‘Papa will hunt you out of the Valley. He can be ruthless when he puts his mind to it; Kurt too. You should go to Adelaide, or Melbourne. Sell Krugerhoff and use the money to start afresh elsewhere. Somehow, you and I will contrive to keep in touch. Call me when you can.’ Her smile widened sympathetically, reminiscent of the way their Mutter used to smile. ‘I’ll want to know that you’re safe.’
He took note of what she’d said, and knew that she meant well. ‘I will not sell Krugerhoff. Perhaps one day, even if it takes twenty years, Papa will ask me to come back. I’ll have Otto and Ernst complete the vintage, secure all the buildings, and I’ll keep paying the rates and taxes.’ He thought for a few seconds though he knew that with all that had happened he wasn’t thinking straight. ‘Perhaps I’ll drive to Griffith, or on to Sydney. That’s a big city, and there’s always the Hunter Valley for vineyard work.’ He picked up the suitcases, and grunted at their weight.
‘Don’t try to see Marta, Rolfe,’ Greta warned, as if sensing that he might. ‘She’s made her decision as to where her affections lie, and Papa and Kurt will watch her like a hawk. You won’t get anywhere near her.’
‘Of course.’ He could write to her though. That was something he would do when he got settled, he made the promise to himself. ‘I’d better go…’
‘Yes, go before Kurt works himself into a rage and comes looking for you,’ Greta agreed. She kissed his cheeks and gave him another motherly hug. ‘I’m going to miss you…very much. So will John and little Luke.�
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‘I’m going to miss them and everyone.’ He dropped a case to wipe a sudden mistiness from his eyes. Greta opened the bedroom door for him. He stepped through the open doorway and walked away as fast as the burdensome suitcases allowed him to. Resolutely, he did not look back.
Sydney, December, 1963
Rolfe’s cases were packed, again, his travel documents were in order. He had grown bored with the job at Penfolds Wines. Marketing wines was not, from his point of view, as interesting as growing the grapes, harvesting them and blending them into fine wines. In two hours time he would board the Chandris Lines ship the RHMS Ellinis, bound for Europe and England. The boat’s fare was cheaper than flying to any destination in Europe and he needed to be careful with what funds he had saved. He looked around his furnished, cramped bed-sitter with its small kitchen and barely adequate bathroom and his gaze fell on a stack of letters written to Marta over a period of almost two years. All had been returned unread. He believed he had come to terms with Marta’s perfidy over time and that it was pointless to take them with him. Refusing to feel sorry for himself, he dropped them in the kitchen’s rubbish bin.
Getting used to his new surname, Kruger, was hard for him but, all things considered, changing his name by deed poll when he’d settled in Sydney almost a year ago had been a smart move. The name of Stenmark, particularly, in the wine industry, was becoming well known—people asked too many questions—as he’d found out in Griffith and the Hunter Valley. After many talks with Greta he had become resigned to knowing that Papa was not and perhaps never would be in a mood to forgive. This helped him decide to make a new start in a country far away from Australia.
He stopped writing in the journal because he couldn’t see properly. Rolfe rubbed his eyes until he had clear vision again. The next words were hard to put down on paper but tightening his lips he wrote them:
It was almost inconceivable to believe that Kurt and Marta were dead. Greta had phoned him with the news a week ago. In all truth, that his brother and Marta had died in a car accident had come as no surprise. Marta loved speed and Kurt always pushed his vehicles to the limit. The police said the Mercedes sports had spun out around a curve in Murray Street, flipped over several times, killing not only Marta and Kurt instantly but the three-months-old foetus Marta was carrying. A very sad day for the Stenmark family.
Papa was inconsolable, according to Greta. Stricken with grief but also with anger too…towards him, though that made little sense. He seemed to believe that in some way he was to blame for what had happened to Marta and Kurt! Such accusations were illogical, beyond common sense but that meant little to Papa. He was the kind of man who had to apportion blame and, instead of blaming Kurt’s bad driving habits, he chose to blame Rolfe!
He was glad to be leaving Australia. With Kurt and Marta gone and Papa still unforgiving there could and probably never would be anything there for him…ever. It was best that he go far away, try to forget and put the events of the last two years behind him…
Misty-eyed, Carla looked up from her father’s journal. All the pieces of the puzzle—the story of her father’s early years—had fallen into place. She knew what Rolfe had done, why he had left Australia and never returned. It was so sad to be cut adrift like that at such a young age. No family, no friends, going to live in a foreign country. In fact, doing the reverse of what his forebears had done when they’d migrated from the Rhine to the Barossa. Was it little wonder that he’d become the quiet, serious man she remembered? She turned a couple more pages. They were blank. Then, on the last page of the journal was a final, four line entry.
Spring, Italy, 1965
He was learning to speak Italian and could manage simple conversations with most Italians these days. Yesterday he had met a man, a winemaker, Guido Bardolino, in a taverna, and they had shared a few glasses of wine. Guido offered him a season’s work at his vineyard at Vicenza, near Venice.
Rolfe decided to take the job because he was tired of travelling—sleeping in musty rooms and living out of a suitcase—besides, he needed the money. And, Guido said that he had four beautiful daughters—Lucia, Francesca, Gina and Giuseppina.
He must remember to write to Greta and give her his new address.
The index finger of Carla’s right hand traced her mother’s name and she smiled. She sighed as she closed the journal. Her father had been happy for a while, in Italy and for several years after they’d come to New Zealand. Remembering the happy times, her smile widened then slowly faded. Resting her head back in her father’s chair she closed her eyes. So much to absorb. The personal writings in the journal had described a very different man to her. Young, passionate and…wronged. If only he had confided in her when he’d been alive but at least it was good, if late, to know and understand what she now did.
Suddenly restless because she had been sitting practically since daybreak, she got up and walked to the window to look out at the vines. Along one of the rows of vines a long thin stick with a red piece of tape fluttering in the breeze stood out above the vines. That’s where Peter Cruzio had found her father. Her eyes brimmed with tears and she turned away to stare around the room and, as her gaze moved from one piece of furniture to another, she made a decision.
School holidays would be upon her in less than two weeks, which would give her time to settle most of her father’s affairs and…book flights to Adelaide in South Australia. Three tickets: for herself, Sam and Angie. They were going to go to the Barossa to check out Krugerhoff…and… establish links with the relatives she knew she had. She was doing that for her son, not herself. With her mother and cousins living so far away, Sam deserved to be part of a loving family and now her intention was to provide him with one.
CHAPTER FIVE
Over thirty years several things had changed in the Stenmark home, but one had not. Everyone was still expected to dine together on Saturday nights, however, they no longer ate in Stenhaus’s formal dining room. Instead, the family dined in a glassed-in atrium which had been built off the kitchen whose view overlooked the paved patio and the swimming pool. Beyond the pool, which was screened by a two-metre hedge, stood a long garage that could house six cars and a home gym, mostly for Lisel’s and Luke’s use. This building had replaced the original winery and stables that had been built by Carl’s grandfather, Fritz Stenmark.
Luke Michaels, standing close to the window with an aperitif in his hand, gazed outwards, not at the pool but beyond, to the vines that stretched as far as could be seen in the twilight. Red and gold and brown leaves dotted the overall green as autumn took a firmer hold on the vines. By the end of May most of the leaves would have dropped off. Luke liked this time of year. The harvest was in, the fermentation stages had begun, there was time to breathe more easily now, and to attend to matters that had been set aside for quieter times.
Luke turned away from the window as he heard someone come into the room. He knew by the sound of her footsteps, high heels on the tiled floor, that it was Aunt Lisel. Not that he called her aunt these days—there was only seven years difference in their ages and she’d insisted when he’d become a teenager that he call her by her first name.
Lisel Stenmark was a very different woman to his mother, Greta, in every possible way. Tall, still almost model slim at forty-something, dark where his mother was fair, glamorous and sophisticated where his mother was not, spirited and highly strung where Greta Michaels was calm and congenial.
‘Lisel,’ his smile was welcoming. ‘May I get you something?’
‘I’ll have what you’re having, darling.’
He lifted his glass in a salute then went to the well-stocked bar in a corner of the room and poured her one. The grandfather clock in the foyer chimed seven o’clock, and as if on cue, other members of the Stenmark family entered the room. Dinner always began promptly at seven. Greta and John Michaels, Luke’s parents, were first, and behind his grandfather trotted a scrubbed-up Josh Aldrich, in a suit. The solidly built, blond-haired man had unre
markable, even features and brown eyes that almost continually darted about, watching, judging, calculating.
Luke was not overly fond of Rhein Schloss’s operations manager but he admitted that the man knew his stuff and successfully oversaw the production of the company’s entire harvest to bottling stage. Josh was a special guest tonight because Grandfather had invited him, presumably to talk business during and after dinner. ‘Shop talk’ was something his mother abhorred at Saturday night dinners, but over the years because it was the one time when they were together, it was inevitable for such talk to occur.
The glass-topped table was set for dinner with half a dozen place mats and the accompanying silver cutlery and glassware. Out of respect, everyone waited until Carl Stenmark sat at the head of the table before taking their respective seats, Luke on Carl’s right and Josh on his left side. Margit, the cook, after peeking through the kitchen doorway and seeing that everyone was seated, pushed a kitchen traymobile into the atrium. The crockery rattled with the first course, a green salad with slices of smoked salmon.
Luke, out of the corner of his eye, watched his grandfather stare at his plate. He kept his features expressionless because he knew what was coming.
‘Salad, again. It’s autumn, Greta.’ Carl’s tone was as much of a complaint as his words. ‘Time for warming soups, isn’t it? Anything other than this green stuff.’
‘Next week, Papa,’ Greta said patiently, her answer to a question the same as it had been for years. ‘Next week we will have your favourite soup, leek and asparagus.’
‘Harruumph. Good.’
Luke picked up his fork and began to eat, knowing that Grandfather or Lisel would instigate the conversation. His aunt had never lost her penchant for chatter, for bringing gossip about what was happening in the Valley to the dinner table, whether Grandfather appreciated it or not. Luke was like his father, content to listen and contribute occasionally when questions were directed to him.
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