The Rose Gardener

by Charlotte Link

  “Mae,” she said.

  “Mae?” asked Erich. “Is that the friend you wanted to see that first night, when you tried to take off?”

  “Yes.”

  “But you don’t even know if she’s still on the island.”

  “No. But maybe she is still here, and I could finally get to see her again.”

  “We’ll find out. Good then. We’ve got Will and this Mae of yours. Helene, you’ll arrange everything. Cake and drinks and so forth. You will permit me to attend, yes? Our dear Will needs a little support, so all alone with two young ladies.”

  From this moment on Beatrice was burning at the prospect that Mae could in fact still be on the island, and that she might perhaps see her friend again soon. Erich had promised to look into it, had had Beatrice give him Mae’s last name and her address. Beatrice had hoped he would start taking the necessary steps right after breakfast, but he seemed to want to take his time. Obviously he derived a certain pleasure from leaving Beatrice squirming in suspense.

  During the German lesson she extended the invitation to Will, but she also told him the whole party was completely Erich’s idea. “I didn’t want to celebrate at all. But I think he’d be furious.”

  Will nodded thoughtfully. “He likes to put people under pressure. Even when he means well.”

  “How old is he, do you know?”

  “Major Feldmann? Around forty, I think.”

  “Helene will be twenty-two. She’s a lot younger than him. And he treats her rather badly.”

  Will nodded. “I’ve noticed that too. He acts as if she were a little girl. But then maybe she’s got to seem like one to him — what with her being half his age.”

  After the lesson Beatrice wondered why Helene had even married Erich. Sometimes she and Mae had talked about love, giggling, not really knowing what it was they were talking about. Once, Mae had had a crush on a boy from St. Martin and said that what she felt for him was love and that now she understood what made men and women marry each other. Beatrice had told Deborah about it. Her mother had told her Mae was too young to be in love.

  “You two take your time,” she’d said. “One day you’ll discover all your feelings and it’ll be confusing enough for you.”

  In any case, love clearly led to bad decisions. Erich was good-looking, and that might have been why Helene had agreed to marry him. Now she was stuck, and perhaps deeply regretting having been so rash. Beatrice resolved to be extra vigilant herself.

  When she reached the drive that led up to the house, she could already hear Erich’s voice. There was such a horrifying mix of hatred and coldness in it that Beatrice shuddered, despite the warm August sun that shone that day with an almost midsummer intensity. It was five o’clock, the time when Erich’s mood was usually improving. At the moment, however, he seemed to be extremely irritated and full of ill will.

  Outside the front door stood a staff car next to which were posted four heavily-armed German soldiers. One of them had his rifle aimed at something.

  Before the soldiers stood two men whose pitiful, wretched appearance was in stark contrast to the healthy, well-nourished look of the occupation troops. Both were tall, but they stood with their shoulders slumped forward and their heads hanging low. Ragged, filthy clothes hung from their emaciated frames. Their cheeks were sunken, their faces pinched and gray. They had removed their hats and kept turning them around in their hands. They were afraid; it seemed a deep sense of despair had taken hold of them. Erich strutted up and down before them. He spoke to them in English.

  “You will keep the garden orderly, and when I say orderly, I mean just that. Not a single leaf will lie on the lawn, not a single rose’s head will droop. I am holding you personally responsible, do you understand? You’re very lucky, do you know that? The others are building the Atlantic Wall and the underground bunkers. They’re truly slaving away. Carrying stones is damn hard work, I can tell you both. However, if you two are now rejoicing and thinking to yourselves that you can have the good life here, then you are sorely mistaken.” He stopped and barked at the taller of the two. “Look at me when I’m talking to you! What’s your name?”

  The man raised his head. His dark eyes were full of sadness. “My name is Julien,” he said. He spoke English with a strong French accent.

  “I see. And you?”

  He was speaking to the other man now. He wore the same defeated expression. “My name is Pierre.”

  “Good. Julien and Pierre. You will be working here, understood? Really working. You will follow my orders and those of Mrs. Feldmann, and you will work very hard. Very hard. Do you know what my name is? I am Major Feldmann. To you I am Herr Major. You will greet me when you see me. Never forget,” his voice rose and sounded even more biting than before, “never forget that you are nothing. Just two pieces of filth. And there are thousands of you. Therefore, if you do not suit me, you will be replaced. Immediately. If there are two fewer pieces of filth in the world, the world won’t mind at all, the world won’t even notice. It’s all the same to the world if filth persists or if filth disappears. Wouldn’t you agree with me?”

  Neither answered. Erich’s eyes narrowed. “I asked if you’d agree with me! Julien? Pierre?”

  “Yes,” said Julien.

  “Yes,” said Pierre.

  The look on Erich’s face did not change. “Now it’s time to go to work. The garden is rather overgrown. You’ve got a lot to do.”

  At that moment he noticed Beatrice, who had slowly been coming closer. “Hello, Beatrice. I have good news for you. Your dear Mae is in fact still with her parents on the island. She’ll come here on your birthday.”

  Beatrice gave a start. For a few moments she had actually forgotten about Mae. All at once her heart started beating faster and she felt the blood rising to her cheeks. Erich saw it, and somehow it seemed to please him that he could make her happy.

  “You see? It’s not all so bad,” he said.

  The two prisoners went off into the garden, led by a soldier. Beatrice watched them go. “Who are they?”

  “Prisoners of war. From France.”

  “Prisoners of war?”

  “Yes. Germany has conquered France, as you might know. You must be careful when you’re around them. Most of the French are rather disreputable people. Shifty and deceitful. You find a great number of criminals among them.”

  Beatrice didn’t have the sense that the two men were dangerous, but she decided to be on her guard. Besides, she had more important things on her mind. “Could I maybe visit Mae right away?” she asked, full of hope.

  Erich immediately bristled at this of course. “Now listen up. Some things you’re just going to have to wait for. You wanted to have a birthday party no matter what, and I permitted it. Now I should think you can be patient until then!”

  There was no sense telling him that she had never asked for a party. She knew him well enough to know that he wouldn’t go in for any debate, that he twisted facts wherever he felt like it. She said nothing in response, ran up to her room and slammed the door shut behind her. She stood at the window and looked out over the trees. The tips of the leaves had begun to turn yellow. Once, Deborah had told her that it was possible to contact a person who was far away through the power of thought. “If you think really hard about the person, and send her lots of thoughts and feelings, she’ll feel it. There will be an invisible tie between you.”

  She tried with all her might to concentrate on Deborah and Andrew.

  “I’m thinking of you,” she whispered. “I’m thinking of you really, really hard. Hopefully you can feel it. I’d like so much to feel that you’re thinking of me too. I’m certain you’re doing it. I know you’re scared for me, Mommy. But you don’t have to worry. Nothing will happen to me, and I know we’ll be together again some day.”

  She stood like t
hat for a long time, giving herself over to a feeling of closeness that she truly thought she felt and that she hoped she wasn’t imagining. Eventually, the garden lay covered in deep shadows, and the sun, covered in a veil of mist, hung close to the horizon.

  Beatrice noticed that she was hungry, and she wondered why no one had called her down to eat yet. She left her room and was headed downstairs, but in the hallway she suddenly heard strange noises and she stopped.

  The sounds were coming from her parents’ bedroom, which Erich and Helene now occupied. It sounded rather frightening, as if someone was being hurt, or tortured. Surprisingly, she had the impression that it was Erich who was making the odd moaning sounds.

  She crept slowly closer. The door was slightly ajar, so that she could peer through. She saw her parents’ bed, and she saw Erich and Helene, who were both naked, panting, and overheated-looking. Erich lay on his back. His head was tilted backwards and he was whimpering. Helene sat on top of him and was moving quickly, up and down. Her blond hair, which she otherwise always put up in braids, flowed like golden silk over her shoulders and back, reaching all the way down to her hips. Her bright skin shone like ivory in the last light of day. Helene was very slender; all her limbs were perfectly formed, her thighs long and firm. Her nipples stood tall and erect on her small breasts, and on her face she wore a triumphant, self-satisfied expression that Beatrice had never seen there before. She looked almost happy, at least no longer frightened and intimidated. She was strong. She was stronger than Erich, who lay moaning beneath her. In a bizarre way the world had been turned on its head. Two people who seemed firmly fixed in their positions had switched roles. Within just a few hours a change had come over both of them that would have left Beatrice speechless had she not already been dumbstruck with horror.

  She was revolted by what the two of them were doing, even though she didn’t really understand what it was. She’d of course picked up little tidbits about “these things,” but when she’d asked Andrew about them he’d said only that she should go to Deborah, and Deborah had said that she was too young, and it would all be explained to her later on. She had heard most of it from Mae, who had an older brother who provided a generous supply of stories that had to do with sexual relations between men and women. Most of them sounded so far-fetched that Beatrice couldn’t imagine there could be any truth to them. What she was now seeing, however, seemed to confirm the dread that had always made it through Mae’s words. The naked bodies shining with sweat, the aggression in the movements, the moaning, the distorted faces — it all caused Beatrice to think of a struggle for life and death. For reasons that couldn’t be explained, two people would abandon themselves to that struggle.

  Erich’s breathing got faster and faster, and Helene was moving with such intensity that her hair was flying. Then Erich was gasping for breath like a dying animal, the muscles in his body tensed, and finally he collapsed, he lay there breathing heavily, appeared to dissolve in a flood of exhaustion and relief.

  Helene wasn’t moving any longer. She was still sitting on top of Erich for a moment more, then she slid off and lay down by his side. She pressed herself to him, wrapped an arm around him, buried her face in his shoulder. Beatrice wouldn’t have been able to say how she became aware of the change, but within a few moments the power relations between them went back to their original positions. Helene became weak, and Erich became strong: perhaps it was the plaintive way that Helene sought tenderness, and how coldly Erich refused to give it to her. He tolerated her caresses but made no move to reciprocate them. All at once he swung both legs out of bed and got up. As he did so, he shook Helene’s arm off like a bothersome insect.

  “Erich,” Helene pleaded softly. She sounded sad and hurt.

  He said something in German that Beatrice didn’t understand. The tone, however, was cold and dismissive. She saw the dark outline of his naked body before the bright rectangle of the window. Erich had long legs, his shoulders were very broad. He was a handsome man, just as Helene was a pretty woman — a good-looking couple who, visually, radiated a grand harmony. No one would have thought that their relationship was as hollow as a rotten log.

  Helene drew the sheets up to her chin. The triumphant expression that just minutes before had completely transformed her face had vanished. Again, she looked like a wounded doe, and seemed to be fighting back tears.

  Erich put on his uniform. He stood before the mirror and ran a hand through his hair. He was in full control of himself now, was once more the Erich who put an ongoing fear into all those around him, a man whose thoughts were forever a mystery to others.

  “Time for dinner,” he said. This time Beatrice understood his words. It was happening more often now that she could understand individual sentences, or at least parts of them.

  Helene didn’t move. Her eyes begged for tenderness, but it was clear she could just as well have been pleading with a stone.

  “Time for dinner,” Erich repeated, and this time the words sounded like a threat.

  Helene buried herself deeper in the sheets. She seemed not to want to leave the bed; she looked pale and humiliated. Erich put on his tall black boots, and with that he was finished. He grabbed a bundle of clothes lying on a chair and threw it on the bed, right where Helene’s stomach would have been under the sheet. “Get dressed and come downstairs,” he ordered, and turned towards the door.

  At the last minute Beatrice was able to disappear into the bathroom before Erich stepped out into the hallway. He hurried down the stairs with thunderous steps.

  On September 5th, in the afternoon, Mae appeared with her parents. When Beatrice saw her friend, tears flooded her eyes for the first time since all of these horrible things had started happening, but she stifled them at once. She had sworn to herself that Erich would never see her cry.

  She and Mae embraced. They clung to one another like two people drowning. Mae alternated between sobs and laughter and asked hundreds of questions, one after the other, without waiting for a single reply.

  “We thought you were in England!” She cried. “I thought I’d go crazy when I heard you were here.”

  Mrs. Wyatt, Mae’s mother, was filled with concern.

  “Oh, child, if we’d known that you were here we would have come and taken care of you long ago. But your parents told us they were leaving the island, and we wouldn’t have dreamed that you’d still be here.”

  “Beatrice belongs with my wife and me now,” said Erich. “You needn’t worry yourselves at all on her behalf.”

  Mae’s parents looked at the German with hostility, but they said nothing. Like all the English who had stayed behind on the islands, they suffered multiple abuses at the hands of the Germans — the prohibition of assembly, the evening curfew, every conceivable rationing measure on every day goods. Their car had been requisitioned and only returned to them after Dr. Wyatt’s vehement protests: even the Germans had had to concede that he, a doctor, could not be without a car. Mrs. Wyatt wasn’t permitted to meet with her bridge club, and a large number of her friends had been detained. She had seen the captive laborers that had been brought over from the mainland to build fortifications, bunkers, and walls. The Germans, so it seemed to Edith Wyatt, were obsessed with fortifications, bunkers, and walls. In the few weeks since they’d arrived they’d already succeeded in changing the outward face of the island. The columns of prisoners, the trucks, the armed soldiers, the swastika flags, the first train cars that were shipped over from France to transport granite slabs and boulders — all of it seemed a gigantic war machine. It functioned perfectly. It was completely unstoppable. The Nazis had a merciless way of bringing things under their control. They coordinated things quickly and thoroughly and with a perfection that could be called superhuman — or inhuman. Mrs. Wyatt, who had led a quiet, comfortable life as a country doctor’s wife, saw her world turned on its head. She found herself beset with nameless threats. She
regretted not taking part in the evacuation. She hadn’t been able to make up her mind and give up her cozy little cottage, and her husband had been of the opinion that, as a doctor, it was his duty to remain. Now she went through each day trembling with fear that her house could be taken away from her. Many had lost their homes to the Germans; the occupation forces commandeered houses whenever they pleased, and only in rare cases did they allow the owners to continue living there, crowded into a single room.

  Dr. Wyatt turned towards Erich and said, “We would like to take Beatrice to come live with us. We were close friends of her parents. I think it would be in line with the wishes of Deborah and Andrew Stewart that we look after their daughter.”

  Erich was smiling, but his eyes remained cold. “And I think that what matters here is what’s in line with my wishes. Beatrice stays here with us. Mae can come and visit every now and then, but for the moment I would rather Beatrice not go over to your home.”

  Dr. Wyatt said nothing further in reply, but he briefly stroked Beatrice’s hair. It was an encouraging and soothing gesture. She took it as a promise that, in spite of everything, he would look after her and would always keep watching over her.

  Helene had set the table in the garden. The evenings were already cool by now, but during the day the sun still shone warmly, sending down rays of mild, golden light. The air smelled of sweet, ripe fruit, and the roses exuded a deeper aroma than in summer.

  Helene wore a dirndl. Beatrice was aware that she wore it at Erich’s behest, even though she didn’t like the way she looked in it. Again she seemed pained and unhappy, and even younger than she was.

  Dr. Wyatt and his wife were politely but quite insistently sent away by Erich, who explained that Will would bring Mae back home that evening.

  And with that the peculiar company that gathered for Beatrice’s birthday went into the garden and took their seats at the table, which Helene had set lovingly with Deborah’s finest china.

  Erich took one of the delicate Wedgwood tea cups in his hand and held it up.