Page 8 of Love in the Shadows

She glanced through the door to the right, down the length of the dining room, and beyond into what appeared to be a kitchen and a small round table. The space was very open and lacked the private rooms she was more familiar with.

“Can you bring the box with photographs through to the dining room?” she asked.

The soldier assigned to help her clicked his heels.

A highly polished rosewood table that would seat twelve people ran the length of the dining room to her right, on the driveway side of the house, and to its left, under the light of the window that gave a view of the gardens at the rear of the house, was a stunning Pleyel grand piano.

Her heart skipped a beat, and she let her fingers trail across the surface of the piano’s wood housing, tracing the name of its maker. How she longed to be in Berlin, playing in the orchestra. She went to the window and gazed out over the neatly tended garden. Astrid would enjoy the swing and climbing the big oak tree that it hung from. Maybe they could all sit out on the patio of an evening before the winter set in and count the stars. A loud droning sound stole her attention from the dream, her heart pounded against her ribs. She watched the airplanes fly overhead, relieved to see the swastikas on the underside of their wings.

“Where shall I place the box, Frau Neumann?”

She indicated to the floor next to the piano seat, and he set it down, opened it and retreated to the foyer. She pulled out a silver-framed photo of Ralf as a young boy, stroked his baby face, and placed it on the top of the piano. He was a young man now and more knowledgeable about the world, and she hoped that the zest for life he’d always had as a boy hadn’t dulled already. She would think about him when she sat here, and it would bring her immense joy to be reminded of the times he used to sit and listen attentively to her.

She pulled out the oil painting of Gerhard’s father in military uniform, and the one of her own father wearing a dark grey suit. If he had been dressed in his uniform, she would have set the two men side by side as a powerful demonstration to their guests of the longevity of service that their families had given to their country and their evident solidarity. That she considered both men to be aggressive bullies was something she would keep to herself. She called the soldier in and instructed him to mount the paintings on the wall, one at each end of the table. It amused her to think of the fathers in a duel.

“And take the remaining pictures upstairs. I will place them along the landing.” She was too tired to think of what to do with the contents of the other boxes and needed to take account of all the rooms before deciding. “I’ll look through the rest tomorrow.”

He clicked his heels, took the box and exited the room.

Johanna wandered into the kitchen. She lifted the lid of the pot on the countertop. Potatoes ready to cook. Carrots too. There was the faint hint of herbs and onion and a strong whiff of garlic. She checked out the contents of the fridge. How delightful. The food might not be of the standard she had been used to in Berlin, though God knew that had deteriorated over the months, but at least they wouldn’t go hungry. The impression of the people standing in a queue in town, etched in her mind, reminded her she was lucky to be on the right side of the war.

The door inside the kitchen behind her opened. Her heart thundered at the unexpected noise. Astrid appeared, followed by Nanny. “You made me jump! What’s down there?”

“It’s smelly and cold.” Astrid pulled her nose up and shuddered.

“It’s just a wine cellar,” Nanny said.

Johanna was quite partial to French wines, most of the orchestra had been, although she couldn’t admit that to anyone now of course. “I don’t suppose there’s anything decent?”

“A few bottles of Riesling that Hauptmann Kohl has acquired.”

“I think I need to take a look,” Johanna said. “Did you decide on a bedroom, Astrid?”

Her daughter shook her head. “We haven’t gone upstairs yet.”

Johanna indicated towards the kitchen window overlooking the back garden. “Did you see the tree swing?”

Astrid ran to the sink and pulled herself up so she could see out. “Can I have a go?”

Nanny frowned at Johanna and shook her head. “Let’s go and find you a room first,” she said.

Johanna felt the tug at her heart. She wanted her daughter to be able to play rather than err on the side of caution all the time. Johanna’s childhood had been thwarted by war; she hated that her daughter’s was heading that way too. Hilda was right. They didn’t know how safe it was, though she hoped there would be some benefits to living in the countryside.

Nanny and Astrid made their way through the dining room. Johanna went down the steps into the wine cellar. It was a lot bigger than she’d anticipated, almost the same size as the ground floor of the house. The stale wine odour was accompanied by a sour smell that she couldn’t put a name to. She walked around, running her fingers along the racks, imagining what it would be like filled to the brim with a selection of wines from her homeland and from France and Italy. The clinking of glasses, lively chatter and laughter among friends. The unbridled pleasure, without the constant nagging fear, that had been absent from their lives for too long already. Her heart ached recalling the memory of such joyful times. She wished she hadn’t taken those days for granted.

Movement low in the corner of the room, a scratching sound, shocked her from her reverie. She shivered and rubbed her arms. They would have to get hold of some traps or failing that, a cat. She returned to the kitchen, turned off the light, and closed the cellar door.

Kohl was standing in the doorway to the dining room. “Frau Neumann. These women are here to cook for you.” He entered the kitchen and waved them in. “Come, quickly.”

She addressed Kohl. “You may leave us.” She watched him walk back through the dining room and into the foyer, then turned to the two women standing next to each other, hands clasped in front of them, staring at her.

“Welcome, Frau Neumann,” the older one said. “I am Odile Tussaud, and this is my granddaughter Fabienne Brun. We live in the cottage across the way with my other granddaughter, Nancy.”

Johanna looked from the older woman, who smiled at her, to the younger woman whose appearance remained stern, contemptuous even. Johanna couldn’t blame her, but wondered if she was either a fool who was asking to get shot, or just simple-minded. She hoped she wasn’t going to cause them trouble, although the disdain directed at her now through those dark brown, haunting eyes suggested she had the potential to.

“I assume you worked for the previous kommandant and know your way around the house,” Johanna said.

“This was our house bef—”

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