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A Peaceful Summer
Ace Anthony
The summer of 1939, the last summer of peace before World War II. Helmut Krauss, a young German pianist, returns home after completing his education in Britain, only to discover that his mother has become an ardent supporter of Hitler. Far from sharing his mother’s enthusiasm, Helmut applies for an American visa, but Frau Krauss doesn’t give up easily – she believes that her talented son and German Reich are made for each other…
A Peaceful Summer
Ace Anthony
Photograph Berlin, Staatsbibliothek, Unter den Linden Bundesarchiv, B 145 Bild-P014772 / Frankl, A. / CC—BY-SA
Photograph Matt Hobbs
Illustrator Ace Anthony
© Ace Anthony, 2021
© Berlin, Staatsbibliothek, Unter den Linden Bundesarchiv, B 145 Bild-P014772 / Frankl, A. / CC—BY-SA, photos, 2021
© Matt Hobbs, photos, 2021
© Ace Anthony, illustrations, 2021
ISBN 978-5-4474-0176-4
Created with Ridero smart publishing system
A PEACEFUL SUMMER
Ace Anthony
I M P R I N T
A Peaceful Summer
by Ace Anthony
© 2014, Ace Anthony
All rights reserved.
Author: Ace Anthony
Contact: apeacefulsummer@gmail. com
Cover: designed by Ace Anthony
Berlin, Staatsbibliothek, Unter den Linden
Bundesarchiv, B 145 Bild-P014772 / Frankl, A. / CC – BY-SA
The piano image by Matt Hobbs
This ebook, including all its parts, is protected by copyright and must not be copied, reselled or shared without the permission of the author.
Chapter 1
‘Admit it, there’s nothing like Italian air. Especially at this time of the year…’
‘It’s still cold…’
‘No, it isn’t. Not for walks.’
‘Well, it is for swimming… The water temperature must be murderous!’
He was old, grumpy, wrapped in rugs and his sister’s shawl. She was sitting by his side, a plump woman in her sixties, flushed and smiley, determined to make the most of her holiday by the sea.
‘Don’t grumble, Berthold, you promised, remember?’
She surveyed the sparkling turquoise of the sea from under her old-fashioned sun hat.
‘Oh, look!’ she said. ‘Today even more people are braving the chill!’
‘What are these pups after? Pneumonia?’
‘They are young and healthy… They can do what they want.’
‘Your hat is ridiculous.’
She let the remark pass and leant over to the girl sitting next to her:
‘You look so pretty today, Irma. The sea air certainly agrees with you.’
The girl smiled. She was very thin, and her dress of bleached linen seemed to have more colour than her skin.
‘Thank you, Frau Nolf.’
The woman was in a mood for talk:
‘Yesterday’s evening was magical, wasn’t it?’ she said.
The girl nodded.
‘Magical,’ the man grumbled. ‘What did you drink last night? You’ve been giggling like an idiot ever since.’
‘You really should have come, Berthold. It was wonderful…’
‘Will you get me another rug, this one is itchy… If that baby doesn’t stop squeaking, I’m going back to the hotel,’ he said in a hissing whisper when his sister bent to tuck the rug round his knees.
She only laughed:
‘If I let you have a smoke, will you promise to stop grumbling for a change?’ She rummaged in her handbag and fished out his pipe roll. ‘Here’s your toy.’ He snatched at it eagerly and immediately lost interest in everything else. ‘Men are like children,’ she winked at the girl and moved her chair under the sunshade to join other women.
‘When did you say your husband is coming?’ she asked the mother of the whining baby.
‘Oh, he’s not coming… Some last minute change of plans, I’m afraid…’
‘Pity. He was so looking forward to it. May I?’ She took the baby and rocked him in her arms with the ease of someone used to it. ‘There, young man, if you behave like an angel, a little mermaid will give you a precious pearl.’
She began to hum a tune, and the baby went quiet, listening. Everyone, except her brother, smiled and gasped with appreciation.
‘For God’s sake, Gabi, stop embarrassing people with your enthusiasm!’
She took a deep breath:
‘I can’t help it! Oh, there he is… Helmut, darling,’ she beamed at an adolescent boy who was just going past their sunshade. ‘What a lovely performance it was! We are all looking forward to…’
The boy didn’t smile back, rolled his eyes as if to say, ‘Do me a favour,’ and walked past her without slowing down.
‘Forgive him, he’s still adjusting,’ the boy’s mother said.
‘Oh, nothing to forgive! What a talent! That piece he played yesterday – what was it?’
Frau Nolf hummed the tune again.
‘I’m not sure.’
‘Dvorak,’ somebody prompted.
‘I remember him as a small child,’ another woman said, looking up from her magazine. ‘Is it true he has lived in England all this time?’
Helmut’s mother didn’t answer.
‘He did the right thing to return now when he’s still very young,’ the old man mumbled, puffing at his pipe. ‘In another year or two it could be too late – the German Reich wouldn’t give him a chance.’
‘Don’t listen to Berthold, it’s his ulcer speaking. Germany will always welcome its great sons.’
They were all silent watching the boy walk into the sea and dive into the foam of a rolling wave.
‘The weather will get worse in the evening,’ the man grumbled.
The languid rondo of the mid-spring, middle-aged, middle-class holidaying was a living hell for the youth. The evenings were dull and had little to offer: the same film in the local cinema, wine-drinking on the terraces, reluctant dancing. Even older people had to admit that they could do with more entertainment, but the season hadn’t started yet, and the resort town was still hibernating. So, it was no wonder that sporadic piano recitals given by a young tourist from Germany instantly stirred a bit of a sensation and drew a growing audience to the steps of the hotel he was staying at. Sometime after dinner more and more people strolled past the hotel, some of them sauntered back and forth, others nestled themselves at the tables on shaded terraces, sending waiters and children to make inquires about the evening.
‘Oh, wait a moment,’ Frau Krauss would say. ‘I’ll go and find him.’
Sometimes she literally had to chase her son around the hotel and neighbouring cafes or search the dark inside of the cinema. This time she was lucky to catch him in his room.
‘Darling, the people are gathering. What shall I tell them? Are you playing today or not?’
‘I thought I made myself clear. I’m not playing any more. Why do you keep making promises on my behalf?’
‘But, Helmut, sunshine, they love you. It would be a shame if…’
‘We initially agreed upon one private evening for friends only. I have no intention of starting a career here… This isn’t funny, Mother. If it goes on like that, I’ll have to move to another hotel.’
‘It’s your fault,’ she tried a flattering tone. ‘You play so well…’
‘It was supposed to be a holiday. I’d rather have the evening to myself.’
‘Irma will be disappointed.’
‘Life is one big disappointment for Irma. It’s time she got used to it.’
‘Rudeness doesn’t become you, young man.’
He peered down at the terrace through the Venetian blinds. A few people were already flocking at the tables, sipping wine, casting glances in the direction of the hotel entrance. One of the women (Helmut recognized his most devoted admirer) beckoned an errand boy. He hurried over to her table and listened to her request, bowing and shrugging all the time. Helmut watched the pantomime curiously: an imposing, dignified woman and a fidgety little Italian trying to communicate with each other with the help of gestures.
‘Very well, then. Mussorgsky, I suppose. I feel like Mussorgsky today.’
The smile on his mother’s face faded.
‘Is he Polish?’ she asked in low voice.
‘Really, Mother, the world would be a nicer place if you refrained from commenting on music.’
‘Why don’t you play someone with a German name for a change?’
Helmut liked to think that steering away from German composers was his clever way of being difficult.
‘It’s either Mussorgsky or nothing at all.’
‘Let me do your tie.’
‘Leave me alone.’
Most conversations with her son were like that: in the end she wasn’t sure whether she had won or lost. But she couldn’t help smiling at the sour face he pulled as he fumbled with his tie.
‘I need some time to prepare,’ he said rummaging through his music. ‘Do you mind?’
‘Of course not!’
She smiled again and tiptoed out of the room without another word. She had already forgiven his petulance and rudeness.
Helmut Krauss was easy to forgive. One was never sure why he was so irresistible: was it in spite of or rather because of his spiky manner. He had that rarest type of charm, the charm of a good-looking boy who genuinely didn’t care how he looked. He frowned, smiled, pouted, grimaced – assumed countless expressions that distorted his regular features. He was hardly ever aware of that, and when he was, he never gave it a second thought. His self-confidence was dazzling. Despite his average height and adolescent physique, he had an extremely powerful presence, and he managed it with the ease of an experienced public figure. To his English aunt’s credit, he wore good clothes, and he wore them well, but it was more like an old habit which existed independently from its master. He never minded a bad photograph of himself; passing a mirror he never checked his hair or tie, he never posed, he never preened. His wit, energy, dry sense of humour, and easy attitude to his own radiant attractiveness could be enough to secure him the reputation of a likeable personality if it wasn’t for his second natural gift – music – which had taken a serious toll on his character. Nobody seemed to be good enough for him; nobody remembered him holding a half-civil conversation. He absolutely insisted on being caustic and sarcastic with everyone, regardless of people’s age and status. Mocking and teasing was his rule. Arguing when nobody wanted to argue was his signature. There was no way of pleasing him, and one was often left to wonder what he despised more: compliments or criticism. But, first, he was very young. Second, objectively and to say the least, he was a very solid pianist with a brilliant career in front of him. For these two reasons his bad manners were easily forgiven and put down to artistic eccentricity. Forgiveness he dismissed; reputation, though, he didn’t mind, feeling quite snug in his aura of a difficult genius.
The next day he suddenly announced that he was going to Florence to spend a few days with his paternal grandmother.
He waved aside his mother’s concerns about the old woman’s age and delicate health.
‘Helmut, you visited her last week. You are tiring her…’
