Cold Peace

Christian continued up the stairs to the fourth floor, set down his heavy suitcases, and knocked on the righthand door.

After a few moments, a tense, female voice called. “Who’s there?”

“It’s me. Christian. Didn’t you get my letter?”

“Christian?” A pause. “Christian von Feldburg?” The mixture of disbelief and excitement in Charlotte’s voice pierced her cousin’s heart. He’d heard terror, loneliness, desperation and sudden hope all mingled together in her gasped questions. 

From the other side of the door came the sound of chains and bolts being removed. The key turned in the lock and the door yanked open. Charlotte stood in the doorway. Her apartment was so dark, she was lit only by the lightbulb in the stairwell, and it was not flattering. Christian had not seen her in six years, and he was not sure he would have recognised her on the street. She looked emaciated and haggard. Her hair had been chopped more than cut and it was very short at the back, although in front it fell onto her forehead like a man’s. Her skin was rough and raw with patches of dryness. She wore no hint of makeup. Big, dark eyes sunken in their sockets like pools of misery dominated her face.

Christian’s shock was so great that he could not find the usual pleasantries. Instead, with a single cry of “Charlotte!” he pulled her into his arms in a gesture of spontaneous sympathy. 

She responded by clinging to him like a child. “Christian! Christian! Where have you come from? How did you get here? Why are you here? Can you stay a little while?” She looked up at him hopefully as she pulled away.

“I’m moving in with you, actually. At least for a few weeks,” Christian announced and then thought to ask with a smile, “I hope that’s all right?”

“Of course! I’m so glad you’ve come.” Charlotte took a step back to let Christian in but hastened to lock, bolt, and chain the door behind him. 

Christian meanwhile looked around in the dark corridor and noted that he could see his breath. Without thinking he exclaimed, “It’s colder in here than outside!”

“I can’t afford to heat anything except the kitchen,” Charlotte apologised embarrassed. “Come!” She opened the closed kitchen door and shooed him inside. The kitchen was lit by a naked light bulb hanging over a battered, wooden table. 

“I’ll buy wood or coal for the other ovens tomorrow,” Christian answered setting his suitcases down, while Charlotte closed the door behind him. “What else do you need?” He added surveying the nearly empty kitchen.

“I don’t need much, Christian, but what about you? I had no idea you were coming and I have nothing--”

“Don’t worry about me. I can organize anything we need tomorrow. Tonight, let’s celebrate our long-overdue reunion. Where are the wine glasses?”

She shook her head. “I don’t have any, but it doesn’t matter because I can’t afford wine. I can make some tea. Grandma Walmsdorf sends me packets from England.” She started towards the stove.

Christian stopped her. “Don’t bother. I brought samples of our Schloss Feldburg premium wine — so all we need are some glasses, any kind of glasses.” 

Charlotte went to the cupboard, while Christian laid one of his suitcases on its side and removed one of several bottles with screw-on tops labelled “Listerine.”

Charlotte gaped as he placed it on the table with a grin. “It’s impossible to bring wine across the Zone without the Ivans seizing it for themselves, so I disguised it as mouthwash. Allegedly, some Soviet soldier tried drinking this American mouthwash and nearly died. The word spread among the Ivans that it was poison, and they won’t touch the stuff. Come. Sit down and try it!” he urged confidently.

Still looking sceptical, Charlotte sat down and held out her glass for Christian to pour while he explained cheerfully, “We’ve always produced some wine for our own consumption, but we never tried to make a business of it before. Last year, Mother decided that since it is a high-margin business, we ought to see if wine could put us back on our feet faster.”

“Aunt Sophia is amazing,” Charlotte acknowledged, referring to Christian’s mother, her father’s sister. She lifted her glass to sniff at the pale-yellow liquid tentatively. 

“My mother is focusing on the future because, she says, if she thinks about the past, she’d kill herself.” 

“There are a lot of us like that,” Charlotte noted, adding in a barely audible whisper “— or there would be if we could see any future.”  

Christian wasn’t sure if she was talking to him or herself. Her gaze was averted. “Charlotte?” She turned back to him with a weak smile. He could sense her fragility but was unsure how to respond to it. “A toast?” When she remained silent, he proposed one himself, “To a bright future.”

Charlotte dutifully lifted her glass, but when she put it to her lips she sipped only timidly, as though she were afraid it might be Listerine after all. As she raised her glass to Christian to close the toast after drinking she admitted, “I’m trying to think when I last drank wine. I think it was Christmas 1944. That was such a sad Christmas. Fritz had been missing for over a year without a word, and we were all so afraid of the future with the Soviets coming closer each day. Father announced his decision to abandon Walmsdorf and try to make it to Berlin. Mother was torn apart by having to leave so much behind. I never dreamed that any Christmas could be worse than that — until the next three found me here.” 

“Why didn’t you come to Altdorf?” Christian asked gently, reaching out to take her cold hand in his. “Surely you knew my mother would have welcomed you with her whole heart?”

Charlotte nodded. “Of course, I knew. It’s just…” 

When she didn’t finish her thought after several seconds, Christian asked, “Is it your work here? I know Altdorf is a boring little provincial town, and Mother says you’re a successful journalist.”

Charlotte shook her head. “That’s a lie I tell in my letters. I’m not successful at all. I sometimes sell stories, but not often. Usually not more than once or twice a week. RIAS pays best. They pay a dollar for a good story — and that’s hard currency. The others only pay in occupation marks — which are really only useful for toilet paper, but of course, I need that too. If it weren’t for Horst and the rations, I would have starved to death.”

“Who’s Horst?” Christian asked. Given Charlotte’s circumstances, he could hardly blame her if she had a boyfriend or benefactor of some sort, but he felt an instinctive alarm, nevertheless.

“You must remember Horst!” She protested. “He was our coachman in Gross Walmsdorf.”

“Oh, of course!” Now Christian remembered the coachman with the magnificent Kaiser Wilhelm moustache that he had admired as a boy. He had been a driver in the field artillery during the Great War but had grown up on Charlotte’s father’s estate and returned there after the last war. He was devoted to the Walmsdorf family.

Charlotte was speaking again, “Horst was driving my wagon when the Soviet fighter found us. He flung me down and protected me with his body. They missed us anyway. He took care of everything afterwards too — laying out my parents and Joseph and Martha with as much dignity as possible, putting down the wounded horse, and even making four crosses. The earth was stone-hard, so he couldn’t dig graves, but Jasha helped him cover them with snow. I — I was useless. I wasn’t at all brave.” 

“Charlotte, you’d just seen your parents and two dear friends shot to pieces by an enemy fighter. You were in shock.”

“Horst and Jasha managed to keep functioning,” she countered, her eyes turned inward, and Christian silently poured her more wine.

Charlotte took another sip and explained in a firmer voice. “I gave Horst the three horses that survived the trip. And the wagon. He set up a business delivering milk. He collects it from nearby farms in the Soviet Zone and sells it here in Kreuzberg, Neukoeln and Treptow. He brings me milk, cheese, eggs, and in the summer apples, onions and vegetables too. He’s doing well. At least well enough to keep the horses fed. They’re stabled in the second courtyard, where Philipp used to have his horses. You may have smelled them coming in.”

Christian shook his head and asked instead, “And Jasha? What happened to her?”

“Jasha got a job cooking for an American officer and his family down in Dahlem. She lives in, so I don’t see much of her. Unfortunately, her employer is due to transfer out soon, and his successor is under no obligation to retain her. She’s worried she will lose her job.”

Christian nodded understanding, but Jasha was a hard-working and resourceful Polish woman. Technically a forced labourer, she had seen what the Soviets did when they invaded her country. Her husband and son had both been killed by the Reds, not the Germans, so she had opted to stay with the Walmsdorfs rather than face the Red Army. He trusted Jasha to land on her feet. Charlotte, on the other hand, was not only his cousin she was clearly in a sorry state. He could not understand why she wouldn’t leave Berlin to come to his mother’s estate in Altdorf, which was doing comparatively well. Then it struck him. “You’re staying here because of Fritz, aren’t you? You think this is where he will show up if, by some miracle, he is still alive.” 

To his surprise, Charlotte shook her head, gazing into the distance. “No, he’d go to Walmsdorf.”

“But the villagers will say you’re in Berlin.”

“Yes, but they didn’t know about this house. It’s Feldburg property. He’d never be able to find it.”

“But you’re registered with the police. If he made inquiries, he’d find the address.”

“Since we never married, the police would not release the information to him.”

Convinced she was telling the truth, Christian tried again to convince her to leave. “Charlotte, things are much better in Altdorf. Agriculture is the one sector that is thriving despite the currency situation. We had seed and livestock, all we needed was labour, and I’m not the only able-bodied male who’s returned from internment over the last two years. The Amis pay well for fresh farm produce, and our wine is already turning a good profit on a small scale. As soon as we develop a steady market for it and expand production more, we’ll have a good business. Mother could use your help, and you’d get good food, fresh air, and exercise — it’s the life you grew up with.” He reminded her. His memories of Charlotte centred around visits to her father’s estate during summer holidays from school. They were memories of riding, hunting, swimming in the shallow lakes, and helping with the hay harvest. But she was shaking her head firmly. “Why not? What’s keeping you here?” Christian wanted to know.

“Nothing’s keeping me here,” Charlotte told him in a strained voice, not meeting his eyes. “It’s just that I can’t leave.” She paused and then gasped out: “I can’t travel through the Zone.” 

“Why not? I just did it.” Christian reminded her. “The Soviets can be bastards, but if your papers are in order and we travel together --” 

Charlotte was shaking her head, and gasped out, “I can’t!” 

To his horror, Christian realised she was trembling. He jumped up and went around the table to put his arms around her. Her whole body was quivering as if she had a violent chill. “Charlotte, it’s all right. Calm down. I won’t force you to do anything.” 

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, her eyes closed and her cheeks wet. “Please stay with me, Christian. At least a little while. Please.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” he assured her, holding her firmly. Never in his wildest dreams had he thought things would be this bad.