Cold Peace

She saw her visitor look up at the naked bulb in the doorway and then look left into the salon.

“I’m sorry,” Charlotte apologized at once. “The glass fell out in an air raid, and we have no money to replace it.” Mrs Priestman stepped deeper into the hall to peer more intently at the salon. Charlotte knew what she was seeing: the parquet floors were relatively intact, while remnants of the ceiling mouldings suggested how elegant this room had once been. Yet the only furniture was a packing crate that served as a makeshift table, a couple of stools and a heavy Biedermeier buffet with a marble top and a mirror beyond the sliding doors that separated the salon from the dining area. “I’m afraid all the furnishings were taken by the refugees,” Charlotte tried to explain.

Mrs Priestman turned to look at her uncomprehending.

“Toward the end of the war, the tenant in this flat was arrested by the Gestapo. When the people billeted on the first floor heard about his arrest, they rushed up here to take whatever they could carry. They were all bombed out, you see. That buffet, my bed and a couple of other objects were too heavy and bulky for them, but they took almost everything else.”

“But what about your own things?” Mrs Priestman asked still confused.

Charlotte shrugged. “My home was in Mecklenburg but as the Red Army approached we heard what they were doing to German civilians. My father decided we had to flee.” She could not meet Mrs Priestman’s eyes as she explained, and she spoke as fast as she could. “It was winter and there was a lot of snow. We couldn’t risk over-burdening the horses, so we took very little with us — just clothes and food. The rest,” she shrugged. “The Soviets have it now.”

“And this flat?” Mrs Priestman asked looking around again. “It doesn’t belong to you?”

“Oh, no!” Charlotte shook her head vigorously. “Please come into the kitchen. It is warmer there. I can put the kettle on for tea.”

“Yes, of course,” Mrs Priestman smiled apologetically.

Charlotte led the way into the kitchen which felt warm after the salon. She pulled out one of the straight-backed wooden chairs and indicated Mrs Priestman should take a seat, which she did, while Charlotte put the kettle on the stove, lit the gas, and then placed plates, saucers and cups on the table. None of it matched, of course, but she was careful to give Mrs Priestman an intact cup, not one of the ones glued back together again. They always leaked a little. She found two teaspoons which were not badly bent and two napkins. These at least were linen, clean and ironed. 

“Are you renting this flat?” Mrs Priestman returned to the discussion.

“No, not really. My aunt Sophia married a wealthy man, Ferdinand Freiherr von Feldburg. When he was elected to the Reichstag in 1924, he bought this apartment house and moved into the first-floor flat — where all the bombed-out people live now. It goes all the way around the courtyard. My uncle died before the war, but his eldest son, my cousin Philip, inherited the house and he too rented out everything but the first-floor flat. Philip was a General Staff officer; when he was not on the front, he lived there. However, he was directly involved in the coup attempt against Hitler, and shot himself on the night of 20 July 1944—”

“In this house?” Mrs Priestman gasped.

“Yes, downstairs, in the family flat,” Charlotte assured her, pointing toward the floor. “After that, the SD took over the flat, but as the end neared, they stole everything in it and disappeared. Refugees fleeing the Red Army like me were moved in instead. That was the situation when I —” she stumbled a little “— arrived here. Although I had only visited a couple of times in my life, the concierge recognized me and let me and the two servants who were with me live in the old coachmen’s rooms over the stables in the second courtyard. Horst slept in the stalls with the horses at first, until this flat became free. That was when I moved in -- after the others had taken most of the furnishings.” 

“Why was the man who lived here arrested?” Mrs Priestman asked.

Charlotte shrugged. “I don’t know. At the end of the war, people were arrested for almost anything or nothing. Just for telling a joke or saying something like ‘too bad Stauffenberg failed’ or for reporting the advances of the Red or American Army.”

“Didn’t you say your father and mother had left your home with you?”

“Yes. They were killed by a strafing Soviet fighter during the journey,” Charlotte stated matter-of-factly. 

Mrs Priestman caught her breath. “I’m so sorry! I shouldn’t have asked. I’m sorry.” She seemed so sincerely distressed, that Charlotte started to like her. 

“Don’t worry. It is better you know. My parents and two servants were killed. Three of us survived; Horst the coachman, Jasha our Polish cook and me — or is that I?” She asked, suddenly unsure of her English.

“What about other family members? Sisters and brothers…” Mrs Priestman focused on what had happened, not how she said it, which Charlotte liked.

“I was the only girl in my family. Both my brothers were killed in the war, but my cousin Christian, Philip’s younger brother, arrived here just two weeks ago.” Charlotte made no effort to disguise how relieved and delighted she felt. “He is trying to start up a wine business, selling wine from his family estate in Franken. He has been helping me with everything.”

The kettle started to whimper, and Charlotte turned to take it off the heat and pour the steaming water over the tea leaves in her teapot. Even with her back turned, she sensed that Mrs Priestman was looking around the kitchen, no doubt noticing that some of the cupboards no longer closed properly, or that the countertop was gouged and stained as if she didn’t clean it properly. Charlotte felt ashamed. 

As she set the teapot down on the table, Mrs Priestman considered her from intelligent, observant eyes. Embarrassed, Charlotte ran her hand through her short-cropped hair, aware of what a ragamuffin she had become. She turned to withdraw a creamer already filled with milk from the refrigerator and set it on the table. “I am out of sugar, I’m afraid.”