Сэм Истлэнд - The Elegant Lie

They were shown to their table by a waiter in a short, white tunic who spoke only one word◦– champagne◦– in a way that seemed less like a question and more like a guarantee.

The dining car quickly filled up, mostly with couples, most of them older, and all of them, it seemed to Carter, well accustomed to the wealth of their surroundings. But they seemed happy and intent only on themselves and, for the first time since they had boarded the train, Carter felt the muscles in his shoulders begin to relax. He glanced up at Teresa.

There was a softness in her face and in her eyes which he had never seen before. ‘You look very pretty,’ he said, and he wondered where the hell those words had just come from.

‘I’m glad you think so,’ she told him. ‘We are married, after all.’

‘I didn’t say it because of that,’ he muttered hoarsely, as if his lungs were filled with smoke. ‘I actually meant it.’

‘Well, I’m still glad,’ she replied.

He picked up the heavy silver cutlery and weighed it in his hands. ‘I don’t know if I could ever get used to this.’

‘And you think I could?’ she asked.

‘Yes, actually, with all the caviar your father must have heaped upon your plate.’

She shrugged and shook her head. ‘I never saw it. He made sure of that. He never much cared for it himself. His tastes were always simpler than those of the people with whom he was dealing.’

‘Well, for a man with simple tastes,’ said Carter, ‘he can cook one hell of an omelette.’

‘He would be pleased to hear you say so.’

‘Where did he learn to do that?’ asked Carter.

‘He was a chef,’ she replied, ‘and the people for whom he cooked had tastes even simpler than his.’

‘How does a man go from that place to where he is now?’

‘Why don’t you ask him yourself?’

‘He isn’t here.’

‘There’s no short answer.’

‘We have plenty of time.’

‘We do not speak of this,’ she told him, her voice almost lost amidst the clatter of wheels on the tracks.

‘I know.’

‘So why are you asking me now?’

‘Because if I don’t ask now, the time will never come again, and then we will always be strangers.’

‘And that matters to you?’ she asked.

‘I wish it didn’t,’ he said, ‘but I can’t help that now.’

She sighed and took up her purse, which was lying on the table beside her. It was black, rectangular and closed with two gold prongs that locked together with a twist. She opened the purse and removed a small, creased photograph, about two inches square, but she kept it hidden in her palm. ‘Did it ever occur to you,’ she asked, ‘that afterwards you might wish you’d never known?’

‘All the time.’

‘And still you ask me.’

‘Yes.’

She handed him the photograph. ‘When you figure out that it’s too late to undo what’s been done, just remember I gave you the chance.’

Carter took the crumpled piece of paper and laid it on the table. It showed two men standing side by side on some kind of stone balcony, with snow-capped mountains in the distance. In front of them stood a girl in a dark skirt and white shirt with a thin scarf hanging down her chest. She was holding a bouquet of flowers. He recognised both men immediately. One of them was Dasch. He wore a white apron and what looked like grey checked trousers. In his hands, he clutched the tall white hat of a chef. He was smiling, but he looked afraid. The other man was Adolf Hitler, in a double-breasted jacket and black trousers. His face looked calm and serious. One hand rested on the shoulder of the girl. It took Carter another moment to grasp that this was Teresa. She looked so young, he barely recognised her. He looked up and caught Teresa’s eye. ‘When was this taken?’ he asked.

‘About 1936,’ she replied. ‘I must have been about twelve years old. My father cooked for Hitler and for those with whom he dined. That was his job. His only job. Hitler had a very specific and unusual diet. For breakfast, only milk and toast or little cakes. For lunch, only vegetables. For dinner, vegetables and rice or pasta. No alcohol. No tobacco. No coffee. Of course, even when these things became scarce, he could have had whatever he wanted. He also ate at odd hours. Breakfast at 1 a.m. Lunch at 4 p.m. Dinner whenever it pleased him. From the day he was hired in 1935, my father travelled with him everywhere. And in January 1945, when Hitler went down into his bunker in Berlin, my father went with him, while my mother and I lived in a house nearby. A few months later, Hitler died in that bunker but, long before then, my father had reached the conclusion that anyone who remained with him would end up dead as well.

‘By the beginning of April, the Russians had begun shelling the city with their long-range artillery and air raids struck night and day. One morning, just after the all-clear sirens had sounded, my father showed up at the door of our house. He was wearing clothes I’d never seen before. He told my mother she had fifteen minutes to pack a bag and then we would be leaving. When she asked him where they would be going, he told her, “Anywhere but here.” She asked where his clothes had come from and he told her he had pulled them off a dead man who had been caught outside in the air raid of the previous night. He had dressed the man in his own clothes and thrown him into a house that was on fire. Because he was a part of Hitler’s private staff, my father had a special pass that allowed him to travel anywhere he wanted and by whatever means were available. By the end of that day, we were already far to the west. We were somewhere near Hanover when our train was attacked from the air. Royal Air Force planes fired rockets into the locomotive and shot bullets along the length of the carriages. The rear of the train exploded. It must have been carrying munitions. The whole train left the tracks and fell on its side. I remember seeing the ground rise up to meet us and the windows shattering. The next thing I knew, I was lying out in a field with my father standing over me. His jacket was smouldering. My hair had been burned. I could smell it. When I sat up, I could see that the whole train was on fire. A few people were walking around in the field, some of them terribly injured. My mother never made it out of the train.’

‘I’m sorry,’ said Carter.

‘People always say that,’ replied Teresa, ‘and what they really mean is that they’re sorry they asked. So are you sorry you asked, Mr Carter?’

‘No,’ he told her. ‘Keep going.’

‘When the fire died down,’ she continued, ‘my father went back into the wreckage of the train, found her body and carried her out, wrapped in a blanket. We buried her in the field. Until yesterday, I’d never known he took the ring from her finger. At the end of that day, trucks from a passing army convoy stopped and told us we could climb aboard. By then, my father had stolen the identity cards of a man who had died of his wounds. His name was Hanno Dasch. My own passbook had already been lost, but nobody cared as long as he had his.’

‘So what is his real name? And yours?’

‘None of that matters,’ she said. ‘Those people are dead now, and we should let them stay that way.’

‘And who else knows about this?’ asked Carter.

‘No one,’ she said. ‘Aside from my father, only you.’

‘Not even Ritter? I wouldn’t think he’d object to what your father used to do.’

‘It’s not the job he’d mind. It’s the fact that my father deserted. A man like Ritter sees the world in black and white. Each German soldier took an oath of loyalty, and for Ritter such things become a part of you, as real as the bones beneath your skin. It cannot be removed. It cannot be undone.’