Eva Ibbotson - The Star of Kazan

She was interrupted by a knock at the door and a hotel page announced that there was a young lady to see her.

‘Did she give her name?’

‘No, madam. She’s very young; just a child. Shall I send her up.’

‘Yes, you had better do that.’

Annika had been awake the whole night. The professors’ accusations went round and round in her head, and every time she pushed them away they came back again.

The professors were lying; they had to be. They may not have meant to lie but they had lied just the same. It was not possible that her mother was a thief. If she was guilty, she had not only stolen the trunk but blamed Zed for the theft — and that was impossible.

Annika remembered the joy of that first meal in the Hotel Bristol, the excitement and pride of finding that she belonged to such a beautiful woman. The hope with which she had travelled to Spittal…

Perhaps Uncle Oswald had done it? He was always doing things for her mother; yes, it could be that. And her mother hadn’t known till it was over.

Oh God, she had to believe that her mother was good. How did people live if they thought their mother was dishonest?

As soon as it was light Annika had got dressed and crept out of the house. She had to see her mother at once and she had to see her alone and find out the truth. Nothing mattered except that.

The journey to the Riverside Hotel was long and wearisome: the tram to the terminus, then the little train which steamed along the Danube, and a dusty walk from the station to the hotel.

But as she came up to the front entrance with its flowering trees and its awnings and verandas, her mood lifted. This was a place for summer and happiness, not for lies and intrigue. In ten minutes, in five, the nightmare would be over.

Her mother would put her arms round her and tell her the truth. And the truth would set her free!

‘Come in,’ called Edeltraut. She sprayed herself with scent once more and shook out her hair so that it mantled her shoulders. Then, her brush still in her hand, she rose quickly and went to the door.

‘Annika, my dearest child! My own darling! What is it — you look so pale?’

Annika had not come forward. She was still standing, very straight, her back against the door.

‘What has upset you so, my child? What have they been telling you to make you look like that?

‘They told me that it was you who stole La Rondine’s trunk,’ Annika said steadily. ‘You and Uncle Oswald — because the jewels in it were real.’

Her mother’s hand went to her throat.

‘How dare they? How dare they tell you such dreadful lies! No wonder you look so upset.’

‘Zed came — he’s in Vienna. He heard the story from Baron von Keppel and—’

‘Zed! Zed is in Vienna?’

‘Yes.’

For a moment there was complete silence. Annika had not moved from the door, nor had her eyes left her mother’s face. When she spoke again her voice was very low, but each word was absolutely clear.

‘Could you please tell me the truth,’ said Annika. ‘Just the truth, Mama. Nothing else.’

Edeltraut had slipped off her peignoir; in her coral silk dress, her wonderful hair mantling her shoulders, she was dazzling. Her scent was different; not strange and exotic but light and summery. Beautiful people always surprise one afresh, but Annika stood her ground.

‘Please, Mama.’

Then something extraordinary happened. The tall proud woman in her silken dress seemed suddenly to crumple. She took a few faltering steps — and then she dropped on to her knees in front of Annika.

‘You shall have the truth,’ she said brokenly. ‘Yes, I did it. I made Oswald fetch the trunk — it was addressed to me, remember? I took the jewels and took them to Switzerland. But before you call the police, would you try to understand? Not to forgive, that would be asking too much, but to understand.’

‘I shan’t call the police,’ said Annika. ‘Not ever. You’re my mother. But I’d certainly like to understand.’

‘Of course, of course…’ Edeltraut rose from her knees and fell back into a low chair. She stretched her hands out to her daughter, trying to conceal the relief she felt. Annika took them, but her eyes were still fixed steadily on Edeltraut’s face.

‘If you could try to imagine,’ said Edeltraut, ‘I was only twenty when I married — far too young to be a judge of character — and when I realized that my husband was a compulsive gambler I was very much afraid. There was no one to turn to, no one to help me. Week by week, month by month, I saw the house stripped of all its treasures; the paintings, the books, my own jewels, and my sister’s. Well, you know all that — but remember, my darling, I was a von Tannenberg. We’re a proud family. The shame of being beggars… of people turning their faces away when they met me — people I’d known all my life… oh, it was dreadful!

‘Then my husband fled to America and I was quite alone at Spittal, with a young son to care for. I didn’t know what to do; I saw Spittal becoming a ruin… and there have always been von Tannenbergs at Spittal. And then my father died and I had an idea, which lifted my spirits; no, more than that — it made me wonderfully happy. Can you guess what it was?’

Annika shook her head.

‘I would find my little daughter, the one I had been forced to abandon when she was only a few days old. And suddenly life seemed to have a meaning and a purpose once again.’

Edeltraut had soaked a handkerchief. She crumpled it into a ball and picked up another.

But still Annika did not speak.

‘It was hard to find you. I went to Pettelsdorf and there I learned that you’d been adopted and taken to Vienna, and then I tramped the streets, trying to find out where you were. I found a lawyer, a famous man — Herr Pumpelmann-Schlissinger — and he helped me… and then at last I found you. Oh, Annika, when you came in through that door in the professors’ house and I saw you there before me with your father’s eyes and hair and that look of trust… I think it was my first happy day for many years.’

‘Yes. I was happy too,’ said Annika quietly.

‘But of course I was worried about bringing you to Spittal. We were living… well, like peasants, with no money at all.’

No, Annika wanted to say. Peasants don’t live like that. They cook and clean and chop wood and make do — but she did not speak.

Edeltraut got up and walked to the window.

‘But you see, Annika, the lawyer had found out something else about you. An old lady who lived in the square had left you a trunk full of keepsakes; the will was still being proved and you knew nothing about it. Then, when I went back to Spittal to get ready for your arrival, my uncle told me the story about La Rondine’s jewels and that they were real but nobody knew it.

‘Of course I should have told you — but I didn’t know if the story was true; the jewels might have been fakes, as everyone believed. And I had this dream, Annika — the dream of making Spittal great again and you and Hermann living there in comfort. I have made a will, you know, leaving you a share of Spittal. Not just Hermann, you. Oh, Annika, I have been so very foolish.’

‘I would have given you the jewels for Spittal. I would have given you everything I had,’ said Annika quietly.

‘I know — oh, I know now, my darling. But remember, I hardly knew you then. I could see that you were sweet and pretty, but a little girl can have her head turned by sudden wealth. I should have trusted my own daughter — my own flesh and blood — but I had been hurt so much.’

Annika was very tired. Something seemed not to fit, but she was too weary to work it out.

And Edeltraut’s eyes had filled with tears again. She put a hand on Annika’s shoulder. ‘We could start a new life together, you and I. We could make my dream for Spittal come true together. There is a lot of money left, and you shall decide how it is spent. Without Hermann I am so very much alone. Say it isn’t too late. Say you’ll come, my darling. I need you so very much.’