Echoes Read online

  “I wish you didn't have to go back to the war,” Beata said sadly, as she chatted with Ulm while they continued walking. The others had turned back, and now she and Ulm were far ahead of them, instead of straggling behind.

  “I hate to go back too, but I think it will be over soon.” He smiled at her reassuringly. He didn't believe that, but it was the sort of thing one said to women. Or at least he did. “I should be able to get leave again at Christmas.” She nodded, thinking that it seemed a lifetime away, and unable to bear the thought of how awful it would be if something happened to him. More than she ever told him, she adored him. She loved Horst too, but he seemed more like a silly younger brother than an older one. He loved to tease her, and he always made her laugh. What she and Ulm shared was different. They continued to chat pleasantly all the way back to the hotel, and that night they shared a final dinner before the boys left the next day. As always, Horst amused them endlessly with his imitations of everyone they'd met, and his outrageous stories about their friends.

  All three of the men left the next day, and the three women stayed for the last three weeks of their holiday in Geneva. Jacob wanted them to stay in Switzerland as long as possible, although Brigitte was beginning to get bored. But Beata and her mother were perfectly content to be there. Brigitte and her mother went shopping one afternoon, and Beata said she would stay at the hotel, as she had a headache. In truth, she didn't, but she found it tiresome shopping with them. Brigitte always tried on everything in the shops, ordered dresses, hats, and shoes. Impressed by her good taste and keen fashion sense, their mother always indulged her. And after they exhausted the dressmakers and cobblers and milliners and the shops that made exquisite gloves, they would make the rounds of the jewelers. Beata knew they wouldn't be home until dinner, and she was content to sit in the sun, reading in the garden on her own.

  After lunch, she went down to the lake and walked along the same path they had taken every day since they'd been there. It was a trifle cooler than the day before, and she was wearing a white silk dress, a hat to shield her from the sun, and a pale blue shawl the color of her eyes, draped over her shoulders. She was humming to herself as she strolled along. Most of the hotel guests were at lunch, or in town, and she had the path to herself, as she walked with her head down, thinking about her brothers. She heard a sound behind her suddenly, looked up, and was startled when she saw a tall young man who walked briskly past her on the path, and smiled as he did so. He was heading in the same direction, and she was so surprised as he brushed by her that she took a rapid step to the side, stumbled, and turned her ankle. It smarted for a minute but didn't seem serious, as he quickly reached a hand out and caught her before she fell.

  “I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to frighten you, and certainly didn't mean to knock you over.” He looked instantly apologetic and concerned, and Beata noted that he was astonishingly handsome. Tall, fair, with eyes the color of her own, and long powerful arms and athletic shoulders. He kept a firm grasp on her arm as he spoke to her. She realized her hat was slightly askew from their encounter. She straightened it, while secretly glancing at him. He looked a little bit older than her older brother. He was wearing white slacks and a dark blue blazer, a navy tie, and a very good-looking straw hat that made him look somewhat rakish.

  “Thank you, I'm fine. It was silly of me. I didn't hear you in time to get out of your way.”

  “Or see me, until I nearly knocked you down. I'm afraid it was a deplorable performance on my part. Are you all right? How's your ankle?” He looked sympathetic and kind.

  “It's fine. You caught me before I did any real damage to it.” He had spoken to her in French, and she responded in the same language. She had learned French at school and polished it diligently since then. Her father had also insisted that they learn English, and he thought they should speak Italian and Spanish as well. Beata had studied both but never really perfected either. Her English was passable, but her French was fluent.

  “Would you like to sit down for a moment?” He pointed to a bench near them, with a peaceful view of the lake, and he seemed reluctant to let go of her arm. He acted as though he was afraid she would fall over if he let go of his firm grip on her, and she smiled at him.

  “Really, I'm fine.” But the prospect of sitting next to him for a moment appealed to her. It wasn't the sort of thing she normally did, in fact she had never done anything like it, but he was so pleasant and polite and seemed so remorseful over their near-accident that she felt sorry for him. And it appeared harmless to sit and chat with him for a minute before continuing her walk. She had nothing to rush back to the hotel for, she knew that her mother and sister would be gone for hours. She let him lead her to the bench, and he sat down beside her with a respectful distance between them.

  “Are you truly all right?” He looked down at her ankle, peering just beneath the hem of her skirt, and was relieved to see that it didn't appear to be swollen.

  “I promise.” She smiled at him.

  “I meant to just slip past you and not disturb you. I should have said something or warned you. I was a million miles away, thinking about this damnable war, it's such an awful thing.” He looked troubled as he said it, and sat back against the bench as she watched him. She had never met anyone even remotely like him. He looked like a handsome prince in a fairy tale, and he was remarkably friendly. There seemed to be no airs or pretensions about him. He looked like one of Ulm's friends, although he was far better looking.

  “You're not Swiss then?” she asked with interest.

  “I'm French,” he said simply, and as he said it, she frowned and said nothing. “Is that awful? My grandfather is Swiss actually, my mother's father. That's why I'm here. He died two weeks ago, and I had to come and help settle the estate with my brother and parents. They gave me a leave to do it.” He was remarkably easy and open, without being presumptuous or inappropriately familiar. He seemed very well-bred and aristocratic, and extremely polite.

  “No, it's not awful at all,” she answered honestly, as her eyes looked directly into his. “I'm German.” She half-expected him to leap from the bench and tell her he hated Germans. They were enemies in the war after all, and she had no idea how he would react to her confession.

  “Do you expect me to blame you for the war?” he asked gently, smiling at her. She was a young girl, and incredibly pretty. He thought her truly beautiful, and as he spoke to her, he was touched by her apologetic expression. She seemed like a remarkable young woman, and he was suddenly glad he had nearly knocked her over. “Did you do this? Is this dreadful war your fault, mademoiselle? Should I be angry at you?” he teased her, and she laughed along with him.

  “I hope not,” she said, smiling. “Are you in the army?” she inquired. He had mentioned being on leave.

  “In the cavalry. I attended the equestrian academy called Saumur.” Beata knew it was where all the aristocrats became officers of the cavalry, which was a most prestigious unit.

  “That must be interesting.” She liked horses and had ridden a lot as a young girl. She loved riding with her brothers, particularly Ulm. Horst always went wild and drove his horses into a frenzy, which in turn spooked hers. “My brothers are in the army, too.”

  He looked at her pensively for a long moment, lost in her blue eyes, which were darker than his own. He had never seen hair as dark contrasted by skin as white. She looked like a painting sitting there on the bench. “Wouldn't it be nice if troubles between nations could be resolved as simply as this, two people sitting on a bench on a summer afternoon, looking out at a lake. We could talk things out, and agree, instead of the way things are, with young men dying on battlefields.” What he said made her knit her brows again, he had reminded her of how vulnerable her brothers were.

  “It would be nice. My older brother thinks it will be over soon.”

  “I wish I could agree,” he said politely. “I fear that once you put weapons in men's hands, they don't let go of them easily. I think this could
go on for years.”

  “I hope you're wrong,” she said quietly.

  “So do I,” and then he looked embarrassed again. “I've been incredibly rude. I am Antoine de Vallerand.” He stood up, bowed, and sat down again. And she smiled as he did.

  “I am Beata Wittgenstein.” She pronounced the W like a V.

  “How is it that you speak such perfect French?” he asked. “Your French is almost flawless, without any accent. In fact, you sound Parisian.” He would never have guessed she was German. He was fascinated by her, and it never occurred to him, even once he heard her name, that she was Jewish. Unlike most people of his ilk and milieu, it made no difference to him. He never gave it a thought. All he saw in her was a beautiful intelligent young woman.

  “I learned French in school.” She smiled at him.

  “No, you didn't, or if you did, you are far more clever than I. I learned English in school, or so they say, and I can't speak a word. And my German is absolutely terrible. I don't have your gift. Most French people don't. We speak French and not much else. We assume the whole world will learn French so they can speak to us, and how fortunate that you did. Do you speak English, too?” He somehow suspected that she did. Although they didn't know each other, and he could tell that she was shy, she looked extremely bright and surprisingly at ease. She was amazed herself by how comfortable she was with him. Even though he was a stranger, she felt safe with him.

  “I speak English,” she admitted, “though not as well as French.”

  “Do you go to school?” She looked young to him. He was thirty-two, twelve years older than she.

  “No. Not anymore. I finished,” she answered shyly. “But I read a great deal. I would have liked to go to university, but my father wouldn't let me.”

  “Why not?” he asked, and then caught himself with a smile. “He thinks you should get married and have babies. You don't need to go to university. Am I correct?”

  “Yes, completely.” She beamed at him.

  “And you don't want to get married?” He was beginning to remind her more and more of Ulm. She felt as though she and Antoine were old friends, and he seemed to feel equally at ease with her. She felt able to be completely honest with him, which was rare for her. She was usually extremely shy with men.

  “I don't want to get married unless I fall in love with someone,” she said simply, and he nodded.

  “That sounds sensible. Do your parents agree with that idea?”

  “I'm not sure. Their marriage was arranged for them, and they think that's a good thing. They want my brothers to get married, too.”

  “How old are your brothers?”

  “Twenty-three and twenty-seven. One of them is quite serious, and the other just wants to have fun, and is a bit wild.” She smiled cautiously at Antoine.

  “Sounds like my brother and I.”

  “How old is he?”

  “Five years younger. He is twenty-seven, like your older brother, and I am a very old man of thirty-two. They've given up hope for me.” And until that moment, so had he.

  “Which one are you?”

  “Which one?” He looked blank for a moment and then understood. “Ah yes, he's the wild one. I'm the boring one.” And then he caught himself. “Sorry, I didn't mean to suggest that your older brother is boring. Just serious, I imagine. I've always been the responsible one, my brother just isn't. He's too busy having fun to even think about being responsible. Maybe he's right. I'm much quieter than he is.”

  “And you're not married?” she asked with interest. It was the oddest chance meeting. They were asking each other things they would never have dared to inquire about in a ballroom or a drawing room, or at a dinner party. But here, sitting on a bench, looking out at the lake, it seemed perfectly all right to ask him anything she wanted. She was curious about him. There was a lovely, decent feeling about him, in spite of his striking good looks. For all she knew, he was the rakish one and he was lying to her, but it didn't seem that way. She believed everything he said, and had the feeling he felt the same way about her.

  “No, I'm not married,” he said with a look of amusement. “I've thought about it once or twice, but I never felt it was the right thing, in spite of a great deal of pressure from my family. Oldest son and all that. I don't want to make a mistake and marry the wrong woman. I'd rather be alone, so I am.”

  “I agree.” She nodded, looking surprisingly determined. At times, she seemed almost childlike to him, and at other times, as she spoke to him, he could see that she had very definite ideas, like about marriage and going to university.

  “What would you have studied, if they'd let you go to university?” he asked with interest, and she looked dreamy as she thought about it.

  “Philosophy. The ancient Greeks, I think. Religion perhaps, or the philosophy of religion. I read the Bible once from beginning to end.” He looked impressed. She was obviously a brilliant girl, as well as being beautiful, and so very easy to talk to.

  “And what did you think? I can't say I've read it, except in snips and bits, and mostly at weddings and funerals. I seem to spend most of my time on horses, and helping my father run our property. I have a lifelong romance with the earth.” It was hard to convey to her how much his land and his own turf meant to him. It had been bred into him.

  “I think a lot of men do,” Beata said quietly. “Where is your family's property?” She was enjoying talking to him and didn't want it to end.

  “It's in Dordogne. Horse country. It's near Périgord, near Bordeaux, if that means anything.” His eyes lit up just speaking of it, and she could see what it meant to him.

  “I've never been there, but it must be beautiful if you love it so much.”

  “It is,” he assured her. “And where do you live in Germany?”

  “Cologne.”

  “I've been there,” he said, looking pleased. “I like Bavaria very much, too. And I've had some lovely times in Berlin.”

  “That's where my brother Horst wants to live, in Berlin. He can't, of course. He has to go to work for my father after the war, he thinks it's horrible, but he doesn't have any choice. My grandfather and my father and his brothers, and my brother Ulm all work there. It's a bank. I suppose it isn't much fun, but they all seem to like it well enough. I think it would be interesting,” she said, and he smiled at her. She was full of bright intelligent ideas, and interest in the world. Antoine was certain, looking at her, and listening to her, that if she had gone to university, or been able to work at the bank, she would have done well. He was still impressed that she had read the Bible as a young girl.

  “What do you like to do?” he asked with interest.

  “I love to read,” she said simply, “and to learn about things. I'd love to be a writer one day, but of course I can't do that either.” No man she would marry would tolerate her doing something like that, she would have to take care of him and their children.

  “Maybe you will one day. I suppose it all depends on who you marry, or if you do. Do you have sisters as well, or only brothers?”

  “I have a younger sister, Brigitte, she's seventeen. She loves going to parties, and dancing and dressing up, she can hardly wait to get married. She always tells me how boring I am,” Beata said with an impish grin, which made him want to reach out and hug her, even though they hadn't been properly introduced. He was suddenly so pleased that he had nearly knocked her down. It was beginning to seem like a stroke of good fortune that he had, and he had the feeling that Beata thought so, too.

  “My brother thinks I'm very boring. But I must tell you, I find you anything but boring, Beata. I love talking to you.”

  “I like talking to you.” She smiled shyly at him, wondering if she should go back to the hotel. They had been sitting on the bench together by then for quite a long time. Perhaps longer than they should. They sat in silence for a long moment, admiring the lake, and then he turned to her again.

  “Would you like me to walk you back to the hotel? Your family mi
ght be worried about you.”

  “My mother took my sister shopping. I don't think they'll be back till dinnertime, but perhaps I should go back,” she said responsibly, although she hated to leave.

  They both stood up reluctantly, and he inquired how her ankle felt. He was pleased to hear that it didn't bother her, and he offered her his arm, as they walked slowly back toward the hotel. She tucked her hand into his arm, and they chatted as they strolled, talking about a variety of things. They both agreed that they hated parties generally but loved to dance. He was pleased to hear that she liked horses and had ridden to hounds. They both liked boats and had a passion for the sea. She said she never got seasick, which he found hard to believe. But she confessed that she was afraid of dogs, since she'd been bitten as a small child. And they both agreed that they loved Italy, although he said that he was extremely fond of Germany, too, which wasn't something he could admit openly at the moment. The war, and the fact that their respective countries were currently enemies, seemed of no importance to either of them as they got to know each other. Antoine looked seriously disappointed as they got back to the hotel. He hated leaving her, although he had plans to meet his family for dinner. He would have liked to spend many more hours with her and was clearly lingering, as they stood in front of the hotel, looking at each other.

  “Would you like to have tea?” he suggested, and her eyes lit up at the idea.

  “That would be very nice, thank you.” He led her to the terrace where they were serving tea, and elegant women were sitting together and chatting, or prosperous-looking couples were eating little sandwiches and speaking in hushed tones in French, German, Italian, and English.

  They shared a very proper high tea, and finally, unable to drag it out any longer, he walked her into the lobby, and stood looking down at her. She seemed tiny and appeared fragile to him, but in fact after hours of talking to her, he knew that she was spirited and more than capable of defending her ideas. She had strong opinions about many things, and so far he agreed with most of them. And the ones he didn't agree with amused him. There was nothing boring about her. He found her incredibly exciting and breathtakingly beautiful. All he knew was that he had to see her again.