Maybe there was something about her he didn’t want to be reminded of.
Yet, Clara reflected, that distance had existed even before their mother died. Her mind went back to a summer holiday in Cornwall, where her paternal grandparents owned a handsome Queen Anne manor house a mile from the sea. They were all on the beach, Clara reading, and Angela lying prone on a picnic rug, trying to improve her tan. A golden skin had become all the rage since Coco Chanel declared it fashionable, and Angela had equipped herself with a bottle of Elizabeth Arden’s Sun Oil in Honey, which caused a layer of gritty sand to stick uncomfortably to her limbs. The longer she spent in the sun, the more her skin glowed strawberry red. Kenneth was the same, though he didn’t care, but Clara turned as brown as a nut after a single morning by the sea’s edge. ‘It’s not fair, Daddy,’ moaned Angela. ‘Why do Clara and Mummy get a tan but never us?’ Clara, looking round curiously for the answer, found her father’s patrician face regarding her speculatively, as if she was entirely unrelated to him. ‘It’s in the blood,’ he said, enigmatically. As though her veins, more than her siblings’, carried some exotic mystery.
After their mother died, the family fell to bits. Outwardly they held together, but they avoided confrontations and wherever possible led separate lives. Kenneth got a job in the city and Angela tried her hand as a fashion mannequin, gathering cupboards full of expensive clothes in the process. Though their mother’s photograph remained on the top of the Bösendorfer piano, they rarely spoke of her. Frequently Clara had trouble even remembering properly what she looked like. Being here now, in the country where her mother grew up, speaking her language, Clara felt closer to her than she had since the day she died. After all, her mother too had left her home for a foreign country. Hellene Vine had been twenty-two when she arrived in England, four years younger than Clara was now. She was Hellene Neumann then, a pianist with the Hamburg City Orchestra. Ronald Vine, a rising politician, had seen her playing Brahms’ Piano Concerto No. 2 in B flat major and fell instantly in love. After they had married, Hellene had barely seen her German family again. Grandfather Stephan and Grandmother Hannah had visited only twice in Clara’s childhood, and when they died, her mother had not even attended their funerals.
Clara guessed her grandparents disliked her father. It wouldn’t be a surprise; everyone else did. Daddy’s brusque and uncommunicative manner was famous for giving offence. As children the Vines had accepted the state of affairs unthinkingly, their maternal grandparents were little more than mythical figures in a distant land. But being in Berlin had brought all these questions to the forefront of Clara’s mind. Perhaps that was why she had written the letter, which rested addressed and ready for posting on the bookshelf. It might be that Hans Neumann, the cousin she had never met, would be able to explain.
Chapter Six
The Kaiserhof Hotel in Wilhelmplatz, opposite the heavy grandeur of the Chancellery, was a hulking, six-storeyed building, the colour of dirty snow. The portico was decked with scarlet begonias as precisely ranked as a division of storm troopers, and from the upper floors a line of red and black banners billowed, proclaiming the Kaiserhof’s status as the favourite hotel of the Nazi top brass. Inside there was a dull stolidity to the marbled staircase, the mahogany and chandeliers, that suggested the respectability of less exciting times. The air was tinged with the smell of kitchens and cleaning fluid.
They found a table in the lobby and Helga took off her coat to reveal a floaty blue silk dress with a bow at the neck and a stole of champagne fur. The dress was paper thin, and could have done with a good wash, but from a distance the impression was undeniably glamorous. She was visibly excited,
Yet, Clara reflected, that distance had existed even before their mother died. Her mind went back to a summer holiday in Cornwall, where her paternal grandparents owned a handsome Queen Anne manor house a mile from the sea. They were all on the beach, Clara reading, and Angela lying prone on a picnic rug, trying to improve her tan. A golden skin had become all the rage since Coco Chanel declared it fashionable, and Angela had equipped herself with a bottle of Elizabeth Arden’s Sun Oil in Honey, which caused a layer of gritty sand to stick uncomfortably to her limbs. The longer she spent in the sun, the more her skin glowed strawberry red. Kenneth was the same, though he didn’t care, but Clara turned as brown as a nut after a single morning by the sea’s edge. ‘It’s not fair, Daddy,’ moaned Angela. ‘Why do Clara and Mummy get a tan but never us?’ Clara, looking round curiously for the answer, found her father’s patrician face regarding her speculatively, as if she was entirely unrelated to him. ‘It’s in the blood,’ he said, enigmatically. As though her veins, more than her siblings’, carried some exotic mystery.
After their mother died, the family fell to bits. Outwardly they held together, but they avoided confrontations and wherever possible led separate lives. Kenneth got a job in the city and Angela tried her hand as a fashion mannequin, gathering cupboards full of expensive clothes in the process. Though their mother’s photograph remained on the top of the Bösendorfer piano, they rarely spoke of her. Frequently Clara had trouble even remembering properly what she looked like. Being here now, in the country where her mother grew up, speaking her language, Clara felt closer to her than she had since the day she died. After all, her mother too had left her home for a foreign country. Hellene Vine had been twenty-two when she arrived in England, four years younger than Clara was now. She was Hellene Neumann then, a pianist with the Hamburg City Orchestra. Ronald Vine, a rising politician, had seen her playing Brahms’ Piano Concerto No. 2 in B flat major and fell instantly in love. After they had married, Hellene had barely seen her German family again. Grandfather Stephan and Grandmother Hannah had visited only twice in Clara’s childhood, and when they died, her mother had not even attended their funerals.
Clara guessed her grandparents disliked her father. It wouldn’t be a surprise; everyone else did. Daddy’s brusque and uncommunicative manner was famous for giving offence. As children the Vines had accepted the state of affairs unthinkingly, their maternal grandparents were little more than mythical figures in a distant land. But being in Berlin had brought all these questions to the forefront of Clara’s mind. Perhaps that was why she had written the letter, which rested addressed and ready for posting on the bookshelf. It might be that Hans Neumann, the cousin she had never met, would be able to explain.
Chapter Six
The Kaiserhof Hotel in Wilhelmplatz, opposite the heavy grandeur of the Chancellery, was a hulking, six-storeyed building, the colour of dirty snow. The portico was decked with scarlet begonias as precisely ranked as a division of storm troopers, and from the upper floors a line of red and black banners billowed, proclaiming the Kaiserhof’s status as the favourite hotel of the Nazi top brass. Inside there was a dull stolidity to the marbled staircase, the mahogany and chandeliers, that suggested the respectability of less exciting times. The air was tinged with the smell of kitchens and cleaning fluid.
They found a table in the lobby and Helga took off her coat to reveal a floaty blue silk dress with a bow at the neck and a stole of champagne fur. The dress was paper thin, and could have done with a good wash, but from a distance the impression was undeniably glamorous. She was visibly excited,
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