The House by the Lake (9 page)

Wil stopped the car. “Would you like to stop here and have a proper look?” His voice was unexpectedly soft now.

Anna nodded. She focused on the garden for a moment longer before turning to look at the Schloss.

When she did turn to look at the palace, there was such a welling of something—love, perhaps—inside her that she felt paralyzed. There were so many hangovers from desperate times. Bullet holes dotted the building’s old walls, some of them opening up into deep gashes. Anna reassured herself that they could be fixed. But she couldn’t help feeling that seeing the Schloss in this state was akin to seeing one of her ancestor’s graves, crumbling beyond repair.

The windows were not boarded up, but many of them appeared to be covered in newspaper, and they seemed to reach from floor to ceiling all the way along the front of the building before the terrace.

Anna turned to face Wil. “Shall we?”

Wil nodded. He turned on the car engine and drove around to the main entrance on the other side of the building.

Schloss Siegel, December 1934

Isabelle would never forget the day she arrived at the fairy-tale Schloss for the Christmas that she had arranged to spend with Max and his family. When she stepped out of the sled onto the frozen driveway, she did not know where to look first. The ride from the train station through the snow-covered village had been one of the most romantic experiences of her life. Max had described his home to her in the many letters he had sent since they left Switzerland, but nothing he had said could have prepared her for this first glimpse of Schloss Siegel. Now all she could do was gape at the gorgeous building in front of her.

A Christmas wreath laden with bright berries and ivy hung on the double-leafed white front door. The grand entrance had a black-and-white tiled front porch and was flanked with two white pillars. On either side of the door, leadlight glass allowed glimpses of yellow light to filter to the darkness outside.

Isabelle placed her gloved hand in Max’s as she climbed the front steps. She turned at the top, running her eyes over the wonderland in front of the Schloss. The snow-covered grounds stretched all the way to the stone wall that surrounded the park. Every tree was weighed down with icicles; hints of dark wood were barely visible through the sea of white.

Max’s valet, Hans, was on hand, supervising the footmen who had appeared as if by magic to unload the sleigh. He gave instructions in German and nodded at Isabelle, looking her up and down in a way that was not exactly disrespectful but made her wonder if he knew what was going on between her and Max. Perhaps he was Max’s confidant—who knew?

One of the footmen threw the front doors open with a flourish, sending light flooding out to the semidark afternoon, highlighting the servants as they bustled about on the porch.

Max, having kissed Isabelle on the cheek, having clasped her hand in his, stepped aside for Isabelle and Virginia to enter. Though accustomed to her grandmother’s distinctive form of glamour, Isabelle found herself simply awed by the grandeur that greeted her here. Gray-and-white checkered marble floors stretched across the vast entrance hall, anchored by a gilt-edged marble table embellished with a bouquet of resplendent hothouse flowers.

A maid appeared and knelt down at Isabelle and Virginia’s feet, removing the fur-lined overshoes that they had been given for the sleigh ride.

“We call them elephant trotters,” Max smiled as Isabelle looked up at him. “No need for them inside, obviously.”

While the uniformed maid removed the warm shoe coverings, Isabelle took the opportunity to feast her eyes. Opposite her, two enormous urns flanked a second set of double doors that mirrored those at the entrance to the Schloss. These white doors were thrown open, and through them, there was a glimpse of a room of the most elegant proportions. Isabelle knew that this was the music salon. Max had described his home in his letters over the past months, while she had pined away in Paris.

To the left of the double doors, a grand staircase wound its way up to the top floors of the Schloss. Suddenly Isabelle stopped and stared.

Her eyes had caught those of the woman who stood on the stairs, but it was not Nadja’s face that held Isabelle’s attention—it was what she wore. Her blood-red dress was the latest fashion, and it clung to Nadja’s slender body like a kid glove. The woman’s blond hair was swept up into an elaborate French chignon; a strand of pearls hung across her slender throat.

Something awkward, cold, lingered between her and Max’s only sister. It had been there since the first time they had met. Isabelle had tried chatting with her, but Nadja always brushed her aside. Every time Isabelle encountered Nadja, it seemed as if the girl was either in deep thought or in intense conversation with someone else.

Isabelle turned away, distracted by the arrival of another sleigh outside.

“Vati and Mutti,” Max said. He guided Isabelle back toward the front door.

The servants disappeared outside in order to meet Max’s parents’ sleigh.

“They’ll love you,” Max murmured into Isabelle’s ear.

Isabelle braced herself, silently praying that Max’s mother had not made inquiries into her family’s background. And how much did they know about her relationship with Max? She hadn’t felt comfortable asking him such a thing in her letters. What would they think of her?

When Max’s mother arrived, her fur coat sweeping behind her, everyone seemed to hurtle to attention—all except Didi and Jo, who leaned against the banisters like a pair of beautiful Adonises. Isabelle sensed their eyes running over her before they turned their appraisals to Virginia. In three months, the boyishness appeared to have gone. They were louche with the sort of arrogance that only youth can pull off.

Virginia was undeniably calm. She moved over to Max’s mother, her hand held out—a gorgeous smile lighting up her classic features.

“It’s delightful to meet you, Frau Albrecht,” Virginia said. “Max has told us so much about you.”

Isabelle marveled at Virginia’s ability to hold sway over a situation with the use of flattery that was, in fact, genuine.

Max’s mother removed her fur hat. A maid took off the elegant blond woman’s coat. This one action seemed to transform Frau Albrecht into someone quite different—the swish was gone, and the woman who stood in front of Isabelle suddenly looked far less intimidating. Isabelle knew that of all the relationships in the world, the one between a man’s partner and his mother could be the most tenuous. She felt her shoulders relax.

Max’s mother took Virginia’s hand and murmured something welcoming to her. When she turned to Isabelle, she smiled. There was no calculation in her looks, no tightening of her cheeks into a false smile, and there was absolutely no reaction to the name de Florian.

After a few moments, Max’s voice came from behind, and Isabelle turned to smile at him. “My father is talking with his valet outside, but he is so keen to meet you,” he said.

Isabelle took in the hint of dark amusement in his voice as he watched Virginia go over to say hello to Didi and Jo, who both stood at least a head taller than her and seemed to be able to cope with her forward manners with far more aplomb than they had a few months earlier during their expeditions on the lake.

Max’s father struck Isabelle as a man with purpose. He handed his hat to his valet, removed his leather gloves, and shrugged off his coat with the ease of a man who was used to having people on hand to catch whatever he chose to discard.

“Vati,” Max said, “this is Isabelle de Florian.”

The sound of Virginia’s laughter rang through the room.

“Isabelle,” Max’s father said, “it is a pleasure to meet you.” He spoke English with no trace of an accent. “I want you to feel quite at home here. We will look forward to talking more tonight at dinner.”

Isabelle smiled up into his eyes, which were blue, just like Max’s.

“Pleased to meet you,” Isabelle said, sticking to English while her thoughts whirled in French.

“Isabelle and Virginia will want to go upstairs and freshen up,” Frau Albrecht said. “Berthe will show you to your rooms.”

A young maid stepped forward. She held out a hand to indicate that the guests should make their way upstairs.

Isabelle felt Virginia link her arm through her own. “Come on, darling,” she said. “I just cannot wait to see this place. Imagine the fun we are going to have!”

Schloss Siegel, 2010

Anna’s boots crunched on the caked dirt in front of the entrance to the Schloss. As she placed her foot on the first tread-worn step, her nose screwed up at the sight of the utilitarian handrail that had been affixed beside the stairs. It looked, like so many other postwar remnants, as if it had been dumped there like an ugly afterthought. Only a scattering of tiles remained intact on the entrance porch floor—the stubborn ones that had survived successions of troops, officials, and other blow-ins over the decades. The remaining tiles were split and cracked, and in some spots only the outline of a pattern remained etched in the cement.

Anna picked her way toward the front door, its white paint dull and faded. Giant cracks split the wood in places, and dirty marks scuffed the plain steel handles. The shape of the old handles was still indented into the paint, and there was a round mark where once a doorknocker must have been.

Wil was close behind her. He had the key in his hand.

“Brace yourself. This might be a shock,” Wil said.

Anna nodded.

He turned the key in the lock and pushed the old door open. Then he stepped aside and allowed Anna to go in first.

As she stood inside the vast entrance hall, her eyes darting here and there like a couple of searchlights in the dark, things seemed, in an odd way, right. She sensed that what surrounded her was the product of every year that had passed, of every person who had stepped inside this magnificent old place.

And what had survived? Its essence—that was still alive.

No army general, no politician, no administrator for those twentieth-century political regimes who had hurtled in and out during the struggle to find solutions to every possible social ill in the world had been able to destroy the original architect’s vision of this beautiful home.

The past was in the air. It didn’t matter that the floor in the echoing entrance hall was hidden under a layer of standard-issue linoleum, clotted with dust and stray leaves that were scattered like debris on a beach. Anna could see past the mouse droppings and the solitary light bulb that swung, almost insolently, in the breeze that scurried in through the open front door.

She walked over to the closed set of doors that she knew led to what had been the music salon.

Wil was behind her.

She turned to him before she placed her hand on yet another cheap set of brushed steel door handles. “Do you mind if I take a look around before going straight upstairs . . . ?” Her words trailed off.

“Go for it, Anna,” he said. “I know it’s hard. Don’t rush. Take your time.”

She nodded and turned to open the doors.

Schloss Siegel, December 1934

As Berthe moved swiftly up Schloss Siegel’s grand staircase, Isabelle found herself wanting to turn and stare at the entrance hall below. Virginia had removed her hat and gloves and was climbing the stairs as if she had been born to live in such a place as this. When they arrived at the top of the staircase, there was a large landing with what looked like endless corridors leading to the left and right. The walls were painted duck-egg blue. Deep Persian rugs warmed the floor, and the walls were hung with beautiful paintings.

Berthe turned right, past the central section of the house, past several closed doors, until the hallway narrowed a little, leading to another long stretch.

As Berthe led them down the long hallway, Virginia whispered to Isabelle, “They seem like the most divine parents.”

“I’m sure they are.” Isabelle smiled. Max had seemed at ease with them this afternoon.

“Max’s father has so much, I don’t know—chutzpah!” Virginia laughed. “He just looks the part of a handsome aristocrat in a Hollywood film, while she is so stunning that you could put her in a fashion magazine right now and she’d raise a storm. And yet, she seems sweet too.”

“Oh, Virginia,” Isabelle laughed too. “You are so funny.”

“This is your room, Fräulein,” the maid said, stepping aside.

Isabelle went in with the eagerness of a child at a fair. Her home while she was here was heavenly—a four-poster bed, piled with pale blue silk cushions, a polished dressing table, an armoire, a delicate rug on the polished wooden floorboards. She glanced at the elaborate blue-and-white tiled stove in the corner.

“This is a
kachelofen
,” Berthe said. “It warms your room beautifully—and here, we put a jug of water to stop the room from feeling dry.” The maid spoke in halting but understandable English.

Berthe pulled open an ornamental door at the front of the stove. “Here we will put hotties at night for you, so that you can have them in your bed to warm you up.”

“Oh, how delicious,” Virginia said.

Isabelle went to stand by the window and looked out at the white landscape outside. The picture window was framed with cream velvet curtains that hung to the floor. Her view was of the frozen lake. From this height, she could see beyond it to the forest—dense yet bare.

“Your room is this way, Fräulein.” Berthe opened a door into the next room for Virginia.

Isabelle stared out the window for a few moments longer.

She felt that she had, at last, come home.

Schloss Siegel, 2010

Anna stood at a window on the upper floor of the Schloss, staring out at the park. Max’s old bedroom was next door, and she was intensely aware that Wil would have to return to work soon. She was not going to reward his kindness by holding him up. She had moved through the decayed and torn rooms of the Schloss as fast as she could, snapping photographs, reining in any upset with the expert firmness that she had honed for years.