Germans from the eastern side of the River Elbe.' He paused and looked round the table before going on with what was obviously something he'd said time and time again. 'Czar Alexander I and Nicolas who succeeded him were more German than Russian, and they both married German princesses. And what about Bismarck who was continually defending Russian interests even at the expense of Germany's relations with the Austrians?'
'Yes,' said Bret sardonically. 'And you have yet to mention the German-born Karl Marx.'
For a moment I thought von Munte was going to reply seriously to the joke and make a fool of himself, but he'd lived amid signals, innuendoes, and half-truths long enough to recognize the joke for what it was. He smiled.
'Can there ever be lasting peace in Europe?' said Bret wearily. 'Now, if I'm to believe my ears, you say Germany still has territorial aspirations.' For Bret it was all a game, but poor old von Munte could not play it.
'For our own provinces,' said von Munte stolidly.
'For Poland and pieces of Russia,' said Bret. 'You'd better be clear on that.'
Silas poured more of his precious Chateau Palmer in a gesture of placation for all concerned. 'You're from Pomerania, aren't you, Walter?' It was an invitation to talk rather than a real question, for by now Silas knew every last detail of von Munte's family history.
'I was born in Falkenburg. My father had a big estate there.'
'That's near the Baltic,' said Bret, feigning interest to make what he considered a measure of reconciliation.
'Pomerania,' said von Munte. 'Do you know it, Bernard?' he asked me, because I was the closest person there to being a fellow-countryman.
'Yes,' I said. 'Many lakes and hills. They call it Pomeranian Switzerland, don't they?'
'Not any longer.'
'A beautiful place,' I said. 'But as I remember it, damned cold, Walter.'
'You must go in the summer,' said von Munte. 'It's one of the most enchanting places in the world.' I looked at Frau Doktor von Munte. I had the feeling that the move to the West was a disappointment for her. Her English was poor and she keenly felt the social disadvantage she suffered as a refugee. With the talk of Pomerania she brightened and tried to follow the conversation.
'You've been back?' Silas asked.
'Yes, my wife and I went there about ten years ago. It was foolish. One should never go back.'
'Tell us about it,' said Silas.
At first it seemed as if the memories were too painful for von Munte to recount, but after a pause he told us about his trip. 'There is something nightmarish about going back to your homeland and finding that it's occupied exclusively by foreigners. It was the most curious experience I've ever had — to write "birthplace Falkenburg" and then "destination Zlocieniec".'
'The same place, now given a Polish name,' said Frank Harrington. 'But you must have been prepared for that.'
'I was prepared in my mind but not in my heart,' said von Munte. He turned to his wife and repeated this in rapid German. She nodded dolefully.
'The train connection from Berlin was never good,' von Munte went on. 'Even before the war we had to change twice. This time we went by bus. I tried to borrow a car, but it was not possible. The bus was convenient. We went to Neustettin, my wife's home town. We had difficulty finding the house in which she'd lived as a child.'
'Couldn't you ask for directions?' said Frank.
'Neither of us speaks much Polish,' said von Munte. 'Also, my wife had lived in Hermann-G ö ring-Strasse and I did not care to ask the way there.' He smiled. 'But we found it eventually. In the street where she lived as a girl we even found an old German woman who remembered my wife's family. It was a remarkable stroke of luck, for there are only a handful of Germans still living there.'
'And in Falkenburg?' said Silas.
'Ah, in my beloved Zlocieniec, Stalin was more thorough. We could find no one there who spoke German. I was born in a house in the country, right on the lake. We went
'Yes,' said Bret sardonically. 'And you have yet to mention the German-born Karl Marx.'
For a moment I thought von Munte was going to reply seriously to the joke and make a fool of himself, but he'd lived amid signals, innuendoes, and half-truths long enough to recognize the joke for what it was. He smiled.
'Can there ever be lasting peace in Europe?' said Bret wearily. 'Now, if I'm to believe my ears, you say Germany still has territorial aspirations.' For Bret it was all a game, but poor old von Munte could not play it.
'For our own provinces,' said von Munte stolidly.
'For Poland and pieces of Russia,' said Bret. 'You'd better be clear on that.'
Silas poured more of his precious Chateau Palmer in a gesture of placation for all concerned. 'You're from Pomerania, aren't you, Walter?' It was an invitation to talk rather than a real question, for by now Silas knew every last detail of von Munte's family history.
'I was born in Falkenburg. My father had a big estate there.'
'That's near the Baltic,' said Bret, feigning interest to make what he considered a measure of reconciliation.
'Pomerania,' said von Munte. 'Do you know it, Bernard?' he asked me, because I was the closest person there to being a fellow-countryman.
'Yes,' I said. 'Many lakes and hills. They call it Pomeranian Switzerland, don't they?'
'Not any longer.'
'A beautiful place,' I said. 'But as I remember it, damned cold, Walter.'
'You must go in the summer,' said von Munte. 'It's one of the most enchanting places in the world.' I looked at Frau Doktor von Munte. I had the feeling that the move to the West was a disappointment for her. Her English was poor and she keenly felt the social disadvantage she suffered as a refugee. With the talk of Pomerania she brightened and tried to follow the conversation.
'You've been back?' Silas asked.
'Yes, my wife and I went there about ten years ago. It was foolish. One should never go back.'
'Tell us about it,' said Silas.
At first it seemed as if the memories were too painful for von Munte to recount, but after a pause he told us about his trip. 'There is something nightmarish about going back to your homeland and finding that it's occupied exclusively by foreigners. It was the most curious experience I've ever had — to write "birthplace Falkenburg" and then "destination Zlocieniec".'
'The same place, now given a Polish name,' said Frank Harrington. 'But you must have been prepared for that.'
'I was prepared in my mind but not in my heart,' said von Munte. He turned to his wife and repeated this in rapid German. She nodded dolefully.
'The train connection from Berlin was never good,' von Munte went on. 'Even before the war we had to change twice. This time we went by bus. I tried to borrow a car, but it was not possible. The bus was convenient. We went to Neustettin, my wife's home town. We had difficulty finding the house in which she'd lived as a child.'
'Couldn't you ask for directions?' said Frank.
'Neither of us speaks much Polish,' said von Munte. 'Also, my wife had lived in Hermann-G ö ring-Strasse and I did not care to ask the way there.' He smiled. 'But we found it eventually. In the street where she lived as a girl we even found an old German woman who remembered my wife's family. It was a remarkable stroke of luck, for there are only a handful of Germans still living there.'
'And in Falkenburg?' said Silas.
'Ah, in my beloved Zlocieniec, Stalin was more thorough. We could find no one there who spoke German. I was born in a house in the country, right on the lake. We went
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