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- Herausgeber: tredition
- Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
- Sprache: Englisch
In his historical novel, ‘The Portrait’, the author takes us on a journey to post-war Belgium, in the aftermath of the First and Second World War. At the beginning of the First World War, the life of Elisabeth Renard is turned upside down when the German war machine invades neutral Belgium and covers the country with cruel massacres and reprisals. In her search for her missing fiancé Christian, she finds herself in great danger, from which she can only narrowly escape. Undaunted and courageous, she continues on her path, which also leads her into the community of the Resistance. In the early 1950s, Thomas Schneider, a young civil engineer, sets out on a supposedly final business trip to Bruges. There, under ominous circumstances, he witnesses an act of violence and becomes increasingly entangled in a network of seemingly criminal activities. Obsessed with the desire to acquire a portrait of a young woman, he increasingly abandons his bourgeois existence and plunges into a dangerous adventure with an unpredictable outcome. The author compellingly traces the paths of these two lives, keeping the reader guessing for much of the way as to what will bring them together at the end.
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Seitenzahl: 487
Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2024
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The Portrait
A story of love, war and murder
by Martin Gross
Text and graphic design Martin Gross - Carcassonne
Publishing and printing Tredition GmbH - Ahrensburg
Printed in Germany
ISBN Softcover: 978-3-384-44284-0
ISBN Hardcover: 978-3-384-44285-7
ISBN E-Book: 978-3-384-44286-4
Printing and distribution on behalf of the author by:
tredition GmbH, Heinz-Beusen-Stieg 5, 22926 Ahrensburg, Deutschland
The work, including its parts, is protected by copyright. The author is solely responsible for the content. Any utilisation is not permitted without the author's consent. The author can be contacted at: Am Wäldchen 6, 66879 Niedermohr or by mail [email protected]
Copyright 2024 by Gross Publishing
All rights reserved by Gross Publishing
Table of Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Foreword
Acknowledgements
Chapter I
Chapter II
Chapter III
Chapter IV
Chapter V
Chapter VI
Chapter VII
Chapter VIII
Chapter IX
Chapter X
Chapter XI
Chapter XII
Chapter XIII
Chapter XIV
Chapter XV
Chapter XVI
Chapter XVII
Chapter XVIII
Chapter XIX
Chapter XX
Chapter XXI
Chapter XXII
Chapter XXIII
Chapter XXIV
Chapter XXV
Chapter XXVI
Chapter XXVII
Chapter XXVIII
Chapter XXIX
Epilogue
About the Author
The Porträt
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Foreword
I
About the Author
Epilogue
The Porträt
Cover
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Foreword
The story told in this book is largely invented and owes its origin to a purely coincidental purchase of a picture. In retrospect, it may no longer seem so coincidental, but rather a happy chance.
A few years ago, I saw a portrait at an auction, which was in rather poor condition. Although it was partly painted over with what looked like childish brushstrokes, the face of the young woman in the picture immediately appealed to me. So, I decided to buy it.
After careful cleaning and restoration, it revealed all its beauty. In addition, a kind of attribution was now visible on the reverse. However, it was not about the artist, but the name and place of residence or birth of the person depicted. I do not wish to mention her real name, as direct descendants may still be living.
Genealogical research then revealed part of her life story. Her first name - only this much shall be revealed - was Elisabeth, and she was born in Chimay, Belgium. The portrait probably shows her as an adolescent.
Born in 1883, she grew up during an unusually long period without major military conflicts by European standards. Since the end of the Franco-Prussian War in 1871, peace had indeed prevailed in this part of Europe. At least on the surface, because underneath it was seething with revanchism and mutual mistrust.
Belgium, which had only existed as a state since 1830, owed its existence to an agreement between the so-called Great Powers, which also guaranteed the inviolability of its borders. Due to this special situation, Belgium had committed itself to strict neutrality. On this basis, when tensions between the European continental powers came to a head in 1914, it was hoped that its territorial integrity would be preserved. However, this was not the case and the occupation of the country by German troops with its associated war crimes dramatically changed the lives of the population.
However, as Belgium, like many other European countries, did not have a homogeneous population structure, there were also internal tensions and the formation of camps during this period of occupation. Some wanted to co-operate with the Germans, others wanted to support the French. Others again wanted to maintain neutrality at all costs. Not only did Walloons, Flemings and the small German ethnic group disagree on the country's position, but the king and the government-in-exile were also mostly at loggerheads.
At the end of the war, Belgium was also one of the so-called winners. Although its king, Albert I, had skilfully avoided sending his troops into major combat operations, the entire population saw itself as a nation actively involved in the war due to the suffering endured during the occupation. However, as different camps had formed during the occupation, revanchism arose between the individual factions. This escalated into shootings. The Walloons in particular were convinced that they had made the greater sacrifice. The Flemish, who seemed to collaborate more often and were pushing for more independence, viewed them with suspicion from then on. What Flemings and Walloons had in common was their contemptuous view of the more than half a million exiles of all colours, who were commonly referred to as shirkers.
During the 21 years until the next major war, there was therefore a very mixed feeling among the population. The wounds were too deep and even if people wanted to remember a heroic, joint resistance, everyone realised that this had not been the case.
When Nazi Germany then overran France, history repeated itself, so to speak. Belgium was unceremoniously reoccupied and the same fissures within society became apparent again. Under the Nazi occupation, there were once again collaborators, resisters and undecideds - déjà vu. No wonder, then, that even after this war, there was once again the outward unity with the underlying discord. A situation that has continued right up to the present day.
In this post-war situation, a young German civil engineer sets off on a business trip to Bruges. Unexpectedly, he gets caught up in a turbulent and dangerous sequence of events, in the further course of which he is not entirely innocent through his own actions.
Acknowledgements
As always, I would like to thank my wife Birgit, who had to endure my frequent mental absence. Also, for reading the first uncorrected version and for helping me with questions and suggestions.
My special thanks for this English version go to my friend Martin Turner, who went through the pains to take on the revision of the translation I had produced and thus contributed greatly to its readability.
I
This narrative, which was to change my whole life, began on a dull April day in 1953, when I was strolling through the streets of the time-honoured city of Bruges. I had been on a business trip for weeks and, after long and difficult contract negotiations, finally had some time to look around. In the famous historic centre, unscathed by the war, many small premises were lined up. Some were purely tourist stores, but there were also well-stocked antiquarian booksellers and art shops. There seemed to be something of interest for everyone.
For some unknown reason, a somewhat gloomy, almost neglected-looking shop almost magically attracted me and so I stopped in front of it. A sign above the door read:
"La Vieille Vitrine" Owner Ferdinand Hancart.
At first glance, the dusty display in the shop window was a wild hodgepodge of military medals, old books about war, bronze warrior statues and antique weapons. Somehow, I was taken by this seemingly random mixture, the context of which was not immediately clear to me. It began to rain more heavily and so I stepped in.
When I opened the door, a bright bell rang out, announcing my arrival. After I had entered, there was silence and I was surrounded by dim light, which seemed to be due not only to the grey rainy day but also to the diffuse lighting itself. Next to the entrance, still in the area of the little daylight, stood an old desk with a mighty, equally old cash register.
My eyes were slowly getting used to the semi-darkness. It looked as if almost everything in the shop was old. This was also true of the gaunt man who came out from the back of the shop. He approached me with a friendly smile and greeted me: "Hello, my name is Ferdinand Hancart. Can I help you, sir?"
I found it unusual that he introduced himself by name, but it may just have been his way of addressing customers. His build was slender, but commensurate with his height. He looked very delicate, almost like an insect, but not in an unpleasant way, if you know what I mean. Despite his petite stature, he had a pleasant, sonorous voice. His bright blue eyes looked at me expectantly.
"Your display and, well, the bad weather have brought me in."
As if in confirmation, there was thunder and lightning outside and the sound of the pouring rain increased.
"I'm not really looking for anything in particular, but I love old things and you seem to have plenty of them."
He was still smiling at me and replied mischievously: "I suppose you're right, sir, and that's why I'm trying to sell some of it. So, if you don't have any specific wishes, just have a look around and if you do have any questions, you'll find me at the back."
He pointed to a slightly better-lit, window-framed office at the other end of the elongated salesroom and shuffled off again.
I began to look around more closely and the better my eyes got used to the dim lighting, the more amazing things I noticed. Directly to my right, a large display case with old knives emerged from the semi-darkness. Although I was no expert, I could recognise that these were all pieces of great craftsmanship and not tourist goods. Some of the daggers actually appeared to be antiques from the Arab world.
Right next to it was another display case with an extensive collection of exotic beetles. These were also in very good condition and carefully labelled. Further down the corridor, I came across a large glass cabinet filled with exquisitely crafted caskets. They were decorated with incredibly intricate inlays depicting detailed everyday scenes from past centuries. I had only seen such depictions in paintings before, but these were made of wood and semi-precious stones. On the walls were stuffed animal heads of all kinds, including a huge African lion's head whose mouth was wide open in a terrifying way and who looked at me with angry glass eyes.
None of the items on offer had a price tag. Apparently, the seller relied on the knowledge and judgement of his potential buyers, as otherwise he would have had to be asked for every item. This was another indication that he didn't seem to place much value on walk-in customers - like me. Unimpressed by this obvious disregard for me, I walked on and looked in fascination at a large niche which, according to a plaque, was filled with artefacts from the Belgian Congo. It was an abundance of sculptures as well as domestic and cult artefacts. The special odour combination of leather and wood, together with the sparse lighting, gave this collection something truly mystical.
I took a step back to get a better view when I felt a touch from behind. Startled, I spun round and found myself face to face with a life-size male figure staring at me with dead eyes. Judging by the clothes, it was a distinguished gentleman or even someone of nobility. My pulse had considerably increased and I took a deep breath to regain my composure.
I furtively glanced over to the office, but the dealer didn't seem to have noticed anything. He was still sitting in his armchair and seemed to be engrossed in some documents. After this unexpected encounter, I moved more cautiously. A large table was covered with stuffed fish and all kinds of lizards that looked at me with wide open mouths and beady eyes. I was almost dizzy from the abundance of different objects from all over the world, each of which could probably tell a story, when I approached another, very narrow niche.
There was only a single, exceptionally well-lit picture hanging in it, which immediately caught my eye. At that moment, something strange happened. I felt as if a hand was placed on my forehead. I suddenly reached up, expecting to have missed something again, but there was nothing there and the feeling was gone again in an instant. Fascinated, I looked at the portrait of a young woman whose gaze unusually did not move with the viewer but remained diagonally to the front right. It was as if she was looking at something that remained hidden from me, the beholder. She was absolutely beautiful in her gentle grace and I couldn't take my eyes off her face. However, no matter how hard I tried to capture her gaze, I was unable to do so. I spontaneously realised that I wanted to own this picture at any price, no matter what. However, the latter was not labelled either and just as I was about to turn towards the office, I heard Monsieur Hancarts’ voice.
"You shouldn't buy this painting, sir."
I froze. He was standing right behind me, without me noticing his approach.
I slowly turned round to face him.
"But it's beautiful. What's the lady's name?"
He looked at me scrutinisingly for a while, then said, almost worriedly: "She is indeed, and that's why she's already found so many lovers."
"You mean," I hesitated a little, "that she was a lady you know…..?"
He laughed briefly.
"Oh no, not at all, but I have sold this painting several times - however it always returned."
I looked at him uncomprehendingly.
"You mean the buyers no longer wanted it and then brought it back to you?"
"Not quite, it was always the surviving dependants of the buyers who brought the painting back to me. None of them wanted to keep it, even though they really liked it. Somehow they felt uneasy when they found the painting whilst they were clearing out the premises and wanted to get rid of it for that reason."
I looked at him even more incredulously than before. What was he trying to tell me? Was that one of his sales pitches?
"How did the heirs know where it came from?" I asked, almost a little brashly.
"Well, my shop's sticker is on the back," he said succinctly.
"And you say that there have already been several buyers from whom the painting has been returned?" I asked, now genuinely curious.
"Yes, there were three men in total, but it's been back here for two years now and because I tell every interested party this story, it hasn't found a new buyer since."
"And all three are dead?" I asked, still remaining suspicious.
"All dead. Yes, I know that sounds strange, but that's how it is. After the last case two years ago, the picture was examined in detail by the police, but nothing was found. I mean contact poison or something like that. But I hadn't expected anything else, otherwise I would have been dead a long time ago," he explained, smiling mischievously at me again.
"Why didn't the heirs just sell it on instead of bringing it back to you?"
"They all said that they had the feeling that something was wrong with the picture and that they wanted to get rid of it as quickly as possible. One even wanted to throw it away because he hadn't seen my sticker straight away," he said with a laugh.
"And why do you keep taking this picture back? Doesn't it make you feel uncomfortable?"
"I know, that is indeed amazing, but for me it is just a picture like any other. A very beautiful painting, of course, but just a picture."
"And why, with this history, are you still trying to sell it?"
My voice now almost sounded interrogating.
"Well, I don't actually do that," he replied calmly. "As you can see, there's no price on it and, as I said, I'll tell everyone what it's all about. But who knows, one day maybe the right person will come along and will keep it."
I relaxed a little and nodded understandingly.
"Yes, of course that's possible," I said quietly. "I think I have to go now. I've completely lost track of time. Thank you for your explanations and maybe I'll find something else tomorrow."
"Yes, of course, why don't you come round again?"
I left the shop and the bell rang again to tell me goodbye. Lost in thought, I walked into the large square and looked back at the shop. What a strange story, I thought. Was he just pulling my leg? But why? I wondered, what he would get out of it. Indecisively, I headed towards the hotel, where I was planning to have my evening meal that day. Fortunately, the sky had cleared and I arrived at my accommodation dry-shod.
The porter, Mr Ceulemans, saw me from afar and greeted me in a friendly manner with my room key in his hand.
"Good evening, Mr Schneider, did you have a pleasant day?"
I nodded: "Yes, thank you, everything was fine apart from the terrible weather."
"You're right, it wasn't exactly pleasant, but that's the way it is here so close to the coast," he replied with a shrug. "I've already booked your table. Surely, you'll be dining with us again?"
"Oh yes, I'd love to, I'm just going to my room for a moment."
I took my key and ran over to the staircase that led to my room on the second floor.
I had been in Bruges for more than three weeks and of course all the staff at the Hotel Atlantic knew me by now. I was looking forward to finally being able to go home again the day after tomorrow. Although I had been working in the field for a large construction company for over ten years, I was always drawn back to my home town of Trier. Even though I lived alone there, I had a large circle of friends and was also active in several clubs. So, I never got bored between my trips, but on the other hand I never felt guilty about being away for long periods of time. After dinner, I went back to my room and went to sleep after a quick read.
The following morning, I had a short farewell appointment with my customer and then I made my way back to Monsieur Hancarts’ shop. I had no intention of choosing anything else, but was determined to buy the portrait. What could happen to me? It could just be a coincidence with these dead people.
I re-entered the shop to the ringing of the bell and looked around for a while until my eyes again had adjusted to the semidarkness of the premises. No one came running up behind me, so I steered my steps purposefully towards the small niche with the portrait. To my astonishment, the picture was no longer hanging in its place. I looked around, but there was no sign of it anywhere else on the surrounding walls. A certain resentment rose in me. As I stared at the empty niche, I almost felt like a child who had saved up for months for a toy that was then sold out.
Still, no one had come and so I marched resolutely to the office at the end of the tube-like salesroom. It was unlit and I began to wonder whether the shop was open by mistake. Nevertheless, I took the door handle in my hand and stepped into the glazed room. It was even darker here at the end of the building, so I fumbled for a while to find the light switch. In the meantime, a strange odour that seemed somehow familiar from my war days came into my nose. When I finally found it, the neon light above me began to flicker with a soft click.
As soon as the first flashes of light appeared, I saw the outline of a body lying on the ground. When the lamp finally stabilised, I approached and recognised Monsieur Hancart. His wide-open eyes stared at me and an oval pool of blood, already dried up, had formed under his head. There was an astonishment in his gaze, as if he had been very surprised that someone had obviously shot him. He was undoubtedly dead. At the moment of this realisation, a tremendous shock ran through me and I looked around fearfully. After all, the perpetrator could still be here. I quickly jumped to the door and locked it with a bolt. Then I picked up the phone and called the police.
Sitting next to his dead body I was wondering who might kill such an old and gentle man? Perhaps there was money in the game or - despite this dire situation I almost smiled - the painting had struck again? Only when the officers arrived did I unlock the office door and let them in.
"Was it you who called us?" asked one of the two as they entered the room and looked at me questioningly.
"Yes, officer, that was me," and I took a step to the side so that they could see the body. They bent over the corpse, but they also immediately came to the conclusion that there was nothing that could be done.
"May I know what brought you here, sir?" the older of the two asked me.
"I wanted to buy something that I saw here yesterday, but it was no longer in its place today. Hence, I went to the back because I thought Mr Hancart might be in his office and that's where I found him," and I pointed to the floor.
"So, you knew him?" he asked me in amazement.
"Well, knowing would be exaggerating. I was here for the first time yesterday and we had a long conversation about a painting I wanted to buy, but he advised me against it."
"And what were you doing here again today?"
"Well, I wanted to buy the painting anyway, but as I said, it was no longer in its place."
"What was in this picture?" the younger officer asked.
"It was a portrait of a young woman."
"Do you know who she was?"
Only now did I realise that Monsieur Hancart had not answered my question yesterday about the identity of the young woman.
"Unfortunately not, it was just a painting of a young woman. A very beautiful painting, though."
They opened the office door again and shoved me out.
"We have to call forensics. Did you touch anything?"
"Just the light switch, I guess, and of course the door and the phone," I replied uncertainly.
"Good, my colleague will take your personal details. Please come to the police station tomorrow morning so that we can take your statement again in detail."
I went to the front with the younger man, gave him my ID and explained that I was staying at the Atlantic. Then they let me go.
It was only on the way back to the hotel that I realised my legs were shaking. What if I had arrived earlier and caught the perpetrator(s)? Maybe they would have killed me too - and anyway, why had Monsieur Hancart been killed? Sure, there were some valuable items in the shop, but it hadn't looked ransacked in any way, just like yesterday. Except - except for the picture.
Where had the painting gone? Was it really what the perpetrator had wanted? Had he got it or had Hancart taken it after my visit and put it away? If it was still hanging there, why kill him for it? They could have just bought it.
Although I didn't know what Hancart wanted for it, the provenance of the painting meant that it couldn't be a huge sum. After all, it was not the work of a well-known master.
I sat down on a bench at the edge of the square and tried to collect myself. Tomorrow morning, I would go to the police station and make my statement and then finally go back home. What did I care about this picture? There was probably a curse on it and I should be glad that it was gone now.
As I was reflecting upon this, I realised that I couldn't leave it at that. My curiosity was too piqued and I just wanted to know what had happened here. Maybe the police would find out something today. Thus, I went to the hotel and spent the afternoon packing and sorting through my business papers.
When I arrived at my table for breakfast the next morning, the latest daily newspaper had already been laid out for me, as usual. The lead story was the murder of Mr Hancart.
"Mysterious death of an antiques dealer leaves more questions than answers"
But so did the article, as it didn't have much more to offer apart from a description of the places I already knew. I finished my breakfast, pocketed the newspaper and walked to the police station at the address I had been given yesterday. They were already expecting me, so I gave my statement again and left the building after half an hour. The officers hadn't revealed any further news. It was quite possible that there were no more, let alone any leads.
I paid my bill at the hotel, got into my Opel Kapitän and made my way back to Trier. The car was my pride and joy, as I had been starving myself to buy it. Not many people could afford such a fancy limousine.
I set off whistling, looking forward to a cold beer in the evening at the pub of my local football club.
II
"Elisabeth! Elisabeth where are you?"
I was sitting on a bench surrounded by oleanders in bloom, enjoying the peaceful evening atmosphere. The birds were singing and the view over the city was magnificent. It was my grandmother Adelaide's voice calling me. I reckoned she wanted me to come for dinner, but I wanted to stay here for a little bit longer and reflect upon things.
"Yes, I'm here!" I shouted back as her footsteps were approaching.
"Please come for supper. You must be hungry, child," she announced as she finally stood in front of me.
The year was 1914 and she was still calling me a child, even though I was already thirty-one. That wasn’t probably going to change and somehow, I thought it was nice. This was probably because my parents hadn't had much time for me and so I mostly stayed with my grandparents, or rather grew up with them. As I was the youngest and a latecomer, my parents hadn't expected me to be around.
My father, Ferdinand Renard, had taken on a very responsible job at the Fabrique d'Eglise in Chimay in 1881 and always came home late at night. He was the president and trésorier there, a kind of chief executive and financial manager in one person, and often had to report on the company's situation at the evening meetings of the board of directors. It belonged to the Trappist monastery and produced one thing above all - beer - in addition to our famous cheese. This was already known beyond the country's borders and so business had been going well so far.
My mother Laurence, on the other hand, looked after our estate and my five siblings. Of course, I came at just the right time in 1883. My youngest brother Emil was already six and so I no longer really fitted into the family's daily routines. Thus, I ended up as a kind of single child with my grandparents, who took loving care of me and from whom I received more affection and attention than I could ever have expected at home. There was also always a pleasantly calm atmosphere in my grandparents' home, whereas my mother was always very hectic and restless. Hence, I can't claim to have been neglected and, to be honest, I kind of enjoyed the fact that I grew up as the only child in a large family, so to speak. My relationship with my biological parents and to some extent with my siblings was, one could say, somewhat distant as a result. However, this gap was more than filled by the affection of my grandparents.
"I think I'd like to enjoy the evening sun a little bit longer, Mamie. It's still so nice and warm and I'm writing a letter to Christian."
Here in French-speaking Wallonia, we called our grandmothers Mamie and grandfathers Papi, while mothers were called Maman and fathers Papa.
Christian was my fiancé and not really part of our family yet. I was also late with this engagement, but my grandparents, unlike the rest of my family, thought it was perfectly fine. Better late and the right choice than too early and the wrong one, was my grandfather Joseph's motto. My parents would have preferred it if I had married young and been out of the house. That would probably have eased their latent guilty conscience towards me. Although I was doing very well, I had made it a habit reminding them again and again, in a more or less subtle way that they had kind off disowned me.
Short remarks like: "You didn't want me here" or "If I had been at home, I would have liked to have been there too", never failed to have an effect. It always hit the mark and I could see them both flinch at these words, as if I had beaten them with a whip. A very pleasant side effect for me was that afterwards I was always given something that had been denied me in previous discussions. Their consciences were thus assuaged for the time being and I got what I had wanted.
Now, towards the end of July, the summer evenings were at their best and if it hadn't been for these rumours of an imminent war between France and Germany, this summer couldn't have been more carefree for me. Christian Himmer, who lived about an hour's drive away in Dinant, was the man of my dreams. Just a few days after we met, I knew that I absolutely wanted him. Not only was he good-looking, he was also very sporty and, above all, very, very charming. Even my constantly critical family, especially my mum, were taken with him. The fact that he came from a well-to-do, upper middle-class family certainly did its bit to win their favour. Of course, I would have taken him even without their approval, as I was sure of my grandparents' support.
Due to the rumours of war and the possible involvement of Belgium on the French side, Christian was currently spending a lot of time at his father's textile factory, where they also produced uniforms for the Belgian military. That's why we hadn't seen each other for almost three weeks now. In a month's time, it would be his thirty-fifth birthday and I was looking forward to celebrating it with him.
"What do you write to him, my dear?" she enquired, and looked at me with a caring smile. "When I was your age, we had been married for a long time and yet I was still as in love as I was on the first day. As you know, your grandfather was in the war in 1870 and fought on the French side. I wrote to him whenever I could and when he finally came home, he actually still had all those letters with him."
She beamed at me and I sensed that she wished me the same happiness that she had found back then.
"I'll be ready in a minute Mamie and then I'll come straight into the house, agreed?"
"Yes, yes, just take your time. There's only cold cuts tonight."
She turned around again and climbed the stairs to the terrace. I quickly finished my letter, imagined Christian receiving it and then went back into the house.
My grandmother had already set the table and, in addition to the charcuterie, she had also put out cornichons, pickled tomatoes and mushrooms as well as fresh bread from the bakery. Joseph was just about to open a bottle of red wine, which we had always with a meal. Even though it was just a modest supper, she had set the table beautifully with large glasses and napkins and placed a few flowers from the garden in the centre of it. Everything always had to be perfect for Mamie. She would probably have done this even if it had just been a simple sandwich.
My birthplace, Chimay, was located in southern Belgium, in the French-speaking part of our country. It was an old town whose first beginnings were said to date back to the eleventh century and many of the families had lived here for many generations. The most famous building was the Chateau de Chimay, where the nobility had lived over the centuries. It was a rather quiet place and one could really lead a tranquil life here. Especially if you had grandparents who didn’t necessarily have to watch their spending.
Grandfather Joseph had made a small fortune as an entrepreneur and trader and instead of passing the business on to my father, he had sold it for a huge profit. This still burdened his relationship with his son. However, Joseph had been of the opinion that his son had to earn his own spurs, which he did with some success and which, in turn, confirmed my grandfather's method of education.
Joseph was also rather unusual in other respects. Although he belonged to the city's upper class due to his wealth, he led a rather secluded life. In contrast to the other notables, who regularly appeared at the theatre and casino or went to the horse races in Mons, he preferred to maintain a small salon with selected individuals. Local personalities such as the Notaire Dupont, banker de Caraman, the mayor and so on would attend these gatherings. While the ladies retired to my grandmother's parlour after dinner, the gentlemen would gather in the smoking room to enjoy a cigar and Calvados and discuss whatever seemed important to them. Just as my grandparents loved it, there was always a relaxed and unagitated atmosphere in the house on these days.
This evening too, the house and garden exuded this pleasant atmosphere and so the three of us sat down and started our evening meal, as we did every day, with an exchange of news. Today, however, it wasn’t about our neighbour Madeleine or the mayor Lambert and what he had done wrong again in Joseph's eyes. There was only one topic and that was the apparently imminent military conflict. Fortunately, I hadn't experienced war in my life so far. Therefore, I only had a very abstract idea of what this could mean for us. However, my grandfather was very worried about the possibility of the Germans overrunning Belgium in order to make faster inroads into the French hinterland. Only the Ardennes would be able to stop them, but that wouldn't do us Belgians any good. I hadn't even considered the possibility of war in our country. Why should I? After all, we were neutral and our king had just explicitly stated this once again. Now, however, my grandfather's words awakened the fear that something like that could possibly happen.
He went on to criticise the French President Poincaré and Monsieur Clemenceau and how they, as haters of Germany, had spiralled into war mania. Even if the latter had not been in government at the time, he was still pulling the strings in the background. The unconditional will to get revenge for 1871 and to bring Alsace and Lorraine back to France had completely blinded them. They were now in an unfortunate alliance with the Russians, who had their own agenda anyway, and if everything went on like this, then after the assassination of the Austrian Crown Prince Ferdinand, war was probably inevitable. However, this was precisely nonsense, because it could of course be avoided if only there were enough intelligent minds and the German warmongers could be brought to heel. But who could take that role? After this litany, we crossed ourselves and started eating.
After dinner, I went to my room, or rather to my flat. My grandparents' house was situated on a hill and was one of the most beautiful buildings in the town. From here I had a wonderful view over the houses below and across the plain to Dinant and my beloved Christian. Whenever I looked in his direction, I had the feeling of being particularly close to him. Almost as if I could actually see him. It's probably the same for many people who can't always be with the love of their life. We know that he or she is there and that we are only separated from them by an insignificant distance. However, it is easy for the heart to overcome this and so we felt very close despite the distance. With this thought, I lay down on my bed and fell asleep with a smile on my lips.
When I woke up the next morning, I had a lot on my mind. My grandfather's words had made me very uneasy about our immediate future. What if the Germans actually invaded?
When I entered my grandparents' living room, I immediately sensed that there was a strange, previously unknown atmosphere. Joseph sat bent over his newspaper, studying its contents with his magnifying glass. He breathed heavily whilst his eyes followed the article line by line. My grandmother was sitting in an armchair by the window with a piece of needlework. When she looked up at me, there was great concern in her gaze.
As always, I said: "Good morning", but my grandfather didn't even notice me. Only my grandmother waved to me wordlessly and, with a serious face, told me to come to her. I felt an uncertain fear rising up inside me. Something bad must have happened overnight. Hesitantly I went to her and asked in a hushed voice what's going on?
"The Austrians have been at war with the Serbs for two days and that means that the Russians will now mobilise too, if they haven't already done so. Your grandfather is studying the article and the comments to understand exactly what the situation is at the moment, but unfortunately we only have information from the day before yesterday."
Hence the oppression. Last night we were still discussing whether war could be avoided and now it had probably already broken out in Eastern Europe. I had already lost my appetite for breakfast when Joseph finally stood up and nodded at me.
"It looks as if a disastrous chain reaction will now occur and a major war seems inevitable."
"What kind of chain reaction are you talking about?" I asked quietly.
"Sit down with me, Elisabeth, and I'll explain to you what I think is likely to happen in the next few days and weeks."
I pulled up a chair and took seat next to him. On the front page of the journal, it said in big letters:
BALKAN WAR IGNITED
This was probably the article he had studied so thoroughly. I quickly skimmed the page and came across a sub-article with the headline "British secret diplomacy tries to avert the worst".
I looked at my grandfather questioningly.
"Well," he continued, "the Austro-Hungarian monarchy declared war on the Serbs the day before yesterday and as of yesterday, there have been the first bloody encounters. The Serbs, however, are under a protective alliance with Russia, which is why the Russians have now also officially announced mobilisation. The Austrians do not have a protective alliance with the Germans, but let's say, a kind of friendship alliance. However, it can be expected that the Germans will sooner or later rush to the Austrians' aid. Besides, of course, we don't know whether the Russians won't attack Germany while they're at it. Yet, as soon as the Germans are entering the conflict, France will also have to get involved, as it is in an alliance with Russia. Then there are also the Italians, who are always at loggerheads with the Austrians. In any case, the whole continent will burn in the end and only the devil knows what the British will do then." He paused and looked at me. "Any more questions?"
At first, I just shook my head. I had to visualise what I had just heard. It seemed to me like a chain of dominoes in which the first dominoes had already fallen and which will now continue to move inexorably until the last domino came to rest.
"You think," I said hesitantly, "that this great war is absolutely unavoidable from now on?"
He just nodded silently.
On this day, the mood in my grandparents' house was never going to lighten and even when I thought of Christian, I now felt an indefinable fear rather than joy. I would have liked to talk to him, but despite his fondness for modern technology, Joseph had so far refrained from installing a telephone. What would happen next?
The following day, this leaden oppression was still weighing on our house and so I decided to visit my parents to find out how they viewed the situation regarding the war and our country. When I arrived around midday, even my father was at home and that didn't bode well. While my mum immediately launched into her usual nervous activity after greeting me, my dad sat quietly in his office going through documents.
After I sat down next to him, he said curtly: "We're in for some hard times, Elisabeth."
"Do you mean because of the war itself or because the Germans might attack us?" I replied spontaneously.
He looked at me in surprise and then said: "Ah, you've already spoken to your grandfather about this, haven't you? Although I don't think either one or the other will be good for us, the latter would be a disaster."
"What are you doing right now?" I asked instead of answering.
"I'm going through some documents to get an overview of how these developments could affect our business, especially with foreign countries."
"And what do you think will happen?" I asked.
"I hope that we can maintain a good proportion of our sales. Deliveries to France, the Netherlands and the UK will certainly not be affected too much."
Typical of my father, as always, he only thought about his business, even though it was not even his own, but that of the abbey. Always dutiful to everyone but us, his family. He would be surprised how wrong he was in his judgement.
"I actually meant what's going to happen to all of us here now. Have you thought about that too?"
He seemed to be surprised by this question.
"We'll have to wait and see how things develop, Elisabeth, then we'll see."
That seemed to be the end of the private part of the conversation for him.
"What about Edouard and Emil?" Two of my brothers also worked at the Fabrique d'Eglise, "do you think you'll have to lay people off?"
He looked at me, startled, with raised eyebrows.
"Absolutely not, only over my dead body."
I kissed him on his forehead and thought that I do hope this won't happen. Then I went to my mother, who had retired to her parlour and was now working on some embroidery with fidgety movements.
"How are you, Maman?" I asked, without hoping for an honest response.
"Good, very good Elisabeth. How are Adelaide and Joseph doing?" she immediately diverted the conversation.
"They're fine, but they're both very affected by the events in the Balkans and we're very worried about what this could mean for us in the coming weeks and months. Doesn't that worry you too?"
I saw her flinch briefly, although I didn't mean to complain in any way. She sighed before she started to reply.
"Of course I'm very worried too, not least because of your brothers, who might have to join the army, but you can't talk to him about something like that," she gestured towards my dad’s office.
We looked at each other and for the first time in my not-so-young life, I had the feeling that something like an emotional bridge was forming between us. Her look seemed anguished and I was very touched by the fact that she exposed herself like this to me without any shyness. How often had I wished for this during my childhood and youth, but it had never happened. Now we took each other in our arms and started to cry, like two people who haven't seen each other for decades. Such close physical contact with my mum was alien to me, but now I was letting myself in for it. I finally wanted to know what she really felt.
"I'm terrified that this will turn our whole lives upside down," she said, her voice sounding tight. "We already had this unfortunate war in 1871, in which we were largely spared, but this time it could be completely different."
"What do you mean by turning our lives upside down?"
"Well, the men might have to go to war and might not come home again. We could lose our livelihood if they destroy the abbey and so on."
And so on - I was probably one of the so on, because I wouldn't go to war.
"I don't think they'll call up old men like Emil and Edouard unless they volunteer," I replied in a harsher voice than I intended.
I could feel her freeze and that ended this moment of supposed closeness. She led go of me and took a step back.
"You have a good life with your grandparents - we have to take care of ours."
She turned round and left the room and I thought: "Well done Elisabeth, you've hit the wall again."
I took my bag and left my parents' house with a quiet: "See you soon", in the direction of the office.
The following morning, the general mobilisation of the army was announced with proclamations in all the larger towns and villages. The government probably feared a German invasion and did not want to accept it without a fight. Compared to the German army of millions, our contingent of around two hundred thousand soldiers seemed downright ridiculous, but nevertheless we were unwilling to stand idly by and watch a possible violation of our neutrality. The call-ups would not affect my family directly, as the younger generation would be called up. Nevertheless, you could, of course, volunteer and, knowing Emil and Edouard, they would feel that their honour was at stake and they would stand by their country, which is what finally happened.
Just two days later, on the second of August, the German Empire sent a diplomatic note demanding free passage through Belgian territory. The reason given was the need to protect the Belgian border with France, as the latter had already amassed troops in the region. In the event of refusal, neutral Belgium was to be regarded as an enemy.
In the course of this ultimatum, our King Albert - who himself stemmed from a German noble family - rode on horseback to the Brussels Parliament for the deliberations, cheered on by the population. As expected, the German ultimatum was rejected, but this did not go down well with us.
The Germans attacked on the fourth of August.
III
Whenever I returned to my home after successful negotiations, I always felt like a predator dragging its prey into its den. There was usually a great sense of contentment inside me and all I longed for was a temporary return to my normal life until I was drawn out into the big wide world again.
Although I was very much looking forward to meeting friends and acquaintances this time, the events of the last two days were already nagging at me during my journey back home. Actually, I just wanted to look forward to tonight, but Hancart and his painting kept popping up in my mind's eye. I just couldn't shake them off and so I drove rather grumpily along the country road towards Namur.
If you included the breaks, it was almost a day's journey and I wished I already had it behind me. On the other hand, the areas I travelled through were very beautiful, if only I hadn't kept thinking about what had happened in Bruges.
I must have been there more than ten times now to finally conclude this important contract. For my trips I preferred to take the route through Luxembourg. After Namur, I would always take the road along the Meuse to the small town of Dinant, where I like to have lunch at the restaurant "Zum grünen Hirschen".
Today, thanks to my visit to the police station, I was a little late for the first time and, much to my displeasure, the kitchen was already closed. Fortunately, I met the landlord, Monsieur Dupont, who was just getting ready to wash the last of the glasses. He was a stout man, whose girth showed that he not only loved cooking, but also his own food. We already knew each other from my previous visits, so at least I got a beer and we started chatting.
"Well, you're late today, Monsieur Schneider, has something come up?" he wanted to know straight away.
"Not really, but there was a death in Bruges that delayed me a bit."
I could have bitten my tongue immediately, but now it was out.
"Death?" he shouted, surprised and at the same time curious.
"Yes, a tragic death - is there anything left to eat?" I asked quickly to distract him and turn his attention more to my physical needs.
"Yes, of course, Monsieur Schneider. I'll make something for you - even though the kitchen is already closed," he said meaningfully. It almost sounded as if the kitchen was a higher institution that would forbid him from serving food at this hour, although he himself was the cook.
"But you'll have to tell me about this death," he continued with a determined look.
Well, its history for food then. I thought it was a fair trade, even if I still had to pay something for it in the end.
"Yes, of course, how long will it take to prepare my lunch and where can I stretch my legs until then?"
"Well, I reckon if you're back here within 45 minutes, everything will be ready and until then, why don't you just go down to the banks of the Meuse? It's very nice there and you can also take a look at the old town."
With that, he disappeared into his kitchen. Following his advice, I set off at a leisurely pace and headed down to the river.
On my previous trips, I had always arrived during the normal opening hours of the kitchen and had therefore never taken the time to visit the town itself. Therefore, I was pleasantly surprised when I strolled along the riverside road and noticed the beautiful old houses, including a church with a pretty onion-domed tower.
There was a lot of hustle and bustle on the promenade as an excursion boat had just docked and a large group of visitors spilled out onto the street. They gathered around a tour guide and as I had sat down on a bench right next to him, I didn't think it was improper for me to listen to his talk too.
"Dear visitors, we are now in Dinant, the last stop on our tour of the Meuse. If you take a look around, you will see some very beautiful old buildings that give this place a very idyllic feel. It is idyllic again today," - he paused meaningfully - "but it wasn't always like this."
His voice now took on a somewhat dramatic tone and I was very curious as to what would come next when he asked his group to follow him further into the city. Damn, I thought, now he's running away and I won't find out what these events, apparently in the past, were all about. I hesitated for a while, but then did something I would never have done normally - I simply joined the group.
We continued towards the city centre and the church when he stopped abruptly and ordered us to be silent again.
"What you see here is not really old, ladies and gentlemen," he explained in German with a lovely French accent. "In fact, most of it was restored just over thirty years ago."
A murmur went through the group and you could see from the faces that everyone was trying to determine the year of construction by calculating backwards. As an engineer, this was very easy for me and it was clear that he was aiming for the period immediately after World War One. But what had happened back then?
"During the First World War, Dinant was the scene of major battles " At that moment, a bus passed behind us with its
roaring diesel engine and, as I was at the back of the group, I couldn't hear him anymore. When the bus finally disappeared, he fell theatrically silent, while a certain disapproval could be seen on the faces of the listeners.
"Who did this?" someone spoke up in front of me. Instead of answering, the guide walked towards a glass case in which various photos and explanations were apparently displayed. As the paying members of the group huddled in front of it, my pocket watch chimed, signalling that my lunch should now be ready. Although I was extremely hungry, at that moment I wished it had taken a little longer. Disappointed I turned away from the group and walked briskly back to the restaurant.
Dupont greeted me at the gate and showed me to my table, where I was immediately served a beef stew with potatoes and salad. It was accompanied by a good red wine and of course he also joined me.
"I very much hope you will enjoy it, Monsieur Schneider," he re-opened our conversation, which I only acknowledged with a nod because my mouth was already full.
"What was that again about the death in Bruges?" he wanted to know.
I finished my mouthful and then told him about the dead antiques dealer and how I had stumbled across his body by chance. I had the impression that he even went a little pale when I told him about the condition of the corpse, so I thought that was enough of the details. Of course, I didn't mention the matter of the picture.
"What was the name of the shop again?" he asked me, although I hadn't even mentioned the name yet.
"La Vieille Vitrine," I replied and he seemed satisfied with that. With a sigh, he got up and shuffled away and I was finally able to concentrate on my meal. As usual, it was delicious and when I finished my coffee, he approached me again.
"Did you like it, Monsieur Schneider?" he enquired, although you could certainly tell from the satisfied look on my face.
"It was excellent as always, Monsieur Dupont. The meat in particular was incomparably tender."
