The Dark Frontier by A. Decker (best books to read non fiction .txt) 📕

She said nothing. Simply buttoned up the jacket.

Having come this far, Frank was not going to be put off now.

“Do you know Lisettli’s wine tavern?” he asked. “On Spalenberg?”

Still she said nothing. But he fancied that he saw a trace of acknowledgment in her expression.

“I’ll be there at six this evening,” he insisted. “If you’d care to join me, I’d be delighted.”

Frank turned and made to leave. Standing in the doorway, he turned back with a nodding gesture towards the nameplate outside: “What does the ‘P’ stand for?”

“Patricia” came a reluctant reply.

“My name is Eigenmann. Frank Eigenmann.” With that, he left. And felt ludicrously fulfilled by this venture. It all seemed worth the effort at the time. But he could not remotely envisage the trouble it would bring.

No reasonable excuses could explain his lateness for the rendezvous with Achim. He had started the day full of expectation and excitement at the prospect of seeing him again. And the reasons for his distraction were only partly to do with Patricia Roche. After leaving her place, he had spent most of that morning wandering aimlessly through the streets of the old town and along the banks of the river recalling her every move, her every hint of injury in those sadly sparkling eyes. But she was not his sole preoccupation. He had other things on his mind. It was the sight of her with Willi Breitner that had brought them to the surface.

Frank lost count of the times he crossed first one bridge, then another, on this planless journey through his thoughts. But every time he did so, he stopped, compelled by the strong current of the water as it swirled and eddied away beneath the bridge. Above him a faint winter sun eased its way through the cirrus clouds for the first time in more than a week. Close to the right bank of the river downstream of Frank, a boat bobbed in the water. A boat beneath a sunny sky, he mused. And time stood still with him as he watched.

He stood mesmerised and confused by the message delivered by this river on its journey to the coldness of the North Sea, taking it through the heart of his homeland. A heart that had long since started to fail. Every eddy round the pillars of the bridge below brought the knowledge home to him: this water would soon be sweeping through the narrowing arteries of his home. Only then did the meaning of that message dawn on him.

Frank was put in mind of a report he had read in the National-Zeitung. A student had recently taken his life in this city and left a suicide note describing his vision. The banks of this river would burn, he wrote, and their raging fire would not be put out until the river overflowed with blood. It was a vision that had robbed that student of the inner strength to cope with the senselessness of the coming chaos and the river of blood which he saw. And at that moment, standing on the bridge, Frank felt he could understand his motivation.

Why it was that Willi Breitner brought this deeply depressing vision to the surface was not entirely clear. By all accounts the man was a villain with friends in the SS, someone to steer well clear of. But Frank had no reason to let the racketeer impinge on his life in this way. Perhaps it was due to his sense of disquiet at seeing Breitner in the company of such a fragile beauty as Patricia Roche. Or maybe it was simply the fact that he reminded Frank of Berlin: the smell of the spreading cancer in the streets, the harbingers of death and decay on every corner.

It was these troubling thoughts which made him late that morning. And which presumably also left him so unprepared for the long-awaited reunion when finally he stepped into the restaurant where they had agreed to meet. A place out in the hinterland hard on the frontier between France and Switzerland.

It was mid-week, and he was surprised to find the restaurant in this quiet little village bustling with custom. Frank stood close to the bar, searching through the smoke for a familiar face. The waitress jostled past, cursing under her breath. Or was she just telling him there was no room? It was hard to know. At all events, even allowing for the distortions of the smoke-filled atmosphere, no one looking remotely like Achim was to be seen. Had he run into trouble at the border maybe? One thing was clear. There was no room here to sit and wait.

It occurred to him that a walk up to the castle ruins overlooking the village would not only enable him to kill time. It might also give him a good view of the surrounding area – in particular of the border where Achim would be crossing. He emerged from the restaurant into a long stream of people strolling past up the hill in animated conversation. Once the stream had passed, he followed on behind.

By now, the sun was already beginning to lose the battle with the cumulus clouds gathering to the west. It brought a chill to the air on the steep walk up the hill. And he buttoned up his coat right to the neck. Every so often a pool of sun ran over the valley, lending the grimly naked trees an ephemeral glow that hinted at the capricious beauty of this quiet enclave. Frank could almost sense the perfumes and the resonance of spring as he pictured this place a month or two hence.

When Achim had suggested in his letter that they meet in this village, Frank bought a guidebook of the area. And walking now behind the long trail of people up this road, which was little better than a farm track, he remembered that it was described as a path of pilgrimage. A description that seemed to be