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

when it smashed against the rocks some fifty metres below was drowned in his excitement. As fast as the narrow winding steps of the castle ruins would allow, he went in pursuit.

By the time he caught up with them, they were already installed in the restaurant where they had agreed to meet from the outset. The place was not quite as full as it had been before. But the smoke was just as thick and the cacophonous chatter round the tables almost as dense. His heart sank when he failed to find them in the commotion.

“Frank!” The name strained to reach him through the clatter and hubbub. “Frank!” None of the faces in the room meant anything to him. But the voice was unmistakable. He quickly turned. Even in his eagerness to believe, he felt unable to trust his own eyes. It was difficult to make the link between the Achim he knew so well and the figure who stood before him now. In all the years they had known each other, Frank had never before seen him dressed in the hearty outdoor attire of a hiker. The walking boots, the thick red knee-socks, the breeches – even the rucksack. He was almost unrecognisable.

It was his eyes that gave him away. Slightly bulbous – reminiscent of Peter Lorre’s Kürten, the child murderer in Fritz Lang’s film M – yet paradoxically so warm and affectionate. And now positively sparkling with the electricity of the moment.

The two men both stood for some time between the thronging tables of the restaurant, gazing at each other in disbelief. Frank’s immediate impulse was to throw himself into his old friend’s arms and embrace him. And it was plain that Achim would have done the same. But they both seemed instinctively to sense the need for caution, for merging with the crowd, perhaps because they were still so close to the border.

Frank surmised that this probably also explained Achim’s strange garb. So, trying to keep the lid on their excitement for the moment, they self-consciously shook hands. The gesture struck him as a preposterously formal pantomime. And he instantly abandoned all pretence, putting his left arm around his old friend’s shoulder, hugging it tightly. Achim responded. But it seemed a mannered reciprocation, as if playing to the audience, and he discreetly led Frank to a table in the corner. He really did appear a changed person to Frank since they had last seen each other. Worried or anxious in some way.

“Gertrude,” he said as they reached the table, “you remember Götz. Likes to call himself Frank.”

She smiled and gave him her hand across the table.

“You look as lovely as ever, Gertrude,” Frank said, scowling at Achim’s introduction and thinking how ashen and drawn she looked against his memory of her. No longer the vivacious young woman, but visibly aged since they had last met. He turned to the two baby boys asleep on the bench seat beside her.

“You two have been busy since I last saw you,” he said with a smile in Achim’s direction.

“They’re very tired,” Gertrude replied. “It’s been a long journey.”

“I can imagine. How was it? Did you meet with any problems?”

“No. Not really,’ Achim said wearily. “I’d been told it was becoming ever more difficult to get into Switzerland, and I didn’t want to get caught with this,” he continued, pointing ponderously to the small rucksack beside him. “So this seemed a good way to come.”

They had so much to say to each other. Yet a silence broke over the table which left Frank feeling uncomfortable. There was a furtiveness about his old friend that he had not seen in him before. He fixed his gaze on the rucksack.

“What have you got in there?”

“It’s a long story.”

The words hung like a fly teetering on the outer strand of a web, wary of entering any further. And the curious silence that followed was drowned out by the cacophony of voices around them.

“But tell me,” said Gertrude when the cacophony died down, “why do you insist on being called Frank? Götz is a wonderful name. It has such pedigree.”

“Apparently, it was my mother’s choice,” Frank replied. “She was a great Goethe enthusiast.” This was all he offered by way of explanation. It was not a subject he wanted to dwell on. “Achim,” he continued, raising his voice again when the crowd around them resumed their cacophony. “You can’t imagine how pleased I am you’re here. Slowly I feel our dream could be coming true.”

Achim looked suspiciously across the table. Frank saw himself confronted with a strange expression on his friend’s face that he could not recall ever having seen before – his eyes slightly sad and lips parted just a fraction, as if he was about to say something. Then his face relaxed again, and his lips broke into a smile.

“What dream is that, my old friend?”

“You know exactly what I’m talking about. We’ve discussed it so often in the past. The day we’d form our own theatre group and take the world by storm.” Frank reached over the table and touched his arm with wishfully conspiratorial zeal.

“And there could be no better time or place than right here, right now. The place is teeming with opportunity. They have their theatres and cabarets all right. And attract huge audiences most nights. But a lot of them are quite introverted, all busy examining the Confederation’s navel. There’s a demand for something else. The interest is there. They want to know what’s happening on the other side of the border. And we could do that, Achim, the two of us.”

Gertrude looked at Achim. She appeared anxious and worried. But her eyes betrayed more besides. There was the vague hint of some undefined entreaty. Achim said nothing. The two babies began to stir in the noise around them. This only added to the tension.

“That was all idle talk, Frank. In idle times,” Achim said at last. “But times have changed. And when you’ve had all the sleepless