The Dark Frontier A. Decker (i like reading TXT) 📖

mother that I should be reading a woman she saw simply as a temptress to so many great men of her time. I think she thought I would be led astray in some way. She can’t seem to understand that women are no longer defined by the men in their lives, that we have views of our own.

“But she’s nothing like as bad as my mother-in-law, who said she would refuse to let Urs marry me when I entered her house one day carrying a book called Women in Playpens by Iris von Roten. Such a brilliant writer. So inspiring. Even now my husband’s mother attacks me for wearing trousers – ‘Why do you insist on walking around looking like that awful von Roten woman?’ she says.”

Marthe’s eyes were alight. They sparked with more than a hint of rage. Ellen again recalled the professor’s word for Marthe Zellweger: irrepressible.

“It’s not as if any of this is really new here. Do you speak French?” she asked.

Ellen shook her head.

“Then you’ve probably never read Louis Aragon. He wrote a novel called Les cloches de Bâle set against the Peace Congress that was held here before the First World War. Everyone was there. Even your own Mr Hardie. And the book closes with Clara Zetkin’s rousing speech in the cathedral. ‘This is where the romance of chivalry ends’, she said. ‘Here for the first time in the world, room is made for true love’.

“She was German of course. But that speech inspired a lot of Swiss people here. Can you imagine? A political speech by a Communist woman in the cathedral of this bourgeois city? Nothing like that had ever happened before. And perhaps because of that day, this city has produced so many strong women of its own. In fact, women already won a vote in local elections here a long time before last week’s referendum.

“Oh dear, I’m sorry to bore you Ellen,” Marthe said, pausing for breath when she noticed Ellen’s expression glaze over with this flood of information. “It’s a passion of mine. I majored in history. With sociology and psychology.”

Aware though she was of how daunted Ellen seemed to be by the monologue, Marthe was not ready to let up just yet.

“You know, when I read in the newspaper what is happening in your country, or even just across the border in Germany or France, I realise we’re still a good half century behind the times. It’s mostly just a fear of change. If you’re here long enough, Ellen, you will find this is a country driven by angst. Let me show you something.”

Marthe rose from her chair and beckoned Ellen to follow her out of the lounge. Opening a door on the other side of the hallway, she flicked a light switch and led Ellen down a staircase into the cellar. At the bottom of the steps was a door to the left and a door to the right. But it was the door which greeted Ellen when she turned to follow Marthe back around the bottom of the steps that took her breath away. It stood open. A massive concrete door that must have been a good foot or more thick. And on the other side of this twelve-inch threshold lay another door. Marthe opened this and beckoned Ellen inside.

She shivered at the coldness of the room. The chill was underlined by the spartan, grey concrete walls with piping and equipment on the far side. Only the shelves neatly stacked with cans of food and a large wine rack alongside them offered any sense of comfort.

“This is our bunker,” Marthe announced. There was a hint of embarrassed irony in her voice. “All new houses must have one. It’s the law. Everyone is terrified that the Soviets could drop a bomb on us any day. It’s even worse in the last years since they ordered their tanks onto the streets of Prague.” Her dark sapphire eyes appeared to seethe with a frustration that bordered on anger, which then visibly ebbed away when she added: “We’re not quite so bad in the French-speaking part of the country, where I come from – or even here in the Basel area. Here they think a little like the French speakers. And often vote the same way.”

Marthe paused, letting a smile cross her lips and a sparkle light up her eyes.

“This is one of my favourites,” she said, as she reached out to one of the shelves and took a book from behind the cans of food. It was more of a booklet than a book. A red tract emblazoned on the cover with huge white letters that were indecipherable to Ellen.

“Civil defence,” explained Marthe. “Our government distributed this to everyone after the Czech crisis. And Urs feels a duty to keep it on the shelf. It’s full of such useful information like what to do if Switzerland is invaded. It’s unbelievable the fear and anxiety that grips this country sometimes. And when people are not worrying about invasion, then they’re feeling alarmed by the vote for women, attacks on Swissair, getting swamped by foreigners or even the frontaliers.”

Marthe Zellweger’s voice quivered slightly with exasperation as she took back the booklet, placed it on the shelf and turned to leave the shelter, guiding Ellen back out to the stairwell. But closing the door behind her seemed to help Marthe regain a sense of composure. And the puzzled expression on Ellen’s face was sufficient to restore her wits.

“Sorry. I don’t know how you say that in English,” Marthe apologised, stopping halfway up the stairs to ponder. “This country is quite schizophrenic about foreigners. They are so important for the economy. But at the same time there are many people who live in fear of being overwhelmed by them. Even the ones who live just across the border in Alsace or Germany and simply cross into Switzerland for work, then go home again in the evening. These are the frontaliers. People who cross the