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

was lying in bed this morning, thinking things over. And I came to the conclusion it would probably be a good idea if I disappeared for a week or two. My sister lives in North Germany. Her husband’s in the army. So I thought it might be a good idea to go up and visit her. It would give you a break from me. And maybe if I come back in a week or two, your husband might have some news for me.”

Marthe still had the piece of paper in her hand that Ellen had given her. She appeared to be too engrossed in it to absorb what Ellen had just said.

“And I need to speak to my employer again, as well,” Ellen added. “They’ve extended my leave until the end of the month. But I’m not sure how much longer they’ll be prepared to wait for me to return.”

“Did your husband write this?” Marthe said, ignoring Ellen’s words. “It’s very beautiful in a way. But very personal. Not easy to understand. Quite fascinating really,” and she handed it back to Ellen. “Why don’t you show it to your sister? Maybe she can help throw some light on it.”

Ellen could not imagine how Beth might be in a position to throw even the merest hint of a light on the situation. But Marthe’s words at least showed she had been listening. And Ellen took them as a sign that her plan had met with approval.

“Madame Doll will be pleased,” Marthe said.

“Pardon?”

“Madame Doll. My cleaning lady. Since you’re here, she’s been complaining of the extra work.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t realise.”

“Please!” implored Marthe. “You must not apologise.” She leaned over with a smile and touched Ellen’s arm. But Ellen caught a hint of reproach under this camouflage. Or was she being oversensitive?

“These frontaliers are all the same,” Marthe added, sensing the need for some kind of explanation. “Either we are making too many demands or we are not trusting them. They’re never satisfied.”

“Who?” asked Ellen, confused by this sudden digression.

“The frontaliers. I’m sorry, ‘frontier workers’ was the expression I think you used. The people who cross the border for work.”

Ellen nodded. She welcomed this trivial departure, which allowed her to avoid talking any more about Frank. Looking back on this confessional kind of atmosphere with Marthe, she had to concede that the relationship had its strange moments. To an outsider like Marthe, the strangeness must have been even more apparent. So Ellen was pleased to have the opportunity to make her excuses and go upstairs to begin preparations for her journey north.

The following day, Ellen left. Marthe had kindly let her use the phone to warn her sister she would be coming. The call from Switzerland came as something of a surprise to her sister. Ellen had not even told Beth about Frank’s disappearance in the first place. And although she did not seem overjoyed at the prospect of her sister’s visit, she was clearly burning with curiosity to know what was going on – so much so that Ellen was even able to convince herself that, deep down, her sister cared and was really looking forward to seeing her.

Dr Zellweger appeared genuinely disappointed when Ellen told him of her intention to leave at such short notice, and not only because he had obviously come to look on her as a companion for his wife.

“What a shame,” he said, “I have become so accustomed to see you around the house.”

She found the remark rather odd since he was so often in the clinic that they rarely ever saw each other. Even at the weekends he was out in the country looking after his mysterious protégé. Ellen therefore assumed he was simply trying to be excruciatingly polite.

Although he could only have been about forty, Dr Zellweger seemed to come from another age. It was not simply the clothes he wore – the bow tie, waistcoat and watchchain, or the moustache so neatly trimmed and slightly stained with nicotine from years of pipe-smoking. Most of all perhaps it was his attitudes, his behaviour, the way he kept his wife at home. And it irritated Ellen that Marthe seemed happy to put up with this. She wondered whether this might change now that women had been given the vote.

But Dr Zellweger was always very correct and courteous. And, of course, it went without saying that he would see Ellen safely to the railway station.

“It can be a little confusing,” he explained as they drove to the station. “It’s not a big city, but we have three big stations here. There is one for Switzerland and one for each country that has a border with the city.”

So he drove her to the German station. And in his impeccably considerate way, Dr Zellweger insisted on accompanying her to the ticket office and waving her off. Ellen could not put her finger on it, but the station interior gave off a feel and a mood that was at odds with the city outside.

“It’s different.”

Ellen spoke these words almost under her breath. They were not intended for conversation. But Dr Zellweger was quick to pick up on them.

“As I said, it’s the German station. It’s owned by Germany. Even the track is owned by Germany. And the customs post is here in the station.” He pointed over to the far end of the ticket hall, where two official-looking men stood in uniform, complete with peaked caps.

Perhaps Ellen was feeling particularly paranoid after the events of the weeks just passed, but she found the station here strangely threatening. She tried to imagine what it must have been like before and during the war. All those poor Jewish refugees trying to flee the country into Switzerland.

“They were dark times,” Dr Zellweger said, as if responding to her thoughts. “And it was especially dark at this border. Of course, most people were horrified when the railway company raised the Nazi flag above the building. It was like an insult to the city.