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...now on with the story PK 
Hey, watch who you are calling what here!!!! ..... Barb never forgets a slight....
Doesn't quite appear ... given my situation in that pic ... ... like I can do much about that remembered slight
P
Pia
Guest
Too sexy a face - messing me up!!!!!View attachment 179892 Doesn't quite appear ... given my situation in that pic ...
... like I can do much about that remembered slight
P
Pia
Guest
Well, there you go.....AWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWW
P
Pia
Guest
Chapter 11
The sun has risen, reflecting brightly from the roofs of the seaside town, the warm air quickly filling with the sounds of holiday makers and stall holders in the Wochenmarkt, horse-drawn carriages rattling down SeeStraße, children splashing in the sea and building their make-believe castles in the sand on the Nordstrand. It’s a normal day full of the small pleasures of life. Who could know what sadness lies behind the curtains of the house in Hubertus Allee and the shuttered windows of the lovely white-painted villa on Bülow Allee?
Konstanze snuffles and wipes a tear from her cheek as she busies herself folding Tristana’s clothes into one of the packing cases lying on the bed. Beautiful summer dresses, gowns for the evening dinners that would not be taking place. Gloves and hats and stockings. Melot enters, telling her to hurry; that the Berlin train will be leaving soon and the tickets are bought. She pauses, looking up into his eyes, trying to discern the man behind the face. She had never really looked at his face before. All those years working in the household and she had never really known him at all. He left the room, busying himself with arrangements. Her tears came again; deep gasps and sobs as she fell to the floor, her face buried in the soft cotton sheets.
In another bedroom, in another house, Gisela lay, hiding herself in a pillow, groaning in pain, thrashing her hands into the cushions, screaming in torment.
“Why Brangane? Why? Why is this happening? It is all happening so fast. I am so lost Brangane. I have lost everything! I have lost my life! Why?”
Brangane places her face close to Gisela’s, stroking her red curls, a finger on her lips.
“Oh my poor darling sis. I… I don’t know what to say my dearest one….I….”
“There’s nothing to say! It’s all over. Everything. Nothing can ever be right again in this world. I…I…There’s nothing to live for Brangane! Nothing! Why? Why has this happened? Why…Why didn’t you warn us Brangane? Why? Why did they come? Oh Brangane! Why?”
“I… I was afraid Gisela. I…I must have slept…Just a moment… I must have slept…I told you that the dawn…the dawn…Oh Gisela! I’m so so sorry Gisela! My sweetest loveliest Gisela! I am so so sorry!”
Gisela pulls herself up, sitting back against the pillows, wiping her tear-streaked face.
“No. I cannot let it happen. I’m glad it happened. I mean I could never have married him. Not ever. It would have been a lie… I… I love her Brangane, and I will only ever love her and I have to be with her. I know that now, totally, utterly. I have to be with her Brangane. Do you understand? I have to go to her… You must help me Brangane! I can only love Tristana, only her, forever!”
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P
Pia
Guest
Tristana sits silently at her desk, staring at the leaves fluttering silently outside in the summery breeze. Her tears have faded from her face. She wears a loose night-gown, her hands lying still by the blank paper, her fingers unwilling to take the pen and wet it in the darkness of the ink-well.
Twice she moves to pick it up, replacing it each time with a sigh; conscious of the silence surrounding her, conscious of the thoughts flooding her mind. She feels her lips, pushed tight, the one against the other. She hears her breathing, the tick of a clock on the landing beyond the closed bedroom door.
Twice she moves to pick it up, replacing it each time with a sigh; conscious of the silence surrounding her, conscious of the thoughts flooding her mind. She feels her lips, pushed tight, the one against the other. She hears her breathing, the tick of a clock on the landing beyond the closed bedroom door.
Monday 18th August, 1913, Zoppot
Dearest darling Gisela,
I don’t know how to begin. I know you understand. This was never meant to happen, not in the way it did. And now it seems we are ruined. As I sit here, looking through my window – I say my window, no more mine than anything else that surrounds me; “my” clothes, “my” house, they are all someone else's, not mine, it seems – as I look through the window at the lime tree outside, I think to myself “lucky lime tree. You will never know the sadness of despair, of betrayal. You pass the seasons in a serene harmony, the buds of May, the brilliant green of summer, the gold of October, the darkness of the winter nights. Always secure, always returning”.
But us? We came together as two strangers; not even friends at first, then growing closer and closer until, last night, it seemed, briefly, too briefly, that we had become one. A one that would grow strong together, knowing each other’s joys and sorrows, caring, adoring, forever.
I imagined us in Berlin, my sweetest one. I imagined us at the opera, at the Philharmonic Hall. I imagined us walking in the Teutoberg Forest, with all our heroes of the past. I imagined nights at quiet rustic inns, shyly booking two rooms for the night and smiling over our shared breakfasts in the dining room. I imagined us as forty year olds, visiting the galleries in Vienna, touring our great cathedrals, quietly listening to evensong in Aachen and in Köln. I imagined us growing old together, slowly wandering the shady paths in Baden Baden, remembering our youthful trysts. All these things I dreamt of Gisela, which can never happen.
I think of our love, Gisela. As wide as our dear homeland, from the Maas to the Memel. As deep as the deepest mine, a mine of gold. And I know we will always love each other, Gisela. That Markus cannot set that aside. That the rules of men cannot take away our desire, our pure, deep, enduring, eternal love.
And now I have to go. I hear them in the hallway below, with bags and valises made ready for the train. They are taking me back to Berlin my love. To the house that is no longer my home. I will be gone from here in an hour, no more. My summer days are over, autumn is come early it seems. But I will write to you. I will think of you every single moment.
Know, Gisela, that I am with you. That I will always be with you, wherever you are, wherever I am. That we cannot be parted. That we will be together again, someday, and that the summer will return. I know, in my heart, it will.
All my love, always,
Your sweetest darling,
Tristana.
Dearest darling Gisela,
I don’t know how to begin. I know you understand. This was never meant to happen, not in the way it did. And now it seems we are ruined. As I sit here, looking through my window – I say my window, no more mine than anything else that surrounds me; “my” clothes, “my” house, they are all someone else's, not mine, it seems – as I look through the window at the lime tree outside, I think to myself “lucky lime tree. You will never know the sadness of despair, of betrayal. You pass the seasons in a serene harmony, the buds of May, the brilliant green of summer, the gold of October, the darkness of the winter nights. Always secure, always returning”.
But us? We came together as two strangers; not even friends at first, then growing closer and closer until, last night, it seemed, briefly, too briefly, that we had become one. A one that would grow strong together, knowing each other’s joys and sorrows, caring, adoring, forever.
I imagined us in Berlin, my sweetest one. I imagined us at the opera, at the Philharmonic Hall. I imagined us walking in the Teutoberg Forest, with all our heroes of the past. I imagined nights at quiet rustic inns, shyly booking two rooms for the night and smiling over our shared breakfasts in the dining room. I imagined us as forty year olds, visiting the galleries in Vienna, touring our great cathedrals, quietly listening to evensong in Aachen and in Köln. I imagined us growing old together, slowly wandering the shady paths in Baden Baden, remembering our youthful trysts. All these things I dreamt of Gisela, which can never happen.
I think of our love, Gisela. As wide as our dear homeland, from the Maas to the Memel. As deep as the deepest mine, a mine of gold. And I know we will always love each other, Gisela. That Markus cannot set that aside. That the rules of men cannot take away our desire, our pure, deep, enduring, eternal love.
And now I have to go. I hear them in the hallway below, with bags and valises made ready for the train. They are taking me back to Berlin my love. To the house that is no longer my home. I will be gone from here in an hour, no more. My summer days are over, autumn is come early it seems. But I will write to you. I will think of you every single moment.
Know, Gisela, that I am with you. That I will always be with you, wherever you are, wherever I am. That we cannot be parted. That we will be together again, someday, and that the summer will return. I know, in my heart, it will.
All my love, always,
Your sweetest darling,
Tristana.
P
Pia
Guest
A tap at the door. A whispered voice.
“It’s time Tristana. I’m sorry, we have to go”
She pauses. This is how the condemned man must feel when the gaoler turns the key in the cell door for the final time, the scaffold beckoning in the bright day beyond.
“I…I’m almost ready. Give me a moment to dress. Oh, Konstanze, please take this for me, to Gisela’s house. Don’t let Markus or Melot know. Please take it, today, as soon as I have left. Will you?”
She folds the paper into an envelope, holds it to her breast, kisses it, and passes it with a shaking hand to her maid.
“Of course my sweet girl, of course I will. Oh my poor sweet girl!”
Tristana takes Konstanze’s hands in her own, raises them to her lips.
“Don’t cry Konstanze. Don’t cry for me. Be strong for me. That’s what I need right now. Will you follow on? Will you come to Berlin too? I will need you there. You’re the only one I can trust. Will you come?”
“Yes, yes I will. Melot has agreed that I should come with the rest of your things on the late train. I will be with you this evening, in Berlin. I will be there for you Tristana. And I will do your errand first. Now, we must go. I will wait downstairs. Hurry. We cannot be late.”
Melot is waiting by the carriage, Markus nowhere to be seen. The journey to the station takes only a few minutes. The platform is a bustle of packing cases and trolleys, sacks of produce, churns of milk. Small children worrying their nannies as they charge up and down, weaving between the waiting passengers, dodging the station officer with his flags.
A distant whistle and a blast of steam and suddenly the engine is heaving and panting to a screeching halt. All is momentary confusion. Excited holiday-makers jumping down, luggage offloaded, porters called. Matrons looking lost, not knowing which way to turn for the exit and their waiting transport, an officer smart in his uniform of grey offers his hand to a pretty girl, helping her down the steps. And at the same time passengers for Danzig, for Posen, and Berlin clamber on board, check their bookings and find their compartments and seats.
Tristana, her face utterly calm, ascends the three steps to the carriage. Melot slides open the compartment door and she settles herself beside the window, her chin held on her hand, her dark curls against the glass, gazing out beyond the station to the thin line of sea in the distance. Her bags are brought in, placed in the rack above. She turns her head, slightly.
“So, I am going. Are you happy Melot? That I am going? Are you happy with your work?”
“Miss Tristana, I am doing, I did, my job. I…”
“I thought of you all those years as a friend, Melot, as someone I could trust. Now you have destroyed me. Did you hate me all those years Melot? Did you? Or did you…No…I won’t ask that. I hope you can bear to live with your heart. Mine is broken. I am sad just to look at you. Will you return to Berlin also?”
“No miss, I am to stay here with Master Markus. Konstanze will follow, has she not told you? You will be met at the Hauptbahnhof. I… I am sorry… I hope the journey is not too difficult. She will be with you later today. I think everything is onboard now, so I will go.”
“Then goodbye. I will not see you again, I think”.
The carriage is suddenly shrouded in steam and a roar as the engine comes to life, slowly at first, then, jolting over the points, settling into a steady rhythm as the villas and houses of the town recede and the window is filled with the long, sandy coastline as the train rattles towards the towers and warehouses of Danzig.
“It’s time Tristana. I’m sorry, we have to go”
She pauses. This is how the condemned man must feel when the gaoler turns the key in the cell door for the final time, the scaffold beckoning in the bright day beyond.
“I…I’m almost ready. Give me a moment to dress. Oh, Konstanze, please take this for me, to Gisela’s house. Don’t let Markus or Melot know. Please take it, today, as soon as I have left. Will you?”
She folds the paper into an envelope, holds it to her breast, kisses it, and passes it with a shaking hand to her maid.
“Of course my sweet girl, of course I will. Oh my poor sweet girl!”
Tristana takes Konstanze’s hands in her own, raises them to her lips.
“Don’t cry Konstanze. Don’t cry for me. Be strong for me. That’s what I need right now. Will you follow on? Will you come to Berlin too? I will need you there. You’re the only one I can trust. Will you come?”
“Yes, yes I will. Melot has agreed that I should come with the rest of your things on the late train. I will be with you this evening, in Berlin. I will be there for you Tristana. And I will do your errand first. Now, we must go. I will wait downstairs. Hurry. We cannot be late.”
Melot is waiting by the carriage, Markus nowhere to be seen. The journey to the station takes only a few minutes. The platform is a bustle of packing cases and trolleys, sacks of produce, churns of milk. Small children worrying their nannies as they charge up and down, weaving between the waiting passengers, dodging the station officer with his flags.
A distant whistle and a blast of steam and suddenly the engine is heaving and panting to a screeching halt. All is momentary confusion. Excited holiday-makers jumping down, luggage offloaded, porters called. Matrons looking lost, not knowing which way to turn for the exit and their waiting transport, an officer smart in his uniform of grey offers his hand to a pretty girl, helping her down the steps. And at the same time passengers for Danzig, for Posen, and Berlin clamber on board, check their bookings and find their compartments and seats.
Tristana, her face utterly calm, ascends the three steps to the carriage. Melot slides open the compartment door and she settles herself beside the window, her chin held on her hand, her dark curls against the glass, gazing out beyond the station to the thin line of sea in the distance. Her bags are brought in, placed in the rack above. She turns her head, slightly.
“So, I am going. Are you happy Melot? That I am going? Are you happy with your work?”
“Miss Tristana, I am doing, I did, my job. I…”
“I thought of you all those years as a friend, Melot, as someone I could trust. Now you have destroyed me. Did you hate me all those years Melot? Did you? Or did you…No…I won’t ask that. I hope you can bear to live with your heart. Mine is broken. I am sad just to look at you. Will you return to Berlin also?”
“No miss, I am to stay here with Master Markus. Konstanze will follow, has she not told you? You will be met at the Hauptbahnhof. I… I am sorry… I hope the journey is not too difficult. She will be with you later today. I think everything is onboard now, so I will go.”
“Then goodbye. I will not see you again, I think”.
The carriage is suddenly shrouded in steam and a roar as the engine comes to life, slowly at first, then, jolting over the points, settling into a steady rhythm as the villas and houses of the town recede and the window is filled with the long, sandy coastline as the train rattles towards the towers and warehouses of Danzig.
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P
Pia
Guest
Another crowded platform, passengers and guards shouting, pushing, clambering aboard with too-heavy packages, struggling along the narrow passageways of the carriages. The door of the compartment slides open and a man enters, unseasonably clad in a heavy overcoat, which he removes, folds carefully, and places on the seat beside him, together with his black felt hat. He strokes his moustache, opens his briefcase, takes out his newspaper and unfolds it.
Tristana raises her eyes from the scene beyond the window. Drawn to the darks script, “Vorwärds”. She recognised the title. From the newsagents stands, not that she had ever read it. He was a socialist, probably a Jew. He looked like a Jew with his thick coat and his grease-proof paper wrapper holding his lunch. But he was good-looking too. She gazes at him through watery eyes. At the paper in his hands. The train had started its journey again. She had hardly noticed. Her eyes scanned the news. Nothing much seemed to be happening on this bright August day. More reports of the celebrations in Berlin. The wars in the Balkans that never seemed to end. A story about the heir to the Austrian throne, Franz Ferdinand, appointed the previous day as Inspector-General of the Austro-Hungarian army by the Emperor. What did all these little things matter, she asked herself? Things, things, things. Always happening, but of such little concern to her, to Gisela, to all those other people enjoying a happy day by the Baltic. The Baltic now lost to sight as the tracks curves south into the forests of birch and oak.
Tristana raises her eyes from the scene beyond the window. Drawn to the darks script, “Vorwärds”. She recognised the title. From the newsagents stands, not that she had ever read it. He was a socialist, probably a Jew. He looked like a Jew with his thick coat and his grease-proof paper wrapper holding his lunch. But he was good-looking too. She gazes at him through watery eyes. At the paper in his hands. The train had started its journey again. She had hardly noticed. Her eyes scanned the news. Nothing much seemed to be happening on this bright August day. More reports of the celebrations in Berlin. The wars in the Balkans that never seemed to end. A story about the heir to the Austrian throne, Franz Ferdinand, appointed the previous day as Inspector-General of the Austro-Hungarian army by the Emperor. What did all these little things matter, she asked herself? Things, things, things. Always happening, but of such little concern to her, to Gisela, to all those other people enjoying a happy day by the Baltic. The Baltic now lost to sight as the tracks curves south into the forests of birch and oak.
P
Pia
Guest
The story up to now....
as a pdf
as a pdf
Messa is ... disappointed ... ..........................................why? was it over?They were so pretty ... View attachment 182540
It was so hot ! ... View attachment 182541
P
Pia
Guest
No - a lot more to come, but sadly we have said farewell to lovely Zoppot (Sopot)... I will miss that little corner of Pomerania...Messa is ... disappointed ... ..........................................why? was it over?
RacingRodent
Consul
Phew, I feared my alerts had broken as I had not had any more from here in a while....hurrah for PK stories
P
Pia
Guest
Silent sunlight patterns the bedroom with tree-branch shadows, a soft breeze fluttering the curtains. A half-empty cup sits forlorn on the dressing table as Gisela turns the note over and over in her fingers, her hair hanging loose over her shoulders. She hears the tap at the door:
“Sweetness, are you…are you alright? What does she say? Are you alright?”
“Oh Brangane! How can I be? She’s gone. To the Berlin house. I have to see her Brangane, but…but I cannot... Oh! What am I to do?”
“It…it will be alright. I promise. I’m sure. It will be. You’ll see her again, I’m sure of it Gisela. You will be together again, I know… But…But…We, you…We are supposed to meet Markus for lunch. Do you remember? He…He sent a message to remind us with Konstanze. When she brought your note. What will you do Gisela?”
She turns fully, the redness of her eyes reflecting the redness of her tumbling curls, wiping her nose, her finger running along her tear-dampened cheek.
“I know. I remember. I… I’m alright Brangane. Well, I’m not alright, but I am ready. We will go. Come, help me tidy myself up, I’m such a mess. Help me dress Brangane and we’ll go. Is there a carriage coming? Yes? Then we should get ready.”
Café Haueisen; bells tinkle on the carriages as they move slowly down Seestraße, couples and families manoevering between them to cross the road; the terrace already crowded and filled with lunchtime chatter. Markus sits waiting at the table, relaxed in a cream suit, his hat placed next to him, his face revealed as he lowers his newspaper.
“So. You came. I wasn’t sure Gisela. But I am glad you are here. Come Gisela, come, sit here, by me. Here Brangane, you sit here. Waiter!”
Gisela sits quietly, her eyes cast down onto her white-gloved hands.
“I hope, I hope Markus…I hope you can…forgive me. And forgive Tristana. Oh Markus! I…this is so difficult Markus…I…”
“Dear dear Gisela. It is done. She is gone. I can’t say I understand you young girls at all. Not at all. Of course I… I am, I was hurt. Terribly Gisela. But that was yesterday Gisela, and today, well – the sun is shining; hear – the birds are singing Gisela”.
He takes her fingers, raising her chin with a gentle touch, gazing deeply into the stillness of her eyes.
“You are so beautiful Gisela. I cannot believe how beautiful you are.”
The clanking and screeching of the carriage over rails and points wakes Tristana from her dreary sleep. She stares out over the roofs of Berlin as the train approaches the Hauptbahnhof, slowly, in a cloud of sweet-smelling steam, drawing to a halt amidst the clatter of activity on the platform.
“Sweetness, are you…are you alright? What does she say? Are you alright?”
“Oh Brangane! How can I be? She’s gone. To the Berlin house. I have to see her Brangane, but…but I cannot... Oh! What am I to do?”
“It…it will be alright. I promise. I’m sure. It will be. You’ll see her again, I’m sure of it Gisela. You will be together again, I know… But…But…We, you…We are supposed to meet Markus for lunch. Do you remember? He…He sent a message to remind us with Konstanze. When she brought your note. What will you do Gisela?”
She turns fully, the redness of her eyes reflecting the redness of her tumbling curls, wiping her nose, her finger running along her tear-dampened cheek.
“I know. I remember. I… I’m alright Brangane. Well, I’m not alright, but I am ready. We will go. Come, help me tidy myself up, I’m such a mess. Help me dress Brangane and we’ll go. Is there a carriage coming? Yes? Then we should get ready.”
Café Haueisen; bells tinkle on the carriages as they move slowly down Seestraße, couples and families manoevering between them to cross the road; the terrace already crowded and filled with lunchtime chatter. Markus sits waiting at the table, relaxed in a cream suit, his hat placed next to him, his face revealed as he lowers his newspaper.
“So. You came. I wasn’t sure Gisela. But I am glad you are here. Come Gisela, come, sit here, by me. Here Brangane, you sit here. Waiter!”
Gisela sits quietly, her eyes cast down onto her white-gloved hands.
“I hope, I hope Markus…I hope you can…forgive me. And forgive Tristana. Oh Markus! I…this is so difficult Markus…I…”
“Dear dear Gisela. It is done. She is gone. I can’t say I understand you young girls at all. Not at all. Of course I… I am, I was hurt. Terribly Gisela. But that was yesterday Gisela, and today, well – the sun is shining; hear – the birds are singing Gisela”.
He takes her fingers, raising her chin with a gentle touch, gazing deeply into the stillness of her eyes.
“You are so beautiful Gisela. I cannot believe how beautiful you are.”
Chapter 12
The clanking and screeching of the carriage over rails and points wakes Tristana from her dreary sleep. She stares out over the roofs of Berlin as the train approaches the Hauptbahnhof, slowly, in a cloud of sweet-smelling steam, drawing to a halt amidst the clatter of activity on the platform.
P
Pia
Guest
A company of infantrymen forms a line, smiling and joking as they come to order, their officer twirling his moustache as he shouts instructions. Bags unloaded, trolleys jolting, couples greeting and kissing, guards whistling. Tristana feels herself transported through the noisy throng towards the waiting carriage and out beneath the gold-streaked sky of the late afternoon.
Lime trees sway above and red, white and black bunting swings from the street-lamps. A troop of dragoons in dress uniform passes by along Paulstraße.
The driver twists in his seat, grinning at Tristana:
“Fine looking aren’t they ma’am? I’d be proud if my lad could serve with them. The Sixth Brandenberg they are. Cuirassiers. “Emperor Nicolas of Russia” they call them. Ha! They’ll be giving those Russians a dose of their steel soon enough ma’am eh? Teach those Russians a thing or two will our boys eh? I just wish I was young enough. To serve with them ma’am. Nothing finer. Nothing finer.”
Over the Luther Bridge and into the Tiergarten, swinging through the traffic around the Sigessäule, then back into the dark tunnel of trees and over the Landwehrkanal, into the busy streets of townhouses and shoppers, over Kurfürstenstraße and skirting the Lützowplatz, into the Maassenstraße… Almost home, almost home… The driver pulling the horse to a halt, then making the tight turn into Ahornstraße, the villa, number four.
Lime trees sway above and red, white and black bunting swings from the street-lamps. A troop of dragoons in dress uniform passes by along Paulstraße.
The driver twists in his seat, grinning at Tristana:
“Fine looking aren’t they ma’am? I’d be proud if my lad could serve with them. The Sixth Brandenberg they are. Cuirassiers. “Emperor Nicolas of Russia” they call them. Ha! They’ll be giving those Russians a dose of their steel soon enough ma’am eh? Teach those Russians a thing or two will our boys eh? I just wish I was young enough. To serve with them ma’am. Nothing finer. Nothing finer.”
Over the Luther Bridge and into the Tiergarten, swinging through the traffic around the Sigessäule, then back into the dark tunnel of trees and over the Landwehrkanal, into the busy streets of townhouses and shoppers, over Kurfürstenstraße and skirting the Lützowplatz, into the Maassenstraße… Almost home, almost home… The driver pulling the horse to a halt, then making the tight turn into Ahornstraße, the villa, number four.
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