MORNING SERIAL
BUT she stubbornly went on, ‘So does that mean no?’
‘You may take it as that. You must understand, with Wolfi — and Hansi, his good friend — they are reacting violently, and of course understandably, against the past; their world is full of real and imagined monsters and bugaboos.’ ‘So?’
‘Just that. Wolfi took literally what was metaphorically intended.’
‘So you’re saying, Mr Quantz, that Wolfi is a fool?’ she said quietly.
‘Wolfi is no fool. But certain things are opaque to your generation. Shall we leave it at that, Miss Dahl?’
‘Yes. Right. Only — my mother also mentioned a Quantz family. Actually.’ Yet immediately she seemed to wish she had not mentioned her mother. She put her hand to her lips, as if to shush herself, to put away whatever admission had got out. She looked away; observed it was late, did he think they should call it a day? Then stood and listened. ‘Whatever’s that?’ ‘What?’
‘Music. Sounds like a brass band. With full oompah.’
‘It’s their reunion up at the Blutehof, probably.’
‘Let’s just go and peek,’ she said.
‘Oh, I don’t think so.’ But she was bounding along the path and he followed. At the boundary of the Blutehof estate they paused. Brushing aside fronds of evergreen, Michael with a sudden stumbling shock found himself in the past. At intervals along the winding track to the Blutehof stood boys bearing flaming torches. Phalanxes of officers in Wehrmacht uniform, in naval full dress uniform, in air force blue, were moving between the larches, with swaying flags and standards,w bright with medals, moving to drumbeat. ‘Christ,’ said Isolde. Blond boys sang in piercing unison the ‘Song of Youth’:
Jugend ist Meer Jugend ist Blut Jugend ist Speer Jugend ist Glut Je heisser der Jugend Stahlfeuerfluss Desto harter formt sich Der mannliche Guss