The Women in the Castle

by Jessica Shattuck

  Martin was swept up in the sound—no longer blood and bone, frozen feet and hungry belly, but an empty vessel filling with notes, carried by something older and bigger and more permanent than himself. This music had been played and heard before and would be again, not only here in this church, but in places all over the world, by people living in different circumstances and different times. These musicians and this audience were allowed, for a fleeting instant, to climb on its back.

  When it was over, no one spoke. The clapping faded, and the church was once again jammed with clumsy shuffling and cold. Frozen fingered, one of the violinists dropped his bow. An icicle of snot hung from the conductor’s nose.

  But leaving the church, they found the night was blacker, the stars brighter, the outline of fence, roof, and road clearer and more beautiful—and the people’s faces looked oddly exposed.

  In the future, Martin will recall this night as the first time—and one of the only times—he ever saw Germans crying in public, not at the news of a dead loved one or at the sight of their bombed home, and not in physical pain, but from spontaneous emotion. For this brief time, they were not hiding from one another, wearing their masks of cold and practical detachment. The music stirred the hardened sediment of their memory, chafed against layers of horror and shame, and offered a rare solace in their shared anger, grief, and guilt.

  Years later, as a professor, Martin would try to find the words to articulate the power of togetherness in a world where togetherness had been corrupted—and to explore the effect of the music, the surprising lengths the people had gone to to hear it and to play it, as evidence that music, and art in general, are basic requirements of the human soul. Not a luxury but a compulsion. He will think of it every time he goes to a museum or a concert or a play with a long line of people waiting to get inside.

  In the moment, though, he was simply buoyed along.

  The walk home was magical. No one was glum. For this Christmas night they were lifted from the damning particularities of their own lives and invited to be a small piece of eternity.

  Part II

  Chapter Fourteen

  Tollingen, May 1950

  Benita loved the flat she and Marianne had moved to in Tollingen, which was practically a city compared to Ehrenheim. It was on the town square, in a gracious turn-of-the-century building somehow left intact by the war. Now, a Danish businessman owned it, and he had polished the honey-colored floors to a sleek, postwar shine, plastered over shell wounds in the façade, and rented the apartments to the town’s most established citizens. Their flat was full of light and space and the air of aristocratic elegance that Benita had once imagined for herself.

  Tollingen had come back to life since the war. After years of hunger and shortages, the storefronts once again advertised sewing needles, matches, oranges, and stylish shoes. The bakery windows displayed fresh loaves of bread. The pharmacy shelves were stocked with creams and medicines.

  “Oh, but we Germans can work, can’t we?” Marianne liked to say as she observed the new plenty. “Give us a task and we’ll complete it—and waste no time looking back.” She said it with a sort of Marianne dryness, as if it were actually a fault, and one for which she condemned her countrymen. Benita did not understand this. So the Germans were hard workers! So they did not look back! Given the circumstances, why would they? And anyway, wasn’t Marianne one of them?

  But, deep down, there was a part of her that appreciated Marianne’s scorn for German industry. Benita’s own dreamy laziness had always been held over her head as a moral failing, and here was Marianne, a hard worker and moral example in all ways, turning the table, imbuing her sloth and imagination with a kind of virtue.

  On this particular morning, Benita, Marianne, and the children—Elisabeth, now eighteen; Katarina, sixteen; Fritz, thirteen; and Martin, who, at eleven, was still her baby—were all headed to Ania’s wedding. Ania was to marry Carsten Kellerman, a match that pleased Marianne and depressed Benita. For the rest of her life, poor Ania, thirty years Kellerman’s junior, would have to lie beside his club foot, breathing in his stench of cabbage and tooth rot. Is it what you want? she had asked Ania when she first heard the news. Of course, Ania answered. Carsten is a good man, and my boys can help with the farm. “Can help with” Benita understood to be a euphemism for “inherit.” Herr Kellerman had no children, and Ania Grabarek was a pragmatic woman. She was marrying to create a decent future for her sons.

  Marianne, on the other hand, delighted in the match. Herr Kellerman had been a loyal neighbor and the caretaker of Burg Lingenfels ever since she had first arrived. And, furthermore, he had never been a Nazi, which, in Marianne’s opinion, automatically made him good. The fact that he was old and taciturn and unattractive was of no consequence to her when compared to his loyalty and sound politics.

  In Marianne’s enthusiasm, Benita detected a double standard. Marianne was a born matchmaker, especially for those she had taken under her wing, which applied to both women. But she had much higher expectations when it came to a second marriage for Benita, whom she steered toward members of her own circle—distinguished survivors of the resistance, for example, vetted already by their politics and social standing. So why was she content for Ania to marry an elderly peasant? Ania’s husband had been a resister, too. Was it because he had been Polish? Or was it something about Ania herself? After all, Benita was no less a peasant than Ania, as Marianne had made clear when they’d first met. Whatever the root of her bias, Benita knew Marianne would be ashamed to acknowledge it.

  At times, Benita still found it comical that she and Marianne were roommates. How impossible this would have seemed to her that long-ago night at the countess’s party. The von Lingenfels and the peasant, the odd couple of the castle. It would have made her laugh.

  No one lived in Burg Lingenfels anymore—it was too cold, too big, and too remote. And it was still without running water or electricity. Marianne had always hated Ehrenheim; she liked their new home as much as Benita did. It was closer to the DP camp where she spent so many hours, near the train station, and an easy trip to Munich. Their new Bürgermeister was an old friend of Albrecht’s. And there was plenty of space in the flat. What is the point of two widows raising their children alone? Marianne had asked when she first proposed the idea. The children are like siblings now, why tear them apart? Left unspoken was the fact that despite the restitution—finally—of Connie’s pension, Benita and Martin depended on Marianne’s largesse. Left to their own means, they would be living in some colorless and cramped new apartment block on the outskirts of town.

  “Benita,” Marianne called, tap-tapping down the long hall of their flat with her particular, Marianne-ish determination. “Benita!”

  “Coming!” she called.

  Benita folded the letter she was rereading and pushed it hastily into a small wooden chest. What is that? Marianne had asked when she first caught sight of the chest, as if it were one of the mangy feathers or dead butterflies the children used to collect at the castle. Something I picked up at the Christmas market, Benita lied. Marianne had tilted her head to the side in a show of critical bewilderment—it was an odd little thing, carved of rough wood and unpainted—but she had accepted the explanation. Marianne did not expect sound judgment from Benita anyway. And for Benita, the chest had one simple purpose: it locked. She turned the key and slipped it behind the mirror on her dresser.

  When she opened the door, Marianne was wearing something Benita had never seen before: a dress with ribbons at the cuffs and throat. It was pretty, but too frivolous for Marianne. Another item resurrected from Albrecht’s sea chest. Marianne was diligent about reusing all her old things. The woman had no vanity or fashion sense.

  “Ready?” Marianne asked. “The children are waiting in the foyer.”

  “Ready,” Benita repeated. “What a pretty necklace!” she added, noticing for the first time.

  “This?” Marianne glanced down. “Here—” She lifted it over her head,
a silver fleur-de-lis with a tiny amethyst inset. “You wear it. It will suit you better than me. And”—she turned back almost slyly—“Helmut Kressing and his sister will be there. He always asks after you.”

  “Oh no—” Benita began, but Marianne shushed her protests. Dutifully, Benita put on the pendant. She did not attempt to explain that Helmut Kressing would never be more than an acquaintance. Or that the necklace did not match her dress. When it came to defying Marianne’s wishes, it was better to keep a low profile.

  For the trip to Herr Kellerman’s farm, Marianne splurged and hired a car and driver. The bus to Ehrenheim was slow and unreliable—another strike against the town—and it was a long walk from the bus stop to the farm for women wearing their Sunday shoes. Besides, it was not every day they went to a wedding! At the smallest extravagance, Marianne put herself through these rounds of justification. It was admirable, but tiresome. If Benita had Marianne’s resources, she would enjoy them without such hand-wringing. And a car would be her first purchase. There was a new Volkswagen dealership on the edge of town with a park full of beautiful, rounded “bugs,” as they were called—row after row, gleaming in the sun, pleasing in their sameness. These were the cars Hitler had once promised everyone. Benita felt a personal spite toward the man. He had duped them all with his promises of cars and jobs and self-respect. Connie had been right to hate him from the start.

  Connie had become confusing in her mind. She was not angry anymore. She was embarrassed, actually, by how angry she had been. He had been unfaithful, this was true, but she had been a difficult wife. The last time she had seen him, she had not even looked up. He had come to say good-bye, she now understood. It was the night before the assassination attempt. And she had been sitting at the window of their flat with Martin asleep behind her in the bed. Connie knelt and tried to take her hand. I’m sorry, he said. I’m sorry I have left you alone so much. But she had pulled her hand away. I love you, Connie said. And she had never even turned to look at him.

  In the hired car, Elisabeth, now in her last year of school, argued with her mother about politics. Adenauer, their new chancellor, was right to end denazification, Elisabeth insisted; the denazification process was merely turning Germans back into angry nationalists. No, he was wrong, Marianne maintained: expedience could not take precedence over the pursuit of justice.

  Benita did not participate. Neither did she play the guessing game with Martin and Katarina and Fritz. She stared out the window at the green fields, the cows, the red-roofed villages, and the jagged mountains rising behind this like a row of teeth.

  When they arrived at the Kellermans’, there were no outward signs of festivity. But in recent years, the farm had undergone its own sort of metamorphosis. There was a pungent stench from the new pigsty Kellerman had built, and a red tractor gleamed from the stables where Gilda used to live. Under Ania’s care, the gardens were full of more than mere essentials like potatoes, cabbages, and carrots. There were peas, parsley, and leeks, even a small gooseberry bush. Along the fence, a line of sunflowers bobbed their clumsy heads. When Ania and her boys had first moved to the farm as tenants, she had taken over the gardening in lieu of rent. Well, that rooming arrangement worked out well for Herr Kellerman, Elisabeth joked.

  Benita, Marianne, and the children climbed out of the car and carefully removed the serving dishes Marianne had brought: a white soup tureen with lion heads, three platters inlaid with pink roses, and an elegant, gold-rimmed glass punch bowl that had belonged to Albrecht’s grandmother.

  “They don’t need any of this,” Elisabeth grumbled, unloading it. “Frau Grabarek is only being polite saying yes.”

  “Don’t begrudge,” Marianne scolded, with a cutting look that reduced Elisabeth’s point to one of mere selfishness. Which was not fair. Benita understood what the girl meant: Ania would be embarrassed by her connection to Marianne’s fine things. She would not want to stand out from her guests. Ania did not like to set herself apart. Marianne could not grasp this.

  “Guten Tag, guten Tag,” Ania greeted them nervously.

  Benita kissed her on both cheeks in the manner of Connie’s high-society friends, which made Ania blush. And, for a moment, her face was transformed into something shy and girlish. Benita squeezed her hand.

  “Congratulations!” Marianne said, beaming and hoisting the punch bowl aloft. “Herr and Frau Kellerman!” They were already husband and wife, wed in the town hall that morning. The party was simply a celebration. “Put us to work,” Marianne directed, depositing the bowl on the kitchen table, where it looked completely out of place.

  “But you’re wearing such fine clothes.”

  “Don’t be silly. What do you think, we can’t roll up our sleeves and work?”

  The wedding guests began to arrive around four o’clock: somberly clad farmers and townspeople, like pigeons in their gray and brown suits. They brought strawberry jam and beeswax candles, meat loaves, sides of ham, and fine tortes. Benita knew these people. If she were dropped back into Frühlinghausen right now—God forbid—it would be just like this.

  They clustered around the parlor table, drinking beer and local wine and Herr Kellerman’s homemade plum schnapps. Their faces began to come alive beneath their impassive masks. The men loosened their new polyester ties, removed their jackets, and lit cigarettes. It was still remarkable to see so many men gathered in one place. Even the longest absent had returned from their various prisoner-of-war camps—thinner, balder, absent eyed, and closed faced. Benita wound her way through the crowded rooms, nodding and murmuring hellos but mostly keeping to herself.

  In the dining room, Herr Fetzer, the local butcher, pulled out his fiddle, and festive music filled the space. Even drunk, the young men hung together in uneasy clumps. Wives and sisters and mothers chattered while keeping nervous watch. There was a sense of latent menace. Who might come undone? Who might turn belligerent?

  Marianne sat in the corner with Helmut Kressing, her latest matchmaking case. He was a widowed friend of Albrecht’s who had spent the last year of the war in Buchenwald for his role in the resistance. Poor man. He deserved better than to be dragged into this awkwardness. Benita would never marry him, but she could go sit beside him.

  As Benita made her way across the room, a young man with a wild look in his eye pulled her into an aggressive dance. Johannes Kraisler, one of the bad ones. Benita had heard of him: a boy who’d always had one screw loose. He had joined the SA while still in school and had recently returned from a Siberian POW camp.

  Thank God Martin had been born when he was! He was scarred, yes, but not corrupted by the war. He had never even marched with the Hitler Youth. Why did Hitler want to make war? he had asked her recently with an earnest, quizzical face.

  The vigorous whirling of Johannes’s dance made her sick. “Please excuse me,” she said, but he only tightened his grip.

  “Really,” she said, and he grinned, swinging her toward the corner with a hostile yank that made her flinch.

  “I know who you are,” he hissed into her ear. “The traitor’s wife.” She could feel his penis hard against her leg through his pants. “I know your secret.”

  Startled, she looked up into his face.

  “Aha! You see, I am not as stupid as you think!”

  “I have no secrets,” she said, but her heart gave an anxious lurch.

  “You ladies of the castle think you’re better than everyone else,” he said with a dry laugh. “But I can smell a cunt lover a mile off.”

  “Ah.” Benita relaxed. “You’d like to imagine that.”

  With a quick stab of her elbow to his ribs she managed to loosen his grip. But she could not continue over to Marianne and Herr Kressing now. She needed to compose herself.

  Benita wound through the dancers and stepped out into the courtyard behind the house. It was so ugly. The peace and plenty of this time were like a thin quilt spread over a pile of shit. No one was innocent. The Russian prisoner in the woods flashed in her mind: t
he inhuman sound he had made when she struck him, the squeak of air into his cut throat. Her own personal pile of shit.

  She straightened and pushed the hair off her face. Above her, the moon was high and round, laying a coat of silver over the young wheat. And the air was cool, thick with the smell of roses and pigs, slightly damp.

  Movement caught her eye—a figure in the entrance to the barn. No, it was two figures, leaning together, hands entwined, white against the darkness, lovers seeking a quiet spot. How amazing that this could still exist. It made her think of her own love. And of the letter she had stowed away in the little wooden chest.

  Without it, she would be lost.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Ehrenheim, May 1950

  Ania surveyed the party from her seat at the head of the long table, which Wolfgang had assembled using planks from the old hayloft. There were so many cousins, neighbors, and old friends of Carsten’s in line to shake her hand and offer congratulations in their formal small-town manner. Beyond Marianne, Benita, and the children, there was no one here from Ania’s own life. Is there really no family? Carsten had pressed. No aunts and uncles? No friends from childhood? Ania stood firm. Family dead. Friends lost. It’s only a party, she had reassured him. I have my boys. This last part she meant. It was the most important thing, the thing from which all others stemmed. This marriage was for them, although she had not seen either of her boys since the party began. Wolfgang was probably outside somewhere, his stiff new shoes cast aside, playing soccer with his school friends. And Anselm—shy Anselm—was probably holed up in his room studying. Wolfgang would take over the farm someday. By the old German laws, it should have been Anselm as the oldest son, but Anselm wanted to attend university and become a scientist.