Gerta

by Tučková, Kateřina

  She looked around at the others—at Johanna, Antonia, and Gerta—then turned back and fixed her gaze on young Krumpschmiedová.

  “I’m sure you still remember how the Šenk barn burned down, and how they never got the equipment they needed from the district to do their harvesting—even though an unused tractor and a trailer sat in Jech’s co-op. Who do you think was behind that? And in court, it was Jech who testified; everyone around here knows it. And those walnuts, the sack of potatoes, and whatever else was presented as evidence of undeclared provisions, that could have been Šenk’s, but what about those bags of wheat, when that year their wheat had been infected with blight? Their ruined crop had even been officially recognized, don’t you remember? So tell me, where did those bags Jech was pointing to come from?”

  The young woman shrugged her shoulders.

  “Or the undeclared plots of land from which they supposedly had a secret harvest, as Ida wrote. Who could have possibly come up with such a notion? Hidden plots of land, here, where everyone can see into each other’s backyard. And still they stuck it on him. That, and failing to meet quotas, and obstructing a superior method of farming,” she concluded with a bitter laugh.

  As they were saying goodbye at the gate, Gerta turned to Hermína and asked, “What’s going to happen with you now?”

  The children had dashed out into the street in front of the house and were carrying on, running in circles around Antonia and Johanna, who were saying goodbye to the two Krumpschmied women. The dog came out after them. Hermína called to it; it spun around and bounded back to her side in the yard.

  “I don’t know.” She shrugged. “I expect the house and the garden will go to the National Committee. Zipfelová had no heirs. And the National Committee, that’s Jech, as you know. Maybe he’ll move someone in here. Or he might let me stay. After all, I do work in the co-op. In fact, I’m his best milker.” She laughed. “Who knows?”

  “If it doesn’t work out, come live with us. Whether there are four or five of us makes no difference. In Brno, you’ll find a job.”

  Hermína shook her head. “The city is not for me anymore,” she said, casting a dreamy glance around the early-summer garden.

  Fallen white blossoms covered the grass beneath the apple trees beyond the house; the peonies along the fence were bowing their full, crimson heads to the ground. Gerta smelled their heady fragrance all the way to the small wooden gate, where she and Hermína remained standing by themselves. The children and the other two women were already far up ahead along the way back to the bus stop.

  XV

  She distinctly remembered the strange fluttering like swarming ants in her lower abdomen the first time she sat opposite that man. It was almost a full year after Karel’s disappearance. From time to time, she would still call his office to ask for him. Each time, a different girl answered the phone. The last one didn’t even know that a Karel Němec had ever worked there.

  And then that man intercepted her, riding the train with her all the way back to the Brno-Židenice station, where she got off as she did every day to pick up Barbora from the daycare center. He walked her all the way to the entrance and then asked if they might find a time to speak privately somewhere, under different circumstances than what the train ride had allowed. Gerta suspected at once that it might have something to do with Karel. Her every thought still circled back to him. She agreed.

  They met a few days later, when she didn’t need to pick up Barbora as early as usual because she had an art class. They sat down in the Friendship Restaurant—which, after coffeehouses had been banned as a bourgeois anachronism, sprung up in place of the former Bellevue Café—at a table covered by a soiled green tablecloth flecked with cigarette burns. The restaurant was completely empty except for two old women who were sitting next to the grimy windows looking out over the parklike Red Army Square, and who appeared to be spending their afternoon over watered-down coffee topped with whipped cream. The bored and sluggish staff didn’t notice them for a good long while, so the man sitting across from her offered her a cigarette. Gerta declined with thanks and watched as a veil of smoke drifted past his face and swirled upward until it disappeared against the high ceiling. She was impatient, seeing as she’d been waiting such a long time to hear something. Anything. Some explanation, a scrap of news. Was he alive? Was he well? Where was he? The waiter casually sauntered over to their table and took their order while staring out into the sparse green of the park. As if the two of them didn’t even exist.

  She ordered a coffee, the man a cognac. Gerta raised her eyebrows in surprise, as did the waiter.

  “We’re out,” was his answer.

  Naturally, thought Gerta. What kind of demands was this man making, at a time when one couldn’t even find a bottle of Moravian wine? And even if one could, the average person couldn’t afford it. Had he forgotten he was living in the People’s Democracy of Czechoslovakia? The socialist paradise?

  “Then a Becherovka, please.”

  The waiter turned and left.

  Gerta looked the man straight in the eyes. They were bluer than any she had ever seen. Almost transparent, sky blue—blue eyes, pure soul, she thought.

  He smiled at her and said, “For courage, you make me nervous.”

  Is he flirting with me? Gerta wondered. The butterflies in the pit of her stomach intensified their fluttering. Not that she found him unpleasant. He was an attractive man, just a few years older than she was. Not that he would think so, given how worn-out Gerta looked. But it was uncomfortable for her to be in the presence of a man. Any man. Her world was reserved exclusively for Barbora. She didn’t need anything: no new thrills, no surprises. If she hadn’t assumed that this had something to do with Karel, she never would have agreed to meet with him. But now it was beginning to seem as if it might not have anything to do with Karel, but rather something to do with her. Could it really be that he was interested in her?

  “Why did you invite me here?” she asked point-blank, her eyes fixed on the steaming cup of coffee that the waiter had just wordlessly set down before her.

  The man seated opposite gave her a smile. “I see you don’t waste any time.”

  Gerta didn’t know what she should be waiting for.

  “Did you want to tell me something? Something better not discussed on a train?”

  The man hesitated.

  “What if I just wanted to get to know you better?” he finally said.

  So it was true, thought Gerta with a fright.

  “Are you joking?”

  “Why should I be?”

  Gerta angrily shook her head. “It would have been polite of you to say so in advance. And not pretend you had some mysterious reason that required a confidential conversation.”

  “Don’t get me wrong, now. I really do have something I’d like to tell you,” he said with a slight smile as he leaned in toward her. “But it still doesn’t mean that we can’t mix business and pleasure and enjoy a cup of coffee together. And a Becherovka,” he added, raising his glass in the gesture of a toast.

  “What do you want to tell me?”

  “I see you’re impatient.”

  “In thirty minutes, I have to pick up my daughter; her drawing class will be over.”

  “I know.”

  Gerta slowly stirred her coffee with the spoon.

  “Just so you know, you’re a very appealing woman. I find you interesting. Even beyond the call of duty.”

  “What duty?”

  “Official. Would you like to get right down to business, or would you prefer to enjoy your cup of coffee and a bit of small talk with someone who finds you attractive?”

  “Don’t joke with me, please. What business do you mean?”

  “Fine. We’ll get right down to it. I’m here to make you a certain offer.”

  “An offer?”

  “Yes.”

  “What offer?”

  “Well, perhaps there are some things that you might like to know about, and th
en there are some things that I, in turn, would like to know about.”

  “What things? What’s this supposed to mean?”

  “Nothing unusual. Simply an offer of cooperation.”

  “I don’t understand,” said Gerta, shaking her head, perplexed.

  The man smiled and motioned to the waiter, who was sitting at the bar, looking over a spread-out newspaper. They had to wait a while before he noticed them.

  “Another, please,” ordered the man. “Anything else for you, Mrs. Schnirch?”

  “Schnirchová. No, thank you.”

  “Schnirchová,” repeated the man once the waiter had moved away. “That’s right, you actually had the German version of your last name changed to make it Czech, isn’t that so?”

  “That’s just the last name I have. Why?”

  “I know, I know. We were talking about certain pieces of information. Has it never occurred to you, for example, to try and find out what happened to your father and to your brother?”

  Gerta’s heart began to pound.

  “How do you know about my father and my brother?”

  The man smiled. “As I was saying, I could share some information with you that you might find interesting. And there might even be some other information I could share with you. About Mr. Němec, for instance.”

  Gerta had felt this was coming. “What do you know about Karel?”

  “Easy, easy,” the man said with a nonchalant laugh.

  In her agitation, Gerta knocked her spoon against the cup—the sound rang out through the room, and the two women by the window turned to look at her.

  “Right, well, I could tell you the whereabouts of Mr. Němec.”

  “Is he all right?” Gerta leaned forward eagerly.

  “I can tell we’re going to work well together. But just a moment. I’ll answer anything you ask me. But one step at a time. Do you know what I’d like from you in exchange?”

  Gerta pulled back in suspicion.

  “I’d like for us to meet from time to time after your work, just like this, for coffee. Maybe once every two months, maybe even less, whatever you wish. What do you say?”

  Now Gerta understood. It had taken her a moment, overcome as she was by the prospect of finding out something about Karel. And about her father and her brother. But now the realization hit her, and she was absolutely certain of it.

  “What do you want from me?”

  “Exactly what I just told you. For us to meet from time to time. And have a chat about life. About life all around you.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I find you attractive. And because you stayed in Brno and still get together with certain individuals who were also formerly German. And because you maintain certain foreign contacts.”

  “Foreign contacts? Me?” She looked at him in astonishment.

  The man reached into his pocket and pulled out a white envelope. He put it down in front of Gerta and then, very slowly, swiveled it so that she could read the name of the addressee. It was her letter to Teresa.

  “Teresa’s letter!” Gerta cried out.

  “Not so loud, please.”

  “Where did you get that? It’s been so long since I mailed it.” Gerta put her head in her hands. “So that’s why she never answered.”

  “That’s right. After all, you didn’t exactly write very nice things. Complaining like that about the socialist state, about our People’s Democracy!”

  “You read the letter?”

  “Of course.”

  “What are you?”

  “You still don’t know?”

  Gerta narrowed her eyes down to two slits. Naturally, she already knew. What a fool she’d been, not to have asked herself back then, in front of the school, who this person calling himself Novák really was.

  “I certainly do know.”

  “In that case, we’re completely done with introductions. And now you certainly also know that in exchange for the information you could provide me, I could provide you with information about Mr. Němec. Or about your brother, which might also interest you.”

  Gerta made a face. If only he knew.

  “So, what do you say? Do we have an agreement? I could also be helpful to you in other ways. Your daughter has her problems at school, am I right? Something could be done about that, too, you know? Or about those Greeks who got moved into your apartment.”

  Gerta shook her head in disbelief.

  “Really, it could.”

  “You want me to pass on information about Teresa to you? But I never see her! She couldn’t even write back to me because you confiscated that letter.”

  “That’s not a problem—we can send it again. That is, in a slightly modified form.”

  “And what do you have to gain from it? Teresa’s not a person you have any reason to be interested in.”

  “You never know,” the man said with a shrug. “Besides, there are others we might be interested in.”

  “Like who?”

  “Mrs. Johanna Polivka and her connections, your contacts in general with the German minority living in Brno.”

  “Excuse me, but what do you mean by Johanna’s connections? The only person Johanna gets together with is me.”

  “Really?”

  “Absolutely. It hasn’t been easy for us to go on living here after the war. I imagine you can understand that, yes?”

  “That’s why you all stick together in that little group of yours, right?”

  “That may be so, but I don’t go visiting her. I’m not even teaching my daughter German. I don’t want her to be tainted by her Germanness, as I’ve been.”

  “What a shame that you don’t honor your traditions.”

  “Excuse me, what are you talking about? What do you want from me? There’s nothing I can tell you. I don’t have any contacts.”

  “But you could easily establish them. Show up at their gatherings and start attending regularly. It would be easy enough for you to gain their confidence, Mrs. Schnirchová. You’re still spelling it with an Sch, right? Or is it with an Š?”

  “It’s Miss. You should know that seeing as you know everything about me.”

  “Of course, forgive me.”

  The man smiled faintly and ran his hand through his black hair. Almost the same way as Karel used to do. Karel. That man knows about him, she thought. How many nights had she lain awake with her eyes open—how many hours had she spent watching the shadows beneath the streetlights or staring into the dense, inscrutable darkness? What a relief it would be.

  “You’ve gone mad,” she said. “You want the impossible from me. I don’t wish to join the ranks of some minority. I’m glad to be on my own. You obviously don’t know as much about my German background as you let on. If you did, then most likely you never would have picked me. I’m the daughter of a Czech mother. Her name was Barbora Ručková, in case you forgot to read that part.”

  “And a German father, Friedrich Schnirch. And your nationality was German. And as a German family, you fraternized with many other Germans, some of whom stayed here in Brno. Or returned here, as in your case.”

  “That’s possible, but I don’t know anything about them,” said Gerta, pulling a two-crown piece out of her change purse and putting it beside the unfinished cup of coffee.

  “What’s the hurry?” The man lifted his head and looked at her. “Slow down. I really think we could be useful to one another.”

  Gerta imagined Karel. His handsome shoulders. His chest, against which she used to love to lay her head. His broad smile that made one of his eyes crinkle more than the other, giving his face a quirky, lopsided look. And the map of wrinkles on his brow that stretched all the way to his temples. She imagined him with the certainty of knowing he was still alive. And that if he were to return, he would come find her. Or his wife, who had wept for him on the other end of the telephone. But he was alive.

  “I think you’ve told me enough already. And I think it’s already a lot more than I can tell you.�
�

  She stood up and swung her bag over her shoulder. “I think there’s no point in my addressing you as Mr. Novák when I say goodbye, right?”

  The man smiled at her. “You’re sharp.”

  “Goodbye then,” said Gerta.

  He grabbed the hand with which she was still leaning on the table.

  “I would prefer to say until next time. Because I’m sure we’ll meet again,” he said, nodding with a confident smile.

  Gerta dashed out of the restaurant onto the street. The sky above Brno was already growing dark.

  XVI

  The earth was bare, hard, and trampled by the hooves of horses. They charged around in a frenzied whirling, pawing wildly at the air with their front legs, reined in by the female riders on their bare backs. Astride them sat beautiful, completely naked women gripping the sides of the horses with their powerful thighs, covered only by the flowing veils of their long black hair. Around them the dust was swirling; they slashed at it with wild gestures and raucous whooping; they were terrifying. Suddenly, on the hilltop behind them appeared a group of men on horseback. Spiraling clouds of dust rose up behind them as they galloped down the hillside at breakneck speed toward the women. One could see them separating out, forming loose ranks, preparing to surround them, and not a single one of the women noticed. I wanted to shout them a warning, but my voice got caught in my throat, and no matter how hard I tried, all I could do was wheeze and rasp, and couldn’t get even the slightest sound to come out. The men reached the foot of the mountain and were slowly mingling with the naked bodies of the warrior women. The first few swords rose high above the group and fell, then quickly rose again, the edges of the blades dripping with blood. Then one of the young women threw herself into the midst of the fray. I couldn’t help it; I let my eyes follow her into the bloody turmoil. I saw her bend forward toward her horse’s head, wrap herself around his neck, and bury her face in the twisted braids of his mane. She came bearing down swiftly on a man wearing a leather cuirass. In his hand, he wielded a sword with which he was slashing left and right, not even looking to see where it fell—human limbs were scattered on the ground. It was Achilles; I could see him clearly. His armor, forged for him by order of his sea-nymph mother, and his miraculous heel, which gleamed with a radiant light. I knew that no one could defeat Achilles. That not even this Amazon could change the course of destiny, which, after all, had been written by the gods of Olympus. I wanted to stop her, but it was too late—a dark cloud was descending over the fighting pair, and riding it was Athena, looking down at Achilles with concern. But by then, the young woman’s chest was already soaked with blood from the wound that the invincible Achilles had inflicted with a strike of his sword. Her head tilted back as she let out a bloodcurdling scream; she flung her arms out to the earth and the sky and slipped backward off her horse. I could finally see her face, and even though I’d suspected all along, it was only now that I knew. I was seized by a terrible fear.