So.
It had to succeed, because it was the truth. This was what had happened, and by now, after all, it would be hard to deny it. And furthermore, there was no point. Today, these things could be admitted. It was a different time. And it would be a relief. A tremendous relief, because they would finally feel at home here, with nothing more to fear. And for those at the top, it would also be a relief—by atoning, they would be cleansing themselves of the sins of their fathers, as Johanna would say. Not that these would have been Gerta’s words—after all, everyone knew where things stood between her and God. But she couldn’t come up with a better metaphor. They had offered their hand, and now all that remained was for it to be accepted. And then they could all draw a big fat line under the whole episode. All of them. Those who had stayed as well as those who lived here as a matter of course. The two groups would merge. And the city would once again belong to everyone, as was only natural.
“Five, six, seven, eight, Hitler’s little head of hate! Prague, Brno, Paris wail, let the villain rot in jail!” She heard the words rising up from the buzz at the table behind them, where children of various ages were scribbling on random scraps of paper with crayons.
This was their very own history, which had forced its way through generations of children to come full circle, and to which they themselves were now about to bring closure.
PART V
Solo for Barbora
I read it to her when she was already lying in a coma. The doctors were just waiting to take her off life support—they were waiting and waiting, because I wouldn’t give my consent. Even though Jára tried to convince me that I was just prolonging her pain. I knew she was in pain. I knew she was suffering—they told me that they had given her morphine, that her body was so riddled with cancer that she basically had no chance. But when I saw that face of hers, so peaceful, lying back against the white pillows with dark blue stripes, blissful and serene as it had never been before, I just couldn’t bring myself to do it. I couldn’t get enough of the sight of my mom with this sweet, clear, gentle face. It was very rare that I ever saw her like this—and at those moments, I knew she was my mom, my mom who loved me. The warmhearted one, who smelled of that mixture of Vaseline from her screw-cap jars and her own sweat, the smell I loved so much as a kid. Come to think of it, that really had been her scent for her whole life. She never bought perfume. And the one I got her—it smelled like lily of the valley, came in a small rectangular bottle with a twist-off top, was made by Alpa, and back then all the women wore it . . . two or three drops at your throat were supposed to keep you smelling good all day—she gave away to Auntie Johanna. And she came right out and told me so. She said it wasn’t for her, but it would be for Aunt Johanna. Come to think of it, I should’ve asked Anni if she ended up with it—that would’ve been kind of funny. My floating present, that everyone wanted to get rid of. But had Anni wanted to get rid of it, she would’ve definitely given it to me, who else. And I never got it.
I came every day to see my mother, to look at her lying there so calm and peaceful. I would sit with her the entire visiting time, and Jára would always be the last guy standing around in front of St. Anne’s Hospital, waiting for me. I couldn’t let go, because I felt that during this period, my mom and I were closer than we’d ever been. Except for maybe when we were still living with Granny Zipfelová, but after that, it wasn’t until she was on her deathbed. That sounds like a terrible thing to say, but it’s true. It was as if after all these years, I could finally really talk to her. She would listen to me with that devoted, peaceful expression on her face, which I’d practically forgotten existed. I told her about what I was doing, what I was thinking, what our home looked like these days, what had changed. And that Blanka had now permanently moved in with that boyfriend of hers, whom she met at the barn, horseback riding. I explained to her how it was with young people these days, that they weren’t in such a rush to get married. Although for Blanka, it was slowly getting to be time. But these days, they do things differently. First, they travel somewhere together, now that it’s possible—they feel each other out, check to see if they work as a couple, and if they don’t work, they split up and leave no trace behind. Although a trace is exactly what Jára and I would wish for more than anything else. I’d so love to hold a baby in my arms again, look into those googly little eyes, staring past me into space, dab the drool off the tiny mouth. But that’s not how things fly these days: first you travel, and only later do you plan a family. And that’s how Blanka sees it as well, and Jára and I are supposed to keep our mouths shut. It’s her life. As I said all this to my mom and she just lay there with her wispy white hair fanned out against the pillow, I felt she understood me. I felt that she, too, would have wanted to see her bloodline live on, felt how proud she’d be to see Blanka bring her another little girl, carrying on the family tradition. She would have no choice but to cry, just the way I was crying now. I bent down over her yellowed, blotchy hand that I’d been rubbing between my palms and sobbed with longing—for a baby, and for Blanka, too—a longing that had somehow gotten mixed up with something else, something that had to do with me and Mom and the baby and a profound love with which I wanted to shower them all. Something impossible to describe that came gushing out of me like a river, and I sobbed into my own hands and into hers until the nurse finally came and told me that visiting hours were over. So I left. And then the next day, I returned and told her a whole bunch more. About Jára. That we’d managed to get things back on track, and that now everything was just the way it had been before. I even told her about that Rozára of his. I mean, why keep it from my own mother? Especially now, when everything was pouring out of me and it felt so wonderful to be able to talk to her, why should I hold back? It wouldn’t hurt her the way it hurt me when I found out, and Jára wouldn’t need to feel embarrassed, because it wasn’t as if she would be going around telling anyone. I told her how I’d found out about it. It was up at the weekend cottage that we bought in the Bohemian-Moravian Highlands, right on Zemkáč Pond—it’s surrounded by forest and there’s only room for cottages on one side, and that’s where we have ours, and where the other Brno families that we’ve become friendly with have theirs. So that’s where I found out. We were all gathered around the campfire again, grilling sausages wrapped in tin foil to put in rolls with ketchup and cheese, and people were drinking and talking. That night, Pepík came over to sit by me, and he told me that Jára had been meeting up with Rozára, who was always there on her own. Everyone knew her because she’d been coming alone for years—she was kind of a fixture there—and she’d been trying for years to snag someone. And apparently, she managed to snag my Jára; that’s what Pepík told me that night. He told me as a friend, because he cared about me. At that moment, I didn’t believe a word he said, but then I had to wait all through Sunday until the evening before I could see Jára, who had stayed in Brno, and ask him straight out. And, Mom, he admitted it! I thought I’d been struck by lightning. I got so scared, and at the same time it hurt, hurt so badly—really already from the moment I’d said it out loud. It burned like hell on my tongue, and deep inside my chest, I felt this awful pressure. And those eyes of his, if only you’d seen them. They were sad, so terribly sad. And the worst part about it was that it was my fault. Because I’d stopped paying attention to him as a man, if you know what I mean. When Blanka went off to live in the school dorm and would come back to visit on weekends, I was supposed to be getting ready to go away. But I preferred staying at home with her to staying with my guy, who then had no choice but to take care of himself. He said I’d pushed him away for a grown-up kid, and, Mom, one just doesn’t do that. So you see, it was all my fault. That’s not to say that Rozára’s a saint—she’s a bitch, and definitely more calculating than my Jára. I can’t tell you what a flood of tears I cried over it, before I was finally sure that it was over and that Jára wasn’t seeing her anymore. He said he broke it off as soon as I found out, but—you know—it takes a
while before you can shake off that uneasiness that keeps you checking pockets for notes or sales receipts or someone else’s handkerchief.
But, come to think of it, she wouldn’t know. Because for as long as I can remember, Mom didn’t have a man, so how could she possibly know what it’s like to be losing someone you love so terribly much. And when I was the one losing him, all she could talk about was that apology and the reparations. At the end of one of those rare, unavoidable visits, I was so furious, I thought I was going to scratch her eyes out; that’s how much I hated her. How did she spend the last few months of her life? What did she turn those last few weeks into for me—when we’d finally started talking to each other again? The apology. Apology—to this day, when I say that word, I feel myself making a face. It oozes out of my mouth like poison, that apology. Even Blanka has picked up on it, so now she tries not to talk about it in front of me anymore. That apology, it was the only thing my mother still cared about—here was a grandma with a daughter and a granddaughter, and all she ever wanted to talk about was that apology. Like a broken record.
She’d spent her whole life trying to deny she was German, and suddenly, out of the clear blue sky, she managed to dig up some old wrongs that had been buried deep inside her and fought like a prizefighter to see them made right. A fool of a prizefighter, because what was the point of an apology? Especially from people who, when it came to the expulsion, that frigging great stigma on her life, didn’t even remember it? Brno. Supposedly, Brno owed her an apology. To her and to Johanna, and on top of it, also to me and to Anni and to Rudi, not to mention all the countless others. Except that I hadn’t been affected by it—I had nothing to do with it. That German choke collar, which I only caught a glimpse of now and then, I got rid of it—I didn’t fuss with it and straighten it neatly around my neck the way my mother did and at the same time didn’t. So now, I could finally tell her exactly what I thought of it, that obsession of hers with Germanness and that apology. In the end, it was all pearls before swine, anyway. If only she knew how slyly they’d managed to get around it—it would’ve made her die a second time. There was no apology made to the expelled Brno Germans, no reparations. Even coming from the young people in that new group that was standing up for the rights of people like my mom, they hadn’t taken the bait. All they did was express regret over the disorderly expulsion of their fellow citizens. Period. They came out with that statement in some back room, very hush-hush, so that it wouldn’t cause a lot of speculation, and that was it. And it was obvious why, seeing as all those people sitting in town hall hadn’t had anything to do with it. But I think most of the people to whom it was supposed to have been directed were left with their jaws dropping. Regret. What did that even mean? I really believe that for my mom, had she been presented with this version of the wolf ate, but the goat remained whole, it would have killed her. And I would have wished it on her. Because of these past few years, when I’d been forced to listen, over and over again, to everything about her, and about how terrible her life had been. Meanwhile, she had absolutely no interest in my problems or Blanka’s problems. That time, when I was leaving the ICU where she was lying, I almost told that puny little nurse in charge of her to just go ahead and do it. Take her off. I was so furious at her. And then the next day, I didn’t go—that much I remember—I simply couldn’t digest that last conversation we’d had. But then the day after that, I did go back, this time with Jára. And I don’t know why, but I brought along some flowers that I’d picked in our garden to brighten her room. She had that same expression on her face again, so peaceful—but otherwise she was just lying there with her arms at her sides, completely still. After a while, Jára went out—after all, what else was he going to do there, except stare at an old woman in white bedsheets about whom he’d always had his own opinion. So I stayed there again with her by myself, and somehow I had the feeling that we made up. It’s hard to describe. Making up with your mom who’s in a coma and who already for days now has been unconscious. But that’s what happened. I felt it. Maybe it was also the twitch of her eye right then, just as I was leaving and promising her that I’d come back again. And I really did go back again, and we talked about things that I was interested in. We talked about Blanka, about Jára, about crossword puzzles, and even about how I was feeling—and that I actually wasn’t an old woman yet, just a little over fifty-five. And I wasn’t even unattractive. And then, at the end of that visit, I read her the letter that had arrived—I couldn’t even say exactly when, because lately I really hadn’t been paying much attention. But a letter for her had arrived, and it was from the Red Cross. At first, I thought it was probably some kind of a donor drive, maybe for giving blood or something like that. It was only when I noticed that there seemed to be something else stuck inside the envelope that I opened it, read it, and then brought it with me to Mom in the hospital. Inside was a second envelope that had been stamped with an old date, still before the wall had come down, and it was postmarked from Frankfurt. The letter was written in German, which I managed to decipher with the help of a dictionary, and from which I gathered that I had some relatives. I then read it to her in German, because it was clear to me that she’d understand, even though I’d never heard her speak that language.
Adressat: Gertrude Schnirch (1925), Sterngasse 142 in Brünn noch im Jahre 1944
Dear Frau Gerta Schnirch,
I am writing to you on behalf of my husband, Friedrich Schnirch Junior, your brother. Allow me to let you know of his quiet and peaceful passing on the morning of Saturday, October 31, 1980. He departed, having made peace with himself, but not having made peace with you. His final thoughts were of his closest family, among whom throughout his life he always counted you, although he was unable to overcome the barrier that the war had put between you. Furthermore, during the final days of the war, he suffered a loss of memory, which he regained only just before the Lord summoned him to himself. You should know, however, that he wanted to look for you in order to find out whether you had survived the war, and always had in his mind the hope of trying to reunite the family once more, according to God’s word. Believe me, the only reason he didn’t do so was due to his conscience, by which he was tormented, and because of the fear that he would no longer be able to look you in the eye.
Dear Gerta, should you, thanks to the help of the Red Cross, receive this letter, please grant this request on behalf of my husband, your brother, and forgive him whatever you can. Please know that in doing so, you will have not only his gratitude, may he rest in peace, but also mine, Adelheide Schnirch, and our children’s, that of your nephew, Friedrich, and your niece, Barbora. We would be glad of any word from you, and send you our regards and best wishes for a good life.
The Schnirch Family, Frankfurt am Main
Well, I’m not sure how interesting she found it. In our house, no one ever talked about an uncle Friedrich, although I knew that I’d had an uncle who had fallen in the war. She didn’t bat an eyelash, just went on staring at the ceiling from behind her closed eyelids and saying nothing. Maybe she really wasn’t interested anymore, because if she and that uncle had ever done anything to hurt each other, which the Czechs and the Germans had a tendency to do, then it was very possible that she never wanted to hear about him again. The only thing that occurred to me to do right then was to write back and say that Mom had died too. But then I felt ashamed of myself, because Mom was lying there stretched out in front of me and was actually still alive—because, although she was in a coma, she was still breathing, and I wasn’t about to order her death. I tossed that letter into my backpack and completely forgot about it over the following stretch of many long days during which I would go to see her in the hospital and talk to her, up until the moment that she actually died. By that I mean, when I finally let them take her off life support. The doctors had been saying that it was a useless battle, that we were just waiting to see how much her heart could take, and that it was just a matter of time. Jára said the same. Jára, who w
as spending long afternoons sitting at home alone while my mom and I were having conversations like we’d never had before. I felt terrible when I gave the nod, and then later when we were all standing around her, together with Blanka and Jára—at first, we felt she was still there, and then suddenly, she wasn’t. It felt as though she were disappearing little by little, very gradually, her breath becoming quieter. And then she was gone. I felt it was all my fault that she suddenly didn’t exist anymore, that my mom was gone—ice-queen mom, Gerta Schnirch. But what was I supposed to do? Spend those fleeting moments when my daughter would come home to visit me in the spotless but foul-smelling hospital? Leave Jára alone for days on end, and wait for another Rozára to get wind of it again? I needed to be there for the living, not for the dead. Or the almost dead. And I convinced myself that the doctors knew what they were saying. That she was no longer getting anything out of staying alive. Then a few days later, we went to the cemetery to bring her urn to Grandma Ručková’s grave and to light some candles. And that was when it hit me—it hadn’t been just those last few weeks, but an entire lifetime out of which she hadn’t gotten anything. No man, no warmth—frozen in hatred for this society, and in the end consumed by her yearning for the apology. I can’t help it, but I have the feeling that apart from those two or three years with Uncle Karel, my mom lived a completely unfulfilled and futile life.
INDEX OF LOCAL PLACE NAMES
Adolf-Hitler-Platz, in 1946 náměstí Rudé armády (Red Army Square), today Moravské náměstí (Moravian Square), one of the largest squares in Brno
Annagrund, in Staré Brno (Old Brno), today the grounds of the Nemocnice u svaté Anny and Anenská ulice (St. Anne’s University Hospital and Anenská Street); originally (from the fourteenth century) the site of the Convent of the Dominican Sisters of St. Anne (on Pekařská Street)
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