I vowed not to talk to her, never ever again. Hating her, I already missed her, and it was a cruel irony that the only human being who could console me was the very one who made me suffer. No, I decided I ought to punish her so she'd never treat me badly again. My behaviour was without a doubt childish, the fruit of impulse, not reflection. There was a flask of tea I knew was going to be taken to her. I unscrewed it and poured salt in.
Far from satisfied, I offered to clean the kitchen. I put soap in the leftovers I knew were intended for her. My mischief backfired. The leftovers were served back to us and I had to eat them without showing anything was wrong. Pimmichen, to my relief, didn't notice. My mother ate some, made a face and glanced down at my arm. She said she knew that with so little water it wasn't easy but I really had to do a better job of rinsing the dishes.
The nightgown Elsa wore had been washed and folded, along with a towel. I cut off some of my own hair, chopped it up and dotted the inside of the fabric with these fine bits before folding everything back the way it was. I hoped they'd make her itch. Things were now equal. I pressed her lock of hair against me as I slept.
The next day my parents left for the factory. I paced back and forth in Elsa's room, letting my boots thump down. She never dared chance my name, not once, I noted bitterly. All she cared about was saving her own skin. I hoped the battery of the torch I'd given her would die, but that particular detail was taken care of after my parents' return, in a manner I could not have anticipated, when two men dressed in civilian clothes showed up at our door.
They asked if they could talk to us — they just had to ask us a few questions to help them protect our neighbourhood. Had, for example, our house been hit? Did it suffer any damage? Could they take a look around the garden? My parents had no objections. They walked around our house, remarking on the species of trees we had, asking how old they were, had we been the ones to plant them? They kept looking up at the dormer window of the guest room. My mother offered them information about the weeping willow, how taxing a tree it was, its whip-like branches and leaves falling year around; no grass could grow underneath it because of the acidity of its sap.
They waited politely for her to finish. 'Whose window is that, up there?'
'Nobody's. Or I should say, all of ours. It's a guest room, you know, but we haven't had guests in ages,' my mother explained.
'No?'
My father cut in. 'No. Nobody.'
'Were you in your cellar during the bombing?'
'Yes, all of us.'
'How many is that?'
'My wife, mother, son and myself.'
'Four?'
'Yes, four.'
'You didn't forget anyone upstairs?'
'No.'
'Then one of you forgot a light?'
'There were no lights on. Our house was black,' said my mother.
'A light was spotted in that window throughout the entire bombing.'
My mother was unable to hide her fright. 'That's a lie. Who said so?'
'We saw it for ourselves, ma'am.'
'That's not possible.'
'I was up there before the bombing. Sorry Mutter,' I spoke up. 'I couldn't sleep. I was trying to read with a torch. I don't remember turning it off when the bombers came. It's stupid — I should be used to them by now.'
The men looked at me intently. 'What's your name?'
'Johannes.'
'Hitlerjugend?'
'Yes, sir.'
'You ought to be careful. You know it could be interpreted as a signal?'
'Who would help the enemy to bomb their own house?' my father interrupted.
'Was your house bombed?'
'No.'
'Your neighbour wasn't so lucky. For all you know, the light in your window was their target.'
My father broke the silence by asking them if his wife could make them some coffee. They accepted. Once inside, they took interest in the various paintings, pieces of furniture, claimed what a beautiful house it was, asked if they could have a look around. They opened the door to Pimmichen's room to find her on her back, sleeping, with a bowl of soup balanced on her chest. Her hair was in a tight bun, which made her nose stand out all the more. They turned to my father to ask, 'Your father?'
'My mother.'
Had my mother put too much cream on her hands she couldn't have been wringing them more. My father led her to the kitchen while I followed the two men upstairs. They looked less at the furnishings than they did the ceiling, floor and walls. One of them fingered a Persian rug in the hallway, referring to the quality, but it was just an excuse to look under it. They did the same with our beds. As we went up the last flight, I didn't dare speak lest my voice reveal my nervousness. All I could think was, what if a few strands of her hair remained in the crack? It would be the end of us all. I wondered to myself, if they discovered her, could I fake shock? What if my eyes met hers? It was a horrible thought because I loved her, her eyes were more familiar to me than my own, yet if I were to survive I would have to deny knowledge of her existence. I imagined the look on her face as I treated her as a total unwelcome stranger. Many may judge me for this, but when death is knocking at the door, not all behave as they flatter themselves they would.
They looked one wall over, moving to the next. They slid their eyes up, down, seemed satisfied, opened the window and peered out of it. A thorough tour of the attic followed, and a brief one of my father's study, after which one of the men sniffed, lifted one of his fingers in the air and announced, 'Coffee's ready.'
I thought the ordeal was over but, sipping their coffee, the men asked if I wouldn't mind showing them the torch I'd used.
'Go, show them,' directed my mother.
I stood and they stood too, which sent a panic through me, especially when they followed me into my bedroom, making it impossible for me to go to Elsa for it. Luckily I had the one Stefan and Andreas had given me for my twelfth birthday. One of the men brushed the dust off it, tried turning it on and off, but the battery was long dead. I stared down at it dumbly.
'You're sure it was this one?'
'Yes, sir.'
'You don't have another?'
'No, sir.'
'But it doesn't work.'
'I must have left it on too long.'
'Just one night?'
'I used it lots before.'
The man gave it to his colleague, who pulled the battery out, stuck the tip of his tongue to it. 'No juice,' he said, and dropped it into his pocket.
They were in a hurry to leave, so they didn't finish their coffee. The taller one said to my parents, 'You have a fine son; you can be proud of him.'
'Oh, we certainly are.' They smiled tensely as, on either side of me, they each forced an arm around my waist in a model family pose.
***
My mother was mad at me. Wanting me out of her sight, she sent me to see Frau Veidler, who was staying at Dr Gregor's house. I was to carry over a suitcase containing towels, sheets and winter clothes, and ask if there was anything we could do. He was happy to let me in, partly, I think, because my lending an ear to Frau Veidler meant his could rest. She kept me there for hours. It was torture to pretend I was interested in what she was saying — which birds had affinities with which, which ones she used to put in a cage together, how much grain each species consumed per day, which ones washed themselves in the drinking water, which ones resented this, wouldn't touch the water if there were feathers or caca in it, even if they were dying of thirst. Did I know those feet of theirs could rot? Sometimes they chewed them off, just like we humans bite our nails. She bravely declared she was now free to go wherever she wanted, and when the war was over she would. True, Frau Veidler had no house to call a shelter, but on the bright side, she also had no house to call a prison and keep her in. She was as free as the wind for the first time in forty years. Noticing she was on the verge of tears, I hastily asked her a question about bird beaks.
Coming home, I found no one was about, not even Pimmichen.
And there, lying on my bed, was the torch I'd given Elsa. Had Elsa chanced putting it there? Was it a sign of rejection? Or was it my parents who'd discovered it? What had Elsa said? I finally had the excuse I needed to go and see her. Not so much an excuse to face her as to break the promise I'd made to myself never to speak to her again. But before I'd taken a step in her direction, someone went berserk with our door-knocker, while crying out at an increasingly high pitch, 'Frau Betzler? Frau Betzler?'
I thought such shrieking could only be Frau Veidler, so I undertook the option of tiptoeing away. I didn't get far. A tall figure barged in, wearing a long dress that looked as if it was made out of a Scottish plaid blanket. The stranger's grey hair was too long for her age, as well as unkempt and stringy, though her appearance was not as witch-like as it could have been, considering the mole on her chin, which, had I looked more closely, might have turned out to be only a scab.
'I have to see your mother, young man. Right away.'
'She's not here.'
'When do you expect she'll be back?'
'She didn't say.'
She twisted a piece of parcel string around her fingers, whose tips were black with what I assumed to be car grease, the charms on her bracelet jingling the while.
'It's about an urgent matter. I'm leaving at seven tonight. I won't be back. I've got to see her before then. Questions of life or death. Tell her! Just like that! She knows my address.'
'She'll need your name, madam . . .'
'She'll know who I am.'
'Excuse me. My parents know many people.'
'She'll know who you're talking about. Here.'
She was about to endow me with one of her gold charms, jingling around to single out a cross, which she abandoned for a bumblebee, before changing her mind and choosing instead to make a nautical knot with the string. As soon as she'd gone, I dropped the greasy thing in a vase, wondering just what kind of characters my mother associated with.
The torch serving as my excuse, I didn't resort to any of my old protocols before opening up Elsa's panel. I wanted to impress her with my new manly ways. I couldn't believe my eyes when she wasn't there. There was just an empty space. Gone, as if she'd never existed. I could've smashed the wall to pieces, attacked anyone on the spot. So I'd been fooled by my parents. That's why my mother had wanted me to go see Frau Veidler: so they could move Elsa to another home.
The next hours were cruel. I could do nothing but roam the house as though it were alien to me, or I to it. Just breathing became a challenge; I had to will my heart to keep beating. I squatted in the middle of a room, hoping to gain solace, then found myself stretched out on the floor. I rediscovered the house in this manner, hating every cold, idle object unable to help me.
By the time my mother came home, standing up was a test of willpower. My distress was too great to dissimulate. She stepped back when she saw me, yet didn't ask what was wrong. I stared at her, waiting for her to say something, anything. She didn't, just stared back apprehensively.
'Where's Father?' I asked.
'At the factory.'
'Where's Pimmichen?'
'I had to take her to the hospital. She was spitting blood.'
'Which hospital?'
'Wilhelminenspital.'
'And where were you, Mutter?'
'We certainly are getting a lot of questions today.'
I wanted to yell, 'Where's Elsa?'
'How's Frau Veidler?' she asked.
'Heartsick over her birds.'
She peered out the window, sighed. 'That's understandable. There one day, gone the next.'
'She can think of nothing else.'
'When you're used to their company, when you have no one else . . .'
'I know exactly how she feels.'
'Do you?'
'I'm feeling rather the same.'
'Over Pimmichen?'
'Not quite.'
'Vater?'
I didn't answer. My mother scratched her eyebrow.
'Keep guessing. Well, Mutti?'
'I have no idea. Why don't you help me out?'
I shrugged my shoulders.
'Bigger than a bread bin?' she offered.
'You tell me.'
'I don't know what you're talking about.'
'I'm sure you do.'
'Something you're missing? You mean your torch? I put it back on your bed.'
'Where'd you get it?' I asked.
She looked sincerely puzzled. 'I found it at the bottom of the stairs. I thought you put it there?'
Did she not know of Elsa's disappearance? I played it safe. 'Yes, I must have.'
Why hadn't I taken advantage of their being gone to check the house over? I regretted my absence of mind. I beat around the bush, but if I wasn't frank with her, neither was she with me. At one point, despair made me jabber every folly that came to mind, and as my voice cracked, my mother lunged forward to take me in her arms. Moving as little as I could, I wiped the tears away. Hearing the telephone gladdened me; it would occupy her while I regained my composure. But she squeezed me tighter. I held on to her as well, to protect her from the caller I assumed was the odd woman who had come earlier and who had struck me as a troublemaker. The ringing went on and on. My mother pulled away and picked up the receiver, drumming her fingers against her cheekbone as she listened. Immobilised by her thoughts, she set it back down without letting go.
'If it's important, they'll call back . . .' she said under her breath.
I tried to resume our conversation, but she didn't flirt with the secret any more. I could allude to it as much as I wanted: she refused to take the bait. I began to doubt myself, but at the same time something told me that if I didn't react, it would soon be as though Elsa had only been a dream, a figment of my imagination, an incarnation of wishful thinking. The reality of her would fade away with each passing day. I watched my mother go about the house as if nothing were wrong, wanted to grab her, turn her around, make her tell me what she'd done with her. She must have felt it, because she turned around and caught me with my eyes fixed on her. This made her smile her weak, angelic, martyr smile.
I searched the house over, from top to bottom. It was a provocation and she knew it, but she refused to react. If I did it too obnoxiously, shoving furniture around, slamming doors, she sighed, 'Oh, the rats must be back again . . .'
I continued my search around the neighbourhood, looked up every tree hoping to see Elsa's legs dangling from a high branch. I even walked through Frau Veidler's ruins, knowing Elsa could not possibly have found refuge there but that's how desperate I was becoming. Tiny bird skeletons were plunged at random into the ashes, each looking as if it had been swimming away using a different stroke and had been paralysed in a heartbeat by a spell cast upon it.
I stayed at my keyhole two full nights, but my mother didn't go up or down the stairs, just stayed in her room. Before going to bed she sorted socks, went through bills, curled up in a chair to leaf through an Italian cookbook. I could tell she was relieved by having less responsibility. Once or twice I caught her pouring water into a flask, but she carried it up to her own room on retiring. She had only herself to take care of now; there was no one else.
The third day, she was dusting in a detached way the very objects she'd constantly rearranged in her previous anxious state and all at once I couldn't take it any more. Neither could I stand her prim appearance, pressed dresses, pretty hair, filed oval fingernails. How much time she suddenly had to devote to her grooming. Her attitude was devoid of any regret, that's what got me most — the way she moved the feather duster, her hand tossing about lightly this way and that.
'Where is she? Tell me, where is she?' I felt the ugly side of my face twitching. My mother looked at me, alarmed, but wouldn't answer. 'Tell me! Where is she? You know!'
'Who?'
'Don't lie to me!'
'I'm not.'
'Tell me!'
'I have no idea what you're talking about.'
I took hold of
her feather duster, and in doing so, knocked over some ornaments.
'What's wrong with you?'
Among the broken pieces scattered about there was an intact segment of a vase neck, out of which the old woman's knot had fallen. From the way my mother stooped down to pick it up, I saw it meant something to her.
'What's this?'
'A knot.'
'How did it get in the vase?'
'Some loony came by. Didn't bother to give her name. New fashion in visiting cards?'
'When?' The knot was trembling in her hands.
'Sorry, I forgot to mention it. Two days ago. Three?'
'Did she say what she wanted? Any word in particular?'
'Just to chat. She was going away, so it was then or never.'
My mother put her hands on the table to help support her weight. Feeling she was trying to sidetrack me, my patience ran out. 'Mutter? Please. Tell me now! I have to know! I have to!'
'Know what?'
'You're killing me! You know it!'
'Lower your voice.'
'Afraid she'll hear me?' I asked.
'Who? Who might hear you? Frau Veidler?'
'I don't mean Frau Veidler!'
'Who then?' she asked.
'Elsa.'
'Elsa?'
'Elsa Kor!'
'Never heard of her. Who's that?'
'Elsa Sarah Kor!' I hugged my ribs to prevent me from shaking.
My mother looked at me. 'No, that name doesn't ring a bell.'
'Ute's friend you took in. You took care of her, for years, behind that wall upstairs. Feeding her, cleaning her. I saw you and her with my own eyes.'
'That closet Vater made for our old letters? You're imagining things.'
'Elsa! She played violin with Ute. Her passport was in your sewing box. Danube Dandy Candies? Ring a bell?'
'Your accident must have traumatised you. Go look, there're only letters up there. I have no sewing box. No sweets.'
'She replaced Ute for you, didn't she, in your heart? You didn't watch over Ute's injections as closely as you should have, so you wanted to make up for it, your guilty conscience. But now your angel mask has fallen.'
Caging Skies Page 9