Caging Skies

by Christine Leunens

  I had no idea my mother had known someone else, some Oskar Reinhardt, before marrying my father. He was a jockey! Oma and Opa hadn't accepted him, claimed it wasn't a man's work to go riding around in front of a mob of people with his arse up in the air. They called him the 'gamblers' entertainer'. Because Oma and Opa forbade her to see him, they met in secret, wrote to each other care of a mutual friend, mostly about how much they loved each other. Then Oskar was offered a contract in Deauville and the letters were postmarked from France, same stamp of the self-important profile with a hook nose and girlish ringlets that I at length associated with Oskar's own physiognomy. The dates of these later letters were spread further apart. The last one finished with a poem:

  the beaches of normandy are endless, long

  cliffs bow to greet the sea

  the waves offer both chorus and song

  green grasses and old man apple trees

  gulls gliding like a hundred kites

  and as i canter, trot, gallop, flee

  the children point with all their might

  wishing to ride my mare in place of me

  i cry out, i cry

  we live, thus we die

  to know is not to feel

  what is dream and what is real

  our heads high in the air, her mane, my hair,

  whose legs are whose, hers, mine, who cares

  it is then i remember my beloved one

  her face has grown faceless like the sun

  as distant, warming memories of my past

  without a voice, a scent, please! a last

  My mother's best friend had been Christa Augsberger, whom I'd never heard of, and from her letters I found out that my mother had done outrageous things. After Oskar stopped writing to her she was furious with her parents, told them she wasn't interested in their 'decent farmer'. She ran away, leaving her hometown Salzburg for Vienna, slept in the train station for weeks. Had I known my mother? She cleaned flats, then one of her clients gave her a room in exchange for household chores and babysitting — time enough, she said, for her to make friends. Christa wrote to my mother that the days of slavery were gone; she'd never have time to make friends that way. She advised her to get a paid job, rent a room of her own before she turned into an old maid. She said it was up to her to catch the right man. If she wanted a cultivated one she should go to museums, if she wanted a bon vivant then read books at café terraces, but Christa begged her not to hang around racetracks wringing her heart out or she'd end up the deprived wife of a gambler.

  My mother had told me she went to Vienna to study drawing, but that after the Great War, times had not been easy so she was forced to work. I knew she had met my father in Vienna, but now I wondered where, in what circumstances? I found myself feeling a further loss, over the 'she' I'd never known. And now she wouldn't know this 'me' of myself. I sobbed harder at this realisation. It was deep in the night, and some truths drag their longest shadows then.

  There were fewer letters from my father than from Oskar. Oskar's alone filled the baskets. My father wrote no poems, and his handwriting wasn't pretty or prepossessing like Oskar's. He only wrote after they were married, on business trips, using hotel stationery, and the contents of his letters were practical: reporting the course of his work, his contacts abroad, how he'd renovate the house. I lost interest in them and felt disappointed in my father.

  It was that moment I decided I must learn to write, as in try to master the use of words. First, though, I had to learn to write, as in master the use of a pen with my right hand. This is what helped me through those nights. I traced Oskar's handwriting until my hand shook so badly I gave up. To a left-handed person it is unnatural to pull a pen along like a limp extra finger rather than push it actively as a natural extension of the hand. I tried again, this time more modestly with the letter 'a', made streams of it across the page. The letter 'b' followed, 'c', and so on, until I felt sleepiness carrying me into its all-possible world.

  I won't weigh this down with all the poems I wrote to Elsa, but it's amusing to remember the first I slipped under her soap dish. Please excuse the style: a testament to youth. She was kind enough not to have dipped it in the sudsy water:

  You sneaked into my house,

  Entwined my heart,

  It is not fair.

  You must love me too,

  Before leaving behind,

  The corpse of my despair.

  I cringe to imagine what she must have thought!

  Those days I fabricated hope in the most witless of places. Emptying her washing bowl, I gambled on not smashing a certain cluster of soap bubbles with the water slapping from side to side by the time I got downstairs. That would mean she loved me. The girly ifs I came up with. If two clouds ran into each other before I took in three breaths (and I could turn blue in the face), if an ant walked in a chosen direction (invariably it did, considering the erratic paths ants take). While I was hanging up the sheets in the garden a robin came down for one of Elsa's hairs. I took it as a good omen. It was enough to put my past logic to shame. I saw it myself, but spring had come despite the war, buds were forming on the bare branches, the air was changing from crisp to sweet, and nature, taking no heed of man's doings, also took no heed of my former neat, folded notions.

  Without the wireless and newspapers I began to live in seclusion from the world. Outside proved unpleasant, brutal. Inside, we were protected, our house was safe, quiet, a sanctuary. Whenever I returned home I got inside and rested my back against the door and inhaled deeply. The air was so different from that just centimetres away. It was caged, tamed, smelled closed in, secure. The air outside moved restlessly from place to place, changed directions with all it met, had a fresh, unpredictable smell to it. Outside equalled danger. Inside was a kinder place.

  This is when I cultivated a love for the interior that was probably nothing but the reverse side of my ever-growing hatred of the exterior. I hated to leave the house, imagined every time how bad it would be for Pimmichen and Elsa if something happened to me. I would use up the last drops of water, the last scraps of food we had, ultimately anything that lived, moved or rotted in our garden before I'd go out to buy more. I reduced the portions of every necessary commodity, more so than any governmental rations imposed on us. The war made it easy for me to justify my behaviour to Pimmichen.

  As usual, after procrastinating, I returned for provisions to the only place I could find enough to last the week, in the basement of a wine dealer, a hidden world in itself, lined with wine barrels and luxurious goods. There I ran into Josef Ritter, my old Jungvolk leader. He was in uniform and had the nerve to tell me that as long as I wasn't dead, it was my duty to do volunteer work. He didn't say anything about the venison I was holding, probably because he himself had just put down the cash for a carton of American cigarettes. I answered that I didn't have time: I had two people to take care of at home. He asked me who the two invalids were. I felt the blood drain from my face, replied my grandmother and myself. If my quick thinking rescued me from worse, it nonetheless brought down on me a lecture on the priorities of life.

  I trudged unwillingly from door to door, stepping over rubble and corpses. Those few who opened up were depleted of metal scraps and hope. One woman with a baby in her arms and a child pulling at her skirt asked me what was the use, the war was over. I warned her she'd get in trouble for saying such things. But she wasn't the only one to tell me. Four houses later another woman asked me if I hadn't heard the news: the war was about to end, we were about to surrender. I went about the neighbourhood, stopping people to ask about these rumours. No word had come to them of the war ending. I entered a baker's shop and the baker said yes, she'd in fact heard the war was over. Indeed, many of the women there had — that's why they were there. There was no more bread to buy. They were hoping the Westerners would hurry up, because if they didn't, the approaching Russian troops would not hesitate to make us a province of the Soviet Union.

  Shouts of joy broke
out in the streets. I walked faster. I passed homeless people who manifested no sign of joy. It was a day as unsure of its season as it was of its war or peace. The buds on the trees had opened into bright leaves, releasing some magic force that reminded me of waking up as a child. I used to watch my sleepy fists open and there was something always miraculous about the life I had been given. The trees sang with the birds they hid in their foliage, yet the air remained chilly.

  I told myself I had to get back in case someone else told Elsa before I did. I anticipated her shriek of happiness, the hug I'd receive, just as much as I dreaded her next actions: patting me on the back so I'd back off and her instant preparations to part. I'd warn her to be prudent, insist she wait before she did anything. Maybe it wasn't true, maybe it was all a big trick.

  I reached the outskirts of Vienna. The maze of human structures, standing and fallen, gave way to the simpler countryside: fragrant pine forest, sweet yellow fields, hills etched with vineyards. I thought to myself: this is the last time I will go home to a hidden, secret Elsa. Soon, she wouldn't be mine any more, and I felt the sadness of it. Then another thought crossed my mind. What was the big hurry? Who would tell her but me? Couldn't I at least make this last walk back to the house we shared last a little longer?

  Two clouds were moving in the same direction, one catching up with the other. As I watched them merge, an unexpected third cloud sank, creating an awkward hump on its back — maybe a burden of some kind. What did it mean? Would Nathan show up at our door? A third party? I imagined Frau Veidler running around the neighbourhood waving her arms as she shouted the news, and picked up the pace.

  Inside, there was a dead silence. I banged on Pimmichen's door, peeked in to find her flat on the bed with one leg stretched out, a drip of blood working its way down her shin, a tissue between each toe to absorb more that had gathered there. She started and slipped her limb under the sheets. 'Can't you knock, Johannes, before barging in?'

  'I did.'

  'I'm going deaf. Knock until I answer.'

  'Pimmi! What happened?'

  'Nothing.' She blushed. 'And if I don't answer, that means I'm dead.'

  'You're hurt!' I tore back the sheet, caught her foot and blinked at it, confused.

  'I look at my music notes, they're yellow; a picture of your grandfather, he's gone yellow. Look at my wedding veil up there like some old moustiquaire — yellowed. I look down at my toenails, same old thing happening. Decay can't wait for death. Nasty Schweinerei, impatience.'

  Comprehending, I was speechless.

  'I borrowed this red nail enamel some time ago from your mother's room. I'm sure she wouldn't have minded. I know ladies from respectable families don't put colour on their toenails, but since nature is putting one on for me, I'm entitled to change it to what I like.'

  'Were you planning to go out and celebrate?'

  'Where'd you get that far-fetched notion? Is there anything worth celebrating?'

  I smiled nervously. 'Some say the war is ending.'

  'Oh? Really? We won?' I let her foot down, the bad news enough to bear. She looked up, saw in my face that we'd lost, and contemplated her toes. Spreading and relaxing them, she said, 'Such an end would be unfortunate. You wouldn't believe the black misery they dunked our heads into after we lost the last war. May God help us.'

  I sat down on the edge of her bed. We were quiet for some time.

  'Johannes? You wouldn't mind helping me just this once, would you, dear? I can't reach any more.'

  My mind wasn't on what I was doing and my workmanship proved as sloppy as hers. Her little toes had no nails, so I dabbed the skin where they should've been with the lacquer. Pimmichen was fast asleep by the time I was done. My heart was heavy. I now had to face Elsa.

  ***

  I didn't go straight up. Neither did I put the venison in the oven or heat water for her tea. I simply sat in the kitchen, relishing those final moments she was still in my care. Though it had been tiring, caring for her had given me a sense to my life. In the future I'd only have Pimmichen to watch over, and that for how long? In how many days would my father be home to console me? I pitied myself long and hard before standing up. After rinsing my mouth and fingering my hair back into place, I decided I was ready.

  The pinstriped wallpaper was a motif I at once hated and loved. Hated because it shielded Elsa from me with its brittle bars; loved because it held her there safely. 'It's Johannes,' I announced. 'I'm going to open up.'

  I lowered the shade before helping her out. She fell on the rug. I massaged her legs, lifted them up and down to get the blood circulating. Neither of us spoke; we knew the motions by heart. I put my arm under hers, hoisted her up. She put her weight on me while I helped her pace. When she'd had enough she slid down. I supported her back with my knees, massaged her neck, shoulders. I moved her hair aside to do so, longed to kiss her neck, knew every fine hair, the small mole on it. She had the habit of doing all this without opening her eyes. Once in a while I fed her like this. She accepted whatever I put in her mouth. One can imagine what state all this put me in. If only she'd known, yet I was sure she did know . . .

  One particular afternoon she tipped her leg from side to side in a way seeming to indicate that her defences were dropping. I asked her what it was she'd been thinking about in there, my voice unexpectedly thick and scratchy. 'Many things, many nice things . . .' she'd answered, opening an eye rapidly to look at me, then closing it again. For a split-second her smile was coquettish. I massaged her legs as usual, only that time I moved my hand a bit higher up, watching her face for any sign of rejection. Her expression didn't change. I slid my thumb close to her undergarment, let it dwell there. She said nothing, did nothing. I dared ease it under the fabric. She gasped, clutched at it, then edged it back and said, 'Stop it, Johannes.' Her tone didn't sound angry — I must say it came off rather motherly.

  This time, however, there was no ambiguity. Looking down at her, I blamed her for my mother's death. I moved an arm for her, waved it, let it fall back down. I did the same with the other arm, picked up a leg, jiggled it, did the cancan with it. Where did she think she would go, what would she do, without me? I picked her up, walked her around the room. I was doing most of the work; her legs just followed like any puppet's would. I bobbed her up, down, tried to make her waltz to my 'Oom pa pa, oom pa pa . . .' She picked up that something was wrong, opened dizzy eyes.

  I moved her around roughly to an obnoxious tango, 'Dum dum dum dum, doom doom, ta da,' dipping her back each time she tripped over her own feet. If I ignored her pleas to stop, it was because as I was dancing with her, I was imagining her in a wedding gown, a crown of daisies in her hair, and I was her groom, Nathan!

  'Why are you behaving like this?'

  'Aren't you happy? Don't you want to dance?'

  'You're hurting my neck!'

  'You have every reason to dance. Look how beautiful you are. Wasting such beauty here. Imagine whirling around a ballroom, sharing it with every man.'

  I toppled her around, faster and more recklessly until I collapsed with her, held her close to me and sobbed bitterly.

  She managed to steady herself, pushed my hair out of my eyes. There was panic in her voice. 'What's happened?'

  Trying to get myself together, I wiped the snot from my nose. She shook me by the shoulders. 'It's your father?'

  'I'm sure he's fine. Busy as usual.'

  'Then why are you . . . you know?'

  'Because I'm so happy.'

  Outside, screams of joy could be heard, mixed in with the distinct sound I could hear of a fretful minority not shouting, like me. Far away, there was a sound like hundreds of firecrackers going off. Elsa straightened up, grasped her neck. 'What's going on?'

  The time had come. My heart was pounding blood into my limbs but it felt as if they were being drained. I sought the right words with difficulty, then said, without knowing what I was saying, 'We won the war.'

  I was as unprepared as she was for this lie.
It wasn't even a lie, not at least in that exact moment it was spoken. I don't know fully what it was. It was so many confusions balled up in one. In a way, it was a test to see how she would have reacted if we had won — a small test before announcing the truth. It was also what I would have liked to say, and not only say, what I really would have wanted. I know it will be hard for anyone to believe, but it was also a joke: a fraction of it was ironic, intended to be funny. Another fraction was designed to torture her, because I knew shortly she'd torture me with the real facts, and that for much longer than the brief instant I'd made her suffer. There was a provocation in it — I wanted her to figure out on her own that what I'd said was a falsehood, wanted her to see through my façade, confront, insult me.

  Her face fell, but not nearly to the degree I had expected. I was startled. I waited for her to cry, to do or say something drastic that would force me to tell the truth, something that would squeeze my heart, get it out of me, but she acted so reasonably let down, I just couldn't believe it. It was in those next vital seconds that my words and every notion they contained — test, wish, joke, torture, provocation, confusion — began to sprout into a real lie. Maybe by simply believing it, she'd offered the seed its first drop of water.

  Trembling, unsure of myself, I opened the partition to see what she'd do — if it would or could against all impossibility work. I was counting on a well-deserved slap before she stormed away. It was incredible: she stepped in. I didn't hear a single noise. How she'd accepted my explanation . . . I couldn't get myself to trust what was happening, how easy it was. I'd never once thought I'd get away with it.

  I had to be alone, get my thoughts together. Maybe it would be better for me to wait until the situation was clearer before announcing the true turn of events? In a way I was protecting her. But deep inside, in a hidden corner of my heart, what I was really thinking was: what harm would it do to steal just a few extra days?