Caging Skies

by Christine Leunens

  I passed hospitals and caserns being used for refuge. Children had adapted better than their parents, those who still had them, and were thrilled to have so many neighbours. They played ball with two helmets tied together, had tea parties with sets of discarded shells. The Sporthalle of my school was being used to house families as well. Some people were dozing in sleeping bags, some having breakfast, others stepping hurriedly into their clothes, embarrassed by the line of students stopping every few steps to cup their faces to the glass sections of the partitions and gape. By the end of the week they'd be accustomed to the youths, and the youths oblivious to them.

  We were put in a classroom with children who gazed up in bewilderment. It was degrading and I suspected it had been done for just that reason. The teacher, an ill-humoured woman 'with hair on her teeth', as the saying goes in German, called one of these 190-centimetre adults to the front. He grated his chair back, then changed his mind. This provoked a lecture: we were all equals, there'd be no exemptions, so step up as asked. The problem became plain when the desk moved up and down like a small bucking animal as he attempted to free his legs from it. This caused an outburst of laughter from the younger ones.

  The teacher pointed at me. As luck would have it I'd straddled my desk and hidden my arm in my pocket. I took the chalk from her, concentrated hard, but my 'p' didn't close and my 'c' did; wanting to dot an 'i' my hand slid, the chalk squeaking down the blackboard. I could feel everyone's eyes fixed on the illegible hen's tracks, could hear what they were thinking. On paper I'd made progress, but writing on a vertical medium felt like starting from zero again. It never occurred to her I wasn't right-handed. In front of everybody, she asked if they'd ever taught me to read and write.

  ***

  It was a relief to spot our house uphill, but as I drew closer I saw that the front door was wide open. I could see no one coming or going. I listened for trouble but all seemed peaceful. Maybe Pimmichen had wanted fresh air?

  'Pimmi?' I called out. She wasn't in any of her usual spots. The corner of one rug was overturned; the cushions of the sofa were dishevelled. I saw three cups on the table, yet unused.

  I was halfway up the stairs whistling a tune for Elsa when I heard my grandmother cry from the library, 'Johannes, is that you? We're in here!'

  I stopped in my tracks, numbed with hope and dread over who she meant by we. My father? Elsa? Would I find them all chatting, the best of friends?

  Pimmichen was in fact with two strangers, seated on our antique chairs with their knees as far apart as the frail arms let them. One was so strongly built and overweight I feared the tapered legs would give way under him at any moment. His face glowed a red that might have been good health, just as it might have been emotion or alcohol. The other was young enough to be his son, only there was little resemblance between them, even if he also had dirty blond hair, and this is what made something in my mind click. Mr Kor and Nathan!

  Pimmichen, noticing my distress, bade me sit.

  'Johannes, we're to take these men in. They fought for the Allies to free our country. Here. They have an official document. The official who was with them couldn't stay — he had an important mission elsewhere.' With a cough she added, 'We have no choice.'

  Fingers trembling, I took it. The document was in French, but I saw the official seal and stamp, and above, the names Krzysztof Powszechny, Janusz Kwasniewski. My disbelief was instinctive. I had a hunch it was a governmental manoeuvre to corner me. I tilted it in the light this way and that, doubting that their squirming was because of the discomfort of the chairs. I sized up the younger one. He was more rugged and mature than Nathan, but then again, without his glasses and years down the line, changes were to be expected, especially if he'd fought the war on the Russian side. The older one fixed his attention on me.

  'Hello? How do you do?' I said, with a hint of a bow, hoping despite the mad circumstances to give a good impression. The older man tugged at his earlobe.

  'They're Polish, they don't speak our language,' explained Pimmichen, 'and I've forgotten my Hungarian, though I'm not sure it would have done the trick.'

  The men leaned towards each other and spoke in what could've been Hebrew or some long-lost dead language for all I knew.

  The first chance I had, I warned Elsa that my grandmother had company and she had to abide to stricter rules. To my annoyance, every time she thought I was finished, she brought up Madagascar again. Where, for example, did I get the information I'd given her? Did I have any articles I could let her read? Would it be possible to listen to a wireless so she'd have a link with the outside world? I had no choice but to say yes, Elsa, no problem. Elsa, of course. Don't be silly, Elsa. I couldn't risk arousing her suspicion even further. Basically she was asking for proof. For the past four, five years she'd asked for nothing; now all of a sudden she needed proof.

  Afterwards, I had an argument with Pimmichen about the necessity to protect our private life. She rallied Jesus to her side until I relented and set the dinner table for four. When she gestured for them to join us, however, they declined with a wave of the hand. Seeing their resoluteness, I beckoned them over, a tactic to pacify Pimmichen at little risk. But the men made camp in the foyer and didn't use any of our furniture. Each had his own sleeping bag, milking stool and washing bucket which, turned over, served as a small table. Bread, apples and hard cheese were the essentials of their dinner; pocket-knives served as knife and fork. They seemed self-sufficient and to be minding their own business.

  I tucked Pimmichen in early; I needed to get my bearings. She was in the mood to talk. 'Did you notice? They don't say a word to us. Even between themselves, they hardly make a peep.'

  'Everyone's quiet compared with you, Pimmi.'

  'And they make a point out of not using anything of ours. Was it too much to sit at the table with us? We're their enemies. I judge people by their acts, not their words.'

  'I thought they said no words.'

  'Don't you think there's something fishy about them? Maybe they're not who they say they are.'

  'What do you mean?'

  'I don't know, Johannes, maybe they're . . .' she drew in a breath to whisper, 'spies?'

  'What would spies want with us? The real colour of your toenails?'

  'Who knows what your father did. Something in our house interests them. I feel it in my bones. They're never wrong, especially this little old metacarpus of mine.' She held up her arthritic index finger and pecked the air with it.

  Pimmichen's talk and the late hour were taking their toll. I became convinced my first impression had been right: Mr Kor and Nathan had come to stab me in the heart while I slept and steal Elsa away.

  I took precautions and set up camp in front of Elsa's door. From the balustrade on the third storey one had a view of the hallway below. I covered it with blankets to camouflage my position, left the hallway light on so I'd see my murderers after they'd climbed up the first flight. I put on my old helmet and kept guard with my father's hunting gun. Every time I heard a creaking I poked it through the banisters, aiming below.

  I must've fallen asleep at some point but it mattered little, for they were gone before I got up, by five. Their sleeping bags were rolled, stuffed in their buckets and crowned with their respective milk stools. Each man's socks were drying on two legs like stiff rabbit ears, timeworn underpants flagged over the third. A bag of walnuts had been left on our table for us. This didn't seem the station of spies or killers any more. What had seemed so vividly true just hours earlier rose as the folly it was with the pale, peaceful light of dawn.

  xiii

  I scoured the devastated city for something, anything to convince Elsa of what I'd said. Every headline contained words that struck defeat into my heart, and the articles beneath them were just as incriminating. The shops discouraged me, full of trinkets testifying to Austria's occupation. Shelves of patient Pierrots sat above less resigned Mickey Mouses, toothpicks were topped with British flags, posters presented Josef Stalin
as 'the people's papa'. Everyday household objects had been nationalised — cups, ashtrays, keyholders — with headache-inducing red, white and blue patterns: French, British and American. Only the flag of the Soviet Union provided variation: red with a trace of yellow. There was nothing, big or small, boasting any remnant of the Reich. Ten years in jail or even the death penalty awaited anyone caught in possession of the like. It was a hopeless quest and I trudged home empty-handed. All I had to carry back was my lie.

  I stepped into the foyer to find the older Pole greasing his shoes, the younger reading the newspaper the shoes were on, each trying to knock the other out of his way. I strained my eyes to see what was so interesting, but the characters were as unintelligible as those of Russian.

  'Where have you been?' Pimmichen cried. 'You're late! There's been a drama!'

  I couldn't get a word in edgeways before she related it to me.

  'I left the house unlocked because our friends here were gone before we'd given them a key. Any thief could've walked right in and you know me, I wouldn't have heard an army of Cossacks if I was taking forty winks. I remembered a spare, but couldn't find it anywhere.' (This, in passing, was because I'd taken it in case she'd had this very idea.) 'I went to look upstairs, though God knows I hate those stairs. Your father's study was open, but not the guest room. I thought it must have been my wrist, but no, it's locked. Then I was coming back down, holding the rail, one slow step at a time, when I heard a bang, which made me lose my balance . . .'

  I'd listened without moving. 'And . . . ?'

  'And what?'

  'What happened?' I asked.

  'I already told you. I lost my balance.'

  'You didn't hurt yourself?'

  'You should've seen me. Whoosh! From high to low on my plumpest part.'

  'So where's the drama?'

  'I could have broken my neck! Killed myself!'

  My sigh of impatience was really one of relief.

  'You will see the bruises on my posterior tomorrow!'

  'I hope I won't.'

  'Why is that door locked? Who's up there?'

  'Pimmi, I leave the window cracked open so there's fresh air circulating. The door doesn't shut well, so to prevent the draught from opening and slamming it all the time, I lock it.'

  'Aah, so maybe a pigeon's nesting up there. Or a weasel, a ferret? No, no, a marten! It must be a marten! I heard they get in, chew the electrical wires — they can ruin a whole house.'

  'I'll open up. Give me a minute. I was in there yesterday and must have missed the wildlife reserve.'

  'Don't bother. I'm not going up again — I've done my bit.'

  'A wise decision.'

  'You're telling me? Those steps are a shortcut to heaven! Your parents never should've converted that attic. We didn't need extra rooms; we don't even use the ones we have!'

  ***

  Elsa was expecting me. Her eyes were big and round in a show of innocence when I set aside the partition, which meant she hadn't been in there long or the light would've smarted them. She told me in a frenetic whisper, 'Someone tried the door today! I think it was your grandmother!'

  'It was.'

  'I think she heard me.'

  'She did. And God knows she's half deaf.'

  'I stood up and the chair fell back. I would have sworn it sounded like she fell down the stairs.'

  'How perceptive.'

  'There was nothing I could do. It was terrible. I heard her talking to you. She kept saying, "Just give me your hand, little Johannes, and your tired, broken Pimmi will get up. Give me your hand . . ."'

  I fished a tin of olives, some dried fish, half a loaf of bread out of my backpack.

  'Does she know I'm here?'

  'Always you. What about her?'

  Elsa flushed scarlet till her eyes watered. 'I'm sorry. I'm confused.'

  'You and I have a lot in common. The person I care about most is you. The person you care about most is you. We really are meant for each other. It is destiny, God's will, don't you think?' I could tell Elsa was ashamed and took pleasure rubbing it in. 'So how is she, you ask. She'll be fine, Elsa, don't worry. You have enough worries of your own — you have yourself to take care of. Please, don't give a second's thought to anyone else, only you, yourself.'

  She wrung her hands together in self-reproach, but I caught the split-second lowering of her eyes — she hadn't been able to resist looking at the backpack. I knew what she was wondering but she knew better than to say it.

  'Elsa, while these guests of my grandmother's are here, it'd be better if you went back behind the wall. If you can manage to remain quiet, I'll let you out when I'm home.'

  I would have liked to stay and keep her company, chat about inconsequential nonsense the way we used to, but I had to get out before she started asking about what I knew was eating her insides out. I gathered the washbasin, night pot and kitchenware to be washed, content to have made it through another day.

  The following evening I wasn't so fortunate. Elsa brought it up as soon as I unzipped the backpack, before I'd even reached my hand inside. 'Oh, Johannes, you did remember to bring me a newspaper, didn't you?'

  'That's what I meant to do!' I hit my forehead. 'I knew I'd forgotten something!' I detected the scepticism in her face. 'Now it's the weekend, stupid me! I can't make you wait till Monday. Why don't I go hunt one down? This district's dead, but the next one should have a newsstand. I'm sure it's stopped raining.'

  Perhaps remembering the day before, she cut me some slack. The more I insisted, the more she looked reassured, and the other way around. 'Are you sure?' I said. 'Really, I don't mind. I think my grandmother will be fine if I hurry. I won't keep her waiting too long.'

  Her eyes softened; trust had been re-established.

  I was in an unenviable frame of mind. My bluffing had won me two more days, but it couldn't go on forever. All I'd done was postpone my dilemma. I saw no way out, outside of a miracle. If I had the entire weekend to think, I also had the entire weekend to torture myself over a labyrinth with no exit, not at least without breaking a wall.

  ***

  Saturday was wet and miserable. The Poles were gone by 4 am, their sleeping bags rolled, a bottleneck sticking out of one. On each of the stools, I noticed as I swished my mop around, there was a hand of playing cards face down, the pink lacy-looking backs making them look like the dainty fans of dames of earlier centuries.

  'The only thing that needs brightening up around here is your face,' said Pimmichen. 'Go for a walk. Young men aren't made for staying inside dusting grandfather clocks.'

  'It's raining, in case you hadn't noticed.'

  'That wouldn't have stopped Don Juan — not a thousand raindrops nor a thousand ladies' tears.'

  She bent down to take my duster, moaning elaborately. 'I'm not doing it for you. I have to keep moving to keep my muscles warm.' Wherever I went, she wasn't far behind, her feathers switching side to side through the air like a bird in first flight. Sometimes I moved too fast for her, found her tripping along, dusting the air above the furniture. She kept giving me queer looks out of the corner of her eye, humming a melody I couldn't place. It might've been the Polotsvian dances, Hungarian dances, or even our Vogelfänger at that, for all I'm good at music.

  'You forgot to tell me her name,' she said in an offhand manner before resuming her humming.

  'Whose?'

  'Your girlfriend's.'

  'She's not my girlfriend yet.'

  'So it wasn't her waiting for you upstairs after all?'

  'What do you think of me? Bringing a girl home behind your back? She's not a tramp, Grandmother!'

  From the astounded look on her face I realised she'd been just teasing me and now was wondering at the strength of my reaction. 'Goodness. Last time I saw you in such a state you were three and didn't want a bath.'

  'If you see the young lady again, you'll understand.'

  'I know her already?'

  'You know of her.'

  'That
means she's from a good family.'

  'What do you mean by good? Decent or well known?'

  'Does she have a name?'

  'Not yet.'

  'How about the initials?'

  'No, no, Pimmi.'

  'How could that hurt?'

  'I don't know.'

  'Come on, don't be superstitious. The first letter of her Christian name? Just the first.'

  After some hesitation I gave in. 'E.'

  Pimmichen crossed the room, unlocked her bureau, rolled back the cylindrical top. The marquetry caught her sleeve and, in trying to free herself, she tore a piece off. She pursed her lips, dropped it in the top drawer to be glued back at some stage, and pulled out a booklet. 'Let's see. May 20, Elfriede?'

  'No.' I felt at once amused and irritated.

  'July 23, Edeltraud. Isn't that a pretty name? Edeltraud. Precious faith.'

  I blushed as far as my ears when I realised she was reading the calendar of Catholic saints, which I reckoned Mr and Mrs Kor probably had not consulted to baptise their daughter, who probably wasn't even baptised — no, no, how could she be? 'Pimmichen, come on, stop.'

  'I'm getting close. Now, help me read this — the writing's small, my eyes are bad. What is it, St Emilie, St Edith?'

  'Neither.'

  'There can't be that many E's. Isn't this another? Oh, St Elizabeth. St Elizabeth was the daughter of a Hungarian king in the thirteenth cen—'