Kingdom of Twilight

by Steven Uhly

  LOOKING FOR

  WILHELM KRAMER

  BORN IN OSTRA, SOUTHERN BUKOVINA

  ANY NEWS OF HIM?

  But who would have imagined that there would be another sign looking for Wilhem Kramer, with another woman beneath it who now, as the men themselves started looking and standing on tiptoes, reading faces and signs, tried to push through the crowd but failed to make it to the front because those bodies full of yearning and hope had been packed so densely together, some for two days?

  The two signs did not notice one another, the two women beneath them had eyes only for the men, so many men, and now came the first cries, one of the men rushed toward a woman, her sign fell to the ground, nobody needed it anymore, in the tempest of time two people had been reunited, A miracle! A miracle!, someone must have cried, but everyone else was too preoccupied even to catch a snippet of the impossible, and again two people were reunited, it was a lottery being played out here, devised by a cruel genius, launched many years ago, nobody knew when, exactly; and today, October 7, 1955, at the Friedland reception center, strategically positioned at the corner of three zones, American–Hesse, British–Lower Saxony and Soviet–Thuringia, in the heart of vanquished and quartered Germany, was the prize draw.

  Lisa saw the other sign and recognized the woman holding it. The same woman who two years previously had claimed she was Maria Kramer. But this time Lisa did not feel she was play-acting, something stirred in her stomach, she had to work it out, for this false Maria Kramer had eyes only for the soldiers, Lisa could see the hope in those eyes that might at any moment turn to despair as soon as the stream of men ran dry. There was a way to go yet.

  One day Frau Kramer would tell her the truth about everything. But not in Friedland. There, like a marathon runner, she was busy expending all her reserves, saving nothing for a return journey, focused only on the moment, the moment and the next moment and the next moment, all her strength flowed out of her body into her neck, into the words on the sign, into the arms that held it aloft, into her eyes, which were open wide to let in everything that was outside, every single one of these men’s faces and all of them together.

  When Otto Deckert walked the unavoidable path through the rows of waiting people and was swept by Frau Kramer’s gaze, he failed even to notice. It was not important, he was not Wilhelm Kramer.

  The same happened to Otto Deckert’s family, standing not far from the Kramers with a beautiful sign, his parents, his fiancée, a sister; his brother had fallen in the war.

  Nobody recognized Otto Deckert in his new skin, with his new face, and so he simply walked on, leaving behind a family who later would be hugging each other not out of joy, but sorrow.

  The Kramers must have had the same feeling, the mother and her daughter who knew nothing of each other’s presence, and Lisa, whose tears were cried for her grandmother who collapsed to the ground when the men had passed by without Wilhelm Kramer, and for her grandfather, who would have made a more complete family, without a father and mother maybe, but at least a man who from time to time would have held his granddaughter in his arms to show his delight at her existence.

  Frau Kramer had no strength left. She had come, the procession was over, this was the goal, all she had to do was shout: Victory! Victory over whom, over what? Over time? Over the waiting, now at an end? And was it actually at an end? Were not many more trains coming with many more returning prisoners, were there not nine thousand six hundred and twenty-six in total, of which today only six hundred had arrived? Was there not still hope? So why collapse? Why not stand up and shrug and remain in good spirits until the next train? Let’s just stay here for the next few days, until we’ve seen all the men!

  Lisa had lain on top of Frau Kramer, wrapped her child’s arms around her, while her grandmother sobbed uncontrollably, unable to see that, just a few meters away, in the middle of the hurly-burly of those who had been reunited and those who were in as much despair as she was, stood her daughter, her hands in front of her face, the sign on the ground, coaxing herself to remain hopeful and hatching a plan to return to the guest house and come back when the main transport arrived.

  But then a man approached her, who had seen it anyhow, the sign, one of the six hundred.

  “Are you looking for Wilhelm Kramer?” he said. “From Bukovina?”

  Looking up, Maria saw the face of a stranger, a young man with sunken cheeks, a woman at his side barely younger than Maria herself, whose happiness had brought her to tears and contorted her face, as if she had ended up in the emptiness and certainty of death rather than in his arms. But the man looked at Maria and said, “Here!” Feeling in his trouser pocket he pulled out a narrow, gray slip of paper, a letter. He held it out to Maria Kramer who took it uncomprehendingly, while staring at the stranger and the woman clinging onto his left arm.

  “He wanted you to have it,” he said. In his eyes she noted a peculiar combination of happiness and pity, an expression that Maria had never seen before and which left her feeling entirely vulnerable. “I’m so sorry,” he said, before being dragged along by other people who had arrived, a father and a mother reunited with their son, who now saw only him, the one they had presumed dead, the resurrected one. He cast her a final glance over his shoulder and was gone, and Maria was left standing there holding a letter from her father, in a crowd which was now being instructed by the loudspeaker to sing a song of thanks.

  Twenty-five years later Lisa would think back to this song, she would sing it and write down the words in her diary, Now thank we all our God, with hearts and hands and voices, who wondrous things hath done, in whom his world rejoices. She would remember supporting her grandmother who could barely stand, while all around them people were singing the hymn at the tops of their voices, because they knew exactly what they had to thank God for, which wondrous things he had done, why the world was rejoicing, while she and Frau Kramer were in nothingness, for now they had opened the door and they saw the room beyond, now for both of them the moment of the life or death decision was repeated, now the lottery ticket was in their hands and it was blank.

  Lisa spotted Maria Kramer in the crowd, watched her put something away and then leave, rather than stay and have to stomach the thanks that others were paying to a god who rewarded and betrayed, both with the same hand. Maria Kramer did not know how many of those who had found each other again here would later separate, because nothing was as it once had been, because the collective choreography of this hour of return glossed over all details, even the important ones. Maria Kramer had received a letter, this letter made her an orphan.

  Lisa could feel her grandmother’s sorrow, she could feel her own sorrow, but also the question which had been growing inside her ever since that time, two years previously, when Maria had suddenly appeared at the door. Now it was as if Destiny herself had put the dot beneath the question mark and asked the question officially: Who is this woman? Why has she got my mother’s name? What’s not right here?

  Twenty-five years later, on the thirty-fifth floor, with a view of the great immigration harbor of New York, Lisa would admit to herself that this had affected her far more powerfully than the sorrow on that October 7, 1955, this and the doubt that always accompanied such questions, this and the mistrust, the fear of a hidden truth, O may this bounteous God, through all our life be near us, with ever-joyful hearts, and blessed peace to cheer us, how distant she had been from all that back then, but had she now, so many years later, come even an inch closer to peace?

  All of a sudden eleven-year-old Lisa tore a hole in the surface of her life. Letting go of her grandmother she ran after the woman who was walking through the crowd to the station. Lisa fixed her eyes on the brown plait bobbing up and down in front of her, and when she caught up with Maria Kramer she grabbed her forearm and held it tightly. Maria turned around, recognized the girl and exclaimed, “You!”

  “Are you Maria Kramer, the daughter of Wilhelm Kramer?”

  “Yes I am,” Maria said, with
anger and tears in her eyes. “What do you want from me?”

  “Your mother is here too.”

  “I don’t have a mother anymore; as far as she’s concerned I’m dead!”

  “No! That’s not true! Your mother needs you now. She’s back there.” Lisa pointed to the crowd of people who were still singing, All praise and thanks to God, the Father now be given; The Son and Him Who reigns with Them in highest Heaven, The one eternal God whom earth and Heaven adore; For thus it was, is now, and shall be evermore. Maria hesitated, she pictured herself standing in the doorway, she had not forgotten her mother’s harsh face, she had taken the rejection like a punishment, three life sentences, for the mother, the father, the daughter, a triune curse, once spoken, never to be driven from the earth.

  But now this girl who had shot up, this slim girl who had taken her place, her little enemy, was panting beside her, opening a door for her right outside the Friedland reception center, a door which had seemed locked forever. Maria took a deep breath and followed Lisa.

  Behind the women Otto Deckert went to platform two of Friedland station. He sat down on an empty bench and waited for the next train. He could hear the voices of all those people singing, and when they had finished a loudspeaker crackled and a man’s voice began to speak, but Otto Deckert paid no attention to what he was saying. Scraping together the remains of the makhorka tobacco in his bag, he rolled himself a cigarette, lit it and smoked. He did not think of the Deckerts who, in their search, had looked at him, and who had stayed to sing along with the crowd because they wanted to be thankful for the others who had been reunited with their loved ones, even if they themselves had not been granted the same joy. Otto Deckert was pleased with the way his arrival in West Germany had gone. He had no papers because he could not go to the authorities. But there were ways, alternative ways of rectifying this.

  The cigarette glowed brightly as he took a deep drag. Leaning back, he savored the sensation of being alone at last.

  26

  Rykestrasse 57. Soviet sector. A tall, turn-of-the-century house. Beside it a heap of rubble, smashed furniture, tattered clothes, bent cutlery, shards of china, ripped books. The stench of corpses was even more pungent today, for it had rained overnight, proper summer rain, large drops that had pelted the city, running into all cracks, gaps, holes, chinks, softening the city. The heap of rubble beside number 57 was still steaming faintly in the clear sunlight. The house buried its inhabitants beneath it, their host, old Gutfeld, said. They were in the cellar and that’s where they remain.

  Number 57 was so full of Jews, most of them from Poland, that two people had to share a narrow camp bed, twenty in one room. The food had to suffice for all of them, so three hundred grams of bread and half a liter of soup was the maximum daily ration, plus one and a half cubes of margarine and a tomato each week.

  The Gutfelds had apologized, they said, We’re terribly sorry, we’ll look for something better for you, but at the moment . . . You can see for yourselves. Herr Gutfeld had made a gesture, alluding perhaps to the pile of rubble beside number 57, perhaps the bombed-out terrace of houses on the opposite side of the road, but perhaps the entire city too. His wife had linked arms with him, as if in need of his support, but in fact she was leading him from the road.

  The Gutfelds were smart people, smart Berlin Jews who had gone places. Later, Ruth said, They learned to disregard any connection between the words “Jews” and “out.” But they’re helping us, which is magnanimous of them. Then she nodded her appreciation, dragging the corners of her mouth downward. “You’re looking pretty,” Anna said, and Ruth, caught off guard, looked at her in surprise with her ponytail, her new chubby cheeks, her swollen breasts, the nourished flesh on her bones. Ruth made no reply. Anna smiled.

  They were standing in the street, following the Gutfelds with their gaze, two of the Abramowicz children were playing in the rubble of number 56, Marja, who was now seven, had found a doll missing its arms and was holding it tightly. Dana, the youngest, had grown and learned to crawl. Having spotted Marja’s new toy she was heading straight for it. She was just beside the heap when a large chunk came loose, flattening the girl, and smashed into its constituent parts, mortar, bricks, a few tiles.

  There was a pause before the two women screamed and raced over. Still screaming, they cleared away the rubble, only going quiet when they had uncovered Dana’s lifeless little body.

  Mrs. Abramowicz came running out of the house and threw herself on her dead child. Marja clutched her doll, sobbing. Up on the steps of number 57 stood Ariel, his Magallanes book pressed against his chest, staring at the scene.

  A lorry drove up. Anna watched Peretz and Avi jump out and approach them. She saw the shock on Peretz’s face, she held him tightly and, for the first time in ages, broke down.

  27

  Lisa wrote:

  “Dear Diary, today I met Mummy’s sister. She’s called Maria, because Mummy’s real name is Margarita. Why did Grandma lie to me? When she took me to bed she said she was very angry with my aunt and she’d wished that she had died rather than Mummy. But I shouldn’t say this to my aunt otherwise she’d be very sad. Because she’s a very sad person, she cries a lot. It’s strange that Mummy wasn’t called that and now my aunt is called it. Margarita is a pretty name too, but I’m going to have to get used to it.

  “The journey home was very strange. But it was even stranger when Grandma and my aunt suddenly saw each other again in Friedland. And much stranger than that was that it was all my doing. Why did I do it? I think it was for the best. Now the three of us can live in the apartment and when I come home from school it won’t be empty because even if Grandma’s canning fish at Hawesta, my aunt can be here to cook for me. Maybe she will. But she’s not very nice. She doesn’t really talk to me, she asks Grandma things about me even though I’m sitting right beside her and could speak for myself. I don’t like that, I think people should pay attention to everyone, even girls who’ve only just turned eleven.

  “But I wanted to write about what happened when Grandma and Auntie Maria saw each other again. Grandma stopped crying at once and looked at the two of us as if we’d done something wrong. Then Auntie Maria said, Mother, but it didn’t sound quite so desperate as that time she stood at the door to our apartment. It sounded as if she’d put a question mark at the end. It was so loud, the man on the loudspeaker never stopped talking, then a brass band played some music, but the three of us just stood there, staring at each other. All of a sudden Grandma said to Auntie Maria, Maybe he’ll arrive with the main transport, and she only said that because she didn’t want Auntie Maria to be sad. I could see that, because she makes the same face when she’s trying to comfort me. And then something very sad happened. Auntie Maria shook her head and said, He’s not coming back. She cried and took out a letter and told us that a friend of her father had just given it to her. Then she went to Grandma with the letter in her hand and gave it to her. Grandma took it and started crying too, and then the two of them hugged each other and cried, and Auntie Maria said to Grandma, Forgive me, I beg you, and Grandma said, howling, Only if you accept this child as the daughter of your sister Margarita. Those were her very words! Auntie Maria stopped crying for a moment. She raised her head and looked at Grandma. I couldn’t see her face because she turned her head away. But Grandma pushed her head down again and then the two of them were back in a tight embrace, and Grandma said, Promise me. Auntie Maria nodded. That was strange. I couldn’t say anything because the two of them were crying so much, but I badly wanted to know what this was all about.

  “We stood for ages in the crowd of people who were all hugging each other too, there was barely anybody who wasn’t hugging someone. Maybe Grandma noticed this because she let go of Auntie Maria and grabbed me tightly and then she said, We’re going home now, the three of us. All of a sudden it was nice that there was at least another person with us, even if I’d have preferred Granddad. But Granddad’s probably long dead and it’s only now
that Grandma believes it. I’m desperate to know what’s in the letter, I don’t think Grandma’s opened it yet, I think she’s terrified of reading it. I can understand that. It must be a strange fear, because nothing can happen to her. The war is over and we’re safe here at home in Lübeck, and then the letter’s on the table in front of her and she’s meant to open it and read it. I bet Grandma’s thinking all kinds of things about what might be in it. Perhaps he really wasn’t well when he wrote it, because it was dreadful over there. Then it’s as if he’s not just dead but dying before her eyes. Sometimes I get the feeling that the ideas you get in your head make everything much worse than it really is. For example, when I imagine Grandma dying and me being all alone, I get really scared, even though Grandma’s still very much alive. But now, of course, it’s not so awful because Auntie Maria’s here. Although I think I’d rather go and live with Uncle Tobi if Grandma died. Hopefully that will never happen! Oh yes, I wanted to write about the train. It was really strange, because Auntie Maria stared at me the whole time, but whenever I glanced back at her she quickly looked away and pretended to be staring out of the window. Why do people do that? What’s more she didn’t look friendly at all, no, she looked almost angry, not just angry but secretly angry. She’s got absolutely no reason to be angry with me. She doesn’t even know me! On the train Grandma said how Auntie Maria and Mummy used to argue a lot, but rather than looking at me when she said it her eyes were fixed on Auntie Maria, and she made an odd face, she looked really stern, and Auntie Maria just looked back, she didn’t say anything and her face was just as stern. She gritted her teeth as if she were still angry at Mummy. And right now I think that perhaps she really still is angry at Mummy, and now she’s angry at me because I’m Mummy’s daughter. I’m going to be as nice as I can to Auntie Maria so she sees she’s got no reason to be angry with me. Then she’ll understand really fast and be more friendly. Hopefully.