Kingdom of Twilight

by Steven Uhly

  Frau Kramer said nothing. After a pause, Kleinert said, “I don’t have much time.”

  Frau Kramer nodded, she cleared her throat, she hunted for the words she had set aside, she wanted to give an explanation for her visit, but that was irrelevant now.

  “How did my husband die?” she asked.

  Kleinert looked at her, he looked at the desk, put his cigarette in the ashtray, placed his hands beneath the desk, leaned forward against the desktop. In silence he watched the cigarette smoke rise in a thin column before being blown away at mouth level. Frau Kramer saw tears glistening in his eyes, she thought she must be mistaken.

  “Your husband saved my life, Frau Kramer,” Kleinert said softly. “He treated me like his son. He . . . he even told me.”

  “What did he tell you?”

  “That I was his son.”

  He looked at Frau Kramer, in his eyes was a plea, as if he were trying to say, Don’t take this away from me. Frau Kramer thought of her husband’s letters, she had not read them since that time. Now they were all in her handbag. But she knew she would not take them out, what use would that be? She stared at Fritz Kleinert. He did not look anything like her Karl, and yet she could understand her husband. There was something they had in common. She could see it but was unable to put it into words.

  “Tell me more,” she said.

  Kleinert looked at her hesitantly. He had a vague fear that the old lady could cause him trouble. But he also knew that he had to grant her request. Taking a deep breath, he sank back into his armchair and pondered briefly how to begin.

  “When the pencil had worn down,” he said, “your husband asked the foremen for a new one. But they didn’t give him one. This was around New Year. Afterward it turned terribly cold, in our rags we almost froze to death. I was very young back then, I really could have been his son.”

  He paused and looked at Frau Kramer as if gauging the effect of these words, as if wondering, Will she cope with this? He took another deep breath.

  “The new foremen were brutal, they looked for people to do away with. We lived in fear.” He interrupted himself, made an uncertain gesture, then said at the top of his voice, as if standing in a pulpit, “You can say what you like about the Russians, but they never did things like that. Our own people! It was devastating. Like losing the war all over again!” Pausing again, he gave Frau Kramer a searching look. He blew air through his cheeks like someone lifting a heavy object. He eyed the cigarette thoughtfully, its ash was getting longer and longer, and said, “He wasn’t the first to get it. But he was one of the oldest. They made him work longer hours, beat him when he tried to pause for breath, withdrew his rations. All purely arbitrary. The rest of us wanted to complain, but the Russians rarely showed their faces and the foremen knew how to intimidate us.” He shook his head, again there were tears in his eyes, but still he tried to assess the effect his words were having on the woman opposite him. Without any success.

  “To this very day I don’t understand why they treated him like that. He was a good man!” He paused, wiped away the tears, looked at her. “They wanted to kill him,” he said. “God knows why. He lost weight, he looked like a Jew in a concentration camp.” He fell silent again, his eyes were dry but his lips quivered as if he were struggling to retain his composure. And still his observant eyes scanned the old woman, who could not understand why he was doing this.

  “When the new foremen came,” he said, “it was too late. He was so emaciated that his body was no longer able to keep food down. They took him to the infirmary. That was the last time I saw him.”

  He said no more, his gaze turned inward as if observing Wilhelm Kramer lying on the stretcher again, beneath a large woolen blanket, eyes wide open like someone desperate to stay awake until the end, like someone who refuses to admit defeat even though on the verge of death. When the stretcher bearers lifted him up, Fritz Kleinert’s eyes followed them, exactly twenty years ago now, there, behind the thin wisp of smoke, right beside the bookshelf was the cell door through which they carried Wilhelm Kramer. Kleinert knew he would never forget how Kramer turned his head back in his direction, the first stretcher bearer was already out in the corridor, Kramer’s feet were already out in the corridor, and of all the men who were standing there in silence, Kramer looked at him and said out loud, as loud as he was able, so loud that everybody could hear, Look after Fritz for me!

  We will Willi! We’ll look after him, Kramer! Don’t you worry! Until you’re back, comrade!

  Then the second stretcher bearer was outside too, a guard closed the heavy door, Kleinert heard the key turn in the lock. He swallowed, his eyes wandered over to the woman who had come in through the other door. Croakily, he told her, “At some point, around the end of February, we heard that your husband had died.”

  He fell silent, saw himself working below ground, he felt the heat, the humidity, the room went dark, as dark as in the dim niches of the phony couples behind the door, he heard the words, who had uttered them first? He could not remember.

  “There was no funeral. He just disappeared. Just like that . . .”

  Kleinert cried. He cried for Wilhelm Kramer and for himself, for the burden of this and other memories that he could not rid himself of.

  Frau Kramer sat opposite him, not knowing what she should be thinking or feeling.

  “What about Maria?”

  He lifted his head. So she had come because of her daughter! Pulling himself together, he wiped away the tears and tried to speak clearly.

  “Maria came to me, Frau Kramer. She was afraid.”

  “Afraid?” Frau Kramer exclaimed in surprise and disbelief. “Afraid of what?”

  “She said to me, Give me something I can hold on to.”

  “But she had me!”

  Kleinert paused, then said, “Look, Frau Kramer, I’m no saint, I’m sure you’ve worked that one out. But I’m not heartless. Before your daughter came to me she’d been in the area for a week. Poaching custom. The girls were mad at her, especially as she wouldn’t even take any money. She . . .” He hesitated, scrutinized Frau Kramer, but the old lady looked composed as if trying to say, Go on.

  “She was just screwing around, do you understand me? Without rubbers, with blokes I wouldn’t even let near my horses. Trying to fuck herself to death or something.”

  He stopped talking and shrugged, as if by way of an apology for his choice of words.

  Frau Kramer stared right through him, Why? Why? Why? Why? She withstood the pain, she was used to this, she felt strong and helpless, at the mercy of the world and imperturbable. It was an intoxication that sharpened her perception, she could hear the noise at her back, she could feel her daughter somewhere above her on the first floor, she understood the man opposite her, she grieved once more and still for Wilhelm Kramer and for her own arduous life, but she stood firm, nothing would knock her down save for death itself.

  As if he had heard her thoughts, Kleinert said quietly, “Maybe it’s something to do with a past life, who knows?”

  “A past life?” Frau Kramer repeated without having understood.

  He raised his shoulders and let them fall again, exhausted.

  “I don’t know, Frau Kramer. These eyes of mine have seen a lot, believe you me, in the war, in prison camp and since I’ve been back. Don’t get the idea that my sort don’t ask any questions. Why can’t I lead a normal life? Why can’t I just be happy? Wife and kids, a home of my own, an honest job, why can’t I have these things?” As he nodded slowly he fixed his gaze on Frau Kramer. He meant every word he had said.

  “You keep searching for a reason. The war, the Nazis, the Russians, hunger, suffering. Parents. But others went through exactly the same or even worse, and when you meet these people you see they haven’t landed up in the same place as you. Why?” He was raising his voice as if enraged by an invisible foe.

  “I don’t know, Frau Kramer! I’ve no idea! So then you try to work things out and say, It’s from a past life. A Ch
inaman once told me this. You cocked something up, did something dreadful and that’s why you find yourself in the mess you’re in. But it’s just gibberish, Frau Kramer, don’t take it seriously. Just gibberish about a failed life!” Throwing his head in his hands he burst into tears and sobbed loudly.

  It took Frau Kramer a while to get her head straight. Everything had been said, this visit had changed nothing, she had come to close a gap and now she realized that it was impossible, the gap was not memory but death itself, this was what all the talk had been about, everything ended with death.

  She wanted to go home, away from this underworld she had entered, but Fritz Kleinert would not stop wailing.

  She slapped the desk with her palm, a loud whacking noise. Kleinert flinched and stared at her.

  “I’ll be off now, Herr Kleinert,” she said. “Thank you for your time. Please look after my daughter as well as you can in this profession.”

  She paused as if to say something else, but then refrained, Enough is enough, she thought.

  She stood and smoothed her skirt, then left the room, the pub, the red-light district of Lübeck. She went back the same way she had come, Maria’s route to work, she felt cheerful, she strolled along easily, so different from the walk there when she had scurried from one building to the next like a thief, so her daughter would not see she was being followed.

  A past life. The words ran through her head, over and over again, without her wondering why.

  94

  Heinrich lay on his bed. He stared at the ceiling and said, The first of September, 1974. His eyes wandered to the alarm clock, which stood beside him on the bedside table. Time to get up. In a few minutes he would go into the kitchen, where Father and Mother would sing. Gudrun had failed to come home again, Mother would beam at him, acting as if she had not developed worry lines on account of her daughter, Father would hug him, acting as if he had conceived his boy out of love, Heinrich swallowed but his mouth was dry. He would have loved to leap out of the window to his freedom, he would have loved to disappear forever from the lives of these people who, for inexplicable reasons, had become his parents. He would have loved to spare himself what he had decided to do. But there was no way out.

  He got up, dressed, grabbed the bag he had prepared, left his room, crossed the hallway and entered the kitchen. Sitting there was Mother, beaming at him just as he had expected. Next to her sat Father, serious, stern, dignified, with striking features, a lifelong liar, looking at him with that exaggerated attentiveness, which he had long since decrypted as one of the tiny details in this great camouflage suit he wore.

  His parents sang Happy Birthday, Heinrich listened to the end, he stared at the marble cake with its eighteen candles, the two wrapped presents, the table set for breakfast, on his boiled egg the blue cozy his mother had knitted. Gudrun’s absence was a well-worn question mark, too often and too long, his parents had their suspicions and had no desire to know, only Heinrich knew for sure, I’m the secret service in this family, he thought, feeling a great surge of contempt.

  The song was over, Mother looked at him expectantly, Father looked at the cake with his eyebrows raised, Heinrich sighed, bent over, took a deep breath and blew out the candles, Mother clapped as if he were still nine years old, she too worked permanently on her camouflage, but it was a camouflage against herself, Heinrich swayed between fury and pity as he looked at her. Father said, Come on, open your presents, but Heinrich sat up straight again, he swallowed, he cleared his throat, his voice quivered as he spoke.

  “I’ve got presents for you too.” He paused, he watched the anticipation on his mother’s face turn to confusion, saw his father trying to read his expression. Heinrich composed himself, he put his hand in the bag, took out a package wrapped in red paper, gave it to his father. Then he put his hand back in the bag, another package, the same wrapping paper, but smaller. He gave it to his mother.

  His father hesitated, raised his eyebrows at his son, tore open the paper slowly, his mother did the same. Heinrich turned and left the kitchen. He went to his bedroom, fetched his case, his bag, cast a final glance at his room, then closed the door and went back into the kitchen. He stood in the doorway. Father was holding his diary, Mother her tarot cards, two people who knew nothing about each other, Heinrich could have howled if his gaze had not met his father’s. He turned around and left the apartment.

  95

  The second coming. May 15, 1948. Peretz on the quayside. Sarah was the first to see him, she shouted, There he is, there he is, there he is! She stretched her slender arm over the railing, her index finger picked out a tiny figure in the waiting crowd, she hopped up and down with excitement and now Anna saw him too. Shimon did not see him, Peretz was too far away, the circle of his face too small, too many strangers were down there, Peretz merely one of them.

  The ship hove to, pitching awkwardly like a stranded whale. Anna did not know what she should be feeling, she was afraid of seeing Peretz again, afraid of the reality of war. She saw military everywhere around the port, she knew the uniforms, she remembered Emil, If only he could see this, she thought, Jews fighting for their rights, and for a moment she was deeply moved. But the soldiers, the armored vehicles, the artillery positions in place to defend the port of Tel Aviv stirred other memories in her and soon she felt fear again.

  The ship came alongside the quay, slowing all the time, until finally the fenders hanging there on ropes were squeezed against the harbor wall. Men leaped off the ship carrying thick ropes that they immediately secured to iron bollards. Then the gangway was lowered, it was narrow and steep, the last stretch of the path separating the passengers from Israel.

  The second coming. 6 Iyar, 5708. Shabbat. Peretz stood on the quayside, looking up at the ship, he saw two slim masts, he saw the crowd of people on board, he knew it was no more than two hundred and fifty, he thought of the President Warfield with her many thousand pioneers, compared to which the Orchidea looked like a fishing boat. He sighed, that was the past, the present was more modest, but the ship had arrived, there were no more British out there on the high seas, they were busy with their withdrawal but had commandeered Haifa in return. The old enemy was leaving, the new one was in the country already.

  Peretz watched the gangway being lowered, the ship’s first physical contact with Israel. The sun shone because it almost always did, it was in the west and blinded him, the people on board amassed beside the railing, Peretz’s eyes scanned the crowd, but he could not see Anna, Anna, who would immigrate without his daughter because she lay in a grave in Germany, perhaps he would never see it.

  Peretz banished the thought, the first few people descended the gangway, watching their step, the way down to Israel was steep, these were no pioneers, it was a legal arrival in this country that was but a day old, a new-born baby, and already all the neighbors had risen up to kill it, to cast them all into the sea from which they had come, to destroy this new homeland at once, Will we have to fight forever to survive?

  Peretz banished the thought, the people disembarking looked exhausted and happy, there was movement amongst those waiting, all of them surged toward the arrivals, people flung their arms around each other’s necks, some cried for joy, some wept, some were silent or calm. Peretz’s eyes searched but could not find. What if they had not gone aboard, what if the information had been false, if they had decided otherwise?

  Peretz banished the thought. More and more people came ashore, they carried cases and bags, small children and babies, people Peretz did not know, but Jews, new citizens for Israel, there was nothing more important than this, Keep hold of this, Peretz thought, Everything else is secondary. He almost smiled, had he ever managed to feel this rather than just think it? Where did the conflict come from? he had given everything for the Zionist cause, he had fought, he had killed, he had smuggled Jews halfway across Europe to bring them to this land. And yet it had given him no sense of fulfillment. He thought of the German soldier he had killed for the loudhailer, he r
emembered exactly which day it had been.

  He banished the thought.

  He saw a woman coming down the gangway. She looked older than he remembered, older and more frail, she held the railing on both sides, she moved uncertainly, an image flashed in his mind, Anna, coming toward him out of the forest, he holding the loudhailer, how much time had passed since then? Three years, three eternally long years. He saw Sarah following her, holding hands with Shimon, Shimon with clumsy steps, his eyes fixed on the steep surface below, he had grown. My son, Peretz thought bitterly. He banished the thought, he thrust out his chest and pushed his way forward through the crowd.

  96

  It said “Kramer” in the dark-green passport that Lisa offered the Israeli border official. The woman was strikingly young, barely older than herself. She was wearing a green army uniform, a rolled-up beret lay beside her on the desk. Long brown hair fell over her shoulders, Lisa felt as if she were standing next to a girl guide.

  The woman leafed through Lisa’s passport which was so new and unused that it kept shutting again.

  “It says ‘Jewish’ here,” she suddenly said in English.

  Lisa nodded. She was proud that she had managed to achieve that at least.

  But then she saw the disbelief on the Israeli woman’s face.

  “Are they still doing that?” the woman said, now looking angry.

  Lisa was puzzled, she said, “I asked them to.”

  “You did?” the woman said, confused.

  Lisa nodded.

  The woman looked from the passport to Lisa, from Lisa to the passport. Then she shrugged. “What is your reason for coming to Israel?”

  “I might stay here.”

  Now the woman smiled at her openly. “You’re going to love Israel!” she said.