by Gudrun Mouw
“I know, Omi. You’re right, I just don’t know why I get impatient sometimes.”
“We must learn from every situation. You have good instincts. I shall miss you, Friede, but you will come to visit us soon as you settle in at school.”
“I wish I could stay, but I also love school.”
“This is your work now, to be a good student, and I hear that you are.”
My mother must have been saying good things about me and I am thankful that I haven’t been too much of a typical teenager. I heard someone use that phrase the other day. It wasn’t directed at me; the person didn’t even know me, but was just walking ahead of mother and me when I heard the phrase spoken. For some reason I took it to heart and questioned myself.
We pass through the oldest part of town near the lake. Numerous small stores line the street on both sides—a bookseller, meat market, bakery, and others. At the second and third-story levels of the old, wooden buildings, apartment balconies burst with the color of flower gardens, brightened by intense sunlight.
Here and there, the lake and the mountains peek through between buildings. Stone crags rise up around a glittering blue and white flags flutter on tourist boats. Not too cold, not too warm, the air tastes clean. I smell a sweet fragrance and the aroma of freshly baked bread drifts by from a nearby store, mingling with the scent of linden flowers. Suddenly I sense the presence of hundreds and thousands of others who have walked these cobblestones before me. Something stirs inside, ghost-like melodies sing.
I have a vision of silent flying ships that look like enormous cigars, built by Count Ferdinand von Zeppelin before World War I in floating hangers on the lake. Then, even older memories come.
Drummers, horses, riders, and carriages pass by. Omi grips me more tightly, but I am still in another time. I hear the clatter of hooves on stone. A hopeful voice calls, “Blumen, Fräulein?” I feel as if there is a large bustle hanging behind me, heavy from the waist.
Now I feel that each building, each stone, each fresco, each ancient statue, every nook and cranny carries the dreams of generations, shining along cornerstones. Wearing a large, floppy hat, an old woman approaches us and smiles. She speaks as if she has read my thoughts. “I am myth and more than myth. I am the collective wisdom of your kind.” She says this in English and my grandmother looks at me with a puzzled expression.
“I’m sorry, Omi, I don’t quite know how to translate what she said into German.”
Myth? Collective wisdom? I want to reassure my grandmother with the right explanation, but I am feeling wobbly. It is as if I stepped into another world and someone seems to have followed me back from that other place, so even my beloved Omi could see her. My vision is foggy. I stumble. Omi holds me up to keep me from tumbling. I want to say more but can’t find the words, and I’m grateful she doesn’t question me.
I blink several times until my eyes clear. The floppy hat woman disappears behind a pretzel vendor, and though we walk in the same direction I can’t see her anywhere.
Grandmother and I cross several more streets before arriving at the hospital. The door closes behind us and I recoil from an antiseptic smell inside the building. In my still altered state, the sight of metal basins, white, metallic beds, and nurses in starched uniforms unsettles me.
After checking in, we go to a room with a single bed. I know this has something to do with the fact that grandma has leukemia. A nurse wheels in a bottle hanging from a metal stand, filled with blood. I can’t see what the nurse is doing, but after she is done Omi appears to be connected to the bottle by means of a tube to her left arm.
“I wish you didn’t have to go through this,” I say.
“One day, surely…” Grandmother Pulver does not finish her sentence. We allow the silence to fill the space with love and hope.
The Phoenix
I look down from Turtle Back Rock knowing that Saqapaya will not be safe much longer in his hidden valley. While he is sleeping now, I will come into his dreams to tell him we must fly as one down to the Mission and help Hew escape. Ku’n’s mother needs her husband’s help, now more than ever.
I fly to Saqapaya’s side and whisper in his ear, “Let us go with the blessing of the moon to your friend. The guards drank heavily last night. They will not wake. The time is now.” I enter Saqapaya’s dream before dawn and we quickly glide down the side of the mountain. Below us coyotes gather and sing their high-pitched, yelping songs as if to wish us well.
Saqapaya, with all his dedication and sincere efforts, has gained the power of spirit-travel and we thicken the air with our dream consciousness as we pass. I can sense many creatures stirring beneath us, perhaps ready to assist.
Saqapaya and I fly over the arc of early dawn in that magical time between night and day. We see the glow of embers in a campfire that had almost died overnight. We hear the creek winding its way towards the ocean, splashing, moving, spilling over stones. Saqapaya’s love and respect for this land moves through my Phoenix body. A hint of light spreads pale yellow and a delicate rose at the horizon. I am certain this divines success for our endeavor. We will find a way to free Hew.
Before we reach the area of the Mission’s prison, which some will try to claim never existed, we transform into Crow. Crow will not stand out. Crow is less likely to be shot. As Crow, sleek in a black feather coat, we land on a small branch barely strong enough to hold us. The branch hangs close to Hew’s cell and we call to him. Hew stirs.
Now we need the effort of three—Phoenix, Saqapaya, Crow. We swoop down to the prison door latch, but it doesn’t move. We fly to the back of the building, pick up a stone, return and pound the stone against the latch until the front end lifts. A nearby guard, leaning against an oak tree, grunts and goes back to sleep. From the ground we gently nudge the door open and approach Hew, who cannot hear my Phoenix voice. Saqapaya whispers softly, “Hew, it’s me, Saqapaya. Wake up! Go to your wife. Leave this place now.”
“Saqapaya?” Hew barely sees the crow body in the prison darkness, but he is not shocked. He knows Saqapaya is a special ‘asuyepeyepen shaman.
“Hew! Hurry! Look! The door is open.” We nudge Hew with the tip of our crow beak.
At last Hew notices the door is ajar and gathers himself to a crouch, ready to run out. We follow him, Saqapaya and I. We will distract the guard if needed.
We watch Hew turn in the direction of the creek. We fly towards a manzanita tree and pick up a cluster of red berries. We drop them in front of Hew, where he stands on a rock above the water a short distance from the Mission, still dazed by what has just happened. He bends down to splash his face and takes a drink, then notices the berries. They are there to remind him of his wife’s village, close to a Manzanita grove where he has often rested on the soft, reddish ground. He gets up quickly and heads west. We gather more berries, in case he has difficulty finding his way in the dim early morning light with no easy trail to follow. Saqapaya and I transform back from Crow into my Phoenix body, so Hew will soon recognize me as Saqapaya’s special helper. We follow him. We watch over him.
Hew is walking into the wind now, not with resistance but at an angle as he was taught years ago. Hew approaches the wind with humility, his head bowed, and the energy of the wind will make him more alert, whereas it discourages the soldiers who don’t like this land and, therefore, treat it with aggression.
We have come far enough from the soldiers to feel it is safe to boldly reveal who we are. We fly ahead to a branch we know Hew will see and wait. We hear him say, “It’s the Phoenix Saqapaya has described to me. I knew I wasn’t dreaming. What are you trying to tell me?”
Saqapaya and I drop more Manzanita berries. Hew picks up the berries. “Yes,” he mutters and tears fall from his eyes. “I have heard rumors, oh, my son. I have been in such anguish unable to do anything.” He hurries on towards a secret grove unknown to the soldiers, a place to regroup and rest where he can welcome warmth and light as the day brightens.
Friede / The Phoenix
On the last day before my mother and I leave the Bodensee for Munich, I walk with my Pulver family on the lake promenade in groups of two and three. My favorite uncle, Wilhelm, has joined us from the north, as well as Aunt Olga. He is young, fun, and as yet “unburdened by family obligations.” That’s what I heard my mother say to my grandmother the day before. I think it’s grand to be young and fun; I suspect he might be better at it than I am, even though I’m ten years younger than he is. I know I still have a lot to learn and am determined to do the best I can.
An overcast sky meets a lackluster sea, and a gray haze hides the borders of Switzerland and Austria where they meet the eastern and southern shorelines. Today, the jagged Alps across the lake are hidden from view. Swans swim towards concrete steps rising up from the lake, lift themselves broad-chested out of the water, spreading white wings. My mother, at the head of the group, pushes Emma’s baby buggy with my new niece inside. Aunt Olga hurries with her three children past my mother and disappears in a shop on one side of the promenade. Emma and Rebecca each take one of my grandmother’s arms to tuck in their own.
Uncle Wilhelm and I walk side by side. He takes my arm gently to steer me away from an oncoming pedestrian. His touch feels nourishing and comforting. Omi had said that Wilhelm is studying to become a chiropractor and I could tell she was very proud of him. “I wish I could take you home to Essen with me,” he says, “you remind me so much of my sister Ursula. Do you remember her?” I nod my head yes, too shy to say anything.
Hearing Wilhelm’s comment, Emma releases her mother’s arm and approaches her brother. She likes to tease him, I know. She says, “Your fiancée would not approve, no doubt, of you taking such a ‘fatherly’ role.”
Uncle Wilhelm blushes and I am embarrassed for him. Emma notices my expression and says lightly, “Dear Friede, never mind. We have all seen his irresistible ways. I don’t mean anything.”
At dinner that evening I sit next to my Grandfather Pulver, whose body recedes in an oversized blue shirt and a baggy sweater. He turns his fork around several times before taking a bite. A man of few words, he is almost invisible in the midst of his gregarious family. When I asked Omi about it once, she said, “After your grandfather returned from Russia he has never been the same, but we are still very lucky to have been able to come to the west.”
I pick onions out from my vegetables and leave them on my plate. “Eat your food,” my mother says. She had been cooking for a while in Omi’s tiny kitchen and now seems overly touchy.
“But you know I don’t like onions.”
“See what I mean?” My mother turns to Omi and in a low voice continues as if I shouldn’t be able to hear her: “Your granddaughter is stubborn like her father.” I groan.
Dark crescents under my mother’s eyes and the tight fold of her mouth reveal strain, which should have warned me. “I don’t like onions either, sorry to say,” says Wilhelm, defending me, “there’s something about the texture that has always bothered me.” I feel exactly the same way and am grateful, but it doesn’t seem to help matters.
“Don’t encourage her,” my mother complains. Uncle Wilhelm looks at his plate, chews, and doesn’t say more.
My mother slams down her fork. She pushes her chair back. “The salad,” she remembers out loud, sounding angry as though Wilhelm and I are to blame for the salad not reaching the table. She stomps towards the kitchen.
“For God’s sake,” Olga begins. She stares at her oldest daughter and frowns. “Trudie, sit up straight. You won’t get any shorter by hunching and watch those elbows. Where are your manners?” Nine-year-old Trudie jerks her body into position like a puppet and she pulls her lips together with a pained expression.
I have eaten enough. How did everything get so rough, so quickly, especially on our last day, and Uncle just trying to be nice? I need to leave. “Excuse me,” I say, pushing my chair away from the table. I hurry to the door, grab my sweater hanging from a peg in the foyer, and flee the apartment.
I run to the community garden nearby and once there I slow down, following a dirt path. Red berries, flowers, vegetables, and fruit trees grow here, but I hardly notice. I am still not calm and find myself speeding up again, walking faster and faster until I come to a small wooded area.
Slowing down finally, I kick pebbles as I scuff along. Even before it begins to drizzle slightly, I smell moisture in the air and take shelter under a tree. Old sorrow washes over me, and inside the sadness resides frustration and anger that is much larger than my disagreement with my mother.
A leaf drifts down. I stroke the leaf’s fuzzy hairs absentmindedly and lift it to my face. The leaf feels soft as a feather.
The drizzle stops. The wood breathes moisture. I shiver, yet don’t want to leave. Grass, leaves, bushes, vines, and trees all beckon me. I squat on the ground easily as if the soft earth will hold me in its embrace. The forest creatures and plants seem to say: stay. Rest. You are a part of us. I look up at the tree above me and whisper, “You don’t criticize your leaves for falling and going their own way. You don’t complain about rain or scold snow for landing on you in the winter, cracking, even breaking your limbs. You don’t tell your roots what nourishment they should or should not take.”
* * *
I fluff my feathers, the orange color splotched and darkened by the drizzle, shake out the dampness, and am glad this tiny refuge of woodland can be Friede’s friend, which she so desperately needs. I am encouraged by the feisty show of independence. I sit on the tree under which Friede shelters.
* * *
Under the tree I feel the power of the natural world, and after a while it seems as if the woods are asking me: Friede, do you know why you are here? Do you know your purpose?
“Not yet,” I answer softly.
A large droplet falls from a leaf overhead and plops on my nose. I look up. A blue circle opens in the sky. Sun sparkles on the wet plants all around, and the wood looks like a fairyland of glittering crystals. Sun penetrates my sweater, my skin, and as I take in the sun’s warmth my heart softens.
Friede
Munich, West Germany
It is obvious that my father is comfortable here in Munich, the city of his youth, reddened with wine in the company of relatives and friends. He quit his job without telling anyone, sold our house, and now we are stuck here. I like the school, but this is too much. He makes me cringe and contract as he brags, “I’ve won every fight. I never lost a match. I was only an amateur boxer and not the heaviest weight, but…” He pauses. “I’ll tell you my secret—I have strength of will and that is just as important as strength of muscle.” He flexes his biceps. The general laughter does not impress me. I have heard this speech more than once.
My father’s sister is just as bad, if not worse. Lena taps my father on the shoulder and says, “Well, brother, if your will is so strong, then tell your daughter here to cheer up. She is the gloomiest seventeen-year-old I have ever met.” My father frowns at me, and mother, who hasn’t said much during dinner or afterwards, remains quiet. Lena, our hostess, continues: “On the other hand, what do men really know about will? I know they think they have it under control, but just let them glimpse a pair of good-looking female legs. Where’s the will, then, I ask you? It’s women who have to have will. Thank God we need you men less than you need us.”
My father challenges Lena. “If women are so self-sufficient, then why do their husbands have to work so hard?” It seems he has forgotten he is currently out of work and we are partly living off the money from the house. I know my mother is worried about it, even though she is working and making money. My father can’t help it. He takes another dig. “Then such women, who expect too much, turn around and act as if they’re not being treated well enough.”
Lena will not relent. “Well, I think that the world’s biggest problem is stupidity. When you have a brain, you won’t let yourself be ill-treated by anyone.”
I excuse myself from the table and lock myself in the b
athroom. Two mirrors face each other on opposite walls. I stare into them as they reflect endless light. As I stand in front of the sink I feel myself trembling. I feel the cool touch of glass on my skin, though I am not touching the mirrors. Where does my body end, I think, and where does it begin? I see faces other than my own. One of them is a young girl, who I want to call Ruth.
Cool air trickles down from the open window. Does air move through me or do I move through it? I feel myself hovering along the sill above me, even as I remain standing by the sink. Voices come from outside. I smell cigarettes.
“Why do they want us to be nice to her? What’s the matter with her? She can’t even speak the language well.”
“What do you expect? She was living in America a long time.”
“I know you think that’s great, but, honestly, doesn’t she seem provincial?”
I snap back from the sill, turn on the water, wash my hands, and dry myself with a towel, rubbing until my skin turns pink. I wish I could change something, anything. I stare at a smudge at the bottom of the sink until the spot grows larger and larger. The dirt smudge feels like a smidgen of hope, spreading on the porcelain. Dark lines wiggle and curve as if to say:
I am earth. I am mountain. Some things cannot be hurried. Be patient.
Book Four
Friede
We are still in Munich. I look forward to summer at the Bodensee with my beloved grandmother, though I am disappointed Wilhelm will not be there. My uncle is getting married soon and we may not even be at the wedding, since there is talk of us going back to America. My father’s work situation has not improved.