He got up abruptly as she finished and said violently, “Krista!” His voice terrified her by its harshness. “You’re doing wrong! You feel unhappy because you know it’s wrong. You must give up this man—he means no good by you. You don’t belong to his world. He wants the same as all the others do. He’s just having his bit of fun. Look at Katie and that Belgian, and Anna and the Englishman—they both went away and left them with a child. You’re not like the others—give him up before it’s too late. Think of Katie and Lise too. Now I understand why they are so—she must always have been a slut and I, the fool, didn’t see it.”
“No, no,” protested Krista, “Moe’s not bad! She’s good, she is. She’s had to work so hard and to bear so many children, and you were away so much and it wasn’t easy in the bunker; it was awful, the people kept complaining about us and telling her we were too many. Even when she’s angry she doesn’t mean it, she forgets it at once. Look how the boys love her! Even when she is angry and hits them they don’t mind, they know she doesn’t mean it really.”
He had never heard her so vehement before. Her pale face was flushed and her eyes brilliant as she defended Moe.
“She’s been good to me, she has! Always, always.” She was sobbing now. “And she never misses going to Carola. No matter what is on, or how she feels she always goes to Carola. She finds the money,” she sobbed. “Every week she finds it somehow. She goes without things herself. Carola never goes without anything. Have you ever seen Carola’s face when Moe visits her? It’s lovely. Sister Edith says that every time Moe goes there she seems to give some of her vitality to Carola. Sometimes when Moe comes back she cries for a long time—and sometimes she never says a word, she can’t.”
“Moe cries?” asked Joseph in astonishment. He hadn’t seen her moved to tears for years now.
“Yes, she does, and the Sisters say that she will be the one who will make Carola walk again. They told me so,” insisted Krista.
Joseph was silent. He was amazed at the perception of the girl. Had he really been as blind as Father Lange said he was? He thought of that day only a few days ago when his eyes seemed to have been opened. The day he had seen the chestnut tree and the lion as if for the first time. Good things and bad. On that day he had seen only the bad in Moe, and yet the thing which he saw had been going on for months before that. She was the same person, it was just that he knew now.
He hadn’t visited his little daughter for weeks. Shame filled him now at the thought that, after being refused permission on his free day, he hadn’t again tried to visit the child, or even to inquire when he might. The nuns were good and the hospital very human. Then into his mind came once again the horrible picture of that tumbled bed and the two shameless ones in it. He pushed away the thoughts of his sick child and said angrily, “That’s enough, don’t go on trying to excuse Moe. There’s no excuse for her. Don’t mention her name to me. I loathe the thought of her. And you, you look to yourself with this young American. He means no good to you. If I see him hanging round you I’ll send him about his business.”
He had never spoken so harshly to Krista before and she quailed at his anger.
“Promise me you won’t see him again,” he insisted.
“I’ll tell him that you don’t like our friendship,” she said at last. “I must see him again to tell him so and to say goodbye.”
“But you’ll break with him?”
She nodded.
He looked at her gratefully and pulled her roughly to him. They sat so without speaking for a while. Tears were trickling slowly down her face. “That’s right; you’re a good girl, Krista,” he murmured awkwardly, “you’re not like the others, you’re different . . . you’re not for that.”
Even as he said this she felt a strange relief, a kind of peace steal over her. Pa was right. She hadn’t been really happy since the friendship began. She had been restless and ill at ease. Her tears ceased, and when he looked at her again her face was calm in its immature softness.
“That wretched Carnival,” Joseph was saying. “She met him there, and you met this Paul there. There’s not going to be any Carnival for you next year, for any of you.”
At the mention of the Carnival Krista’s mind went back again to those days last February. In a way it had been through her that they had gone at all. When she had taken home her first week’s wages from the factory and showed them proudly to Moe, begging her to take it as she wanted to begin repaying something of what she owed her foster-parents, Moe had refused to accept the money. After Krista’s urging she had said, “Well, I’ll tell you what I’ll do. I’ll put all this towards a fund for the Carnival. We’ll all save for it, but this, your first wages, shall start the fund. But you must give Pa his bit towards his house. He sets so much store by that. The rest shall go for the Carnival.”
What fun they had all had laughing and teasing one another about the costumes they should wear. They had all been sitting round the kitchen table to which Pa and the twins had joined an extra piece to make room for them all. Ah! how lovely it had been when they were all happy together as they were that evening. How Moe had laughed, throwing back her head, and that hoarse throaty chuckle of hers made everyone laugh with her. They had all sung to the boys’ accompaniment on their harmonicas, Moe’s husky contralto leading them. Pa was always their conductor at their concerts. He knew a lot about music and taught them how to control their breathing. His father had been a skilled organist, and Pa had a deep fine bass voice himself, just as Hank was going to have later. They had sung descants, part songs, rounds. They all loved music, and on summer nights under the acacia, and in winter round the great stove which they had to stoke strictly in turn, the singing would be kept up long after the rest of the village slept. That had all been before the Carnival though. Before she had met Paul. Before Rudi had come to live with them.
She thought now of the Carnival with mixed feelings. It had been like fairyland with the ruins hidden and blanketed with flowers and flags and the absurd and lovely costumes in the wild processions. But some of it she hadn’t liked. She had been frightened too. With the barrels of wine in the streets there had come a change in the faces of people one had known. The wild behaviour and their unbridled lust and zest for excitement had terrified her. Moe had laughed at her and teased her, especially over the Weiberfastnacht which had outraged Krista. The custom of the women taking over the town to molest the men went back for hundreds of years, she said, and who was Krista to think it disgusting?
But after she had met Paul it had been wonderful. He had looked after her, protected her from those hordes of wild revellers catching at every woman’s skirt. That he had been American hadn’t mattered at all then. In the Carnival one took on the role of the costume one was wearing, not for one day, but for the whole Carnival. That was one of the nicest things about it. Visitors came to it from all over the world; but there was no identity and so no nationality. Only an occupied country could really appreciate that, thought Krista, accustomed to hearing endless grumbling and arguments about the failings and foibles of the countries which occupied hers. But now it was all different. Paul was one of the Occupation, and Pa was angry that she felt as she did about him. He wanted her to give up the friendship; and in her anguish at hurting him she had agreed. What had she done?
Someone was coming along the tow-path whistling loudly, and the tall lithe form of Leo came into view. He was on his way home from the repair yard. His fair hair was long and thick, and he wore a dark blue jersey which set it off, and dark blue dungarees. In his hand he held a coil of rope with which he was practising lasso-throwing as he walked. The rope caught the heads of the meadow-sweet and the blue chicory and was crushing and cutting them off as he swung it. With a dexterous whirl he cut off a marguerite and threw it so that it landed in Krista’s hair, then stared insolently at her as he said good-evening to Joseph. Joseph felt the lad’s eyes on the girl beside him and gave him but a curt greeting.
As Leo’s footsteps died aw
ay Joseph said, “That’s the young fellow Katie’s going with. I don’t like him. He’s been in trouble with the police.”
Krista shivered. She had seen the hard eyes and rather thin lips and the bold insolent air. She was thinking of the motor cycle in the night and the long absence of Hank and Katie. Should she tell Joseph of her fears? He was looking intently after the youth, with such misery and bewilderment that she knew it was impossible to add to his worries. She would keep it to herself. Should she tell Father Lange? He was kind but lately she had shrunk from talking to him. Why hadn’t she told him about Paul? Was it because, as Joseph said, it was wrong?
She got up. “I’m going to church, Pa,” she said. “Are you coming?”
“No,” said Joseph violently, “I’ve no use for church at present.”
“I will pray for you,” said Krista with a serenity she did not feel.
The beauty of the evening had suddenly gone. A chill wind was blowing up with the swift current of the river. The sky was a heavy grey now and the seven poplar trees on the way to the church were swaying violently. The dark green water glowed with diesel oil from the vessels on it. Throwing a scarf over her head Krista went into the church.
The scent of lilies and incense drove out the fumes of the diesel oil and the organ playing softly calmed her anxiety. She began to pray, her eyes on the altar. Presently a small figure joined her and a small voice whispered.
“Wherever have you been, Krista? Me and Franz Joseph have been looking for you everywhere. We’re getting ready for Pa’s and your birthday on Sunday.”
IX
SATURDAY! She sprang out of bed and without disturbing the little boys opened the green shutters. The room looked on to the back garden. The trees dripped miserably through a curtain of rain. Krista was dismayed as she looked at the heavy sky. What would they do if it was still raining? Would Paul still want to go on the river? And what would she wear? She had a new dress. It hung in the cupboard ready to put on. But if it was going on raining, what then?
She went to consult Anna. “Wear it,” advised that sleepy young woman as she finally sat up in bed. “It’ll probably clear up and you’ll be sorry you haven’t got it on. Take a coat or a jacket though. It gets cold on the water.”
So she put on the dress. She considered herself, or as much as she could see in the small square of glass. Was it all right? She did not care for bright colours and in spite of Moe’s advising her to get a really gay summer dress she had chosen this one of soft blues and greys. It seemed to her that she looked drab and insignificant in it, but she preferred it that way. The point was, would he? There were so many pretty girls in so much more attractive dresses. Anna, standing yawning in the doorway, was amused that Krista was showing interest in her appearance. It had taken Paul to do that. She was putting the chain and little gold cross with the name “Krista” on it round her neck. It had been on her when Pa had found her that night, and was the only clue to her identity.
As she turned from the looking-glass she caught sight of one of Robert’s shoes. It was sticking out from under his bed and was sole upwards. She picked it up. It was sopping wet. When Robert had been put to bed it had not been raining. It had been a lovely evening. She looked for the other shoe. It was equally wet. His socks were soaking and when she examined his jacket it had obviously been out in heavy rain. She showed them to Anna, who whistled in astonishment.
Krista bent over the sleeping child. His fair hair was in close tight curls. It had been wet and had dried in the ringlets which he hated. She was mystified.
“Wake him up and get the truth out of him,” whispered Anna. “I don’t like it. What’s going on in this house?”
Krista woke him. She hated to do so, but he had to be at Mass: Father Lange counted on Robert. He had obviously been out in the night, but she had not heard him go. It had not rained until after she had gone to sleep, and that had been very late. She had stayed awake thinking with mixed delight and terror of today.
“Robert, Robert,” she said gently, putting her hand on his warm little body. He sat up. He was immediately and absolutely awake as only children can be. Holding up the shoes and socks she asked him, “Where did you get these so wet?” and was horrified at the sudden fear in his face. The bland sleep-washed look was replaced by one of acute anxiety and apprehension. He looked a little old man.
“I don’t know,” he said flatly, and lay down again.
“Robert,” she tried again, “you’ve been out, haven’t you? Where’ve you been?”
“I couldn’t sleep,” he muttered resentfully, “so I just went for a walk.”
“Where?” she pursued remorselessly.
“Along the tow-path,” he said vaguely.
“Did you go out after the others?” Then as he did not answer, she said sharply, “Did you, Robert?”
“No, I just went on my own.” There was a pink tinge spreading over his delicate face. It had a transparent look this morning. He couldn’t face her. She knew he was lying. But hadn’t she lied too? Hadn’t she promised Pa that she wouldn’t see Paul, except to say goodbye, and wasn’t she intending to spend the whole afternoon and evening with him? Even if she didn’t tell the lie, Anna would lie for her. What was happening to them all? They all had some underhand affairs on—all of them. What made them lie like this?
“You can’t go to church in those wet shoes,” she said quietly, “you’ll have to wear your best ones.”
“Suppose Moe notices? I’ll have to say that Peppi poured water from her watering-can on them.”
Krista was sickened at the ease with which he invented the excuse. Robert, the most truthful little boy in the family! She said gently, “But that isn’t true, is it?”
“It could be,” he said obstinately. “Peppi’s always doing it and Moe only laughs.”
She let it pass. “I’ll get you some other socks. And don’t wear that damp jacket. If I were you, Robert, I shouldn’t go walking about alone in the night. There are sometimes unpleasant people by the river.”
She did not miss his quick look of fear. But he said nothing. He kept his head down staring fixedly at the floor, then looking up suddenly, remarked brightly on her new dress.
“You’ll get that damp too,” he said shrewdly, “it’s not the sort of day for it.”
And this was Moe’s comment when she came into the kitchen presently. Moe was always up early in the mornings, and always cheerful. All the others except the very small ones appeared in varying degrees of wakening and dressing, resentful at having to get up. Moe laughed and sang as she bustled about admonishing everyone to hurry and get a move on. She might be in her wrapper still, but she was always washed and combed and her skin shone with health and vitality. She looked at Krista’s dress out of the corner of her eye. “Is that the birthday dress?” she asked, attacking the loaves with a huge knife. Krista nodded shyly. “Is it all right?” she asked anxiously.
“Hmm!” said Moe appraisingly. “I should have thought a cherry-coloured one, or even a yellow—but I don’t know that you aren’t right. Those faded colours suit you.”
“Faded? Does it look faded?” Krista’s voice was worried.
“Of course not, silly. It’s only my way of describing those soft colours. Think of it. Tomorrow you’ll be eighteen! You may be nineteen! But I don’t think you are. I’ve had enough children to know. I always said you weren’t more than eight when Pa found you.”
They were cutting up bread, side by side, at the long table.
“Moe,” said Krista tremulously, “thank you. Thank you—for all these years, I mean. I can never repay it.” There was a hint of tears in her voice.
“What’s the child worrying about now? Who wants repayment? You can’t repay love. That’s something none of us deserve, but if you get it, take it and be thankful.” She patted Krista’s arm affectionately. “You’re one of us. One of the family.”
“But I do appreciate it. That you took me in when you already had so many.”
Krista was surprised. Pa no longer confided all his hopes and dreams in her as he used to do. What had happened to her loving intimate relationship with him? She treasured it above all.
“That fellow Peter he’s so fond of has got a friend, Franz, who’s a builder. He’s bought that waste land. If Pa can find the lump sum as a token payment he’ll start talking about building. I don’t like it. People like us can’t afford to be saddled with debts hanging round our necks. What’s the matter with this house? It suits me.”
“Pa’s afraid that the owner will come back. We’ll be turned out then. Nearly all the British have gone now. There’s only the family next door.”
“There are still thousands of them all round Bonn. And it doesn’t look as if they’ll ever settle all their squabbles.”
Krista longed to confide in her that she was going out with Paul. The fact that she was deceiving Pa lay heavily on her conscience. True, she had told Pa that she must see Paul to say goodbye. But she didn’t need all those hours to do it in. She opened her mouth to tell Moe several times, but the words stuck in her throat. Moe would laugh, or certainly tease. She didn’t mean to hurt, not in the least. It was just her way of looking at such things.
When Katie came in she noticed the new dress immediately. “What are you wearing that for,” she said. “It’s a beastly day—you’ll look a nice sight with that full skirt clinging round your legs in the rain.”
“They’re good legs anyhow,” said Anna quietly; “much better than yours or mine.”
A House on the Rhine Page 9