The American Fiancee

by Eric Dupont

  “It’s a Cranach!” Magda barked.

  “Oh, are you sure?” the lady replied.

  “It’s right there in front of you! Written in black and white!” I should have shut her up.

  “You’re right, madam. It is indeed by Cranach. Why didn’t I see that right away?”

  “Because you’re an idiot. Anyone can see that.”

  I swear the two women would have rammed her cane down her throat if I hadn’t been there. They went off to complain to the security guard, who didn’t want to get involved, good Ossi that he was. Magda seemed delighted she had shocked them. Before we left the museum, she bumped into them again on the way out of the washroom. “I apologize for earlier,” she told them. “I said you were stupid. If I’d known it was true, I wouldn’t have said it.” Sometimes she can go too far. She can’t stand Bavarians, she told me. I hadn’t even noticed they had an accent.

  “But it’s so obvious! Open your ears, Kapriel! Austrians, Bavarians, all those Catholics from the South speak the same strange dialect!”

  Magda can be a little hard on her compatriots. The Giotto di Bondone you were telling me about was at the far end of the museum. It’s a little different from how you described it. First of all, the Virgin Mary’s head is leaning to the left, not to the right. Does it matter? Her legs are covered in a pink sort of sheet. At the end of what looks like a bed—I know it’s her tomb—there’s a man wearing a purple toga thing. He’s leaning over her, as if he’s crying. Another man with a beard is laying her down onto the bed. All around there are dozens of people with, in the center, Jesus holding a little baby in swaddling clothes. There are angels at either end of the bed. Magda and I stood looking at the picture, Michel, but honestly we didn’t feel the same anxiety you did. Magda actually found it reassuring.

  “She doesn’t die alone. There are dozens of people around her, even her son. I don’t see why it frightens your brother, Kapriel. He must be an anxious man.”

  I didn’t dare tell her she was right. She’d be only too happy to die like that, she said, with two angels by her feet. Magda said you should come to Berlin when she dies. That way, we can hold candles to light her deathbed. Magda can be a little morbid. Insolent and morbid. As for Mom’s death keeping you up at night, I must confess I don’t share your concerns. God always calls the gentlest souls unto him. So we can’t rule out Mom living until she’s a hundred.

  To be honest, when I sent you my letters from Potsdam, I’d been hoping Magda would tell me the rest of what happened in Königsberg. Nothing. Not another word.

  “I just wanted to console you with the story about Ludwig. Because of your Wessi-Tante. The rest is of no interest.”

  “Why would the story about Ludwig make me feel any better?”

  “I don’t know. It might help you understand.”

  “Understand what?”

  “That everyone has had their heart broken. Even me.”

  That’s a load of nonsense, Michel. But I think I know. I need to get her drinking if I want her to talk. Preferably German white wine. I’ll have to pick the right moment. In the meantime, Magda’s become—how should I put this? You’ll laugh!—well, pretty much my best friend. I’m quite fond of the old fool. She always lets you know exactly what she’s thinking. She’s taken me under her wing. After the museum, we went to eat back at her place. It’s too cold for the Biergarten now. She made her Broiler Special: a barbecued chicken she buys from the Turk at the end of the street for fourteen marks. We each pay half, like a couple of teenagers. Magda wants me to mend my ways.

  “Your reading material, Kapriel? It’s all books you’ve taken from girls, right?”

  “Uh, yeah. Apart from a few that people gave me or that I had to read for school.”

  “So your choice has been limited to your lovers’ tastes, right?”

  “I’ve had a lot of lovers.”

  “All the same. It’s a kind of rape.”

  That hurt. I’ve never had a woman without her consent. Ever. But to hear Magda, every book we read becomes part of us, an open drawer to our conscience. Every time I steal a book from one of my lovers, I take a little piece of them, of their being. That’s a bit of a stretch, if you ask me. She told me something I’ve known for a long time: I should just ask if I can take a book. Most of them would happily give me one. But you see, Michel, that would mean they’d probably give me their favorite book, and it might bore me to tears. I told her this.

  “How would you know? You’ve never done it, Kapriel.”

  Maybe Magda’s right. My reading habits tend to take a tortuous path; I only have a few seconds to swipe a book while the girl is in the bathroom. The following afternoon, I came back from the sports center to find a book outside my door with a note from Magda: “Tired of all this rain. Away to visit friends in Magdeburg for a few days. Here’s a book from an author who was born in Königsberg. Don’t think I’m flirting with you, you little pervert. Since it’s probably too difficult for you to read in German, I found you a translation. Hope you enjoy it. Magda.”

  The book’s called Origins of Totalitarianism, by Hannah Arendt. Ever heard of it? It’s enormous! Looks like philosophy . . . yuck! But I’ll take a look this evening, since Magda gave it to me.

  Gabriel

  * * *

  Berlin, November 20, 1999

  Dear Michel,

  I tried and tried to read the book Magda left for me. It’s a lost cause. I keep having to put it down. It’s as dull as could be. All that’s managed to stick with me is this sentence from the back cover:

  “What totalitarian rule needs to guide the behavior of its subjects is a preparation to fit each of them equally well for the role of executioner and the role of victim.”

  I don’t get it. I like it better when Magda tells me her stories. I miss her.

  At the sports center where I work, I’ve become friends with the guy who does the books. He told me that privacy laws are very strict in Germany. In other words, I wouldn’t be allowed, as a private citizen, to inquire about the address of someone else living in Germany, whether I know them or not. Although a company would be able to. I immediately thought of surprising Magda. I haven’t mentioned it to her, but I’ve got Bernd—that’s the guy’s name—trying to track down Terese and Ludwig Bleibtreu. Do you remember them? Provided they’re not dead and are living in Germany somewhere, Bernd’ll be able to get their address. It will come as such a surprise to Magda! Maybe in time for her birthday on January 30. She’ll be eighty. Bernd sent off the information request yesterday. If Magda’s remembering things right, Terese would be ninety-two today. Do you think singing teachers live to a ripe old age?

  Gabriel

  * * *

  Berlin, November 23, 1999

  Dear Michel,

  Magda is back from Magdeburg at last. I was starting to worry. I even went downstairs to ask Hilde about her. She told me not to worry, that Magda regularly disappears to see friends she has all over the former GDR. When she’s not in Magdeburg, she’s in Leipzig.

  “With people like her.”

  I don’t know what she meant by that. At any rate, Magda came straight up to let me know she was back. She wants me to come over tomorrow night for a glass of white wine. I didn’t mention I was trying to track the Bleibtreus down. Bernd has found four Terese Bleibtreus in Germany. He gave me their addresses and made me promise never to tell anyone he’d given them to me. He could get into trouble. So keep this to yourself. I took out my grammar books and my dictionaries to send off a letter to the four strangers. One of them might be the one. To encourage them to reply, I enclosed a photo of me and Magda that a Swedish tourist had been kind enough to take in front of the rose garden at Sanssouci Palace in Potsdam. No doubt she’ll recognize her. I know what you’re thinking, and that’s fine with me. I’m looking for an answer. Here’s what I wrote in German:

  Dear Madam,

  My name is Gabriel Lamontagne. I am writing to you today because you might be the perso
n I’m looking for. I have been living in Berlin-Lichtenberg for one year and have become friends with a nice woman by the name of Magdalena Berg. She was born in Königsberg in 1920 and spent part of her youth in Berlin-Charlottenburg. Perhaps you might be a friend she has told me about. I would like to prepare a surprise for her eightieth birthday on January 30. If you recognize the woman I’m talking about and happen to be Ludwig Bleibtreu’s sister, I would be so grateful if you could reply to me as quickly as possible so that I can organize her birthday. I’m enclosing a recent photo of me with Magda in Potsdam, along with a stamped addressed envelope you can use to reply. If you are not the Terese Bleibtreu I’m looking for, please be kind enough to reply anyway. That way, I’ll be able to rule you out.

  Yours truly,

  Gabriel Lamontagne

  Do you think it might work? The German must be full of mistakes, but they’ll get the gist of it. I’ll put all the letters in the mail tomorrow. I would have at least liked to know how old each Terese was, but there’s not much I can do. I think there’s a good chance. Perhaps she can tell me what happened to Ludwig, if he’s dead already or no longer in Germany. I can just picture Magda’s face! She could give her back the little cross she must still have lying around somewhere. My Terese Bleibtreus are scattered all across Germany. There’s one in Berlin-Tempelhof (she’s probably the one I’m looking for), one in the Münster area, a third in Stralsund, and a fourth in deepest Bavaria, practically in Austria. I can’t wait!

  Write back to me. I haven’t heard from you in a while. I miss your insults, you big fat lump! Give Anamaria a kiss from me!

  Gabriel

  P. S. This will be my first Christmas in Germany. Down but not out. Still keeping a hold of myself.

  * * *

  December 1, 1999

  Dear Michel,

  Ooph! I’ll spare you. Or rather, I’ll tell you. Everything. Since you want to know. I’ve just finished writing down everything Magda was able to tell me. My eyes are killing me.

  I’m sure you’re both well. I heard back from my Terese Bleibtreus! What a disappointment. The one in Berlin-Tempelhof got back to me straight away!

  Dear Gabriel,

  Unfortunately, I’m not the Terese Bleibtreu you’re looking for. I was born in Hamburg in 1966 and don’t know any Magdalena Bergs, nor do I recognize the lady in the photograph. I find your efforts very moving. You must be a sensitive man. Feel free to get in touch if you’d like to go out one night in Berlin. I work at the Freie Universität in Dahlem and am single. I’m enclosing a recent photo of me on a trip to Paris. I’d be happy to get to know you. Are you from France?

  Terese

  A pretty girl. It’s funny. The photo was of her standing in front of Notre Dame, wearing red pumps that must have been brutal to walk around in. I think I’ll call her in January when I have more time. I got another reply from Stralsund:

  Dear Sir,

  I am happy and a little curious to reply to the request you sent to my late wife Terese Bleibtreu. Unfortunately, she left us two years ago now, after a long illness. I very much doubt Terese was the person you are looking for. She spent her whole life in Stralsund and rarely visited Berlin. Moreover, Terese had two older sisters and no brothers. If ever you’re passing through our pretty little town, feel free to drop me a line. I’d be delighted to show you around.

  Sincerely,

  Günther Bleibtreu

  I’m not holding out much hope, as you can tell. But I’m not giving up. I’m warning you now. The rest of Magda’s story is likely to leave you in tears. I know she wouldn’t want me to tell anyone, but once she’s no longer around, people should know what she went through. I think it’s important. More important than my little heartbreaks, at any rate. Pulling oneself together takes such a long time, dear brother! I still think of Claudia all the time. The future looms ahead of me like a gaping black hole. Thank God I have work to take my mind off things. Send me a Christmas card at least!

  Gabriel

  Magdalena Berg’s Second Notebook

  AND WHAT ABOUT the Hannah Arendt book? What did you make of it, Kapriel? Do you agree or not? I don’t know. How can you say whether everyone was victim or executioner? How can you tell them apart? There was a time when everyone was both victim and executioner. And what does she mean by “fit for the role of”? Able to become or willing to become? There’s a difference.

  I thought of you a lot when I was in Magdeburg. I found the time in the countryside to set a few things straight in my head. I had to remember the details, ask many questions of people who had a better memory than I of those years. Anyway. I must’ve already told the story of what happened in Berlin a hundred times. But never a word about Königsberg. And not because I wasn’t asked! Last year, before you came, the television people wanted to make another documentary. As if there aren’t enough already. They contact me every time. And every time I say no. Not because I’m shy, you know that. But because I find those people ask the wrong questions. It’s always: “What did you do when you heard the artillery fire for the first time?” What idiots! I ran, like everyone. I didn’t hang around to get a better look. It’s as if talking about it, from one German to another, is not allowed. Don’t ask me why. It’s as though we’ve all agreed that we deserved everything we got. And then there are those imbeciles, the skinheads, who look to the stories and demand this or that, who see justification in the suffering, a way of saying that Onkel Adolf was right in the end.

  Because you are, for all intents and purposes, ignorant. No, be quiet, calm down. Sit. You are ignorant, Kapriel. It’s not an insult, I’m simply stating a fact. You know nothing. I know you well enough to be able to see that. Since you’re unbiased when it comes to East Prussia, I can tell my story without you rushing to conclusions. So, since you insist . . . let me tell you the story about the Königsberg zebra.

  You know, Kapriel, traveling one hundred kilometers in 1940 felt like traveling five hundred kilometers today. That’s what I thought to myself on the way back from Magdeburg the other day. The world is simply smaller now. I took the train back to Königsberg in the summer of 1940. I was twenty. Tante Clara didn’t meet me at the station. She was too ill. Instead, there was a Polish man by the name of Marion, a servant or, should I say, a slave, at Tante Clara’s. Back then, Poles were divided into three or four classes, I’m no longer sure, depending on whether or not they had German ancestry. In East Prussia, many people had some degree of Slavic blood. Marion belonged to the category of Poles we were allowed to talk to, to sit at the table with. He knew a little German. Back then, Kapriel, you needed only to order a Pole and you’d get one. To them, working in a house like Tante Clara’s was a much nicer option than being sent to a labor camp, having to work in a factory, or being deported. In Königsberg, they had enough to eat and somewhere warm to sleep. Don’t repeat this, but I think he was—how should I put this?—privileged. Yes, that’s how it was.

  It’s funny, Kapriel. In my memories as a little girl, Königsberg was nothing but a theater, a zoo, and the garden outside our house. As well as the beach at Cranz and the Curonian Lagoon. But the rest of it, which is to say Königsberg’s impressive splendor, I’d completely forgotten about. I’d forgotten the castle, the red-brick cathedral, the city’s seven gates, the bridges, the stores, the noisy fish merchants, the gigantic railway station, the little lakes dropped down like pearls right into the city itself. I couldn’t remember the Nordbahnhof at all; no doubt it was built when I was off in Berlin. Since the Hauptbahnhof is right on the city’s southern edge and my aunt lived in the north of the city, we drove all the way across town. Marion didn’t say a word. He must have been my age. Tante Clara lived on Mozartstraße—yes, I know, it just had to be Mozart! I’d never seen it before. It was close to the zoo. She’d gotten married in 1934 to Wolfgang, that turd I was about to meet. Before that, Mama’s sister had worked in a school. Up until 1932. I knew she’d fallen very ill, but I had no idea just how badly.

  “Fra
u Hinz is doing better than yesterday.” That’s all Marion said.

  “What do you mean, better than yesterday?”

  “Her fever’s down.”

  Fever at the height of summer? Marion was a young man of few words. He always wore the little black P against a yellow diamond. I never could get used to it. I’d never met any Poles in the capital. And here I was being picked up by a man from the nation we were at war with. I couldn’t get my head around it, Kapriel.

  We passed by the zoo, then the house came into view. Wolfgang had money, more than I would ever have believed. Mama had said he was rich; and a good thing too for Tante Clara, given her “condition.” Here was I thinking she’d meant music teachers weren’t well paid. How wrong I was! I hadn’t known what I was in for! If Mama had warned me, perhaps I’d have preferred the air raids to East Prussia—so peaceful, so far from the war.

  What else can I say about my first impressions? That I felt I’d returned at last to the Promised Land. Tante Clara’s house was enormous, a bourgeois villa with a garden and a barn to keep a horse in. There was even a small vegetable garden. She and Wolfgang had servants. Apart from Marion, there was an old East Prussian woman, Frau Meisel, who cooked, and a girl who did the housework, washing, and cleaning.

  “You’re lucky. Master isn’t in.”

  That’s what Marion said when we got there. I’d never met my uncle Wolfgang. All I knew about him was that he worked in the same building as Erich Koch, the Gauleiter for East Prussia. What does that mean, you ask? The Nazis divided the Reich up into Gaue. Things are no longer that way, of course. The Gauleiter were like mini-Hitlers. Erich Koch was our mini-Hitler for East Prussia. He must have been very efficient indeed, because there were swastikas everywhere. The Hitler salute was also more common in Königsberg than Berlin. Of course, looking back now, everyone likes to say that. Say what? That there were more Nazis per square meter in East Prussia than anywhere else in the Reich. Which isn’t untrue. But to hear the Bavarians talk . . . Yes, yes, I know, Kapriel. I’ll leave them be . . .