“But not where he went to university. No, it doesn’t seem odd. After all, it’s the unanswered questions, isn’t it?”
She laughed. “It’s the ‘none of my business’ questions.”
“When someone dies, it’s natural to think more about their past, to wonder why they did this or didn’t do that.”
“Our relationship became so much about the children.”
“That’s not unusual. I’m sure it’s the same for many couples, though I wouldn’t know.” He paused. “We could never have children.”
She didn’t reply but instead took another sip of coffee.
“We’ve had a good life, but I suppose there’s a pang, a curiosity, if you like; you see curiosity, it’s a powerful thing. Working with children, it was a mixed blessing, really. Sometimes it filled a gap and, to be honest, gave me a sense of relief that I didn’t have to put up with this kind of behaviour and, let’s face it, probably worse, when I got home, but then it also made me ache for my own children and there were some days when I could hardly cope with the pain. It sounds horrible, I know, but the times when I had to talk to parents who I could see weren’t interested, who were there on sufferance, well, you can’t help but think life seems a little unfair.”
“But you got a lot of satisfaction from teaching?”
“Oh yes, no doubt about that. And there are difficult times in all jobs. No, the teaching of English, well, it was something I wanted to do at university and I can honestly say something I’ve never strayed from. And when you get a class or even one child who is truly gripped by what you’re telling them, well, I doubt if working in an office would’ve given me anywhere near such exhilaration. I’d come home and Elsa would almost smell the excitement. ‘You’ve had a good day, I can tell,’ she’d say. ‘You know Greta?’ I’d reply. ‘She came up to me in the corridor and said, “Herr Bayer,” – her eyes alight – “you didn’t tell us how scary Wuthering Heights was. I had to put it down at ten o’clock, otherwise I wouldn’t have slept. But I love it.”’ Then Elsa would tell me it was stew and dumplings for supper and I could only think I was the luckiest man alive.”
They must have carried on talking for another hour or so. It was one of those evenings when the exchanging of stories is more interesting than the passing of time and two people, unlikely to meet in everyday circumstance, found no need to look at a clock or consider how tired they were.
He was about to tell her what they were doing when the wall came down, how they first knew when they were watching TV in a bar and the newscaster announced that East Berliners could travel wherever they wanted. Everyone wondered if this was some kind of joke as it was difficult to conceive such a notion, but they all knew the newscaster, who delivered the words as seriously as usual; they all decided to go outside, not quite ready to cheer yet but forming a collective movement towards Bornholmerstrasse to test this truth and how, then, Elsa and he became two of the first East Berliners to cross to the West. And what had struck him most were the soldiers’ faces, once formidable and frightening, now laughing and jesting with those who, a day before, they would’ve easily shot. And how, crossing that bridge, completely overwhelmed and lost for words as the shock of what they’d just done took over, they reclaimed what had been theirs but what they thought they’d left behind for good. As they hugged each other and it gradually sank in, memories of his young life came flooding back and that, in many ways, was as difficult as the presence of the wall had been.
But she didn’t hear that because Elsa came down, as agitated and shaky as he’d ever seen. She came up to him and started tugging at his sleeve.
“Was tust du? Er ist spät? Wir mussen einkaufen gehen. Warum ist sie noch da? Wer ist sie? Wer ist sie?”
“I should be going,” Helen said and got up from the sofa.
“No, you mustn’t feel you’ve got to go. Elsa will be all right in a few minutes. This often happens. She wakes out of a sleep and gets very frightened. It’ll be OK. Please sit down. I’ll get her photo. That, er, that usually helps.”
He walked towards the sideboard where the photo was, trying to block out Elsa’s questions and protests and something she said again and again. He hated getting the photo, but he was enjoying this conversation too much for moral dilemmas to start tampering with his enjoyment.
Helen stood where she was and although she felt she really should push the point about going, particularly as she was having serious misgivings about staying and witnessing Elsa’s distress, it somehow just seemed voyeuristic; she could see how keen Peter still was for company, so she decided to stay and made this clear by sitting down again. She remembered later how she thought it had little to do with mere politeness, which was normally her motivation, because she was always very guided by what seemed right.
Elsa became more distressed, the photo held firmly in one hand but the other flying all over the place, occasionally knocking against Peter.
“Warum ist sie immer noch da? Warum? Sie ist eine beschissene Engländerin. Weisst du was sie tun, die Engländer?”
“Elsa, Elsa, ist OK. Ich bin da, Liebchen. Bitte beruhige dich. Es ist OK.” Peter kissed the top of Elsa’s head, but she pushed him away.
“Die Engländer. Die Engländer. Ich hasse die Engländer.”
Helen got up from her seat. “I think it’s me being here, Peter. I really should go.”
“Die beschissene Engländer.”
“What’s she saying?”
“It’s nothing. She’s not herself. This isn’t Elsa, this isn’t—”
“Sprich Deutsch. Sprich Deutsch. Du bist keine Engländerin. Nicht Englisch. Nicht Englisch.”
“Beruhige dich. Bitte, Elsa, sei ruhig. Ich werde ihr sagen, dass sie gehen muss. Ich sag’s ihr. Bitte beruhige dich.”
“Sag ihr, warum ich sie hasse. Sag es.”
“Nein, Elsa, nein. Es hat keinen Sinn. Sie ist nicht schuld.”
“Doch, doch. Sie ist Engländerin. Die Schlampe ist Engländerin.”
“Elsa!”
“Sag’s ihr. Sag’s ihr. Sag ihr, dass die englischen Scheisspiloten meinen kleinen Bruder umgebracht haben. Sag’s ihr!”
Helen reached for her bag. She had to get out of the house because her being there was obviously awful for Elsa. She was obviously saying something about her Peter didn’t want her to hear, but his protests dimmed as Elsa’s shouting grew louder; there was a determination and sharpness in her voice that weren’t going to be told to stop. She turned to Helen and started walking towards her, still shouting, still screaming. It didn’t matter that Helen didn’t understand the words because, compared to her level of anger, they seemed irrelevant. Then Helen was in pain, there was an acute pain on the right cheek of her face and she cradled it and yelled.
“Elsa! Elsa! Nein! Nein!” she could hear Peter shouting. Then he said, “Sorry, sorry, I’m so, so sorry.”
“Sag ihr, dass englischen Scheisspiloten meinen kleinen Bruder umgebracht haben. Jene Scheisspiloten haben den kleinen Heunrich getötet. Meinen kleinen Bruder.”
“What’s she saying?” Tears were now falling down Helen’s face.
“It’s nothing. It’s the illness. She doesn’t know what she’s saying. She—”
“Peter, what did she say?”
“I really don’t want—”
“Peter. Your wife’s just hit me. Please.”
He looked at the floor and hated himself for wanting something more, for wanting a conversation with someone. She had a right to know. She had a right to know why his wife had been so abusive.
“She said…” He stopped and looked straight at Helen. It was the least he could do. “She said those bastard English pilots killed her little brother.”
Helen said nothing because she had no idea how to respond when the shock of what had just happened was making her whole body shake. It was
as if she were no longer part of her own life as she’d experienced something that was so alien to her she could barely understand it. Maybe if she could have extended some sympathy for Elsa, she may have felt better, but that was impossible.
Peter left the room with Elsa following closely behind. He, too, seemed to understand that language couldn’t yet remedy anything and though she was tempted to leave, she didn’t, partly because a paralysis seemed to have taken over, and waited for what she took to be his imminent return. A few seconds later he did come back, holding a wet towel. He pressed it gently against the side of her face Elsa had slapped, while Elsa, like a discordant note, accompanied this with, “Nein, nein, nein.”
“I’m going now,” Helen said and put her own hand on the towel. Then Peter let his go.
She shut Peter’s door behind her and walked, dazed, towards the flat, holding the towel against her face. It still hurt and tears were still falling down her face. But the fresh air was soothing and the fact that the street was quiet helped. Only one man walked purposefully and soberly on the other side. She could hear what sounded like a woman’s footsteps behind her. They struck the ground hard and loud and she could hear their pace quicken. Then she felt a tap on her shoulder. She shrieked and started shaking, now more than ever.
“Es tut mir Leid. Ich wolte nur sehen, wie es geht.”
She wasn’t sure, and just now she couldn’t be sure of anything, but it seemed like the young woman she’d seen at night-time from her flat window. Only this time walking the other way. Home, perhaps.
The woman spoke again and pointed to the towel that remained inseparable from Helen’s face. She could hear concern in the woman’s voice.
“Danke,” she replied. “Ich bin Engländerin.”
Behind all the make-up the woman had a kind face and though Helen felt vulnerable she wasn’t fearful. She assumed the woman was asking if she was all right, so she smiled and held her left thumb upwards, lying without saying a word.
“I don’t speak English much,” the woman said, “but your home?”
Helen pointed to where the flat was so the woman could see she didn’t have far to go.
“We walk?” she said.
Helen nodded. The woman put her hand in her bag and produced a tissue. Helen wiped her face and said sorry. The woman smiled, mumbled something sympathetically, then took Helen’s arm, ready to escort her the last few steps.
When they got to the door she waited for Helen to find her keys, which she struggled to do, as she was shaking so much. The keys felt strange in her hand; they felt hostile now. She didn’t really want to go in.
She showed the woman the keys.
“Will you be OK?” she asked.
“Yes,” Helen replied, while tears rolled down her cheeks. The woman took the keys from her without any resistance from Helen and opened the door.
Years later she would still remember this woman with a greater clarity than others she’d known for many years. She’d remember that the woman, whose feet were all but vertical in her very high heels, walked with noisy footsteps around the flat, putting the kettle on, finding tea bags, finding milk.
They had no conversation for one another, but as Helen had nothing to offer and no ability to listen, a silent companion was just what was required. So she took the mug of hot tea, sipping it with more gratitude than she’d felt in a long while, and let the woman sit with her and hold her hand.
16
Margot picked a single tissue out of the square cardboard box decorated with pink roses and carefully pressed her painted lips onto it, removing any excess of the Strawberry Surprise shade. Luise had done her hair very well this time. She’d been wary of the new colours, but Luise was right. They were softer and she didn’t look pale now. She opened her jewellery box and lifted out various brooches, holding them against her dress one by one until she chose the pearl clusters Hans had bought her for their last anniversary. It was only lunch at the new gallery, but nevertheless, she was going to be the sole representative of the museum and it was impossible, on these occasions, to overdress. She stood up and walked towards the bedroom door, collecting her beaded clutch bag on the way out, which she held tightly, as if it were the arm of a friend whose support she needed.
As she opened the car door a few minutes later and bent to put the bag on the passenger seat beside her, she suddenly found herself thinking about Rosa’s life and its seeming simplicity. How straightforward the lives of others. How Rosa, for instance, was less concerned than she was about who she was in the eyes of others. There was an inner confidence in her Margot had rarely found. She’d always shown an outward assurance. Living with Hans it was required, a performance if you like, but she was becoming very tired of the show; there was nothing more it could tell her.
The gallery was splendid, bright with high ceilings and unquestionable cleanliness, where visitors would be able to breathe in the same way they might on a country walk because it had somehow magically conveyed more space than it actually had.
She saw many faces she knew, all suitably coiffed or suited. They knew the rules and those who didn’t were excused their lack of dress code on the grounds of artistic brilliance or eccentricity. There was nothing unusual about the small talk, focusing, as it so often did on these occasions, on work and children. Well, she could strut her stuff as well as anyone; she had a job at the museum and children predictably performing, as was required, at different universities. It was a fanning of feathers, with only the odd remark here and there about the paintings.
“It is with great pleasure, therefore, that I declare the gallery open.” Margot smiled and clapped. She liked the look of this director. She’d already been introduced a few months ago to her by an old friend of theirs who made it his business to put considerable amounts of money into as many artistic ventures in Berlin as he could lay his hands on, which in turn, over the years, had given him more respectability amongst this community than perhaps he deserved. He bought culture. It wasn’t in his veins. This director, though, was impressive and passionate. In that sense, he’d invested well.
She congratulated those who should have been congratulated, promoted the museum where she could and where seemed appropriate, and told others she didn’t want to see again that she and they should meet up for a coffee sometime, then picked up a third glass of wine on her way out, which she finished just before she was able to leave it on the last small table before the entrance. She didn’t particularly want to go home straightaway, so she made for the first café she saw and ordered an English tea. The girl said, “Milk”, with a question on her face; “No, no, no, lemon,” and turned towards the street and saw her reflection in the window. She squinted to see more clearly and touched her lips. She’d managed to go through an entire afternoon without re-applying lipstick and she could just about see that she needed to put some on, but she couldn’t be bothered.
She thought about the lunch with Helen. Hans could be such a hypocrite with all that heroic nonsense. She always ended up going along with it somehow and it depressed her that her desire for a certain standard of living had seemed to deprive her all these years of a sense of greater morality she was now looking for. It had been so easy to collude because the house was beautiful, her clothes exquisite and the food they ate expensive and delicious. She wished, though, and this had everything to do with her determination to think differently, they’d let sleeping dogs lie, that they’d told Rosa they didn’t really have any contact with Helen anymore and their English friend would never have known any different. It was dangerous bringing it to Helen’s attention because she couldn’t ask the one person she would anything about what happened and she doubted Stephen had ever told his wife about the girl. That was Hans, though: as long as he had the attention, it was irrelevant what debris fell in his wake.
It was about an hour later when she got home. No one was in. She walked into the l
ounge and picked up an ornament from the mantelpiece. It was a small glass her daughter had bought her on a school trip and had “mum” engraved around the top. She took it upstairs and walked into her clothes cupboard. Underneath her dresses and behind her shoes was one of her suitcases, so she opened the zip and carefully placed the glass next to a few scarves, making sure it settled safely there. After quickly popping downstairs, she returned and put a rose she’d kept pressed between the pages of an old encyclopaedia into the suitcase as well. It was pink, which could still be recognised, even though it was thirty years old. Hans had picked it out of someone’s garden on his way to see her. He didn’t have much money then. He’d cut his finger on one of the thorns, an occupational hazard without the paper, tissue and careful arranging of a florist’s hand. It was their first date, which was just a walk by The Spree. Just. She smiled. His unwavering attention and enthusiasm for everything she uttered was enchanting and his idealism completely seduced her because she hadn’t ever witnessed such a vivid example of it. He belonged to a group of friends whose hatred for the status quo and their desire to bring about change in Germany and unite it again occupied most thoughts and nearly every sentence. The other topic they touched upon was love and one of the first conversations she’d had with Hans was about his English friend Stephen and how he’d fallen hopelessly in love with a woman called Christa.
She placed the rose in a paper bag, which she’d first filled with a piece of card to keep the rose straight, then folded over the top of the bag and placed it carefully into one of the side pockets of the case. Then she closed it and put it back in the corner of the wardrobe where it had been for some weeks.
She went downstairs again and opened the front door. She was wearing her tracksuit bottoms, a T-shirt she usually reserved for gardening and her face was as naked as it was when, aged fourteen, she’d tentatively picked up her mother’s lipstick to paint her lips for the very first time. Her stomach churned over for, in all her adult life, she’d never dared go out like this. Everyone knew Margot as having the most careful of dress and make-up regimes.
The Writing on the Wall and Other Stories Page 10