I’ve heard he’s been clearing up a bit at the farm. The dogs are quiet at the moment, the horses clean and well groomed. I can go for a ride if I like, he said, with Johannes of course, but I don’t trust his horses.
Frieda releases me from the kitchen for an hour, so Johannes and I go to the river. Until only a few weeks ago the water here would look different every day—green, blue, yellow, rust-red—and it stank of rotten eggs. That was because of the chemical factory upstream, where my mother worked. Now on hot days the cattle go to the riverbank and drink their fill.
I have discovered why Zossima prostrated himself before Dmitry. Shortly before his death he said to Alexey, “I bowed down yesterday to the great suffering in store for him.” Alexey was beside himself with worry.
We’re sitting by the river with our feet in the water. Johannes only ever sees me through the camera lens these days. Every gesture becomes a picture, every look becomes infinity. He delivers me from time and captures a moment, which is then immediately lost forever—every picture is a small death.
Later we wander through the meadow as far as the railway tracks. We walk along the tracks until we reach a bridge. It crosses the river diagonally and is about fifty meters long. To get to the other side you have to walk down the middle of the tracks, on the rotten sleepers; there’s barely any space to either side. We put our heads on the tracks to listen out for any humming and check for slight vibrations indicating an oncoming train. No humming. We can’t see any track workers, either. You can’t escape a train by jumping into the river; it’s too shallow at this point, and full of large stones. But over there, on the other side, there are the prettiest wild flowers and a spot that no one else knows about. When we reach it I undress and paddle in the river. Johannes shouts something at me; he’s tinkering with his camera. I shout back that he should join me, it’s lovely in the water, but he doesn’t hear me.
We don’t get home until evening. Frieda’s grumbling, wondering where I’ve been all this time. “I could have done with her help,” she says. Then she smiles and says, “Why doesn’t she just go and fetch me some chives from the garden?” I dash out.
For dinner there’s black bread with butter, thin slices of hard-boiled egg sprinkled with chives, and salad with a dressing of oil, vinegar, water, and sugar. Dressing is a word we’ve learned only recently. Siegfried gets a fried schnitzel as well. We’re sitting at the table in the yard, among the flower tubs, when Siegfried says that he’s really looking forward to seeing Hartmut. He would have been quite happy to disappear back then, too; he only stayed because it would have broken his mother’s heart. That’s how he puts it. Frieda doesn’t stir. Marianne looks from one to the other. Perhaps she’s wondering what to say, but in the end decides it would be better to keep quiet. They’ll be here tomorrow, the Westerners, from Rosenheim, from Bavaria.
I decide I will go back to my mother’s after all, to fetch my suitcase. In it are some clothes I’d like to wear when our visitors are here. I’ve heard that they make fun of us over there; I can’t get that magazine cover out of my head; the one with the picture of a girl holding a cucumber and saying “my first banana.” It’s still a lovely, bright summer’s evening, but there’s a distinct chill drifting up from the river. I borrow a scarf from Marianne, tell Johannes I might be back late, and set off.
When I get there, my grandparents are sitting on the bench outside the house. I stop to talk, but I don’t go into any detail. Then I ask about my father, Ulrich, the eldest of their four sons. So it’s true, he is going to marry this Nastja, a nineteen-year-old. My grandmother asks whether I’m going to move back in, now that the house is being renovated. “We’re even getting a flush toilet,” she says. And the old washhouse is being converted into a toolshed. My grandmother used to do the laundry there once a week. It was so hot that the steam rose to the ceiling in huge clouds before dripping back down. The laundry tub was almost the size of my grandmother. She would stir the washing with a long wooden paddle, first to the left, then to the right, until it was clean. The dirtiest items were scrubbed on the washboard.
Mom is going to have her own bathroom with a shower. The old boiler and the tub where we’d have a bath every Friday, one after the other, are being ripped out. The small room behind my grandparents’ kitchen is going to be a guest room. It’s awkward for all of them that Mom’s still living here. We had our own house for a few years, over in the new part of the village. I was ten when we moved in, and before then we’d lived here, with my grandparents. I had a lovely, bright room on the second floor, a fold-down bed, blue-and-white-checked curtains, and lilac wallpaper with a flower pattern. The living room had an open hearth where we’d light a fire every day around Christmastime. It was a brand-new house and Dad had built it himself.
After the divorce, when Dad disappeared to the Soviet Union for good, we stayed on there. I was thirteen, Mom was thirty-three. But six months later we packed our things into boxes and Grandma got our old rooms ready again. We couldn’t keep the house without Dad’s income. My mother sold it.
I chose the attic bedroom at my grandparents’. I was on my own up there; the other rooms were full of old furniture and junk, no one slept in them. I had a chamber pot under my bed again, because it was a long, cold walk to the outside toilet. The night’s deposits were tipped out in the morning, and Grandma would rinse the chamber pots with hot water.
This backward move didn’t particularly bother me. But Mom suffered terribly.
I can hear her steps—such tiny, delicate, careful steps, as if she’s creeping about. But she always walks like that. She’s brought my case down. The weight of it pulls her over to one side; she drops it beside me. My grandparents ask me to pass on their greetings to Frieda; say hello from Traudel and Lorenz, they reiterate, as if I didn’t know their names. Mom gives me a nod that she’s ready to leave. I feel more cheerful.
Mom brings the Trabant out of the garage. Dad left it behind; he couldn’t drive it all those thousands of kilometers to the Soviet Union; it would have been too much for an old car. The tank is almost empty, but there’ll be enough to get us to the farm—it’s downhill practically all the way. I sit in the passenger seat beside Mom, wedge the suitcase between my knees, and quickly crank the window down. I don’t know why, but I feel a slight chill.
A few hundred meters before the Brendels’ farm Mom turns off the engine and lets the car coast. She’s trying to save gas, seeing as it’s all downhill from here. I watch as she removes the key from the ignition. That’s odd.
To the left of the road there’s an embankment; to the right, meadows and woodland extend down into the valley. All of a sudden I hear a click. The steering wheel locks. At this point the road bends around to the right, but the car keeps going straight. I grab Mom’s arm and she looks at me, her eyes wide with fright, as the Trabant climbs the embankment, slowly, very slowly, veers right, tips onto its side, and finally, as if in slow motion, rolls onto the roof. We’re not strapped in so we fall, noiselessly, first sideways, then onto our heads, and end up lying there stiff with shock. For a few seconds there’s silence. I can’t even hear her breathing.
I’m the first to try to open the door, but after several futile attempts I climb out through the window. My mother follows me. She still hasn’t said a word.
And then we’re sitting there trembling by the side of the road, next to an upturned, sky-blue Trabant. In Mom’s hand is the key, which for some unfathomable reason she’d taken out of the ignition. Yes, she actually did. She says nothing. I say nothing. I feel ashamed for her. I don’t know how long we’ve been sitting there—it can’t be more than a few minutes—but it feels like an eternity. Suddenly I hear dogs behind us. Their barking brings me out of my stupor and back into the present. It’s Henner coming from the woods. He has a sack over his shoulder and I find myself wondering what’s in it. He must be hiding something. Seeing us sitting there he approaches, looks at the car, and shakes his head. “We’ll get that back the right
way up,” he says. My mind is now empty. I watch Henner put down the sack and I don’t let it out of my sight. He’s talking to my mother, and now she’s shaking her head. But then she stands up, both of them lift the car in one single movement—all the power coming from Henner, no doubt—and set it back on its four wheels. My mother takes out the suitcase, puts it down by my feet—just like that, without even looking at me—then gets into the car and drives off.
Later I’d sometimes say that everything that happened must have been because of the shock. Some things, for sure, but not everything.
I pick up the case and start walking. Henner slings the sack back over his shoulder. With large strides he catches up with me, takes the suitcase, and says, “Come with me!” His house is not far. We turn right onto the path and walk to the farm in silence. The dogs jump up at me, and I let them; I’m looking at the sack, but there’s nothing moving inside it. I follow him into the house, into the kitchen. He puts the case onto a chair and drops the sack by the cooker. Wood, I tell myself, it’s just wood, but why does he need to heat the place? It’s summer. He pushes me toward the table, sits me on a chair with armrests, shakes his head, and says, “That was something else.” Beside me is a glass with clear liquid. I pick it up and drink—vodka. Henner takes the scarf from my shoulders. His big dogs are scratching at the door. He’s shut them out. He doesn’t want witnesses, I think, they could bark it to the whole world. I like this image so much that I almost burst out laughing. Something in the sack moves, it can’t be wood after all. Standing behind me he puts his hands around my neck. I’m going to die. If I don’t die now I’ll never be afraid again. The dogs are making a racket. I have another sip. He lets me go again and I finish my drink. Now I can see my bare feet. I don’t have my shoes on anymore; Henner has them in his hands and he tosses them carelessly into the corner by the sack. I’m not mistaken: something is moving inside. “Now I’ve caught you,” he jokes, “and dragged you back to my den.” Then he laughs, and it sounds to me like the rumble of thunder.
A hare, I think, there’s a hare in the sack. He’s set a trap and caught a hare. For the dogs, those beasts of his.
I don’t know how he got me into the other room. Perhaps I just followed him. There’s an open window, a yellowed curtain is billowing in the evening breeze. Between the lime trees I can see the gable of the Brendels’ farmhouse and the light on in the window. Johannes is waiting for me. My dress has a side zip, my fingertips are touching the top of the window frame, small pieces of paint flake off, and Henner’s hands are rough. Like a sleepwalker I step out of my knickers and dress, which is now covering my feet. He’s breathing gently and rhythmically on my neck, and I’m sure my heart is about to stop. It misses a beat, then sparks back into life: a shudder flashes through my body, an uncontrollable shudder, and then several more. He holds me firmly until it stops. I can feel small stones beneath my feet; the dogs have quieted down. From behind his hands press against my pelvic bone and inch downward to my inner thighs. Then, with gentle force, he pushes my legs apart. I support myself on the windowsill so I don’t fall over. Zossima springs to mind as he quotes from St. John’s Gospel, saying to Alexey, “Except a corn of wheat fall into the ground and die, it abideth alone: but if it die, it bringeth forth much fruit.”
Then I fall onto the bed and into a deep ecstasy.
I don’t deny him anything, not even when he lifts me from the bed and says I must kneel. Not even when he wraps my braid around his hand and watches me from above, doing what he tells me to. Now it’s him trembling. I’m going to be seventeen soon. In the old days that made you a woman. My grandmother had her first child at seventeen; that’s what it used to be like.
But still, I can’t help shedding a few tears. He lifts me up and sits me on the edge of the bed. I fall back, close my eyes, and feel the warm humidity of his breath between my legs, then his lips, his tongue—I’m falling. He makes a noise like a dying animal—a furious, desperate panting. I don’t dare to open my eyes. He grabs my legs, pushes them wide open, and enters me. He starts thrusting, then faster and harder. I slide backward, he grips my arms, turns me onto my stomach and pushes a pillow under my pelvis. I don’t understand, I try to turn over, I want to see his face, but he puts his heavy hand on my neck and holds me down. I close my eyes.
Shortly before midnight I leave Henner’s house carrying my case. As a good-bye he takes my head in his hands and plants a kiss on my forehead. Then he puts his index finger to his lips. I nod, perhaps not distinctly enough; I sense that his eyes on my back lack their usual certainty. So I turn and repeat the gesture he was looking for.
6
The following morning I get up before Johannes. He was asleep when I got back; he probably thought I was spending the night at my mother’s.
I’d lain down beside him fully clothed. Shivering, sweating. My sweat mingled with Henner’s odor; the cracked patches of his dried semen felt taut on my skin. I was terrified that Johannes might wake up, stroke me and realize what had happened; but I couldn’t bring myself to wash off the smell. I closed my eyes and took a deep breath.
I couldn’t sleep.
Nor can I forget.
And now the morning sun with its revealing light. I creep out of the room and downstairs to the bathroom where I fill the tub. Marianne is in the shop, Siegfried out in the animal sheds, and Frieda is standing at the gate waiting for the guests. It’s just past eight o’clock; they won’t be here before noon.
When I undress I see the bruises on my body. I feel desperate. What have I done? What did Henner do? Everyone’s going to notice, starting with Johannes, of course. How can I hide the traces of his hands all over my neck, arms, and thighs? There’s no denying it, it can’t be explained away. They’ll send me back to my mother and the shame will stick to me like bad luck. That’s how it still is in our village, even though it’s 1990.
Outside clouds are looming; it’s going to rain. The air is cooling, a wind is picking up. The weather will save me! From my suitcase I take a blue dress with mid-length sleeves, blue with white spots; it covers my knees. Over it I wear a white cardigan and I wrap a scarf around my neck. My face doesn’t give anything away; he spared that.
Right at the bottom of my case is an envelope; I didn’t put it there. It’s not sealed, and there’s a note inside with the single sentence: “He lay awake at night, desiring her, and he had her.” I look over at Johannes, who’s still asleep and knows nothing. I’m utterly ashamed, and yet—I keep the note.
Later, at brunch, I start talking. I babble on and on at Johannes. About my grandparents, how they’re renovating the house after all these years, about how Traudel was always so envious of people who had automatic washing machines while she was still using a tub. I blather about my mother and how she’s out of work, about my father and his young Russian girl, who I might make friends with, but perhaps I’ll hate her, if she’s pretty I’ll definitely hate her, and she’s supposed to be very pretty, Grandpa saw a photo and said, “not bad,” Grandpa knows all about pretty girls, he had an eye for the women, as the landlord of the local tavern once put it, but that’s all in the past, I mean he’s an old man now. Johannes only looks up when I’m talking about the Russian girl, and says, “She’s just a year older than me.”
I nod and continue my monologue. Eventually Siegfried comes into the kitchen and says they must be here soon, the Westerners. “Yes,” I say. “It can’t be long now!”
And it isn’t long, which is a relief, because Frieda’s had butterflies for hours. She’s quite distracted. She was in the kitchen cooking at four this morning. Everything was done by the time I came down for breakfast; lunch only needs warming up. After a while we hear a soft purring in the drive—a completely new sound to us. Lukas in particular will remember it for a long time. He’s never seen a car like it: a real Mercedes, we hadn’t expected that. Frieda steps aside and peers into the distance as if she were expecting more visitors. But then she closes the gate and, head bowed, appro
aches Hartmut, who has just gotten out of the car. She clasps her hands over her large tummy, nodding all the while. “Is that you?” she asks, nodding a few more times.
Hartmut is unmistakably Siegfried’s brother. Not that he’s a carbon copy, but it’s the movements, gestures, the way he raises his head, the fleeting grins. Like Siegfried he has a large head and bright, wide-apart eyes with thick blond eyelashes, but his nose is narrower and his lips aren’t as full. He looks pale in comparison to Siegfried, whose skin is brown and leathery from his daily work on the farm and in the fields, from the biting winter wind and burning summer sun. The brothers greet each other with a firm handshake. Marianne is in tears and throws her arms around Hartmut. She’s made herself look lovely, has Marianne. She’s wearing a wide black skirt printed with lavish roses, and a tight-fitting, low-cut red top.
Then the wife gets out of the car. I’ve been watching her. She had flipped down the sun visor, which must have a mirror in it, put on some lipstick, and smoothed her eyebrows. Now she makes straight for Frieda, offers her hand, and says, “I’m Gisela. Delighted to meet you, after all these years.”
“You’re telling me,” Frieda says, without really looking at her. Gisela is wearing a gray trouser suit and a white blouse. Her blond hair is tied up. She’s quite elegant. Her shoes are black, and they don’t have heels; she’s almost as tall as Hartmut, and therefore Siegfried, too. Although Marianne’s wearing high heels—and she often wears them, even in the animal sheds—she only comes up to Gisela’s nose. Then the rest of us greet each other in turn, offering our hands and introducing ourselves. We all look through the gleaming car windows at the backseat, where the children are asleep. They are seven and nine; Hartmut took his time to have children.
Frieda hurries into the kitchen to warm up the food while the rest of us stay outside. Marianne has linked arms with Gisela and is showing her the farmyard; Siegfried and Lukas are gawping into the open hood of the Mercedes. Johannes follows Hartmut, who looks as if he’s about to cry. I can understand why. Alfred slinks around for a while, then goes back to his work.
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