No one take any notice of me, and Johannes has not commented on what I’m wearing: the scarf around my neck and the cardigan—it may have cooled down a little, but it’s still almost sixty-eight degrees. I take advantage of the time before lunch and go for a walk with The Brothers Karamazov. So Alexey has gone to visit Grushenka after all, even though he must have been aware that her charms would be the ruin of him. But everything turned out differently.
I lie down in the grass behind the sawmill. The words dance on the page and blur.
Now, like a thief, sleep takes hold of me; it descends from the gloomy sky and sinks heavily onto my abused body, ill treated by love. I can feel Henner’s hands—coarse, gentle, brutal, expectant—and I long for them . . .
When I return the children are awake. They’re running around the yard, shouting in their throaty dialect. I find it hard to understand them. Gisela is watching them from the kitchen window. Then she motions to us to come in for lunch. Hartmut is sitting beside Frieda, holding her hands in his. This moment belongs to them alone, a silent tableau that harbors all the suffering of a woman who thought she’d lost her son, and all the joy of their reunion. The kitchen feels too small, the rest of us are just intruding, how can we eat lunch now? Without a word I withdraw and go back up to the spiders’ nest, my home.
Something inside me died last night.
I take the note Henner put in my case and write something on the other side. Then I return it to the envelope and run to his house as quickly as I can. The window from which I saw the Brendels’ farm yesterday is still open. I throw the envelope inside.
But just then, as the envelope glides to the floor, I am overcome by terrible guilt. After making sure that no one’s around, I climb in through that same window and grab the envelope. Before I can leave again Henner opens the door. It’s the first time I’ve seen him look surprised. He stops dead, looks at the window, then at me, and I realize at once that this is my one chance to escape. A life can be changed by a single moment. His gaze rests on the envelope in my hand, he flashes a smile, and I realize that my hesitation is fatal. He comes up to me, takes the envelope, opens it, pulls out the note and reads the following words aloud: “. . . and he can have her again.”
No words can describe the dreadful feeling of shame that forces my eyes to the floor. I want the earth to swallow me whole. As I stand there he doesn’t say anything. I don’t know which is the strongest feeling: my urgent desire for another night like the last one, my present humiliation, fear, my girlish pride, or the wish to see this pride shattered. I don’t move a muscle.
He takes a step closer; he’s been drinking again. As it hits me, his boozy breath sends my head spinning, making me feel slightly sick.
“So,” he says slowly, stroking his close-cropped hair. “So, he can have her again, can he? Well.” He goes past me and closes the window. “I see.” The dogs are sitting by the door. Even sitting they seem as big as I am. “A haughty one, this girl,” Henner says. “Granting him the favor of a final visit . . . What is she waiting for? Take those clothes off!” I look at him in disbelief, trying to understand what might have offended him, but I don’t understand, not yet, and the dogs are guarding the door. He grabs the back of my head and pulls me toward him. Unwinding the scarf from my neck, he stops. He looks, opens his mouth, closes it again. His fingers touch the bruises he caused yesterday; his eyes ask whether anybody knows, whether Johannes knows, whether the police are about to turn up, what I’m going to do, whether I’ll tell all, whether everything’s out in the open now. Everything.
My shame subsides. I wait for him to say something. He’s still looking at me, stroking my neck. His eyes are reddened from the schnapps. Maybe we’re both thinking the same thing.
He’s forty, I’m sixteen. Thorsten Henner and Maria Bergmann. It was not rape, even though it looks like it. I’m the one in control now. But a man like Henner is not going to let himself be dominated by a sixteen-year-old girl.
This I realize straightaway. I try to catch his eye, which is now roving restlessly around the room. “No, Henner, nobody knows, nobody. I swear,” I say to him. “And I won’t tell anybody, either. I really won’t.” He gives me a penetrating look, trying to read my thoughts, but he doesn’t believe me. “You have to promise me, Maria!” he says, gripping my shoulders. I nod quickly and say, “Yes. Yes, I promise!”
He leaves the room and I’m standing there alone; but he comes back with some ointment. He rubs it on those areas on my neck, and then kisses them, the bruises, the marks that betray his guilt. And with every one of his caresses I feel as if I’m looking at myself through his eyes. A girl, dark blond hair in a long braid, not especially tall, slim, square-shouldered, serious face. Narrow nose, small mouth, but with full lips, large eyes, very bright and very green in the sunlight.
As I’m about to leave he asks me to wait. I wander through some of the ancient rooms, the dogs tailing me mistrustfully; they’re not used to having to share their master. I stop by a glass-fronted linen cupboard. Henner is behind me again, he slips me another note and puts his arm around me. The quietness in this house is greater than anywhere else. The dogs’ growling, the creaking of floorboards, his heavy breath—I cannot hear anything else. There are sounds that have no connection with time. That’s the way it is at Henner’s house. I lean on him and he asks me, “What are you reading at the moment? Marianne says you read a lot . . .”
“The Brothers Karamazov,” I say, rather proud that it happens to be this book.
“Who do you prefer, Katarina Ivanov or Grushenka?” he asks, and I say without hesitation, “Grushenka.”
“Why Grushenka?”
“Because she’s passionate. And honest. I don’t believe that Katarina Ivanov loves Dmitry at all. She’s a hypocrite.”
He laughs and says, “That was a good answer, Maria. It’s reassuring.”
The Brendels have been waiting for me. They’ve been sitting at the lunch table for ages, and when I come through the door Frieda says, “Where on earth did you get to? We’ve all been looking for you.” I take it as a sign that I properly belong here; they missed me; I mean something. It feels good. I mutter something about being tired and going for a walk, and only Alfred looks at me searchingly. Hartmut and Siegfried are deep in conversation. Hartmut has a lot to say, about how difficult it was in Bavaria to begin with, his studies, graduating as an engineer, his first job with a construction company, finally setting up his own planning office, and his marriage to Gisela, a teacher’s daughter from Garmisch-Partenkirchen. He met her in a mountain hut while skiing, and they’ve been together for almost ten years. Their children were planned and Gisela doesn’t have to work. Marianne is particularly interested by this; she had to put Johannes in a day care center when he was only eight weeks old, and she cried for days. This was normal, she was still working in town at the time. Marianne is not from the village. Siegfried met her at a dance in the county town. Both her parents worked at the collective paper factory, and Marianne did shift work there, too.
By the time Lukas was born she had settled at the farm. It must have taken years for her to get used to farm life. Frieda had strongly advised Siegfried against marrying her. Town girls never became proper farmers, she said, even though she herself had married a teacher’s son. Marianne didn’t have much time with her second baby, either, but at least he didn’t have to go to day care. Frieda looked after the little one as best she could, and even Alfred helped out with the childcare sometimes. Deep down he’s a good soul, Frieda likes to say. I’m not so sure.
To my left sits Johannes with his camera, to my right, Alfred, his mouth full. He has a way of eating that I find utterly repulsive, but for some reason he’s allowed to get away with everything, even eating with his mouth open and bending so far over his plate that his head almost touches the rim. Frieda says this makes the distance shorter, and so there’s less spillage on the table. There’s still much about the Brendel family that I don’t understand.
They’re going to stay in Frieda’s part of the house, where there are six rooms: two for Alfred, the remaining four for Frieda. Plenty of space. For me this visit couldn’t have come at a better time. It helps me hide my secret. That evening there’s a violent storm; I sit at the window and look over at Henner’s farm. It’s pitch-black over there.
7
The following morning the air is cooler and fresher than it’s been for weeks, giving me every reason to wear the scarf around my neck. Johannes disappears into his darkroom straight after breakfast and doesn’t even emerge for lunch. He’s displaying an obsessiveness that makes us all wonder, especially Marianne. He’s hung pictures of the farm beside those of the dead children. Johannes has photographed everything: Alfred mucking out the barn; Marianne feeding the chickens; Siegfried in the sawmill; the cattle on the pasture; the sheep; the geese; the chickens; Frieda down by the river, looking at the water; Frieda at the gate, looking along the road. And me, over and over again.
We hardly talk anymore, all I hear now is: “The light is perfect, sit over there. No, no, no, not like that. Look to the right. No, Maria, with your eyes, not your head!” In fact Johannes doesn’t see me anymore, all he sees are pictures.
Until a few days ago I would have done anything to win back his attention. I’d have talked, charmed, ranted, whatever you do when your loved one turns his back on you. But I behave calmly; with apparent generosity I allow him to indulge in the magic of his new passion. I’m quite indifferent. My only real interest lies in the man on the neighboring farm.
I wander through the yard, the note in my right hand. Alfred shuffles past me into the barn. There’s a twinkle in his tiny eyes; his cheeks are sunken as he barely has any teeth. When he’s gone I read the message. This time there’s no envelope. It’s the same piece of paper with the sentence: “He lay awake at night, desiring her, and he had her.” Underneath he’s written, “Tomorrow I’ll come get you!”
Tomorrow—that’s today. My calm evaporates.
Marianne and Gisela are in the shop. They seem to be getting to know each other; they talk about their children and Hartmut’s twenty years without his family, which nobody can ever give back to him. I leave them be. There are some things that are so difficult to say, every word is a struggle; I’d only be disturbing them.
I can see Hartmut outside. He’s wearing one of Siegfried’s blue boiler suits and heading for the sawmill. The children are skipping along behind him. What an adventure this must be for them.
Frieda is in the kitchen with Volker. She’s summoned him from town because Hartmut wanted to see his other brother, too. But the feeling is not mutual. Volker has hardly been able to look Hartmut in the eye, and for years he’s been giving Siegfried a wide berth. He doesn’t seem to notice that I’m there. His dull expression only seems to come to life when drink is put on the table. I can definitely see the similarities between Volker and Alfred. Volker’s so different from his two brothers. There’s something shifty about him, something that makes me distrust him. Acrid alcoholic fumes are polluting the entire kitchen. All that’s missing is Alfred. From day one I sensed that Alfred didn’t like me; I seem to disturb him somehow. Maybe he had become used to the fixed set of people in the family. And then I came along.
If Henner really does come for me I’d like to give him a cake, so I stay in the kitchen and bake my first cake without any help. Volker and Frieda move to the parlor. Six eggs, three hundred and sixty grams of sugar, the same amount of butter and flour. No baking powder. The grated zest of one lemon, the juice of four lemons, some vanilla, a pinch of salt. Bake for sixty minutes: forty minutes at 350 degrees, twenty at 400 degrees, checking that it doesn’t brown too quickly on top—this is what Frieda’s always told me.
I feel very grown up here in the kitchen. The windows that face the yard are open. Alfred glances inside, snuffles, nods and smiles inscrutably. The others are scattered all over the farm. Then everything happens as if by magic. The cake comes out of the oven, golden brown and smelling fantastic, and I can hear his voice in the shop and the women laughing. I bet he’s flirting with them. I’m instantly envious of Gisela. She’s wearing a dress today, too, and her blond hair falls in fragrant waves across her white shoulders. She smells fantastic. We couldn’t work out what it was. Some mixture of rose and sandalwood, but we’re too embarrassed to ask. She must think we’re peasants, Marianne and me.
I can’t make out what he’s saying, but now Marianne is calling my name. “Come over here, Maria!” she says. “Henner’s got his horses with him.” I’ve already cut the cake and wrapped it in sandwich paper. I put the package in my bag, as well as the note and a pencil.
When I enter the shop I’m reassured, for the moment at least. He may be joking with the women, but he only has eyes for me. Softly, almost casually, he says, “There you are, Maria. I’ve brought the mare along; you wanted to go riding today, didn’t you?”
“Yes,” I say. “I’m coming.”
Then he helps me up into Jella’s saddle; on the stallion there is just a horse blanket. “Bring her back safe and sound, Henner!” Marianne calls out behind us. He gives a short nod, and I feel horribly deceitful.
We trot once along the woodland path by the railway tracks and then go straight back to his farmhouse. He takes the horses to the stables and shuts the main gate. I can’t be sure, but I think I saw Alfred at the end of the path.
In the kitchen he makes coffee and I unwrap the cake. It’s still warm and smells so lemony. Henner takes a piece and has a bite. “Did Frieda bake this?” he asks.
I shake my head. “No, I did.”
He grins, no doubt astonished by my efforts. “It tastes wonderful, Maria,” he says. “It’s a long time since anybody baked me a cake.” Then his face darkens and he gives me a peculiar look. I stand up and go close to him. He pulls me onto his knees.
Then he lays me down on the kitchen table and takes me. The dogs are lying by the door, their beefy heads resting on their paws, quietly watching us.
Afterward we drink cold coffee and smoke. There’s a volume of poetry on the table. My head was on it when Henner stood behind me and lifted my skirt. One stanza is underlined, beside it are some illegible words. A woman’s handwriting, I reckon; Henner didn’t write that. I like the verse, even though it makes me feel melancholic:
We are the wanderers without goal,
The clouds blown away by the wind,
The flowers trembling in the chill of death,
Waiting to be mown down.
“My mother’s,” he says. “All the books were hers.” He stares at me. “She wasn’t cut out for farm work either. Like you.” And then he talks to me for ages about his mother; all I’d heard about her was that she was a drinker and a bit of an oddball.
Henner’s mother—Helene Henner, née Mannsfeld, then Bechert in her first marriage—was thirty-five when she had him. She was born in 1915 into a middle-class family in Berlin. She was an only child. Her father died in the war, in a military hospital following the amputation of both his arms. Things got more and more difficult for the family. The mother’s money lasted a few years more, but by the beginning of the 1930s it was all gone. She never married again, Helene’s mother.
Helene went to a good school; she was well educated and had fine manners, just no money. She was eighteen when she met the lawyer Ernst Bechert, and she married him immediately, despite her lack of funds. Ernst built up his career and became a member of the Nazi Party. They had no children. In 1940, he was conscripted and returned in February 1945 with a serious head injury and only o
ne eye. But when the Russians came he hanged himself in the kitchen of their apartment. Helene couldn’t get away in time. The streets were already teeming with Russian soldiers, and it was hard to disguise her beauty even beneath a dirty headscarf. They got her in the cellar. She didn’t know how many there were, but it must have been dozens. One injured her so badly that the others, who’d been waiting their turn, no longer wanted this half-dead woman. She must have bled like a slaughtered animal, and it went on like that for weeks. She confessed all this to her second husband on his deathbed, and it was only then that he understood everything.
In the summer of 1945 she dragged her battered body out of the city. No one knows for sure how she made it to Thuringia and our village. She was given work and a little room at the Henners’ farm, and a year later she married Franz, the youngest son, who had survived the war in spite of a few frostbitten toes and large amounts of shrapnel. He was twenty-nine, she, thirty-one. The two other brothers at the farm had died in the war.
Henner was born in 1950. Nobody had imagined they would ever have a child. During her pregnancy, Helene acquired a great number of books and, to the consternation of the Henner family, spent her days reading. Later she disappeared completely into her books and her schnapps, and never surfaced again.
Henner lays his head in my lap with a sigh, and I cover it with my dress. Then he starts to cry. Yes, he cries, and his tears wet my bare legs, which are still trembling. It was the only time I ever saw him like this, and never again. Love made him soft.
8
Back home at the Brendels’ farm, Marianne is there to meet me. “That was a long ride,” she says. As I walk past her she suddenly leans into me and takes a sniff. I’ll never forget how her nose practically brushes my neck. When she looks up at me I hold my breath, regretting not having washed off Henner’s scent. Suddenly she smiles and says, “You smell like a stable! Go and have a quick shower before supper.” I nod silently. This time I’ve gotten away with it.
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