When we get there the swelling has reached an alarming size. He has to lean on me for support as we go into the house, and he’s in a somber mood. He is unable to stand all evening, and I look after him as well as I can. I fetch ice cubes from the freezer, wrap them in kitchen cloths, and put them on his injured ankle. In the cupboard above the kitchen sink I find a pain-relieving ointment that I rub in. I butter some bread, pour a drop of vodka, and sit beside him. But he’s sullen and tetchy, and says I should sleep upstairs tonight. I don’t understand.
Later, wide awake, I can’t get it out of my mind that Henner’s mother died here in this bed. I’m terrified, so I go down to him anyway. He must have fetched himself the vodka bottle. It’s by the bed, two-thirds empty. I think he’s asleep. He’s lying on his right side, breathing evenly. I get into bed next to him and fold my body into his. He takes hold of me and doesn’t let go.
The following morning there’s a knock at the door. We stop breathing. Henner is quicker to stir and he gets up slowly. The swelling has gone down slightly; it’s still painful, but he can walk. I hear him open the front door, and then I start to shake. It’s Johannes. He’s come to take pictures; he says he wants to make the most of the morning light. Henner is calm and tells Johannes he’s welcome to take photos around the farmyard, but he doesn’t want him coming into the house today. I sneak into the kitchen, and from there up the stairs to his mother’s bedroom. From behind the curtain I watch Johannes wandering around with his camera, seeking out the best angles. I want to die on the spot all over again. The thought of being discovered strikes me as so dreadful that I’d rather starve to death right here than go downstairs. I can hear Henner clattering about in the kitchen. Then, after what seems like an eternity, he brings me some coffee and bread. He puts his finger to his lips, as if he were afraid I might make a noise that would give us away. But we sit there, absolutely silent. Johannes goes into the stables, then out again, to the well, and over to the barn. He takes pictures of the house and animal sheds, of the front door and the arched gateway, of the dogs and the bench by the kitchen window. I can’t resist; I peep out from behind the curtain and look down at him. That’s when it happens: he points the camera slightly upward and releases the shutter. I throw myself onto the bed.
“What is it?” Henner whispers, and I reply, “He took a picture of me.”
“What do you mean?” he asks with a gasp, and I say, “He pointed the camera up and I think I might be in the picture.”
“Christ Almighty, Maria!” he says, “That was really stupid!”
Then Johannes calls to Henner. I sit on the floor by the open window, trying to make out what’s being said. Johannes asks whether he could come back another time, with Maria, and take photos in the house. Maybe Henner would like one of the pictures. And what’s up with his foot—is that a limp? Henner is grumpy. He gives curt answers and Johannes leaves. The gate is closed and bolted behind him. Henner shuffles back to the house and sits at the kitchen table. After a while I come downstairs and sit with him.
A dogged silence.
“But it’s not my fault Johannes came,” I insist. He looks at me, as if to say something, but the words evaporate on his lips. I kneel in front of him, lay my head on his thigh, and tell him how much I love him. He breathes heavily, pulls me onto his lap, and buries his head in my chest. We sit like that for a long time, a long time . . .
18
This time, when I left it was horrible. The fury of his first embraces had been reawakened, and when I was at the gate he hauled me back into the house and threw me onto the bed. He didn’t even take my clothes off, he just pulled my dress up and my knickers down, tossing them somewhere. His heavy body buried me in the pillows and covers. I could hardly breathe. He really hurt me. I was almost crushed beneath his weight; there was something bestial, irrational about his desire, something that reminded me of things that must have happened long before my time, things I could not know and yet think I do know, as if my memory were only part of a larger collective one. I pushed my head back for air. I pressed my clenched fists to my chest. When I tried to say something he put his hand over my mouth and whispered in a peculiar voice, “Be quiet!” His pants were around his knees, he forced my legs apart, his erection wanted to get inside me. But I closed up.
I really didn’t want it this time. I pulled his hand away and said, “No!” That’s all. Then I wriggled off the bed, adjusted my clothes, and left.
When I arrive at the Brendels’, Marianne is standing outside the shop chatting with the landlord’s wife. Johannes is nowhere to be seen. Alfred comes toward me across the yard carrying a bucket. He greets me warmly and asks, “So, did you have a good rest at your mother’s? You’ve put on a bit of weight. Well, it’s the right thing to do, to let your mother look after you when you’ve got problems.” His mouth twists into a crooked grin, and then he carries on with his work. Marianne gets me a glass of fresh milk and puts it on the kitchen table. “Johannes is upstairs in the darkroom,” she says, and the layer of cream swimming on top of the milk almost makes me sick. But I drink it down and go upstairs.
I knock gingerly. “Wait a moment,” he calls out, “I’m almost done!” But it’s several minutes before he opens the door. Wet prints are hanging from pegs. He puts his arms around me and strokes my face. “Are you feeling better?” he asks. “Have you come back to stay?” and I mumble, “Yes, everything’s fine again.” Then he wastes no time in showing me the pictures. The ones from Henner’s farm are there, too. He shows me one after the other, explaining how he took it and why he took it like that. I listen patiently, waiting for the moment when he discovers the woman in the window and everything comes out. We finally get to that photo. The picture is not especially good—slightly blurred and dark—but you can definitely make out a female figure behind the curtain. Johannes sees it too and falls silent. I can sense every nerve in my body; I can feel my mouth stiffen and it’s getting more difficult to swallow.
Johannes just stares, and I want to tell him everything. I’m going to tell him the whole truth, then I’ll get my bag and go back to Henner. That’s how I want to do it.
Johannes turns the picture a fraction. Then he smiles and says, “Look, there’s a woman at the window. Now I know why he wouldn’t let me in the house. He didn’t want me to see her . . . Shame you can’t really tell who it is behind the curtain . . . I don’t know what women see in him. Do you get it?” “No,” I say flatly. I don’t know how long I’ll be able to go on like this, how far you can spin out a lie. But I suspect it will be for longer than I’d ever imagined.
Some quiet days follow. I help Frieda in the kitchen and I do a lot of reading. Sometimes I gaze over at Henner’s farm, but there’s nothing in particular to see. The day after I came back, Siegfried took me aside at lunchtime and said, “We need to talk about school, Maria. It starts again next week. I’ve spoken to Marianne. You can stay with us, but on condition that you go to school—you need to get your exams.”
I let him say his piece, and even though I’d made my mind up long ago, I play at being obstinate. When I start yet another sentence with “But . . . ,” Siegfried interrupts me and says there are no buts. I feel so grateful to him for his advice.
Then I wander around the yard, looking for something to do. It’s all a bit of a mess; there are tools leaning against the wall beneath the overhang of the barn roof: manure forks and pitchforks, shovels, rakes, an old scythe, wheelbarrows, a worn-out tractor tire, and plenty more. The yard is full of hay and chicken droppings. I fetch a large broom and sweep everything toward the gate. Frieda watches from the kitchen window, nods her approval, and asks me to get some onions later from the vegetable garden for dinner. Siegfried wants fried potatoes with bacon. Marianne is going around with a large watering can, emptying liters of water into her enormous plant pots. She is humming to herself, and occasionally she picks off the dead leaves. Whenever Siegfried appears she acts as if she’s terribly busy, but when she’s alone she’l
l sometimes sit on the bench beneath the chestnuts and close her eyes.
I stand still in a cloud of hay and dust, breathing in the air. The work on the farm is good for me. I can see immediate results—unlike with school. My tiredness at the end of the day is intense and physical, and I sleep deeply.
Several days pass like this; I’m taking a break from Henner.
On the evening of August 31, a Friday, we’re sitting watching the news on television. They’ve signed the unification treaty; the GDR is joining the Federal Republic. We will be one country. But Siegfried looks anxious and says, “They can’t just impose their system on us overnight. It needs to be a slow process of transition, or everything here will fall to pieces.” “Don’t start,” Marianne says, gesturing at him dismissively. “Why can’t you just be happy about it?” But he shakes his head and says, “It can’t work like that. Soon there won’t be any farms here, if we’re all forced to operate like they do over there.”
I’m finding it hard to concentrate. I keep getting distracted, wondering whether Henner’s watching TV too, but I’ve never noticed one at his house. The reunification ceremony is to take place on October 3. After that date the GDR will cease to exist. How weird. The country we were all born in is just going to disintegrate, vanish, never to return. Johannes is in a state of great excitement and has a little too much to drink. I think he’s happy. In fact Siegfried doesn’t look too unhappy, either, but he always has to have something to grumble about. Marianne changes the subject and says she’s desperate to see the Bavarian Alps. Hartmut and Gisela have said they’re welcome any time, but they’re coming to us again for reunification. Johannes is feverish; he wants to celebrate reunification in a big city, not here in the village. Frieda and Alfred throw in the odd “Ah” or “Hmm,” and Lukas seems a little bored. But Siegfried doesn’t let him go to his room. “You should always remember this. It’s a historic moment.”
Now I’m feeling in a celebratory mood, and we all stop talking for a while to listen to the newsreader. It’s always been the same woman. She used to report on sessions in parliament and the fulfillment of five-year plans.
All of a sudden Siegfried leaps out of his chair. He paces once around the room, sits back down and says, “The machinery Höfer’s got in his mill over in F. dates from before the war. If he’s forced to comply with Western regulations then he’s done for. And it’s the same at the paper factory—you know how ancient those machines are, Marianne. Don’t forget, I’ve been over there at Hartmut’s and I’ve seen that biodynamic farm. They’ve got completely different rules and regulations. Just the safety legislation alone . . . It’s not going to work. I swear, soon it’s not just going to be the people at the chemical factory without a job.” He’s seething and talking at the top of his voice. Marianne’s annoyed that he’s ruining the moment for her. She turns down the volume on the television a little and says, “But you were always having a go at the GDR. Is there really nothing about it that makes you happy?”
“Of course there is,” he thunders. “That’s not the point . . . but the future is going to be very different.”
“I don’t understand what you’re saying, Siegfried. Give it a bit of time, will you? Nobody can predict the future.”
Now Siegfried is sitting at the table. In a calmer voice, he says, “It’s not hard to predict the future for Höfer’s mill. He’ll have shut down in six months. Guaranteed.”
He shakes his head, adding, “We can’t rush through in a matter of months what they’ve taken decades to develop over there. That’s just nonsense, Marianne.”
Now we’re all feeling on edge. Johannes gives me a sign and we leave the room. As we going upstairs he says that his father is right, but still, it’s a good thing.
19
It is the beginning of September and I’m going to school again. In the mornings Johannes takes me to the bus stop on his motorbike; in the afternoons I walk back. I have to repeat the class and so I’m a year older than the others. The things the girls talk about seem so remote to me. Like how they kissed a boy for the first time over the summer holidays, or how a boy tried to touch one girl’s breasts. They giggle coyly, finding it all a bit indecent. Most of them are still fifteen. I was probably like that at their age. The boys shun me. In fact, they don’t talk to me at all.
I’m an outsider. I’ve done things with Henner they’ve never even heard of. There is a huge gulf between us. They won’t bridge this gulf until later, by which time I probably won’t be here anymore.
The lessons are easy. I mean, I know most of it already. Often I’ll have a book under my folder and read for an entire period. There’s nobody I can talk to anyway. I might become a bookseller. At least that’s something I’d find really interesting.
We all know what Johannes is going to be.
He’s photographing like a demon. I’m no longer his principle subject. He’s now started taking pictures of the villagers’ faces. He wants to have one of Henner, too, but he hasn’t asked him yet. I haven’t seen Henner for a few days, apart from once, when he was driving behind us as Johannes brought me to the bus.
Now I’m walking from the bus stop to the Brendels’ farm. It’s about three kilometers. To my left are meadows with the river beyond. A wooded hill rises above the far side of the river. The Indian summer blows gossamer strands of spiderwebs across the countryside, and they get caught in my hair. In the field to my right the corn is ripening; I pick a tender cob and eat it. As I walk I feel a greater sense of freedom than I’ve ever felt before.
A car approaches from the distance. It’s so quiet here that you immediately know when something’s coming. It passes slowly and stops a few meters ahead. He pushes open the door. “Get in!” he says; I don’t need to be asked twice. He gives me a look out of the corner of his eye, and I return it with a smile. Then we drive on to the Brendels’ farm.
Marianne is out by the fence talking to Frieda, who for the last few days has been using a stick to help her get around. When we arrive, Henner winds down the window and says, “Hello, everybody! I picked up Maria. She’s going to come over to the paddock to ride Jella.”
I have no time to be surprised, as he’s already put the car into reverse and we’re on our way. “That’s fine!” I hear Marianne say. “I’ll tell Johannes.” We drive the short distance to his farm and disappear into the old house. Each time I find this place stranger, because outside everything is advancing at such a pace; it’s just Henner who isn’t. He hasn’t been caught up in the flux; he’s the same as he ever was.
To begin with he’s rough again, because he’s hungry for me, he says, adding, “You come so seldom, Maria, it’s not good.” We’re standing in the kitchen. It’s been a few days, and it could have been longer if he hadn’t happened to be driving along that road. It’s not merely desire, it’s hunger; those are the words he uses. Each time he’s seized by this hunger and he wants me so much that his hands and mouth do and say coarse things. It doesn’t take long for my desire to equal his. And because he knows this he ignores my token resistance, which I only offer because it seems the proper thing to do, but also because it drives him wild.
I would never concede to Johannes what I give to Henner instinctively. Why, I cannot say for sure. It wouldn’t suit Johannes to be like that, nor am I like that when I’m with him. His passion for his photography is greater than his passion for me. And yet he does love me.
With Henner it’s the opposite. His desire is absolute. Everything else follows from that. I can always see straightaway just how much he wants me; I can see it in his eyes and in his expression. His roughness is just as natural as Johannes’s tenderness. I no longer find it terrifying. Now I know that it’s part of him; making love gently is not Henner’s way.
Later he gives me a book that had belonged to his mother. That collection of poems with the one that’s stayed in my mind. I’ve rarely been so delighted by a present. The book is old and beautifully bound, and it smells of Henner and the farm. I k
eep stroking the binding. Inside his mother inscribed her maiden name, Helene Mannsfeld. Carefully I cross it out and write my own name underneath. He smiles and says the book has found a good home; I’ll understand the poems, I’ll know about the wanderers without a goal . . .
Then I have to go; it’s late.
Shortly before seven o’clock I’m having supper with the Brendels.
Alfred is sitting opposite me; he asks me how it was at Henner’s—he didn’t see me riding, even though he might have from where he was up in the meadows by the railway embankment. I say that I went riding in the woods, and then he wants to know whether I was on Jella. I spot the trap and say, no, it was Artus—I fetched him from the stables rather than the paddock—and I rode out to the woods through the cornfield behind the house. “I see,” Alfred replies. “I see, so now she’s able to ride the young stallion; it wasn’t that long ago that she was having trouble on the quiet mare.”
With my mouth full I nod at him and say, “I’ve been practicing.”
“I see,” he mutters. “I see . . .” Apart from Frieda, who gives me an inquiring look, no one has noticed the edge to his voice. I help myself to more of the cold roast and smile at Alfred.
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