Someday We'll Tell Each Other Everything

by Daniela Krien

  I now move between the two farms as if it’s completely natural. You can become accustomed to anything. The only time I feel a pang of conscience is when Johannes touches my body. I’ve been saying no recently. He’s so easy-going about it, it seems to verge on indifference. This makes me both happy and sad. Could this be true love, because he takes me for what I am?

  And Henner? I take him for what he is.

  I love Henner. I really love him, even when he’s drunk, even when he says nothing, and especially when he touches me. I love him. It’s as simple as that.

  21

  Changes are afoot at the Brendels’: Siegfried has grand plans.

  We’re all sitting around the table and Siegfried is talking more than he has in all the months I’ve been here. I don’t recognize him.

  He wants to lease land from the collective and from some people in the village. It needs to be at least thirty hectares, chiefly pasture, a few hectares of arable land and one hectare for growing vegetables. “I’m planning a thorough crop rotation,” he says solemnly. Nobody knows what this means, so he explains that it’s important for the soil and helps keep pests to a minimum. Two years of clover, then wheat, barley, peas, rye, followed by another two years of clover. He also talks about the nitrogen content of the soil and natural fertilization. But it’s not going to be exactly like the Demeter farm. He says he can do without the “anthroposophic superstructure,” which he finds too weird. He intends to increase his cattle holding from a dozen to twenty-five. He wants to process the milk yield into cheese and yogurt, so they’ll install a cheese kitchen in Frieda’s rooms upstairs and a storage room in the basement. None of this is magic, as he keeps saying. The animal sheds will have to be converted and he wants a garage for the vehicles. Then the cows need a proper feeding station and the milking stalls will have to be renovated, too. He’s calculated that he can produce all his own feed on the additional land, even the concentrated feed the animals need as a supplement to the hay. He wouldn’t need silage, because it’s apparently not good for unpasteurized cheese.

  Marianne gapes in astonishment but says nothing. Frieda and Alfred find it hard to understand what he’s saying. Lukas is staring at his father in admiration, while Johannes doesn’t know where to look. He must be worried that he won’t be able to get away from here after all.

  Now Siegfried is thinking aloud. Rather than selling his calves young, he might fatten them up here on the farm, slaughter them after two to three years, and sell their meat himself. But it might get tight with the hay. “What do you think?” he asks.

  Silence.

  But Siegfried is unstoppable. It’s going to mean a huge amount of work for all of us, and when he says “all” he stares at each of us in the eye. Even me. I don’t know what he imagines, and I must have looked pretty stupid, because now he’s roaring with laughter and saying, “Maria’s on early milking duty, five a.m., and we’re going to get her into cheese-making. As I said, none of it’s—”

  “Magic!” Marianne finishes off Siegfried’s sentence and slaps him on the shoulder. He laughs and puts a thick slice of salami in his mouth.

  I’ve never seen him like this, Siegfried. He’s absolutely euphoric. And the way he’s been going on about it, it wouldn’t surprise any of us if everything turned out just as he’s described.

  The chicken population is already bigger than it was before the fox massacre. Siegfried works like an ox, not wasting a second. Even Johannes and Lukas have to get stuck in. These days Marianne hardly ever gossips with the ladies from the village. Thanks to her, the shop now looks gorgeous. Even Alfred has had to change his lackadaisical approach to work, and it keeps him away from the drink.

  I’ve become a full-fledged member of the family. I helped out with the shop renovation—painting the walls, writing signs, and making extra space for produce from the farm. Soon Frieda will be baking loaves with our own flour, and her bread is superb. They could add vanilla or other ingredients to the yogurt; this was my idea. Siegfried’s enthusiasm has infected us all.

  Now there are flowerpots on either side of the shop entrance and a sign announcing what’s on sale today. If all of Siegfried’s plans are realized, the shop will be bursting at the seams in a year’s time—or two at the most. But he’s already thinking about starting a delivery service. In fact, he’s thinking far in advance about everything. Johannes and I find it a bit unsettling because we don’t know what we’re going to be up to in a year’s time, or even where we’ll be.

  Johannes is taking pictures of everything for posterity, and saying that we need to advertise in town.

  There is such enthusiasm here at the Brendels’, I’m getting carried away with it, too.

  The approach on the farm is far more businesslike than it was a few months ago. And it’s harvesttime. Apples, pears, plums and elderberries need to be picked and processed. I opted for the elderberries. The large sprays are heavy with ripe fruits, and I turn them into juice, jelly, and jam, which we’ll later sell in the shop. Marianne is incredibly grateful to me, because this is painstaking work. But I’ve found a way of combining the berry harvest with reading so I don’t get bored.

  I do the same at Henner’s. We carry bucketfuls of fruit into the house. For the last few years Gabi from the tavern has taken care of this, as Henner would have let everything rot. I store some of the fruits in the cellar; with the rest I make batches of compote and jam. I asked him to pick up some ingredients in the West: vanilla, cinnamon, ginger, and a few others. Everything Gisela told us about. It smells so wonderful in the kitchen that he keeps going out just so that he can come in again. I make us a fruit soup of elderberries, apples, a pinch of cinnamon, and lots of sugar. My hands are jet-black from the berries, which makes Johannes wonder. “It must be at least three days since you cooked up the berries, but your fingers are still black,” he says, and calmly I answer, “It’s like a dye, this elderberry juice.”

  Things are changing for my mother, too. When I go over there one Saturday morning she’s sitting at the table eating plums. She looks fresh, not so thin, and her expression is quite different. She runs her hands through her hair and with an unfamiliar ring to her voice says she’s got something to tell me. She twiddles a plum in her hand, and eventually says she wants to move, back to where she came from. I don’t reply, but I can feel the blood racing to my head and my temples throbbing.

  With tears in her eyes she gives me a rather long-winded explanation about how she’s finally realized she doesn’t belong here, and she never will. Back home—that’s how she puts it—back home there’s even a job waiting for her. She wrote to her brother, who still lives there, and he wrote back saying that a new hotel is being built, due to open next year. They’re going to need a large number of staff, including accountants, and so many people have been leaving the area. She’s crying, but still, she looks happy when she tells me. Then she asks whether I’d like to go with her. I can’t look her in the eye when I answer her, although I’m absolutely sure what I want to do.

  No, I say, I can’t go with her. This is where my school is, Johannes, and all the people who mean something to me, apart from her, of course. She starts to weep even more, and I feel so miserable about the scant time we’ve spent together over the past few months. She doesn’t try to change my mind; it would be a waste of time. Then I do my best to convince her that I’ll get by fine without her, even though I’ll miss her horribly. Besides, it’s only five hours by train, and I’ll come often, every holiday. But the most important thing is that it’s going to be wonderful for her to return finally to the place she’s always longed to be.

  Yes, she says, it’s something she’s always wished for, and I can’t ever remember having seen her eyes sparkle like this.

  It won’t be happening quickly, of course. The move is planned for next spring; before then she wants to go and have a look around, visit old friends, write her job application, and start preparing everything.

  I don’t know what to say to
her. I’m happy, and yet sad at the same time. I’m worried about not having a refuge anymore, no mother to comfort me when I feel miserable. Who’s going to do that now? She continues to talk and she talks quickly, saying much more than usual. She keeps brushing the hair from her face and the tears from her eyes. She needs to talk to the Brendels, she says, there are various things to sort out, and I need a bank account for my child benefit and the money she’s going to send me every month until I’ve finished school. So much to think about!

  But I’m not thinking about any of it. I’m just wondering who’s going to be there when Henner decides he doesn’t want me anymore. I’m on the verge of telling her everything, but she’s still rabbiting on, talking about this new opportunity and her friends, many of whom still live there and—who knows?—there might even be a man among them who’d be right for her. Some of them are divorced now, after all, and back then a fair few of them were after her. “Ah . . . ,” she says, “it would be wonderful to find someone to love again.”

  I can understand exactly what she’s saying, and I really hope she does find love. Then I look at the clock; just after half past twelve. Only a few minutes ago I was regretting that I hadn’t spent more time with my mother, but now I’m desperate to leave her, to see a man who would be just the right age for her. I keep telling her she doesn’t have to worry about me, and I stress this point. I’ll be in good hands at the Brendels’, they’ll look after me just as well as she would. As I’m saying this I fetch my bag from under the chair, and when she’s finally stopped crying I go. In fact, I run. I take the shortcut through the woods and down the rocks, across the bridge, and along the meadow to the man who’s waiting for me.

  22

  It’s now almost one o’clock, an hour later than usual. He’s sitting at the table. In front of him is a plate of food, and the table has been laid for a second person. For me. When I come through the door I rush over to him and throw my arms around his neck. And then I cry, as much as my mother did, if not more. Far more, it seems. Right now he is everything to me: father, mother, lover, friend, and even my enemy, in a way.

  I’m so terrified of losing him, too, that I feel I’m going out of my mind. He has to tell me a hundred times how much he wants me, me and only me. I want to feel it straightaway, put the truth of his claim to the test. I take his hands and push them beneath my dress. He hesitates for a second—but even that is too long for me. Grabbing my bag, I stride back to the door, where he stops me and continues what I had begun. I surrender myself to him with a desperation that surprises us both.

  Later, as I lie there exhausted, he looks at me and says, “You’ve turned into such a beautiful woman . . .”

  It’s the first time he’s called me a woman. If he knew just how much of a child I feel, he’d probably be disappointed.

  Now I have to grow up. Now, at a time when the future holds so much promise, the door of childhood is closing forever.

  So what happens? Nothing. No banging, no crashing, no thunder. Life simply goes on as before, and yet everything is changing. I get up, go downstairs to the kitchen and wash at the old enamel sink; I warm up the lunch we’ve allowed to get cold and call him. When he comes down the stairs he’s smiling, and that makes me happy. It tastes good; Henner can cook, too. I try to imagine the winter here: Henner lighting the stove to warm the room, ice crystals forming on the windows, a draft blowing through, and me having to put blankets in front of them, the snow sitting heavily on the roof, which is groaning under the burden. Would we get bored? No. Definitely not. I’ve never needed so little or felt so strongly that I can be satisfied with myself as during the days I spend with him. Eating, sleeping, making love, reading, working. It’s nothing more than that, and yet it’s everything.

  We take life very slowly here at Henner’s farm. In the evenings we put candles on the table, open a bottle of wine and smoke. I ask him what he would do if anyone gave away our secret. He says I’d have to come stay with him for good. In any case, I’m going to have to make a decision sooner or later, certainly by the time I turn eighteen. The wine has gone to my head and now I’m mesmerized by his words, which keep saying to me, “You’re the one I want, you and no one else.” The possibility of a child crosses my mind for the first time. Henner smiles and begins to speculate about what the child might look like. I think he’s keen on the idea. He’s never had any children, and it would be so sad to die without leaving a trace of yourself behind.

  I’ve never considered what Henner actually lives off. I mean, he only works at the farm, and horses are expensive.

  When I ask him about this he grins and says I ought to let him worry about that. But then he tells me that for the past few years he’s been living off the inheritance from his grandparents, who were hardworking and thrifty. He’s also given riding lessons, and two of his thoroughbred Trakehner stallions are excellent studs and he can lease them out regularly. On top of that he sells a young horse every year.

  Henner has plans for the farm, too. He might rent out rooms and start giving riding lessons again.

  The house is big, the countryside beautiful, and I’d be able to look after the guests. Now he’s talking himself into a fever, embellishing this fantasy of our future together with all kinds of lovely details. My homemade jam on the table in the breakfast room—everyone’s asking who made it, it’s so delicious. And Henner has acquired a few small animals for our guests’ children: cats and rabbits. And chickens, definitely chickens. We wouldn’t be able to get our eggs from the Brendels’; we’d need our own. We could also open up a little farm shop—I’ve learned how these things work. Henner goes to fetch another bottle of wine and the dream being concocted in our minds becomes more and more attractive.

  Later in bed he strokes my belly, as if the child we spoke about were already there.

  That night I dream of my own death. My feet sink into the earth and my body dissolves. There is no pain; it’s a pleasant feeling. I’m still breathing, my mind can still think, but that fades, too. I wake up and look over at him. He’s sleeping, snoring softly. I can’t help smiling; snoring like that vanquishes any thoughts of death.

  The following morning at the Brendels’ is pure torture. I mention my mother’s plans and ask whether I can stay with them for the time being. Of course you can, they say. Their answer almost cuts me in two. They’ve no idea who they have sitting among them. I become aware of how different my behavior is when I’m here, how girlish and innocent. Over at Henner’s I act the woman. There have been so many times when I’ve wanted to tell all, and I believe I would have, had their suspicions been aroused. But what would be the result? I’d lose everything. Johannes, his parents, and Henner, too, because I’m sure my mother would force me to go with her. No, I can’t do it.

  Marianne says we all need to help my mother get everything organized properly. Siegfried adds that I’ll be able to lend a hand in the afternoons and holidays. Johannes raises his eyebrows. “Don’t get too excited,” he says. “We don’t plan on staying here forever.”

  No, we don’t, I think, definitely not forever.

  The conversation turns to the reunification celebrations. We’ve invited Hartmut and Gisela, this time without the children, who’ll be staying in Bavaria with their grandparents. Johannes wants to go to Leipzig, irrespective of whether I join him, and the others are going to the tavern. They’re going to charge ten marks entry, which includes a free drink, and lay on a buffet in the dance hall. He’s got good business sense, that landlord. The whole village is going to celebrate together. There aren’t so many of them, and not everyone will come; the old ones will stay at home in front of the television.

  I don’t know what I’m going to do. Leipzig sounds fun, and I can’t go back to the tavern. Maybe I will find a way to get to Henner’s; that’s where I’d prefer to be. He has no one apart from me.

  Alfred is giving me that look again, and it makes me shudder. I’d like to know what his intentions are, if he has any. Maybe all he want
s is to see me looking worried. I think he likes that. At last he’s found someone who’s afraid of him rather than the other way around. So why should he say anything now? I mean, he must know everything. He could have betrayed us long ago. I peer at him out of the corner of my eye. He’s wearing a greasy cap, even though we’re sitting at the table and it’s Sunday. He’s missing a number of teeth. His face is furrowed and his skin is like leather. Even on Sundays he wanders about in dirty, dark blue dungarees. He probably does it to assert his individuality, but nobody seems to mind. Alfred reminds me of a smelly old dog. I’m ashamed to think it, but I just can’t stand the man.

  I can’t stand being here today, either. I fidget at the table and halfheartedly poke at my food. Marianne gives me a stern look, while Siegfried comes straight out with it: “Don’t you like it, Maria?” “Yes, I do,” I say, even though my stomach is churning.

  I’m longing to go to Henner’s, but Johannes wants to take me into town; there are some new friends he’d like me to meet. It’s the last Sunday in September. The last Sunday before reunification. There’s a last time for everything. Often you don’t know that it’s going to be the last time. But in this case we do.

  On the way into town I say, “Three days to go. Then the GDR will cease to exist.”

  “It’s already ceased to exist,” he answers, and then adds, “I don’t understand why you’re saying it in that funny way, as if you were sad about it . . .”

  “It’s not that,” I explain. “Sad isn’t the right word. Wistful, perhaps. Or melancholic? No, pensive. That’s it: pensive.” I look out of the window. The sky has darkened and the odd drop of rain slaps the roof of the Wartburg.

  “Now that it’s finally over, I keep remembering so many things,” I say. “All sorts of things—like when we had to throw hand grenades in PE rather than balls. But we never questioned it.”