Someday We'll Tell Each Other Everything

by Daniela Krien

  Johannes grins and says, “So? How far did yours go?”

  “Three or four meters at most,” I reply. “I’d have blown myself up.” We burst out laughing. Johannes has become like a brother. We’re close, we keep secrets from our parents, we laugh a lot, and we haven’t argued for ages. We walk around hand in hand, but when he touches me it never triggers the same sensation that a single glance from Henner can.

  We park the Wartburg and walk across the bridge to the castle. A few months ago they opened a pub in the old kitchens; this has become Johannes’s hangout. We spend the entire afternoon and evening there. By the time we get back it’s late, and everyone else is already asleep.

  We climb the stairs to our rooms and Johannes puts his hand under my dress. In that instant I know I will never sleep with him again. I need to make a decision. What he wants from me belongs to Henner.

  23

  I don’t go to school the next day. In the morning I leave the house as usual, but on the road I turn left and hurry over to Henner’s. He’s still having breakfast when I arrive. I put my schoolbag on a chair; the dogs growl quietly. He looks startled but pleased, then gets up, comes over to me, takes my hands, and gives me a kiss.

  “Is everything okay, Maria?” he says. I nod, crying at the same time, and then I say, “I’m coming here. For good, I mean. I’m here for good now.” He doesn’t react, his expression is blank, his mind fixed inward. I say it again, “I can’t bear it any longer. I don’t want to be there anymore. I want to stay here.” He nods almost imperceptibly and I go on talking: “At some point I’ll have to go back and explain everything, fetch my things, and also tell my mother. I’ll need a day or two . . . It’s not easy, Henner, you know that.” He takes a deep breath and frowns. I’d been expecting an outburst of joy, a clear sign to show I’m welcome. But the silence in the room tells me something different. Eventually he says, “Have you thought this through properly, Maria? Really properly? Are you absolutely sure?” and I say, “Yes, yes, I have. I have no doubts. None at all!”

  He sits down and groans, as if weighed down by an excessive burden. “Don’t think I don’t want you, Maria. I want you more than you could imagine.” Now his tone is somber, he has to force the words from his lips; it looks so painful I can hardly bear it. “I just don’t want you to throw your life away. Are you sure you’d stick it with me . . . ? You don’t really know me . . .”

  “That’s not true, I know you better than you think!” I shout, close to despair.

  “Even so, do you imagine anybody in the village would speak to you again? Marianne?” He lets out a sleazy laugh and adds, “Have you ever been really lonely, Maria? Do you know what that means? You’re seventeen! Other girls your age go out dancing, they’ve got friends and parents. You’d have no one. No one! Only me.”

  “But you said—”

  “Yes, I know what I said,” he interrupts. “And it’s all true.”

  “Do you love me?” I ask him, not daring to look him in the eye. I know I would spot the lie.

  “Yes, I do love you,” he says in a tired voice. “But that doesn’t mean we can live together.”

  His icy words slice through me, splitting me apart: one part angry, one part desperate, one part hopeful, and one part loving. Then I cry out, “Why ever not, for Christ’s sake?”

  “I’ve already told you!” he shouts back. “We would be completely isolated! With no one but each other! You’d have to work hard. No friends. No variety in your life . . .” After these last words his outstretched hand cuts the air like a falling ax. “I’ve lived on my own for so long, Maria. I’ve got my particular ways and habits. Do you understand? I can’t change now. I’m forty! Older than your mother!”

  I try to stay calm. I speak more softly when I say, “I know all that, but we’ll find a way. I’m not like other girls of my age. I’m not a child anymore, Henner!”

  He nods, putting his arms around me. “I know. I wanted you and I got you. And now you’re here . . . but perhaps you should have another serious think about it.”

  The gravity in his voice strips me of the certainty I brought with me, but I reply, “I don’t need to; I’ve been thinking about it for weeks.”

  “What if your mother takes you with her?” he asks, abruptly dropping his arms. His embrace had felt so comforting.

  “I won’t go, simple as that. She can’t drag me with her. I’ll just stay here.”

  He gets a bottle of vodka from the fridge; I fetch him a glass from the cupboard. “Do me a favor,” he says firmly. “Sleep on it. If you still want to come tomorrow, then come. If not . . .” His lips narrow.

  “I will come. I’ll definitely come.” I sit on his lap and put my arm around his neck. He takes it away and gives me a rough kiss. I undo his belt and he carries me into the other room. It becomes a battle, as it was in the beginning. I want him to be tender, I want it to feel right; but in his frenzy he tears off my clothes and throws me onto the bed. I lie on my stomach; he twists my arms onto my back and presses his legs between mine. He wheezes into my ear, “This is what I’m like, Maria, don’t you forget that.” Then he flips me onto my back, grips my arms, and says it again. I turn away; cold, salty tears run down my glowing cheeks. He says harshly, “Look at me, Maria . . . Take a good look at me!” Slowly I turn my head toward him, trying to suppress the sobs that convulse my body. He looms over me. His eyes are wide open and full of fear.

  I whisper his name repeatedly until he lets me go. He falls on top of me; I’m almost crushed by his heavy body. He lies there limply, puts his arms around me and his hands beneath my head.

  I know what he has in mind. He wants me to make the decision. He doesn’t want to be the one to say, “Stay here with me!” He’s trying to show me his worst sides, and either I have to love him in spite of these, or I should just go. But I don’t go. I gently push him away from me, take one of his hands, and hold it to my face. He’s still wheezing, and when I make to get up, he suddenly holds me tight again. This time it’s different. This time he’s afraid I might leave. Again and again I tell him, “I’m staying here, Henner. I’m staying here in spite of everything.” We lie in bed until the school day is over. I haven’t changed my mind. Traudel was seventeen when she married my grandpa Lorenz, and they’re still together. I don’t understand why it couldn’t work today. Everything is possible, of that I am sure.

  Eventually we get up. He gathers my things, strewn about on the floor by the bed, and sits down beside me. “I was getting along fine here on my own,” he says. “I was pretty angry with you when you came with me after the accident with your mother. I wasn’t expecting it, Maria.” He looks out of the window at the Brendels’ farm. “And I didn’t think you’d come back, either . . . It got my hopes up, you know . . .” He runs his fingers through his hair, his eyes still fixed on the Brendels’.

  “But Johannes is better for you,” he says finally.

  “No! He’s not. I can’t go back to him after everything that’s happened. I can’t sleep with him again after you.”

  He turns to me. “Are you angry about earlier?” I shake my head, even though he did terrify me. Then he stands and says, “Go. Go and sort out what you need to sort out! I’ll come with you if you like.”

  “No,” I say. “I need to do this on my own.”

  He brings me to the gate; as I leave he holds my hand especially tight. The dogs trot behind him. He opens the gate just wide enough for me to slip through, puts his shaky hands on my temples, and kisses my forehead. “Come back quickly, Maria!” he whispers urgently. “I’ll be waiting for you!”

  As I leave I turn to look back one last time. The gate is closed, the house stands in silence.

  From now on this house will be my house, too. It has endless rooms, a huge cellar, a dusty attic, where secret objects in old cupboards are waiting to be rediscovered. The house has taken me in as a mussel absorbs a grain of sand, integrating me into its ancient organism.

  I creep unseen into
the Brendels’ and go straight upstairs. Johannes is in the darkroom. I knock and wait until he lets me in. For several days he’s been working nonstop on his portfolio. He’s being very secretive about it and no one knows why. Now I see.

  On the wall Johannes has put more photographs of dead children around the ones that were already there. He’s been ferreting them out of the attics of elderly people in the village. Above and below them he has arranged pictures of those still living. There was no family in which all of the children died, and some of older villagers are siblings of one of the children in the photos. This is his project. He’s putting them side by side, the dead and the living. Now I understand why he’s been so secretive; Frieda would find it morbid, and I’m sure Marianne would have something to say about it, too. I don’t know what I think. Not anymore. I hope the college accepts him. Then he can go away and forget about me.

  “Johannes,” I say, “I need to talk to you.”

  He turns and shows me a picture of two old women. Twins. They live in a tiny old house in the village, next door to the co-op. “Look,” he says. “Hedwig and Heidrun Ott, from the village. And here . . .” He holds up another photo. “Eberhard Ott, died of pneumonia when he was seven. Fell through the ice one winter. Just think: the bed he’s lying on here, the one he died in, is still in that house, up in the attic.” He takes another photograph from the pile. “Here it is. This is superb, Maria. They’re bound to take me when they see this.” These days he uses words like superb, or unbelievable, or subtle. Marianne has noticed it, too; she says it comes from mixing with those artist friends of his in town. They’re the ones who use all that complicated language.

  I try again: “Johannes, I really need to talk to you.”

  He can’t stop arranging and rearranging photographs and he’s about to show me the next one, but I think he must have heard me because he says, “Let me just finish up here. We’ll talk this evening; I’m right in the middle of things now. I’ve got so many ideas, Maria. I really think they’re going to give me a place.”

  I go downstairs to the kitchen, where Frieda is baking cakes. Hartmut is coming tomorrow, and there’s so much to do. A strange feeling of calm comes over me; I become acutely aware of every detail in this familiar room—the withered flowers on the table, a bowl with fruit, the small flies above it, the sweat beneath Frieda’s armpits, flour dust in her hair, a tiny crack in the bowl with the dough, the texture of the tiles on the floor, the humming of the fridge, the smell of animal sheds, yeast, and Frieda. I put on an apron and help her with the baking. Soon I’ll be doing all this on my own, over at Henner’s. I’m going to be his wife, with everything that this entails.

  We all sit together again at supper. They’re good people, the Brendels, but starting tomorrow I won’t be living with them anymore. Siegfried eats like a horse; he’s working so hard. Marianne is looking forward to the celebrations on Wednesday and she’s bought a new dress for the occasion; she doesn’t want to pale in comparison to Gisela. Johannes isn’t really here. He’s sitting with us at the table, but his mind is on his photos. Alfred doesn’t look at me; he chomps and slurps as usual, but this doesn’t bother me now. Everyone around the table is thinking different thoughts. I take a good look at each of them in turn. We’ll never be like this again. Tomorrow everything will be different, for me and for them.

  I wonder whether they will ever forgive me. I doubt it. For a short while they’ll discuss it and vent their outrage. They’ll say I’m scandalous, ungrateful, amoral, and selfish; then silence will descend, as it always has done. My name will never be mentioned again, just as Hartmut’s name wasn’t spoken for years, and just as the name of Volker’s father will always be Heinrich, even though I’m certain it must be Alfred.

  Yes, I’m sure there will be silence. But they won’t forgive me.

  After supper Johannes disappears back into his darkroom. I wait for him for hours, and when it gets really late I decide that the truth can wait until morning.

  As dawn is breaking, as I am somewhere between sleep and wakefulness, I hear the sirens. From far away their wailing reaches me in a muddled dream. I get up unsteadily and open the dark red curtains at the gable window. Images from my dream flash through my mind one final time, then fade and vanish. Before me is the pasture with the sheep, to the left beyond that, the woods, and on the opposite side, Henner’s farm. The train line runs between the two.

  A train is stationary. On the track by the railway line I can see several vehicles: the police, an ambulance, and another car. There are people rushing about, and all of a sudden I catch sight of the dogs. The two of them are sitting in the grass beside the train line. In front of them something has been covered up. It’s not particularly large, as far as I can make out. Something dark, a blanket or tarpaulin. I’m not sure.

  I get dressed in silence, go quietly, very quietly down the stairs, through the animal sheds, and toward the train line. Even as I walk I know what’s happened.

  The landlord approaches me from a distance. “Don’t go any farther, Maria!” he says. “You don’t want to see it . . .” I walk past without looking at him.

  He heard the dogs; they woke him very early this morning. Gabi told him to ignore them and go back to sleep, but he got up and wandered over. The mastiffs were sitting by their master’s head, barking. The train dragged his body farther down the line. The driver was still sitting in his engine in a dreadful state of shock. The landlord ran back home yelling and called the police. But I can hear how proud he is to have been the one to find Henner. He’ll relish telling people about it for years to come. A story like this doesn’t come around very often.

  No one knows what happened. Henner had been drinking, that much is clear. But why he was crossing the tracks just before dawn is a complete mystery. His head ended up on his side of the line. My body is paralyzed by numbness. It starts in my head and shoots down to my toes. I keep walking all the same.

  I continue to the house. Our house. There is a window open; I climb in. The glass from yesterday is still there, the vodka glass. The bottle beside it is empty. There’s an open jar, one of my homemade jams. I stick my finger in and lick it. As if something is guiding me I move through all the rooms we spent time in, made love in. I take two books from his mother’s room; I’d have liked to take them all. I pack a few items neatly into a bag sitting beside the wardrobe: one of his unwashed shirts, the empty glass, the cloth next to the kitchen sink, the books and the candlesticks from the table.

  I walk to my mother’s. I don’t feel anything; I just walk.

  She’s still asleep when I get there. I put the bag beside her bed and lie down next to her. She tells me the rest later. How she saw me when she woke up and asked me what was wrong; how I started crying and could not stop, my body shaking with waves of pain; how I threw myself on the floor, hit my head on the floorboards, and started screaming. Then she called the doctor and I was taken to the hospital. They told her I’d had a nervous breakdown.

  I was transferred to the adolescent psychiatric unit, where I stayed for several weeks.

  Heavily sedated, I slept right through the reunification celebrations.

  Sometime later, when I have told my mother and no one else the truth, I go back to the Brendels’. They only find out the bare minimum: that I had a nervous breakdown but nobody has determined the precise cause. A fragile personality, the mother moving away, an absent father, having to repeat the year at school—all in all, a seventeen-year-old girl experiencing extreme emotions at a turbulent, uncertain time.

  This autumn I’ll be leaving the Brendels’ farm and moving to Leipzig with Johannes. I don’t know what I’ll do there yet, but I’ll find something.

  I often think of Alexey, the youngest of the Karamazov brothers, who said that at some point we will all rise and meet again, and tell each other everything.

  Absolutely everything.

  The author has quoted from the following:

  The Brothers Karamazov, trans. David
Magarshack (Penguin Books, London, 1986); Georg Trakl’s poem “Gesang zur Nacht,” from his Gedichte (Suhrkamp Verlag, Frankfurt am Main, 1974); “Die Moorsoldaten” (“Peat Bog Soldiers”); Knut Hamsun’s Victoria and Markens Grøde (Growth of the Soil)

  Daniela Krien was born in East Germany in 1975. She studied cultural sciences, communications, and media and has worked as an editor and scriptwriter for Amadelio Film. Someday We’ll Tell Each Other Everything, her first novel, has been translated into fifteen languages.

  Jamie Bulloch is the translator of novels by F. C. Delius, Daniel Glattauer, Katharina Hagena, Paulus Hochgatterer, Birgit Vanderbeke, and Alissa Walser.