by Unknown
Helene watched Uncle Gustav widen his nostrils and sniff. She felt sure that nothing escaped him, that he noticed the aroma of coffee in the air, and while Martha’s involuntary stroking excited him, he might be wondering whether to ask Helene to bring him a cup. He enjoyed sending his friend’s two daughters around the house in search of this and that. Although Martha had warned him not to smoke when he was with her father, he had asked her to bring first an ashtray for his pipe, then a glass of wine, and later he had not turned down the porridge that Helene had made for her father, although Father could eat hardly any of it.
What smelled so good, Grumbach wanted to know every day as he arrived at the house around noon, as if by chance. Rhubarb pudding, a casserole of beans baked with caraway, mashed potatoes with nutmeg. Grumbach said he hadn’t had a watch since the war, adding that without a wife or children you could easily lose track of the time of day. So it was all the more surprising that he came to visit just in time for the midday meal.
When Martha and Helene had helped him to some of everything, hoping he would feel well fed and go away again, Grumbach just stayed put in his chair, cheerfully rocking back and forth, and making himself at home. As if it were the most natural thing in the world, he would unstrap his wooden arm and hand it to Helene to be put in the corner.
How wonderful to see everything growing and flourishing, said the visitor, as his eyes caressed Martha’s back. When she made her father’s bed, bending far over it, her apron parted slightly at the back to show the dress underneath. It seemed to the man that she was bending over just for him.
All gone to rack and ruin, said Helene’s father, blinking.
What, Father? What’s gone to rack and ruin? Martha was at the washstand again, and the guest in the wing chair was getting the back of his hand stroked by her apron.
The house, just look at the paint peeling, flakes of coloured paint everywhere, big ones.
It was true that little had been done to maintain the house in the years of his absence. No one had bothered about the paint, which was fading up here under the roof and peeling off the wall like dead skin.
Grumbach was not to be distracted from his silent lust by his friend, the girls’ father, deploring the state of the house. The touch of Martha’s dress seemed to him too sweet for that. Only when Helene stood up did Martha turn to face them. Her slightly flushed cheeks were shining, her little dimples looked enchanting. The innocence that the guest could read in her wide eyes might make him feel some shame. Helene hoped so.
Can I help you? Helene asked Martha, with a sharp glance at the guest who liked to be called Uncle Gustav.
Martha shook her head. Helene squeezed past Martha and the visitor, and knelt at the head of the bed.
Are you awake? Helene whispered to her father. Since his return she had felt she must speak to him formally. He lacked the ability to overcome the reserve between them in words or by showing her any attention.
Father, it’s me. Your little girl. Your golden girl.
Helene took her father’s hand in hers and kissed it. I’m sure you wonder what we were doing all the time you were away. Her tone was imploring. She wasn’t sure whether her father heard what she was saying. We went to school. Martha taught me to play piano studies: Desolation and then the Well-Tempered Klavier, Father. I’m afraid I don’t have the patience to play the piano. And three years or more ago we went to the railway station with Arthur Cohen and his baggage to see him off. Did Martha tell you about that? But just think, Arthur couldn’t join up to fight in the war. They didn’t want him.
A Jew, said Grumbach, interrupting Helene’s whispering. He leaned back in the wing chair and added, with a derisive click of his tongue, who’d want the likes of him?
Helene half turned to him, just far enough for him to have to see her gaze fixed on the back of his hand as it touched Martha’s dress, and narrowed her eyes. The guest breathed heavily, but he left his hand where it was, on Martha’s apron. Helene supposed he saw that as his due reward for saying no more. She turned back to her father, kissed the palm of his hand, his forefinger, each finger separately, and went on.
When Arthur reported for military service, they said they couldn’t call him up without proof of his residence in Bautzen and they wouldn’t send him to any regiment. Arthur objected, until they finally gave him a medical and told him he had rickets, he’d be no use in the war. He’d better go to Heidelberg and study there, they said, if he had the money and recommendations he’d need. In case of doubt, a young doctor would be more use than a soldier with rickets.
Helene’s father cleared his throat. She went on.
You remember him, don’t you? Arthur Cohen, the wigmaker’s nephew. He went to school here in Bautzen; his uncle paid the fees. He was a good student.
Her father began coughing harder, and Martha glanced up from what she was doing at the washstand to look sternly at Helene. Her expression showed that she was afraid her relationship with Arthur Cohen might come to light. She didn’t want either her father or his guest to know about those walks by the Spree; she didn’t want anyone to know.
So now he’s studying in Heidelberg. Helene paused, took a deep breath; it wasn’t easy for her to utter the word Heidelberg and the explanation: Botany, that’s what he’s studying. And he sent us a letter, he wrote saying that there are women studying medicine in Heidelberg.
Now her father coughed so noisily that Helene’s words were lost, although she had taken great trouble to raise her voice. What else could she say to her father about Heidelberg and studying there? What would fire him with enthusiasm? She hesitated, but next moment he vomited as he coughed. Helene flinched back, taking the visitor’s walking stick with her. If she hadn’t clutched Martha’s dress, and then pushed herself off from the guest’s knees as he sat behind her, she would probably have stumbled and fallen straight on top of him. Since he stooped in the chair, she could easily have fallen on his head and shoulder.
As it was, Helene landed on the floor. Her eyes fell on the badges adorning Grumbach’s walking stick. The civic emblems of Weimar, Cassel, Bad Wildungen. Helene rose to her feet and handed back the stick.
Their guest shook his head. He got up too, took his wooden arm off the bed and placed himself beside Martha. He whispered, loud enough for Helene to hear him: I’m going to ask for your hand in marriage.
No, you are not. There was more contempt than fear in Martha’s voice.
Yes, I am, said their guest. Then he hurried downstairs and out of the door.
Martha and Helene washed their father. Martha showed Helene how to change the compresses on the stump of the leg and what proportion of morphine to add to the injection. She must go carefully, because the last dose wasn’t long ago. Under Martha’s watchful eye, Helene gave her father an injection, the first she had ever given anyone. She was pleased to see the relaxed smile that appeared on his face a little later, a smile that must be meant for her.
Next day, around noon, Grumbach knocked on his friend’s door again. Mariechen opened it. It had been snowing over the Lusatian Hills all night, and when she opened the door the light coming in from the street was so dazzling that Mariechen blinked. Snowflakes lay on the visitor’s hair. He was obviously wearing his best suit. He held not just his stick in his one hand, but also a little basket of walnuts, and they too wore little caps of snow.
Ah, whenever I come visiting there’s such a wonderful aroma in this house, said the uninvited guest. He stamped his feet to get the snow off his shoes. Mariechen stood in the doorway as if she wasn’t sure how far in the visitor could be allowed. Grumbach looked through the open door and spotted the dining table in the parlour. Three full plates stood on it. The guest made his way past Mariechen and into the house. There was a smell of beetroot in the air. Soup spoons lay in the steaming plates as if the company had had to jump up in a hurry and leave the table. The vacated chairs stood a little way apart. While the visitor ceremoniously removed his boots, he ventured a second inquis
itive glance at the dining room. Mariechen lowered her eyes, for bumping and clattering sounds were coming from the floor above. Suddenly Selma Würsich’s voice rang out loud and clear.
Your father needs looking after? This was followed by a malicious cackle of laughter. Do you know what looking after someone means? Acting so sweet, and you don’t even fetch a glass of water for your mother! Another bumping sound. Your mother, do you hear? Just you wait, you’ll have to look after me one of these days. Aha. Me, do you hear? Until I die. You’ll have to take my excrement in your hands.
The cackle of laughter died away, changed and turned to sobbing.
Let’s see what’s going on, said the guest, climbing the stairs with determination ahead of Mariechen.
As he reached the top step, a boot flew just past his face and hit the wall. Helene had ducked, so her mother took the second boot and threw that at her too, with all her might.
You brat, you little tick, you’ll be the death of me yet!
Helene put her arms over her head for protection. Her answer came soft but clear: I wouldn’t do you the favour.
No one had noticed the advent of the visitor. He could hardly believe his eyes. If Mariechen had not followed him upstairs, close on his heels, and if she hadn’t been standing behind him now and barring his way down, he would have turned to beat a retreat unseen. There stood Frau Selma in her nightdress, which was cut so low that it showed more of her breasts than surely she could like. Embroidered marguerite daisies ran along the lace edge. But her loose hair swirled in the air and fell in ringlets to her bare shoulders as if it were alive. The silver threads in it gleamed, winding over her breasts like worm trails. Obviously she hadn’t been expecting a visitor, and she still didn’t see him as he stood hesitantly on the top step but one, looking for a way out.
You shameless, spoilt brat!
So who brought me up, Mother?
And to think I’ve been feeding such a child in my house. Her mother snorted. Aren’t you ashamed of yourself?
Martha feeds us, Mother, haven’t you noticed? Helene’s voice was level but challenging. Maybe I write the red and black figures in the printing works accounts books for you, but it’s Martha who feeds us. Whose money do you think we use to pay for goods at the market on Saturday? Yours? Do you have any money?
Oh, you little devil, get away from here, clear out! Mother snatched a book from the shelf and flung it in Helene’s direction.
Heavens above. Helene kept her voice low. Why did you give birth to me, Mother? Why did you do it? Why not abort me and send me off to join the angels?
Before the guest could dodge, another book ricocheted off his shoulder.
Don’t say you didn’t know how!
Only now did Selma Würsich notice their visitor. Tears flowed from her eyes, she sank to her knees and said to the guest, in a pleading tone: Did you hear that, sir? Help me! And she calls herself my daughter! She was sobbing uncontrollably.
Excuse me, please. The guest was stammering. He stood hesitantly on the stairs, leaning on his stick with his one hand: Weimar, Cassel, Bad Wildungen, where are you now? He was trembling as he leaned against the banisters for support.
Oh yes, she calls herself my daughter! Mother was shouting now; she wanted the whole town, the entire human race, to hear about her misfortune. It was her soul wanted to come to me, she was the one who chose me.
Helene did not deign to glance at the guest. She murmured quietly: Wanting never came into it.
She straightened up, tidied her hair, and went purposefully upstairs to her father, who was lying there on the right-hand side of the marital bed and did indeed need her care and help. Even before the guest could follow her up, probably assuming that he would find Martha, his old friend’s wife was barring his way. She seized hold of his leg, clasped it in both her hands, she groaned, she whimpered. The visitor turned, looking for Mariechen, but Mariechen had disappeared. He was alone with the foreign woman.
Upstairs, Helene tried to open the door, but it wouldn’t budge. So she sat on the top step in the dark and, unseen, looked down at her mother through the banisters. She was clutching Grumbach’s leg and crawling over the floor at the same time. Grumbach was trying to free himself, but in vain.
Did you see that? Her nails were clawing at Grumbach’s ankles.
Excuse me, repeated the visitor, er, please excuse me. Can I help you up?
At least there’s one person in this house who has a heart. Helene’s mother gave the visitor her hand, hauled herself up heavily, and was finally supporting herself on him and his stick with her bare arms, making him totter. His glance fell on her bosom, moved on to the delicate daisy embroidery, then returned to the locks of dark and silver ringlets falling over her breasts. Finally he tore his eyes away and, with an effort, fixed them on the floor.
As soon as she was upright again she looked down at the stooping man in front of her.
Who are you? she asked in surprise. She pushed back her hair from her face, still ignoring her deep décolleté. Suspiciously, she looked at the man. Do I know you? What are you doing in my house?
Grumbach is my name, Gustav Grumbach. Your husband printed my poems To the Fair One. Grumbach cleared his throat, trying to summon up a trusting smile out of the confusion of the moment.
To the Fair One? The girls’ mother broke into a peal of laughter.
The change from heart-rending tears to loud laughter was so sudden that it sent a shiver running down the visitor’s spine. Perhaps his heart was thudding; at least, he dared not look the woman in the eye. In fact, he didn’t know where to look at all, since he could hardly consider it proper for his eyes to rest on the tiny breasts showing above her nightdress either. For over twenty years he had known Selma Würsich only at a distance. In the past she used to stand behind the wooden counter in the printing works now and then; he must have spoken to her a few times, he just couldn’t remember it at the moment. She had retreated from the life of Bautzen over the years and had been forgotten, had to be forgotten.
Since his return from Verdun, Grumbach had seen her only once, again from a distance. If it had been her. The people of the town said there was something wrong with her. Gustav Grumbach should have felt all the more relieved that the foreign woman had never crossed his path since he began visiting the Würsich household.
To the Fair One? Selma Würsich had assumed a serious expression. She made it a question, and kept hold of the visitor’s shoulder. And who is this Fair One? Who is she supposed to be? While she was still asking, she seemed to be searching for something; she felt in her dressing gown pocket and looked uneasily over the guest’s shoulders. Cigarette? she asked, putting out her hand for a packet standing within reach on the narrow bookshelf.
No, thank you.
Selma Würsich lit one of the slender cigarettes and inhaled deeply. So do you know who this Fair One is? I assume you have someone special in mind, am I right? You know Daumer’s poem, I take it? Waft, ye zephyrs, soft and sweetly. Selma’s voice was hoarse. Waft! she said in a deep and menacing tone. Waft! She laughed, and the cackle hurt Helene, who put both hands over her ears.
Tentatively, Selma Würsich inhaled the smoke of her cigarette and let it out through her nostrils in tiny, cloudy puffs.
Grumbach managed to get out the words: Yes, of course.
This was more of an assertion than anything else, or so at least Helene interpreted the pressure she detected behind the sounds he uttered and his restless eyes.
If thou thine heart wouldst give me . . . Her mother began the line in a voice laden with meaning.
. . . then secret let it be./That others may not guess it when they see you with me. Oh yes, of course, that too, said the guest, making haste to complete the couplet. But he seemed unable to summon up much real pleasure in their complicity.
But have you thought what craftiness lies behind that vow of love? No? Yes? What a polemic! I’ll tell you: he wants her to keep her mouth shut so that he’s the only one with
any say about their being a couple. And she’s not happy about it. Did you understand that? I mean, it’s monstrous. The reader can but weep to see her words so obviously dismissed, to see him reject her. At least, a woman reader must, she whispered barely audibly, adding out loud: But I don’t see you shedding any tears. You want to triumph over her. To the Fair One! I ask you!
Once again Helene heard her mother’s malicious laughter. A guest like this would have difficulty understanding the depths below it.
As for Heine, the likes of you ought not even to read him. Do you hear me? You betray him rather than understanding him. Oh, you still read him, do you? Are you in your right mind?
One ought not to read him?
Not you. You and your misunderstandings, what a gang! To the Fair One. You know, it won’t do. It’s not simply bad, it is wicked, wicked.
Please be gracious enough to forgive me, madam. The guest was stammering now.
But Helene’s mother seemed to find forgiving difficult.
Gracious? There’s no grace among mankind. Grace is not our business.
Forgive me, dear lady. Perhaps you are right and I’ve just been talking hot air. Forget it, dear Frau Würsich. It’s not worth discussing.