The Other Me

by Saskia Sarginson

  I won’t forget the sweetness of that kiss, the feel of her hot arms around me. It was like a thud to the heart. A blow of love. After a second, I returned her embrace, hugging her close, breathing her in.

  She wriggled away almost immediately, dropping onto the floor with the doll, tipping it to make the spiky lashes open and close, and I felt an ache inside, a yearning to have her back in my arms. I was deserted. Undone. I breathed in sharply, and at that moment caught Gwyn staring at me. Her face was blanched; her mouth trembled. And I knew.

  * * *

  After tea on Boxing Day, Otto went out to the shed to fetch something. Klaudia was sitting at the table in the living room with a giant puzzle of castles and knights spread out before her. I’d promised to go and help her after I’d finished drying up the dishes. Gwyn had her hands in the washing-up bowl. We’d both watched Otto disappear into the dark garden, hardly daring to believe that he’d left the house, his torch shining before him in dancing circles.

  Gwyn pulled her pink washing-up gloves off, and reached for my hand. She held it tightly. “This isn’t working,” she whispered. “You can’t come again. It’s no good. I’m trying. But I have to stop myself from looking at you. I’m afraid of giving my feelings away.”

  I squeezed. “I know. I’m the same. I’m sorry.”

  “I think of you. All the time. It’s not right, Ernst. I’m a married woman.”

  I stared down at her fingers curled in mine. They were pale and clammy from the rubber gloves. “I don’t care if it’s right or not. I love you,” I told her, keeping my voice steady. “You could come with me. You and Klaudia. I’ll take care of you. Come to New York with me.”

  She pulled her hand away to wipe her eyes, and gave me a trembling, frightened smile. “You know I can’t do that.”

  “Uncle Ernst,” Klaudia called from the other room. “I’m stuck! You said you’d help…”

  Gwyn swallowed. Patted her hair. She glanced out through the blackness, through the blurred lines of our reflections. “He’ll be back soon. You should go to her.”

  “Gwyn.” I followed her stare, searching for Otto’s returning shape, the tell-tale spotlight moving across the lawn. “Klaudia is mine. Isn’t she?”

  She gripped the side of the sink, and hung her head.

  Otto would be back any moment. “Gwyn?” I couldn’t control the urgency I felt. It made me sharp.

  “Yes.” Her voice was so low and gravelly I could hardly hear. She cleared her throat and began to empty the washing-up bowl, tipping out the dirty water. It gurgled down the plughole. “She’s yours.” Her words mixed with the rush of water. “Forget I told you. The only thing you can do for her—and me—is leave us alone.” She turned to face me, her mouth pulling down. “Otto must never know.”

  Our child. A tiny flame of joy flared in my heart. I wanted to press my lips over hers, hold her in my arms. But the finality of her meaning was filtering through the pleasure.

  The joy flickered out. “I’ll do what you want,” I whispered. “But think about what I said.” I leaned as close as I dared, her hair touching my nose. “Please. My darling.”

  “I’ll never leave him,” she whispered back. She didn’t yield, didn’t move closer. She held herself apart. “He needs me. He needs me more than you. And I’ve made a promise. Before God.”

  By the time the kitchen door opened and slammed shut, and I heard the murmur of Gwyn’s and Otto’s voices, I was already sitting with Klaudia at the table in the next room, searching through cardboard shapes to find the missing piece of a turret. “Do they have castles in America?” she was asking.

  I kept my eyes down, because I knew if Otto came into the room and looked at me at that moment, he would have seen through me like a glass, into the dark sediment shifting inside, bitter with envy.

  * * *

  Gwyn was taking Klaudia out to buy new shoes. My daughter ran up to my room to say goodbye, bursting in without knocking, and gave me a hug around my waist, clasping me in her skinny arms. I held my hands above her head, fingers flexed and hovering, wanting to touch her, to feel her hair and the curve of her skull, but resisting.

  “We’ll finish that puzzle when you get back.” I pressed her nose as if it were a bicycle horn.

  She giggled. I watched her go, following her out onto the landing and leaning against the wall at the top of the stairs: my child skipping down the steps, plaits swinging. Gwyn laughed and dropped a kiss onto her head, helped her into a coat. As I watched them from above, my heart seemed to expand until it struggled for room inside my ribcage. Klaudia held her mother’s hand. The door shut behind them.

  I stood at my bedroom window and watched them walking along the pavement towards the bus stop. I put my hand on the windowpane over the shape of their diminishing figures. With the brief illusion of perspective, it felt as though I could scoop them up into my palm, put them in my pocket. I let myself have the pleasure of that fantasy for a moment—taking Gwyn and Klaudia to New York with me, settling them in the apartment, showing them the sights. But I knew it was just a fantasy. Gwyn would never leave Otto, never walk away from her marriage. Even if she broke her faith, her God would come between us: his presence and his absence.

  I heard the click of a handle turning behind me. Otto stood on the threshold. He closed the door. It took me a moment to see the gun in his hand. He sat on my bed, the pistol resting in his lap.

  I said nothing. I watched my brother. His fingers curled around the grip as if he were holding a piece of wood, something harmless and inconsequential.

  “I want you to leave,” he said quietly. “You should start packing.”

  “I’m leaving tomorrow.” I looked at the gun, his fingers. “My flight is tomorrow.”

  “No. Now. Before they come back.”

  “Without saying goodbye?”

  “Exactly.”

  Anger flared inside. Otto the bully—blood on his cheek, smoke in his hair, glass under his feet. “What if I say no?” I fold my arms, nodding at the gun. “What are you going to do? Shoot me?”

  He stood up and raised the gun, held it steady, pointing at my head. “Don’t tempt me. I’m not a fool, Ernst. I know what happened in Cardiff. I don’t blame Gwyn. I saw the way you looked at her.”

  The mouth of the gun was small and black. I waited. Otto shook his head in disgust and lowered his arm.

  “I left work early, came back to say goodbye, to make sure you left.” He frowned. “But I saw Gwyn at the window. She was closing the curtains in your room. I knew you were in there with her. I wanted to burst in, smash my fists into your face. Instead, I waited in the street, waited for you to go, because I couldn’t trust myself not to kill you. I didn’t want to frighten her, or give anyone an excuse to take her away from me. Gwyn doesn’t know any of this, and it has to stay like that. For her sake.” His face twisted. “This is how much I love my wife. I don’t need to forgive her. She’s innocent. Pure.” His voice was tight; he gestured towards me with the gun. “I won’t let you take her. She belongs to me. I’d kill her rather than lose her.”

  I felt cold. “And Klaudia?”

  “Without Gwyn, nothing would matter anymore.”

  “Do you love Klaudia?”

  He blinked. “Gwyn needed a child. In the eyes of the world, of God, Klaudia is my daughter.” He licked his lips. “Gwyn and I belong together. I would do anything for her.”

  “Even let her go?”

  He shakes his head. “Don’t be a fool. She doesn’t want to go anywhere. I know what’s best for her. I always have.” He steps closer. He has a small stain on his front tooth, like a freckle. “I saw you whispering together at the sink. I switched off the torch and stood in the garden watching. I know what you’re up to. I don’t want you to see either of them again. Ever. I agreed to this visit because I didn’t want Gwyn to suspect that I knew. But you are not to come back. Do you understand?”

  I looked at the gun. Not a rifle like the one he held in his hands a
ll those years ago in military training, but an English pistol.

  “Do you ever think of when we were boys, Otto? The farm. Hitler Youth? Everything that we did then, in the name of the Fatherland?”

  Otto looked startled. He shook his head. “No. Never. I never think of it. It was another life. I did what I had to do to belong. To survive.” He glared at me. “Gwyn knows about my past. I have no secrets from her. I don’t expect you to understand. I helped to build a chapel in Wales. When it was finished, I sat in one of the new pews with Gwyn. She took my hand. She told me Jesus would forgive everything if I repented.”

  “You were always good at following orders.”

  He ignored the jibe. Otto took everything literally. “It was necessary to follow orders back then. You and I, we didn’t have proof of our ancestry. We were in danger. You just didn’t see.”

  He gestured towards my suitcase. “Start packing, Ernst.”

  I wanted to knock the gun from his hand. Rage made me shake. Adrenaline hummed through my veins. I thought of those fights we had as boys, wrestling with each other in the straw, Otto swinging a fist at my cheek. He was better at fighting than me then. But I would be the stronger one now, after my years at the Front. I’d killed men, beyond counting.

  As quickly as my rage came, it went, leaving me weak, nauseous. I knew I should be ashamed of what I’d done. I was nothing but a thief. An adulterer.

  I pulled my things out of the drawer Gwyn cleared for me. Shoving things into the case without bothering to fold or sort. I swept coins and passport and pens and wallet off the chest of drawers, stuffing them into my pockets.

  When I was standing downstairs by the door, the case in my hand, he put the gun down on the hall table. “Go back to your rich life, your fancy apartment. I never wanted any of that. Only Gwyn. You know me too well to think I’d let you take what is mine.” His expression is almost friendly, now that he has me on his threshold. “I’m sorry about the little Jew. But it wasn’t my fault. You were indiscreet. You think I was the only one who knew about their cottage? You think other people didn’t notice what you were up to? Stealing Gwyn wouldn’t alter the past. It wouldn’t change what happened to the girl.”

  I stared at him, unable to find words. Eventually I managed, “Sarah. Her name is Sarah.”

  He held the door open, gazing beyond me into the street.

  I wanted him to look at me. “I don’t know what’s happened to her,” I said. “I’ve tried to find her. And her brother. I haven’t given up.”

  His face was set and hard. His eyes averted. Stubborn mouth clamped shut.

  “But you’re wrong if you think it wasn’t your fault. It was all our faults.” My voice shook. “We were all to blame.”

  I walked past him into the meek suburban street; and he closed the door behind me with a click.

  KLAUDIA

  I HEAR THE NOISE from my bedroom: the rolling fumble of something heavy falling, then a loud sharp crash. Smashing china. I rush into the kitchen, taking the stairs in jumps and slides. Ernst lies on the floor, twisted at the waist, one arm flung behind his head, his legs crumpled beneath him, surrounded by the remains of cups and plates.

  My father and I half-drag, half-carry him back to bed. Draped between us, head lolling, he moans, muttering words I don’t understand. He’s speaking German, and I’m frightened, because he seems feverish or drugged. My father’s face is closed, grim. When he dumps Ernst on the bed, he steps back and wipes his hands on his trousers as if he’s afraid of catching something.

  A doctor from the local surgery arrives, a short man with matronly hips, clutching his medical bag with manicured hands. I show him to Ernst’s room. He shuts the door. After he’s finished the consultation, he sits in the living room with my father and me, and declines a cup of tea with an impatient wave.

  “Mr. Meyer has cancer, as I’m sure you’re aware. Unfortunately it’s no longer primary. He told me that it’s spread to his bones, his liver and lungs, and that he has voluntarily ceased the medication and treatment he was receiving in New York.” He makes a little cough behind his hand. “It is, I’m afraid, terminal.”

  I look at my father. His face is stony.

  “Should he go to the hospital?” I ask.

  The doctor shakes his head. “A hospice would be a more suitable option. It’s about making him as comfortable as possible.”

  “How soon can he go home?” my father asks.

  The doctor scratches his head. “If you mean New York, I’m afraid that is out of the question. I couldn’t advise him to fly. Mr. Meyer has asked about employing a nurse, and I can certainly give you some contacts to help you find a private one.”

  “So he is to stay in my house?” My father rises to his feet.

  “It is only for me to suggest options,” the doctor says with a peevish twitch of his mouth. “Perhaps all this should be discussed with Mr. Meyer. Let me know if you would like me to put the paperwork in motion to find a place at a hospice, or if you would like to go ahead and hire a private nurse.” He stands up, buttoning his jacket. “I’m afraid the state won’t be able to provide the full-time nursing that Mr. Meyer will be requiring in the near future.”

  * * *

  I sit on Ernst’s bed. He looks sunken, his skin dull and clammy as clay.

  He opens his eyes. “Sorry.”

  I take his hand in mine. I think about it clasped around the barrel of a gun. The frightened girl in the snow. I should feel revulsion at what he’s done. But strangely the feeling won’t come. Or else it’s submerged under the huge weight of sadness that presses down on me. I can’t connect that fuzzy, ancient photograph with this sick man in the bed before me. When I look into his face, he makes me trust him. I wish I could ask him about it. I wish he could reassure me with words, explain it away somehow.

  “I thought I could manage the visit.” He attempts a smile. “I didn’t expect this. Otto must be … unhappy about it.”

  I move my head. “It doesn’t matter. You’re staying here. With us.”

  “Otto and I … we’ve had our difficulties. I won’t impose on his hospitality longer than I have to.” He plucks at the sheet with his swollen fingers. “But if I may suggest,” he makes an effort to continue, “I have the resources to employ a private nurse.”

  I sit with his hand in mine and I want to ask him why my mother had his medals hidden in her drawer. I don’t think my father knew they were there. I want to ask him what happened in Russia. What he did there.

  So many questions. They clot inside my throat like frogspawn. I can’t start interrogating a dying man.

  * * *

  Amoya arrived two days later. She breezed into the house, broad and beautiful, with her polished cheekbones and tight braids, immaculate in her white uniform. She moved gracefully, carrying her weight like precious cargo. Soon Ernst’s bedroom looked like a small hospital. Amoya set up a camp bed in the corner, for those occasions when she might need to stay over, although I worried if the narrow canvas would hold her weight.

  Often the two of them are shut up in there together, and I hear Amoya’s laugh and feel unreasonably jealous. I linger outside the door trying to hear what they’re saying. Sometimes there is nothing but silence, or just the creaking tread of her feet as she pads around the bed. When the door is open, I pop in to check on him. If he’s awake I sit on the bed, and when he’s up to it, we play cards, or I read to him. He welcomes me each time I come to him. I miss him when the door is closed.

  Our house takes on the smell of sickness. It permeates the atmosphere. I smell it on myself, in my clothes and hair. My father shuts himself in the living room and plays loud opera, or he disappears into his shed. Weeks slip past. Having a sick person in the house has changed the way we live, draws us inwards, making us more secluded than usual. The household revolves around Ernst’s needs and routine. There is a hush and an activity different from normal life. A kind of reverence has descended; time slows and the world outside retreats. Oddly,
it’s as I imagine it might be if there was a new baby in the house.

  I don’t get a job. I tell myself I can’t leave Ernst, even though that’s not true, not in a practical sense, because Amoya takes care of everything. The house, with a dying man at its center, exerts a hold over me, webbing me inside its slow days. We all walk with our heads bowed, as if the rooms themselves compress us.

  When I’m not with Ernst, I’m managing to keep up with my dance practice, developing my two pieces of choreography for the audition. I don’t like going out; I’ve begun to shop at the Guptas’ to save having to brave the bright, busy confusion of the supermarket. Choice overwhelms me. I am unsteady amongst people. I hardly know how to negotiate crossing the road, or how to count money.

  Walking home from a shopping trip, I notice pumpkin faces leering at me from behind curtains, on window ledges and tops of walls. Halloween. I’d forgotten. I stare at them: orange flesh split by roughly carved teeth, jagged eyes and holes for noses. Tonight they will flame with the light of tiny candles, lit from within as if feverish with some terrible illness.

  A firework goes off with a bang in a garden nearby. I jump. I hear the rip and sizzle of falling sparks, but can’t see anything against the pale sky. Ordinary life is carrying on with all its rituals and seasonal markers. I am marooned from it, as if I’m watching through glass. I allow myself to think of Cosmo. It’s nearly November. Last year we were together on fireworks night. It had felt dangerous and exciting, up there on the slippery tiles with the drop below into hazy, acrid darkness. When I try and think of him in Rome, I can’t imagine anything except tourist snapshots of narrow streets, ancient houses and fountains. I can’t see him there. My mind offers nothing but uncharted emptiness, as if space washes against me. He’s lost inside it, spinning on another planet, a different star.