Anniversaries

by Uwe Johnson

  Because he’d stopped living a lie?

  Enough of the theological claptrap, Gesine. I was glad he did it.

  And you weren’t doing it for yourselves.

  We did it for Lisbeth, Gesine.

  As if I should believe the dead just because they’re dead.

  Believe us.

  You have to let people say their piece, cause geese cant talk.

  Just believe us, Gesine.

  February 22, 1968 Thursday

  In 1938, St. Peter’s Church in Jerichow charged ten marks for a pastor’s services at a burial, six marks for a full ringing of the bells, five marks for the participation of a cantor, five marks for the use and cleaning of the church, thirty marks for bell-ringers’ wages (two hours), twelve marks to dig the grave. Fees to be paid in advance. Everything from this catalog, except for the closed room and the embarrassing singing, was ordered for Lisbeth Cresspahl, and when the bells, just recently rehung by Ohlsson of Lübeck and converted to electrical operation, started chiming their D F G B, work was laid aside in many houses in town. The air force had obviously taken seriously their goal of earning the right to live in this community, and in the daily orders for November 14 they mentioned that pedestrians as well as horse-drawn or motorized vehicles were to stop on encountering a funeral procession; and today the acoustic signal was enough for everyone because Lisbeth did not pass through town.

  When the bells announced the start of the funeral at three o’clock, the coffin was carried down the path neatly raked between debris and burned wreckage from the fire. The coffin was bright, smooth, unvarnished. It looked very durable. The pallbearers were Alexander Paepcke and Peter Niebuhr, both in army uniform; Horst Papenbrock and Peter Wulff; Alwin Paap and Mr. Smith. Cresspahl walked behind the coffin with the child, then old Mr. and Mrs. Papenbrock, then the invited guests. When Lisbeth was carried through the open funeral parlor to the cemetery, the waiting crowd started to push their way through the six-foot-wide gate; more people were already standing among the crosses and gravestones, dark, quiet, like hidden ghosts.

  Our Lisbeth.

  Lookit the child.

  Nothins less healthy than bein sick.

  Ottje Stoffregen is already wasted.

  Can ya believe they havent come for Brüshaver!

  Wont dare do the blessing. Wont dare.

  The one who doesn dare is you, Julie.

  No use layin arms an legs on the fire, its gotta be wood.

  Dying in November, I wouldnt like that.

  Fog Moon.

  Fer a Jew brat.

  Maybe itll help Marie though.

  And it’s not right, they can’t do it! If she killed herself she belongs in the corner with the suicides, where they put the unbaptized!

  Hope I get as nice a funeral as this someday.

  Our Lisbeth. And our turn will come.

  When Lisbeth was set down on the Cresspahl family plot, a boy in an attic window far away started waving, and another boy ran into the north portal of the church, and the bells stopped so suddenly that the silence hurt. Now everyone ran at once from where they’d been standing off to the side and gathered around the open hole.

  Brüshaver pronounced the invocation. That was permitted by the regulations of the Church of Mecklenburg. He spoke in the same voice as in the sermon the day before—calm, matter-of-fact, like a doctor prescribing. A little louder.

  – In the 39th Psalm, we read: Brüshaver said. This was the lesson, and it was not permitted for this death. Brüshaver had memorized Cresspahl’s deletions so well that he didn’t stumble once. He began with the fourth verse, which speaks of the purpose and measure of my days. Cresspahl had cut the pangs of death beforehand, and the heart hot within, and the fever that burned. From the fourth verse he skipped to the eighth; after that, Lisbeth’s promise to keep silent, her plea for an end to torment, and her confession that she was consumed by God’s blows were omitted. Hear my prayer, O Lord, and give ear unto my cry; hold not thy peace at my tears: for I am a stranger with thee, and a sojourner, as all my fathers were. O spare me, that I may recover strength, before I go hence, and be no more.

  This was when the funeral speech should have been given, but Brüshaver took half a step back to clear more room for the lowering of the coffin. The child looked up at Cresspahl, amazed that he was allowing her mother to go into the ground.

  Then followed the prayer and the Lord’s Prayer, both permitted. While Brüshaver transacted his business with his God, he emphasized that He alone knew what had transpired in the soul of this woman we are burying today. Mr. Smith, trying to replace the unintelligible words with English ones, was confused by the fact that in this country men covered their faces when praying, but at the Amen he was relieved that they had all held their hats in front of their faces.

  Lisbeth got her consecration. Brüshaver threw soil onto the coffin three times, raised one hand above the grave, and said the: earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust; in sure and certain hope of the Resurrection to eternal life through our Lord Jesum Christum (dubious declination); who shall change the body of our low estate that it may be like unto His glorious body, according to the mighty working, whereby He is able to subdue all things to Himself. What does that mean, the mighty working? They must have pumped that out of some emanation theory. In the consecration the person being buried is addressed in the familiar second-person singular, and Brüshaver talked to Lisbeth naturally, kindly, the way one promises a child that it will never die. Amen.

  Then Brüshaver pronounced the final benediction, which Lisbeth was also not allowed to receive. Now he had transgressed against both worldly authority and that of the church.

  Now the boy at the attic window waved down at someone again, and that someone ran into the church. Then Ol’ Bastian pressed the button for the tolling that would hang over the town for the next two hours. Pauli Bastian was not happy with this new electric way of doing things; before he’d had four assistants to help him. And this way he still had to stand there. And even after almost five years he was still not pleased with Pastor Brüshaver’s calm, businesslike manner; now, with a full ringing, Brüshaver had finally put his foot in it, tripped himself up, and when that happens ya fall on yer back an break yer teeth.

  Brüshaver took his time putting the biretta back onto his head. He stood in front of Cresspahl and simply stayed there until Cresspahl had his face under control again.

  I’m doing this for you, Lisbeth. It’s for you. Do you even see it?

  They were standing in the receiving line in this order: Gesine in front, next to Cresspahl, then Mr. and Mrs. Papenbrock, the Paepckes, the young Papenbrocks, the Niebuhrs from Wendisch Burg and Berlin. Cresspahl looked so intently at those offering their condolences that they couldn’t get off with an unclear mumble, and some contented themselves with a silent handshake. Wulff said: She didn deserve tha’, and he meant not only the death but what Cresspahl had let the pastor risk. Wulff would have to spend seven long years thinking that this comment was why Cresspahl no longer came to his bar, said hello to him on the street, or even looked at him. But he didn’t know that yet. Käthe Klupsch stepped into the slimy mud like a chicken into a puddle, she was so worried about her shoes. Mr. Smith said, embarrassed, helpless: You know—; and him Cresspahl answered, saying: I do. It lasted probably twenty minutes before the procession of hand-shakers had passed down the whole line.

  Gesine had positioned herself pressed up so tight against her father that her right hand was hidden. When she realized that this meant everyone would take her other hand, even though it wasn’t the “nice” one, she put both behind her back. Then they stroked her head. It was very annoying. She didn’t understand why Martin and Mathias Brüshaver bowed to her and Marlene curtsied. That was for grown-ups, wasn’t it. The child was tired. After three days with new people at the sluice she’d left Wendisch Burg early in the morning. The Niebuhrs hadn’t wanted to say anything to her, and she’d put up with their dejected air, their pi
tying caresses, only out of obedience to her father. Her father had waited a long time before taking her to her mother. He’d also forgotten to tell her that the fire had been in their own yard, not just anywhere, and she had a hard time recognizing the property, the naked house. When Cresspahl brought her into the cleared-out office, it was dark with people in black clothes. These were the relatives; I have so many relatives; but she didn’t recognize them all. On the big table in the middle of the room was a box made of pale wood, with something inside it, because some people were looking into it, some at her. Cresspahl had lifted her up. Someone was lying in the box. The child took a step in midair, and another, until Cresspahl set her down on the table next to the coffin. It was nice that he didn’t let go of her. She had been told that her mother was lying in there, and she tried to picture it. The one lying in there was bigger than in her memory. She was covered up in a funny way, up to her middle. She knew that black jacket and white blouse with the ironed ribbons at the neck. The face was unrecognizable, so brightly colored. And like it had slipped into itself. She didn’t know this kind of smile. The hair, so full, not tight, looked fake. She tried to walk farther along the edge of the table, at least to the folded hands, to take them. Then Cresspahl took her arm and brought her to the strange hands. She looked at him, and his nod gave her permission. The hands weren’t hot, though, as if from a fire—they were cold, like a shovel handle in winter. Then she’d been put in a corner of the room, and Cresspahl had put a cover on the box. Then the little bells started ringing outside, as always at funerals. Now she had to stand in the cold, stuck to the wet soil, and her mother was being shut up into the ground for all time, which was not at all what she’d said. When Cresspahl picked up Gesine and put her over his shoulder and walked away from the open grave, she was already asleep.

  At five in the afternoon, they still hadn’t come for Brüshaver.

  Brüshaver stayed for a decent interval at the Papenbrock house, where Louise had set up a large table. He didn’t stay long. Louise Papenbrock no longer felt so sure about her condescending way with the pastor and was trying to be extra obliging, which didn’t quite come off. She was also stuck switching back and forth too quickly between being the grieving mother, silent and devout, and being the bustling housewife, trying to keep some twenty people served with food and drink while needing to keep close watch on the mouth the fingers the eyes of the cook the maid in the kitchen on the stairs in the dining room. Brüshaver also noticed that the mourners were gradually recalling their everyday lives, and he took advantage of the first gentle prompting from Aggie to leave.

  The silence around the long table was not stubborn, nor, when it fell, especially extended; still, there was conflict and hostility crossing the table this way and that: Papenbrock at his son Horst and Horst’s wife, who wanted to get back to Güstrow that evening, which meant that there couldn’t be a conversation to settle things; when it came to wanting revenge, the old man claimed that as his prerogative alone. Papenbrock at the Robert who hadn’t even sent a telegram from overseas, forcing him to fake Robert’s condolences with a counterfeit wreath ribbon. Louise at Cresspahl, because she’d had to yield the place of honor at the burial; at the Wendisch Burg Niebuhrs, for sitting there so quiet and downcast as if they knew more about grief than their hostess! who in any case had heard more than enough on the subject; at Lisbeth—how could she do to her what she’d done to herself?; at Alexander Paepcke, for being on his second bottle of Rotspon already. Horst at his father; Horst at, especially, Peter Niebuhr, because this young guy, one of the proles at Lisbeth’s wedding, was now with the ministry in Berlin, and presuming to instruct him in seed selection, and competently too. Hilde at her mother, for her endless bustling about, and at Cresspahl, for making such a fuss over his child and not sending the girl to live with her in Podejuch. Alexander at Cresspahl for spending so much time at the lower end of the table with those Lübeck strangers, including one named Erwin Plath—Alexander would have much preferred drinking with his brother-in-law, not these Schmoogs, who couldn’t keep up. Alexander at himself because he’d worn his uniform out of vanity and everyone had recognized him as just an administrative officer anyway. Alwin Paap felt uncomfortably like an employee, and wished he wasn’t there. The Schmoogs, the Niebuhrs, Heinz Mootsaak were taken aback that Mrs. Papenbrock had made up the finest rooms for the Paepckes, while their rooms still had laundry baskets standing around, or no sink, but they weren’t angry. Peter Niebuhr felt no hostility at all, only that he’d have liked to get out of his conversation with Horst Papenbrock and would’ve most liked to go for a walk with Martha outside of town. He stayed, though, for the sake of this Mr. Smith from Richmond who took so much pleasure in Martha’s high-school English; now he could be proud of his wife, that too. No one at Cresspahl.

  After the first evening bells had rung, everyone in Papenbrock’s house stood up. Then Ol’ Bastian pressed the button again, and now came the bells rung especially for her—the woman who had been buried that day.

  They came for Brüshaver in the night, four hours before dawn.

  – Gesine, wake up.

  – Why.

  – You’re talking in your sleep.

  – I don’t talk in my sleep.

  – I’m supposed to wake you up if you do.

  – What did I say.

  – Don’t hit! or something like that.

  – Thanks for waking me up. What day is it?

  – Thursday.

  – Hey, I need to go into the office.

  – It’s February 22, Gesine.

  – Right. I need to go to work.

  – It’s Washington’s Birthday, Gesine! The stock market is closed, the banks are closed. Day off from school!

  – I’d like a day off too.

  – What are you dreaming about, Gesine.

  – That I’m asleep, I think.

  February 23, 1968 Friday

  To spare Stalin pain, the USA kept from him the fact that as early as the spring of 1943 his son, Yakov, had been shot and killed by the Germans in Sachsenhausen prison camp at his own request; today the news is out. Janusz Szpotanski, in Warsaw, will have to spend three years in prison for his unpublished operetta, and a fine of 600 zlotys it will cost him too (25 dollars). The secretary of defense, McNamara, assured the Senate Foreign Relations Committee that he could prove that there were attacks on US destroyers in the Gulf of Tonkin three and a half years ago, with highly classified and unimpeachable information, while not doing so. In Cuba, no milk is being distributed to anyone over thirteen years of age; hopefully this isn’t one of Enzensberger the poet’s favorite drinks. Brezhnev was in Prague to help celebrate the twentieth anniversary of the coup. In West Berlin, 150,000 marched for the Americans in Vietnam and 10,000 against them. A bomb went off in the Soviet embassy in Washington, and yesterday the statistics felt it was too cold, with icy gusts of wind and temperatures around minus 10 degrees Celsius, and the Times calls Brigadier General Nguyen Ngoc Loan controversial. That was the week we missed.

  Today we lost Francine.

  She was only in our apartment for twelve days, and it could have been longer as far as we were concerned. She was almost at home here.

  For Francine it was good that Mrs. Cresspahl had been in bed since Sunday, sleeping off a fever day and night, occasionally semiconscious, talking in her sleep, supposedly. Allegedly. This was something for Francine to do, she knew how to handle it, it probably felt like a chance to earn her keep. She gave real thought to what she could do to help and when it was her turn to go shopping she came back with ice cream, she kept putting fresh glasses of ice water next to the bed, she always walked on tiptoe. Marie tells me. This morning Francine came in with a gray bitter brew of tea, and not from the pharmacy—she’d bought it from an old man way up in north Harlem, a wizard with herbs, and she said, with total certainty: If the medicines don’t beat that fever, this is the one thing that’ll help. It wouldn’t do to take a polite sip, Francine’s long journe
y and the trouble she’d gone to demanded that the patient drain the cup to the dregs. There were no dregs. The patient’s throat opened right up. – When you wake up, it’ll be gone: Francine said, earnestly, and she came along for a while into a dream where she was wearing a delicately crumpled lace handkerchief between her braids, and it made her skin look slightly darker. She didn’t trust the white woman, for a long time wasn’t even comfortable being around her, and tried to bluster through her nervousness by talking like a nurse: “we” need to do what she says, “we all” want to get better soon, Francine’s voice very high-pitched, firm, but with a tinge of playfulness since it was, at the same time, a game. She’d changed.

  She was no longer the child who sits on a chair as if protecting her territory, who defends her possessions with fortifications on all sides, even when what she possesses is merely the new privilege of being listened to one minute longer than the competition. She could now consider even Marie’s clothes not to judge whether she could acquire them, with compliments, flattery, requests, but simply to decide whether she liked them. Once she’d realized she had the right to ask for things, and that the response might be Yes, she no longer felt the same need to ask. When she felt sure that her share in the use of the apartment was really hers, there was less envy for Marie, and less admiration too. She could see Marie for who she is, not what she has. Meanwhile, Marie drew much of her own flexibility and forbearance from what she knew Francine didn’t have at home and never would. There could be no real rivalry.

  When they suddenly had a sick woman in the apartment, they’d had to set up a strict division of labor, each depending on the other’s work, and Francine was more dependable at some things than Marie. When the meal is over, a Francine goes and washes the dishes, industrious, uncomplaining, because it needs to be done; a Marie puts the dishes in the sink first, to enjoy the reprieve. Mrs. Erichson came expecting a mess in the kitchen like the ones in the other rooms, but found a tidy apartment running smoothly, almost up to her Mecklenburg standards—except for the excessive supply of TV dinners and the frozen chicken, which left her momentarily speechless.