The German House

by Annette Hess

  Eva laughed bitterly. “I don’t know what my father did there, other than fry eggs and make soup!” She added softly, “But I will hand in my resignation.”

  David put the sandwich, with bite marks, back on the plate and looked at Eva in the mirror. “Pull yourself together, Fräulein Bruhns. We need you.” He turned and came up close to her. “I won’t tell a soul.”

  Eva looked at David and noticed his differently sized pupils, which she had only ever seen up close that one time, months ago in the German House dining room. It had appeared strange back then, but this peculiar part of his face now struck her as strangely familiar. Eva finally nodded uncertainly. Then she said, “Andrzej Wilk told me this morning that speaking German is torture to him. I will continue translating.”

  SEVERAL DAYS LATER, the Saturday morning before Pentecost, four people crossed an airfield under pale blue skies. A baggage cart rolled past, and the driver, a white-uniformed steward, pulled up beside a small silver plane, a Cessna that belonged to Walther Schoormann.

  “Perfect flying weather,” Jürgen said to Eva, whose colorful head scarf had loosened around her updo and flapped in the wind. Brigitte had linked arms with Walther Schoormann, who looked around in wonder, smiling like an excited child. He hadn’t recognized Eva, but greeted her happily with the words, “I wear diapers now!” The four climbed into the aircraft, one after the other, and the steward loaded the suitcases from the cart into the small hold beneath the cabin. In the cockpit was a man whose face was unrecognizable behind his mirrored sunglasses and enormous headphones. He shook hands with Jürgen and Walther Schoormann, then carried on checking the displays, levers, and controls. Eva nervously took her seat in the narrow cabin. She had flown to Warsaw once, on business. She hadn’t had any issue putting her trust in such a big, bulky airplane. But this dinky little thing seemed like a model, and it didn’t feel safe. Eva told Jürgen, who was buckling his seat belt beside her, that she didn’t love the designation “single engine.” What if that single engine failed? Jürgen responded, very businesslike, that the plane had just been thoroughly serviced. The door was shut and locked, but the pilot didn’t start. Walther Schoormann asked from the back why they weren’t going yet. Jürgen explained that they were still waiting for clearance to take off. The pilot held up three fingers to Jürgen, who gave a thumbs-up back. Eva knew that they’d be waiting for another half hour. Half an hour to allow the sleeping pills Brigitte had mixed into her husband’s breakfast tea to take effect. Jürgen had told Eva that on the last trip from Frankfurt to the island, his father had tried to get out somewhere over Hamburg. He had tried opening the door, which wasn’t exactly safe. As a result, Brigitte and Jürgen had hatched this plan. As Eva’s fear grew, Walther Schoormann fell asleep behind her. When his head finally tipped back, the pilot got clearance over the radio and engaged the engine. They taxied to the runway. Eva clutched her armrests with both hands as the small airplane accelerated. And as the engine’s howling grew louder and the markers on the runway began to zip by beneath them, she’d have liked nothing better than to scream. At that moment, Jürgen took her hand from the armrest, and the wheels left the asphalt; they lifted off, they were flying. They left behind the houses, traffic, and people in the city and climbed ever higher into the pale blue.

  The flight lasted just under three hours. The engine noise in the cabin was so loud that conversation was completely out of the question. Walther Schoormann was asleep with his mouth open, and with a handkerchief Brigitte wiped away the drool that leaked from the corner of his mouth. Jürgen was reading work documents, marking things occasionally in pencil or writing a note. Eva could see that they were contracts written in English. Brigitte pulled an illustrated newsmagazine out of her bag—Quick—and began to read. Eva looked out the window, into the tremendous depths; she followed the dark lines that were rivers, counted the green patches, the woods, and imagined herself walking among the trees, small and insignificant, and looking up through the branches at the silver dot creeping silently across the sky. Eva reflected that dying now would not be amiss. I lived there, and my sister lived there. My father walked through the gate every day on his way to work. My mother closed our windows. She kept our house free of soot from the smokestacks. David Miller was the only one who knew so far. And the main defendant’s wife. She had recognized Eva behind the bar at German House. Their eyes met two days ago at the municipal building, and she regarded Eva with undisguised contempt. Then the woman in the little hat made a hand gesture, as if to say, “You’d best watch out, girl, or I’ll do it again!” And with that, Eva remembered. She was small. Everything itched. She had bug bites on her arms and legs, and she was standing in a walled yard and scratching herself till she bled. The air smelled sweetly scorched. There was a bed of roses in the garden, and the bushes were in full bloom. Yellow and white. A big girl in a striped linen dress stood in the middle of the bed, decapitating the roses. It was Annegret, and she was laughing, and Eva laughed with her. She started tearing off the blossoms as well. It was hard at first, but she got the hang of it. They pelted each other with blossoms, and then went after the buds. But then Annegret abruptly stopped and gaped at something behind Eva. She sprang from the bed like a rabbit, bolted across the yard, and vanished in a bush. Eva slowly turned around. A woman wearing a smock was approaching, and she had the face of a mouse—a furious mouse. She grabbed Eva’s upper arm and slapped her forcefully. Then again and again. That was when Eva noticed the scent of the torn roses beneath the smell of burning. She had been four years old at the time.

  IN THE SCHOORMANNS’ THATCHED BRICK HOUSE, with a forged sign reading “1868” hung over the front door, Brigitte showed Eva to her room beneath the roof, a small, wind-warped space with flowered curtains, polka-dot wallpaper, and a single bed.

  Brigitte smiled wryly. “You’re not married yet, after all.” She then added, in confidence, “Jürgen’s crazy, but otherwise he’s all right.”

  She left to see to her husband, whom they had guided, still half asleep, out of the aircraft with their combined forces, but who was now waking up in earnest and crying out fearfully for his wife. She left the door open. Eva had a view of the dunes through the window, outlandishly barren and covered in reddish weeds. She spotted a strip of the North Sea, which was wild and rough on this side of the island. Jürgen carried in Eva’s little suitcase and came over to her at the window. She leaned against him, and he put his arm around her shoulders. She could feel his heartbeat, hard and fierce, as though he’d been running.

  “Jürgen, should we go to the beach? Do you think we can already swim?”

  “I’m sorry, Eva, I’m not finished with the contracts yet. And I’ve got to return them by telex today.”

  “On a Saturday?”

  Jürgen ignored the question and dropped his arm. “I’m happy you’re here,” he said, although he seemed almost angry as he looked at her.

  “Jürgen, isn’t this a bit ridiculous, with the separate bedrooms? We’re adults. And engaged.”

  “I’m not discussing this with you again. I’ll see you later.” Jürgen left. Eva thought about how he’d picked her up at the municipal building the day before. How he stood at his car and waved. How he slowly lowered his hand when he saw David walking beside her. She and David weren’t speaking, looking at each other, touching. Nevertheless, Jürgen must have sensed there was something that connected them, something he was excluded from. Eva saw how insecure it made him. Sad and jealous. Then why did he remain so unavailable? Jürgen continued to mystify her.

  Eva went to the beach by herself. She had her towel and underwear in a floral cloth bag Brigitte had given her. Eva had put on her bathing suit under her dress. It was almost summery. A few white clouds billowed above, the blue of the sky saturated and heavy. The air smelled of little blossoms, and there was buzzing in the grasses. When Eva came out between the tall dunes and onto the wide beach, she took off her shoes. She wasn’t wearing stockings and walked barefoot through the
sand to the water. She had never been on such a big beach. Although no small number of people were sitting or lying in the sand, running through the retreating waves, and some even throwing themselves in the water, Eva felt alone. She stopped and observed the formation and fall of the waves for a while, how the water piled up, how it approached and kept growing, till it finally collapsed, how it retreated, bright and glittering as it seeped away in the sand. Her father had grown up so close to these waters. And he was always telling stories about the dead, the drowned, those who had fallen victim to “Blanker Hans,” the turbulent North Sea. About the fathers of schoolmates who had been fishermen and never returned from the job, about the two children next door who had swum out too far. Once, when Eva was fifteen, they went to Juist on vacation; Grandpa Sea Lion had already been dead for some time, and they stayed with Aunt Ellen, her father’s sister. A few days before they arrived, a sudden storm capsized a pleasure craft. Eight people drowned, and all were recovered but a six-year-old boy. Eva, who had always loved swimming, didn’t want to go in the sea. She was afraid that something might touch her in the deep waters, that this boy might get caught between her legs, that his bloated face might appear before her in a wave. Her father responded that that wouldn’t be a bad thing, because then those poor parents could finally bury their child. Eva had been ashamed of herself for being so self-centered. Her father was a good person.

  Eva kept walking till the first wave washed up around her feet. The water was cold as snow. She decided not to swim, but instead to walk. She went far and stayed by the water for a long time, the sun beating down on her face; at some point she headed into the dunes and followed the little rabbit trails here and there. She enjoyed wandering through this moonscape, when she was suddenly startled: a few meters farther on, there was something pale lying in the dark dune grass, a motionless body, and beside it a second, then another and another, like corpses, but then she saw them move. It was people exposing their naked bodies to the sun. Eva froze, spun around in embarrassment, and ran toward the sea. As she fled, she bumped into yet another person, this one dripping wet and coming up the dune from the water, his member bouncing merrily in all directions as he jogged. Eva burned with shame, and she covered her eyes as she stumbled past the man.

  Brigitte was setting the table for dinner back at the house. A large window façade behind the dining area opened onto the dunes and the sea. Dark beams held up the low ceiling. In a redbrick fireplace, its inside blackened with soot, a little fire was burning—not for warmth, since the house had central heating, but for atmosphere. Eva was out of breath as she entered, and she gaped at Brigitte for a moment without saying anything. Brigitte looked at her quizzically.

  “What happened?”

  Eva stammered, half amused and half embarrassed, that there were people down on the beach who weren’t wearing any clothes or bathing suits. Brigitte waved her hand dismissively and continued arranging plates. Oh, that. It was the new fashion. Luckily you didn’t have to join in if you didn’t want to. Romy Schneider, the actress—surely Eva knew who she was? Well, she’d been here just once and had later said that it was just awful. That there was a naked ass floating in every wave. Eva and Brigitte looked at each other and laughed. Walther Schoormann entered in his undershirt; his chest appeared sunken. He carried a shirt that was clearly giving him some trouble, and he needed Brigitte. It wasn’t till she saw him up close that Eva noticed the pale red lines covering his shoulders like a net. Scars.

  “What are you laughing about?”

  “The nudists. Eva had an explicit encounter.”

  “I apologize, Fräulein,” Walther Schoormann said. “Already active in May now, are they? Brigitte, that is cause enough for me to sell the house.”

  Brigitte helped her husband into his shirt and responded, “Walli, we’ll discuss that later. After all, you’re walking around the place half naked yourself.”

  Walther Schoormann ignored the comment and addressed Eva. “They say it’s because there’s nothing indecent about showing the world how God made them. Meanwhile, most of them are damn atheists.”

  Brigitte buttoned up his shirt. “So are you!”

  Eva couldn’t help but smile, and suddenly Walther Schoormann looked at her warily.

  “Don’t you own a pub? A pub on Berger Strasse?”

  Eva swallowed. “My parents do, yes, but farther up the street. Not by the train station.”

  The old man narrowed his eyes. He did not appear reassured.

  “It’s a restaurant, Walli,” Brigitte interjected.

  Walther Schoormann considered this, then he nodded. “A person’s got to eat.”

  That night, Eva lay on the narrow bed in her tiny room, listened to the sea, and thought about the naked man in the dunes. She had to admit that she’d been aroused by the sight—the man was attractive, healthy, and lighthearted. Eva thought about how badly she yearned to be in bed with Jürgen right now. She felt pleasant little waves rising from her vagina—as she respectfully referred to her privates in her mind—and she pushed her hand between her legs and closed her eyes. She saw the sea rolling toward her, gently murmuring. Jürgen embraced her, the water rose up her body, nice and warm . . . Suddenly Eva sensed that she was not alone. She opened her eyes. A dark figure stood in the middle of the room before the open door to the hallway. Motionless.

  “Jürgen?” Eva asked quietly.

  “You’ll never get me to talk!”

  It was Walther Schoormann’s penetrating voice. He repeated the line. Eva shot up in bed and fumbled for the switch on her bedside table. Then the light went on in the hallway, though, and Brigitte appeared in the doorway.

  “Walli, you went to the wrong room by mistake.” She gently led her husband out and closed the door. In the meantime, Eva had found the switch. Click. She turned on the light and stared at the slanted ceiling for a while. She turned over and studied the picture hanging on the opposite wall. A seascape. A ship was fighting its way through monstrous waves. Fish flew through the air. It’s obvious that won’t end well. Eva turned the light back out. She couldn’t sleep. She was thirsty. She had probably eaten too much of the “unspeakably delicious herring salad” Brigitte had raved about. She listened for movement in the house, then got up. She put on her fashionable new dressing gown, which she had bought specially for this trip, and tiptoed down the stairs to the kitchen, where she came upon Brigitte. She was sitting in the white-and-blue-tiled room on a wooden bench at the table, illuminated by the soft circle of light thrown by the hanging lamp, a half-drunk bottle of beer before her. She was not made up and her eyes were puffy, as though she’d been crying. Eva was about to leave, but Brigitte waved her over.

  “Have a seat. Would you like a beer? We don’t use glasses at this hour, is all.”

  “Agreed.”

  Moments later, the women were clinking bottles. Brigitte said how much she liked Eva’s dressing gown. Then she unexpectedly began telling her about losing her entire family in an air strike on Dresden—her father, who had been home on R & R at the time, her mother, and her brother. She was twelve years old. Walther had been her father, mother, brother, companion, and lover, all in one. These days, though, he was often no more than a child. It felt as if she were losing her family all over again.

  “It’s even worse for him. I try not to let it show, but he can tell how sad I am. For as long as I’ve known him, he’s wanted only one thing: to make me happy. Now he makes me a little unhappier every day. And he’s powerless against it. All that damn money, and it doesn’t do him a lick of good.”

  Brigitte finished her beer and fell silent. Eva cleared her throat and asked why Walther Schoormann always repeated that same sentence. Brigitte replied that she knew almost nothing about his time in prison. But that he had been tortured. Brigitte got up and cleared the empty bottles into a little pantry off the kitchen. I was at that camp with my parents as a child, Eva wanted to say. She would have liked to tell Brigitte that for as long as she could remembe
r, the smell of burning had nauseated her mother. To tell her about the incident at German House. About the destroyed roses. That they couldn’t possibly be the reason the main defendant, after all these years, was still so irate that he would spit at her mother’s feet. Eva would have liked to ask Brigitte what she should do. Whether she should talk or keep quiet. But Eva kept quiet now and got up from the table. The women said good night to each other in the front passage. Eva slowly climbed the stairs. With every step, it became clearer: she didn’t need any advice. For months, she had sat in a room with people who had lived and worked at the camp. For months, she had heard what happened at that camp, day and night. More and more words poured out of the witnesses’ mouths, their voices entered Eva and formed a choir inside her: it was a hell created and run by humans. And for months, she had heard the defendants assert that they hadn’t known a thing. Eva didn’t believe them. No one in their right mind believed them. Eva’s fear that her parents would make the very same claim—“We didn’t know a thing”—was debilitating. Because if they did, she would have to part ways with her father and mother.

  Eva walked along the upstairs hallway toward her room, the floorboards creaking under her bare feet. When she reached the door, behind which Jürgen was sleeping, she stopped. She didn’t think it over, but knocked softly and entered the room. She could make out the contour of the bed beneath the open window. The sky glowed dark blue outside. She sat down on the edge of the bed. Jürgen was sleeping on his stomach, and she couldn’t see his face under his black hair.

  “Jürgen?”

  Eva stroked the back of his head, and he woke up, gasped, and asked sleepily, “Is it my father?” He turned over onto his back.

  “No, but I don’t want to be alone right now.”

  Silence. The curtain moved gently in the night breeze. Eva chuckled and almost laughed, because she could positively hear Jürgen thinking. Finally he lifted the blanket. Eva crawled in beside him. He put his arm around her. Jürgen smelled of resin, soap, and sweat. He felt around with his right hand for her braid, which she plaited every evening. Eva could feel his heartbeat even more forcefully now, almost as if his heart were beating in her chest. Something outside in the dunes shrieked. A bird?