“You’re so jumpy, Betty. Everything all right between the two of you? Are you still busy trying to make babies?” Clara grabs a pillowcase, folding it and laying it down on top of one of Werner’s undershirts.
“Ugh, let’s not talk about that.” Clara once told her about making love with Herbert, how fervent and impatient and forceful he is. Her sister admitted to feeling so out of control sometimes that she would sob afterward in a sort of crazed exhaustion, and Bettina has never been able to imagine experiencing this with her own husband. Now she feels a swift heat burning over her cheeks.
“Herbert thinks it’s odd, you walking all the way to Bobbin. I’m surprised Werner lets you go.”
“He doesn’t own me any more than your husband owns you.” What is her sister getting at? This talk of what women are and aren’t allowed to do is ridiculous. But even as this irritation chafes at her, she also knows she’s asking for trouble: if Clara is so curious, others must be curious too. Bettina reaches up high to unclip the last pair of socks. The holes in her gray sweater are neatly stitched, but the wool has stretched out and become slack. Around her neck is a fuchsia scarf tied into a knot. Out of the corner of her eye, she sees movement in a window of the next-door house. Irmgard, her neighbor, watching them. They exchange a wave and a polite smile.
“Stop now, and look at me,” Clara says. “You’re not telling me something; I know you. What exactly is going on?”
Hoisting the basket to her hip, Bettina kicks open the back door with her foot. “I don’t know what you mean.”
Clara moves past her and blocks the doorway with her body. She is shivering in her men’s pants and thin black coat. “Talk to me,” she says.
“Clara, you know—you look like a ragamuffin. Let’s make you some new clothes.”
“You’re avoiding my question.”
Bettina puts down the hamper. “Shut that door, or Werner will have a fit,” she says. “Come—we’ll take a quick walk to the high point.” She leads the way through the patchwork of communal gardens behind the house. Each little square is carefully tended to produce as much food as possible, and on some of the land there are picturesque huts in which to rest and read a paper or putter around planting. The women wind along the path until they reach the highest spot in the neighborhood, overlooking a sweeping slope whose meadow is bordered by towering ash and European beech. Clara brings out two cigarettes from her coat pocket and lights them both, handing one to her sister.
“We really mean it about leaving,” Clara says. The smoke blows away as soon as it emerges from her mouth. “We can’t stand not knowing what rules they’ll come up with next. Do you know they watch us? They follow their own citizens as though by just existing we’ve broken some law.”
“I think Werner’s involved in some of the new surveillance projects.” Bettina cuts her eyes away. “The less I know, the better. You have to watch what you say in front of him, all right?”
“It’s true, though—that trip we’re taking to Sweden? We’re not going to come back.”
A surge of desolation overcomes Bettina. In some faraway part of her mind, she’s dreamed vaguely of a bigger world out there while knowing she loves the island far too much to ever leave. Even though they haven’t been close as adults, it makes a difference knowing she still has some family here—somewhere to go in case of trouble, someone to talk with.
But the truth is, they haven’t found the right vocabulary to share their disappointments or their dreams. Clara can’t be there for her when Bettina needs her. And Bettina has not even made mention of Peter, this man who has become—so very quickly—as important to her as oxygen.
“You’ll live in Sweden?” she asks her sister rather sharply to hide the disorienting hollowness that overtakes her.
“No, in America. You should come; you really should—before they make leaving impossible. There are rumors, Herbert tells me. They’re going to close all the borders, and no one will be able to leave anymore. Not even to get into West Germany.” Clara takes her sister’s icy fingers into her own hands. “Please, will you think about it? There’s no reason to stay, really, is there?”
“No, no . . . I can’t leave. The house? The island—that’s insane.”
“Why not—because of your happy marriage? Come on. I can sense how things are between the two of you. Something is off. But I don’t know . . . in spite of it, something is agreeing with you. You look quite well. Those cheeks. Are you sure you’re not with child?”
Bettina shakes her head no and takes her sister in her arms. Recently, she has imagined what it might be like to pack a bag and walk away, to take a train to the mainland and head to a new city with Peter Brenner. But instead of offering her a giddy glimpse of freedom, of the infinite possibilities of a new life on her terms . . . instead, these thoughts trap her breath in her throat, drain the moisture from her lips, make her head pound. She just doesn’t want to go, not ever, and she doesn’t want Clara to leave either!
“It won’t be so bad,” Clara says, her voice muffled. “We can write to each other once the dust settles.”
As they disentangle from their embrace, Bettina finds she cannot meet her sister’s eyes. The urge to tell her about Peter itches like a rash. She badly wants her sister to understand what she herself cannot quite comprehend: That her life has taken a turn, that it is bigger and fuller and more terrifying than ever before. That she is not the same person she used to be.
“What is it?” Clara asks. “Has something happened?”
“You must promise not to tell anyone, not even Herbert. Do you promise me?”
“Are you in trouble?”
“I’ve fallen in love.”
Clara’s face softens, the thin skin around her eyes covered in fine lines. “A love affair, Betty . . . now, why doesn’t that surprise me? Always just a little impulsive. But—with . . . with whom? Is that why you’re going to that church in Bobbin? For God’s sake, it’s not that old fellow Pfarrer Brenner, is it? He’s ancient—please tell me you’re in love with someone handsome and charming and young.”
Bettina laughs; a rush of anticipation flushes through her. The affair is not sordid; surely Clara will see that right away? Without exception, it is the most beautiful thing Bettina has ever experienced—probably ever will experience—and that is what Clara must have seen written all over her face. “It’s the pastor’s son, Peter,” she says. “Peter Brenner.” In her pocket there’s a piece of paper that she brings out and unfolds. On it is written a poem.
“Who’s this? Paul Éluard—the French writer?” Clara asks, reading. “So this man, the son, he’s a poet?”
“He slipped it in my pocket one day. I think it’s beautiful.” Bettina’s cheeks flush. “It’s about the force of love, its transformative power.”
“Goodness, Betty, you’ve become a cliché.” Clara kicks at the dirt with the toe of her old boot. “Aren’t you worried about Werner, if he finds out? Especially now he’s all puffed up about work and all. This would be a slap in the face for him, no? He’s so proud. And he doesn’t seem entirely rational to me.”
This isn’t what Bettina wants to talk about. She wants to tell her sister all about Peter, his beautiful hands, his freckled skin. The way he kisses her, his optimism, his love of books. How he looks at her, the sound of his laughter, deep and unchecked, and how he can suddenly turn serious. That he asks her about herself, what she wants from life, how she grew up, what moves her. But she sees that no matter what she says, the most obvious fact is that she is a married woman betraying a husband who only wants her to love him back the way he loves her.
Birds are fighting in a scraggly elm down below, and the cacophony is like a bunch of quarrelsome old fisherwomen. Frustration envelops her as she tries to figure out how to explain to Clara what her life was like before meeting Peter. How, even though she knows what they’re doing is wrong, she can’t act otherwise: she has lost her reason, her control.
“I was drowning when I met
him,” she says, her eyes stinging, “and he saved me.”
The hours, the days stretch out before her, barren. Three more days till Sunday, when she will see him again. The silence in the house weighs on her like a damp blanket. She signed up for the late shift today, and there are chores to complete before she heads to work, but Bettina does not have the energy to do much. Standing by the sink in the kitchen, she imagines her sister’s face: as a child, before she thinned out. Clara was chubby and imperious, apt to flashes of anger and moody silences. Bettina wipes her eyes and tries to suppress her rising panic. She tries to picture America but can find no images upon which to rest her frenetic thoughts. Is it true that there is never any shortage of food, that people habitually smile at each other—even strangers? As a child, she’d read the Karl May stories of cowboys and Indians, a land that has no end, thousands and thousands of kilometers. Mountains and deserts and trees and sand, cities and deserted corners and two oceans and vast lakes that never seem to end. A political system based on the idea of freedom, emancipation. What will her sister do there? Where will she live?
There is a light knock at the front door. Wiping her hands on her apron, she goes to answer it.
“Frau Nietz,” Peter Brenner says, using her married name, his voice serious. His Adam’s apple rises and falls as he peers behind her, a stricken look on his face. “It’s been a while, but I believe I located the whereabouts of your handkerchief.”
“Um Gottes willen!” she says in a loud whisper, ushering him inside. “What are you doing here?”
“You are alone?”
“Yes, I’m . . . Werner, he’s at work.” It is the first time she has said her husband’s name in front of this man, and it burns on her lips like an obscenity. Hastily removing her apron, she regrets not styling her hair this morning. Her clothes are utilitarian, unattractive. But as Peter Brenner enters the front hall and she shuts the door behind him, she can only think of the musculature of his upper arms and how pale the skin is—so bright and smooth—of his thighs, his hips.
“What are you doing here?” she asks. “You’ll get us both in trouble!”
“I had an early study hall this morning.” He glances at his watch. “They won’t miss me for another hour. I just couldn’t wait any longer.”
“Did anyone see you?”
“I don’t know. I ran all the way here.”
Bettina goes to the front window and peers out. The square is empty.
“I’m sorry; I know it was fool—”
“I don’t care,” she interrupts, her pulse racing. “I’m glad you came.”
He bends his head down to kiss her, and his long body eclipses all other concerns.
21
Bettina swore to herself that she wouldn’t go, but she signs out of work an hour before her sister’s ferry is due to leave, feigning illness. Her stomach roils like an octopus. A small group lingers at the ferry dock in Saargen, and Bettina stands far away, near the bus stop. If asked, she can say she was tired and decided to take the bus home to Apolonienmarkt instead of walking. It’s just an ordinary day, isn’t it? Some couples are lined up by the ticket booth with suitcases by their sides, wearing light coats and hats, ready to cross the Baltic, take a few days off. Three workmen in dark-blue overalls wait, cigarettes clamped between their lips, faces lined by exposure to sun and sea. No one is crying or waving goodbye, because it’s just a day like every other day.
There she is, Clara, in a dark-beige gabardine coat and heels. Herbert in his fedora and gray jacket, dour in the fall sunshine. They could be headed to a funeral, or a wedding, perhaps. The ferry toots its horn, and foot passengers begin walking along the sagging gangplank onto the deck. Clara carries one small suitcase and a hatbox in her gloved hands. Herbert has a compact leather shoulder bag and suitcase: their entire lives in those few bags. They walk at a steady clip among the other travelers; they do not glance around. There is no hesitation in their steps. As they climb the last few rungs and stand upon the deck, they do not cast one final look over their shoulders toward land. They’re coming back in a week, aren’t they? No reason to be caught up in nostalgia or to be having second thoughts.
As the ferry toots once more and disengages from shore, the workmen cast ropes back onto the pier, and Bettina runs down to the beach. There’s a spot on the sand where she can sit and watch the boat chugging north. The sand has been warming all day in the sun, but she begins shivering. She wraps her arms around her legs and leans her chin on her knees. When the ferry disappears on the horizon, she has still not moved. It is not until the light begins to fade and the gray haze over the water swells and becomes a thick mist that she rises, shaking out her stiff legs and heading back home.
The youth center is used on weekends and after school lets out, but in the mornings it remains locked and empty, smelling of paint supplies and the faintly sweet odor of sweating children. Bettina arranges to work the afternoon shifts and meets Peter there, often arriving to find the door unlocked and an album playing on the record player.
Werner is at home with a cold, so today Bettina’s alibi is the annual physical given by her employer. Though she already submitted to this examination, she neglected to tell her husband, and now it provides her with a convenient excuse to be out of the house for a few hours. Each time she lies to him, she feels the weight and twist of it in her stomach. She imagines that someone somewhere is paying attention to every movement she and Peter make, that eventually someone will tell on them. But this affair is a train without brakes—relentless, with increasing acceleration and momentum. Even after Werner’s promotion a few weeks ago, when he started coming home with stories about what the Stasi are up to, she cannot break it off.
The corner where Peter sits waiting for her is stacked with novels and schoolbooks, and he is scribbling in his notebook, head bent. His hand is moving back and forth over the paper, but his body is in limbo between the world in his mind and his reality. A Mozart violin concerto plays, a haunting melody that soars and crashes, and he registers no reaction. She watches him from the shadows. Already she knows his weaknesses, and they serve only to draw her to him more closely. For one thing, his greatest weakness is also his most impressive strength: This capacity to engage fully. To be drawn into something so deeply that nothing else can intrude. A sharp focus, an unwillingness to split attention.
Just the previous week he shared some of his new writing with her. It was the first draft of a short story about a teenager who drowns while trying to swim across the Baltic, yet Peter’s intention was for it to convey optimism, and these paradoxical impulses confused him. “We want to be real, as writers,” he told her, “to not shy away from the horrors, but we’re also part of this new world. With that comes responsibility, and I worry—”
“No, no, Peter, I don’t think so,” she said. There is something about his doubt that she admires: it reveals how serious he is about what he is trying to achieve. “In your work you can only be responsible to yourself. Or you lose your voice, that which makes you you.”
His silence told her she was not entirely wrong. Today she watches him scribbling so single-mindedly in the darkened corner and wonders whether he has changed his story in some way because of their talk: Did he embrace the impulse toward darkness, or is his voice perhaps intended for a bigger political conversation? If the latter, what does that actually mean? She can’t know if those two things are mutually exclusive, but she is compelled to think of her own work, of the last photograph she took almost a year ago now. She remembers it well because of the jab of loneliness she experienced when pointing the lens toward the two boys—young men, really—standing on the dock. Her reason for pressing the shutter was not to capture what was there; it was what she felt as she looked at them, how the faraway clouds and the boat in the distance (out of focus, just a slash of red) seemed to undermine the carefree setting in some powerful yet inexplicable way.
They speak of this constantly, the tension between the everyday reality of
life for workers and intellectuals, and the dreams for the future that promise so much but are abstractions difficult to capture in writing or in a picture. The thrill for her is in seeing her place in the world from such a different angle.
“It will be all right,” he tells her, “as long as we keep working honestly. And by that, well . . . what I’m trying to say is the struggle to tell our truth must never stop. I want to do this in service of my country—”
“But doesn’t that dilute it? Art with a purpose?”
“It’s about believing. It’s about that and trusting our hearts are in the right place, that we have the good of others in mind, too, not just ourselves. See? Work with a heart, yes; work with integrity.”
All this talk about his “work” is an infinite loop of learning for her. This is the first time Bettina has considered work to be anything other than a place you go to complete defined tasks in order to earn money and be part of a community. For her, work is physical, practical. Peter’s work is not like this—it involves exploration and analysis, an opportunity for expression, for sharing and testing out ideas. In particular, he explains, he loves taking popular literature and letting the kids play with it, creating allegories or drawing on mythology and rewriting. It’s clear that his students adore him, writing him letters in their perfect cursive declaring their admiration.
He reads to her from one of his notebooks the text of a banner he put up in his classroom: An education that does not awaken the youth to a sense of conscience and personal moral responsibility is not worthy of that name. —Eduard Spranger, 1947. But her gut tells her to be wary of trying to shape the creative impulse into a sword or a scythe.
Because of this, she has come to think differently about her own desire to take pictures, or to make art, as she’s come to think of it. First and foremost, she’s ashamed that she has let Werner discourage her so easily. Once she brought the Rollei along and showed Peter how it works, and then, when Werner was at an overnight on the mainland, she went with Peter to the high school in Binz late at night. They let themselves into the darkroom and spent hours developing some of her old films. It was all so ordinary yet so dangerous.
This Terrible Beauty: A Novel Page 14