Someday We'll Tell Each Other Everything Page 2
“Yes, of course!” I reply, and speed across the meadow to the house.
When I come back the saws in the mill are running. We women are now alone in the meadow. Well, not entirely alone; Alfred’s still here, but he doesn’t count. The only thing Alfred does of his own accord is drink, and people here accept it as silently as they do almost everything else. Otherwise he’s wholly subservient to Frieda, and has been ever since she used to drag him, the maid’s infant, across the farmyard. It’s far too late now for a bid for freedom. Without a wife or children of his own Alfred has become an appendage to the family, who have treated him as if he were their own son. After the death of the Schenke brothers he was the only boy around, and his real parents hoped that by entrusting their son to the care of Ingeborg and Wieland Schenke, he might enjoy a better future. Frieda loved little Alfred above anything, and they probably thought—who knows?—perhaps she’d still love him later on, when she was of an age to get married and take over the farm. In fact rumors still persist that Volker, Frieda’s eldest, is Alfred’s son. He’s a drinker too, at any rate. But in the end she married Heinrich Brendel, the strapping, capable son of the village teacher. He, too, played in the farmyard as a boy, and young Frieda mothered him with an equally ruthless passion, which transformed itself into selfless love and devotion the moment Frieda turned seventeen. In time the Schenkes’ farm became the Brendels’ farm.
Frieda’s first son, Volker, was born shortly after her marriage to Heinrich in 1948. A few weeks before the birth Alfred suddenly disappeared—was this a clue as to the true identity of the father? Frieda denied it vehemently, and so a mantle of silence was laid over this unwelcome speculation. Sometime later Alfred showed up again, ragged and scrawny—like a maltreated dog. His mother collapsed at the stove at the sight of him.
All of a sudden Marianne flops down onto a pile of hay. Her red headscarf has slipped back and you can see her thick hair. She looks young lying there, her lips wet with water; her skirt has ridden up to reveal a strong pair of legs. She’s thirty-nine, her two sons eighteen and twelve. “Mom,” Johannes says, “your skirt . . .” She laughs and takes another big swig from the bottle. Then she stands up again and peers over to the sawmill. “I’ll be right back,” she says as she leaves. “It won’t take long.” Johannes sits beside me and puts his head in my lap. I wash the dust from his face with a handful of water and lay my cool hands on his eyes. To my left I can sense Lukas watching us. Leaning on her rake, Frieda is staring at the river; she stands with her legs apart, as if her feet were rooted in the earth. We follow her gaze but can’t make out anything in particular—just the water flowing by, as it does every day. Over in the mill the machines have gone quiet.
It’s already after ten by the time we sit at the dining table. Thin slices of cold roast meat have been arranged on a large china platter. Beside this is a basket of dark bread, a ceramic pot of butter, a bottle of wine, and a lemon cake. I eat as if I’d been fasting for days; I even help myself to a piece of meat. This earns me a nod of approval from Siegfried. He says we need more help for the harvest; it’s about time Volker showed his face again. But Volker’s not here, Frieda says in an irritated tone. Siegfried’s brothers are Frieda’s Achilles’ heel. Volker, the eldest, got a job working in the pig sheds at the agricultural collective when he was sixteen. That’s where he and a handful of others got into drinking. Now he lives in a small apartment in the county town and he’s not working anymore, even though he’s only just turned forty-two. He doesn’t have a wife or children. His story sounds so similar to Alfred’s that there is always an embarrassed silence when discussion turns to Volker. Then Alfred smiles at Frieda, and she punishes him by ignoring him. Hartmut, the middle son, was just eighteen in 1967 when he submitted an application to leave the country, the contents of which led to his immediate arrest. Two and a half years later the state sold him to the West, without Frieda and Heinrich knowing anything of it. They heard nothing from him again until he found work and somewhere to live in Rosenheim, Bavaria. Frieda still reproaches him for not confiding in her his plans to leave the country. On the other hand her husband, Heinrich, who died of cancer a few years ago, was proud of his son to the last, even though he never saw him again.
After a glass of wine I feel more tired than I have ever felt in my life. It’s my first summer on the Brendels’ farm, my first summer without my mother, my first summer with a father, even though he’s not my own.
After dinner we haul ourselves upstairs and go to bed without washing, without even brushing our teeth. Before I am overwhelmed by an inconceivably deep sleep I decide to skip school tomorrow. The holidays start next week and there’s not much point—this year is a write-off anyway.
3
I wake up and find myself alone. Johannes has gone to school.
Today I need to find out whether Alexey Karamazov will get to the monastery before the Elder Zossima dies. And why did Zossima prostrate himself before Dmitry? The sun is high in the sky; it must be almost noon. Downstairs in the kitchen a place has been laid for me, there are rolls in a wooden bowl, chilled butter, and homemade jam—the first batch of the summer. In the hallway Siegfried greets me with an unusually friendly smile, and I can hear Marianne cackling away in the shop. Selma the cat rubs up against my legs, which are covered in scratches from yesterday’s hay-turning. I’ve hardly ever felt so happy. My cheeks are tanned; my arms and neck are actually dark brown, even though summer has only just begun.
The door to the shop is open. Marianne is laughing. She’s joking with Henner. I expect he’s flattering her. Marianne is still a beautiful woman, powerfully built with a long, thick, dark braid and rosy cheeks. She has a soft spot for Henner. He’s buying bread, but maybe he’s just come for a chat, he’s that lonely. Frieda says that Henner’s a wild one. Ever since his wife left him, many years ago now, he’s apparently been pretty feral. He inherited the farm from his father and managed to run it down in just a few years. At least that’s what they say in the village. The only thing he’s got a knack for is horses; in fact you might call it a passion. They’re meant to be some of the finest Trakehners around.
Siegfried says it was the GDR that broke him. Someone with his strength should be cultivating his own land, not working in the collective. A man like Henner should be his own master.
Sometimes when he’s chasing women or going on a bender he even forgets to feed his dogs. They roam free and kill sheep. Siegfried has also lost lambs to those mastiffs, so he won’t be pleased to see his wife joking with that brute. But still, Henner’s a handsome man, and well read, they say. He’s got shelves of books in his house, and that’s not something you see very often around here. The villagers say he takes after his mother, who was a girl from town and quite eccentric, too.
“Is Maria still with you?” I hear him say. “You’ve got yourselves a pretty one there.”
He roars with laughter and Marianne says, “She’s a lovely girl all right, but she’s not cut out for the farm.”
“I can imagine,” he says. “She won’t stay. She’ll go off to college and study something, you mark my words.”
“I know, but what can we do? Johannes is besotted by the girl. She skips school and spends all day reading.”
“Is that right?” he says. “Send her to work in the cowshed, she’ll soon forget all about reading, ha ha . . .”
“You’re one to talk . . .” There’s a hint of a sneer in Marianne’s voice. “You’ve always got your head in some book. But let’s not go on about it, Henner, things will work themselves out. She hasn’t had it easy at home.”
My feeling of happiness is deflated. I leave my roll and go into the shop. They stand there and look at me. “I heard it all,” I say, jutting out my chin.
“Well,” Henner says, “she’s got a cheek, that girl, but she’s damn pretty. Johannes has good taste.”
He looks me up and down shamelessly. Marianne frowns, and I grant him a smile before going out into the yard.
I need to make myself useful. No one here takes me seriously, and maybe they’re right not to. I go into the garden and fetch some onions, kohlrabi, and carrots. Frieda is busy in the kitchen. She’s making such a racket with the pots and pans you can hear it in the vegetable garden behind the house. Some mail came earlier. From her son Hartmut in Rosenheim. Later I’ll see the letter lying there, opened. I’ll take it out of the envelope and read:
Dear Mother,
I never thought I’d be able to visit you again. But how things have changed. Germany is becoming one country again. Dad would have been very happy. I don’t really know what to say—so much time has passed, and I’m not good at writing letters. I’d prefer to talk to you. If it’s all right with you I’d like to come back home for a visit in the third week of July. I’m going to bring the family, my wife, Gisela, and the children, Robert and Anna. You have no idea how excited I am. Please forgive me for not having told you anything back then. I would have put you all in danger. I wrote to you from prison, but they didn’t send my letters. I wrote again later, too, but never got a reply.
I’m really sorry about everything. It’s taken all my courage to write this letter, even though I haven’t heard anything from you in twenty years.
Your son,
Hartmut
P.S. If I don’t hear from you I’ll assume that the third week of July is fine. We’ll arrive on Monday, but certainly not before midday. It’s quite a long drive.
Frieda is sitting at the dining table when I come in. I drop the vegetables on the table and say, “I’m cooking today.” I notice that she’s been crying. She’s holding a crumpled handkerchief in her wrinkled hands. Her narrow lips arch inward—she must have forgotten to put her dentures in. Her gray hair, tied up in a bun, is getting thin; I can see her scalp underneath. She nods, stands up, takes a sharp knife from the block, and passes it to me without a word. And so I cook my first ever soup. I’ve often watched Frieda, and now I do what she does. I spoon some clarified butter from the large pot and put it in the pan. Then I sweat the onions, garlic, and two bay leaves. After that I add the rest of the vegetables—carrots, potatoes, celery, kohlrabi—then the meat stock, salt, pepper, and some herbs. There are crusts of bread on the table, which we’ll dunk in the soup later. Siegfried will want some meat with his soup, so I cut the leftovers of the roast beef into small pieces and add them just before the soup is ready. It actually tastes like the soup we usually have; I’m so proud of myself.
Siegfried doesn’t seem to have noticed; he eats his soup just like he always does: thoughtfully and elegantly. “Hands on the table!” Marianne says, turning to me. My hand was resting on my leg. When we’re finished, she whispers, “Say thank you to Frieda.” Unable to suppress a smile, I say politely, “Thank you, Frieda, for that delicious soup.” She looks at me quizzically and says, “Why’s she thanking me when she cooked it herself?” Now Siegfried looks at me directly, grins, and nods his head in approval.
“Oh,” Marianne says loudly, “so now she’s starting to do some real cooking. Well, that’s useful at least.”
Early that afternoon Johannes comes home from school. These are his last few days; his leaving certificate is practically in the bag. In both our rooms upstairs, books are scattered all over the place. He’s been studying hard. The final summer of his schooldays is approaching. No one knows what’s going to happen after that—there are all sorts of opportunities now.
He takes my hands and pulls me onto the bed. “Come on!” he says. “It’s hot up here. Take your dress off.” I do exactly as he says. The window is wide open; outside the birds are chirping, as if drunk with the joys of summer. I can’t see any spiders; they don’t come out to spin their fine threads until evening. Johannes puts his hand over my mouth; nobody must hear us. Nobody must know what love sounds like.
Two weeks have passed. It’s July and we’ve got Western money. Not a drop of rain has fallen, the first hay has been harvested, Johannes has passed his leaving certificate with good grades. As a reward, his parents, grandparents on his mother’s side, and Frieda gave him money, Frieda the most. We decide to go to Munich: my second trip to the West.
I have unhappy memories of the first. Queuing to get our “welcome money” was a degrading experience, and I felt humiliated by the looks I got from a greengrocer when I asked him what this or that vegetable was called, and how I should cook it. Before that we’d been stuck for ages at the border, freezing cold. The first snow had fallen—early snow—and we weren’t prepared for the hundreds of cars all wanting to get across the border. We waited for hours in our ice-cold car, just to get the money and finally see the West with our own eyes. I was disappointed. The reality of a freezing November day with rain and snow could not match the expectations I’d been building up all my life. The only shop I went into was that greengrocer’s, and he was so unfriendly. Where we came from was written on our faces.
Now this second time, in summer. The old Wartburg groans from the effort of our unusually long drive, but when we cross into the West the roads improve at once. At the border we showed our ID cards and were waved through. It’s still so hard to believe. We just kept on driving.
We’re overtaken by everything on the motorway, even the large trucks. We smoke with the windows down and we feel like gods. After almost six hours in the car we get to Munich. I don’t have any money, and even if I did I wouldn’t know what to buy. They’ve got everything here, and I’d never be able to decide. Johannes, however, has a plan. We walk for a while, go past some shops and into others like everyone else, come out again and walk on. He holds my hand too tightly; I break free and look, look, look. The sounds and smells of the West are different.
He leaves me at a pavement café while he goes “to get something.” Before he leaves he orders me a coffee with astounding confidence. I wonder what it is he needs to get here. But in fact I’m not much bothered. Just sitting here, watching, drinking my coffee, and eating an unbelievably delicious slice of cake is more than I can cope with. I stare at people. It’s so different here, so self-confident, so assured, so hard to describe. I’ve finished my coffee; I order another and a glass of wine as well. I’m holding a tiny notebook. I’d planned to write down the things I saw that were new to me, things I’d sometimes longed for. And now I realize that everything is new to me. I’d have to write it all down: the smell of the shops, the cleanliness of the streets, the bright facades of the houses, the women’s fashion, the excellent coffee, the beauty of the women here, their shaved legs and armpits, their soft, smooth skin, the men’s flirtatious looks, the turquoise-colored River Isar, and the lightness of it all. And these amazing colors everywhere! I don’t write down anything and suddenly my heart feels heavy. I want Johannes to come now and take me home. Now. My enthusiasm turns to utter despondency in a flash. I feel poor, ugly, lonely. I’m wearing a pretty dress, too, but there’s something about me. I don’t know what it is, but it’s different; I can’t really explain. I can’t enjoy anything here anymore; I’m quivering with anxiety as I wait for Johannes. Suddenly I’m plagued by the thought that he might not come back, he might not find me again. What would I do? I whisper to myself, “Come on, Johannes, come back, come back now, please . . .” At the next table a couple are grinning and looking over at me. In the stream of people passing by I’m looking for only one face. As I gulp awkwardly from the bulbous glass, red wine drips onto my pale dress and I’m ashamed of everything about me.
Finally, finally I catch sight of Johannes; he’s holding a white plastic bag.
Beaming with joy—I find this totally inappropriate—he sits beside me and orders himself a glass of wine. He drinks it quickly and doesn’t stop kissing me.
“What took you so long?” I reproach him.
“You’ll see,” he whispers with a smile. “A surprise. We’ll unpack it at home.” He’s being very secretive.
When the bill arrives we can scarcely believe our eyes: 21.50 deutsche mark. A fortune, but nothing in comparison to what Johannes has just spent.
Then we drive home; there’s nothing more for us to do here. Home—how lovely that sounds. We don’t get back until late at night; all the lights are out, and all we can hear is an owl’s screeching. Johannes fetches a dusty bottle of wine from the cellar and I glug it as if I’m dying of thirst, but I want more. “Johannes,” I say, “go and get another bottle.”
“I can’t—Dad will notice. Then there’ll be trouble.”
“I’ll take the blame,” I say, not bothered, and off he goes. We’ve disturbed the spiders; they climb up again, swinging on their threads as they go. I stagger over to the sofa and let myself fall backward. My dress rides up. Johannes unpacks his surprise. He beckons me over, and I reel across the room feeling pleasantly light-headed. It’s a camera, a very, very good camera, as he keeps assuring me when I look at the receipt in disbelief: 1,980 deutsche mark, and it’s not even new.
“We can go anywhere now, there’s no border anymore,” he says, screwing on the lens. “I’m going to take photos of everything, especially you.”