Nineteen
Nineteen
I have a terrible headache. A thick black snake has slid inside my skull, squeezing and twisting my brain until I could scream with the pain. It’s been getting worse all morning, and finally, I give in to it, excusing myself from lunch to go lie on my bed.
I should have met Walter by the bridge last Sunday, as well as this morning, but the conversation I had with Ingrid after meeting Walter in town has rattled inside my head on and off ever since and I daren’t go.
My throat tightens at the thought of him returned to Hindenburgstrasse not knowing why I didn’t come last week or this.
He’ll be worried. Perhaps he’ll think I don’t want to see him anymore, after our audacious city adventure, and he won’t bother to go back to the bridge next week. I toss and turn, doze and wake.
Damn the headache and damn Ingrid. After a couple of hours, the headache reduced to a dull throb, I go downstairs and find Mutti in the afternoon sitting room.
In the days after Karl left, she became abstracted, as if when he went, he took a chunk of her with him, too, and I began to worry if she was quite all right.
Now, to get over his absence, she’s thrown herself with renewed vigor into getting her children’s home up and running.
She sits at the writing bureau, head bent, her pen scratching furiously as she writes letters to the Party, to the mayor, to the newspapers.
A faint, rapidly speaking foreign voice comes from the new radio Vati has installed next to the gramophone.
Sometimes, when Vati has left for work in the mornings, Mutti finds a French station and listens, as now, with her head inclined, a smile twitching on her lips.
I cross the room and snap the machine off.
“What did you do that for?” Mutti jerks around and gives me a hurt look, as if I’ve roughly woken her from a pleasant dream.
“Vati will be angry and forbid it if he catches you.”
“But he won’t be back from Berlin until this evening.” She sighs. “Working on a Sunday, too.” She arches her back and stretches her arms out behind as though she’s been hunched over her writing desk for many hours already.
“What about Ingrid? Is she here?” I stare at the doorway, in case she’s hovering just outside.
“No, I’ve given her the whole day off. But what’s Ingrid got to do with it?”
I sigh with relief. The book will be safe beneath my mattress, for now anyway. “Why don’t we do something today, Mutti? Go out together. We could both do with some fresh air.”
She looks back to the letters on her desk. “I must finish these... Perhaps later.” She gives me a quick smile. “There’s so much work to do, setting up one of these ventures. All the paperwork. And finding the children. One must do it right .”
“What do you mean, finding the children? If they’re orphans, wouldn’t they just... be handed in?”
“I should say, finding the correct children. It’s sorting the desirable from.
.. the others. They are developing tests, physical assessments, to check the purity of the children.
They’re very thorough—sixty-two separate checks to be made on each child.
It’s most rigorous. But it means we have to look far and wide to find appropriate children. ”
“What about the ones who don’t pass the tests?”
Mutti regards me vaguely. “Well, they... go to other places. Oh,” she says, turning to me fully. “I nearly forgot, that boy called for you early this morning. I told him you usually walk the dog in the park on Sunday mornings, but that today you are unwell.”
“Which friend?” I ask, my breath catching. Walter called for me! He must have come here after I didn’t turn up. What a risk he took... surely he wouldn’t have?
“Oh, that sweet boy. The old friend of yours from volksschule, I forget his name. The unfortunate one,” she adds, waving a hand.
“Oh, you mean Tomas.” My heart sinks. How stupid. Of course Walter wouldn’t call for me here.
“That’s it. Tomas. What happened to him after... that awful business?”
“You mean with his father? His uncle threw his mother and all seven children out. They live in Plagwitz now. Tomas had to leave school and get a job. At least he has an apprenticeship now.”
She tuts. “Well, he’s scrubbed up all right. Looks as though he manages a wash and a decent meal. Always so underfed, as I remember.”
Not Walter.
Just Tomas.
How wretchedly disappointing. Mutti’s pen begins to scratch the paper again. I wander over to the sofa and sink onto it, curling my legs beneath me.
“Do you miss Karl terribly?” I ask.
Mutti sighs. “If my right arm had been severed, I would miss it less,” she says wistfully. “The house is so quiet and empty without him.” She smiles at me. “Thank goodness I still have you.”
The unexpected intimacy is a warmth that spreads through me like soup on a cold day. It reminds me of how it used to be, before we moved to this house. Before she became so busy with her charity work, a satellite around planet Vati, and a distant presence to me.
“Still,” she says, “it is the passage of life. We prepare our sons to set them free into the world. That is the point of it all.”
“And your daughters?”
“Our daughters never really leave us,” she says, laughing. “They may live in different houses, but they will always be around to share our grandchildren and take care of us when we are old.”
“But what if I should want to work in another city? Or marry a man who lives far away, just like you did?”
“That won’t happen. Besides, why would you want to?” she asks, her forehead folding into a little frown.
“I would like to travel the world. To do something more interesting and important than simply to marry and have children.”
Mutti gives me a scathing look. “What can be more important for a woman than marrying and having children? Besides, you know Vati wants you to give up this notion of having a job. It isn’t appropriate for a girl like you to get a job, let alone travel the world.”
“And is that what you want for me, Mutti? To marry young and give you lots of grandchildren?”
“I would like you to be happy, Hetty,” Mutti says as she looks out the window across the leaf-scattered lawn.
“But what I think, or what you think or desire, doesn’t matter.
What you have to do is your duty. As we all do.
First, to the Führer. Then to Vati, and one day, to your future husband.
You are almost sixteen, I should hardly have to explain this.
” She continues to stare out the window and I study her profile.
Always poised, refined, and elegant, she rarely speaks her mind.
It seems almost preposterous that she is a person in her own right, with thoughts and opinions that might be different from Vati’s.
What lies beneath her skin? How can I find a crack in her armor? An opportunity to pull the real Mutti out from behind her serene and composed exterior.
“You are a sweet girl, Hetty.” She tears her gaze from the window and back to me.
“You are clever and thoughtful, but you have much to learn. You know little of the world. You must curb your tongue and control your impetuous nature. These are not good qualities in a woman these days. But my dear maman, she would have loved you.” She smiles at the memory of poor, dead Oma Fabienne.
“Tell me some stories from your childhood in France,” I beg. “When Oma Fabienne was alive, and you were little.”
But Mutti shakes her head. “Another time, Hetty. I really am awfully busy.” She turns back to her letters, and our conversation is over.
V ATI TELEPHONES TO say he will be catching the four o’clock train, to arrive in Leipzig shortly after five thirty. Tomas also telephones, asking if I’m feeling better, and would I like to go to the cinema with him.
Not really. Not now.
Instead, I decide to walk to the Hauptbahnhof to meet Vati when his train arrives.
As I get close to the station, the pavements swarm with people, making it impossible to hurry.
When I finally reach the main concourse, I see from the board that Vati’s train arrived five minutes ago.
I scan heads as people stream from the platforms but it’s impossible to find anyone among the crowds and I can’t see him anywhere.
I give up and edge my way out of the station into the flow of people heading slowly toward the city center.
My shoelace is loose, so I stop outside Breuninger stores for a moment to tighten it.
In the window is a display of new winter fashion.
A little drab, color-wise, gray and navy blue, but the style is attractive: clean, slim lines, with nipped-in waists and belts.
I stand up, turn, and there is Vati, just a few feet away.
He looks toward me, smiling and laughing.
He seems so happy, all the stress and worry he normally carries wiped from his face; he is almost unrecognizable.
But he hasn’t seen me. He’s looking at a woman with her back to me.
I open my mouth to call out, but Vati flings his arms around the woman.
They stand in a close embrace, their bodies pressed together, foreheads touching.
His name freezes in my throat, and I shrink back against the shop window.
Everything blurs. Sounds merge and fade.
All I can see is Vati embracing the woman.
She shifts slightly, and I spot what I missed a moment ago.
A little girl, perhaps two or three years old.
She is propped up on the woman’s hip, staring at me over her mother’s shoulder.
She has enormous bright blue eyes, and loose blond curls, fine as silk thread, tumble about her angelic face.
Vati says something to the woman, but I don’t hear his words. He turns his attention to the little girl. She pulls her eyes from mine and reaches up toward him. He tenderly takes her in his arms.