An old man and an old woman, the village elders, took their place in front of the two decorated wagons and presented the people of Perná with the Dožínky harvest wreath. It was braided out of twelve long, slender sprigs, bound with stalks of grain and wildflowers, like the festooned wagons, and further embellished with red poppies. After they made their speech and after the priest blessed the wreath and this year’s harvest, they led off the procession, the two wagons drawn by Šenk’s and Hrazdíra’s mares behind them, followed by young men riding on bedecked horses and young women in festive traditional dress. Then the music began.
The moment Johanna’s children heard the cheerful trills of the violins floating up the street, they began to dance in a comical way and to hum along, until Zipfelová and the other women bringing up the rear of the procession, both German and non-German, all had to laugh.
The elders led the procession toward Šenk’s farm, which stood at the end of the road leading from the church to the lower meadows. The previous week in the pub, Šenk had been unanimously chosen as the farmer of the year and was to be presented with the Dožínky harvest wreath. He certainly must have been expecting it, as his was the largest farm in Perná and everyone, including the newly arrived settlers, respected him. Supposedly, at least according to Ida, people were already whispering about why there was still an outsider in the position of commissioner when Šenk could easily become the mayor—after all, the war was over now, things had calmed down, so everything could go back to normal. The last mayor before the war, the Rosenbaums’ eldest son, hadn’t yet returned, and it was possible that no one from that family would ever return. That was the rumor going around, based on what people heard about Dachau, from where the last bit of news about the Rosenbaums had come.
The procession, accompanied by the strains of a clarinet and violins, arrived in front of the Šenk farm gates, where a double bass and cimbalom were already waiting. Gerta felt overwhelmed and very emotional as she thought of the various processions in which she had been swept up over the last three months. When the music finished playing, the elder couple knocked on Šenk’s farm gate. It immediately swung wide open, and there stood Hubert Šenk, dressed in traditional garb, wearing tall boots and black breeches with embroidered seams, a white shirt with embroidered wide sleeves that hung loose around his wrists, a black waistcoat, and a hat lavishly decorated with a nosegay and a sweeping feather. His slightly stooped mother accompanied him through the gate with tiny shuffling steps.
As soon as Šenk appeared, a cheer went up. All around, hats sailed into the air, along with posies that the women had up to then been holding. The elder couple waved their arms around, trying to quiet the crowd, but it was only at the first strike of the tiny hammers on the cimbalom that the noise finally abated. The elder couple then delivered words of thanks on behalf of the village to the farmer and with a bow, presented him with the richly decorated Dožínky harvest crown. From where she stood at the tail end of the procession, Gerta couldn’t hear a word. All she and the other women could do was to try to catch a glimpse from the slightly raised vantage point of the street that sloped down from the church on the hill toward the farm, into whose courtyard Šenk, with a wave of his arm, invited everyone to enter. The men positioned the cimbalom so that it could be heard in the courtyard as well as in the street, where many remained because the yard couldn’t hold everyone. Gerta and the other women sat down with old Zipfelová by the side of the road and waited in the midday sun to see what would happen next. In the courtyard, cups were being passed around, and wine was poured into them from demijohns. People were laughing, their words rising through the sultry air along with the strains of music and the whinnying of the horses that gave off a heavy, summer smell, which blended with the fragrance of grain and flowers. Couples were dancing the Moravian skočná as children were running among them, chasing dogs. The moment was full of beauty, harmony, and joy, and the war would have seemed a thing of the distant past if not for those fifty or so women sitting by the side of the road, wearing white armbands emblazoned with the black letter N, chatting quietly just now among themselves in German.
By early evening, Zipfelová’s German women were sitting around a table in the corner of a room at the village inn. Gerta sat between Ula and Johanna, holding Barbora, who was looking around at everything. With a corner of the cheesecloth swaddling Barbora, Gerta dabbed at the dribble on her daughter’s chin and laughed into the little eyes, wide open with curiosity as they took in everything around them. Zipfelová sat at the head of the table, keeping a close watch on Ida, who was flitting about on the dance floor and all around the pub. She seemed to be everywhere.
“Helmut married a flirt,” she would mutter from time to time, “a real flirt.”
Ula, who since the incident in August had felt the closest to Zipfelová, took her by the hand.
“She’s young. Look at the other young girls; one of them is always with her. She just wants to have a bit of fun.”
“But she forgets that she’s married.”
“That’s only because she’s young. Just give her time. You’ll see how she’ll change if . . .” Ula stopped midsentence, then whispered, “When Helmut comes back.”
Zipfelová nodded in silence. She herself no longer knew whether she should say if or when.
The women sat closely huddled beside her on a bench in front of which the children were playing. Every so often, the little group of German children would be separated by the skittering village children, who were playing a game of tag among the standing and dancing adults, until finally the two groups blended together.
“At least the war didn’t take away their freedom.” Zipfelová nodded with a smile to Johanna, who was anxiously looking on as Anni and Rudi joined a group of the youngest ones.
“As long as nobody else minds.”
“The village women aren’t unkind; they wouldn’t do them any harm. But just to be safe, don’t let them out of your sight; you never know—some drunk might swipe at them. We’ll be going soon anyhow. Šenk said to stay for the toast, but then we’ll go home. All the same, Hanák and Jech might give him some trouble, since Germans aren’t supposed to take part in any celebrations.”
Johanna nodded and kept a close watch over Anni and Rudi.
When the music stopped playing, Šenk, at the table across from them, stood up. The other local farmers did as well. The sound of chatter in the room died down until it stopped altogether, with all eyes fixed on Šenk.
“Here’s to wrapping up this year’s harvest! And here’s to a successful one next year. May it be abundant, and may we have the manpower and equipment necessary to bring it in. Because we’re going to do it! So here’s to our health, and to the health of all the hardworking newcomers, and to the health of the harvest brigade. And also, even though it’s not allowed, to the health of my women, who worked hard day after day. It’s also in large part thanks to them that our harvest is put away.”
And before clinking his glass, full of dark red wine, to the glasses that the other farmers were holding out to him, he gestured with it to all sides, to the brigaders from Brno, who started clapping and whistling and stomping their feet; to the residents of Perná, who raised their own glasses back to him; and even to his and the other German women who were sitting in the corner.
Gerta quickly looked down at Barbora and tried not to take his words too much to heart. He had addressed them as if they were living beings. It really seemed as if that night, for the residents of Perná, they weren’t just hunched over backs crawling around the fields and the vineyards, but people, people who had done their part in ensuring the survival of the village for the coming year. But this was mainly because everyone in the room was slightly tipsy, and a sense of satisfaction, whether due to the work they had accomplished or to their newly acquired properties, was written all over their faces. By tomorrow, Gerta thought to herself, it would all be different again. The ice-cold, loathing looks of the Perná women, barked orders t
he only words to reach their ears, the occasional vulgar jeer on the street—it would all return. To protect herself, she would continue to stay close to Hanák or Šenk or Zipfelová, so as not to get assaulted like Ula or the two women from Krupa’s who were recently beaten up coming in from the fields alone one evening.
Gerta took one more look around the room. She saw the obdurate faces of the Jechs, whose numerous family members were sitting around, defiantly leaning on their elbows over pints of beer, having participated in neither the dancing, nor in conversations with others, nor having shown any reaction to the farmer’s toast. Not long ago they shot at me, thought Gerta to herself. Johanna, seated beside her, suddenly leaped up when Anni and Rudi slipped out through the inn’s doors with the other children.
“Mrs. Zipfelová,” Johanna gasped, and Zipfelová took off after them immediately.
“I don’t blame you,” said Gerta, “You don’t want someone like Jech or those folks from Wallachia, or even some of the locals, to get their hands on them, if they realize they’re German. I still remember how they threw a child into a field near Ledce.”
Johanna winced, not taking her eyes off the door.
“Well exactly, that’s precisely why. It’s impossible to forget. How they couldn’t care less that the child had nothing to do with anything. And those dead little bodies in that shed in Pohořelice, I’ll never forget it.”
Johanna anxiously watched the door.
Dr. Karachielashvili came over and sat down on a chair facing Gerta. She noticed him only after he was already seated.
“How are you?” he asked in German with a Viennese accent.
“I’m fine, thank you,” answered Gerta softly, also in German.
“I hope that incident didn’t affect her,” he went on in Russian, bending down toward Barbora.
Gerta shook her head.
The Georgian doctor was silent.
Zipfelová reappeared in the doorway with Anni and Rudi in tow.
“We’re being transferred to Mikulov, have you heard?”
“No.”
“Next week the whole unit is leaving. The new commissioner is only keeping two guards here. And just for a short time.”
“I see,” Gerta said.
The doctor fell silent again and rubbed the bridge of his prominent nose.
“Do you like to dance?”
“Excuse me?” asked Gerta, surprised.
“I asked if you like to dance?”
“Me? No.”
The last time she danced had been with Karel at her senior prom; they had been inseparable the whole night. She hadn’t given a single dance to anyone else. Those were moments she would never forget.
“You don’t like to dance? You don’t say. Why, you look as if you were made for dancing,” he said with a laugh.
Joker, Gerta thought to herself, and began to rock Barbora so vigorously in her arms that the tiny pupils in her white eyeballs looked up at her, startled.
“I was just thinking that we could have a little dance.”
“You know, Doctor, please don’t take this personally,” Gerta said, not even giving a smile, “but I’m not allowed to dance; I’m not even supposed to be here. Surely you have to know that Germans aren’t allowed in pubs or other similar public places? Let alone to dance. It’s only thanks to Šenk that we were able to sit here awhile, although it’s not particularly comfortable for any of us.”
Gerta broke off and motioned her head to indicate the women nearby. Dr. Karachielashvili took a deep breath and seemed about to say something.
“And even if I could dance, I still wouldn’t. First of all, I don’t know any of the music they’re playing or how to dance to it, and secondly, I don’t want to. I’m in no mood for dancing. Let me stay sitting. I’m fine right here.”
Dr. Karachielashvili looked disappointed.
“You don’t want to relax even just a little?”
“Relax?” She gave an ironic little laugh.
“Yes, just unwind a bit.”
Gerta looked at him in disbelief. “Doctor, don’t you realize that we’re here to be punished? That we’re barely tolerated? That we should be glad that, back in Pohořelice, they didn’t just kill all of us right away? Or that I should be glad that in the office a few weeks ago I wasn’t shot? I can’t relax. Until I feel like a human being again, I can’t pretend, not even for a moment, that I’m happy and feel like dancing. Can you understand that?”
Dr. Karachielashvili shrugged. “That depends on your attitude. It’s possible that you might have quite a decent future here if you stay, and if the local people get used to you. If only you’d seen how those who crossed the border in Drasenhofen fared. Or what happened to the ones who stayed in Pohořelice. Compared to them, you have a future.”
“Unless some drunk shoots me. Or rapes me, like Ula. Or stabs me, like what happened to the two from Krupa’s.”
“Well, yes,” said the doctor, “the war’s still not entirely over. But notice how people don’t want to think about it anymore.” The doctor looked around. “Now they want to think about the future, about bringing in the harvest, about having enough to eat in the winter, about things being back in order, the fact that next year they’ll be able to sow and not have to worry about a battlefront coming through and trampling their crops. Make sense? Now it’s time for living. Life is demanding its turn, and it will sweep you along. People are sick of killing. What they want now is to keep house and tend their land.”
“We’ll see,” said Gerta before turning to Johanna, who was holding on to both of her children with all of her might.
Dr. Karachielashvili stood up, pushed in his chair, gave a slight nod, and moved away.
“What’s the matter with you?” Johanna hissed at her in Czech. “If he were to take you under his wing, you’d have it made. Don’t squander your good fortune—remember you’re single!”
But Gerta just obstinately bent lower over Barbora.
“Gertrude Schnirchová, is that you?” a young woman wearing overalls and a black scarf, its hem embroidered in yellow, called out to Gerta moments later as she and the other German women were obediently making their way down the steps behind Zipfelová, leaving the village inn.
Gerta tried to remember from where she recognized that smiling face with its wide, full lips and dimpled cheeks.
“It’s me, Jana Tvrdoňová from Sterngasse. We used to live in the same building, remember?”
All at once her image surfaced in Gerta’s memory. A blonde girl, straight out of Das Deutsche Mädel magazine, with soft curls framing her doll-like face, is descending the stairs, swinging her bag in which empty milk bottles are clinking, and says hi to Gerta who is just locking the door to their apartment.
“Oh,” said Gerta softly.
“So they kicked you out too? I can’t believe it. Did they know your mother was Czech?”
Gerta shrugged.
“Why, that’s just awful, that’s what it is,” said Jana, turning to a boy of about the same age who was standing next to her, a glass of beer in his hand.
“She’s a German, right?” he asked quietly.
“Gerta, they wrote about it in Rovnost, right after you all left. They said that on our street alone, fifteen families were moved out—truly terrible. But they wrote that it had been a mistake, a misunderstanding, that those guys from the Zbrojovka factory had misunderstood. They were the ones who organized it all, you know?”
Gerta stopped and shifted Barbora to her other arm. The other women who resided with old Mrs. Zipfelová were all going by them.
“So what exactly did they write?” asked Gerta.
“They wrote that it was a mistake, that they shouldn’t have driven you all out like that. That they took it to mean expulsion, but that wasn’t exactly how it was meant, something along those lines. That what they should’ve done instead was to move you out of the city temporarily, you know, so that then you could have come back. And then the Red Cross would have resett
led you in Germany.”
“All of us?” asked Gerta, shaking her head.
Jana, taken aback, paused and shrugged. The corners of her mouth slightly drooping, she looked around for the boy.
“I don’t know, probably not all of you. Some were allowed to stay, like the Bürgers, for example; they didn’t have to go. Or the Böhringers, but then again, everyone knew they were anti-fascists.”
Gerta nodded.
“You know, you probably wouldn’t have had to go either, since your mom was Czech, right? They were just writing about it in Rovnost, saying the whole thing was totally disorganized—no one bothered to look left or right; they just made the decision to expel, and that was it. They chalked it up to that expression, When felling a forest, splinters will fly. I’m just really sorry that you ended up out here.”
“Jana, can you tell me what things are like now? Do you think I could come home, now that they’re writing about it and calling it a mistake?”
Jana uneasily slipped her hands into her pockets.
“Home where? You mean to Sterngasse? I mean, it’s called Hvězdová now.”
“What was it they wrote in the paper? When are we going to be allowed to go back?” Gerta pressed on.
“Well, they didn’t write about that. I mean, they did write that it was a mistake. But have you heard that Germans no longer have the right to own property? I would think that someone would have told you.”
Gerta looked around nervously for the other women, who were disappearing two by two into the darkness of the gardens in front of the houses.
“Nobody here has told us anything. You know we’re only here to work. So, do you have any idea what’s going to happen now? When are we going to be allowed to go back home, since the papers called it a mistake?”
Jana shook her head. “So far, they haven’t written anything about that, at least not in June or July, anyway. But I don’t know. I have a feeling that it’s not going to be possible. Someone else is already living in your apartment. You know, these days in Brno, it’s a bit like musical chairs.”
Gerta Page 21
