“About Hitler’s son, haven’t you heard?”
“And you heard it where?”
“Over the holidays, at the Krupas’. Mrs. Krupová was saying that Hitler had a son who escaped, and here they write about it. Listen,” Ida said, taking the paper from Šenk.
“From London. Special bulletin from the Reuters news agency correspondent in Nuremberg states: ‘According to reports received, the Czechoslovak police have taken into custody a twelve-year-old boy in Bohemia who may be Hitler’s son. Hitler’s official photographer, Heinrich Hoffmann, when asked to identify the twelve-year-old boy whose photograph was found among Hitler’s papers, answered that it was most likely Martin Bormann’s son. Baldur von Schirach, who introduced Eva Braun to Hitler, claims that Eva Braun never had children of her own; she liked children, however, and often had her picture taken with Bormann’s children.’
“You see?” said Ida. “That’s all we need, for that murderer to have had children.”
“But they write that it was Bormann’s son.”
“But it’s not certain. Supposedly, it’s been written about in other places, not just the Lidová demokracie paper.”
“And what do the Krupas read?”
“How should I know? Slovo národa? Or maybe she heard it on the radio. It must have been on the radio. They’ve been listening to it since the war.”
“Well now”—Zipfelová shrugged—“as long as they can afford it. We were always used to minding our own business and our own animals first, and then that little bit of a field we have, and only then start worrying about others. To invest in a radio just for that, well, it never would have occurred to me or to my late husband. And Helmut never had time for it; he had people to take care of, as you know.”
Ida turned and gave Šenk a wide-eyed look.
He cleared his throat. “All of us in the village know how much Helmut was needed. He would go wherever he was called.”
Zipfelová gave him a hard look up and down.
“And he’ll be needed again when he comes back,” she declared, and turned her face to the wall above the kitchen stove.
Ida hung her head and stared down at the tabletop as silence filled the room. A heavy, awkward silence, during which tiny beads of sweat broke out at Ida’s temples and Šenk’s otherwise-steady hands trembled, making the pages of the newspaper rustle.
“So, what else do they write?” asked Zipfelová into the dead silence, her face still turned toward the stove tucked in the corner of the room next to the worktable.
Šenk lowered his head back to the paper. “Something about a Mr. Tylínek who died in Terezín.”
“Hmm.”
“And in Selly Oak, England, a twenty-one-year-old mother gave birth to a two-headed baby.”
“What?” exclaimed Ida, horrified.
“In the Selly Oak Hospital yesterday afternoon, the wife of an American soldier gave birth to a two-headed baby. At birth, the two-headed little girl weighed two point seven kilos. The attending doctors disclosed that the father of the child had returned to America back in July, and that the child had two heads on two necks, separated above the shoulders, and both were capable of drinking and crying, as each had a set of air passages and a pulse. The child will be x-rayed later today.”
“That’s horrible,” gasped Ida. “Mother, can you imagine what would happen if I gave birth to a two-headed baby here in Perná?”
“Oh, hush,” Zipfelová snapped back at her. “That doesn’t happen to healthy women.”
Ida shifted her feet underneath her chair. “But they do say things like that happen to older women, right? The ones who didn’t manage to have their babies at the right time, when they were still young and full of strength, right?”
Zipfelová turned slowly toward her. “They do say that. Why?”
Ida just shrugged her shoulders.
“It’s extremely unlikely that the child will survive,” Šenk read, finishing the article.
“Even if it did survive, what kind of a life would it have, poor little thing?” Ida said softly.
“And over the last half year, UNRRA has delivered four hundred thousand tons of goods worth approximately one hundred and fifty million dollars. My, my, my,” Šenk said. “Listen to this.
“The United Nations Relief and Rehabilitation Association, UNRRA for short, will carry on with its activities in Czechoslovakia in the year 1946, in order to help the economy get back on track as quickly as possible. According to the plan, the UNRRA mission in Czechoslovakia will continue to import food, fuel, meat, breeding stock, cotton, and wool.
“I’d be really curious to know where all of that ended up. How many boxes did you say you got, Auntie?”
Zipfelová burst out laughing. “Well, seeing as back in August I still had a pig, I wouldn’t have been eligible for one of their boxes, right? But the black-market woman stopped by with some things in the fall. Chocolate in particular. The children went wild for it, as you can imagine.”
Šenk nodded and said, “It’s mainly for the people in the cities.”
“Oh well,” Zipfelová said. “You may remember that woman who used to come around from Brno, always looking to barter for food, and how skinny she and her two girls had gotten. Why, they were worse off than we were out here in the country.”
“That’s for sure,” Šenk said.
“You of all people have nothing to complain about.”
“Do you hear me complaining?” he said, giving old Zipfelová a smile that spread a fan of hairline wrinkles around his blue eyes.
As for Ida’s eyes, she couldn’t take them off him.
“But one of those tractors that UNRRA is supposedly distributing would come in handy. There’s one in Dunajovice. Then, come summer, we wouldn’t have to go borrowing from Mikulov,” he added.
“True, true,” agreed Zipfelka, “but now, just to go back to it, seeing as we’re all sitting here together like this. What are we going to do with them?”
Šenk cleared his throat. “I’ve been thinking it over for a long time.”
He folded the newspaper into quarters and set it down with one side lined up along the edge of the table. Then he placed his clasped hands on top of it.
“I’m not going to send them away.”
The tension in the room eased. Zipfelová let out a sigh of relief and smiled. Ida turned her gaze from Šenk to the old woman.
“I mean, not all of them,” he continued. “The ones who want to go, for God’s sake, let them go. I mean, any of those who are still here and haven’t run away, but don’t want to stay, we’re not going to hold them back. But by now, they’ve had plenty of time to think it over, and if they still want to go, knowing that there’s nothing good waiting out there for them, let them go. At least we’d be able to cross a few off.”
“That’ll be Edeltraud and Maria, those two for sure. And then a few of the ones who are in Ratíškovice now,” said Ida.
“The ones over there will figure it out for themselves,” said Šenk, “but for those who want to stay here, I’m going to vouch for them and say they’re indispensable. After all, at the end of the day, I’m no brute.”
Zipfelová advanced a few steps toward him and sat down on a chair by the table.
“You know, Hubert, I think you’re doing the right thing. And although I know what went on in this Republic, and I myself have suffered the consequences with the loss of my own son, to say that women like Johanna or Hermína, or Ula or Teresa, or Gerta, are guilty—well, I don’t think so. These here women are just as badly off as every other miserable wretch. Even worse. Now the war is over, and it took away from them, same as it took away from us, but for them it didn’t bring any new hope. We at least can start to work on our properties now, and build ourselves back up. But for them, it’s not over; they still have to work as punishment for things they didn’t do. And they have absolutely no prospects. So to send them away, to some unknown place with small children on their hands, seems inhuman to me.�
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“That’s because you’ve gotten used to having them around, Mother. I saw the way you cried when Ula, Dorla, and Teresa ran away. You don’t want to lose those children.”
Zipfelová looked at Ida reproachfully. “Don’t forget, I don’t have any others. But even so, I’d make peace with it. They’re grown women; they’ll decide what’s best for them. But notice that I talk about them as if they were people. To me, they’ve always been women with children too young to be blamed for anything, some had barely opened their eyes. But most of all, I treat them this way because of my faith, and that’s something I’m not ashamed of. They’re human beings just like we are. If they want to stay here where they feel at home, just like we do, they’re welcome to stay. If they want to go, let them go.”
“Human beings, yes,” said Šenk. “According to the decrees, they may be human beings, but they’re not citizens of this country, Auntie. You mustn’t forget that. And until the Red Cross carts them away, they’re supposed to be used for work, as we all know. And then the Republic needs to take advantage of those transports and get rid of them as soon as possible. That is to say, the ones who aren’t specialists or indispensable. And a lot more of them are going to have to go than these Brno Germans, who are already half-expelled. The old-timers are going to have to go, too—the ones who haven’t run away and are still waiting around, stuck in cramped rooms. Take the Krumpschmieds, for example. They’d certainly deserve to be allowed to stay here as specialists—after Führeder, where are you going to find a better vintner than Krumpschmied? And he was always an upstanding citizen. Yet, he may still have to go, because nobody’s going to want to vouch for him. Much less so for our women, about whom we know nothing. What do we know about whose wives or daughters they were?”
“Even if one of them had been the wife of von Neurath himself, tell me what women like that, with young children, could possibly have done to be guilty?”
“Well, maybe just for providing the next generation of Aryans, Auntie.”
“Oh, come on, enough of this nonsense. I was only joking—keep your feet on the ground. These here are ordinary women. If they weren’t ordinary, they would’ve been gone long ago. They already would have flown the coop with all their loot. These are ordinary women who probably had no idea what was going on and stayed put at home, thinking that since they hadn’t done anything to anyone, no one would do anything to them. But they were wrong, and now they’re here. And to drive them even farther away, Hubert, well, that would be unchristian and shameful.”
“That’s exactly why I’ve decided to go and register them as indispensable. Tomorrow I’m taking them to see Hanák. Would you have another cup, Auntie?”
Ida leaped up, as if she’d been waiting this whole time for Šenk to ask, and made a beeline for the stove. She grabbed the hot pot with a dishcloth, brought it over, and poured the rest of the chicory coffee into his cup.
“I have to admit that I made the decision partly because I’m also human, and it really bothered me—the idea that it depended on me, whether they’d be put on a transport and sent across the border, ending up God knows where, and possibly victims of a fate I wouldn’t wish on them, which here they might have been spared. Thank you, Ida. Besides, none of them have family over there, so they wouldn’t have a place to live, and they wouldn’t be able to find work. And then with those kids. Well, I didn’t want it on my conscience. But it was also partly because I’m a practical farmer. For this reason, Auntie, I’d suggest that until they get their Czech citizenship, we leave things as they are. In exchange for their work, they’ll get food and a roof over their heads. Right now, with those kids, that’s the most important thing for them. And it will help me, too, because there’s still plenty of work to do at my place.”
“And what about housing?”
“I’ll leave that to you, Auntie. Once the season begins, let’s say starting February, I’d be able to help you. You don’t have enough room for them here. Let’s say they pair up, and the ones you don’t have room for here can have a room at our farm. What do you say?”
Zipfelová looked relieved. No one was going to take away her little doves. It had almost killed her when she found out that Ula, Ula to whom she had devoted the most care, had skipped out, taking little Dorla with her. Who could really blame her? Who could blame a slave for wanting to be rid of her master? But how could Ula have thought that she, Zipfelová, would have tried to interfere, or wouldn’t have let her leave? Was it possible that Ula had thought she might stand in her way? As a woman, she must have realized how Zipfelová felt about her. She thought of her as the daughter she never had. At the very least she, Ula, could have said goodbye. On the other hand, had she said goodbye, Zipfelová probably would have tried to discourage her from taking the risk. And then how could Ula have been certain that Ida wouldn’t find out, and then from Ida, Hubert Šenk? Had Zipfelová found herself in the same situation, what would she have done? She would have held her tongue. The same as Ula. But still, she could have at least written a few words, gotten hold of some paper and a pencil, maybe from Gerta, and left her a farewell note. Never mind. In the end, Zipfelová knew they weren’t her women. She didn’t own them, and they weren’t going to stay here forever. But those who just might want to stay forever she would help. She would help Gerta and Johanna; she would help Edeltraud and Maria; she would help Hermína, and should any of them wish to stay, they would be welcome. Her door was open to them, and there was enough work to do at Šenk’s. In time, they could start to earn some money for it. She would look into that later on. And the little ones who called her Granny would also stay, and her cottage would be filled with humming and bustling—in place of a subdued, restrained serenity, there would be the cheerful prattle of children and women’s chitchat. She would have something to live for until Helmut returned, and her life wouldn’t be just about keeping the unhappy Ida in a cage.
“I agree. Even if Dr. Beneš and others might feel differently,” said Zipfelová, pointing her index finger meaningfully up at the ceiling, as if toward heaven. “My feeling is that it’s the right thing to do. We’ll let them stay. The ones with the children can all stay with me. I’ve gotten used to keeping an eye on them during the day. The others, or anyone who wants to, can go to your place.”
Šenk nodded.
“And one more thing.”
Both of the younger faces turned to look at her.
“I’ll go see Hanák and put in a request for the Krumpschmieds. They’re indispensable to this village. After all, there’s no better vintner around here now, isn’t that so? I hope you’ll support me.”
Šenk smiled and gave a resolute, affirmative nod.
PART III
The City, “German-Free”
I
The sun sketched shadows on the wall of the opposite building, its oblique wintry rays crisscrossing the room. The windows had no curtains, draperies, or blinds; the piercing light poured in and ricocheted off the bare white walls. In the middle of the room stood a table with a worn tabletop, next to it a single chair with a flimsy back. Spread out on the table were all of their possessions. There wasn’t much. A bundled comforter and several articles of clothing, either hand-me-downs that Gerta got from Ida, or things she’d managed to acquire over the past few years: two pairs of shoes, one for winter, one for summer, but not the rubber boots; those she’d left behind for Zipfelová—after all, what would she do with them in the city? And then Barbora’s clothing: two little blouses, a pair of corduroy pants, a white shirt that had belonged to the little Lhoták girl, a picture book given to Barbora last Christmas. In addition, their scant toiletries, two loaves of bread, and a jar of lard that Zipfelová gave them to get them through the first few days, some silverware received as a gift, a purse with her identification papers, and a little bit of money. That was all they had.
In the empty apartment, every step, every audible movement, had its own distinct sound. Pushing the chair back from the table reverberat
ed all the way to the ceiling. Every spoken word echoed against the peeling plaster of the walls and carried all the way back to the last room at the end of the hallway. Balls of dust and hair had accumulated in every corner. The walls of the three spacious rooms and the kitchen, to which scraps of torn wallpaper were still attached, suggested a well-to-do family. Who lived here before the war? Gerta wandered slowly from room to room and tried to remember. She was sure that the house next door was where Anička Goldová used to live, before she died on the sidewalk beneath her window. Even from the window of this room, her body with its contorted limbs must have been visible. On the street corner, which looked exactly as it had at the end of the war, fenced off and full of junk, used to stand Mr. Folla’s newsstand, above which later a sign went up with the name “Konrad Kinkel.” And just a little farther on, at the corner of Schöllergasse, now called Körnerova, was the house in which the Horns had lived. And then right across the street there used to be the fabric shop that had belonged to Mrs. Freibergová, the one whom Gerta had last seen with her daughter on the march of exiles. The daughter was just slightly older than Gerta, and they had been in middle school together. Even back then, she had been tough and mean, a perfect specimen of a League of German Girls Mädel. And among her schoolmates, she’d also been the one to pass around that rag, Frauen Warte, which described the proper way a German woman was supposed to dress and behave. Thinking back on it now, Gerta inwardly had to laugh. What an appalling fashion they had all rushed to emulate, herself included. She, too, had once worn a blouse embellished with Tyrolean embroidery, a dirndl, and white knee socks, of the kind that all Germans wore.
She remembered that they would often pass under the windows of this very house as they strolled up this street, then along Francouzská Street, all the way down to the park at Winterhollerplatz, today called 28 October Square, and then continue on to the Augarten, where they would promenade. Papa Friedrich with little Freddy in matching lederhosen. One bigger pair, with slightly longer trouser legs, and one smaller pair, with trouser legs that came just below Freddy’s still-childish bottom, both wearing white woolen knee socks and sturdy hiking shoes, a white shirt and a hat. Two striding heroes, for whom a dazzling future lay ahead, and who one day would take part in ruling the world. And behind them came Gerta and her mother, the rearguard, treading upon soil already conquered by the braver and cleverer members of the regiment, happy and loyal subjects gazing with reverence and awe upon their mighty champions up ahead. Gerta remembered how back then she desperately longed to walk up front with them and be in the vanguard. So desperately, in fact, that she would forget about her mother. And it would then take her mother a long time before she was able to soothe the oppressive sense of blatant injustice that Gerta perceived in the white knee socks, which for some mystifying reason she didn’t own. Had she owned a pair, she could have walked right up front alongside Friedrich and her father. Thinking back on it all now, Gerta found her mother’s attempts to console her deeply moving. She remembered how on a day following one such walk, her mother had slipped her a little package at home containing a pair of blindingly white knee-high socks. Gerta pulled them on right away, wearing them until her father came home from the office that evening. When he saw her, he gave her mother a pat on the back, and a look of triumph spread over his face. That was when Gerta began to realize that her family had split into two camps. With that condescending smirk directed at her mother’s downcast face, with which she was gazing lovingly at Gerta, eager to see her happy, he had given himself away. The white knee socks that she had so coveted and that were to have given her access to the world of her much-admired heroes suddenly began to burn her calves as if they had been knitted out of flames. At that moment, it dawned on her that the world of the elect would never include her mother. Gerta wore the knee socks just that once, and later that night cut a small hole into one of the heels, pulled the fabric apart as wide as she could, and watched with satisfaction as a run shot upward, leaving a wide unraveled line in its wake. Later on, when her mother sorrowfully asked Gerta if she wanted a new pair, Gerta said no. But that was all still before Gerta grasped that neither she nor her mother would ever be good enough for those two exalted Friedrichs. Then everything in their household changed, and Gerta could no longer remember their taking walks together. Except for that very last one, behind Mother’s coffin.
Gerta Page 24
