The German Girl

by Lily Graham

  ‘Yes.’ Even Ingrid had encountered that wall more than a few times in her childhood. She could count on one hand the personal details he’d told her over the years.

  There was a pause, and then Jonna said, ‘You know he was an orphan?’

  Ingrid’s eyes widened. ‘What?’ She hadn’t known that. ‘But that can’t be true – he told me about his parents! I’m sure he told me about his mother. She was Danish, right?’

  ‘You’re thinking of Trine. She was his aunt.’

  Ingrid blinked. ‘His aunt?’

  ‘I’m not sure of the full story but at some point, he went to live with her – I have memories of her myself, when I was little. She was kind. A great sense of humour, and a bit stern. But before that – before I was born – it’s as if all those years before never existed. You couldn’t get him to speak about it for love or money. I know I tried.’ She didn’t mention the years she’d pressed for more. The way she used to beg him. How she’d once screamed at him, ‘It’s not fair – everyone I know has a history – what’s ours? How can I know so little about my own father?’ It was only later that she’d worked out… maybe there wasn’t a history there to tell – or maybe it was just too painful – too lonely? But even so – couldn’t he have told her that? The only person he ever told her about was her mother… but that was hard too, as he’d lost her so soon after Jonna was born.

  Ingrid bit her lip. ‘That’s so tough, Mum, I’m sorry. Why didn’t you tell me about this before, though?’

  There was a deep sigh. ‘I don’t know, I should have… it just felt like he’d given me this life full of so many questions without answers. I didn’t want to do that to you too.’

  Ingrid swallowed. Her mother had been trying to spare her. ‘He loves you, though,’ she told her mother.

  ‘I know, and he was a good father too – I think he tried very hard to make my life happy, especially as for so many years he was the only person in it. I know that when you came along he mellowed a bit more; he just adored you from the start.’

  Ingrid wiped away a tear. It had been mutual; it still was.

  ‘Still, there’s so much we just don’t know. I mean… German?’

  ‘I know,’ breathed her mother. ‘Well, I always wondered… if he wasn’t involved in the war in some way.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Like, perhaps he volunteered to fight.’

  ‘You mean, join the British or something?

  ‘I honestly don’t know. I’ve just always thought that there was more to it somehow – there was something deeper driving his hatred towards them – it didn’t – doesn’t feel like the result of something passive, if you know what I mean?’

  Ingrid frowned. Thinking back to the look in his eyes when he’d shaken her as a child. It was blind panic. ‘I do.’

  It was a pigeon-coloured sky, dusted with pale stars, when Ingrid made her way to his cabin by the lake the next morning. He was sitting on the kitchen bench, his hair wild and unruly, a ceramic mug warming his hands.

  He sighed when he saw her.

  ‘So, this is what I’m in for, Inge?’ he said, as Narfi sidled up to him, waiting patiently for the old man’s heavy-handed petting, which came soon enough. ‘You’re checking up on me every minute of the day, is that right?’

  Ingrid put a knitted bag full of supplies on the kitchen table – including his favourite cake. He was more lucid this morning – and she was relieved. She looked around the kitchen, which seemed tidier too.

  ‘Not every minute, no, but checking in. Yes, Morfar. It would help us both if you would just stop fighting it.’

  He made a tutting sound, then slurped his coffee. ‘You’re always welcome to visit, Inge, but you don’t need to worry about me.’

  Ingrid tucked a strand of stray blonde hair behind her ear, then frowned. ‘Well, it’s my right, isn’t it?’

  To her surprise, that made him smile. ‘I suppose.’ Then he sighed. ‘At least you’re better than Marta. She never shuts up.’

  She shot him a look. ‘I don’t remember getting much of a word in yesterday.’

  ‘Hence why I prefer you to Marta.’

  She grinned. So it was going to be like that today. That was good. There were other encouraging signs too.

  She was glad to see that he’d kept the fire going. He’d also refilled the water butt, and eaten some toast. She’d wondered what it would mean if he couldn’t do those sorts of things himself anymore, and how long it would be before he couldn’t.

  Still, he was in desperate need of a bath, and from the way his ribs were poking out, it didn’t look like he had been eating much besides toast. The doctor had said that when someone had early dementia like him, they often forgot, until their bodies complained. Jürgen had always been a one-track-minded person, who was always too busy to stop and make himself a meal. She’d be surprised if he was eating more than once a day now. It wasn’t good.

  The truth was for this to work – for either of them – Morfar needed her to come more often. To check on things he might forget, like getting more water, going to the shops for supplies, eating, refilling the log pile.

  Which meant, like it or not, that he was going to have to get used to her.

  They had been close once, very close. She remembered him carving many wooden animals for her over the years. They were still precious to her, even now. Arctic creatures, foxes and birds, so many birds, and that bear. She still had them all. The bear was always on her nightstand. Keeping watch.

  Her grandfather had been different back then. Quiet, kept himself to himself, but he always had time for her. He was a natural hermit, not someone who went for things like midsummer celebrations or family barbecues. He wasn’t shy, just reserved. Not good at small talk. But he visited often, and they spent a lot of time together in his garden, planting seeds in the greenhouse, tending the flowerbeds in the spring and summer months, and watching the wildlife as they went on long rambling walks along the lake and through the forest. Morfar was the one who had made her fall in love with their wild northern landscape.

  They’d grown apart when her parents moved to Malmö for work. It was normal, she supposed, natural. They still spent every summer at their old cabin, though, and that’s when she saw him. The years would fall away, when they were walking in the forest together again, and she would tell him things she never dreamt of telling anyone else. When she got older, some of that ease changed. She was more interested in the boys who came down for the summer, and didn’t spare all that much time for her morfar. It was normal, she supposed, if a bit sad. He would always have a special place in her heart, however, though she regretted more than anything the distance between them. How little she really knew about his past. Despite what he said about Marta, growing up he’d always let Ingrid do most of the talking. She hoped, somehow, that she could change that now.

  But first they were going to have a second try at that bath. And for that there was one thing she knew very well about him – he had the sweetest tooth in northern Sweden.

  ‘I made a cake,’ she said, getting the tin out of her bag.

  His eyes widened. ‘The one with the cherries? The chocolate one?’

  ‘Yes.’

  He smiled.

  ‘But first you are going to have a bath.’

  He rubbed Narfi’s fur, then sighed as the dog looked at him sympathetically. ‘I should have known, boy. There’s always a catch with a woman.’

  She was towel-drying his long grey hair when it happened – he switched to German. It was so fast, and so unexpected, that Ingrid blinked.

  ‘Eh, Küken, what are we going to tell Papa about Herr Baer’s dinghy? I can’t believe it sank like that. Although’ – he started to giggle – ‘you did run it aground first.’

  Ingrid paused towelling his hair. Should she just go with it… try to learn more?

  ‘I ran it aground?’ she asked, responding in German.

  He swivelled to look at her, then grinned, his
voice rising in pitch. ‘Well, technically, we both did, I was the one trying to make those waves in the canal, so it was both of us. It always is, isn’t it?’

  ‘What?’ she asked.

  ‘The two of us getting into scrapes, Küken, being twins.’

  ‘Twins?’ breathed Ingrid.

  He looked at her as if she were mad, then, still in his young voice, said, ‘Course we’re twins – how hard did you hit your head, Asta, to have forgotten about me?’

  3

  ‘Asta?’ Ingrid repeated.

  The towel was ripped from her hands. The blood had run completely from his face, making his eyes wild, and starkly blue, as he stared at her in utter shock. ‘What did you just say?’ he breathed, so softly, so laced with feeling that she actually flinched.

  ‘I – I—’ she began, her mouth turning dry. ‘You were talking about someone named Asta.’

  The look in his eyes was full of pain, and accusation.

  He stood up, fast, and put on his clean shirt. ‘I don’t know anyone by that name.’

  Ingrid stared at him, concerned. The change that had come over him was astonishing.

  ‘You said she was your twin,’ she breathed.

  He started pacing erratically, breathing heavily as he beat his hands against his head. ‘What are you doing to me? Why are you trying to get inside my head? Stop it, just stop this. I don’t want you here – prying!’

  ‘Morfar?’ she asked, starting to shake. ‘Please, stop it – stop it, you’re hurting yourself! I’m sorry you’re so upset!’

  ‘Get out!’ he cried, picking up her knitted bag and throwing it on the other side of the cabin. ‘Get out, get out of my house, now!’

  Tears slipped out of her eyes. ‘Please, Morfar – can’t we just—?’

  He actually growled, and Ingrid took a wary step back.

  Seeing her fear, his face crumpled. He rubbed both hands across his cheeks. He looked like he was ready to cry.

  Ingrid felt as if she were standing on quicksand.

  ‘Please just… go, Ingrid,’ he said.

  When she made no move to go, he hunched his shoulders. ‘Fine, I’ll leave,’ he said softly, then made his way slowly up the stairs to the small room at the top of the cabin, and closed the door.

  Ingrid and Narfi watched him go. Even the dog looked sad.

  She had so much to think about as she made her way back to her cabin, through the snowy woods. She switched on her headlamp as she trudged laboriously through the thick snow. In the distance, she heard a lonely owl. Was it night-time already?

  She pressed her mittened thumb into the top of her thigh, where the muscle was burning from taking steps in her heavy snow boots. She had city legs still, and they would need to toughen up. She sighed. It wasn’t just her body that would need to toughen up if she were to survive here.

  She had all these plans, before she moved here, of spending her time wisely, getting time to write stories – finally finish the novel she’d started writing twelve years before, but the strange thing was, the only story she was interested in thinking about was Morfar’s.

  How could he not have told her that he had a twin sister? Did her mother know – surely, she must? And if so why never mention her at all? A sibling was an important part of a life, but a twin – wasn’t that even more special? It was all caught up together, somehow – his aversion to speaking German, this twin – something happened to him, to them, she was sure of it.

  When she got back to the cabin she phoned her mother to ask about it all, pouring herself a glass of wine, as she sat in front of the telephone, twisting the cord in her fingers. Her mother picked up on the third ring and Ingrid launched into telling her everything that happened.

  ‘No, that can’t be right,’ Jonna breathed when she mentioned a twin called Asta. ‘He told me he was an only child.’

  Ingrid blinked. Her wine glass poised at her lips. ‘He did?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘But it seemed so certain – the way he was speaking, it was like he was a little boy again, and talking to her – it was just… so surreal, and afterwards when he was lucid again, well, I asked him—’

  Jonna gasped. ‘You asked him?’

  ‘Course I did! I want to know – we have a right, don’t we? Well, he just got so upset. At first he was in a rage and then, well, it just looked like he was about to cry.’

  Ingrid blinked; it had been torture seeing him like that.

  There was silence at the other end, but Ingrid felt a jolt of pain travel from the other end of the line towards her.

  Jonna was still searching for some kind of logical explanation. ‘Maybe it was because he’d got so confused…’

  ‘No, I don’t think so – I think she was real, I don’t think you could make up something like that.’

  Jonna let out a heavy breath. ‘No, maybe not. Do you want me to come – try to get to the bottom of this? Maybe this is too much, my darling.’

  ‘No – no, I’ll be fine,’ Ingrid refused. She thought it wise not to mention the part where Morfar had thrown her out.

  She knew what her mother would do – she would push him too hard, ask too many questions. It would be her right, of course, but it would only make him clam up even more. Ingrid felt that on some level, her own way – responding to his own rhythms – might be the best way to coax it out, gently. She hoped so, anyway.

  She thought about the story of the dinghy and a smile flitted about her lips. She wanted to know more. What had happened to them? Why wouldn’t he tell her? And why was it that when Ingrid had said Asta’s name, he’d almost fallen apart?

  Ingrid sat up thinking for hours, watching the play of lights of the aurora borealis from her kitchen window: the deep blanket of stars above the canopy of tall, snow-capped birches in the distance. She stroked Narfi’s long soft fur, while he gently snored beside her. ‘He’s going to be impossible when we go there tomorrow, you know that, right?’

  The dog sighed in his sleep.

  She took that as a yes.

  It was even worse than she’d feared. She was expecting to find him in a similar state to the first few occasions that she’d visited. Swearing and surly. Mean and impossible. Instead she found him, upstairs, crying.

  It broke her heart to see it.

  ‘Morfar?’ she whispered in horror.

  ‘No, Inge, don’t come up here,’ he called, stifling his sobs.

  She rushed forward, and put her arms around him.

  He sat up, slowly. ‘Oh, Inge,’ he said, looking ashamed.

  ‘What is it?’ she asked, sitting with him on the bed. He sat up and put his head in his hands for a moment, desperately looking for a way to make light of something they both knew he couldn’t. ‘It’s nothing, just an old man with some regrets, that’s all.’

  ‘Regrets?’ she breathed.

  ‘You know they say you should never die with them, but that’s life, you’re always going to have some.’

  She blinked. Her heart started to thud, knowing that she was pushing him by asking, risking having him throw her out of his cabin again, but perhaps now was the time for it, when he was so raw, so exposed. Perhaps he needed a little push? And if not now, when?

  ‘Is this about – Asta, your sister?’

  He blew out his cheeks; tears rolled down his face, which he wiped quickly away. ‘Inge – please, just don’t start this again—’

  Suddenly all her promises to tread gently, to go with his rhythms, to not be like her mother, forever questioning, were abandoned, as she pushed hard and fast, the words slipping out in a tumble, to be regretted almost instantly.

  ‘Why? Why have you never spoken about her before? Why didn’t you tell us about her – about your life from back then, we have a right to know!’

  ‘För fan i helvete! You are as bad as your mother. I said I don’t want to speak about it, now drop it!’ He was angry, but his lips were trembling, and fresh tears coursed down his old cheeks; the sight was like a blade tw
isting in her heart.

  Ingrid hadn’t meant to pry, but this wasn’t usual – to have the old man crying like this – she couldn’t just let that go. So she swore back.

  He looked surprised.

  ‘Yes, I can swear too, I’m not some little child anymore, Morfar – you can speak to me. You can tell me what happened.’ A tear rolled down her cheek. ‘We were close once, you and I. Can’t we be that again? Can’t you tell me what’s making you so upset? Just tell me, I won’t break.’

  Morfar stared at her for some time. His lips shook again. ‘You won’t, but I might.’

  She swallowed.

  He rubbed his hands over his eyes. ‘I haven’t spoken about it – in years. I—’

  There was a thudding sound on the stairs and Narfi bounded up, looking for them. Morfar stood, wiping his eyes. He looked at the dog, whose limpid brown eyes demanded to know why he had been left behind. The old man patted his head. ‘Let’s go make some coffee, I need it for this.’

  Ingrid frowned, regretting the interruption, but followed after him. She watched her grandfather’s long-legged form as it went down the stairs, so very carefully. She could remember him taking them two at a time when she was little. The way he’d throw a smile over his shoulder, his blue eyes twinkling at her, while he waited for her to catch up. He’d never looked old to her before, until now.

  As the kettle began to boil, Morfar stood staring out the window, looking utterly forlorn. The sight made her heart clench – what right did she have to his memories – to his painful past; it was his, wasn’t it? She wanted to know about it more than anything, but not if it was going to hurt him this much – never that. Even her mother, who so desperately wanted him to unburden himself too, would baulk at putting him in pain to hear it – especially with her tender heart.

  Ingrid sighed. ‘Look. Morfar, we don’t have to do this. I’m sorry I pushed, you know, Ben – my ex? – well, he used to call me his stubborn mountain goat. I’m sorry that I was prying.’