At the Wolf's Table
Page 27
My hunger for air became unbearable, I had to get out. On impulse I grabbed Elfriede’s wedding ring, clenched it in my fist, and ran away.
47
On my return I find Gregor alone again, his eyes closed. I sit down beside him, like I used to at night in Pauline’s room. Without opening his eyes he says, “Forgive me, I didn’t mean to make you angry.”
How could he tell I was the one who had come in?
“Don’t mind me, I’m a little emotional today.”
“You came to visit me, you wanted a moment of peace between us, but it’s not easy to know my time is running out.”
“I’m so sorry, Gregor.”
All I want is to touch him. To cover his hand with mine. He would feel the warmth, and that would be enough.
Gregor opens his eyes, turns. He’s serious, or lost, or desperate—I can’t read him anymore.
“You shut yourself off, you know?” He smiles with all the sweetness he can muster. “It’s hard to live with someone who shuts herself off.”
I dig my nails into my palms, clench my teeth.
I once read in a novel that there’s no place where people are so abysmally silent as in German families. After the end of the war I couldn’t let it be known that I had worked for Hitler; I would have paid the price, might not have survived. I didn’t even tell Gregor, not because I didn’t trust him—of course I trusted him. But I couldn’t have told him about the lunchroom in Krausendorf without telling him about who had eaten with me every day: a girl with blotchy skin, a woman with broad shoulders and a sharp tongue, one who had had an abortion, and another who believed she was a witch, a young woman obsessed with movie stars, and a Jew. I would have to tell him about Elfriede, my sin. The one that outdid all the others in my inventory of sins and secrets. I couldn’t confess to him that I had trusted in a Nazi lieutenant, the very man who sent her to a camp, the very man I loved. I never said anything and never will. I never tried to contact any of them either. The past doesn’t go away, but there’s no need to dredge it up; you can try to let it rest, hold your peace. The one thing I’ve learned from life is survival.
“The more I told you that you were shutting yourself off, the more you closed up on me. You’re doing it right now.” Gregor coughs again.
“Please drink something.”
I pick up the glass, hold it to his mouth, and remember when I would do it in Pauline’s room, remember the frightened look on his face. Gregor rests his lips against the glass and focuses on the act, as though it takes great effort, while I hold his head up. I’ve never touched his head without hair before. For so many years I haven’t touched my husband.
The water dribbles down his chin and he pushes the glass away.
“You don’t want any more?”
“I’m not thirsty.” He wipes his lips with his hand.
I take the tissue out of my pocket, dab his chin dry. At first he flinches, then lets me do it. The tissue is spotted with red, and Gregor notices. He looks at me with unbearable tenderness.
48
The dinner cart fills the hallway with noise and aromas. The attendants enter, Agnes is behind them. They give her the tray, she puts it on the nightstand and thanks them. When they move to the next room, she tells me, “Rosa, we couldn’t find you. Everything all right?”
“Yes, I have a slight headache, that’s all.”
“Margot wanted to say goodbye to you, she had to run. In any case they’re going to send us all home pretty soon.”
She tears off a paper towel, tucks it into the collar of his blue pajamas like a napkin, sits down very close to the bed, and feeds Gregor, slowly. From time to time she puts the spoon down to wipe his mouth. He sucks down the broth, smacking his lips, at times sinks his head into the pillow to rest—even eating tires him. Agnes minces the chicken into tiny pieces, I sit on the other side, across from her.
Gregor gestures, letting Agnes know he’s full, and she says, “I’m going to go wash my hands in the bathroom.”
“All right.”
“After that I’m going home. Are you sure you don’t want to come, at least to have something to eat?”
“I’m not hungry, thanks.”
“Well, if you get hungry later on, there’s the hospital cafeteria. The doctors and nurses eat there, but also the patients’ families. It doesn’t cost much and the food is decent.”
“Maybe you could show me where it is.”
I’m left alone with Gregor. I’m exhausted.
Outside, the sky is shifting. Sunset takes all the time it needs, then speeds up, collapses.
“If I had died in the war,” he says, “our love would have survived.”
I know it’s not true.
“As if love were even the point.”
“Then what is, Rosa?”
“I don’t know, but I know you’ve just said something foolish. Old age doesn’t agree with you.”
It sounds like he’s coughing, but he’s laughing. It makes me laugh too.
“We gave it all we got, but we didn’t make it through.”
“We spent a few years together—that’s not bad. And afterward you had the chance to have a family.” I smile. “You did good to stay alive.”
“But you’re alone. For such a long time, Rosa.”
I caress his cheek. He has skin like crepe paper—rough. Or maybe my fingertips are. I’ve never caressed my husband’s cheek as an old woman, have never known what it feels like.
I slide two fingers over his lips, trace them delicately, then stop in the center and press gently, very gently. Gregor opens his mouth, parts it slightly, and kisses them.
* * *
THE SELECTION IN the hospital cafeteria is quite wide. There are steamed vegetables—carrots, potatoes, string beans, spinach—and sautéed vegetables, like zucchini. There are peas with bacon and stewed beans. There’s pork shank and also grilled chicken breast. Soup and breaded flounder fillets, perhaps with mashed potatoes. Fruit salad, yogurt, even a pastry with raisins, though I never ate raisins again.
A dish of string beans, some mineral water, and an apple are all I order. I’m not hungry. At the cashier’s, along with cutlery they give me two slices of whole wheat bread and a prepackaged pat of butter. I look for a free place. There are many. Walking around the tables of faded turquoise Formica—empty, greasy, or covered with crumbs—are men and women wearing white jackets, shuffling their rubber clogs, trays in hand. Before choosing a place, I want to figure out where they’re going to sit. I find a relatively clean table that’s relatively far away from them.
I steal glances at the other people sitting in the room, though from this distance I can’t see very well. Who knows if someone else is eating what I’m eating tonight? I peek at everyone’s trays and finally spot her. A young brunette woman, her hair gathered in a ponytail, is savoring a serving of string beans. I raise a forkful from my plate, taste it, and feel my heartbeat slowing. Modest bites, one after the other, until my stomach pulls. A slight nausea—nothing, really. Resting my hands on my belly to warm it, I sit there, motionless. Almost no one’s around, only a soft murmur to be heard. I wait awhile, perhaps an hour, then get up.
Notes and Acknowledgments
In September 2014, I read a short Italian newspaper article about Margot Wölk, Hitler’s last living food taster. Frau Wölk had never told anyone about her experience, but at the age of ninety-six she decided to make it public. At once, I was eager to learn more about her and her experience. A few months later, when I tracked down her address in Berlin with the intention of sending her a letter to ask to meet her, I learned that she had recently passed away. I would never be able to talk to her, nor tell her story. I could, however, try to discover why it had struck me so deeply. And so I wrote this novel.
I thank Tommaso Speccher for his supervision on historical facts.
Thanks to Ilaria Santoriello, Mimmo Summa, Francesco D’Ammando, and Benedetto Farina for their scientific advice.
Witho
ut Vicki Satlow’s support this novel would never have been written. I dedicate it to her. And to Dorle Blunck and Simona Nasi, who helped me right from the start. Finally, I dedicate it to Severino Cesari, who had read everything I had ever written, but wasn’t fated to read this novel.
Recommend
At the WOLF’S TABLE
for your next book club! Reading Group Guide available at www.readinggroupgold.com
About the Author
Rosella Postorino is an internationally bestselling Italian author. She speaks English, French, and German. At the Wolf’s Table is her first novel to be translated into English, and it won the Premio Campiello, one of Italy’s most important literary awards. You can sign up for email updates here.
Originally from Chicago, translator Leah Janeczko has lived in Milan since 1991 and for more than twenty years has been an Italian-to-English translator specializing in fiction for all ages.
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Contents
Title Page
Copyright Notice
Dedication
Part One
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Part Two
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Part Three
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Notes and Acknowledgments
About the Author
Copyright
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
AT THE WOLF’S TABLE. Copyright © 2018 by Rosella Postorino. Translation copyright © 2019 by Leah Janeczko. All rights reserved. For information, address Flatiron Books, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.
www.flatironbooks.com
Cover photographs: woman © Aurelia Frey / plainpicture; German ration card © Interfoto / Alamy
The Library of Congress has cataloged the print edition as follows:
Names: Postorino, Rosella, author. | Janeczko, Leah, translator.
Title: At the wolf’s table: a novel / Rosella Postorino; translated from the Italian by Leah Janeczko.
Other titles: Assaggiatrici. English
Description: First U.S. edition. | New York: Flatiron Books, 2019.
Identifiers: LCCN 2018030162 | ISBN 9781250179142 (hardcover) | ISBN 9781250229151 (international, sold outside the U.S., subject to rights availability) | ISBN 9781250179159 (ebook)
Classification: LCC PQ4916.O88 A9413 2019 | DDC 853/.92—dc23
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2018030162
eISBN 9781250179159
Our ebooks may be purchased in bulk for promotional, educational, or business use. Please contact the Macmillan Corporate and Premium Sales Department at 1-800-221-7945, extension 5442, or by email at MacmillanSpecialMarkets@macmillan.com.
Originally published in Italy in 2018 as Le assaggiatrici by Feltrinelli
First U.S. Edition: January 2019
First International Edition: January 2019