“Mein Gott, Joe wasn't caught, was he?”
“No, I'm right here,” said Joe, emerging from the back room. “We made it back about a half-hour ago.”
Loremarie glanced from me to Joe. “What about… ?
“Anton'll be all right.”
Dieter headed for the bar, saying, “That is, if he's smart and doesn't try to make it the rest of the way until dark. He was foolish to come out at all. How are we supposed to stay alive with the likes of him and an American wandering about?”
I saw Loremarie's mind clicking, wondering what she should do. Stay here a while longer, see what she could do for Eva? Or head back, see if Anton had returned? At all.
“What about the patrol?” asked Joe. “Did they bother you?”
“Nee,” responded Loremarie. “Not really.”
Mother took off her coat. “They…they filled the grave for us.”
Oh, I thought, sitting at the table. So they weren't all bad. Never mind that they would have killed Joe and Anton.
Loremarie mumbled something about potatoes and water for coffee and getting something hot in us, and she slipped into the little kitchen area behind the piano. Meanwhile, Dieter went to the bar and poured two glasses of brandy, one for mother and one for himself.
“And what about you, Willi?”
I was just sitting there, staring at the floor. All of me felt numb, like I'd lost control of my body and I'd never be able to move again. No, I was stone. Cold, hard stone. And I was wondering if it was too early to look for my brother's ghost.
A big something descended next to me. “Willi?”
Joe. He put an arm around me, pulled me close to him.
“What's he doing, Willi? Think. With the knowledge you have as an adult and with what you've learned in therapy, imagine what's going through Joe's mind.”
As he wrapped himself around me, I suddenly heard his voice. No, not his voice. His mind. I could hear it, plainly, clearly, and Joe was thinking how he wished he could bring Erich back to life, how he wished he could get us all out of this hole and up to the mountains. But, I knew, Joe could do none of that, and that's when I sensed Joe thinking that it was his fault. That there was something he could have done, should have done.
Wait, no! It was my fault, not Joe's. It was my job to protect Erich, and… and…
“Willi, death is only simple for those who die.”
And Erich was dead. So would his ghost return to haunt me, torment me for not saving him?
“No, but his death has already started to fester within you, and you need to clean that wound so that it can heal. Joe would like to help you, wouldn't he?”
Joe held me tight, he really did, and kissed me on the cheek. He didn't speak, but via some mystical loudspeaker I could hear his mind. He was thinking how sorry he was about Erich, how much I, Willi, loved Erich, and how much I would miss him forever and ever.
“Now let yourself do the grieving that you both want and need. You've waited a long time to express how much you feel for Erich and how sad you are about his death.”
A cry popped out of me like a cork from a bottle of champagne. A bad bottle, for out of me came not bubbles of happiness, but an explosion of sorrow. I hung onto Joe and cried for my little brother. For all that wouldn't be. I snapped, and realized that even if I came to accept Erich's death, I was forever broken. Willi, the steppke, would never be again. I'd thought myself and all around me whom I loved invincible, but now I realized how at risk I and they truly were.
Out of nowhere came a sharp crash of glass smashing against stone. Then immediately another. And another. Joe and I jerked apart. Spinning, I saw my mother, a ball of fury, leaning against the bar and hurling glass after glass at the stone wall. Her face was covered by rivulets of tears, and her agony and pain and anger came screaming out in lioness cries. Only a few meters away, Dieter sipped his brandy and watched as if this were some great sport and Mother its master.
“Eva!” shouted Joe, jumping up.
Loremarie came rushing out of the kitchen area, only to duck as a glass skimmed her head.
“Verdammt noch mal!” Damn-it, Mother screamed.
She grabbed another glass, brought back her arm, and threw the tumbler through the air. It smacked like a crystal bomb against the wall. Then she reached for a bottle of Schultheiss beer. But Joe was quicker. He charged up behind her, grabbed the bottle from her hand. Spun her around.
“Let me go!” she cried, beating on him.
But Joe wouldn't. She beat on his shoulders, grabbed his hair. Then he caught her completely, his arms locking her arms at her side. As if she were being electrocuted, she opened her mouth and screamed, her pain long and high. Finally, she collapsed into Joe and began to sob deeply.
“Mein Gott, mein Gott!” she wailed. “Why kleiner Erich? Why my baby?”
I watched as Joe clutched her, hugged her, rocking back and forth. He took deep breaths, made hushing noises. Finally, all was quiet. Only the sound of potatoes frying in the back room.
Something tinkled, soft and melodically. The sound expanded, filled the bar and our ears. Dieter, I realized, was playing the piano. Some American jazz tune, very slow and drawn out. I think it was “Begin the Beguine,” and I watched Mother and Joe begin to tilt and sway. She pressed right up to him, and I realized, yes, they were dancing. Joe's eyes drifted shut and he pulled her closely to him. Dancing. It made me happy to see them so close and finally in harmony. It lasted only a few short minutes, however. Almost looking frightened, Mother broke away from my hoped-for father, pushing herself back, twisting away.
“Eva…” called Joe, reaching out for her.
She shrugged him off with a scowl. Stepping over bits of glass, she went to the bar and poured herself something to warm a place that none of us could touch.
With Dieter still poking at the piano, Mother's body started to drift with the music. With a quick pitch of her wrist, she downed one glass of brandy, poured herself another, emptying the bottle. Then turned around, eyes closed, hips swaying to the languid tune. She sipped on her glass, raised a hand and marked the music in the air as Dieter hit key after key.
Then Dieter changed melodies and of course Mother followed, for this song had caught not only the Vaterland, but the whole world. With lyrics by a little Hamburg poet, it was the most German song my mother ever sang.
“Bei der Kaserne, vor dem grossen Tor,” chanted Mother, “steht ‘ne Laterne, und steht sie nock davor, da woll'n wir uns wiederseh'n, bei der Laterne woll'n wir steh'n, wie einst, Lili Marleen.”
Forgetting about the war, about my little brother, I listened as Mother sang about a man waiting for Lili Marleen, a woman no one had ever known. And I thought how the world would never know my mother's voice, either. A voice that was more rich than Lale Andersen's—whose gramophone version of the same song was broadcast so frequently—but a voice so less valued, buried here in this bar. This was Mother's pain. She had something to sing, and besides us, no one would truly hear her.
Mid-song Mother took a sip of brandy, and it clouded her throat. She opened her mouth, but what emerged was out of pitch and painfully flat. Then of course, Erich began to drip back in. And the SS and the Russians and the bombs. All this seeped back into the world, and I felt myself plummeting. Mother had always been able to transport people with her song, but no longer. She reached for one more note and her voice cracked painfully.
“Oh, crap,” she said, forcing a laugh.
Giggling, she waltzed behind the bar and swooped down like a drunken bird. Emerging with a fresh bottle of brandy, she twisted open the top and poured herself more. I started to step forward, wanting nothing more than to bash that drink out of her hand. I moved forward, but then Joe stuck out a hand. Halted me in place.
Approaching her, he said, “Eva, let's have some coffee.”
“What? Nee. Sorry, I'm all out of cognac, but try some of this, Joe. It's my last bottle!”
“Don't you think you've had too much?�
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She scowled at him, shook her head. “Aren't you the judgmental American.”
“Eva…”
“I mean, really, look at you! Now come on, have a drink with me. Let's have some fun!”
She gulped down her glass, then started to refill it. Missed. Chuckled at the pancake puddle on the bar. Tried again. This time the brandy flowed into the glass, which she then lifted to Joe's face.
“Here, have some!”
“Eva, stop it!”
“Oh, Joe baby, you used to be fun!” She shrugged. “Well, sometimes.”
Joe grabbed the bottle from her. She looked at him and giggled. Then she downed her glass and held it out, a puffy schoolgirl frown on her face.
“Can't I please have some more, Liebchen?”
Watching my mother, I caught my breath. Looked down at the floor. What was going to become of her? How would her story end? She would never, I sensed, recover from the war. Too much was broken and lost. This person would never be right again. I looked over at my own mother and couldn't see any future in those cloudy eyes. She'd fallen and she herself was making sure she'd never get up again.
“You've had enough,” said Joe. “You need something to eat and a cup of coffee.”
“Nee, I want more brandy!”
Joe backed away. “Eva…”
“Give me that bottle!”
She lunged at Joe, and he jabbed his hand out, smacked her in the chest and pushed her away. His face all tense, he clutched the booze, obviously not about to surrender it. That much and more was clear. I was on my feet, suddenly afraid for my mother.
“That's mine!” she said.
“You're drunk!” shouted Joe, flushed with anger.
“You're a piece of shit!”
I was shaking. Watching them, I realized something I'd never known.
“What are you sensing about their relationship Willi?”
Joe could hurt my mother. In fact, he wanted to hurt her. In his face I saw all this pain. Pain she'd caused him. I saw Joe's body turn rigid, and knew that he wanted to reach out, strike her with a hard fist, knock her down. There was a part of him that hated her. I didn't know exactly what had happened between the two of them before the war, but I was certain now that Joe had gotten all tangled up in my mother's melodic fantasies. To capture his attention, she'd probably plied him with her booze and song, ensnared him, and he wanted her. All of her. But that was too much, more than she could give, and he hated her for that. For pulling him so close that he could never get away, while at the same time forever rejecting him.
With deadly anger spitting out of his body, Joe said, “You bitch!”
Attempting to defuse the situation, I charged over and grabbed the bottle of brandy from Joe's hands. Just as quickly, I turned and hurled it with all my strength. Like the glasses my mother had broken, the bottle shot missile-like through the air and shattered on the stone.
“Willi!” screamed Mother.
I moved away, stepping backward as she rushed the wall and stared in disbelief at the dripping brandy. Then she turned to me, eyes boiling. I tensed as if about to be shot because I knew what she wanted to say.
“Stay with this. There's something you need to learn.”
Of course she wanted to tell me how much she hated me, how much I'd ruined her life. And more than that, she wanted to tell me how it should have been me, me who was toasted instead of her precious Erich! I saw the words come right to the tip of her lips, but at the last moment she turned, fired on Joe instead.
“God knows why I just don't turn you in and let the authorities butcher you!” she said.
“So that's only how you feared she felt toward you. She didn't actually say—”
Laughter splattered our bunker. God, she was laughing and Erich had only been in the grave an hour or two. Coy amusement bubbling out of her, Mother sauntered over to the bar, and from behind lifted a small black phone.
“That was only my last bottle of brandy. Certainly not the last in Berlin.” She fired a smile at me. A piercing, mean smile. “I know where I can get more. Even more cognac. And soon.”
When she lifted the receiver to her ear, however, her smile melted. She tapped the button on the phone a couple of times. Nothing. Then again and again. A storm of anger swept across her face.
“Scheisse!” she shouted.
She hit the button several more times, but apparently was still unable to get a dial tone. Red with frustration, she swept the phone from the bar and it crashed on the floor. Mother glanced at it, then burst again into laughter.
“There, now it really won't work!” proclaimed Mother.
Watching from the kitchen doorway, a black frying pan of potatoes in her hand, Loremarie said, “Oh, Evchen.”
“Guess I'll just have to go out and get some more!” She turned to me. “Willi! Willi, fetch me my coat.”
I froze in a tight spasm. The last thing my mother needed, of course, was more booze. And the last thing I wanted was to go poking around looking for it.
“No,” said Joe.
“Evchen… Evchen,” began Loremarie, “why don't you just stay here for a while? Let's have something to eat. We'll go out later.”
“What?”
“You shouldn't go out,” said Joe, flatly.
“That's right.” Loremarie held up the potatoes. “Food will be good for us all. It's been a terrible morning.”
Mother shook her head, waved away Loremarie and her food.
“Don't be ridiculous. Willi, now fetch me my coat! Come on, we're going!”
I was too tired to fight, and I turned, saw her brown coat and fur trimmed hat lying on a stool.
Joe stopped me, saying, “No, Eva, I won't let you go.”
“What?” She stared at him for a moment, then broke her disbelief with still more laughter. “Oh, Joe, you're so ridiculous.”
“No.”
She shook her head, started across the room. Almost like a quick dance, Joe spun out in front of her and caught her by the wrist.
“Eva—”
Just as quickly something dropped between them. A round pole. No, a crutch. Dieter's bitter crutch drawn out like a sword.
“Let her go,” he demanded.
Balancing on one leg and one crutch, Dieter stood poised to lunge, his stubbly beard rough and ugly. More than just tolerating Mother and her antics, he'd always been extremely protective of her. She was, I knew, the only woman in his life, and he took delight in kissing her and having her kiss and flirt with him. But there was something else. He needed her for some terrible reason that filled him with a dark and deep fury.
“Dieter,” said Joe, “she shouldn't go out. She doesn't need more drink.”
“It's none of your business. Now let her go.”
“Bring in your awareness, Willi. What else do you know about Dieter?”
There was a secret. I was supposed to forget, pretend I'd never seen it. I was very little when it happened, and Mother said we'd all be sent to prison if I ever mentioned it. So I had to forget.
“But years later it's all right to remember because you're just trying to understand. Nothing will happen now. It's safe for the truth to be clear.”
I was very young, only four or five. Dieter had been off in the army, but then he came back on leave for a few days. This was before the Pension burned down and before Dieter lost his leg. And I was looking for Mother all over the inn. So I went upstairs. No mother on the second floor. No mother on the third. I kept going up and up until I reached the top floor, where I heard noises coming from the front room, the big bedroom with the curving balcony. There wasn't anyone staying there, so I thought Mother was cleaning. I tried the door but it was locked. I looked through the keyhole… and that's when I saw him. Dieter. He heard me at the door and he looked up. His face was all tense, as if the enemy had just surprised him. He was in bed with someone.
“With whom?”
I don't know. I couldn't really see the face.
“
Think, Willi. Go back and picture yourself looking through that keyhole. What did she look like?”
She? She? Dieter wasn't in bed with a woman, he was in bed with another man! I saw them in that top floor room, the two of them under the sheets. Mother came rushing up the stairs only seconds later and pulled me away. I wasn't supposed to ever, ever talk about this, she said. If I did we'd all be punished. And that's when I understood. Somehow I put it all together. Ever since Mother's grandfather had thrown her out, Dieter had given her shelter. In return Mother gave him more than just someone to help run the Pension. She gave him his alibi. With Mother around to laugh and kiss and flirt with, no one ever questioned Dieter, no one ever made him wear a pink triangle. That something terrible pent up in Dieter was, of course, his sexuality. And now he was afraid Joe was going to ruin everything, throw their delicate world off balance, send it careening out of control.
Joe said, “Dieter, I—”
“I said, let go of her!”
Mother's mouth tightened into a flat smile, and she twisted her wrist free. Her sauntering body said: See? See?
“Eva, please. Just wait a minute, would you?” Joe turned back to Dieter. “Can't you tell I'm worried about her? Can't you see I'm only trying to help?”
“She had enough of your help before the war.”
Stiffening yet more, Joe demanded, “What does that mean?”
“It means I'm only sorry the Gestapo didn't get you.”
Joe lunged forward, his arms plowing into Dieter, hurling him back. Dieter lost his balance, skipped and tumbled against a column, where he caught himself. And I wondered, was it true? Was Joe really responsible for my mother's long, fiery plunge, which had yet to end?
“You fascist piece of shit,” said Joe, marching toward him.
Dieter grinned. “She loathes you, you know. I mean, really loathes you.”
I watched from the side as Joe went flying through the air, arms out, ready to grab Dieter by the neck and rip out his throat. Just as quickly, Dieter's crutch came swinging around. Caught Joe in the side. The wind batted out of him, Joe missed a step, but still managed to lunge out and seize Dieter by one arm. Brought him twisting down to the stone floor. Fists were brandished and swung, Joe striking Dieter squarely in the shoulder. Dieter, all the force of his body having risen to his arms, responded with a punch to Joe's jaw, knocking the American flat on the floor. I stepped from the side, ready to reach out, take sides. But which?
Deadfall in Berlin Page 16
