by Steven Uhly
They drank tea and ate cakes. Selma and Mosche talked about people they knew, they settled on a few names, then Selma got a pen and some paper and jotted the addresses down.
When Lisa said goodbye she was hugged as warmly and tightly as if she were their own daughter.
Then she walked again through the new spring, feeling secure in the expanse of the world.
She stayed two more days with Herr Weiss and her grandmother, again from the window she saw Maria Kramer, teetering over the cobbles on her way to work in Clementstrasse in the red-light district, again she said to her grandmother, You ought to look for this Kleinert, and Frau Kramer knew what Lisa meant by it.
On the morning of the third day it was raining, although it was no longer a cold gray rain, but a fresh shower, the earth was fragrant, it smelled of fertility and growth. Of departure.
Tobias had left for Hamburg early that morning. They had embraced, Come and visit me, Lisa! You bet I will! Then he was gone and Lisa went down to the third floor to have breakfast with her grandmother.
Afterward the two women made their way to the station. Maria would be coming home soon, And so we’ve got a little more time, Frau Kramer said.
They walked through the city, Lisa had taken her grandmother’s arm to allow both of them to fit beneath the umbrella. She was carrying a small suitcase in her right hand and a rucksack on her back.
The two women crossed Holstenbrücke, they glanced at the Trave, which looked the same as ever and yet was always different, they passed the Holstentor, standing there broad and pointy, as if this could never change, they continued across the large, rectangular expanse of grass beyond, Lisa turned and stared at the city with its pointed red gables, its soaring pale-green towers, its people who now, on Monday morning, May 2, 1966, were going about their daily routines. My home? she thought, bewildered, and turned back to see the curve of Puppenbrücke up ahead with its allegorical statues on the low walls to the left and right, gleaming in the rain like a guard of honor to bid her goodbye. Dear River God, she thought as they passed the hunched figure with his oar, please steer my little boat well!
Soon after the bridge, the station with its squat towers came into view slightly to the right. The women were gripped by a sense of urgency, even though there was still time. Have you got your ticket? Yes, Grandma. You didn’t forget anything at home, did you? At home. Lisa gave her grandmother an affectionate look, No, Grandma, nothing.
The train had already pulled in, a hefty, red diesel engine, behind it the long row of carriages, creamy-white on top, dark-blue below. The engine steamed with heat and moisture, the carriages dripped, the doors were open, You’d better get on and find yourself a good seat, Frau Kramer said nervously, and Lisa smiled despite the tears. They embraced, Look after yourself, I will, You’re all I’ve got left, No, Grandma, Yes, you are, Lisa, all I have left. Then she let go of Margarita Ejzenstain’s child, who turned away and climbed the narrow iron steps with her luggage.
Lisa vanished into the train, only to reappear at one of the windows. After struggling to pull it down, she leaned on it with her arms, the two women smiled at each other, so this was farewell, I ought to be used to it, Frau Kramer thought, recalling Lisa’s move to Berlin. But back then, two years ago, it had been different, the three of them had traveled together, she and Lisa and Tobias, as if they were a proper family, Frau Kramer had met the Gutmanns and that had given her a feeling of security, even though since then she had been living in the apartment just with Maria. But now everything was different, now it was as if she would never see Lisa again, as if she were losing her to the world outside, What’s left for me here?
The engine came to life with a muffled sound, the conductor raised his little red signaling disc, Doors close automatically, a woman’s voice announced over the loudspeaker, the conductor blew his small whistle, it gave a shrill sound, the doors crunched shut, a man stuck his head out of the little side window in the engine. Then the conductor boarded and closed the final door. The train pulled away slowly, the two women waved to each other, the carriages left the station one after another, all it took was the gentle curve to the left beyond and Lisa had disappeared from view.
83
When Gudrun turned twelve she gave her parents a present. She cut off her long, blonde hair, wrapped it in silver paper and brought it down to breakfast that morning. Even though her mother stood up and gave her a resounding slap across the face, even though her father sent her straight back to her room, for Gudrun it was worth it. As she lay on her bed she kept replaying the scene in her head: Father, Mother and Heinrich starting to sing Happy Birthday as Gudrun enters the kitchen. The moment when everything comes to a standstill, three open mouths from which all sound has ceased to issue, three pairs of eyes as wide as saucers, all focused on her. And this feeling! Gudrun lay on her bed and rubbed her sore cheek, lost in thought. I did that! I changed everything! She was proud of herself, and her pride helped her forget that her parents had thrown away the hair she had chopped off.
84
Heinrich sat on his parents’ bed, on the window side where his mother slept, holding a book. On the title page was a drawing, two smiling women framed by leaves in autumnal colors. Above, it said “Nicole—a Heart Full of Love.” He turned the book over in his hands, he leafed through it, read the odd passage, closed it again and replaced it on his mother’s bedside table. A romance. Heinrich examined the books on the white shelf above the bed. Books that his mother had already read. Romances. He smoothed out the duvet again so that nobody would notice anything and quietly left the bedroom. From the kitchen came the sounds his mother made when she was getting lunch ready. He stopped in the middle of the hallway. A pain had started to throb behind his left eye, which grew stronger and made its way across the back of his head to the nape of his neck.
85
When everybody was out of the house Emma Kruse visited the bathroom. She freshened up, plaited her hair, then went into the bedroom. From the white fitted wardrobe she took a blue frock. She undressed, changed into the frock and inspected herself in the mirror on the back of the wardrobe door. She took a coat from the stand in the hallway and put it on. She buttoned it up, left the house. Going down the steps and out into the street, she turned right. She went to the nearest tram stop and waited. When the tram came she got on and traveled four stops. She got out and walked down the street. She stopped by a front door and rang one of the bells. A crackling was followed by a voice, Who is it? Emma put her mouth up to the intercom and said, Emma Kruse, the door buzzed, Emma pushed it open with her body, she entered the hallway, the door locked behind her, she went up the stairs to the third floor, where the central door of three opened, an elderly lady, a head smaller than Emma, wearing a traditional dress, black, gave her a friendly nod, Emma stepped into the apartment, the woman closed the door behind them, then she went ahead down a narrow hallway, Emma followed her, they entered a room in semidarkness, even though the sun was shining outside. Drawn curtains, candlelight, the elderly lady sat on a wooden stool, on the table a pack of playing cards, face down, Emma sat opposite her.
“What brings you here today, my dear?” the elderly lady asked.
Emma could not find the words she had worked out in her head, she looked at the pack of cards, in her heart hope and fear blended to form a dilemma.
“I . . . er,” she said hesitantly, “I’d really like to know whether . . .” She broke off and shot the woman opposite her a helpless glance, but the woman still looked at her expectantly, Emma’s eyes wandered across the small table. She composed herself.
“Whether my husband . . .” She broke off again and looked coyly at the woman. The woman knew this topic from previous sessions, always convoluted, always expressed with a fear of betraying the husband.
“Whether he still loves and desires you?” she said softly.
Emma Kruse nodded shyly, like a little girl. The elderly woman gave her a knowing look, she picked up the cards and began to shuffl
e them slowly.
“We will ask the cards,” she said, “the cards know the truth, the cards bring us clarity, the cards never lie.” She fixed Emma with her gaze. She kept shuffling and repeated what she had said once, twice, three times, she droned on, Emma Kruse felt herself growing heavy, heavy and soft and tired and peaceful.
Suddenly a card appeared in front of her, face up, a naked lady on one knee, holding two jugs full of water, one of which she was pouring into a pond, the other onto the earth, above her shone a large yellow star surrounded by seven smaller, white stars, on the right in the background a tree stood on a hill, in it was perched a bird, its wings raised. Emma looked up, the elderly lady glanced at the card, then gave Emma a long, serious stare, before nodding and putting down the next card. The cards had names, The Star, The Sun, The Magician, The Lovers, the elderly lady placed them in rows beside and below each other, and soon all the cards had been laid out and the small table was covered and she bent over the cards and examined them in great detail and Emma waited with a pounding heart.
86
Lisa was expected. When she arrived that evening at Munich central station a slim man in a hat strode purposefully up to her, introduced himself and took her suitcase.
“How did you recognize me?” Lisa asked.
“Intuition,” David Schwimmer said, smiling. “You must be tired. Let’s go straight home. It’s not far, it’s a pretty good area to live in, very central, you can get anywhere in town really quickly. My wife’s made some supper and then you can go to bed. Tomorrow our daughter will show you around the city. She’s almost the same age as you.”
Esther Schwimmer was standing at the door to their apartment when her father came up the stairs with Lisa. The girl looked so pretty that Lisa had to force herself not to stare.
“You must be the famous Lisa,” she said, offering a warm smile. “We’ve heard so much about you, we’ve been dying for you to get here.”
“And now she is here,” a voice in the background said. It was Judith Schwimmer, and immediately Lisa could see where the daughter’s beauty came from.
The oak table in the dining room had been laid, and waiting there was a boy who was nine years old at most.
“We had a long gap between Esther and Ben,” Judith said, smiling at her son.
“Which she finds embarrassing,” Ben said, standing to shake hands with Lisa. Judith gave her son a look that was at once affectionate and disapproving. Ben ignored it.
“Sit down quickly you lot,” he said. “I’ve lasted till now but I can’t hold out any longer.” Esther laughed at her little brother and sat beside him with exaggerated rapidity.
“This evening we have . . .” Judith began, but Ben and Esther interrupted her, chorusing, “Cholent, ray of life immortal, cholent, daughter of Elysium.” They laughed. David Schwimmer smiled. “What Judith was going to say was there’s cholent. Do you know cholent?”
“That’s cholent,” Judith said before Lisa could reply, putting a bowl in front of her that contained a variety of things. All Lisa recognized were the pickled gherkins. Pointing to a small brown mound beside them, Judith said, “That’s pearl barley, that’s meat and those are potatoes, all a little overcooked. You’re supposed to eat this on Shabbat, but we don’t get too fussed about details.”
Raising his index finger, Ben said affectedly, “Cholent is the kosher ambrosia of the one and only true God!”
“Actually it’s not kosher,” David said apologetically. “It’s only by pure chance that we eat anything kosher here.” Lisa made a gesture to indicate that this made no difference to her.
“Or if Grandma brings something,” said Judith, who had served everyone and now sat down herself. She smiled at Lisa across the table.
“All of us talk far too much. Don’t pay any attention, it’s a—”
“A family illness,” David said, finishing the sentence.
“An art!” Ben called out. “When I think of the Kruses! Heinrich told me that they barely say a word to each other. Do you remember Heinrich?”
David frowned. “That school friend of yours who came here once?”
“That’s him,” Ben said.
“Poor boy!” Judith said, looking concerned. “He seemed so sensitive.”
“He is,” Ben affirmed, “Ridiculously sensitive!” He laughed, Esther laughed too and looked at Lisa inquisitively.
“Tell us about your journey, Lisa! You must be very excited,” she said.
“Let her finish eating first,” David urged.
With her mouth full, Lisa said, “No, it’s fine. I . . .”
“Why didn’t you fly from Berlin?” Ben interrupted. Lisa chewed and looked at him, and then Ben said, “Or from Frankfurt?”
“Ben!” Judith said.
Ben looked at her, wide-eyed. “What?”
“Let her answer!”
David said, “There aren’t any direct flights from Frankfurt yet. Even though you can fly from Tel Aviv to Frankfurt, you can’t do it the other way round. You can only go from Munich Riem airport. No idea why.”
Lisa, who was still chewing, nodded at Ben and pointed to David with her knife. Esther laughed at the gesture.
“Politics,” Judith said, shrugging her shoulders. “It’s practical for us.”
“So when are we going to fly to Israel?” Esther said.
“I don’t want to go there anymore,” Ben said, scowling.
“Ben, eat up please!” Judith said.
“Why not?” Lisa asked Ben. The boy looked at her as if he were having to weigh up his words.
“Stupid country,” he said.
“Rubbish, Ben,” David said. Turning to Lisa, he said, “Sometimes we take a beach holiday there in summer.”
“It’s too hot!” Ben moaned. Esther stroked her brother’s head and said to Lisa, “That, and the fact that Benjamin here is not a great swimmer.” She laughed.
“Ha, ha, very funny,” Ben said, looking furious and stuffing a gherkin into his mouth.
“My parents live in Tel Aviv,” Judith said, “and cities are no places for children.”
“No! Tel Aviv is crap!” Ben said loudly, still livid with Esther.
“Young man!” David said.
“Do you really have to tease him about that too?” Judith said to Esther.
“Sorry!” Esther said sniffily.
“Why do you live in Germany?” Lisa said.
Judith and David exchanged glances, then Judith said. “Right after Reichskristallnacht we emigrated with our parents to America. The two of us met in New York. His parents came from Cologne; mine were from here in Munich.”
“After the war . . .” David said, “well, I can’t remember exactly why . . .”
“I can,” Judith said. “We wanted to help with the reconstruction.”
“No, that wasn’t it, or at least not as far as I was concerned.”
“So what was it, Papa?” Esther asked.
“It was simply the fact that I was a German.”
“A German?” Lisa asked.
“Yes. The Nazis wanted to stop us from being able to feel German, but it didn’t work with me.”
“Perhaps because we were lucky that we didn’t have to go through it all,” Judith said.
“The gassing and everything?” Ben asked.
David nodded reluctantly. “Yes, Ben, the gassing and everything.”
Ben grinned, but then turned serious and said to Lisa, “In my class nobody knows I’m Jewish, not even the teacher.”
“Nobody knows,” Esther said.
“Oh,” Lisa said.
David shrugged. “We may be Germans,” he said, “but there are still people around today who don’t like that fact, and there are enough Nazis who could make life difficult for us.”
“I’ve heard the police is full of them,” Esther said.
Judith nodded. “The police, the secret service, the courts, business. The entire country.”
“And still you stay here?�
�� Lisa asked. There was a short pause.
“Maybe not forever,” Judith said.
“But where would we go?” Ben asked. “Definitely not to Israel.”
Esther laughed, Judith smiled.
“We’re Germans,” David said, “we can go anywhere.”
87
The weakness in the body, right in the middle, where something is missing. Anna struggles to sit up. Everyone else has gone outside, the house is empty, she looks around, Look at all the stuff people have acquired in the short time we’ve been here, portable gramophones in suitcases, chessboards, full-length mirrors, folding coat racks, Where do they get these things from, why do they need them? Boredom, they’re all suffering from it, there are those who fight it, who acquire stuff, books for example, there are those who find a little corner in the camp where they can plant flowers or strawberries or anything that grows and changes while they’re waiting for something to happen. There are a few who go out of the gate and never return. Where do they go? France? Or do they stay in Germany?
Anna can hear the tannoy, that’s why they’re all outside, because of the tannoy, and she told them, You go, I’m just going to have a little rest. What now? Is it curiosity, is it the desire to be there when it happens, if it happens? Maybe it’s just boredom again. Yes. No. She wants finally to be part of life again, she wants to drag the sorrow of her body into the snow and cool off, she wants to freeze and wait and listen to the voice from the tannoy, she wants to be like all the others.
Anna supports herself on the bunk bed, she can feel the weakness in her arms as if they were empty tubes, despite this she takes her coat from the nail, puts it on, buttons it up, sets off, step by step, slowly, along the central gangway toward the door. She starts to sweat, she stops, catches her breath, continues on her way. The doctors have said she has turned the corner, You need to mix with people again, move back into the corrugated-iron hut. They were Germans, settled in Lübeck, one an expellee fortunate to have a brother in the city. They were friendly to her, said, You were terribly lucky, they asked, Who did that? But a woman from the camp—they were not happy about that, You’re not a doctor? they asked Frau Kramer, and their eyes said, How could you do that?
