by Steven Uhly
“Would you like another coffee?” Emma asked in an attempt to mollify her mother, who nodded grudgingly. Emma hurried to the cooker and put on some water to boil, she wanted to escape her mother’s glare, she made a mental note to ask about Gudrun the next time she visited the fortune teller, Out of control, her mother’s words resounded in her head like an echo, they evoked serious danger, great urgency, imminent catastrophe and made her so nervous that she was unable to open up the paper filter for the coffee funnel.
“What does Otto say?” her mother asked sternly to her back.
Emma paused. “Otto?” she said, playing for time.
“He’s still called Otto, isn’t he?” Her words were infused with poison.
“Yes, of course,” Emma said nervously. “Otto isn’t exactly thrilled either.”
She did not know what else to say, there was no way she could tell the truth, the two of them appeared in her mind, father and daughter, Gudrun was now as tall as Emma, a proper woman if you just glanced at her, and Otto did not set any boundaries, he let her do as she pleased, Emma could not find words for what she saw, she heard phrases from Otto’s mouth, It’ll be alright, she’ll settle down again. What would her mother say if she knew that? Finally the filter opened, she placed it inside the funnel, opened the jar of coffee, four cups, her mother drank a lot of coffee. As she counted the spoonfuls she heard herself speak. “Otto told her in no uncertain terms that this was the very limit and I think she understood.”
But rather than swallowing the bait, her mother examined it carefully, she said, “I’m sorry? He let her do it? I’d never have believed it.” By now she was both furious and disappointed. Emma closed her eyes and put the funnel on top of the pot.
“Young people experiment with all sorts of things these days,” she said weakly, but she was interrupted by her mother, who snapped, “They have no upbringing.” To Emma’s ears it sounded like a death sentence. “No manners at all, where on earth will that lead us?”
Emma opened the cupboard and took out a fresh cup, for her mother disliked drinking her coffee from a used one. The water was taking an age to heat up, she stood there pretending to wait, but in actual fact she was seeking refuge.
“Where’s Heinrich?” her mother said.
“In his room,” Emma replied quickly. “He must be doing his homework.”
Frau Huber got up from her chair without a word and left the kitchen. Emma stayed behind, the water finally came to the boil, she poured it over the coffee and felt both liberated and abandoned.
89
Heinrich almost missed the sentence. He had already started the next one when he paused and went back. Confused, he read the whole paragraph again. It was one of those entries in which Father talked about himself, he wrote about the new department he was working in, he joked about it being called “customer care,” he wrote of a “long-haired, scruffy subject I’d loved to have hauled over the coals like I used to those partisans.” Whenever a customer came in he and his colleagues would talk of “an ‘insurance case’ and slap our thighs with laughter.”
Heinrich understood little of this, he thought that Father and his colleagues had fun discussing their customers in such a way. Father had described “customer meetings” as a succession of insults, but Heinrich could not imagine it was like that. After threatening “serious consequences,” which I found ludicrous after all my experiences on the front line, the subject cracked, revealing to me just what sissies he and his like truly are.
“My colleagues behind the glass partition greeted me with a round of applause that in all honesty I had deserved. And Goldgruber said of me . . .”
Then came the sentence containing a name Heinrich had never heard before. But it was still there after the third reading. Heinrich closed the book, his gaze lost itself in the window pane. In the distance he could see the bare wall of a house, in front of this an empty site, beyond lay backyards, tall trees, the backs of houses, roofs, the sky was overcast, what did this name mean?
90
Lisa sat high in the sky and looked down. The voice over the public address system said they were just to the south of Cyprus, If you look out of the window to your left you’ll have a fine view. Lisa peered out, in the middle of the blue lay the island, an animal hide with a long neck, nestling in the white foam of the sea, traversed by tall mountain ridges, the heart of the island dark green, all still perfectly visible in the late sun.
The airplane began its descent, Please fasten your seatbelts. Lisa had imagined flying to be quite different, she had thought it would make you feel free. But she felt anything but free, she was wedged between seats, between people, the window was tiny, Freedom, she thought as the pressure in her ears increased, is not a physical condition. Freedom, she thought as in the far distance she made out a coastline in the evening light, is not a feeling, it must be something else, halfway between body and soul.
Lisa swallowed to relieve the pain in her ears until the woman in the adjacent seat nudged her and held out a tin of sweets, saying, It’ll help. Lisa smiled and took one, it did indeed help, she looked out of the window again. They crossed the coastline, a narrow white strip of surf dividing the sea from the land. Beyond stretched an expanse of reddish-brown earth, the first lights had been turned on, Lisa saw tiny houses, lines that must be asphalt, she could not help imagining the people that belonged to all this.
Lower and lower the plane sank, closer and closer came the reddish-brown earth, it disintegrated before Lisa’s eyes into forms and colors, cars, city streets, rectangular fields, green groves, lower, but still no people, How small we are, Lisa thought. The landing was imminent, the light vanished rapidly, buildings rose to the left and right, some now reached higher than the plane, and suddenly a wide, gray runway appeared beneath them, they skimmed across it, there was a jolt, a short bump onto the ground, and the flight was over, Lisa was still wedged in, but now she had arrived in Israel. The sun had set. The woman beside her smiled. She was aware that now she was a Jew amongst Jews.
91
He was dreaming, but the dream was strangely familiar. Someone was wrenching open his eyes, beyond which sat a blonde girl he could see through the narrow gap between his lids. The girl let go of his eyelids and then opened them again. Now she was no longer a girl but a young woman with short hair. She smiled the smile of the past and opened her mouth, but a man’s voice came out, saying, Reporting, Sir! I’m back! Then the voice smiled Gudrun’s smile. He closed his eyes to see properly this time, and behind his lids was the dream of a dead man whose arm was twitching, the dream was a Jewish woman cleaning in the background, the dream was himself, bending over his daughter and listening to whether any words were issuing from the dead mouth, whether any sounds were coming from the silent throat, something that could negate his own death, but the twitch was just a twitch, the dead man was dead, the Jew was his slave, outside was a country that did not belong to him, and all of a sudden Karl Treitz was standing beside the dead Gudrun, pointing to her and saying, That’s me.
92
Here is the Voice of Israel! It is Shabbat, May 15, 1948. You will now hear a live broadcast from our studio in Jerusalem, where David Ben-Gurion will address our young nation at this difficult hour.
“Something unique occurred yesterday in Israel,
and only future generations
will be able to evaluate
the full historical significance of
the event.
It is now up to all of us,
acting out of
a sense of
Jewish fraternity,
to devote every ounce of our strength
to building up
and defending
the State of Israel,
which still faces
a titanic
political
and military struggle.
“Now is not the time
for boasting.
Whatever we have achieved
is the res
ult of the efforts of earlier generations
no less than our own.
It is also the result of an unwavering fidelity
to our precious heritage,
the heritage of a small nation
that has suffered much,
but at the same time
has won for itself
a special place in the history of mankind
because of its spirit,
faith and vision.
“At this moment
let us remember
with love and appreciation
the three generations
of pioneers and defenders
who paved the way
for later achievements,
the men who created
Mikve Israel,
Petah Tikva,
Rishon LeZion,
Zikhron Yacov,
and Rosh Pina,
as well as those
who recently established settlements in the Negev Desert
and the Galilee Hills;
the founders of Hashomer
and the Jewish Legion,
as well as the men
who are now locked in fierce battle
from Dan to Beersheba.
“Many of these about whom I have spoken
are no longer amongst the living,
but their memory remains forever in our heart
and in the heart
of the Jewish people.
“I will mention only one great person of those
who are still among us.
Whether or not he holds an official position,
and whether or not we agree with his ideas,
he remains our leading figure;
there is no other single person
who has contributed so much
to the political and settlement achievements
of the Zionist movement.
I refer, of course,
to Dr. Chaim Weizmann.
“The State of Israel was established yesterday
and its Provisional Government
has already turned to the nations of the world,
great and small,
in the East and in the West,
announcing its existence
and its desire to
cooperate
with the United Nations
in the interests of international peace and progress.
We have received unofficial reports
that several countries
have recognized
the State of Israel.
The first official recognition
came
from the government of the United States of America.
We hope
that other nations
in the East and in the West
will soon follow suit.
We are in contact
in this matter
with all members of the United Nations
and with the United Nations itself.
“But we should not deceive ourselves
by thinking
that formal diplomatic recognition
will solve all our problems.
We have
a long thorny path ahead of us.
The day after the State of Israel
was established,
Tel Aviv
was bombed by Egyptian planes.
Our gunners
brought down one of the planes.
Its pilot
was taken prisoner,
and the plane added
to our fledgling Air Force.
We have also received reports
that our country
is being invaded
from the north,
east,
and south
by the armies
of the neighboring Arab States.
We face a troubled and dangerous time.
“The Provisional Government
has already complained
to the Security Council
about the aggression committed by members
of the United Nations,
and by Britain’s ally, Trans-Jordan.
It is inconceivable
that the Security Council
will ignore these wanton acts,
which violate the peace,
international law,
and U.N. decisions.
“But we must never forget
that our security
ultimately depends
on our own might.
It is the responsibility
of each one of us,
and of every municipal body,
to take appropriate defensive measures,
such as
constructing
air raid shelters,
digging
trenches etc.
We must concentrate in particular
on building up a military striking force
capable of repulsing
and destroying
enemy forces
wherever they may be found.
“Finally, we must prepare
to receive our brethren
from the far-flung corners of the Diaspora;
from the camps
of Cyprus,
Germany,
and Austria,
as well as
from all
the other
lands
where the message of liberation has arrived.
We will receive them with open arms
and help them
to strike roots
here in the soil
of the Homeland.
The State of Israel
calls on everyone
to faithfully fulfill his duty
in defense,
construction,
and immigrant absorption.
Only in this way
can we prove
ourselves worthy
of the hour.”
93
Frau Kramer stood on the other side of the road and looked at the house. A late nineteenth-century building, two stories with a raised ground floor, dark-blue tiles to chest height, above these pink plaster, tall box windows. Through the windows she could see heavy chandeliers with electric candles, shadows danced across the walls. The entrance was set deep into the façade, a small flight of steps led up, above this hung a red sign with orange writing:
Hot Martha
Men went in, came out, stood outside, chatted, smoked cigarettes, nobody paid any attention to the old woman standing in a dark entryway diagonally opposite.
A jumble of many voices strayed from the pub. People talking, overlaid with music, popular German songs. Songs Frau Kramer knew from the radio. Here is a man, Beautiful maid. I’m in love with love. Stranger. Oh, when will you come? From time to time a woman’s laugh would rise above the hubbub, from time to time one of the men would bellow something.
Frau Kramer gave a start when a well-dressed man of her age came out and sauntered down the street. The idea that a man who could have been Maria’s father was one of her customers made Frau Kramer clap her hand over her mouth.
Having stood there indecisively for half an hour, she summoned up courage, crossed the road and entered Hot Martha.
Inside she was met by air thick with smoke, heat, noise, glances. Frau Kramer felt numbed, she regretted having come, she made for a free seat at the long bar, which promised support and protection. Someone jabbed her roughly on the shoulder, she turned, an elderly lady, older than she was, thrust her wrinkled, raddled face right into hers and yelled, “Piss off! This is my place!”
Frau Kramer looked at the woman blankly, her face was thickly powdered, her withered mouth painted over the edges of her lips, her hunched body in a pink tulle dress, her thin legs in black fishnet stockings, her feet in high-heeled shoes, she wore a gold chain around her delicate neck.
“Didn’t you hear me?” the woman screeched. A slim man in a dark-gray suit ap
peared from somewhere and shouted. “It’s O.K., Rosi, she’s with me.”
Frau Kramer turned to the man, bewildered. His clean-shaven face looked young, his nose was long and narrow, his mouth wide, a gray hat was perched on his head. Was this Fritz Kleinert? A cigarette bobbed up and down in the corner of his mouth, he gave Rosi a friendly smile. Rosi shot him a skeptical look in return, then shrugged and said, “I don’t mind just so long as she doesn’t start poaching around here.”
“Don’t worry, Rosi, she’s not on the game.”
“I see! Sorry, my lady, you never can tell.”
Before Frau Kramer could react, Rosi turned away and returned to her seat, where two young men greeted her with smiles.
“Come with me, Frau Kramer!” the man said loudly.
She woke from her daze and followed him through the crowd. Frau Kramer saw women of Maria’s age, young girls barely older than Lisa, she saw a chunky, matronly waitress wandering between the tables, laden with beer glasses, her arms were as thick as a man’s. She saw men sitting on their own at the bar, ignoring everybody else.
The man turned left into the back, where the light was dim, tables were set in small niches where people sat, looking like lovers. In the wall to the rear was a small wooden door, he opened it, turned on the light, a bulb dangled from the ceiling, he waited for Frau Kramer to come in, shut the door, the sounds from outside the room became quieter, more muffled. Frau Kramer looked around. A desk with a red telephone, papers, a tall window above, to the right a cheap veneer cupboard, to the left a shabby bookshelf housing files. A wooden chair in front of the desk, a brown-leather high-backed armchair behind it. Dirty white walls, the paint peeling off in places. Finger-width gaps yawned between the worn floorboards.
“Please sit down, Frau Kramer,” the man said. He walked around the desk, sat in the armchair opposite her and gave a fleeting smile. “I’m Fritz Kleinert,” he said. “I’ve been waiting a long time for you to come.”
Frau Kramer was about to say something in reply, but Fritz Kleinert shook his head gently and said, “You’re not here because of Maria, are you? Otherwise you would have come long ago.”
Frau Kramer composed herself, she said, “How did you know I was Maria’s mother?”
Fritz Kleinert smiled. “Maria looks just like you, Frau Kramer, has that never occurred to you?”
