—We can find them. The Red Cross will have their addresses. They will come back, Mutti and Vati. They are only away for a while.
Lore can’t look into Oma’s face. She looks at her cheeks instead, the soft folds of skin on her neck. The old voice crackles as she speaks.
—It is all over now. Finished.
Sweat prickles in Lore’s armpits. Oma’s fingers hold her fast, pressing into her shoulders.
—Some of them went too far, child, but don’t believe it was all bad.
• • •
Lore scrubs at Jüri’s face and fingers, ties the red rag neatly around Liesel’s head.
—Oma is coming to fetch us, so we have to get ready.
—Is Vati coming?
—Vati isn’t there.
Lore tries to make it sound as normal as possible, as if it was what they were expecting all along. She looks around to see if Tomas is watching, but he has his back to them, packing away their things. Jüri’s eyes are blank. Liesel cries, and then she screams. Thumping Lore’s arms with her fists.
—You lied!
Her sister’s punches numb Lore’s arms, but she doesn’t defend herself. Lets Liesel cry; says nothing; can think of nothing to say. She ties her braids into place with neat strips of rag. She rubs her boots clean and tears new laces from the edge of Peter’s diaper. She inspects the silent Jüri and raging Liesel, decides to wash their shirts, at least rinse out the worst of the dirt before Oma arrives.
Tomas fetches water for Lore, sits with her while she works at the children’s clothes.
—I didn’t tell Oma about you.
—No. Yes, that’s good.
—I don’t mean about the prison. I mean I didn’t say anything. She doesn’t know you are with us.
—Yes, I know.
—I didn’t know what she would say. I couldn’t do it. Not yet.
—No, it’s good. I have told the children I’m a secret brother. For now.
—Yes.
—You will tell her about Jochen, and that will be enough.
Tomas’s fingertips rest against the sides of the bucket. Lore waits, but he doesn’t touch her.
• • •
Wiebke climbs across the rubble to fetch them for Oma. Lore watches her count the children.
—Jochen isn’t here.
Jüri stands between the broken walls. He doesn’t remember Wiebke.
—Where is Jochen?
—He is dead, in Russia.
Wiebke looks at Lore.
—The Russian zone. They shot him at the border.
No other words will come.
Wiebke clambers back ahead of them. She whispers to Oma out on the street while Lore tidies the children, stands them in line, straightening their still damp clothes. Oma stares at them, lays a hand on each head in turn. Lore waits for the questions, wonders if Tomas is hiding nearby. Watching from the ruins, seeing the thoughts swarm in her head. The things to tell and not tell, the struggle to explain. Lore wonders if Tomas is surprised, too, when Oma asks nothing about Jochen. She thinks he might see Oma nod at her from where he is hiding. But knows he will be too far away to see the old woman’s clouded eyes. The high spots of color in the cheek which Oma presents for a kiss.
Liesel cries again when they get to Oma’s, says that Lore had promised her Vati would be there. Oma is surprised, irritable at first, frowning as she unpacks their shabby belongings. After she has folded the blankets and closed the cupboard door, she explains gently to Liesel and Jüri that Vati is probably with the Americans. Liesel stops crying, wipes her pale cheeks, whispers.
—Is he being punished now?
Oma blinks at her granddaughter and they all stand in silence while Wiebke slices a loaf for them to eat.
• • •
The first night they sleep with Oma and Wiebke in one room. Curtains are hung from hooks in the ceiling, dividing the small space into even smaller sections. Oma and Wiebke have a bed each, with a fabric wall between. Wiebke insists that Lore and Liesel take her bed, and she makes up a mattress for Jüri next to it on the floor. Wiebke lies on their blankets and makes a bed for Peter in an old drawer. Oma says good night to them all, and then draws the heavy curtain around her bed.
Lore stares at the dark folds, tries to hear if her Oma is crying. About Jochen, Mutti, Vati. No noise penetrates the divide. We are home. Lore tries to whisper to Liesel, but her sister lies with her back to her, refuses to respond. With Oma. Lore repeats the words to herself. The bed is soft and hot, the room is quiet. Mutti is with the Americans, and maybe Vati, too. Tomas is hidden in the ruins and Jochen is dead. Lore cries, can’t stop herself, stuffs the sheet into her mouth. Jüri slips over to her in the dark. He strokes her hair clumsily and dries her eyes with his sleeve.
—I knew Vati wouldn’t be here, Lore.
—How?
—Tomas told me.
—Oh. Why didn’t you say anything?
Jüri shrugs.
—He told me that men get put in prison after wars. There are lots of fathers in prison now, Lore. I think it’s really not so bad.
Lore puts her arms around her little brother and he climbs into bed next to her.
—Is Tomas alone now?
—I think so, Jüri. Probably.
—Will he be sad?
—I don’t know. Maybe. When did he tell you about the fathers?
—Ages ago. Can’t remember. Tomas said we should come and find him by the church spire again. Will we do that?
—Yes, of course.
—Tomorrow?
Lore can’t remember what she told Tomas about Vati, if she told him anything at all. She thinks of all the fathers in prison, repeats to herself, It’s really not so bad, can’t make herself believe it.
Still, she is glad to have Jüri warm in the bed with her. Glad that he and Liesel said nothing to Oma about Tomas, too. One lie left intact, one secret brother kept. She kisses his head.
—You were very good today.
Wiebke sits in the hospital corridor with Lore while Peter is weighed and measured.
—Your Oma is a proud woman. It’s all very different for her now. She has nothing left. Only me.
She laughs. Wiebke has freckles and fine lines around her eyes. Her hand rests, cool and soft, on top of Lore’s.
—She will get extra ration cards for you now. You will have food every day, more for Peter. And some clothes, too. She will take care of it.
Lore leans gently against Wiebke’s shoulder, feels the light hum of her voice through her skin.
—And she will get used to having you all back. Your Mutti stopped writing, even before the end. Oma was very worried. I know she was.
Lore fills her head with the touch of Wiebke’s hand and her calm lasts into the evening.
Jüri is excited and leads the way. They clamber across the mountains of rubble. Lore lifts Peter onto her back and he holds tight around her neck while her boots slide over wallpapered chunks of house. They climb down into a small courtyard. The paving is cracked and sunken in places, but it’s sunny and colorful. Weeds flower yellow and purple through the broken slabs and along the tops of the walls.
A door hangs loose on its hinges at the far edge of the courtyard. Jüri pulls it open and leads Lore down into the cool dark. Tomas is inside. He lights a candle and smiles. His thin face creases and his tongue shows pink through the gaps in his teeth. Jüri jumps on the cellar steps.
—He says he will stay here. Didn’t you? You said that?
Tomas is looking at Lore, still smiling. Her fingers tingle.
—I cleared it out. I can build a stove and then it will be warm and I can cook.
—He’ll be here and we can visit him.
Jüri races round the courtyard shouting while Tomas collects floorboards and windowframes in the rubble. He builds a fire outside and Lore cooks potatoes, warming bricks in the embers for Tomas. Something to ward off the chill of the cellar night when she and Jüri and Peter have gone back
to Liesel and Oma and Wiebke, and Tomas is alone.
What remains of Oma’s house is even smaller than the room at the farm. The houses across the street are not so badly damaged, and Oma finds a room for her grandchildren to sleep in at her neighbors’, the Meyers, who remember Lore and Liesel as children, and who have apple trees in their garden, which leads down almost to the lake.
Oma establishes their daily routine. Each evening, they sit down and eat with her and Wiebke, and then she walks them across the road to sleep. In the morning she fetches them again for breakfast, exchanging pleasantries with the Meyers as Lore hurries her brother and sister down the stairs. Wiebke spreads out the tablecloth and lays cutlery for every meal. She divides the food out carefully under Oma’s direction and they eat together three times a day. Oma cuts up her bread with knife and fork, tells the children to chew slowly, but the food is always gone too soon, and they always leave the table hungry.
Summer is fading, but the weather is still fine. Liesel stays angry with Lore. She spends her days helping Wiebke, hanging out the washing in the overgrown garden, cleaning, going out with her for the long hours spent waiting in line at the shops. Oma sits at the table by the window and writes letters. Spends whole mornings away at the Red Cross, and afternoons resting behind the curtain around her bed.
Lore takes care of Peter, and Jüri tags along. He whispers to himself, kicking at stones in the road, and Lore blocks her ears. Thinks he is talking to Jochen, doesn’t want to hear. Whenever they can, they go to the cellar. Quick visits to their secret brother, in the quiet time while Oma sleeps and Wiebke sits with Liesel, knitting and mending the holes in their clothes.
Tomas is always pleased to see them, smiling quietly. Lore thinks he waits for them. Listening for their sliding footfalls on the rubble around his cellar home, lonely on the days they don’t come. She is shocked each time at how thin he is. The gaps in his teeth, the rags bound around his feet. Between visits she remembers him differently, and it always takes her time to adjust to his grubby reality, his prominent bones. She stares at him: his clothes, his skin, and even his eyelashes, powdered with dust from the crumbling cellar walls.
Herr Meyer fiddles with the camera. Old fingers uneasy with the settings, old eyes mistrustful of the light. He shuffles the children into place by the gate, in front of the hedge, to where the broken house is hidden from view.
—We should have started earlier. Before lunch. I can’t promise you anything now. It could really be a waste of film, and Herr Paulsen will charge us too much for the printing, anyway. We should wait until tomorrow.
The photo is for Mutti. Oma knows which camp she is in now, can send it to her. It will help her, she says. Oma has borrowed clothes for them to wear in the picture. Peter keeps pulling the sailor’s cap from his head, but Liesel is pleased with the blue silk scarf covering her spiky hair.
Oma has written a letter to Mutti, from all of them. They have signed their names at the bottom, without reading it. Lore doesn’t want to know what it says. She is glad Oma didn’t make her write it. She helps Wiebke get the children ready. It is cold. Jüri rubs his hands and knees, Liesel lets her teeth chatter.
Herr Meyer brings the photo back toward evening. A serious, large-eyed group standing on cracked paving stones. Lore tall, Liesel next, then Jüri, and last of all Peter, standing right at the front, holding on to Jüri’s leg. The shoes on Liesel’s feet are too big, and Jüri’s ears jut out from his narrow head. Lore’s part is crooked despite Wiebke’s best efforts, and her eyes are half closed. All of them thin. Cheek and wrist bones prominent, knees large, and borrowed clothes limp against their frames. Lore feels she is looking at strangers, or people she knew long ago.
The picture is stuffed into the envelope with the letter. Lore feels her stomach shrink while Oma writes the address. Mutti will see that Jochen is gone.
They wait for news and the days grow cooler. Peter cries less, has started to smile again, and his face fills out a little. He talks to Lore in half-words, standing next to her, and determined to walk. Instead of carrying him, Lore reaches for his hand, but it doesn’t replace the reassuring weight in her arms. She agrees with Tomas, the time is not yet right. Jüri and Liesel stick to the bargain: their secret brother remains a secret. Still Lore risks going to the cellar more often.
She watches Jüri with Tomas while she plays with Peter in the autumn sun. He follows Tomas around the courtyard, gathering up the driftwood that Tomas pulls from the lake and lays out to dry. Tomas is quiet and Jüri whispers incessantly, laughs loud and long in the still afternoon air. Lore sees Tomas take Jüri’s hand, and sees Jüri’s palm form a fist, gripped tight around Tomas’s index finger.
Wiebke’s boyfriend sneaks a radio out of his barracks. She brings it over in the evening to show Lore and they listen to jazz together. Wiebke teaches Lore to dance the way they do in the American films her Scottish soldier takes her to see. When Lore cries, Wiebke puts her arms around her and sways her gently to the music. She tells her that Mutti will come home and everything will change. Lore enjoys the soft embrace, the arms shielding her face. Doesn’t tell Wiebke that it’s Tomas she misses.
A letter arrives at Oma’s, addressed to Lore. An envelope with her name in Mutti’s hand. She stands at the window and reads the brief words.
Mutti says that Vati is safe, she will send an address as soon as she has one. She has sent word to him, through the Americans, and he knows they are at home in Hamburg. Lore and the children should send letters too, because he may be away for a long time. The schools will start again soon. They should work hard and think of tomorrow and all it will bring. Mutti asks Lore to kiss Jüri and Liesel for her and to make sure Peter has enough to eat. Lore reads the letter aloud to Oma, looks again at the inky loops which form her name. The letter says nothing about the camp, the bed Mutti sleeps in, the food she eats, and what she sees from the window. And it doesn’t say anything about Jochen.
She reads the letter to the children. They ask to hear it again, and Jüri demands his kisses from her, laughing; Liesel wants to know about Vati. Again and again she asks Oma when they will have an address. They get into bed together and chatter in their rented room. Lore doesn’t speak about Jochen, or Tomas, and neither do Liesel or Jüri.
• • •
It is a bright autumn morning and the broken shadows fall across the pavement and touch the street. Oma has taken Liesel to queue for shoes; Wiebke has taken Jüri to fetch coals. Lore has the whole morning free to visit Tomas. She has saved a few spoons of sugar to take to him, feeds Peter in pinches as they go. Licking her fingers clean of the grains he misses, tiny bursts of sweet on her tongue. Peter refuses to be carried. He sways solemnly as he walks, steadying himself against Lore’s legs, skirt gripped tight in one fist. They make their way along the tram tracks in the sun. In the middle of the road, far from the leaning walls of bombed-out buildings.
Lore hears a jangling behind her, a metallic whirr. She turns to see a tram on its way up the rise of the road toward her. It is crowded with people, cheerily waving her off the track. She bends down and takes Peter in her arms, starts trotting at the side of the road, picking up speed as the tram draws alongside. The passengers laugh and wave and Peter waves back. They hold out their arms to Lore and lift her off the road. Her legs dangle in midair and she grips Peter tight, and then she is smiling and breathless among the happy faces on board. Pushed into their backs and chests and arms, rocking with the motion of the tram.
A young man makes room for her at the back, and she sits down with Peter next to two young women. One is blond, the other has dark hair. Their coats are patched and their shoes are cracked and old, but they wear lipstick and sit sideways with their legs neatly crossed. Lore pushes her hair behind her ears, pulls the loose threads from her skirt.
The young women share a newspaper. They murmur and point, shake their heads as they read. The dark-haired woman sees Lore watching, holds the paper so she can see, smiling encouragement.
The tram jolts and bumps and Peter stands in her lap, chattering in her ear. Lore’s eyes scan the text, find the same words over and over in the columns of newsprint: prison camps and work camps, crimes and trials. The woman turns the page and there are pictures. Dark and blotchy on the thin paper, and familiar, too. Skeleton people. Wire fences and gaunt faces and piles of bones and shoes and spectacles.
—Those are the American actors, aren’t they?
Lore points at the photos. The dark-haired woman laughs. The blond-haired woman says it’s not funny.
—No, I know it isn’t. They’re Jews.
Lore flushes. The dark-haired woman is angry.
—Look at them. They’re not acting, they’re dead.
She turns the page. Lore sees familiar black collars with bright lightning flashes. Pictures of men in uniform. Clear-eyed portraits: SS, SA, Gestapo. The dark-haired woman points.
—They killed them. With gas and guns.
—Heide! She’s just a child.
—Well, she can read it for herself, then.
Lore watches their perfect red lips. Her heart lurching, the tram jolting, rolling, coming finally to a stop. The dark-haired woman stands up, holds out the paper for Lore. Her blond friend stands up, too.
—Please don’t show her any more. It’s too much.
—The Americans say they should learn about it in school. And the British want to teach democracy.
—Oh, please, enough political talk.
The blond woman turns to Lore.
—Listen, they were bad men and they are in prison now, where bad men belong. That’s all.
The young women get off. Lore looks around at the other passengers, still crowded together and chattering. No one looks at her and the tram rolls on. She shifts to the end of the bench with the newspaper, sits Peter down next to her by the window. Lore turns the pages quickly past the skeleton people to the portraits. She looks closely at the clothes, the eyes, noses, and jawlines. Some wear Vati’s uniform, none have Vati’s face.
• • •
The Dark Room Page 14
