Micha doesn’t get on the train with her. He stays in the station, drinks a coffee, eats a pastry. Sweet and sticky on his tongue. He lets himself sit alone and quiet for a while, not think about what he has done.
When he gets home, Mina isn’t there. Her swimming gear is gone from the hook in the bathroom. Micha calls his parents and gets the machine. He says, Hello, it’s me, just calling to see how you are. He doesn’t say sorry.
—You think I’ve come to tell you off, but I haven’t.
Luise’s voice on the intercom. She hauls her bike up the stairs, sweat on her upper lip. Splashes her face at the sink in the kitchen, leaves it wet, sits down at the table to get her breath back. Micha waits by the fridge for her to speak.
—You didn’t have to tell them what you’re doing.
—I thought you weren’t here to tell me off.
—Sorry. Sorry.
Luise has wine in her bag. She gets it out, puts it on the table.
—Too early in the day for me, Luise.
—Yeah?
She looks at the bottle, pushes it away from herself.
—I tried to find out about Opa, too.
The blood rushes in Micha’s ears. He hears its high-pitched singing over the hum of the refrigerator. They are silent for some time. Luise takes her hands away from her face. She looks like she will cry. Don’t cry. Sweat prickles under the skin on Micha’s back.
—When?
—While I was studying in London. There is a library there, set up by a Jewish man. German. He fled, in ’33, I think. Anyway. They hold lots of information. About the camps, survivors. About Nazis. They were very helpful, very kind. I used to go there every week. It made me feel better.
She is crying. Her voice is tight. Pushed out of her throat.
—Better?
—Yes. Like it was okay. No, not like it was okay. I don’t know. It helped.
Luise smiles, wipes her face with her hands.
—And?
—What?
—What did you find about Opa?
—Oh. Nothing.
—Nothing?
Micha can’t believe her.
—He wasn’t on any list. There were a couple of readers at the library. People with lists of war criminals, Nazi officials. They didn’t have him.
—I called up about one of these databases, too.
—In London?
—No, in this country.
—Yes? And?
—Nothing.
Luise nods. Nothing.
—You think that means he didn’t do anything?
She breathes out, hard.
—Mutti and Vati don’t need to know.
—That’s your opinion.
—Yes, that’s my opinion.
Luise stands up, takes her coat and bag.
—This conversation is over now, is it, Luise? Because you say so?
—It has to be their choice, Michael. You can’t inflict it on them.
—They would just choose not to know.
—What’s wrong with that? How does it help them to know?
—Why should we protect them from what he did?
—We don’t know what he did, Michael. If he did anything.
—But you think he did do something?
—I don’t know. I don’t know and you don’t know.
Luise screams at him. Her finger points sharp at his chest. They stand about a meter apart in the kitchen. She will tell Mina that I didn’t even blink when she screamed. Micha sets his face hard. He doesn’t want to show her what he feels. Doesn’t want to have to show her.
—You know, a lot of treatments we use now are based on research from the camp hospitals?
—No, I didn’t know.
—They are. I used to get sick thinking about it. I’d get sick thinking about the doctors in the camps.
—And now?
—Christ, Michael. It still makes me sick.
Micha wonders how long she’s been here. It feels like ages. Time for Mina to come home. She would talk to Luise and I could go and lie down. Micha is ashamed of his thoughts, but he still wishes his sister would go.
—Shall we open the wine?
—No. I’ll save it for when you come again.
—You want me to leave, don’t you?
Micha shrugs. He knows he’s being cruel. Luise stands for a couple of seconds, and then she smiles and Micha smiles back. She’s sad. So am I. Micha doesn’t tell her, but he hopes she knows.
—If you find anything, you will let me know, won’t you?
—About Opa?
—Yes.
—You want to know?
—Of course I do. You think you have a monopoly on honesty, Michael?
—No.
—Yes you do.
They’re in the hallway. Micha holds the door while she wheels her bike out.
—I don’t think Mutti and Vati need to know, that’s all. That’s all I wanted to say.
—Okay. You’ve said it.
Luise lifts her bike, starts walking down the stairs. Micha stays in the doorway, but she doesn’t look back.
—Tell Mina I said hello.
—I will.
—Tell her I think my brother is an arrogant shit, too.
—I will.
—Of course you will.
He hears her blow her nose at the bottom of the stairs and then he closes the door.
We fought a lot when we were children, my sister and me. Vicious, with scratching and kicking, and blood sometimes, too.
I remember one fight at Oma and Opa’s house. I got into a real rage. We were at the top of the stairs, and I was lying on the floor. Screaming, hiccups, that kind of thing. I kept trying to kick her, but Luise was just out of reach. She was on the top step, crying too, and she had her mouth wide open. Her lip was split and her teeth were red. I must have done that.
And then Opa was there, up on the landing with me, holding me inside his arm, against his chest, and pressing his cheek against my hair. I can remember his smell: soap and smoke.
He held Luise inside his other arm. I remember he pressed his cheek against her hair, too, but I didn’t mind. Later, maybe, I was jealous, but not at the time. Opa was there and you couldn’t be angry. When Opa was there you were fine.
Micha cycles home from school and it rains. So hard he has to take off his glasses and squint to see the road. Cars loud next to him in the spray. Soaked through when he gets home, he undresses and climbs into bed. For a long time he doesn’t sleep, he just lies and watchs the light leave the day. He gets hungry, and Mina is still not home, and he can’t get warm. He thinks of Opa Askan’s photo: in his pocket, in his wet trousers, lying with his other wet clothes on the bathroom floor.
It is dark in the flat when the phone goes. He has been dozing, unsure of the time, and the ringer sounds loud in the cold quiet of the hall.
—What do you want?
The question comes before he has even said his name.
—What did you want to ask?
—Sorry? Who is this?
But Micha knows who it is, and already his hands shake; even before he can think, before he can speak. No.
—This is Jozef Kolesnik. Calling from Belarus. I want to know your question.
There is silence on the line, then a long breath. In or out? Micha remembers the old man was kind. Polite. But he is angry now.
—Sorry. Mr. Kolesnik, you will have to forgive me. I have been asleep. I lost track of time—
—Are you a journalist?
—No.
—You want to know about me?
—No.
—No?
—I’m not a journalist.
—Who are you?
—Michael Lehner.
—So you said.
—I’m a teacher.
—What do you want from me?
Micha can’t think of a reply. Not one which doesn’t include Opa, and he doesn’t want to include Opa.
—What do you
want from me, Mr. Lehner?
—You remember the Germans, the occupation. I was told that.
No reply, just the same breath. Difficult, frightened; a deep breath in.
—I wanted to speak to someone about what happened. In your town, when the Germans came.
—You are Jewish.
It’s not a question.
—No. No. I am German. I mean, I am not Jewish.
—So what is your question?
—Mr. Kolesnik, I’m not sure the telephone—
—Your question!
He shouts, hoarse. His voice rips into Micha’s ear. Micha hangs up the phone.
Micha is shaken by the phone call, and by Kolesnik’s anger, but he prays for him to phone again.
Micha takes time off school. He calls in sick after Mina leaves for the clinic, then he sits in the kitchen with the phone.
After four days of silence, he goes back to work, and when he gets home on the fifth, a letter has arrived.
Herr Lehner,
Please accept my apologies. I lived through it here, and I think you know it was a terrible time.
Please understand. I don’t think I can answer your questions. It is painful to remember those years. I prefer not to talk about them.
Jozef Kolesnik
Micha reads the precise, cautious constructions over and again. The careful, sloping hand.
—Why didn’t you tell me about him?
—Because I cried, Mina, and I didn’t show him the photo.
—Why didn’t you tell me he phoned?
—Same reason. I hung up, ran away. I don’t know.
Mina sighs and the blood rushes to Micha’s face. She pushes the letter away from herself across the table, leans forward, and presses her fist into the small of her back. The weight of the baby is already changing the way she moves and stands.
—What did you say to him? When you were in Belarus, I mean.
—Nothing. I wanted to ask him questions, and then I didn’t have the courage, and then he told me to go away. Asked me.
—Is he Jewish?
Micha shakes his head.
—All the Jews were killed.
—No. I can’t deal with this anymore, Michael.
Mina shakes her head, opens her mouth to speak again, but Micha cuts her off.
—I think I will go back.
—What?
—To Belarus, talk to him.
—But he says he wants to be left alone.
—I will leave him alone. I only want to know about Opa. I won’t ask anything about him.
—He’ll just tell you to go away again.
—Maybe, I don’t know. I’m going to write to him, try to go. Next holidays, next month sometime.
—Fuck. Michael.
Mina stands up and walks across the room. She faces away from him, leans against the door.
—Mina.
—I can’t deal with this anymore. It’s disgusting, Michael. I don’t want it in my home.
—I’m sorry, Yasemin. I am, and we don’t have to talk about it anymore. I’ll just go and then I’ll know.
—Why do you have to know? I don’t understand that. Really. Why do you have to know?
Micha shrugs. She has her back turned, she can’t see.
—I just do.
—What good will it do?
—I don’t think you can really look at it that way, Mina.
—I can. And I think you should. Look at it from someone else’s perspective, you know. Mine, your mother’s, Mr. Kolesnik’s. Think about other people.
—I do.
—Liar.
Micha stares at her back, furious, knowing that she’s right.
—This is my grandfather. Do you remember him shooting the Jews in your village?
—Oh, fuck that, Mina.
—What? That’s your question. It’s what you want to know, isn’t it?
She kicks the door and jams her fists into the small of her back again. Michael sits at the table and starts to cry.
—I’m pregnant and you want to go away to Belarus and talk to an old man who never wants to see you again about something that he doesn’t want to remember. That’s the way it is, Micha, you see?
He doesn’t answer; doesn’t trust himself. He wishes she could come and put her arms around him, but he knows she can’t. He can see that in her fists and shoulders.
Micha cries because he knows she is right. It is unfair to leave her alone and pregnant. He is hurting her, his mother, father, uncle, sister, Kolesnik, and Oma, too.
But he also cries for himself.
This is my Opa. Do you remember him killing the Jews in your village?
Mina asked the question, and he can still barely say it inside.
Micha writes to Kolesnik, and Kolesnik writes back.
The old man says again that he doesn’t feel able to help, but this letter, too, is polite, and a phone number is printed clearly at the top with the address.
Micha refolds the letter carefully and puts it away before Mina gets up for work.
Micha thinks about phoning, but in the end he writes again. It is easier, he can be calmer, the request more composed. He can lie.
It is a research project about the German occupation of Belarus, to be used in teaching materials covering the war and Holocaust. To complete it, I need details of the daily lives of the German soldiers and policemen who served in the area. I think I can understand your feelings about the time, Mr. Kolesnik, but I believe you can help me, and perhaps help future generations avoid the mistakes of the past. I would therefore be very grateful for your time.
Micha says nothing about Opa. Another lie. Indirect, by omission, but a lie all the same. And if he is honest, Micha knows it is not there to protect the old man; only to protect himself.
He promises Kolesnik that he will ask no questions, look for no details about his own life.
Anything you don’t want to answer, you can just say so, and that is fine. And if you want to stop, at any time, then I will just go away.
Micha tells himself that this goes some way to make up for the lies.
—Have you thought about what will happen here if you go?
—What?
—You haven’t, have you?
Mina cuts a slice of bread and watches Micha cook for a while.
—Your family, Michael.
—I know.
—You don’t. You don’t know what you are doing.
Mina flattens the bread with her fingers, leaning against the fridge. Micha wonders who she has been talking to. Mutti, Luise. What they have been saying. I should ask. He can feel Mina waiting. I should want to know.
—You think maybe your Opa drank because he was guilty?
—Maybe.
—It could just have been the camp he was in. Or the prison. Wherever the Russians kept him.
—Mina, please. Please don’t try to persuade me not to go.
—I think a camp would have been enough for me.
She stops talking, eats her squashed bread. Micha wills her to look at him, but she doesn’t.
—I don’t know what they did with German soldiers, but they were terrible places, Michael.
Micha watches her eat a bit more bread.
—I treated an old man who’d been in the Gulag.
—You never told me.
—It was before I knew you. He’d been out for twenty years, but his body was still affected. Malnutrition, beatings. He was an alcoholic.
Mina eats the rest of her bread and then she stirs the food on the stove. She stands very close to him, but Micha feels she doesn’t want to be touched.
—But I saw the pictures of what they did there, Mina. Where Opa served.
Mina carries on stirring.
—I have to know if he did those things, too.
—Why?
—I just do.
—That’s not good enough for me, Micha.
She is not angry, though. This time it is Mina who cries. Mich
a stands with her. He tries, but he still can’t explain.
—I love my Opa, Mina. I don’t know what else I can say. He might have done something terrible. It’s just important for me to know.
—Will you still love him if he killed people?
—I don’t know.
She stares at him. I did think of that, Mina, and I really don’t know.
—He might not remember. This Kolesnik. He might not know, Michael. You might never know.
Micha reaches out, rests his hand on the small of her back. She turns and puts her arms around him. She cries. The baby is a small, proud bulge between them. Micha pushes his face into Mina’s neck.
Herr Lehner,
I have given your request some thought, and in the light of your assurances, I think I can offer my assistance.
Kolesnik
—I thought, if you wrote it out for me, then I could copy it.
She is amused by Micha’s request, Mina’s friend of a friend. She offers Micha a cigarette, reaches over to pick up the ashtray from the next table.
—Who are you writing to, anyway?
—Andrej? He’s a friend.
—You speak no Belarusian? No Russian?
—No.
—And you have a Belarusian friend who speaks no German?
—Yes. I stayed with him.
—I see.
Micha is still nervous, despite the woman’s smiles.
—Coffee? Cake?
—Coffee would be great.
He leaves his letter with her on the table and goes up to the counter to order. When he gets back, she is not smiling anymore.
—You want to tell your friend that your grandfather was a Nazi in his country?
—Yes.
—Over one-and-a-half million killed, you know that? Two million?
—Yes.
Micha nods, but he didn’t know. Why did I not know that?
—A whole generation of my family.
—By the Nazis?
—By the Nazis.
She is holding out Micha’s letter, but he doesn’t take it back. He thinks, She is married to a German. He is amazed.
—You are married to a German.
—Yes.
No explanation. Why should she explain to me? She reads the letter again.
—I hope your friend is understanding.
The Dark Room Page 21
