by Susan Finlay
“How about we try over that way?” he said, pointing away from the downtown and the fortress walls. “Looks residential. What do you think?”
“Whatever.”
DON’T LOOK DOWN, Sofie told herself. You’ll be all right. She clutched pruning shears in one hand, braced herself holding on to a ledge with her other hand, as she balanced herself atop a ladder leaning against the upper story of her house. Shakily, she encouraged herself. So far, so good. After one more adjustment, she checked the stability of the ladder and congratulated herself on her bravery. She had conquered her fear of heights—at least momentarily—and was ready to begin work.
She studied the ivy a moment and made her first tentative snip and then, encouraged, made a second. As a bicycle horn beeped down below, startled, she jerked her hand away from the plant and twisted her neck to look behind her. The sudden action brought on a rush of vertigo, but she kept her balance and peered at the cobbled street in time to see three neighbor kids hop onto their bikes and pedal away, laughing. Just what she did not need; a reminder that she was suspended up high without a safety net.
She shook her head and forced herself back to work. She wished she didn’t have to cut away some of the ivy-blanket that hid her home’s imperfections, all those little cracks and peeling paint, but as a homeowner it was her responsibility, her duty to protect her house’s structure, including its windows and exterior. She squinted her eyes and refocused on meticulous clipping. After trimming around the window’s bottom ledge, she shifted her weight and footing and began to work around the right sash. Another horn beeped, but this time she ignored it. Then she caught a fragment of muffled words. Probably the kids returning. More words, this time louder, and not from kids. Something was going on. She stopped clipping and listened as the voice echoed through the narrow corridor between houses, this time closer and more discernible.
“Doesn’t anyone here speak English?” the voice said.
She craned her neck, but the tall houses clinging cheek-to-cheek along the edge of the lane prevented her from seeing very far. Unsure of the speaker’s whereabouts, all she could do was wait to hear the voice again.
Nothing. Not even the sound of children playing in the street. After a few moments of silence, she shrugged and turned back to her work, figuring that whomever it was must have left.
“Oh, for Christ sake!”
Sofie jerked to attention, almost falling in the process. The voice now sounded really close and the speaker’s accent sounded American, west-coast if she had to place a bet.
“Why did we ever come to this godforsaken place? You can’t even find a map or a taxi. What’s wrong with this city?”
A smile tugged at her mouth. She loved Riesen, the centuries-old fortified German city with its medieval layout of concentric rings and labyrinthine streets, but she understood how disorienting it could be to strangers. She reached for the next clump of ivy, and then stopped in mid-clip. Maybe she could catch a peek at the man. It wasn’t every day that an American came into town.
She let go of the ledge, placing her free hand on the top rung of the ladder, and turned toward the voice. A momentary whirling sensation hit her, another dizzy spell she thought, until she realized the ladder was actually swaying. She dropped the shears, turned back toward the window, and grabbed for the ledge. Her fingers slid across the wooden ledge, sending a sliver into her index finger and making her pull her hand back in pain.
The ladder swayed again. In that split second, all she could think was, I’m going to fall.
She screamed and tried to grab hold of the remaining vines. Images of the cobbled street below flashed through her mind, and her heart thumped wildly as she braced for the impending fall, but the ladder jerked to a stop in an almost upright position, as if magically suspended in mid-air, then settled back onto the house wall.
“Are you all right, miss?”
Sofie forced herself to look down. The American had one foot planted on the ladder’s bottom rung and both arms stretched out in front of him. As she focused more clearly, she saw that both of his hands were attached in a vise-like grip on the metal sides of the ladder. She managed a brief nod as she struggled to calm herself. The look of concern on his face made his question pop to the forefront of her mind. She cleared her throat, and then words tumbled out of her mouth in a nervous avalanche. “I’m fine, really. I’m embarrassed more than anything. I owe you. I can’t believe how close I came to catastrophe. Thank you for helping me.”
“Ah, it was nothing,” he said, his face flushing. He shrugged, then added, “You speak English. You don’t know how thankful I am. My son and I have been lost for hours, walking in circles. You’re the first English-speaking person we’ve met.” He rolled his eyes the way someone spinning might do, and laughed easily.
Sofie laughed, unsure whether from relief or in response to his laughter. She began to climb down, slowly, wobbling slightly. When she reached the bottom rung, he touched her elbow and guided her onto the sidewalk, where they stood studying each other.
Finally, he broke the silence. “If you don’t mind my asking, what were you doing up there, anyway?”
“Oh, I was trying to rescue my window. Apparently that’s not one of my strengths, considering I had to be rescued.”
“Rescue your window?” He looked up at the window. “Ah, I see. I do love ivy-clad buildings, but what most people don’t know is that, like a weed, it tends to take over.”
“If I’d noticed the vines encroaching sooner, I could have snipped them back from inside the house.”
“Yeah, ivy can sneak up on you; damage the structure underneath, even. I saw a lot of it on the buildings around town. Every house and business seems to have flowers, too, either in pots similar to yours or in hanging baskets. It’s beautiful.”
Sofie nodded.
He grabbed his large duffel bag sitting on the ground, heaved it over his shoulder, and then tugged at his short-sleeve tee-shirt which had bunched up. Grimacing, he swiped his hand across his forehead.
Suddenly, she remembered he’d said ‘my son and I’. She turned to her left and noticed a lanky teenager with curly light-brown hair and blue eyes, his shoulders slumped and his face beaded with perspiration.
“Oh, sorry. This is my son, Ryan.”
Sofie swung back around and faced the father again.
“I’m Max. Max Hollander,” he said, extending his right hand.
She shook his hand. “I’m Sofie Sonnenberg. Thank you again for rescuing me.” As she stepped back, her left foot touched something. She looked down and saw that the pruning shears she’d dropped from the top of the ladder were at her feet, broken into two pieces. Bending down, she picked them up, and then glanced up at the two strangers. Under normal conditions, she would send them on their way and not get involved. But she couldn’t very well do that when she owed them for rescuing her. Besides, the boy looked tired, and she could picture her own son in his place. She found herself saying, “You both look exhausted. I suppose I should offer you chairs to sit and rest.”
“That, my dear, would be wonderful,” Max said. “I am wiped out, not only from trudging through town, but also from lugging this cumbersome bag over my shoulder. And, well, the heat is making me feel downright grungy.”
“You’re not alone.” Pulling pieces of vine from her hair, she added, half-teasing, “I’m not at my best, either. I think I’m turning into a clinging vine.” She smiled and pulled off another piece of ivy.
“You look a far sight better than I do.” He juggled his duffel bag again.
Her cheeks grew warm. Changing the subject quickly, she said, “I made a torte this morning. Perhaps I could offer you something cool to drink, too.”
“Thanks. You’re a godsend.”
“Well, I certainly owe you that much.” She walked toward her door, with the father and son trailing behind her. When she reached the doorstep, she stopped and chewed on her lower lip. Oh God! What have I done? How did I invite comp
lete strangers into my home?
She turned slightly to steal a glance at the man. He was still walking, and for the first time she noticed he had a slight limp. Her attention drew down to a pair of dust-covered dress shoes, and her heart went out to him, knowing that his feet must feel like cinderblocks on the unforgiving cobblestone.
When he reached the front door, he stamped his feet to shake off some of the dust. Sofie smiled to herself. All right, relax, he seems harmless. She pushed the heavy door inward, spreading light on the bricked entryway.
Both men followed her inside and set down their bags. She couldn’t imagine carrying those big bags all around town for hours. “Let’s go into the kitchen.”
As they walked through the hallway, Max looked around. “I like your home. It’s quite charming—like its owner.”
“It could stand some updating, I’m afraid.”
“No. I wouldn’t change anything. I love the old architecture: good workmanship, simple, yet strong and made to last. Great natural wood beams and stone fireplace. And the wrought-iron door hinges, latch, keyhole, and knocker are equally charming.”
“Oh, yes,” Sofie said. “Our ancestors knew how to build houses to last.”
“How old is it, if I may ask?”
“It’s been in my family for at least a few generations. My grandfather told me it was built in the mid to late-eighteenth century.”
“Fascinating. This really speaks to me. I’m an architect, by the way. I love the half-timbered exterior and the green window shutters, too.” He smiled, waved his arms, and glanced around as if visiting a cathedral. “I studied the evolution of English and European cottages in college. A bunch of us actually built a small English cottage with a thatched roof for one of our projects. Even learned how to fill in the panels of these old houses with ‘wattle and daub’.”
“I don’t know much about that, but I understand the allure.”
“Sorry, didn’t mean to bore you with architecture talk. I’m afraid I could go on for hours. My son can attest to that.”
“You’re not boring me, Mr. Hollander.”
“Please, call me Max.”
They walked into the sunny kitchen with its pale turquoise cabinets, Aga range in the same color, and a floor paved with brown York stone. He was obviously studying everything in the room. Sofie, having seen the house for the first time a very long time ago when she was a little girl, had difficulty imagining a newcomer’s perspective, especially that of an architect. What was he noticing? Did he see the hairline cracks caused by ground-shifting, the multilayers of paint from various owners, the spots where little pieces of old wallpaper couldn’t be removed? She motioned toward the pine dining table which had been here since she was a little girl, back when her grandfather would bring her here on summer holidays because he’d grown up here.
Max lumbered over and plunked down onto one of the old schoolroom chairs covered with a faded brown and white plaid cushion. His son sat at the other end of the table. “Ah, you have no idea how good it feels to sit.” Stretching out his legs, Max closed his eyes and gave his shoulders a few shrugs while turning his head to and fro. “This house reminds me of a storybook house, like in Cinderella or Goldilocks.”
“Thank you,” Sofie said, smiling at the unusual description. “I’ll get us some refreshments.”
She headed toward the refrigerator but halted, remembering her dirty hands. “If you care to freshen up, the bathroom is there,” she said, pointing down the hall.
Max gave her a dazzling smile. “Thanks. I guess I really need to freshen up, don’t I?”
She tried not to let Max affect her, but found it impossible not to return his smile. When he left, his son sat there looking as if he felt uncomfortable. After a few seconds, he got up and walked toward the bathroom, too.
Sofie washed her hands and face in the kitchen sink, pulled out the splinter from her hand, then opened the antique dresser that housed her dishes. She took out her blue-and-white striped Cornish-ware plates and matching cups and set them on an antique serving tray that had supposedly once belonged to her great-great-grandmother. The tray contained pink rose petals, an edelweß flower, and vanilla-colored feathers which were embedded between the tray bottom and a glass cover.
While Sofie set the table, she pictured Max’s tousled hair and clean-shaven face. Something about his quirky smile and twinkling eyes made her want to know more about him. Or perhaps it was his interest in architecture and history; she couldn’t decide. His light brown hair speckled with a few gray strands, his sparkling blue eyes accentuated by tiny crinkles, and the fact that he had a teenage son, told her he was older than she, late thirties, or perhaps forty.
“Hey, I was wondering something,” he said.
She jumped. She hadn’t heard him come back into the room.
“I studied German for two years in high school. Thought it would be adequate to get by while I’m here. The few people I’ve talked to in Riesen, though, sounded as if they were speaking a different language.”
Sofie nodded and pushed her hair out of her eyes with the back of her hand while she cut slices of a torte she’d baked two hours earlier. “That’s because you’re in Bavaria. They have a distinctive German dialect here.”
“They?”
“Oh, I grew up in Frankfurt, which is in the federal state of Hessen. We have sixteen states, or regions. Even I have trouble understanding some of the Bavarian dialect.”
“Oh, that makes me feel a little better. Thought I had forgotten everything. I haven’t been to Frankfort yet. Is it a lot different from Stuttgart?”
“Yes. Frankfurt is the fifth largest city in Germany, and the only German city with appreciable skyscrapers. Stuttgart, which is in the federal state of Baden-Württemberg, is sometimes called Germany’s biggest small town.”
“Stuttgart isn’t actually part of Bavaria?”
She nodded. “Riesen is, though. Did you know that Bavaria is actually called Freistaat Bayern, or simply der Freistaat, or ‘the Free State’? Bavarians tend to think of the region as its own national state.”
“Ah. I did not know that. Interesting.”
Silence filled the air. Sofie took a milk container and a tea pitcher out of the refrigerator and set them on the table.
“This kitchen takes me back to when I was a little boy visiting at my grandparents’ house in Texas.”
She looked over her shoulder from her position at the kitchen countertop where she was slicing cheese. “Why is that?”
Ryan walked in from the bathroom and sat down, his legs sprawled awkwardly. He looked bored—the same kind of look she often got from her son. It was the ‘I’d rather be playing video games or watching TV look’.
“Just a feeling. Your kitchen is inviting, comfortable, and it smells wonderful,” Max said, “like when Grandma, my dad’s mother, baked cookies and bread for us.”
She picked up the torte and a platter of cheese slices and crackers, carried them to the table, and sat down. After a few bites, she cleared her throat, folded her hands, and rested her chin on them. “What brings you to Riesen?”
“My grandmother—that is, my German grandmother—died a few weeks back. We couldn’t get here for the funeral but came as soon as we could. Had kids’ high school graduation ceremonies to attend. She left me her house here in Riesen, and Ryan and I spent the whole morning trying to find the damn thing. We couldn’t even find the street.”
“What’s the name of the street?”
“Wengenhausen Straße.”
Sofie tilted her head as she thought about it. It was familiar sounding, and yet she couldn’t place it. She shook her head. “Sorry. Were you and your grandmother close?”
“Nope. I didn’t get a chance to know her. She didn’t speak English and apparently didn’t ever travel. Gramps spoke English pretty well, and he spent a couple of months with us several times while I was growing up. He also traveled to England and Canada. I guess Grandma was okay with him traveling wit
hout her.”
“My grandfather traveled a lot, too. What was your grandmother’s name? Maybe I know her.” She doubted it since she hadn’t gone to any funerals recently, but it seemed polite to ask.
“Margrit Kimmel.”
That name sounded vaguely familiar, too. She couldn’t think why. “Sorry, I don’t think I ever met her. Your family never came here to visit your grandparents?”
“My mom came a few times, alone. Dad owned a landscaping business in Santa Barbara, California and it kept him from vacationing. You know, I don’t know why Mom didn’t bring my sister and me. I figured I’d come visit eventually.” He ate another bite, then said, “It’s a damn shame I waited too long.”
That reminded Sofie of her grandfather, and she tried to push the thought away. Suddenly remembering the glasses for their tea, she rose and retrieved them from where she’d left them on the countertop. “People tend to waste time, thinking they have plenty of time,” she said as she returned to the table. “But life surprises us.”
“Well, I can certainly see Riesen’s appeal. I have to admit I’m fascinated with its historical feel. It’s almost like stepping back in time.” He grinned and waved his hand. “Well, not quite, but you know what I mean, don’t you?”
“I can understand that. I love that about Riesen, too.”
“Maybe you’ve already figured out that I’m also a bit of a history buff.”
“Then we have something in common. I write history books. Non-fiction, not novels. Also, geology.”
“Now that’s fascinating. I’d love to read your books.”
“Unfortunately, they’re in German.”
After another brief silence, Max finished his piece of torte and wiped his mouth with a napkin. “You know, for a while there I thought they were going to run me out of town for being a foreigner, or for being an American.”
