by Holly Müller
Ursula tried to think of something to say but her body stirred in a way that made her anxious, a fast eddy in her blood, like the chaotic river below, swirling, pushing, rushing. She thought of the red spear of flesh protruding from the groin of the Fingerlos dog, the bull and the cow, the nanny goat bleating beneath the stud, and Siegfried astride Mama, his tongue licking her cheek like on the picture-postcards of Krampus and the maiden.
‘It’s your mama, isn’t it?’ said Marta.
‘What?’
‘It’s your mama who’s been fornicating.’
Ursula’s face kindled a fire even in the bitter rain.
‘Well?’ insisted Marta. Droplets ran off the end of her nose and gathered on her lashes. She bent near to Ursula’s face to see her expression, unavoidable, tenacious as a dog with a juicy bone.
‘No,’ said Ursula. The word dropped unconvincingly from her lips. She was too shocked to lie with conviction.
Marta smirked.
‘I’m cold,’ said Ursula. She scrambled from the wall on to the road.
‘People’ve seen his car. He drives right by our window. It’s not hard to work it out.’ Marta’s eyes became slits, full of malice. ‘Stop fibbing, Uschi. No one can trust a person like you.’
Ursula began to walk away. Marta called after her, her voice sharp above the gush of water. ‘My mama says she won’t tell anyone. Frau Hildesheim’s just a weak woman. A sinner led astray.’ She raised her voice still further. ‘But you’d better watch yourself. Like mother like daughter. I’ve seen the way you look at Sepp.’
Ursula broke into a run. She could hear Marta shouting something more about the church and godliness. She splattered through a puddle as she turned the corner, jumped the ditch at the side of the road into the field. Her chest thumped with a painful feeling; she felt the wrongness and dirt of her life surrounding her, a frightening confusion of trying and trying to be someone, someone better, to fit with this place, with these people, but never succeeding, and how could she when her mother did something like this? She burned with anger towards Marta but feared she was right; she was a liar. Her family weren’t right, weren’t as they should be, and everyone in Felddorf could see it. She must try not to care. None of them really knew her and she was glad. Mud squelched from the saturated ground and splashed her legs black. Her boots chafed her anklebones but she ignored the pain. She fell over several times before she reached her house.
7
It wasn’t long before the judgement of the village fell like a gavel on to the Hildesheims. Perhaps Marta’s mother had found it difficult to hold her tongue; perhaps she’d never intended to resist. News spread through the ranks at church and amongst the shopkeepers and their customers. Housewives worn out by endless days of wartime hardship feasted on the rumour like starving crows, met at their gates and fences to tear at the victuals – welcome relief from suffering, grief, fear and frustration. They could forget momentarily about lost sons, missing husbands and cousins, the hopeless atmosphere of near defeat, the threat of bombings, the uncertain future. The housewives conjectured viciously, happily, repeating well-worn condemnations – they’d often wondered about that woman, not from round here, not quite proper. She hadn’t been to a church service for months – a sure sign of something gone bad.
‘Empty seats again on Sunday.’
‘It seems that she’s not easy in the presence of the Lord.’
‘Well, how could she sit there – before the eyes of God – I never could.’
‘You never would though, would you?’
‘It takes a certain type of woman.’
‘Her husband will be turning in his grave.’
‘She didn’t grieve for long, they say.’
‘Frau Fingerlos made it quite clear.’
‘That black car coming and going.’
‘Parked outside for days.’
‘He’s a no-good type – married of course.’
‘And I always said she was trouble.’
‘No scruples.’
‘Her voice—’
‘Her smile—’
‘Saucy.’
‘Bold.’
‘Exactly.’
Ursula felt the ripple of hostility at school, no longer mere taunts but a whisper of enmity, faces closing like fists as she approached. Marta didn’t wait for her any more in the mornings on the track but instead untied the Fingerlos dog, a vicious cur called Gabriel, so that he’d terrorise her as she passed. Marta spent her time with the fat girl in the dirndl and her younger cousins, all dumpy, blonde and ruddy, a good hearty Germanic-Austrian family, and good Catholics too. They shrieked together in the playground and grew quiet when Ursula was near, Marta looking over with hatred in her expression. Ursula hurried to escape them and thought how unfair it was that the rules were different for Marta. She wished she herself had only a philandering father, which was a much more normal, wholesome thing. Her shame was a heavy substance that lodged somewhere in the centre of her chest – it hurt and made it hard to breathe. She reminded herself that Anton was somewhere within the school grounds with his friends, that she wasn’t only the daughter of a whore but also the favourite sister of Anton Hildesheim, Hitler Youth hero.
One afternoon when school was finished, Anton was waiting for her at the playground gate. Her heart leapt to see him there, an unusual treat, and she hurried over. When she reached him she saw that his mouth was smeared with blood and his collar torn on one side.
‘Are you all right?’ she asked.
He threaded his arm around her waist and pulled her to his side. They set off walking. ‘Better than the other boy,’ he said, baring his teeth; his lips were swollen and crimson. He switched his step so that their feet fell in time. ‘You?’
‘Fine,’ she said.
‘No, you’re not. I can tell. Is it that Marta girl?’ He watched her closely. ‘That stuck-up bitch? Don’t listen to her. She’s a snake. She’s nothing.’ He squeezed her waist and kept close as they turned off the road and walked the length of the track. It made her feel stronger – more solid. Before they entered the yard he stopped and took hold of her chin, tilting her face to his. She was afraid for a moment that he was angry with her because he looked at her so fiercely. ‘You’re better than the lot of them,’ he said with force. A couple of tears trickled from her eyes and ran uncomfortably into her ears. ‘You don’t need anyone because you’ve got me.’
On Tuesday, the baker’s wife, Frau Arnold, closed the shop door in Mama’s face saying that she didn’t want her type of person coming in. Several other customers were queuing by the counter and watched saucer-eyed as Mama was turned away. No doubt Frau Arnold enlightened them, explained the ill repute that Mama would bring if she were to accept her custom. Mama returned to the house. She said that the baker and his wife had always been an idiotic pair and that she’d no idea what the woman was talking about. Dorli heard the news and covered her face with her hands. Ursula was certain that this was only the beginning. Mama tossed her cloth bag, empty of bread, on to the table.
Mama’s stubbornness led them to church a few days later to face the crowds on the feast day of the Annunciation of Mary. She buttoned herself into her better dress, wore a string of pearls around her neck and smart black shoes. She insisted on baths for all the children and spent a long time braiding Dorli’s hair and combing Ursula’s into pigtails so neat and tight that her head ached. Anton was his usual surly self; Ursula saw him watching as Mama stood before the mirror in the hall and drew several determined breaths. He gave a sardonic smile and Ursula wished that just this once he wouldn’t mock and make Mama seem ridiculous.
The people waiting outside the church squinted in the glare of the sun. One or two horses, harnessed into the shafts of traps, stood cropping the short grass at the edge of the road, their muscular lips wrapping and gripping like pairs of mittened hands. The farmers stood together and rocked back on the heels of their boots, Herr Esterbauer amongst them. Ursula scanned the crowd f
or familiar faces from her class. She saw one or two of the boys, and Marta standing with her parents. Marta’s father rested his hands on his daughter’s shoulders; every so often he smiled and ruffled her hair. Ursula turned her back.
Anton sauntered off to speak with Rudi. Rudi had obviously been fighting again or had received another beating from Herr Adler, the hog; one of his eyes was swollen like a Zwetschken plum. The boys talked intently and there was something secretive in their manner. Ursula watched them with trepidation. Anton sometimes mentioned how he longed to go off to join the fighting – he didn’t have to wait till he was sixteen; the army would have him on air defence in Vienna. Perhaps he’d run away with Rudi and leave her. After all, everything was so hopeless in Felddorf. She looked elsewhere, not wanting to be caught staring. She spotted Sepp amongst the crowd. He stood politely with a woman Ursula recognised; she was always at church. It must be Frau Sontheimer, Sepp’s aunt. She wore a respectable green jacket of a traditional style and had a pale face with a high forehead and sad mouth. Ursula had heard Mama talk of her, a spinster with strange ideas and a guarded look in her eyes, which the villagers mistook for conceit. She had no friends here, and it looked to be true; the surrounding parishioners ignored Frau Sontheimer as if she wasn’t there and she did the same, keeping her gaze fixed on the middle distance.
The church bell gave its dull chime. Conversations petered out and the richer farmers withdrew their pocket watches to check the timing of the bell and to display the rare flash of gold. Mama joined the disorderly queue somewhere at the middle, Anton, Ursula and Dorli crowding behind. There was the hush and rustle of bodies; the church would be full. Even the farmers joined the press, their steel-plated boots clicking against the stones. Usually they remained outside, talking business, while their wives prayed on behalf of the family. When the wives emerged, sanctified and soothed for another week, the farmers would untie their horses and traps, wives perched on the back with chubby ankles crossed, and drive to the Gasthaus, where they’d drink for the rest of the afternoon. But today was a holy day of obligation and the men came in.
As the frame of the church door closed over Ursula’s head she took a small fold of Mama’s dress between finger and thumb and felt comforted. Suddenly, to her right, was Sepp, crammed against her by the pushing people, his shoulder touching hers. She felt the contact as an intense jolt. He glanced at her and smiled. His cheeks shone like two freckled apples and his eyes were so dark that light danced in them, mischievous and warm. Ursula tried to smile but her face was frozen. Her stomach grew sick and tight; the press of him against her seemed to burn, to set her trembling. She looked down at the floor, overcome with shyness; his fringe fell into his eyes in such a charming way. Why had Mama done her hairstyle in this ugly fashion, scraped tight and unforgiving? And it was much too short, chopped bluntly by her harassed scissors. Sepp was jolted forward and he disappeared into the church.
As soon as Ursula and her family were seated, people in front began to swivel and peer at Mama. They were alone in their pew because the people who normally shared it with them had chosen other places. Marta’s father, Herr Fingerlos, gazed sternly and Marta made no pretence at subtlety as she turned fully on the pew, kneeling up to gawk. Frau Gerg stared at Mama with a cold ferociousness that made Ursula afraid and Frau Arnold, the baker’s wife, pressed a grubby-gloved hand to her lips as though holding the laughter in. Perhaps it wasn’t too late to escape, thought Ursula. Couldn’t they just leave now, before the service began? Dorli’s hands were knotted in her lap; across the aisle with the boys and men Anton slumped low. Ursula wanted to crawl beneath her bench and curl up on the kneeling cushions. There could surely be no sense in staying? But Mama sat rigid, eyes fixed on something just above the altar; perhaps she was praying. Just then Frau Hillier rose abruptly and noisily from a pew a few rows behind them, saying ‘Excuse me’ and squeezing past everyone with a lot of rustling and palaver. She approached Ursula and her family. The choirboys were in position and the priest was about to ascend the pulpit, but hesitated when he saw Frau Hillier. She stopped beside the Hildesheim pew and cleared her throat. Her hat, which was a brown globe-like thing with moth holes along the brim, perched with old-fashioned severity atop her head. Ursula readied herself for a tirade. Frau Hillier would lambast them in front of the whole church; she’d have Mama thrown out. Ursula pleaded with God, hopelessly, that they’d be spared.
‘May I sit beside you, Frau Hildesheim?’ said Frau Hillier. ‘It seems,’ she announced, ‘that some here are intent on making you feel uncomfortable.’
Mama looked bewildered but nodded and indicated that the children should stand to let Frau Hillier get in. As she passed, Ursula caught a strong whiff of wood smoke, then Frau Hillier trod heavily on Ursula’s foot. She bit her lip in agony. Frau Hillier plumped down next to Mama and focused serenely on the priest, her hands neatly folded on top of her handbag. The priest began and Ursula tried to be calm as the Latin flowed over her, a lulling stream of sound; a boat slowly rocking at a river’s edge.
‘Come with me,’ said Frau Hillier once the service was over and they were outside. She took Mama’s arm and started towards the graveyard, which was filled with people talking, wandering and visiting buried relations. ‘Let’s have a walk.’
‘I really think we ought to leave,’ said Mama. Dorli nodded emphatically.
‘If I may say so,’ said Frau Hillier, ‘don’t be a coward. You’ve every right to be here. Don’t let small-minded people shoo you away. It’s your place too. Come!’
Their neighbour’s words must have pricked Mama’s pride because after a pause she said, ‘Children,’ and allowed Frau Hillier to lead her. Ursula and Dorli followed. Anton dawdled as far behind as possible and kept glancing around and up at the hill. The family walked along the rows of neat graves, resplendent with curling metalwork, ornaments and candles. The day had turned humid, the horizon slate-dark – a downpour was due. They reached the plot where Frau Hillier’s husband was buried and she lit a candle and refilled the holy water dish.
Sepp was near by – he picked dead leaves from amongst the flowers on a grave while his aunt directed him. Ursula left her family and wandered closer, meandering as though daydreaming; she looked up at the trees and then down at the trodden grass, aware all the while of Sepp’s stooping shape. With fists full of dead leaves and flower stalks he set off for the compost heap. Ursula was directly in his path.
‘Hello,’ he said, stopping in front of her.
Her heart jumped with panic; she hadn’t expected him to speak to her. ‘Oh, hello,’ she said, flustered.
‘I’ve seen you at school, haven’t I?’ He had a smudge of dirt on his upper lip that looked like a lopsided moustache.
She shrugged, trying to prevent a blush from developing. ‘Probably.’ She steeled herself for nosy questions.
‘What’s your name?’ he asked.
‘Ursula.’
‘I’m Sepp,’ he said. ‘I can’t shake your hand.’ He indicated the leaves he held. ‘Sorry.’
‘It’s all right.’ She smiled and the blush arrived, pulsing in her cheeks – he couldn’t fail to notice. He really did have such nice, wide-open eyes. They looked directly at her, closely at her, which was not something she was used to. His fringe curved to brush his eyelids, which was somehow the most beautiful thing she’d ever seen, and she allowed herself to bask for a moment. Being near to him felt nerve-rackingly splendid, like being at the top of a great cliff with a sun-blinded lake stretched out beneath, the feeling that she might just jump – exhilarating, frightening.
A hand gripped her elbow. ‘Hey,’ said Anton. ‘Come here!’ He tugged her arm until she went with him. He took her back towards their family.
‘Goodbye!’ called Sepp.
Anton swivelled and Ursula saw the filthy scowl he levelled.
‘What’s the matter?’ she hissed. But just then a shrill voice rang out.
‘Intolerable!’ It rose above the wind
that now stirred the leaves, a cry meant to stun and deafen, like the piercing blast emitted by an owl as it swoops to snatch the harvest mouse. Frau Gerg stood stock-still and glared from beneath her thin brows at Ursula’s family and Frau Hillier. Beyond her a cluster of women forgot their conversation and watched, their dresses billowing.
‘Emmalina!’ Frau Gerg yelled. A thin woman with strenuous grey hair controlled by her headscarf, broke away from the group and hurried over to stand restlessly beside her friend. ‘There’s something in the vicinity’, said Frau Gerg, ‘that smells unpleasant.’ Emmalina said nothing. ‘I can’t believe the nerve,’ Frau Gerg continued, as if to Emmalina, but in fact addressing Mama and Frau Hillier. She drew herself up, and began to quote from the Bible. ‘“Now the works of the flesh are manifest”’ – her index finger was stiffly extended – ‘“which are these, adultery, fornication, uncleanness, lasciviousness . . . They which do such things shall not inherit the kingdom of God.”’ Her tone was strident and Ursula was reminded of the crowds she’d heard on the wireless; a thousand voices chanting and booming, ‘Sieg Heil! Sieg Heil!’
Frau Arnold hurried to join them. ‘What’s going on?’ she panted.
Frau Gerg stared at Mama. ‘There are some who flout the will of God and think themselves above His law.’
‘One deviance leads to another,’ said Frau Arnold, perspiring in the humid air and dabbing a handkerchief to her shining cheeks and forehead. ‘That’s what I believe.’
Emmalina threw Frau Arnold an irritated look. She wasn’t of the same vindictive nature as her friends and she was ill at ease.
‘Indeed,’ said Frau Gerg. ‘It makes a mockery of our feast day to see that family here. And sets a bad example to all the children.’ The two women agreed with one another over this. ‘I’ll be speaking to Father Jordan,’ finished Frau Gerg. ‘You’ll not be permitted again!’ She began to turn away as if the matter was settled.
‘Excuse me,’ said Frau Hillier sharply. ‘May I stop you?’ Ursula looked at Frau Hillier in fright and Dorli took tight hold of Ursula’s arm. Frau Gerg turned back to face Frau Hillier, eyebrows arched. ‘It’s not up to you who comes to this church, whether they flout God’s will or not. You can’t just bar whoever you choose.’ Frau Hillier took a step forward and pointed directly at Frau Gerg. ‘Or else we’d all be subject to your latest grudge or prejudice.’ Next she jabbed her finger in the direction of Frau Arnold who recoiled, like a snail retreating into its shell. ‘You’re nothing but a rotten gossip. Leave judging to the Lord and get on with your own petty lives. Both of you.’
