“Who is that man?” she asks as on the stairs.
“An old friend.”
“I don’t like him.”
The living room is empty but for a few pieces of abandoned furniture, a stack of old newspapers. The floors are marked where carpets have been taken up. Mohr stands at a large bank of windows overlooking the rear garden. He puts an arm across Agnes’s shoulder, draws her closer.
“For an old friend, you don’t seem especially happy to see him,” she says.
“He caught me off guard. It’s true that we’re old friends. But I had no idea he was a communist—if he really is a communist. I don’t know the first thing about him, really.”
A flock of birds flies from the hedge at the rear of the garden and disappears into the overgrown grass. Rooks. Refugees. They watch as the birds feed in the tall grass.
“I have my doubts, too.” Agnes turns to him. “I don’t know the first thing about you, either.” She smiles. Upstairs a slight commotion is under way. Some magpies suddenly fly into the poplar tree at the corner of the yard, busily working on a nest. Rooks on the ground, magpies in the tree.
“Get the door, Max!” Vogel calls. They are carrying the general down the stairs. Vogel watches from the top of the steps as the two men struggle with the stretcher. Mohr holds the front door open and glances down as the general passes across the threshold. “Did you tell him I’m taking him to hospital?” Mohr asks, stepping outside. He stops short on the landing. The front fenders of the car have been fitted with Nazi flags. He turns to Vogel. “Is this some kind of joke?”
“Camouflage.” Vogel hands him an envelope. “Use these papers if you’re stopped.”
Agnes appears in the doorway. “You forgot this,” she says, holding up his medical bag.
“Why not a Red Cross flag?” Mohr asks.
“The Japanese have been attacking ambulances.”
He watches as the general is lifted onto the backseat of the car, and gives the envelope back to Vogel. “Take them off.”
“Don’t be ridiculous, Max. It’s for your own safety.”
“I won’t do it. Take them off.”
Vogel heaves a sigh of exasperation. “You’re being ridiculous. There’s no saying what might happen if you’re stopped. Those flags are your only protection.”
“I don’t want that kind of protection.”
“I don’t want it, either,” Agnes says.
Mohr takes out his curfew pass and shows it to Vogel. “This is all I’ll need.” He takes Agnes’s arm and walks down to the car. The general is stretched out on the backseat under thick blankets. “How do you feel?”
“Ó bù shòu yùng,” the general responds in a weak voice.
Mohr closes the door, then walks around to the front of the car and removes the flags. He marches back up the steps. “You use them,” he says, handing them over to Vogel. “Or are you traveling under different protection this week? The Lion of Judah, perhaps?”
Vogel shakes his head in dismay. “You’re making a stupid mistake, Max.”
“Let’s not argue about it,” Mohr says, putting an end to the discussion. They stand for a moment together on the steps. “What are you going to do?”
“My car is on the way.”
“Will I see you again?”
“I can’t say.” Vogel looks away for a moment. The face that betrays no skepticism suddenly shows a hint of existential dread. He offers his hand. “Thank you, Max. One day you’ll appreciate everything you’ve done.”
Mohr can only smile. The intoxicating quality of such presumption. The will and the shall and the future. Never-ending progress, a sequence of advancing and receding interests. The world as bottle factory. “I’ll be happy if one day I can learn to live with all I haven’t done,” he says, and returns to the car.
Moments later the big black sedan backs down the driveway. They are in the frontseat, with Agnes in the middle, between Mohr and the driver. Tall hedges to the left and right create a narrow passage, a sluice down which the car slips like a new ship being launched into the sea. Mohr is facing forward, looking out the front window as the car backs away. Vogel waves, and Mohr waves back. As the car continues slowly down the drive, his thoughts drift briefly to those last few days in Wolfsgrub—his leap over the chair, the lifetime of possibilities closed and new ones opening up, the sense he has always had both of moving onward and backing away. He takes Agnes’s hand, squeezes it in his lap as the car comes to the end of the driveway. With glances into the rearview and the side mirrors, the driver turns sharply, puts the car into gear, and speeds up the road in the direction of the city.
ONWARD AND AWAY you recede; you leave behind, and you are left behind; you look out from, and you look back at—moment upon moment upon moment—like the one when, chin on fist, your gaze was captured by a trick of light, a photograph.
Wolfsgrub
The first drops of rain begin to fall as she reaches the top of the meadow. Just a few hours ago, it was sunny, with hardly any wind. Then clouds from the east came rolling in, settled low over the valley. Now Käthe finds herself in a cold gray mist, and can’t see more than a few meters in any direction. The early spring canopy provides some shelter from the rain, tender new leaves of oak and birch highlighting dark green patches of larch and spruce. She has counted her steps all the way up, every one. How pedantic. Like her brother, Otto, precise to the point of incoherence. She pulls back the hood of her loden cape. The cool air is refreshing. It is four hundred sixty-nine steps from the front door to the edge of the forest. It will be a different matter with snow on the ground, but next winter seems too far off to think about now. The last patches of snow in the upper meadow have already melted away. Spring came early this year. She wasn’t waiting for it this year the way she usually looked forward to the changing seasons. It just happened—the way everything seems to be happening these days, suddenly coming upon and overwhelming her. A month ago the Wehrmacht marched into Austria. All the roads were clogged with columns of marching soldiers, military vehicles, a steady stream of rattling machinery rolling toward Kreuth and the border.
Wolfsgrub is four hundred sixty-nine paces below. She can’t see it though the mist, but can picture the smoke coiling up out of the chimney—not the long, thin stream of cold-weather smoke, but the thick, gathered smoke of low-pressure days, when the smell of creosote pervades the whole house and no matter how hot she stokes the stove, everything feels damp and pointless. She waxed the kitchen table earlier this morning. Eva helped drag it outside before going over to Berghammers’, where she works every morning cleaning out the stalls. “You’ve never put wax on it before.” She watched Käthe swipe the big block of sandpaper across the slightly warped surface of the table, digging into the grooves between the boards with the edge of the sanding block.
“Do you have your lesson ready? Fräulein Kraus is coming this afternoon.”
Eva nodded, absorbed in what her mother was doing to the table. “Will it be all shiny afterward?”
“Not shiny, just smooth. And clean.”
Eva watched, sucking the end of her pigtail. Käthe was bent over the table, leaning into the work with both hands, blowing away the dust and running her palm over the smooth, freshly revealed surface.
“Why not just leave it? Why put wax on it?”
“To protect the wood.”
“You never worried about protecting the wood before.”
Käthe stopped sanding, amused by Eva’s concern, and tugged the pigtail out of her daughter’s mouth. “Don’t you worry, my dear. A little butcher wax is a good thing.”
Eva left for Berghammers’ without further comment. Käthe worked until her arms were sore and the sweat rolled, tickling down her sides. It felt good to be busy, out from under all the snow. She’d spent the whole winter reading, had poked her nose into every book in the house, lying beside the hot tiles of the stove. She’d never read so much or been so idle in all her life. If it hadn’t been for the work at Be
rghammers’, and Fräulein Kraus’s afternoon lessons, Eva would have had nothing to do all winter long, either. She’s been out of school for nearly a year, now. A whole year. Käthe liked to think that all her reading was compensation for Eva not being in school, but it also made her feel guilty; abstracted, negligent.
At Christmastime she’d roused herself, and managed to pull off what turned out to be a cozy little holiday. Otto came down from Göttingen—alone as ever, and loaded with wonderful gifts for Eva. But having him around had also been irritating. The perfect bourgeois in every way, right down to his stupid, fussy well-being. Professor Unrat, she called him, a joke he did not take too well. If he was overly tactful and reserved with his sister, it was because he claimed to understand her predicament. If she was taciturn, it was for precisely the opposite reason. She didn’t pretend to understand anything—and especially not her brother’s willful, obtuse blindness. Mohr used to say that Germany yielded more intellectual produce than it could use or pay for. Otto’s Göttingen professorship was just one more overfertilized field. He’d joined the Party in order to remain on the faculty, and told Käthe that current politics didn’t interest him in the least. “For God’s sake!” she’d shot back. “What sort of utter nonsense is that?” But she didn’t have the energy to fight him or argue any further, was grateful simply to have another presence in the house. They reverted to banalities. In compensation, she began reading everything that was left of Mohr’s book collection—starting with Lawrence, and continuing with everything in the house. It seemed the only way left to protest.
Rain is falling heavily now, a thrumming of water high up in the canopy. All the counting has left her short of breath. Years ago, she and Mohr had built a little bench up here, a place to sit in the summer, or, in winter, to put on skis and set off along the woodcutter’s trail that traverses in the direction of the Risserkogel and continues south in the direction of the border. In a fit of paranoia last autumn, she had chopped it up; decided she had to get rid of anything that might invite people to loiter. A clear view from above—straight down to the house. Mohr had written to her about it in a letter some time back, his dream of running down to the house in big, heavy boots. Suddenly she feels a tremor in the pit of her stomach. She struggles for a moment to fend it off, then, quietly, allows herself to cry.
THE TELEGRAM ARRIVED on November 17. An overcast, windy day. She and Eva had been sick with colds all week. That morning, Eva had decided she’d had enough of being inside, and had gone over to Lisa’s to play. The details are confused, but vivid. She’d spilled coffee, a whole pot of it, in the kitchen. Scrubbed the floor. Taken a bath. She’d risen early, her back stiff from having spent the previous day in bed, and gone down to tend the animals. The lightbulb in the stall burned out as she was feeding Minna. There was no spare, so she went into the storage shed to look for the kerosene lamp, rarely used anymore. Luckily, there was still fuel in it. Carrying the lamp back to the stall, she recalled an image from an old film of just such a lamp falling into a pile of straw and burning down the barn. A vision of catastrophe, not a premonition. A catastrophe you can prepare for, but a premonition you’re helpless against—and Käthe refuses to allow herself to become helpless. When, everywhere, things are growing dark, an old lamp becomes significant for the light it offers—and for the danger it illuminates.
Minna’s nose was dry. Käthe wondered if the colds she and Eva had been suffering were drifting back here, making the animals sick. She gave the cow fresh hay, raked out the stall, and did the same for Ziggy, the goat. The hens had been busy. There were fresh eggs that morning. Going back into the house, she tested the rope Eva had talked Fräulein Kraus into tying to a rafter to swing on. It was now a permanent feature of the barn, and every morning Käthe tested it with a doubtful tug, smiling to herself at the thought of Fräulein Kraus tying the knot. There was nothing that woman wanted more.
Snow had fallen overnight. She put a fresh log into the stove, stoked the fire. The sound of crackling wood was different with new snow on the ground. The world was muffled. The room was warm. Käthe had finished her breakfast and was lingering over the slow beginning of another day, a third cup of coffee, when Eva came into the room. She crawled across the bench, took her place in front of the window, and sat for a bleary-eyed moment, staring at the egg in the cup before her. “Can I go to Lisa’s today?”
Käthe glanced out the window at the fresh layer of snow on the ground, reached across the table and felt Eva’s forehead. “How do you feel?”
“Fine!” Eva squirmed, then reached for her egg, began to tap it on the table. “I feel fine, Mama.”
A day of play would be a good thing. In three days neither had left the house. It had started to snow again, big fluffy flakes, drifting. The windowpanes were frosted at the edges. It was quiet, inside and out. She considered going with Eva, walking her over to Lisa’s, but was distracted by a sudden craving. She finished her coffee, cleared the table, and went to the cellar for some onions.
She wanted to make Zwiebelkuchen for supper. It was one of the things she could never make often enough. It wasn’t just to please Eva that she enjoyed making it—though it was a favorite—or because she enjoyed it herself. It was the way the house smelled as it was being made—of butter and caramelizing onions. It always reminded her of her father, the way he used to rub his hands together and say, “Ich habe gerochen alle Gerüche in dieser holden Erdenküche.” He said it with corny zestfulness, fully aware of the irritation his prim, old-fashioned humor caused around the table. She hadn’t realized that the lines were from Heine until years later, and it had surprised her to discover that the poem was actually a dark lament, not the merry Biedermeier cliché that her father had made of it.
Eva finished her breakfast, cleared the rest of the table. Käthe was already busy in the kitchen, peeling and chopping onions. “Put on an extra sweater,” she called. When, a few minutes later, she heard the front door slam shut, she went outside to watch as Eva set off up the road, pulling her battered old sled behind her.
The telephone rang. Käthe stamped her feet, stepped back inside. Hesitation had become her latest response to the ringing telephone. She hardly ever called out anymore, and so few calls came in that there seemed little point in keeping the thing. She’d heard from Jahn recently. He had called from Hamburg to say he was leaving for America, and promised to come and visit before leaving. She reached for the telephone, anticipating his cheerful “Hallo, Käthe!”—and was startled by an unfamiliar voice. “Frau Doktor Mohr?”
“Ja?”
“Telegram from China.”
“Send it over. I’ll be here.”
There was a pause, then the line simply went dead.
She returned to the kitchen. The post office usually called ahead to make sure she was at home before sending someone out. She rolled out the crust. Telegrams were an old game of Mohr’s. He loved to telegram, especially on the weekend, when rates were low. Nonsense kisses, he called them, and she always received them as such. Black Schopenhauer wurst dadacrat reservation march I am so happy because of you. Postcards to Eva were often nothing more than childish stick drawings with enigmatic little captions—completely impenetrable. The last cable had come in October. Just two words: Alright Liebe.
She pressed on the rolling pin with all her weight, leaned into it, then, abruptly, straightened up and left the kitchen. She went to the writing desk and took Mohr’s latest letter from the drawer.
Shanghai
29 September 1937
It’s so hard to know what to write from here. Thousands and thousands are dying all around. Gruesome sights and stories, but plenty of goodness as well. Air attacks on Nanking, Canton, etc. Horrible. Abandoned, orphaned children all over the place. Shanghai is quieter now due to cholera, mainly. Don’t worry. I’m impossibly busy and will have to wait until things are calmer to describe it all to you and Eva. This is my second big war. I’ve seen it all—Germany, England, Japan, China—and now I�
��ve had enough. War is so vile and perverse. On top of fear for their livelihoods, some people here are so proud to be part of the experience. The biggest city siege in the history of the world! A tourist attraction. Their pride is so dreary and wretched and stupid. Don’t worry about me. Trust in God as I have God’s trust in you. Next spring I’ll come and meet you over the border, at Achensee. I promise. We’ll stay at the little Almhof, drink fresh milk and eat fresh cheese. Even if things here totally collapse, as the pessimists now believe (not me), I’ll go third class on the Trans-Siberian. There and back. You write, “Everything is so distant, me and you in your letters.” I don’t know. I’m so worn out. War makes one so tired.
Third class across Siberia. He was only trying to prove his determination with a dash of cheer. But for some reason the letter had a bad effect on her, and it wasn’t his dire circumstances, or the war. It was the train metaphor. He’d once told her he felt like a man standing on the tracks as the train pulled away, furious because his bags were too heavy. He said he felt weighted down with emptiness, with Wichtigkeit und Nichtigkeit. Now it was third class across Siberia, all raw need, like a child. He’d been like that always. When they’d first met, after the war, he’d told her all he wanted was to get a dog, and to wander the hills picking larkspur with a crust of bread and a piece of cheese in his pocket. The man she wanted to marry wanted to be a boy again! And, in her heart, all she wanted was to go along with him, to have a quiet life, to laugh and not care what other people thought. Even as she had joked about it, she could hear herself telling the story to her own children years hence, captivated by a sense only children fully grasp, of being in tow by wonderful enigmas: how the Westphals and the Kämmerers came together. How the Westphals and the Mohrs came together—exactly what was said and done, every joyful and terrible little family embarrassment right back to Adam and Eve.
She returned to the kitchen and finished rolling out the dough. As she put the pie in the oven to bake, she felt another twinge of foreboding. She couldn’t define it precisely, except in the way that one can anticipate the very particular aroma of Zwiebelkuchen as it goes into the oven, the way everything seems foreordained and measured, a priori, down to the movements of one’s own body. You mix onions, eggs, flour, milk, butter in a certain way, put them into the oven, until one certain day, when the result is: a telegram.
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