We Were Strangers Once

by Betsy Carter

  He laughed, mostly with relief. Drawing the flowers and working with his father meant she would stop going to the Stadtwald. He kissed her cheek before he left for school. “You seem yourself again. I’m glad you’re so happy, you deserve it.”

  She made a brushing-away gesture with her hand. “Ach, nobody deserves anything. It’s not about that.”

  Later, he wished he had asked what it was about.

  When he was called out of his history class by the headmaster minutes before noon, his downstairs neighbor, a Frau Hennig, was waiting for him in the hall. He took one look at her and thought: She is not here to deliver good news. She was wearing a housedress, with a kerchief over her hair. Her stockings were rolled down to her knees, and on this bitterly cold morning, she wore only a sweater that wasn’t buttoned. Frau Hennig placed her hand on his shoulder. “You must come immediately,” she said. They walked in silence for the twenty minutes it took to get home. Egon dared not ask any questions and tried to convince himself that the worst had not happened. He devised many scenarios: there was a fire in the building; his father had fallen ill; his mother had disappeared into the Stadtwald. And while none of these were circumstances he wished for, he intuited that whatever had happened was far graver than what he imagined. The walk seemed to go on for hours; each time Frau Hennig stopped to pull up her stockings, he wanted to run ahead, but he was too polite. She pushed her way through the small crowd that had gathered in front of their building, and Egon followed her inside. His father was sitting on the marble staircase surrounded by several neighbors. He held a cloth to his head, and Egon saw that the color was gone from his face.

  Egon knelt in front of him. “Papa, what is it?”

  “Your mother. Fell down the stairs.” He stared past his son as if he could see it happening before him.

  “Did she—”

  “I don’t know,” his father interrupted. “We’ll never know.” Then he closed his eyes, and in a voice smaller than any he had used for the animals, he said, “Broke her neck.”

  Egon wasn’t sure he’d heard him correctly. He started to say, “What?” but then thought again. No man should have to say those words twice.

  3.

  Everything that gives life to a man was draining from Rudolph. The color had faded from his hair, and the deep lines around his mouth had turned his face into a dour mask. His steps became heavy, and though he claimed it was his rheumatism, he walked like a man reluctant to go forward. Each day he sat at his desk working on his textbook about the wildflowers of Europe. It struck Egon that no one could have been more at odds with his subject than his father. Wildflowers were one of the earth’s gentlest surprises: impulsive and gay, popping up where no one expected them, shamelessly flaunting their riotous colors. His father, who had once stooped slightly, now slumped like an unwatered plant. His prominent nose seemed beak-like against his sunken cheeks. He barely spoke, sucking the spirit from the house and leaving it in eerie silence.

  Egon was no stranger to silence. At night, he would lie in bed and listen to his own breath. He’d been in the Stadtwald many times when the creatures were quiet and all he could hear was the hum of the air. But without the intimate banter between his parents and the scratchy sound of his mother’s pencil on paper, the silence in the house was different from any he’d ever known. It felt as infinite and absolute as his mother’s death.

  The injured animals they used to collect were gone. He tried coaxing his father to walk with him. He offered to make him meals, bring him tea, buy him a newspaper, take him to see the car exhibition in Berlin. The answer always came back: no. Not a verbal no, but an annoyed shake of the head.

  Nearly a year after Elisabeth’s death, Rudolph was still in need of an illustrator for his wildflowers. Egon had been nursing an idea. Knowing his father would pay attention only for a few minutes, he practiced his lines carefully before approaching him at his desk late one evening.

  “Papa, I wonder if you’d like me to help with your book. After all those years sketching with Mutti at the Stadtwald, I know something about how to do these illustrations. We could work together.”

  Rudolph looked surprised. He shook his head. “In the brain department, you’re a Schneider through and through. But you’re not your mother. I appreciate your offer, but frankly, your drawings are pale imitations and don’t hold a candle to hers. Forgive me if I sound harsh, but you have different talents from the ones your mama and I have.”

  The words came at Egon so fiercely that he said the first thing that came into his mind. “Don’t talk of her in the present; she’s dead now and always will be.”

  Rudolph stared at his son as if he were speaking a foreign language, then picked up his pen and went back to work. After that, Egon packed away his sketch pad and pencils. Without his mother’s company, they were meaningless. He’d always found a naturalist’s life too isolated and removed from reality. It had worked for his parents because they had had each other, but it would not for him. He would be more of the world.

  His father had assumed Egon would go to his own alma mater, Heidelberg University, but lately, his son had a different plan. He wanted to learn everything about how the human body worked and how to care for it. He would go to university in Berlin and study medicine. Birds and flowers were his parents’ world; the secrets of anatomy would be his.

  When he told his father, Rudolph put his elbows on the desk and held his hands together as if in prayer. “Why medicine?” he asked.

  “Because I need something of my own,” said Egon. “Because, as you’ve pointed out, I’m not you and I’m not Mutti.”

  “Okay, then,” his father said, and went back to work.

  Minutes before dawn on the second Tuesday of September 1920, Egon boarded the train for Berlin, carrying only what he could fit into a brown leather suitcase: essential clothing, a sheaf of his mother’s drawings, the glass eye from his grandfather, and his parents’ book on birds. He’d urged Rudolph not to come with him to the station. “There will be too much climbing up and down the stairs.” His father, whose rheumatism had worsened, agreed, sparing both of them any last-minute sentimentality, or lack of it. As the train pulled away and the rising sun spun the Main River into gold, Egon remembered the last time he had been on this train. It had been with his father, ten years earlier—not so long ago, yet time enough for him to lose his mother and for his vigorous father to turn into a wasting old man. There was some comfort in knowing that Annette would look in on Rudolph, and it startled Egon to realize that his mother had died twenty-one months before, to the day.

  Not until he walked into his new dormitory did Egon understand that his loneliness could go even deeper. The beige concrete walls were bare, and the wooden planks of the floor were warped and covered with years’ worth of dirt. There was one window, so layered with soot that only a few lines of light managed to infiltrate. Although it was day outside, in here it seemed like the middle of the night. There were two wooden desks; two chairs, both nicked and scarred; and two unmade beds, each with a naked gray-and-white-striped mattress atop what looked to be a carillon of springs. The beds shocked Egon the most. He was so used to being alone, he couldn’t imagine what it would be like to have another person, a stranger, share his nights or see him undressed. He placed his bag on the bed closest to the window and sat down next to it.

  If his mother were here, she’d figure out how to bring life into this miserable place. The thought of her thickened his throat. Unsnapping his suitcase, he reached into the side pocket for the glass eye and wrapped his fingers around its smoothness. He pulled out his copy of European Ornithology and placed it on the closer desk. At least its cover, a close-up of a red cardinal on a branch against a white background, added a speck of color. He went back to his suitcase, took out his mother’s illustrations, and laid them side by side on the bed. For now, he would keep the glass eye tucked away in his bag, but it was a comfort to know it was nearby.

  Egon studied the drawings until he
became aware of somebody standing in the doorway. The fellow was short and pudgy, with bushy raisin-colored hair that seemed to shoot from his head as if someone were holding him upside down. “Mmm, charming place,” said the stranger, stringing out the sarcasm in his voice. “And you? Are you to be my cellmate?”

  Egon stood up and offered his hand. “I’m Egon Schneider from Frankfurt, how do you do?”

  The young man held out his hand, soft with baby fat. “Meyer Leavitt,” he said, “from the other side of the moon. Nice to meet you.”

  There was never a time when Egon did not wonder if Meyer Leavitt actually did come from the other side of the moon. The two boys were so opposite that they filled in each other’s spaces: Egon’s angles, Meyer’s roundness; Egon’s height, Meyer’s lack of it; Egon’s grace, Meyer’s clumsiness. Because Egon’s clothes elegantly draped his lean body, Meyer judged him to be a rich city boy. And each time Meyer hitched his pants up over his large belly, Egon thought: I’ve come all the way to Berlin to end up with this hick? But Meyer was funny and well read. He quoted writers like Mann and Rilke as if they were relatives. Egon was sociable and knew how to talk to everyone in the dormitory. Still, the friendship might never have taken had it not been for the cat.

  Near the end of their second week, one of the boys down the hall snuck a black cat into the dorm. Meyer played with the cat, whom he called Raven, whenever he could. One night, when Egon and Meyer were out of the room, Raven crept in. Finding a pile of Meyer’s socks and underwear on the floor, he nestled into it for a nap. The smell must have suited Raven, because for the next few days, he managed to sleep on every piece of clothing Meyer owned until, late one night, Egon was awakened by the sound of Meyer choking.

  Egon had heard Meyer wheeze before. Whenever they climbed stairs or ran somewhere, he would fall behind, winded. Egon attributed this to Meyer’s weight and his dislike of any physical activity. But tonight, his breathing, what there was of it, sounded different, raspy and urgent. He was struggling to say something. Egon got out of bed and rushed over to him.

  “You okay?”

  “The cat,” gasped Meyer. “Asthma.”

  Egon knew little about asthma; he knew only that Meyer sounded as if something in him had closed down and needed to open up. He needed fresh air. Maybe caffeine would speed up his heart and help him breathe. Egon opened the windows. He would get him coffee, but first Meyer must calm down. Egon turned on one of the desk lamps and spoke to his roommate in a gentle voice, not unlike the one his father had used with the insects and animals. “No need to panic; you are going to be okay. Try to slow down your breathing, and stay by the window. I’m going to the dining room to get you coffee. I think the caffeine will help. Don’t worry, I’ll be right back. I promise, I won’t leave you alone for long.”

  That night, as Egon poured Meyer cup after cup of coffee, the two of them stayed up talking until sunrise. Meyer told Egon about growing up on a farm in Mannheim and how his father expected him to take it over someday, despite the fact that most of the animals they owned triggered his asthma. “I never told him I was applying to university until I was accepted, with a scholarship to boot. When I finally did tell him, he flew into a rage.” Meyer waved his hands and spoke in a growly voice meant to imitate his father’s: “‘What nonsense! Why would you study at some fancy university when I can teach you all there is to know about farming right here?’ That’s when I admitted I’d never intended to become a farmer, that I was going to become a writer, and writers needed to study literature, not pig feed and crop rotation. He slapped me across the face and told me I disgusted him. He couldn’t believe I didn’t want his life, and I suppose he was right in thinking me a snob. I didn’t want to be him, and I rejected everything he stood for. We fought all spring and summer, and when it came time to go, he warned me that if I set foot out of his house, I would no longer be a member of his family. My mother cried but did nothing. They have other children at home; I’m the oldest of four; no one will pine away for me. So, here I am.” He smiled like a dog baring its teeth. “I’m all yours!”

  “Well, aren’t I the lucky one?” said Egon. “Are you feeling better?”

  Meyer’s nightclothes were drenched, and his hair was more animated than ever. “I am. Tell me, how did you know what to do?”

  “I didn’t.” Egon told him about watching the birds and drawing with his mother, the walks with his father, and how they would care for injured animals. “It’s intuitive, the healing. We never really knew if we were doing it right.”

  “Ah, that’s why you want to become a doctor,” said Meyer.

  Egon nodded, and then explained about his parents. He pulled out the sheaf of his mother’s bird drawings. “You’ve seen these. My mother drew them. She’s famous.” He laid them out on his desk and studied them. “Beautiful,” he said under his breath. “They assumed I too would become a naturalist, but I don’t really have the talent for it. That’s their book.” He pointed to the volume of European Ornithology on his desk. “She died nearly two years ago. I haven’t picked up a sketchbook since. I’ve discovered I’m more interested in people.”

  “I’m sorry about your mother.”

  Egon looked away. “It was a terrible accident. Terrible.”

  “Well, I should think you’d be a very good doctor.”

  “Thank you. And you? What will you write about?”

  Meyer seemed taken aback. “I’ll write stories and essays and interpret the world through my point of view, which, I assure you, is unlike most people’s. I could write about this night, for example. About how two strangers, with nothing obviously in common, are brought together when one has a crisis. You know, subjects like that.”

  It wasn’t a thank-you, exactly, but coming from this queer duck, Egon figured it was as close to one as he would get. Two nights later, he came home late from classes and found that five of his mother’s drawings had been framed and hung on the walls. On his pillow was a note: These birds will always soar. Meyer.

  4.

  In Egon’s senior year, his cousin Carola came to Berlin to visit the university, where she’d be enrolling as a freshman the following year. She was a second cousin of his father’s from the Polish side of the family, the poor side. Egon had met her for the first time when she and her mother visited from the small town of Kaiserslautern, south of Frankfurt, on a sweltering summer day. He had been thirteen; she had been eight. He remembered his mother telling him not to show off his expensive toys, and that, despite the heat, Carola was dressed in white gloves buttoned at the wrist and a pink lacy dress. Her skin was so pale as to be translucent, and she was difficult to engage. Egon’s mother had suggested that he show Carola “the newest member of our family.” He’d taken her to his room, where the box turtle they’d found the weekend before was living in a white enamel washbasin on his desk. “You can pet him,” he’d said, stroking it. “He’s friendly.” Tentatively, she’d prodded it with her gloved finger. When it opened its mouth, she’d jumped back and run out to her mother. That was what Egon remembered about Carola. That, and her too-fancy-for-a-hot-summer-day dress.

  From the moment he received the letter from his father explaining that Carola was apprehensive about leaving home and asking if he could make her feel welcome, he’d dreaded their meeting.

  “Please, Meyer,” Egon begged, “don’t make me do this alone. I’ll pay for your coffee and as many pastries as you care to eat. Come with me.”

  “Am I hearing correctly?” Meyer stuck his finger in his ear as if to clean it. “Herr Charming needs this slob’s help in meeting a young woman?”

  In their four years at the university, Egon had his share of dating success and Meyer never ceased to tease him about it. “She’ll adore you. As all ladies always do. You’ll have her licking your boots, and God knows what else, in no time. What do you need me for?”

  “All I remember is that she was helpless and it was impossible to talk to her. And for some peculiar reason, I feel more c
omfortable when you’re around.”

  “That’s lovely, I’m touched. Okay, I’ll come, but only for thirty minutes.”

  They arranged to meet at the Café Rinsler, with its black-and-white tiled floors and red Chinese lanterns hanging from the ceiling. Bottles of ruby, emerald, and amber-colored liquors filled the shelves above the bar, and the light streamed in like smoke through the picture windows. The boys were drinking kaffee mit schlag when Carola arrived. At first Egon didn’t recognize her. She was still pale but beautiful in a way he had never seen. Her blond hair fell to her shoulders and she stood as tall and gracefully as an egret. What had once seemed fragile had become so poised and radiant that when Egon introduced her to Meyer, Meyer jumped to his feet: “Well, hello, you don’t seem helpless at all.”

  Carola smiled as if she was used to throwing men off their pins, then turned to Egon. “You look like your father. How is he?”

  “My father’s fine, thank you.”

  “I’m sorry about your mother. I remember her well. Quick-witted, and always with a pencil in her hand drawing the birds. Your father never took his eyes off her.” As they sat down, she recalled how Egon had offered to show her his turtle.

  “You were terrified of it,” he said.

  “Well, yes, that awful creature tried to bite me!”

  “It was a box turtle. They’re friendly, except that—”

  Meyer interjected, “Except that they are filthy and dangerous. You’re lucky it didn’t snap your arm off.”

  “Oh,” said Carola, covering her mouth with her fingers. “It wasn’t that bad.”

  Egon asked Carola what she would study at the university. “Music education. I play the clarinet—I’m not at concert level, or anything like that, but I really like it.” She told them that she was nervous about sharing a room with a stranger, that her parents were still in Kaiserslautern and this would be her first time away from home. “I’m not so good with strangers.”