The size of the small coffin got to everyone. People remarked on it with tragic expressions. I saw Anke and Jürgen both crying together; he was supporting her. It was the way I imagined Anke; as though she was only completely perfect when she was crying. It seemed as though she was crying for everyone.
I could think of nothing but Alexander. I thought about his fringe, about his laugh, the way he enjoyed the simplest of things like the sound of a spoon ringing in a cup. I thought of the time he ran into the living-room with the plunger; Jürgen first wanted to take it off him, then he let him have it, then he helped him stick it to the window and the three of us sat back and laughed helplessly at it.
Outside the church, the weather was very bad. The rain had let up a little, but it was windy and cold. There was no time to stand around for extended condolences after the service. Anke came over to me briefly and said, ‘Thank you for coming.’ I understood. What else could she say? But I’ve never felt as distanced from anyone as I did from Anke just then. I tried to say something back. What do you say? I found nothing. And anyhow, she was quickly whisked away into the black limousine. There were too many limousines. It looked like there was one for each mourner, almost.
I was offered a lift with one of the many relatives. Jürgen’s uncle, as it turned out. The car I got into was packed. The occupants spoke about Anke. They said she was a courageous woman. They kept saying how much they admired the couple for what they had done. They were not afraid of life. Everyone hoped life would treat them better now. There was an endless stream of cars; some relatives, most of them Jürgen’s patients or associates. The practice was closed for the day. Large notices were placed in the papers marking the death of their son.
I almost envied Jürgen and Anke sitting in the first car together, all alone, like a black wedding. This was Anke’s real wedding, I thought. A wedding of tears.
The cortège moved slowly past their house, carrying Alexander for the last time past his home, past his toys, his story books, his bed, his special mug, his spinning top. It seemed strange to be travelling so slowly on that street; some of the neighbours coming out on to the pavement to bless themselves and lower their heads in respect. It felt ridiculous: I could have walked faster. The pace of a funeral. There are some things you can’t rush. Sometimes you are dragged past a set of images or symbols so slowly, you feel trapped. Unable to move.
At the crematorium, there was another scramble for shelter. It was lashing. Anke was rushed inside, somebody protecting her from the rain with a jacket. Another man made a hood out of his own jacket. I saw a woman holding a handbag up over her head. Everywhere, logistical conversations broke out; how to get from the car to the door of the crematorium in the fastest time. Anke was wet anyway. Her short hair was marked with blobs of rain. Her skin was pale. Her lips were red.
Alexander disappeared. It was very quiet. Somehow it went faster than I expected. Afterwards, I got to speak to Jürgen. He put his arm around me and said, ‘I’m glad you came. Above all people, I’m glad you could make it.’
I had another word with Anke too. She put her arms around me for a moment. It was a funeral hug. She seemed happier than I expected. It was as though all the mourners were desperately trying to keep her from being happy ever again. Anke said she was happy that I came. It made her feel good.
‘I’ll miss you,’ she said. ‘I’ll write to you. I’ll tell you everything.’
Before I was able to say a word, she was taken away. She was introduced to other relatives, more distant relatives. Everybody wanted to say a few words to the bereaved mother. Everybody wanted to belong to such a beautiful death, such a beautiful sad mother. Such remarkable sadness. She looked spectacular in grief.
This was Anke’s real wedding. This was where I would have to say goodbye.
44
Nothing could have prepared Bertha and Franz for Nuremberg. They could see that the city had been levelled by the last months of the war. It was a wrecked city. The spires and the outline of buildings, which would have been familiar to Franz even from that distance, were razed. The character of Nuremberg had disappeared.
The roads leading to Nuremberg were busier, lined with people on the move. On the outskirts, they came to an encampment of American troops where everybody was being stopped at a roadblock. Bertha saw the Stars and Stripes flying over the camp and thought in a way that she was already in America. For her, as for most of the people returning home, they were friendly colours. The colours of success and liberty. But Franz was certain there would be questions. They would have to identify themselves and say where they had come from.
‘Say nothing,’ he said to Bertha. ‘Whatever you do, say nothing about the shooting. Say nothing at all about that incident.’
They put together a hasty alibi before they merged with the traffic going towards the checkpoint. It was clear that Franz had belonged to the Wehrmacht. He still wore the boots. He wasn’t denying anything.
They became separated. Bertha was taken into one barracks while Franz was taken in another direction. ‘Say nothing,’ she kept repeating to herself. They were made to answer for themselves. Names, addresses, war records. Each of them had to fill in a questionnaire, a list of National Socialist organizations to which they may have belonged. She had belonged to only one of them, the last on the sheet, an insignificant NS trade union which was compulsory for those employed in the state service. It felt like the final judgement day, Bertha thought to herself. She was nervous. Nervous, because for the first time in her life she could not be entirely honest. She was hiding something. It robbed her of confidence, even though she liked the Americans.
The officer behind the desk asked her where they had disarmed. She said, ‘Eger.’ There were no more questions and she was allowed to travel on. She found the Americans very good-natured and humorous. They wished her good luck. She tried out a number of English phrases which she had learned at school.
She had to wait a while until they also released Franz Kern. He had been asked where they got the bicycles. And what took them so long in getting back from Eger. But once his identity had been verified, he was allowed to move on. They were cleared.
From then on, Bertha and Franz were struck by the sight of the wrecked city ahead of them. Neither of them wanted to go any further. They wanted to head out, back into the country. They sat down at the side of the road and talked. Franz wanted to turn around and head straight for Hamburg.
‘It will be a lot simpler,’ he said. ‘Then we won’t have to explain. And we won’t have to see what happened here. We won’t get involved.’
He was afraid of what lay in front of him. He was afraid to look for his wife or his mother.
‘But you must go and talk to them,’ Bertha said. ‘It is terribly unfair if you don’t. You can’t let them suffer, not knowing where you are. You’re here now, you have to see them.’
They cycled a little, as far as the streets were clear. They dismounted when they came into streets where the piles of rubble on both sides had left only a narrow path in the middle. Few of the houses still had their roofs on. Many of the three- or four-storey houses were reduced to the height of garden walls. Some of the streets were impassable, with large craters. Everywhere, people were scrambling over the ruins, searching for possessions or relatives.
Franz became more worried as he moved on. He also became more eager. They hurried through the torn city to get to the street where he had lived with his wife Monica and his mother.
The house was gone completely. So were the houses next door on either side. He made his way across the mound of bricks, unable to believe that this was once the place where he lived since he was a child, and since he got married. There was nothing left. He went to the house of his wife’s mother and found it had been burned out. None of the floorboards were left. It was black. He assumed the worst and once again felt like leaving Nuremberg for ever.
But Bertha insisted that he had to be sure. He had to look and make inquiries. Th
ey asked some of the people in the street what had happened and where all the people had gone to. Some of them were in the country. Many of them had died during the bombing. Some of the survivors were sheltering in camps on the outskirts of the city.
Bertha and Franz found a place to stay for the night. It was a place on the floor in a building among all the ruins which had been left totally intact. The house was packed with people and families. They slept in a room with twenty others. Franz was worried about the bicycles, which they had to leave along the stairs of the cellar where other families were asleep. They slept soundly under Bertha’s coat.
The following morning they found the bicycles where they had left them and went through the streets once more making inquiries. They went back to the street where Franz had lived, hoping that if Monica was alive, she would come back there too. Eventually, Franz met a neighbour who told him where his wife was staying.
Bertha and Franz talked about what they would say to her. He would give her the news slowly. She would realize that it was over. Monica could start a new life on her own.
They hurried over there. Both of them had become excited at the news of finding her-alive. At the door of an old apartment block which was half standing, up to the second floor, they asked one of the older children standing around for Monica Kern. It was the first time it really dawned on Bertha that they had been looking for his wife. It was when he announced her name that she stood back and prepared herself for the reality.
Monica came running through the courtyard. She was crying long before she reached Franz. She ran to him and threw her arms around him. She couldn’t control the shock of her joy. She held on to him and repeated his name. Children who had been playing around in the courtyard all congregated shyly in the arch to watch, some of them perhaps wishing it was their own father.
Monica’s tears were streaming. She stood back and looked at Franz. She pulled up her apron and wiped her tears so that she could see him properly.
‘I can’t believe it,’ she said, clapping her hands together. ‘They told me that a man was looking for me at the door. Franz, Franz, Franz…Thank God you’re back.’
She embraced him again. Franz turned her gently towards Bertha and introduced her.
‘Monica, this is Bertha Sommer who was with us in Laun. We came back on the bikes together.’
Monica stepped towards Bertha and embraced her.
‘Thank you for bringing Franz back to us. I am so grateful. I still can’t believe it. We’ve heard nothing for weeks, months now.’ She pulled them both by the arms. ‘Now, come on in. I’m sure you’re both starving. And exhausted. You’ve come a long way.’
She told one the older boys in the yard to take in the bicycles and put them in the cellar. Then she led Bertha and Franz up the stairs to a small room. There were four other women in the room. Monica’s mother, who was very old now. Another elderly aunt and two younger women, one of them married, as Monica explained, and still waiting for her husband. They had all been staying together in the one room.
‘Our house is gone now,’ Monica said quietly. ‘Luckily, your mother got away to the country before the bombing started.’
‘I know, I heard from the neighbours.’
Monica had an extraordinary enthusiasm and ability to turn the mood. Everyone had enthusiasm. It was all that was left. She couldn’t stop herself looking at Franz and smiling.
‘What you must have gone through,’ she said. ‘You must tell me everything. But first of all, you must have a good meal. We have a lovely lentil Eintopfall ready for you…
‘Bertha, do you wish to use the bathroom first? We still have a tiny piece of soap. You can have it.’
Monica showed Bertha to the bathroom on the landing. The entire plaster had come down from the ceiling. Bertha could look up at the evening sky and at the side wall of the building, which showed the remains of wallpaper and former homes. The bathroom had been arranged very neatly. There were flowers beside the bath. And towels hanging from a rail. The water had been brought up in buckets and basins, collected that way from the rain.
Bertha washed slowly. It was a deep luxury. Even the feeling of being inside a house with a private bathroom gave her a sense of home. She knew there were so many small things to enjoy in this world, now that the war was over. Water made her happy. She washed her feet.
Bertha wondered when Franz was going to give Monica the news of their intentions to go to America. Perhaps he would just leave a note. Perhaps he was already telling her now.
At dinner, they all sat around the table while Monica served the lentil stew. All in all there were eleven at the table. Five women, including Monica’s mother and aunt, along with four young children belonging to the other women, Frieda and Caroline. Occasionally, there were great bursts of conversation. At other times, everybody was quiet, all staring at Franz. He was the only man they had seen in weeks. They all spooned the pale stew, young and old, unable to take their eyes off Franz Kern.
At one stage, Monica began to cry again.
‘I still can’t believe it,’ she said, wiping her eyes with her apron again.
Her mother held her arm and said, ‘We’re all very happy for you, my dear.’
They asked Bertha where she came from. And Bertha told them about her home town of Kempen.
‘Do they know you’re coming back?’ Monica’s mother asked.
‘No, not yet,’ Bertha answered. And suddenly, amidst this strange extended family in Nuremberg, she had a fierce longing to be with her own family. She could see their joy when she walked in the door. Bertha stared down at her soup, imagining the faces of her mother and her sisters.
‘How will you get home from here?’ Monica asked.
‘I don’t know really,’ Bertha said. She looked at Franz for support. If ever there was a moment to speak up, this was it. But Franz postponed it again.
The chance was lost.
‘Ach, there will be lots of traffic heading in that direction towards Frankfurt,’ Monica’s mother said. ‘What do you think, Franz?’
He said he wouldn’t know. The chance was lost again.
The children were put to bed. They went to sleep on the floor while the adults sat at the table and talked. Franz had said nothing yet. Perhaps he was leaving it till the next day. Perhaps it seemed too cruel. At times, Bertha thought of bringing up the subject of herself and Franz. But there were too many people in the room.
They all had to sleep on the floor. There was hardly room for them all. As expected, Franz slept by the cooker, beside Monica. Bertha was given a place by the door, where she slept alone under her coat, looking up at the ceiling, at the patches where the plaster had fallen off and all the cracks where the plaster was ready to give. She was exhausted. But she couldn’t sleep. She had a constant feeling that the plaster above her was about to fall.
It was also the feeling that she was indoors. After so many days out in the open, sleeping under the stars, she felt claustrophobic. Her sense of smell had heightened, too, which added to her confined feeling. Most of all, she missed Franz. He was still so close to her, she recognized his breathing among the others.
She stayed awake all night, and slowly began to realize how far away he really was. Some time before dawn she decided it was too cruel to take him away again. She got up and gathered her things quietly and disappeared. The only thing that kept her from crying was the sound of her own footsteps and the thought of her own home in Kempen.
If Franz still wanted to come to America, he would know where to find her.
At 6 o’clock, Bertha Sommer stood on the main road from Nuremberg to Frankfurt. There were many vehicles on the road already at that time of the morning. Most of them were full. Then came a convoy of American trucks and one of them stopped to pick her up.
She sat in the back of the truck with the soldiers. At first she was quiet. She knew she was ready to burst into tears any minute. But then the soldiers began to ask her questions in English and she had to conc
entrate. She made use of what phrases she knew to explain that she was going as far as Kempen, Niederrhein. She had to cross the Rhine, she told them awkwardly, with the aid of hand movements.
Later, one of the soldiers asked her if she could sing ‘Lili Marlene’. She said yes, but it was far too early in the day. They persisted. Eventually she did sing it for them. They clapped and cheered. Some of them offered her cigarettes. Some of them offered chewing gum. She didn’t take either. Then they asked for another song, and she sang a song which was later made famous by Elvis Presley under the title ‘Wooden Heart’.
Muss i denn, muss i denn, zum Städtele ‘naus,
Städtele ‘naus, und du mein Schatz bleibst hier?
About the Author
Hugo Hamilton was born in Dublin. He is the author of six novels, a collection of short stories, and the acclaimed memoir The Speckled People, which is also published by Harper Perennial.
Praise
From the reviews of The Last Shot:
‘A remarkable book whose presence remains long after the reading is finished. Quiet though the tone of the novel may be, Hamilton is actually making a large proposition about love and our relationship with history through love…To have managed this without falling into cliché would have been commendable; to have done it so sweetly, so convincingly and so powerfully is an achievement…A fine novel from a very talented writer’
Irish Times
‘Responsiveness characterizes Hugo Hamilton’s novel, even more than the cleverness and anguish of its plotting…Hamilton is a natural storyteller, with poise, daring and control, and he is already quite unmistakable’
Times Literary Supplement
‘Hamilton has the Irish writer’s instinct for beauty. This has married well with his German inheritance on his mother’s side; the tone of his fiction is darkly romantic. His book ends splendidly and unexpectedly, leaving the reader with that all too rare sense of wanting more’
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