The man says, 'The train to S. doesn't leave from here. You have to go to South Station."
I get on more buses and streetcars. It's night when I reach South Station and there are no more trains to S. until tomorrow morning. I go to the waiting room and find a seat on a bench. There are a lot of people, it smells bad, and the pipe and cigarette smoke stings my eyes. I try to sleep, but as soon as I close my eyes I see Sarah alone in the room, Sarah coming into the kitchen, Sarah crying because I'm not there. She is left alone all night because Antonia has to go to work and I'm sitting in a waiting room on my way to another town, the town where my brother, Lucas, lives.
I want to go to the town where my brother lives and I want to find him; then we will go look for my mother together. Tomorrow morning I will go to the town of S. I will.
I can't sleep. I find ration cards in my pockets; without them Antonia and Sarah will have nothing to eat.
I must go back.
I run. My gym shoes make no noise. In the morning I am near where we live; I line up for bread, then for milk, and go home.
Antonia is sitting in the kitchen. She takes me in her arms. "Where were you? Sarah and I cried all night long. You must never leave us again."
I say, "I won't leave you again. Here's the bread and the milk. Some of the money's not there. I went to the station. Then another station. I wanted to go to the town of S."
Antonia says, "We'll go there soon, together. We'll find your brother again."
I say, "I would also like to see my mother."
One Sunday afternoon we go to the psychiatric hospital. Antonia and Sarah wait in the reception room. A nurse leads me into a little visiting room furnished with a table and a couple of armchairs. Under the window is a small table with green plants on it. I sit and wait.
The nurse comes back holding the arm of a woman in a bathrobe whom she helps sit down in one of the armchairs.
"Say hello to your mother, Klaus."
I look at the woman. She is fat and old. Her half-gray hair is pulled back and fastened behind her head with a bit of string. I notice this when she turns around to take a long look at the closed door. Then she asks the nurse, "And Lucas? Where is he?"
The nurse answers, "Lucas couldn't come, but Klaus is here. Say hello to your mother, Klaus."
I say, "Good day, ma'am."
She asks, "Why are you alone? Why isn't Lucas with you?"
The nurse says, "Lucas will come too, soon."
Mother looks at me. Big tears start to roll down from her pale blue eyes. She says, "Lies. Always lies."
Her nose runs. The nurse wipes it. Mother lets her head fall to her chest. She says nothing more and doesn't look at me again.
The nurse says, "We're tired, we're going back to bed. Do you want to kiss your mother, Klaus?"
I shake my head and stand up.
The nurse says, "You can find your way back to the reception room on your own, can't you?"
I say nothing and leave the room. I walk by Antonia and Sarah without a word, leave the building, and wait outside the door. Antonia holds me by the shoulder and Sarah takes my hand, but I shrug them off and put my hands in my pockets. We walk to the bus station without saying a word.
When Antonia leaves for work that evening I say, "The woman I saw is not my mother. I'm not going to go see her again. It's you who should go see her to realize what you've done."
She asks, "Will you never be able to forgive me, Klaus?"
I don't answer. She adds, "If you knew how much I love you."
I say, "You shouldn't. You aren't my mother. It's my mother who should love me, but she loves only Lucas. And it's your fault."
The front line approaches. The town is bombed night and day. We spend a lot of time in the basement. We've brought down mattresses and bed covers. At first our neighbors come too, but one day they disappear. Antonia says they've been deported.
Antonia is out of work. The nightclub where she sang doesn't exist anymore. The school is closed. It's very hard to find food, even with ration cards. Luckily Antonia has a friend who sometimes comes and brings us bread, condensed milk, biscuits, and chocolate. At night the friend stays with us since he can't go home because of the curfew. On those nights Antonia sleeps with me in the kitchen. I hold her and speak to her about Lucas, who we will find again soon, and we fall asleep looking at the stars.
One morning Antonia wakes us early. She tells us to dress warmly, to put on several shirts and sweaters, our coats, and several pairs of socks since we're going on a long trip. She fills two suitcases with the rest of our clothes.
Antonia's friend comes for us in a car. We put the suitcases in the trunk. Antonia sits up front, Sarah and I in the back.
The car stops at the entrance to a cemetery almost across from our old house. The friend stays in the car; Antonia walks quickly, pulling Sarah and me by the hand.
We stop in front of a grave with a wooden cross upon which my father's name is written—a double name made up of mine and my brother's: Klaus-Lucas T.
Among several faded bouquets on the grave, one, of white carnations, is almost fresh.
I say to Antonia, "My mother used to plant carnations all over the garden. They were my father's favorite flower."
Antonia says, "I know. Say good-bye to your father, children."
Sarah says sweetly, "Good-bye, Father."
I say, "He wasn't Sarah's father. He was only our father, Lucas and me."
Antonia says, "I've already explained it to you. Didn't you understand? Too bad. Come, we have no time to waste."
We return to the car, which drives us to South Station. Antonia says thank you and good-bye to her friend.
We line up in front of the ticket booth. It's only then that I dare to ask Antonia, "Where are we going?"
She says, 'To my parents'. But first we're going to stop in the town of S. to take your brother Lucas with us."
I hold her hand and kiss her. 'Thank you, Antonia."
She withdraws her hand. "Don't thank me. I only know the name of the town; I can't remember what the rehabilitation center was called."
When Antonia pays for the tickets I realize that with the grocery money I couldn't have afforded my trip to the town of S.
The trip is uncomfortable. There are too many people; everyone is fleeing from the front. We have only one seat for the three of us; the one who sits takes Sarah on his knees while the other remains standing. We exchange places several times during the trip, which should have taken five hours but lasts more than twelve because of air raids. The train stops in the open countryside; the travelers get out and lie down in the fields. Whenever it happens I stretch my coat out on the ground, lay Sarah down on it, and crouch over her to protect her from bullets, bombs, and shrapnel.
We arrive at the town of S. late at night. We take a hotel room. Sarah and I immediately get into the big bed; Antonia goes back down to the bar to ask for information and does not return until morning.
Now she has the address of the center where Lucas should be. We go the following day.
It's a building in the middle of a park. Half of it has collapsed. It is empty We see the bare walls blackened by smoke.
The center was bombed three weeks ago.
Antonia makes inquiries. She questions the local authorities and tries to find survivors from the center. She finds the director's address. We go see her.
She says, "I remember little Lucas very well. He was the worst resident in the house. Always making trouble, always getting on people's nerves. A truly unbearable child, and incorrigible. No one ever came to see him, no one was interested in him. If I remember rightly, there was some sort of family tragedy. There is no more I can tell you."
Antonia insists: "Did you see him again after the bombing?"
The director says, "I myself was wounded in the bombing, but no one cares about me. A lot of people come to talk to me, asking questions about their children. But no one cares about me. And I spent two weeks in the hospital aft
er the bombing. The shock, you understand. I was responsible for all those children."
Antonia asks again: "Think back. What can you tell us about Lucas? Did you see him again after the bombing? What happened to the surviving children?"
The director says, "I didn't see him again. I tell you, I was hurt too. The children who were still alive were sent back home. The dead were buried in the town cemetery. Those who weren't dead and whose addresses were unknown were sent away. To villages, to farms, to small towns. Those people are meant to return the children after the war."
Antonia consults the list of the town's dead.
She says to me, "Lucas isn't dead. We'll find him."
We get back on the train. We come to a little station; we walk to the center of town. Antonia carries the sleeping Sarah in her arms. I carry the suitcases.
We stop at Central Square. Antonia rings a doorbell and an old woman answers the door. I already know the old woman. It's Antonia's mother. She says, "God be praised! You're safe and sound. I was terribly scared. I prayed for you constantly."
She takes my face in her hands.
"And you came with them?"
I say, "I had no choice. I have to look after Sarah."
"Of course you have to look after Sarah."
She squeezes me, kisses me, then takes Sarah in her arms.
"How pretty you are, how big you are!"
Sarah says, 'I'm sleepy. I want to sleep with Klaus."
We're put to bed in the same room, the room Antonia slept in when she was a child.
Sarah calls Antonia's parents Grandmother and Grandfather; I call them Aunt Mathilda and Uncle Andreas. Uncle Andreas is a priest, and he wasn't called up because he is ill. His head shakes all the time as though he's constantly saying "no."
Uncle Andreas takes me for walks through the streets in the little town, sometimes until dusk. He says, 'I'd always wished for a son. A boy would have understood my love for this town. He would have understood the beauty of these streets, these houses, that sky. Yes, the beauty of this sky that is to be found nowhere else. Look. There are no names for the colors of that sky."
I say, "It's like a dream."
"A dream, yes. I had only one daughter. She left early, very young. She came back with a little girl and with you. You're not her son, nor my grandson, but you're the boy I've been waiting for."
I say, "But I have to go back to my mother when she's better, and I also have to find my brother, Lucas."
"Yes, of course. I hope you find them. But if you don't, you can stay with us forever. You can study and then choose the occupation that pleases you. What would you like to do when you grow up?"
"I'd like to marry Sarah."
Uncle Andreas laughs. "You can't marry Sarah. You're brother and sister. Marriage between you is impossible. It's against the law."
I say, "So I'll just live with her. No one can forbid me from keeping on living with her."
"You'll meet many other young girls you'll want to marry."
I say, "I don't think so."
Soon it becomes dangerous to walk in the streets, and at night it's forbidden to go out. What to do during the air-raid warning and bombings? During the day I give lessons to Sarah. I teach her to read and write and I make her do math exercises. There are a lot of books in the house. In the attic there are even children's books and Antonia's schoolbooks.
Uncle Andreas teaches me to play chess. When the women go to bed we begin a game and play late into the night.
At first Uncle Andreas always wins. When he begins to lose, he also loses his taste for the game.
He says to me, "You're too good for me, my boy. I don't want to play anymore. I don't want anything; all my desires have left me. I don't even have interesting dreams anymore, only boring ones."
I try to teach Sarah to play chess, but she doesn't like it. She gets tired and annoyed; she prefers simpler parlor games, and above all that I read her stories, it doesn't matter which ones, even a story I've read twenty times already.
When the war moves off into the other country, Antonia says, "We can go home to the capital."
Her mother says, "You'll starve to death. Leave Sarah here for a while. At least until you find work and a decent place to live."
Uncle Andreas says, "Leave the boy here too. There are good schools in our town. When we find his brother, we'll take him in too."
I say, "I have to return to the capital to find out what happened to my mother."
Sarah says, "If Klaus goes back to the capital, I'm going too."
Antonia says, "I'm going alone. As soon as I've found an apartment I'll come get you."
She kisses Sarah and then me. She says in my ear: "I know that you'll look after her. I trust you."
Antonia leaves and we stay with Aunt Mathilda and Uncle Andreas. We're clean and well fed, but we can't go out of the house because of the foreign soldiers and the general disorder. Aunt Mathilda is afraid something will happen to us.
We each have our own room now. Sarah sleeps in the room that had been her mother's; I sleep in the guest room.
At night I draw a chair up to the window and watch the square. It's almost empty. Only a few drunks and soldiers wander through it. Sometimes a limping child, younger than me, it seems, crosses it. He plays a tune on his harmonica; he goes into one bar, leaves, and goes into another. Around midnight, when all the bars close, the child heads westward through the town, still playing his harmonica.
One-night I point out the child with the harmonica to Uncle Andreas.
"Why isn't he forbidden from going out late at night?"
"I've been watching him for the past year. He lives with his grandmother on the other end of town. She's a very poor woman. The child is probably an orphan. He plays in bars to earn a bit of money. People are used to seeing him around. No one will harm him. He's under the protection of the whole town, and under the protection of God."
I say, "He must be happy."
Uncle says, "Definitely."
Three months later Antonia comes for us. Aunt Mathilda and Uncle Andreas don't want us to go.
Aunt Mathilda says, "Let the little girl stay. She's happy here and has everything she needs."
Uncle Andreas says, "At least leave the boy. Now that things are settling down we could start making inquiries about his brother."
Antonia says, "You can start making inquiries without him, Father. I'm taking them both. Their place is with me."
In the capital we now have a big four-bedroom apartment. In addition to these rooms there is a living room and a bathroom.
On the evening of our arrival I tell Sarah a story and stroke her hair until she falls asleep. I hear Antonia and her friend talking in the living room.
I put on my gym shoes, go down the stairs, and run through the familiar streets. The streets, side streets, and alleys are lit now; there is no more war, no more blackout, no more curfew.
I stop in front of my house; the light is on in the kitchen. At first I think that strangers have moved in. The light in the living room also goes on. It's summer and the windows are open. I go nearer. Someone is speaking, a man's voice. Stealthily I look in through the window. My mother, sitting in an armchair, is listening to the radio.
For a week I come to observe my mother, sometimes several times a day. She goes about her business, wandering from room to room, spending most of her time in the kitchen. She also tends the garden, planting and watering the flowers. At night she spends a long time reading in the parents' bedroom, whose window looks out onto the courtyard. Every other day a nurse arrives on a bicycle; she stays for around twenty minutes, chatting with Mother, taking her blood pressure, sometimes giving her an injection.
Once a day, in the morning, a young woman comes with a full basket and leaves with it empty. I continue to do the shopping for Antonia even though she can do it herself and even has a friend to help her.
Mother has grown thinner. She no longer looks like an unkempt old woman the way she did at the
hospital. Her face has reassumed its former softness while her hair has its color and brightness again. It is done up in a thick russet bun.
One morning Sarah asks me, "Where do you go, Klaus? Where do you go so often? Even at night. I came into your room last night because I'd had a nightmare. You weren't there and I was scared."
"Why don't you go to Antonia's room when you're scared?"
"I can't. Because of her friend. He sleeps here almost every night. Where do you go so often, Klaus?"
"I just go for walks. Around town."
Sarah says, "You go to the empty house, you go cry in front of your empty house, don't you? Why don't you take me with you?"
I say to her, 'The house isn't empty anymore, Sarah. My mother has come back. She's living in our house again, and I have to go back too."
Sarah begins to cry. "You're going to live with your mother? You're not going to live with us anymore? What will I do without you, Klaus?"
I kiss her on the eyes. "And me? What will I do without you, Sarah?"
We're both crying; we're lying tangled together on the living room sofa. We hold each other more and more tightly, laced to each other with our arms, with our legs. Tears are flowing down our faces, in our hair, on our necks, in our ears. We're shaking with sobs, with trembling, with cold.
I feel wetness in my pants between my legs.
"What are you doing? What's going on?"
Antonia separates us, pushes us far apart, and sits down between us. She shakes my shoulder.
"What have you done?"
I cry out, "I didn't do anything bad to Sarah."
Antonia takes Sarah in her arms.
"Good God. I should have expected something like this."
Sarah says, "I think I peed in my pants."
She throws her arms around her mother's neck.
"Mama, Mama! Klaus is going to live with his mother."
Antonia stammers, "What? What?"
I say, "Yes, Antonia, it's my duty to go live with her."
The Notebook + The Proof + The Third Lie Page 31
