by Hegi, Ursula
One cloudy spring afternoon, she followed Georg to the Rhein, where he and Paul Weinhart, who walked funny, with his toes pointing sideways, tried to trap polliwogs inside canning jars. They squatted by the edge of the river beneath the hanging branches of an ancient willow, their backs to her, Paul’s neck so thick that his shoulders seemed to slope right from his head.
Trudi crouched behind a tangle of blackberry bushes, fearing and yet wishing they’d call out her name and ask her to catch polliwogs with them. She knew how to. Her father had shown her. But the boys didn’t call for her. She willed them to drop the canning jars, step into the shards, cut their feet. Her face felt hot as she saw their blood smeared across the pebbles, saw them getting scolded for taking canning jars. “Not something to waste,” Georg’s mother would say, and Paul Weinhart’s mother would smack him, twice, across the jaw. Ah—she shivered with rage.
Georg and Paul didn’t catch any polliwogs, and that was good. After they headed back toward town, Trudi stepped out from behind the blackberry bushes and dipped her arms into the cold river. A braided length of rope that some of the older boys had tied to the longest branch hung out over the shallow part of the water. Here, the Rhein bent, forming an elbow-shaped beach that was bypassed by the unruly waves. The long jetty that thrust itself into the stream upriver from the bay offered further protection from the current. On hot summer days, the people of Burgdorf liked to swim here: families with picnics would spread blankets on the sand, and the older children would climb into the tree, grab the rope by one of its many knots, swing themselves out over the water, and drop into the river.
Trudi propped her hands on her hips. Some day, she thought, she would try it, too, and she’d fly farther than any of them. But first she had to learn how to swim. Like a polliwog, she thought. No—a grown frog with four legs. She’d watched frogs dart through the water, had envied their light, rapid strokes. If she could imitate them, she’d be able to swim. Already she could see herself: she’d bring her legs together straight, pull them close to her body, then angle them out to the sides in a wide arc, and bring them together again. Hands folded as if praying, she would extend her arms in front of her, turn her palms outward, and push the water aside. Like Moses parting the Red Sea.
She looked around. The path winding along the river was empty. So was the meadow that led toward the dike. Quickly, she yanked off her pinafore and dress with the sailor collar, her stockings and shoes, the white cotton underpants that were buttoned to her undershirt. In the brisk water that still carried the memory of winter, she practiced her swimming as she had imagined. It was amazingly simple—as long as she held that picture of the frog inside her mind. Frogs were at home beneath the surface of the water, and that’s where she swam, too, emerging only for deep gulps of air.
Early the following morning she left the house before her father was awake and walked to the river. All that spring she returned there nearly every morning when no one else was near. Staying close to the jetty, she’d streak through the shallow water like a frog, dive to the brown sediment of mud and let it billow around her, wishing her body matched its color so she could let it camouflage her. Here, the river belonged to her. In the water she felt graceful, weightless even, and when she moved her arms and legs, they felt long.
Her first day of school, Trudi brought a leather satchel, a Schultüte— that huge, glossy cardboard cone filled with crayons, erasers, sweets, pencils, oranges, and nuts that is given to all children when they start school. She also brought along years of longing to be like others. Overjoyed to finally be surrounded by other children, she also felt far more aware of her difference. It was not just the size of her body and the badly fitting clothes designed for three-year-olds that marked her an outsider but also her fierce wish to be included.
“Pushiness,” the principal, Sister Josefine, called it when she talked about Trudi to the other teachers. “They don’t want to include her, and she only tries harder.”
“Pushiness,” her teacher, Sister Mathilde, warned Trudi, “will make your life difficult.” Her pretty, milk-white hands cupped Trudi’s cheeks. “Look at the other girls. They don’t barge right in with the answers. They wait until I call on them.”
Trudi did look at the other girls, and what she saw made her uneasy—they kept silent even if they knew the answers, while the boys raised their hands, demanding to be heard. She felt as impatient with those girls as with women like Frau Buttgereit, even Frau Abramowitz, who were always suffering silently and saw it as a sign of virtue if you didn’t complain. Once she’d heard Herr Abramowitz scold his wife, “You’re like one of them, Ilse. Life is to live now.”
The sister’s desk stood below a large wooden crucifix, and the children sat in rows of double desks, their backs toward the one picture in the classroom, a painting of a praying Virgin Maria above the coat hooks.
One of the boys, Fritz Hansen from the bakery, whispered to Trudi that the nuns never slept.
“Why not?”
“They don’t have to. They pray all night long.”
Trudi began to watch Sister Mathilde’s beautiful face for signs of tiredness, but all she saw in her eyes was the mystery of religious life. That’s what Frau Blau had called it—the mystery of religious life. It came from being Christ’s bride and living in a convent with his other brides.
Trudi loved quickly, rashly—Sister Mathilde, whose voice would tremble with emotion when she spoke of the martyrs; Eva Rosen, who sat next to Trudi in class, her spine so straight that she was always held up as an example for good posture; Herr Pastor Schüler, who would hear Trudi’s first confession and tell her not to forget that she was God’s child—loved quickly, rashly, as she had once loved Georg, as though there were no air between her and the other person.
There was always only one beloved—although that could change from one day to the next—and she would watch that person with her chaste, jealous love. It would devastate her when the Herr Pastor would visit her class and forget to smile especially at her, or when Sister Mathilde would frown at her for not sitting still, or when Eva Rosen would hold hands with Bettina Buttgereit on the way home from school.
Unlike most of the other girls who walked home with their best friends, Trudi had never held hands with another child. When school let out, she’d saunter home, usually on the opposite sidewalk from Georg, who was in her class but avoided looking at her directly. Inside her head, she’d repeat letters she’d learned that day, connecting the loops that formed them into words. She stopped wherever other kids played hopscotch or ball, wishing they’d understand that, inside, she was just like them. How she wanted to join in their games, but they didn’t invite her—not even if she asked—and after a few months she ceased trying. She’d stand at a distance, watching the other children, keeping her wide face impassive as if she didn’t care about any of this. She could feel their loathing. Could feel that they didn’t want to touch her. But when they called her names—Zwerg—dwarf, and Zwergenbein—dwarf leg—names they knew would sting, she’d grab fistfuls of dirt to fling at their taunting faces. She’d fling names at them too—Schweinesau—pig sow, and Arschloch—asshole—vile names that earned her the reputation of having a dirty mouth and resulted in warnings from the nuns to control her temper, vile names that made her afraid that her soul was becoming as hideous as her body.
Even during recess the girls wouldn’t let her play; they’d form circles, running and chanting: “Ringel Ringel Rose…” while she’d stand outside their circle, feeling a fury gather itself within her, a fury that would drive bright tears to her eyes and make her want to hurt those girls.
Usually, she could force down those tears, but one afternoon she came home crying. Her father met her by the door, his hands covered with white flecks from painting the cross on her mother’s grave. With his gentle questions, Trudi’s crying only became worse until she saw a reflection of her pain in his eyes, as certain as if he’d been the one to be excluded.
The nex
t morning he braided her hair, pinned it into coils above her ears, and fastened her silver necklace with the cross. He put on his Sunday suit jacket over his knitted vest and limped next to her to school, where he talked with Sister Mathilde in the hallway next to the statue of St. Christopherus, the ugly giant who had carried the Christ Child across the river. The child was small, yet it carried the entire world. Turquoise plaster waves coiled around the bare feet of St. Christopherus, whose name meant Christ-bearer. Bowed under the immeasurable weight of the child, the giant looked about to collapse. According to the sisters, the child had become heavier and heavier though he was small, was always small, as if sentenced to an eternity as a Zwerg. And yet, in his eyes Trudi could already recognize the man, a crown of thorns tearing into his forehead as he staggered under the burden of the cross, as surely as the giant had staggered under his burden.
Sister Mathilde was late entering the classroom, a flutter of black skirts and sleeves. As she adjusted her starched linen wimple, her lips were set into a prim line that warned the children not to test her patience. At recess she took Trudi’s hand into hers as if they were best friends and led her into the schoolyard, where she announced to the cluster of girls that Trudi had to be included in the games. Trudi wanted to shrink from the reluctant eyes, from that stiffness in the circle as it parted under the sister’s watchful eyes. Obedient hands drew Trudi into their game. And she hated them. Hated them because they didn’t want her. Hated them because she wanted them to like her. Hated them because she sensed that it would not get easier.
• • •
That Sunday her father pressed a basket covered with a towel into her arms. “Don’t drop it,” he cautioned her.
When she pulled the towel aside, a tiny dog peered right at her. He was black except for dark gray markings that covered his face like a mask. She lifted him out, held him against her cheek. His body felt lost inside folds of extra skin. His snout was damp, and he wiggled in her arms.
“You have to feed him twice a day till he’s grown.”
“What’s his name?”
“You decide. He’s your dog.”
She set him down on the wooden floor and squatted next to him. After sniffing her feet—which made her laugh—he darted toward her father, turned back again, and explored the floor in widening loops that all led back to her.
“I don’t know what to name him.”
“It’s good to wait. You’ll know soon.”
“How?”
“He’ll let you know.”
The dog was only black for several weeks—then his fur began to change to silver gray, diluting the black as if there were only a limited amount of pigment as his entire body stretched. Yet, the gray mask kept its deep color, even while the rest of him turned seal gray like the coat of the Russian soldier. That’s why Trudi finally named him Seehund—seal. Sea dog. Herr Abramowitz took a photo of her and Seehund, surrounded by her dolls. Sometimes, when her father spread lard on a wedge of bread for her, she’d dip her finger into the lard and let Seehund lick it off.
While she was in school, the dog slept on an old pillow behind the counter of the pay-library, and when she came home, breathless from running because she couldn’t wait to see him, he’d leap at her, throwing his puppy weight against her sturdy legs. She’d drop her leather satchel and pull him up into her arms. No one had ever loved her with such exuberance: her mother’s love had been uneven, and her father’s love, though constant, was tinged with a tender sadness. But Seehund hurled his love at her, his entire body. It was a love she recognized—she’d felt it within herself but had never been able to demonstrate it with such abandon. With Seehund she could. She could wrap her arms around him and feel his fur against her face, run through the tall weeds by the brook and know he’d follow her, feed him and watch him wag his entire rear end in appreciation. And if she felt gloomy, he’d take the flat edge of her hand into his mouth and pinch it gently until she’d stroke his head with her other hand.
When Seehund was four months old, she taught him to walk on a leash so that she could take him all over town. People would stop and admire him. They’d smile at her when they’d pet him. One Saturday, when she sat with her dog on the front steps, memorizing train schedules from the booklet of timetables that Frau Abramowitz had given her, Eva and her mother walked toward the pay-library. While Frau Doktor Rosen went inside to choose a new supply of American Westerns for her husband, Eva asked if she could play with the dog.
Trudi nodded. “He likes it when you stroke his back.” She wished she had a green dress like Eva’s, made of thin fabric that flutters around your legs when you walk.
Gently, Eva rubbed Seehund’s fur, starting between his ears, all the way down to his tail. He shook himself like a duck and both girls laughed.
“Are you going on a trip?” Eva pointed to the timetables.
“I’m just reading where the trains go and where they stop.”
“Why?”
“So I know.”
“Can I walk your dog?”
Trudi hesitated, then handed Eva the leather strap, and the two girls walked to the end of Schreberstrasse and back, Eva more than a full head taller than Trudi, with long ankles and wrists. “I like dogs.” She crouched to touch the ends of Seehund’s whiskers. A golden heart hung from the thin gold chain around her neck. “But cats—” Her eyes grew alarmed and she looked around as if to make sure no cats were near. “Cats,” she whispered, “they find your warm spot and choke you.”
“What’s a warm spot?” Trudi whispered back.
“They come into your room at night and lie on your throat because it’s warm. And soft.” Fine curls eluded Eva’s braids and clung to her forehead as if painted to her skin with black ink. “My father says cats will choke you if they have a chance. One night he forgot to close his bedroom window and guess what happened?”
“A cat got in?” Trudi could see the cat, an amber cat with white paws.
“My father was dreaming.…” Eva nodded. “And in his dream, something heavy was pressing on him. When he could no longer breathe, he opened his eyes, and this cat, it was asleep, this cat, lying right across his throat—” She raised one hand and brushed across her throat as if to wipe away the shadow of that cat. “We always sleep with the windows closed.”
“Even in summer?”
“Even in summer.”
“How about during the day? When your father lies in his chair on the balcony?”
“He never sleeps during the day. He only looks that way. He’s not very strong.”
“My mother wasn’t very strong.”
“But my father is going to get better.”
“My mother looks like a dead bride. Herr Abramowitz took pictures of her. In the coffin.”
Eva shook herself. “Can I see?”
“I don’t know. They hang in my father’s bedroom.”
“I saw a picture of a dead baby once. Someone gave it to my mother because she took care of the baby before it died.”
“Was the baby killed by a cat?” Trudi could feel a story of a cat, a cat who’d killed a baby.
“Could be.”
“What color was your father’s cat?”
“No one told me.”
“What happened to it?”
“It leapt out of the window when my father screamed.”
Trudi closed her eyes. The cat—a sleek, amber cat—leapt from Herr Rosen’s fleshy throat and through the bedroom window, landing on the grass below without a sound while Herr Rosen kept screaming. It darted behind the chicken coop and below the clotheslines, crossed the street in search of another open window, another throat. Trudi shivered though she liked cats and was fascinated by their agile movements, their unblinking stare that was much like her own.
As Eva stood up to leave, Trudi saw herself alone again, steeped in that familiar isolation. “My father almost got killed once,” she said quickly to hold Eva there.
“By a cat?”
“No, a R
ussian bullet. It was aimed right for his heart.” She paused deliberately, knowing that stories took on a new power once you gave them words. They had to start inside your soul, where you could keep them for a long time, but to make them soar, you had to choose words for them and watch the faces of others as they listened. “But the other soldier …” she said, drawing in the current of Eva’s curiosity as she once had with Georg, longing for her to stay. Willing her to stay. “The other soldier tripped—they all were in a muddy field, see?—and the bullet went into my father’s knee instead.”
Eva leaned close. “What happened to the Russian soldier?”
“He was captured, and my father got to keep his coat.” Grasping Eva’s hand, she pulled her up the front steps and into the entrance hall, where the long seal coat hung from one of the wooden hooks. From the window at the end of the hall, light spilled across the Persian carpet runner and filtered through the intricate weave of the wicker chair.
“Touch the coat,” Trudi urged. “It’s made from the fur of seals.” She had pieced together her own version of how her father had been injured in the war and come into the possession of the coat—to her those two had to be ultimately connected—but before she could captivate Eva with any of this, Eva’s mother came out of the pay-library with several books.
That night, Trudi closed her window and lay awake till late, listening for cats and thinking of how she would tell the rest of the story to Eva. She smiled to herself, imagining Eva’s face as she listened. “The Russian soldier was the tallest man my father had ever seen, and they became friends. Well—not real friends like—” She wanted to say, “you and me” but even in her fantasy couldn’t risk presuming that much. “He tried to give my father his coat. As a gift. To make up for shooting him. But my father traded him some of his food rations. And one pair of boots…” Anticipating Eva’s questions about size of feet, she decided to add, “You see, my father’s feet have always been large. They were the same size as the Russian’s.”
