“It’s your fault, Olaf, no matter how sorry you are. Look at this hand!” He held up the bandaged stump, blood still seeping through the white gauze. “You think my wife wants me to touch her with that? Do you? So when you go home to your Hildchen, think of that hand. I wish it had been yours.”
Olaf’s money, and whatever little Hilde brought home from helping out on one farm or another, had been enough to support them in their own little place, a heap of stones that once had been the gatehouse to the von Kamphoffs’, long before the Big House was built. It stood on the moor, a kilometer from Hemmersmoor, and come January, no matter how hard you looked around the snow-swept landscape, you couldn’t find the place.
Work was scarce, his reputation shot, and after a few months of living off his parents’ goodwill, Olaf’s father took him aside. “It’s time you thought of your wife,” he said. Bernd Frick was a head shorter than his son and his movements slow, as though weights were pulling at his arms and legs. He was nearly sixty and held himself erect. He still worked every day behind the bar, and if not for the generosity he showed toward Otto Nubis, his son would never have been hired in the first place.
Olaf was at a loss for an answer. He knew his father felt responsible for what had happened to Jan and wanted to make things right. “What should I do?”
“You can start here again whenever you want. It’s your inheritance.”
Olaf nodded quietly. It all seemed so easy. But then he said, “I can’t do that. Especially after what just happened.”
Bernd sighed deeply, he hadn’t expected anything different. “Then you need to leave.”
The next week Olaf left Hilde with his mother and father in Hemmersmoor, and went to Hamburg to look for work. He’d save enough money to furnish a place, then send for his wife.
Alex and I were ten years old when Olaf left the village, and we didn’t pay him any attention. Alex loved the inn and often kept his father company behind the bar. He stole liquor and cigars for us, and we watched his sister through a crack in the floorboards whenever she smuggled a boy into her room.
Slowly news from Olaf began to arrive. The first few months were rough for him. He slept in a flophouse, worked at the docks when help was needed, but couldn’t save enough to even think of supporting a family. Then he took a chance and signed on as a sailor on a freighter going to America. He did not have time to visit Hilde, only sent her a letter explaining that he would be back within a few months. The message informing him of his mother’s death arrived at his former dwelling just as the Brunhild reached the open sea.
Bernd Frick was now wearing a black suit every day, and when I arrived at the inn to pick up Alex, he didn’t seem to notice me. Before his wife’s death, he’d sometimes pour me a glass of soda, but nowadays he only smiled absentmindedly.
From New York, Olaf sent another letter to Hilde. He wrote that he was leaving for Buenos Aires. He missed her, dreamt every night of coming back. He hoped it wasn’t too hard on her, staying with his parents; he knew how his mother could be. He’d be back with his pockets full of money. She would see.
Yet he didn’t come back from Buenos Aires either. Colorful postcards from Cairo, Vancouver, San Francisco, and Macao reached Hemmersmoor, where the mailman showed them around at the bakery.
“Don’t read it,” he warned the baker’s wife. “But look at that city. I didn’t even know that place existed.”
During the first two years of Olaf’s travels, the neighbors often asked about him. Yes, the accident at the factory had been a terrible thing, but was it really necessary to stay away so long? Where was he now? What did Hilde know about his whereabouts? Maybe he had sent a picture?
After two years the questions became more infrequent. And Hilde’s answers grew ever more terse. Yes, he was still writing to her. Yes, he would return soon. But after five years, Olaf still had not come back to Hemmersmoor, and slowly people forgot about him. Hilde lived with her father-in-law, helped him around the inn, and ran the daily errands. Sometimes, after she left the bakery, Mrs. Meier said, “What a shame. Such a young, beautiful girl.”
The Fricks, the wealthiest family in the village, found no peace. First Alex was sent to juvenile prison; then Anna married Rutger von Kamphoff and became the main source of village gossip. All eyes were on her wedding. Such a spectacle had never been seen in Hemmersmoor, and the villagers whispered that the von Kamphoffs needed Frick’s money to stay afloat. But half a year later, Anna was dead, and Rutger von Kamphoff stood trial for manslaughter. Nobody in our village had time for missing sailors.
After seven years Olaf finally came home. He was twenty-five, broader in the shoulders, with a harshened face and a mustache. He wore a peacoat and carried a canvas bag on his back and a new, shiny leather suitcase in his left hand. He looked taller too, the women of Hemmersmoor remarked. Mrs. Hoffmann sneered. “He must be a beast after all the years in those dark countries.” She had never forgiven the Fricks for her son’s death.
Olaf walked straight to his parents’ house, where for the first time he learned of his mother’s death. Jan Hussel’s accident had been the harbinger of only worse tragedies. Bernd Frick was a rich man, but his children had brought him only shame and disappointment. Some people claimed that the family was star-crossed; others said Bernd had been a bad father and spent too much time emptying our pockets. But maybe Olaf’s return would change the family’s luck. Alex had been released from juvenile prison and every night, after closing, helped at the inn. The house was clean, and Bernd Frick, though older, in good health.
And there was Hilde. Olaf felt dizzy watching her. She had filled out—the young girl he knew had turned into a woman. She was his wife, and what an odd idea that had to be. All these years he must have hoped to get back, and here she was now, and it was quiet in his father’s living room. She embraced him, whispering, “You look so strange.”
Olaf had big plans. He had spent little of his money and saved enough to build his own house. He wanted to run his own business, maybe take over the boat-repair shop from Peter Falkenhorst or sell motorbikes in Groß Ostensen.
This he explained to us in his father’s living room, while eating stew Hilde had cooked. “You could have let us know you were coming,” she scolded. My parents and my sister, Birgit, plus the Fitschens from next door and the Meiers with their daughter, Sylvia, had come to look at the trinkets Olaf had gathered on his travels. He showed us a blue scarab. “What an odd thing to worship,” Sylvia said, and turned the bug in her hand. Olaf showed us a stone Buddha he’d bought in Shanghai, masks from Africa, and a brass figurine of what he said was the Statue of Liberty in New York.
Our families shook their heads—wasn’t it peculiar that those foreign peoples should make such strange-looking things? What did they need a dance paddle for? Who had ever heard of dancing with a paddle?
Later, after the Meiers had gone, Bernd Frick opened a bottle of Bommerlunder, and Olaf started to discuss his plan of building a new house.
Bernd Frick’s hair was white now. His belly protruded over his pants, and lines had sunk deep into his face. And yet, sitting together, the sailor looked like a younger, taller version of his father, his features only softened by his mother’s prettiness. Even after years at sea, a certain softness remained around his mouth and eyes, one that Bernd and Alex entirely lacked.
“So where are we going to build it?” Olaf asked.
His father waited a few seconds before shrugging. “You might already have a plan.”
Olaf smiled. “I thought we should build upriver, right by the Droste. We’ll be close to the village, and if I should go into the boat business, I can expand right there. What do you think?”
Alex grunted approvingly. He was wearing a mustache now and was almost as big as his father. “Sure thing. I can help you.”
“We’re all going to help,” my parents agreed.
The elder Frick thought for a while. “It’s a good plan. And yet…” He folded and unfolded his hand
s. “You know, after your mother’s death I realized that I won’t live much longer either. I’m nearly seventy, and I might still have a few good years in me, but at some point not too far off in time I’ll die and you, as my only son, will inherit this house.” He sighed.
Alex frowned at his father’s remarks. He hadn’t missed his brother, and even though there was no bad blood between them, he didn’t like the prospect of Olaf eventually taking over the inn. His father didn’t like Alex to show his face at the pub, out of fear that the villagers still bore him a grudge over Broder Hoffmann’s death. But once enough time had passed, Alex intended to manage the inn.
“When Helga died,” Bernd Frick continued, “it was hard on me. She’d been my companion for thirty years. Without Hilde, the house would have fallen apart and I myself with it. What do you say? Why don’t you young people add on to this house, and once I’m gone it’s all yours?”
Olaf chewed his lip. His parents’ house was close to the village square, and he did not like the thought of being scrutinized by his neighbors and providing fodder for their gossip. Still, he had missed his mother’s funeral and felt an obligation to keep an eye on his father. “I’ll think about it,” he said and put an arm around Hilde, who had listened to the conversation without saying a word. “You’re hurting me,” she said and squirmed. He laughed. “I’m a klutz. I’ll be more careful.”
Early next morning I ran to the village square, hoping to meet Olaf alone and ask him about the ships he had worked on. I wanted to know how he’d felt, traveling the world all by himself, how big his ships had been, and what he had seen in the different ports. I had heard of Bombay, of Baghdad and the caliphs, but so far they had existed only in fairy tales. Olaf had seen these cities with his own eyes. What stories he might tell me.
I had another reason to wait for Olaf, however. After last night’s talk, I was hoping I could work for him and save enough money to buy a moped. I had never done construction but was convinced I’d be able to persuade him.
When Olaf finally appeared on the terrace of the inn, his hair was wild, and he squinted into the daylight and looked around as though our square was the most peculiar place on earth. I said hello, and he didn’t seem to recognize me at first. Then he shook his head and said, “Martin. I was just about to take a little walk.”
“Can I join you?” I asked.
We walked along the main street, and suddenly I forgot all the questions I had wanted to ask Olaf. I had known him all my life, but in his presence I again felt like a small boy. The village affairs, my love for Heike Brodersen, which wouldn’t abate—all that had to seem childish to him. Hemmersmoor and I had nothing to offer him.
“So what’s new in the village?” Olaf said.
“Are you staying for good?” I asked instead of answering him.
“Are you trying to get rid of me already?” he asked and laughed.
“No, but…” I couldn’t go on. “But maybe you need…” I stopped again. I decided it was still too early to ask him for work. “Right now everybody in the village is talking about you and your family.”
“Is that right?” Olaf seemed curious.
“Anna’s… Anna…” I bit my tongue, and underneath my shock of red hair my face turned red too. I was almost a head shorter than Olaf and didn’t have his broad shoulders, but my hands were as big as his. With a broad nail I scratched my cheeks and was happy to feel some stubble. Then I said quickly, “People wonder if Jan will try to get back at you.”
Olaf shook his head. “Is he still mad?”
“Once, when he ran into Hilde, he said you wouldn’t return, but if you ever should, he’d take care that you left again—on your own feet if you were quick, in a coffin if you weren’t. He was drunk though. Your father punched him.”
“He didn’t tell me,” Olaf said.
“Now you know,” I said stupidly. “People didn’t like it. They said you don’t punch a cripple. But if you ask me, Hilde was lucky your dad was there.”
Olaf nodded. “What else happened in those seven years?”
“Heidrun Brodersen was arrested for child murder, and Käthe Grimm disappeared.”
“Käthe? Crazy Käthe?”
“She went out one night and never returned. She got lost on the bog, for sure.”
Olaf cocked his head. “And what have you been up to?”
I shrugged my shoulders, took a deep breath, and said, “I want to buy a moped.”
Olaf laughed heartily. “Well, maybe I can help you.”
All spring and summer Olaf and Alex worked on the addition to the house, and I helped them in the afternoons after school. On slow days in the pub, even Olaf’s father stepped outside, and together we cut wood and hauled and laid bricks and interrupted our work only when Hilde served us a cold supper.
“We missed you,” Bernd Frick said one day in June. He wore no shirt, but his muscles were still firm. He wiped his chest with a handkerchief. “Sometimes I wondered whether you would ever return.”
“I sent postcards,” Olaf said.
“Seven years, thirteen cards. That wasn’t much to go on.” Bernd wiped his nose and fell silent, but Olaf could see that he wanted to say more and waited patiently.
“You know,” his father began, “I always wondered if the stories about the sea, about sailors, were true.” He laughed quietly. “You know, a girl in every port, that sort of thing.”
Olaf shook his head. “For some, maybe.”
“It was a long time. No one would fault you. I for one would not.”
“There was hardly enough time to get drunk,” Olaf said. “And I had a goal.”
“You never wavered? See, I was married for over thirty years, but I faced a few temptations in my time. I’ve known many who failed.” He sighed. “You must have seen many pretty girls in those strange cities. They must have liked a good-looking fellow like you.” His words came slowly now, and the smile could no longer hold its place. “Do you have anything you should tell me?”
Olaf swallowed. “Sailors are no angels, and when you’re locked up for months, some men go crazy…”
“Yeah, some go crazy,” Bernd finally said, and laughed and took a long sip from his beer. “I’m glad you finally made it back.”
Olaf’s first meeting with Jan was a few days later, one evening in front of Frick’s Inn. When it got too dark for us to work any longer, Jan suddenly appeared in back of the inn and inspected the half-finished addition. Silently the men looked at each other, and Alex and I took a few steps back; we anticipated a fight. But after another tense moment, Jan shrugged his shoulders, grinned, and said, “Hey, Sailor, how about some booze?”
Olaf invited us all; never had I felt so grown up. At the tables around us sat workers from Brümmer’s factory, who laughed boisterously about something old Jens Jensen had just told them. Alex and I drank beer; our clothes were stained and reeked of sweat. We had earned our place among the men, and I earned enough money to have biked to Groß Ostensen two weeks before, to stand in front of the motorcycle dealer’s windows and ask for a catalog.
“I’m ugly as hell,” Jan said as he took his glass from the bar and sat down at our table. “But I’m not holding a grudge. It’s done. Glad you didn’t take off my whole arm.” The stump was now covered in leather, and Jan said he might be fitted for an artificial hand.
Alex frowned at Jan’s words and seemed ready to pounce on him if necessary. He was taller than Olaf and the strongest among us. Yet no fight broke out. Jan and Olaf did not become friends, but they kept the peace. Jan had been allowed to stay at Brümmer’s, and even suggested Olaf apply once more. Yet Olaf had talked to the owner of the local repair shop, and since he wasn’t getting any younger and had recently lost his best repairman, he’d agreed to sell his business to Olaf once the addition to the inn was finished.
The village made it easy on him—the young girls stopped after school to gawk at the strange drawings on Olaf’s arms and back, the neighbors came to lend a hand
, and Liese Fitschen often brewed coffee for Olaf or cut him slices from the cakes she baked twice a week.
“Just like in the old days,” he said. As a boy he had liked the Fitschens almost better than his own parents, and Liese had given him cookies and candy as often as he came to their door.
“Yes,” Liese answered. “You were such a rascal, and now look at you.”
Veronika, the youngest of Liese’s girls, sometimes stopped at the hedge that separated the two lots, looking up at Olaf without saying a word. Olaf waved each time he spotted the girl, and each time the kid ran off. Olaf laughed and said, “She will still be young enough to play with my own kids.”
Veronika’s older brothers were more outspoken. Olaf had known them when they hadn’t been old enough to attend school, but now he caught them smoking cheap cigars and making passes at girls.
“Did you see the Klabautermann?” they wanted to know. “How big was it? Did you see the maelstrom? How did you escape? Did you have many women? How are black women? Yellow ones? Are there really islands where everyone walks about naked?”
The house was finished in July, after school recess had begun, and Liese’s children had all day to watch Olaf and bombard him with questions despite their mother’s admonitions. Every morning Liese took her youngest to the bakery and let the girl carry the bag with fresh rolls and bread, and shortly afterward the whole family spilled onto the lawn and into the village.
I felt very proud when the topping-out wreath swayed in the light breeze. I stood with a beer in my hand, and my dad patted my back and offered me a cigarette. Bernd Frick seemed satisfied with the work—he poured rye for the neighbors and let himself be photographed with Olaf, Alex, and Hilde. His children had caused him so much pain, but that July night everything seemed changed. Alex and Olaf had come back to Hemmersmoor, and they would finally make him proud.
Only Hilde’s face had not brightened when the bottle of rye had been passed around, and she kept to herself all evening. The joyful atmosphere didn’t seem to lift her mood, she made a dour face.
Your House Is on Fire, Your Children All Gone: A Novel Page 14
