Bone and Blood (21 page)

Aisling laughed aloud. It was the look on Brigitte's face that killed her. Evil – the killer instinct. The poor fly didn't stand a chance. Brigitte was up and out of her chair without the usual palaver of support from her stick, aiming her weapon of destruction. Where did that come from? Reminding her of parts of Brigitte's story still missing. She had a way of deflecting attention until and if she was ready to share something. How did she end up in Ravensbrück? Was she really as naïve as she made out? She was so secretive all these years; surely she must be guilty of something? Speculation. Did she kill someone? She didn't kill the unborn child she carried as Aisling had. Avoid the pit that opens there. So many stories of women who had good reasons for termination. Terminator not murderer. Mum said those holy gracies who claimed abortion as murder were total hypocrites. A fertilised sperm is not a person. Whose right to life? The church with all its abusing clerics ruining lives and hiding it. How did they dare come out against a woman's right to choose?

‘You're not very keen on flies, are you?' Aisling said for something to say Brigitte turned on her, ‘You are just like Katharina. “What harm in a fly or two?” she would say. “They die in a day or two anyway, so why cut their short lives shorter? Those sprays you buy to kill them are likely to do you more harm than one or two flies.” I keep my own counsel on that. Who knows what they have been feeding on last?'

Aisling was distracted by dodging the fly spray, otherwise she would have considered a mild correction of the tense. Time to face the end. Time to use the past tense when talking about the daughter but she turned it into, ‘So why do you?'

‘Why what?'

‘So why do you hate flies so much?' Aisling was a dab hand now, as her father would say, at Brigitte-style conversation. She could keep the thread of Brigitte's thoughts even when she lost it herself. Just repeat something in the right way and she would pick up the tune again. Generating more images in Aisling's head than she had time to sketch out. Brigitte did not answer right away and Aisling wondered if she had dozed off again in the silence – still holding the can loosely in her hand.

Aisling wriggled on the sofa. It was the original 70s style – low and well-padded in imitation leather. Did she dare put her feet up or nick the footrest from its place near Brigitte's chair. It wasn't as if it was in use at the moment but the movement might wake her again. Then Brigitte's head lifted and her voice came clear and flat as if from a distance like an old-fashioned radio.

‘You would hate them too if you had lived through those days of death. Even when the war was over, there were flies, flies and more flies. We scrubbed and scrubbed in every spare moment and still they would come from nowhere – mocking our efforts to be clean. They treated the dirt and destruction of our lovely Berlin as their special feast. I couldn't stand it.'

They had this day to kill before the fuss of the funeral took over. Both were tired. Aisling had woken several times in the night – lights on in the hallway – loo flushing. Brigitte hadn't slept much at all. Aisling dozed again after she heard the bustle of Yola arriving, helping with washing, dressing. They had both spun breakfast out as long as possible – the ritual for getting Brötchen was well established and Brigitte still had a good appetite for an old woman, even on the eve of her daughter's funeral. Now even that distraction was gone and Yola with it. Aisling's unasked question burned a hole in the paper: what had Brigitte done to warrant ending up in Ravensbrück?'

She fiddled about with another Gran-type foot-rest thing she had spotted in the corner – manoeuvring it with as little movement as possible to get her feet on it. If this was Ireland there would be action: somebody would be fetching people from the airport; somebody would be at least talking about how to make sure everybody got a bite to eat. She could remember her shock that her mother could think thoughts like that with Michael lying in the coffin beside her. Her mother didn't leave the coffin except to go to the loo or wash herself. She moved to the armchair at night and slept there – ignoring her dad's entreaties to come to bed. She even gave up on her make-up because her tears kept washing it all off. If this was Ireland, Auntie Betty would be off to get her some waterproof mascara for the funeral.

Death didn't stop people in the way you would expect. You'd think that things should be different when someone dies. Everything. At first it's like that. You hear a clock ticking you never noticed before – like that damn brass monstrosity on top of Brigitte's sideboard. When Michael died, she felt strange just brushing her teeth. It felt like an insult to the dead person to do normal things. But it didn't last. Now she didn't think of him first thing when she woke up. Even so, she was sure she missed Michael more than any of them even if it was her fault.. He was the only one she could say something like that to. The only one who would notice the same things. And she didn't even know it until he wasn't there. His photo on the wall – with the naff thing under it for flowers would mock her too – Mum and her bloody altars. Saint Bloody Michael was no saint. Would it make a difference to Mum if she knew everything?

Here there was no last minute shopping to do. She'd hung her funeral rig up on the day that she arrived. All she had to do was step into it. Now they had time to kill and why not kill a few flies to pass the time and cut the mockery. No-one to feed or meet or drag out of the pub and sober up. It was a pity really that her Dad had discouraged his Uncle Mick from making the trip. He would have provided a bit of distraction and Aisling would have the job of finding him and sobering him up.

‘Uncle Mick would have come if Dad had helped him, you know,' she said aloud. ‘He came for Michael's funeral.'

‘Your Dad's right. Mick's not fit and he would have been more of a worry than a comfort. He's never been further than England anyway. Even the trip back home is too much for him these days. Can you imagine him surviving in a Kneipe here?'

‘Well I can actually, I think he'd have little bother with that end of things,' Aisling retorted.

Brigitte rattled an attempted laugh in her throat, ‘You're right, it would be getting him out that would be the trouble. Besides Mick would cry and Katharina would have hated that.'

Brigitte did not want Mick's tears either. He sobbed like a baby with tears bumping down his spread-eagled pink nose when they were putting their mother in the ground. John-Joe muttered to Marion, ‘The beer has to come out somewhere' and she muttered back, ‘Maybe he would cry less if he had visited more.' John-Joe now sitting in his own chimney corner – by an oil-fired Aga in the big house on the hill – passing judgement and waited on hand and foot by Marion. They weren't the sort to put themselves out even if they were fit enough. Their four children were all in the States. They flew in together for their granny's funeral, stayed in a hotel at Dublin airport, hired a car and drove up and flew back again the day after. Brigitte had the feeling that they were glad to be out of reach.

‘What about your brother James?' Aisling asked. She remembered that he lived in Boston. Granny had a card from him every Christmas – with one of those letters about what his children, his grandchildren and his great-grandchildren were doing. Granny would read bits to her father. She would sniff then, ‘Fancy photos and letters are all very well but you never heard what happened to his American wife and none of them came back even once with him to visit.'

Brigitte's tone in response to Aisling's question was matter-of-fact: ‘Don't forget he is two years older than me. I won't be going to the States for his funeral, never mind the funeral of one of his children.' Brigitte could see him in the doorway – James, stiff and upright, carrying a cane to hide the weakness of his bad knee. He was probably still fit enough but he wouldn't travel to a funeral of someone he didn't know at all. She respected that and wouldn't ask him. ‘The only one that I miss here is Liam,' she added.

‘Which one is he?' Aisling asked, ‘I don't remember him at Michael's funeral.

‘Peggy said he didn't go. He doesn't have much time for her or for your father either. There was a bit of a falling out after our mother died.'

‘Is he the one that lives near Gran's old cottage?'

‘Yes. That's what the fall-out was about. At some point Peggy persuaded our father to leave the cottage to her and it only came out after our mother died. Liam was mortified. He was the one who farmed the land and was the one who looked after our mother and father more than any of us. The cottage should have been his by rights. The rest of us thought that Peggy would give it up but your father then got involved with solicitors and what not. Liam never spoke to him after.'

‘Well he's right, if Gran did nothing all those years. But my father said Liam would just let the old house fall into the ground if it was up to him and it was Gran who put a bit of money into maintaining it over the years.'

‘Your father has a point there, but I think it was Liam's feelings that were hurt more than anything. I told him that it was so long ago that the old folks had probably forgotten but he felt otherwise.'

Aisling wondered why her parents had never revealed this bit of drama. When they'd talked about Liam, they just said he was as odd as two left shoes and should be ignored. Aisling decided to speak to him the next time she was up there – even if he did ignore her. She liked the idea of getting the story of the family feud from his point of view. She wished he were here now. Anything to relieve the boredom of a wake that was no wake. Worth a try – ask her the burning question.

‘You never did tell me how you ended up in the camp. What did you do? Did you fight against Hitler?'

Laughing to choke at the question. ‘Me fight Hitler! Maybe Katharina would have been proud of me if I had. Not me. A simple no-body in the wrong place at the wrong time Sure wasn't I a foreigner? I was lucky enough that it took as long as it did to arrest me. They wanted to question Delia.'

‘Delia?'

‘The woman I worked for. I loved my job. I was part of the family. I stayed in Berlin because I wanted my job back when the family came back to Berlin. I was afraid if I went back to Ireland, I'd lose the chance and be forced to stay on the farm.'

‘But the war?'

‘I was sure Hitler would win the war. Nobody expected the Americans to come in on the side of Britain. I didn't expect it to last very long.'

‘So what did Delia do?'

‘Nothing, none of us did anything. I stayed in Berlin when Delia took the children to Bavaria. They must've known. When the Gestapo came, I showed them my papers. I was naïve enough to think they would do nothing to me because I was an Irish citizen and Ireland wasn't in the war. Maybe if I had been able to speak better German they wouldn't have taken me for interrogation. I told them everything I knew. I gave them Delia's address in Bavaria. I told them Delia's husband was a doctor in the army. They asked the same questions again and again and I told them everything again and again. They showed me photographs. I recognised one man who was friendly with Dieter. It was a long time later when I found out Herr von Trott, the dinner party guest, was involved in a plot to assassinate Hitler.
At the time I heard only about the attempted assassination when Herr Schmidt, the blockwart, celebrated the survival of our great leader. I don't know how they found out Herr von Trott was a dinner guest in the years before the war. Maybe Herr Schmidt. They must have believed whatever Dieter told them because he was never even interrogated – Delia neither. They couldn't place me. So it was safer to put me away. Once there, you couldn't expect it to make sense. There was neither rhyme nor reason to the camp. Towards the end of the war, everything was more chaotic. Anybody that looked for some meaning in it wouldn't last long, I can tell you. You had to make your own way through it – one day at a time. What am I saying? More like one hour at a time.'

Brigitte took a tissue out of the packet that sat on the table beside her chair and carefully sealed the packet again. Aisling watched now as Brigitte put the tissues back in their place – beside the bar of chocolate.

‘I want to go there before Katharina.'

The aunt made this announcement as if Aisling knew what she was talking about. Aisling was tired of playing mind-reader. Had she totally lost the plot? Go where? A suicide attempt? Or was it gaga speaking? Go to Ireland? Go to Karstadt? Go to deepest Peru? She stopped her own little thought merry-go-round. When she spoke she heard herself sound like her father humouring Gran, ‘Where was it you wanted to go? I missed it.'

Lunch was cleared away and Aisling had decided that now was the time to make her escape for the rest of the day before the big event so she warned herself to tread carefully.

‘I want to go there to see for myself what Monika has arranged for Katharina.'

Aisling covered her mouth to hide the smile. So it was Monika now. That was progress. No longer was Brigitte calling Monika ‘that Jules.' She must mean go to the church or the graveyard.

‘So what has Monika arranged?' Aisling was glad of the chance to ask. Brigitte hadn't relayed the content of Monika's visit the previous day and she wasn't sure what to expect at the funeral.

‘The remains will be delivered to the chapel and there will be a service there before Katharina is buried in
their
grave.' Aisling noted that the emphasis on
their
was hardly noticeable now – another sign that there might be a move to a bit more reconciliation with Monika.

‘So where's the chapel?' she asked. She'd been wondering what sort of service but Monika and Brigitte were so prickly about everything it seemed safer not to ask.

‘There's a chapel in the graveyard. That's where I want to go. A pastor will lead the service – a woman who is some friend of Katharina's. I didn't know she had any friends like that.' Brigitte's tone was quite flat and resigned. No sign of any spitting anger this afternoon. She looked older too – and defeated.

Aisling felt quite perky but hid it as best she could. Brigitte clearly didn't think it odd to have a woman pastor. There was no drama in her tone about that. This was clearly no funeral in the grand Irish style. Coffins, queues and a funeral Mass that was so long, you were jumping for joy with relief by the time it came to bury someone. A very different funeral experience would be interesting to take home.

‘Tomorrow Monika and her brother will take us there but I would like to go there to-day.' Brigitte didn't wheedle but it was clear that she wasn't going to take the trip on her own and was asking Aisling for support.

Aisling felt rising resentment. ‘Wait up, Brigitte,' she thought, ‘you don't catch me out so easily. I'm not your daughter or servant or anybody else whose strings you can pull.' She said nothing for a moment then asked very casually, ‘Where and how exactly?' with her head cocked sideways, biding her time.

‘Well, I thought I could order a taxi to take us there and he would pick us up again after a short time.'

Aisling noted the ‘us' and weighed it up. A quick look at a graveyard wasn't going to take more than ten minutes, so why not? She could hop out of the taxi on the way back at a convenient point and Brigitte would be ready for one of her dozes.

‘So let's get cracking,' she said and saw Brigitte's eyebrows lift dramatically opening her face again. Brigitte rang right away and moved as fast as she could but they were barely ready by the time the taxi arrived. Aisling had forgotten just how long it took her to do simple things.

When she heard Brigitte give the name of their destination, Alter St.-Matthäus-Kirchhof, she had a blast of missing Matt. He'd enjoy hearing that the graveyard had his name. Maybe they would get a chance to be together in Berlin sometime. Brigitte prattled on a bit about living in Schöneberg before the war. The taxi-driver clearly knew Brigitte and was happy to humour her especially when she asked him to drive around Schöneberg to where she used to live before going to the cemetery. They stopped in the street where the house was bombed and Brigitte insisted they get out and read a sort of memorial sign which said stuff about Jews living in this street. Brigitte nodded and said, ‘The Goldmanns.' Nothing more but with a satisfied tone. A sign still there – a reminder of the horrors hidden by what looked like a normal street.

Finally they were at the entrance to the cemetery. The taxi-driver explained there was a café where he could meet them. Aisling looked pointedly at her watch. This ten minute trip was turning into a marathon. She spotted the café beside a little shop selling flowers. Brigitte promised coffee and cake after they found the grave. Aisling grinned to herself – coffee and cake in a cemetery – another story worth telling back in Dublin. She wished she'd brought a sketch pad or camera.

Brigitte headed straight for a grave where there was another old woman planting flowers. Aisling took the chance to stroll around. She came across the Grimm brothers. Not far away a big gay grave. Matt would have kicked her for thinking, ‘how appropriate' so she didn't but mentally winked at him and wondered how he was doing. She was impressed at the blend of old and modern in this corner. There was lots of genuine stuff about people who had died of AIDS. Tasteful.

She rejoined Brigitte who was deep in conversation with the other old woman. Both of them leaning on their sticks – putting the world to rights or talking about the weather. No, not the weather, ‘Wurzeln'. Aisling searched her vocabulary –nothing to do with death or the weather. The sight of the plant reminded her – ‘roots' – and she realised then why Brigitte looked pleased. She was getting confirmation that tree roots really did cause a problem in some graves. The old woman knew the grave of Monika's family – one of the old graves – one that was properly looked after. She told them some of the old graves, which were no longer in use, had new people buried in them. That explained one of the graves Aisling had found where there was a tribute to someone who was clearly transsexual right in the middle of a grave from yonks ago.

The old woman pointed with her stick to the memorial for the German resistance fighters. That was a trigger for Brigitte to give Aisling the general gist of the story about Germans who had tried to kill Hitler in 1944. The resistance were buried first in the graveyard but the Nazis had them dug up and cremated in the next borough to humiliate them. Another possible sequence to add to Brigitte's story because Von Trott ,who had dined with Delia and Dieter, was part of the resistance. It would be cool to have a cemetery sequence in her graphics. She'd have to come back with a camera.

When they found Monika's family grave, there was a hole dug, ready and waiting. Aisling could imagine Monika kneeling there and felt a pang for her. She looked at Brigitte, surely that would elicit a bit of sympathy. It was time somebody banged their heads together. They were obviously the ones who grieved most for Katharina. You'd think they could share it more.

Next stop the chapel. Brigitte nodded her approval at the neo-Romanic style and the empty platform covered in black – ready for the urn. Aisling was surprised to find the walls and wooden pews breathed resignation and peace. Good choice, Monika. Surely there was nothing Brigitte could take offence over. Brigitte looked at her watch. Time for coffee and cake in the café. The tables outside were full. Stepping inside, they blinked into the shade for a couple of minutes before what looked more like an old-fashioned lacy living room than a cafe took shape before them. A young friendly Christian type was shuttling coffee and cake from the little kitchen and helped Brigitte into a seat.

Not a likely place to find tourists. It was worth an entry in an alternative guide. Brigitte was silent. She ate the coffee and cake as if she was absorbing everything around her. The cake was a sort of lemony cheese cake. It tasted good and was clearly home-made. When they left, the taxi-driver was waiting as promised. Aisling had lost the urge to be dropped off somewhere. She promised herself time out after Abendbrot instead.