Bone and Blood (9 page)

‘And the dancing we did the first year after I arrived – usually at parties. Herr Goldmann lost his job in the orchestra then and Frau Goldmann was free to sit with the boys so I could go too. Delia would teach me to waltz in the living room to the Blue Danube. I used to play it every Friday night after I did the ironing. I would have a little Schnaps and sometimes dance too.'

The aunt rose to look for it but Aisling found it first. Both on their feet and several steps beyond tipsy moving now to the music – the aunt in the arms of Delia or some dream lover and Aisling holding her at arms length moving with her to make sure that the old bat didn't fall over. If any of her friends could see her now. Steering her finally to fall back into the chair. Aisling laughed a whiskey laugh. Brigitte's head sank onto her chest and she roused her and shuffled her off to bed.

She heard her after that in the bathroom – just as well. Aisling hadn't thought about that. Well she wasn't here to baby-sit. Whiskey sleep with no dreams this night.

Aisling was bored and hungry. The aunt was sitting dozing but she'd be sure to wake up if Aisling started rooting around in the kitchen. She lay on the bed, plugged into her music. The bookshelves in Katharina's room held mostly history text books. Those in English were mostly about Ravensbrück concentration camp. The aunt hadn't given her the name but a quick flick through one of Katharina's books in English told her Ravensbrück was near the place called Fürstenberg, mentioned by Brigitte. The sample of drawing from prisoners fascinated her. Violette Le Coq drew stick figures reminiscent of Lowry, one of her favourite painters. The contrast between her drawings and one by another prisoner which was all buxom women with rounded buttocks was curious. Which was more honest? Or were they both true? Reading some excerpts whetted her curiosity. No wonder Katharina felt a bit cheated if Brigitte kept the shutters down.

The comic-strip story of Berlin was another good find. Effortless German but a bit too childish. The last days of the war and the first Spring of liberation. But she was too restless to read about goodie-two-shoes with blond plaits for long. Still, it would be good for her German and gave her ideas for writing her own comic strips. If she really had to wait three weeks, there would be enough time to go home and come back again. If she didn't she'd have to find ways to fend off boredom. She retrieved the sheaf of old paper. What was so important that it should go in the coffin? Maybe it was the aunt's will or something. Why not tear it up or burn it? She took the bits carefully out of the envelope. The pages were pinned together with an ordinary pin in the top corner that had rusted into place. On top there was what looked like a letter in neat writing.

Aisling ignored the twinge of guilt. It wasn't really like reading someone's letters. It was never sent anyway. Biddy must be what her family called her. Dad called her Aunt Bridget but now she called herself Brigitte – of course that was the German for Bridget. No wonder she changed it. Who'd want to invite ‘oul Biddy' as a name? It was more like a diary than a letter after the first page.

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Aisling heard the aunt in the bathroom and jumped guiltily. She shoved the pages in the drawer where the laptop had been. How come the letters are from Biddy to this Mary? Did Mary send them back or did Biddy never post them? Biddy certainly made living in Berlin sound a lot better than Leitrim. No wonder she was afraid that she'd be sent back home. Aisling couldn't imagine being stuck in that little house in Leitrim for any length of time. Her Granny had told her about going to the well for water and about the bathroom in the barn.

She heard Yola calling her, ‘Kaffee und Kuchen'. She must have been at the bakery. At least the aunt could still have her Coffee and Cake. The aunt insisted Yola sit with them for coffee and cake but you could see neither of them was comfortable.

‘Do you like Berlin?' Aisling asked Yola to cover up the awkwardness.

‘Yes. I do like it,' Yola looked delighted with herself. ‘Do you like the Pflaumenkuchen?'

‘Yes but our plum cake is different. Do you have family still in Poland?'

‘Yes. My mother lives there. My brother too.'

‘Do you miss Poland?'

‘Not Poland. My mother yes but not Poland. I like live in Berlin. My son has work here.'

There was a silence then and Aisling accepted another helping of cake to help fill it. She had barely cleared her plate before Yola was clearing the table. The aunt made no effort to make conversation.

‘Do you ever miss living in Leitrim?' Aisling threw the question into a silence and felt her blush rise from the image of the young Biddy leaving Leitrim for Berlin coming through the letters.The aunt didn't seem to notice anything odd.

‘I went back a few times. Not many. The last time was before my mother died in 1987.'

‘She lived in the old house until she died, didn't she?' Death again. Tactless she could hear her father saying, talk house not people; ‘We go down there for weekends, quite a lot. Dad made a few changes.'

‘Yes, Peggy told me Diarmuid has renovated the old house.'

It made Gran sound younger somehow to be called by her pet name – though Aisling knew she hated it. Probably because it sounded country and old-fashioned though Gran's line was that Peggy wasn't the name she had been given at Baptism. Did Brigitte know that Granny hated to be called Peggy?

Babbling to fill the silence. ‘He didn't really change the house that much. Not enough for Gran anyway. She came down with us for a weekend once and wouldn't come back. Daddy wanted to restore the house rather than modernise it except for a new bathroom and the kitchen in the extension at the back. He took off all the layers of lino and the wood underneath that was beginning to rot and found the old flagstones underneath. He took down all the boards off the ceiling and you can see the old beams in the kitchen now. The big range in the kitchen, with an oven and plates for cooking on, is still there. Mum won't use it for cooking though. She uses a camping stove and Dad has to do most of the cooking when we're there. He bakes soda bread in it when we go there for weekends. But we haven't been back since… '

‘Since… ?' Brigitte's eyes stared black at her. ‘Since your brother died?'

Aisling winced. I'm not the only one who can be tactless here. Sometimes she wanted to rewind it like a video but she knew that no matter what the story would be the same. That was the way it was.

Brigitte spoke into their separate silence, ‘They say it takes a year to get over the death of someone close – I don't believe it. Some deaths you never get over even if it is not someone close.' She paused and abruptly changed tack. ‘You don't mean to tell me Diarmuid bakes soda bread?'

‘Oh not real bread. He found some ready-mix soda bread where you just have to add water. He says it is just as good as what your mother used to bake and far better than anything you get in the shop.'

Aisling wondered now if they would ever go back to those rituals. Her father would get up early to feed the range that was still hot from the night before. She could hear him below raking out the ashes. She pretended to hate those trips to the country but breakfast always tasted better there. She liked her father's ritual. He took a cup of tea in bed to her mother after he fed the range, and then he would go downstairs again and have a shower in the new bathroom and marvel at how there was always hot water from the range at the kitchen sink. If she closed her eyes now she could taste the smell of turf, bacon and brown soda bread baked the night before and rolled in a tea towel. He would have a late night whiskey while it was baking and chat about his childhood. Aisling liked to mock him – especially the bit about the first time he got a ten-shilling note and everything he bought with it, ‘At least his soda bread looked like the real thing,' Aisling added.

Brigitte's voice took on a new energy and edge, ‘Well I can believe bread from a packet would taste better than anything from that shop. When I went there, I thought maybe with that Celtic tiger now, it would be possible to find some decent bread in Leitrim but the main thing they sell is packaging. Inside there is damp soda bread or sliced pan. For fresh bread, it's those imitation French sticks – and croissants. But they have no idea of fresh bread to start the day. The Germans could teach them a thing or two. And the Irish idea of a cake is something with so much sugar and food colouring, it's just as well there's no fruit near it.'