The Dark Room (20 page)

The face watching her from the fire is Tomas. It folds away into black ash curtains and is gone.

It is winter now and more than half a year since the end of the war. Lore’s birthday arrives; five weeks since Tomas left; two months since Mutti’s first letter; over four months since Jochen died.

Jüri and Peter give her a hair ribbon each, which Lore knows Frau Meyer has cut from her curtains. Liesel is to bake a cake with Wiebke’s help, has been saving up her sugar ration for weeks. Oma promises Lore a pair of shoes, as soon as some are available, and has bought her tickets for the ferry as a treat.

—One for you and one for Jüri, schatz. Peter can go for free.

Oma walks with them to the tram stop and waves them off into town. They go past the stop for the cellar, and Lore watches Jüri but he does not look around. They take the tram all the way to the
Hauptbahnhof
, and then weave their way down through the city on foot. The sky is ash gray, flat and low. The cold reaches in through their clothes. Lore leads her brothers along the still canals in the city center, and then they turn and head for the lake. Doubling back where the bridges are down, taking shortcuts made possible by bombs.

—There were buildings here before, Jüri. Between the canal and the lake, it was all buildings. See? You can still see how all the rubble is in squares.

—When?

—Before the bombs.

—How old were you then?

—The same age as you.

—How old was I then?

—The same age as Peter.

The wind blows bitter across the lake, and Lore wraps Peter into her coat. They turn their backs on the dark water and wait at the
Jungfernstieg
for the ferry to take them home. The city center lies flat before them. Blackened and broken and crawling with life. Everything changing, the old being buried by the new again. Lore sits Peter down on the bench and points across the debris for Jüri.

—They are going to build houses there. On top of where the rubble is now.

—Why?

—So people can live in them, silly. People can’t live in ruins for the rest of their lives.

—Will we live in a new house?

—Yes. We will.

—With Mutti.

—Yes, and Vati.

—Vati’s in a prison.

—Yes, but we will live together again when he comes home.

They board the ferry and sit toward the back, out of the wind, which tugs at the tarpaulin below the rail.

—Where is Tomas now, Lore?

—I don’t know.

Lore watches the tarpaulin, and the ropes snapping against the taut cloth.

—Does he think about us?

—I don’t know.

—How old will I be when we live in our new house?

Lore shrugs; her brother’s questions grate. She can see other passengers in front of them, sheltering from the wind, but beyond them is the empty foredeck.

—As old as you are today?

—I don’t know how long it will take, Jüri.

Lore shifts forward and the wind bites at her face. The air is cold on her teeth as she speaks; it tugs at her hair.

—Will you be as old as Tomas then?

—No, because he will always be older than me, silly.

Jüri laughs and Lore stands up. Jüri gets up too, but she tells him to sit with Peter. She steps out into the wind. The air rushes across the deck and hurls itself at her legs, and Lore’s skin shrinks back from her clothes. She takes hold of the rail to steady herself. The water is far below her and dark, churning slowly under the ferry. Lore lifts her head up away from it, keeping her face high in the icy blast of the wind, feels the air currents pull and twist around her limbs.

She moves along the rail beyond the cabin, away from Jüri’s questions, and from Peter, and away from the other passengers, until she is out at the front of the ferry and hidden from view.

Alone now, she takes the full force of the wind. Lifting first one hand and then the other from the railing, standing firm, facing out to the shore.

Lore looks forward to the silence at Oma’s, to Wiebke’s smiles, and Liesel’s cake. She looks forward to when there will be no more ruins, only new houses, and she won’t remember anymore how it was before.

She stands on her own and the wind claws her skin, tears through her clothes. Lore doesn’t look down at the water, faces the far shore ahead. She unbuttons her coat and lets the wind rip it open, pounding in her ears. She stretches her mouth wide, lets the winter rush down past her lungs and fill her with its bitter chill.

Lore hears and tastes and feels only air. Her eyes are closed, seeing nothing, streaming brittle tears.

Part Three

MICHA

HOME, AUTUMN 1997

It’s a long walk across the parking lot to his grandmother’s place and the young man’s feet get wet. The high-rise stands white in the green of landscaped lawns. When the sun shines, residents walk slowly in pairs along the yellow gravel paths, and his Oma sits out on her balcony, twelve stories high. On days like those, the young man will stop on the grass and, after counting eight windows down and three across, he will wave and wait for the tiny speck of movement in reply. Today it rains and the young man walks alone.

This is Michael. His Oma’s name is Kaethe, and she was married to Askan.

Oma Kaethe. Opa Askan.

The nurse at the reception desk smiles in recognition as he signs himself in. His glasses mist over in the warmth of the lobby and water slips from his hair down his neck as he waits for the elevator to arrive.

Just lately, Michael has taken to mapping his family. In lines, on trains, in idle moments, he will lay them out in his head: layers of time and geography, a more-or-less neat web of dates and connections to work over, to fill out the corners of the day.

Oma Kaethe and Opa Askan. Married, Kiel, 1938. Two children. Mutti, Karin. 1941. And later Onkel Bernd. In Hannover, after the war. After Opa came home.

Oma is at her door when Michael steps off the elevator. She waves
to him from the far end of the corridor. I saw you coming, she calls. Walking in the rain. He takes his glasses off and Oma polishes them on her apron. She finds a towel for his hair and another for his feet. His shoes are left by the door, and his socks are hung on the heater.

Michael is tall and Oma Kaethe gets smaller all the time: the top of her head is well below his shoulder now. Filling the cream jug, arranging the cakes on plates, Michael absorbs the regular Sunday shock of his Oma getting older.
Born 1917; fifty years before me; twenty-four before Mutti, her daughter. Five years after Opa.
Today Oma’s long fingers shake as she talks. Michael squeezes them tight in his rain-cooled hands and his grandmother smiles.

Through the week, Michael cuts articles out of the paper for his Oma, saves them up for his visits. He lays them out on the table covered by the red wax cloth that still smells of Oma’s old house. His grandmother follows the printed lines with her quivering fingers while Michael eats: pastries with glazed fruits and marzipan stollen, although Christmas is still weeks away. In front of Michael, all along the wall, are Oma’s uncles, who died when she was a girl. Dark oil paintings of boys in uniform.
Mutti’s great-uncles. My great-great-uncles. Im Krieg gefallen: fallen in war. Not Opa’s war, the one before.

Rain streaks the windows, and Michael walks through the small flat, turning on the lamps. If it were a clear day, Oma would take him out on the balcony now, to enjoy the city view.
Stadtwald, Wolkenkratzer und Main.
I can see forever from my bird’s nest, she would tell him. And Michael would look out over the forest and the river to the skyscrapers and agree.

Instead, they play a long game of cards, which Oma wins, and then the afternoon is over. Oma pockets her keys and keeps Michael company down in the elevator. They smile at each other as their ears pop. We weren’t designed to live so high, Oma tells him. But think of all the things we wouldn’t see, Michael replies, and then she laughs.

Tonstrasse, Wienerstrasse, Steinweg, Kirchenweg, Kastanienalle.
Michael
lists his Oma’s addresses as he walks away.
Kiel, Kiel, Hannover, here, here. The middle three with Opa; the first and the last without.

He turns when he is halfway across the parking lot, and his grandmother waves from the door. She is still watching as he climbs into his mother’s car. He rolls down the window and waves as he drives away.

When Michael gets home, Mina is standing in the open doorway, waiting for him as he climbs the stairs. He walks slowly up the last flight, taking her in. They smile at each other.

—I saw you coming.

Her breath smells of alcohol. Michael knows that his smells of cigarettes.

—We’ve opened some wine.

—
We?

—Luise. Me and Luise.

My sister, a doctor, three years older, only granddaughter.
Luise shouts from the kitchen while he takes off his coat.

—Mina tells me you took Mutti and Vati out to lunch last week, Micha, which I think sounds very nice. But, you know, I am just wondering how it is you forgot to invite me?

She is laughing, but Michael knows she is hurt. And not really expecting an answer, either; just wanting to let him know. He shrugs at her, smiles.
Shit.
Mina pours him some wine, walks back over to Luise. They are sitting on the windowsill by the heater, the glass steamed up against the evening sky. It is almost dark, but they haven’t turned on the lights. Michael stands by the fridge, on the other side of the room.

—
How are you, anyway, Luise?

—I’m fine, thank you, Michael. And you?

—
Not bad. Good.

—How’s school? Any staff-room gossip?

—
Oh, no, God. Just the usual little power struggles in the midmorning break.

—Well, Herr Lehner, I’m starving, and Mina said it’s your turn to cook.

Luise laughs again, and Mina smiles at Michael across the room.

—I did not. I only said we should wait until you came home.

She raises her glass to him in a toast. Luise, too, with a smile that Micha finds impossible to read.
Luise, Luise, Luise. Jesus.

—
You want to stay for dinner, then?

—Ouch! Mina? Is he this nasty with you?

—Enough now, let’s cook.

Mina walks across the kitchen, opens the refrigerator, and the light spills out over the kitchen floor. The label is sticking out from her collar, and Micha reaches out and tucks it away.

—
I think I’ll go up to Mutti and Vati’s, take the car back. I won’t be long.

Luise stands up and pours herself more wine.

—You’ve got Mutti’s car? Have you been smoking in Mutti’s car again? I can smell it on your clothes from here, Micha. She never tells you off for it, but she hates it, you know that.

Michael doesn’t answer his sister, he just smiles and nods. Mina winks at him, squats down on the floor next to him, rests a hand on his calf.

—Could you buy bread? We need some bread.

Michael empties the ashtray and drives for the first few minutes with the windows open.
Mutti and Vati, Karin and Paul. Two children, no grandchildren, married thirty-three years, at home in the suburbs. Twelve kilometers; half an hour by train; no more than twenty minutes by car.
It is early evening, the traffic in town is light and the Autobahn clear.
Fifteen.
His mother has a place laid at the table for him.

—A little bite, Micha? Just a bite before you go.

Michael’s mother took early retirement. Only six months and she still can’t get used to it. I’m a young woman, she says. I should be busy. Every week she has a new hobby. Michael phones Mina, stays for dinner, and then his father drives him home.

—Your mother is crazy since she retired, driving me crazy.

—
It’ll be your turn soon.

—
She
should be working,
I
should be gardening, learning Spanish, yoga, astronomy.

—
You’re jealous, Vati, that’s all.

—Jealous? No, it’s much worse than that, son. She makes me feel
boring.

Michael laughs; the windshield wipers smear the city lights across the glass.
Vati. Born in ’34, Mutti ’41: one at the start, the other in the middle of it all.
Michael’s father is quieter now. He asks about school, about Mina, but Michael can see the focus shift in his eyes: Sunday to Monday; home to office; son to work. Michael tells him to come over in the week; bring Mutti, bring some wine. His father smiles, the electric window hums shut, and he is away; sights set on the day ahead.

Mina wakes Michael in the morning before she leaves for work. It is still dark. Her breath smells of coffee; his mouth tastes of cigarettes;
again.
He keeps his lips closed when she kisses him.

—Cem’s birthday tonight, remember? I’ll be going straight from work.