Dissonance (35 page)

Luise placed the nappy in a brown paper bag and left it outside the door. Then she washed her hands in a cracked sink that was always clogged with dried glue.

‘What do you feed that boy?' the same woman asked, taking a small bottle of perfume from her purse and spraying it in the air.

‘Mush,' Luise replied, sitting down at her desk and picking up a photo of a dozen Land Army workers. ‘Potato, beans and carrots.'

‘And meat,' Madge added, smoothing. ‘What we can afford.'

Then another woman said, ‘Sing a song for us, won't you, Luise?'

Luise started on Schubert's
Heidenröslein
. When she was finished the woman said, ‘Such a shame, that you've given it up.'

‘I haven't.'

‘No, but still …'

‘I haven't.' Luise glared at the woman. ‘I've deferred.'

‘Until …?'

‘After the war.'

‘Well, when will that be … and how old will you be?'

‘What's it matter?'

The woman was shaking her head. ‘All the clever ones started early.'

‘The clever ones?'

‘Mozart.'

Luise wasn't going to argue a simple point. ‘The voice doesn't mature until the mid twenties,' she explained.

‘Just the same.'

Madge was looking at her work, her eyebrows raised. Luise knew what she was thinking: a mother has to make compromises. She stared at her mother-in-law, opening the Book of Compromises
she
kept in her head: of lessons missed and stews cooked, of nappies changed and radio broadcasts missed, of practice given up to deliver handbills for her husband's recitals, of a hundred, a thousand, a million photos stuck down, of sleepless nights and moods that left her unable to get out of bed (until Madge tore the sheets off her), of a child, a small, simple, shitting, farting, eating, spewing
thing
that had taken over her life and left her with almost nothing.

Except, sometimes, a new sort of happiness.

If sleepless nights were war, then the
thing
, the boy, Frans drifting off in her arms was a sort of ceasefire, a collecting and burying of the dead. His smile, his giggle, was a small victory in the years of conflict. His smell was a peace, going on forever and ever, long after she, and every old bag in the sticking room, was gone.

Frans started to cry, but she waited. He got louder and she tried to ignore him, taking more photos and gluing them.

‘He's got a good pair of lungs,' someone said.

Luise continued to ignore him. Then Madge said, ‘I think he needs a feed.'

Luise stared at her. ‘It's only been an hour.'

‘Longer than that.'

Luise stood up, throwing her brush on the desk. She shook her head and picked up the child. Then she sat on a bench against the wall and started to unbutton her blouse.

‘Again?' a tall, deep-voiced woman asked.

A few moments later Frans was feeding. His head was moving rhythmically. He was caught up in milk, and sleep, and love, all at the same time.

Madge looked at her grandson, and then at a few of her buddies, sitting at her table – the women who'd come to Erwin's recitals, who called him handsome and lovely to dream about. ‘Frans is a big boy now,' she said, but there was no reply, because she always said this.

Luise adjusted him. ‘He should be, with the amount he eats.'

‘Erwin was the same. He was always after a tit. And it went on and on. He was four before I pried him off. Don't let that happen to you, Luise.'

There was silence. Everyone was thinking it, but no one was saying it.

‘How is Erwin?' one of the women at Madge's table asked.

Madge's eyes lit up. ‘He's a proper policeman now,' she said. ‘Gives out fines, arrests people. Even has his little handcuffs. Brings them home and pretends to put them on Frans.'

The woman looked at Luise and smiled. ‘And does he put them on you?'

Luise grinned. ‘What do you think?'

The woman just pulled a face and everyone laughed, especially Madge, cackling on a full thirty seconds after everyone else had stopped.

‘I think that's enough,' the deep-voiced woman said, ­suddenly.

A few moments passed as things quietened down, as Madge picked up a new photo. ‘Pardon us,' she said sarcastically, at last.

‘We're here to do a job,' the woman replied.

After a few moments of silent work the woman stood up, walked over to Luise's pile of photos and picked about half of them up.

‘I can do that,' Luise protested.

The woman ground her teeth and puffed out her cheeks. ‘Apparently not,' she said, returning to her table and sitting down.

Madge stood up, approached the woman and reclaimed the photos. ‘You don't need to do us any favours,' she said, returning to her own spot and sitting down. ‘We will get the job finished. Even if we're here all day.'

She took a photo from Luise's pile and started to glue the back of it. ‘As I understand,' she continued, ‘there's a war on and we're meant to be helping each other out. And some of us,' she said, indicating her daughter-in-law, ‘obviously need more help than others.'

Madge handed some of Luise's pile to each of the women at her table. ‘Anyone else?'

A dozen hands shot into the air and Madge stood up and distributed the photos. ‘That's the way to do it … many hands.' She looked at the woman and smiled, eventually dropping her head and whispering, ‘Cow.'

It was nearly dark, later that night, when Madge stood in her kitchen, slicing corned beef. Thick, generous slices for Professor Schaedel, who'd come to dinner.

‘Won't be a minute,' she called, as she laid the slices on Sara's best dinnerware. ‘Luise, fill the professor's glass.'

‘I have,' Luise replied, holding Frans on her knee and bouncing him gently. Then she mimicked her mother-in-law's nagging and Schaedel smiled.

Frans burped and a dribble of vomit bubbled from his mouth. Schaedel sat forward and wiped it with his napkin. ‘He's putting on weight,' he observed.

‘Yes,' Luise replied. ‘Erwin says he has his granddad's fat cheeks.'

‘Whose cheeks?' Madge asked, coming into the room and placing a loaf of bread on the table.

‘Jo's,' Luise said.

‘Rubbish. How would he remember?'

‘He has a photo,' Luise explained.

‘He does not.'

She'd taken care of that, gathering and burning a box full the day after her husband's funeral.

‘He has, in his wallet,' Luise said.

‘Yes, he's shown me,' Schaedel concurred.

Madge shrugged. ‘Well … if anything, he's got my father's face, see, a broad forehead.' She pushed the boy's hair back, as if she was scoring cattle. ‘Now, Professor.'

‘Ivan.'

‘Isn't that funny? I just can't bring myself to calling you … Ivan.'

‘No one calls me Professor.'

‘Well … brussel sprouts?'

‘Yes, please.'

She disappeared back into the kitchen, asking Luise to slice the bread, if it wasn't too much trouble. Instead, Schaedel sat forward, took the knife and started cutting.

‘Ivan,' Madge called to him, from the kitchen, ‘I was ­wondering what Erwin should play for his first concerto?'

Schaedel thought as he sliced. ‘Beethoven, the
Emperor
perhaps. Why do you ask?'

‘Don't you think it's time?'

‘Yes, but the only problem is, you've got to find an orchestra.'

Madge appeared from the kitchen, carrying the professor's meal: beef covered in lumpy, white sauce, watery mashed potato, peas, carrots and sprouts the size of marbles.

‘We could approach people,' Schaedel said.

Madge's face lit up. ‘We could?'

‘Yes.'

‘What sort of people?'

He started listing a few names. Madge got up from the table, found a piece of paper and a pen and returned. As her dinner went cold she started writing down the names. ‘Dummin, is that with two m's?'

‘Yes, then there's the manager of the youth orchestra, which has played a few concertos. What's his name, yes, Jansen, I taught his son.'

‘And where could I contact him?'

‘I'll find out for you.'

She covered his hand with hers. ‘That would be wonderful. How is the meat?'

He chewed and chewed, and then swallowed. ‘Nice. I've never had it like this before.'

‘Or again,' Luise replied.

Madge looked at her, and then back at the professor. ‘I was thinking about one of the larger orchestras?' she continued.

Schaedel lifted his eyebrows. ‘Ah.'

This is how they continued, for half an hour or more. As Madge picked at her food, and compiled a list of names that ran to three columns.

Suddenly, Frans, lying face down on a rug on the floor, started to gag and then vomit. In the second or two that it took Luise to look, and for it to register, and for her to stand up and step forward, Madge had thrown down her pen and said, ‘Goodness, girl, what are you doing?' taken two long strides towards the child, picked him up, placed him over her shoulder and started patting his back. Luise stood beside her, and tried to take him, but Madge just turned away from her.

‘I've got him,' Luise said.

‘Put that blanket in the wash basket,' Madge replied.

Luise snatched the rug and mashed it into a ball. Then she stormed into the bathroom, closing the door. She pulled down her pants and sat on the toilet, but didn't need to go. She put her elbows on her knees and her head in her hands and closed her eyes. She breathed deeply and whispered, ‘Bitch.'

Erwin had taught her to do it: to walk away, to take deep breaths, to say to herself, Madge is a spastic, she can't help herself, therefore I shouldn't get angry. And if I do get angry, what good will it do? I should just humour her. Smile. Sit down on the cold toilet seat. Stand up and fasten myself. Flush. Pretend to wash my hands. Open the door and re-emerge, smiling.

Which is what she did, placing a hand on the professor's shoulder and asking if he wanted more water, although his glass was nearly full.

She sat down, but didn't feel like more food. Madge had put Frans in his bassinet and he was sucking on a dummy. Luise looked at him.

No, she was thinking, wishing, willing.
I
am your mother. Don't mistake charity for love.

The spell was broken by the front door opening. Erwin came in, his uniform covered in a fine mist, his cheeks red with cold and his boots covered in mud.

‘Get them off,' Madge squawked, before he could even say hello.

Luise stood up and helped him with his boots, using all of her weight to pull them as he braced himself on the piano. Then he peeled off his socks, hung up his coat and knelt beside his son. He buried his head in the child's belly and blew raspberries on the three or four rolls of fat. Frans giggled and Erwin kissed him on the lips. Then he stood up, his knees cracking, and sat at the table.

‘Luise,' Madge said, ‘could you get your husband's dinner?'

Luise bit her bottom lip and passed into the kitchen. She returned with the meal and placed it in front of him. He was talking to his teacher. Luise just stood and stared at him.

‘I have all these names,' Madge was saying to her son.

He took the list and looked at it. ‘Why?'

‘We discussed this,' she replied. ‘Your first concerto.'

‘Ah …' He stopped to think. ‘It mightn't be that easy. Our battalion's been called up.'

There was silence for a full thirty seconds. ‘Called up?' Luise whispered.

‘Yes, police duties, in Poland.'

Another long pause. Madge was staring at her son, her mouth wide open. ‘But that doesn't include you?' she managed.

‘Of course it does.'

Schaedel placed his knife and fork on the plate. ‘How long?'

Erwin shrugged. ‘They didn't say.'

‘But can't you … because you're a student?'

‘It doesn't matter.'

‘How will you practise?'

He shrugged again. ‘We're not fighting. Just police duties, like we've been doing here.'

‘Will you be near any fighting?' Luise asked.

‘No, Poland's settled down. We'll be patrolling, and guarding government offices.'

Luise looked at Frans. ‘I didn't think this would happen.'

Erwin stared at his food, and sighed. ‘Neither did I. But what can I do?'

‘Can we see someone?' Madge asked, guessing it was just a case of making another list, some phone calls, visiting people, writing letters, making up handbills and cooking scones.

‘No,' Erwin replied. ‘We can't. We're not in Australia now, Mum, and this isn't Nuri High.'

‘But you're young. You're a father. You're not even German.'

Pause.

‘German enough,' he mused.

Madge didn't know who to blame. After all, Germany had been her idea. But she didn't invade Poland, and half of Europe. She didn't drop bombs or sew yellow stars onto greatcoats. She'd been nothing but amenable. Helpful. Friendly. Productive. But this was going too far.

‘Where will you find a piano in Poland?' she asked her son.

‘Somewhere,' he shrugged.

Madge looked at Luise. ‘He never should have joined the Order Police.'

‘Why are you looking at me?' she asked.

‘You told him to.'

‘Pardon me?'

Erwin tapped on the table. ‘Stop it.'

‘As difficult as it seems now,' Schaedel suggested, ‘it's not a bad compromise. If he was in the army, and sent to Russia …'

But Madge was having none if it. She looked at Luise and said, ‘I hope you're happy. If you hadn't gone on about being a good German. And, Oh, isn't he handsome in his uniform?' She held up the list of names, screwed the sheet into a ball and threw it across the room. ‘Fifteen years of work, wasted.'