Stones From the River (78 page)

Slowly Trudi nodded, and Hanna released the basket so abruptly that it tumbled to the ground.

“When?” the girl asked as she scooped up the vegetables. “When?”

“It’s up to your mother.”

Trudi felt cautious around the child who came at her with years of stored-up affection. But gradually, as she came to trust her own borders, she began to enjoy Hanna’s visits. It gave her pleasure to surprise her with gifts: a coloring book and crayons; pastry with whipped cream and chocolate shavings; two green ribbons that matched her Sunday dress.

Hanna knew some of the songs that Trudi had learned as a child, and they sometimes sang them together:
“Fuchs du hast die Gans gestohlen”
… or “
Wie das Fähnchen auf dem Turme
…” Trudi let her play with the music box that Emil Hesping had given her, and brought out photos that Herr Abramowitz had taken of her when she’d been Hanna’s age. Yet those stiff prints in hues of brown, tinged with red, were all darker than she remembered it being at the time they’d been taken.

Down by the brook Trudi showed Hanna what she’d seen with her
mother the day of her brother’s funeral—how to look beyond the moving sheen of water and find not only the silt at the bottom of the brook, but also the sky and their very own faces mirrored in the current.

They were playing with the paper dolls the day the wooden icebox was replaced by an electric refrigerator. It stood as tall as Trudi’s shoulders and made a purring sound that came on for periods at a time like the buzzing of a fly, reverberating through the house. Leo Montag, who dozed much of the day, could sleep right through it, but the first few nights Trudi was awakened by the sound, and the more she tried to ignore it, the more persistent its droning became, pulsating in her ears like water trapped in there after swimming.

At first Trudi always had something to show or give to Hanna, but she soon realized that the girl liked nothing better than to hear her stories. Far more reflective than Jutta, who burned within the moment, Hanna circled through Trudi’s stories, finding links, bridging gaps with questions that drove Trudi deeper into her own memories. And as she became more of a participant in her stories, she felt a joy that came from revealing herself.

Yet, like other children who’d been born late in the war or afterwards, Hanna did not ask about the war. For these children, Trudi knew, the silence was normal: they were growing up with it.
Normal
—it was a terrible word if you thought about it. Most realized there had been a war—after all, there were still some ruins to prove that—but they’d learned early on that it was not proper to mention that war, even if, deep inside their guts, vague questions would stir. Trudi hoped that, once Hanna got older, Jutta would tell her about the war. It was unlikely that Klaus would. All she could do was encourage Hanna to ask her anything she wanted to know.

“Anything?” There was a wonder, a craving in the girl’s eyes.

“Anything.” They were in Trudi’s kitchen, and Hanna was balancing along the platforms in front of the cabinets. “I’ll answer it if I can. And if I can’t or don’t want to—or if you’re too young to know—I’ll say so.”

“Are you little because your mother dropped you on your head?” Trudi stiffened. “Who said so?”

“Rolf’s mother.”

“I could tell you stories about that Klara Brocker. She’s the last
who should say anything about me.” Trudi stopped herself. She’d promised Hanna answers, not tirades. “I’m little because I was born that way. It’s like being born with red hair like your father or with a crooked finger like Frau Blau. I used to think her finger was like that from dusting.… There’s a name for people like me—
Zwerg
—not that I like the name, but that’s what it’s called. I know that people warn children they’ll look like me if they don’t brush their teeth or don’t finish their liver or eat butter with a spoon or kill frogs or cross the street without looking or touch spiders or—”

“But I like it that you’re little.”

Trudi stared at her.

“And I want a house like yours when I’m grown-up.”

“By then you’ll be too tall for these platforms.”

“Maybe I can stay little.”

“It’s nothing to wish for, child.”

“And who told you about him?” Trudi said the day Hanna asked her about the man by the river.

“Herr Immers.”

“The old one or his son?”

“They’re both old.”

Trudi laughed. “For you they would be. Just like me.” The pay-library was empty, and she was letting Hanna help her return books to their shelves.

“You’re not real old.”

“I can still walk without a cane.”

Hanna nodded, serious.

“That was a joke. About the cane … Tell me—what did you hear from Herr Immers?”

“He and your father got you out in time.”

“In time for what?”

“To save you.”

“Save me, huh? Must have been the son then … That man by the river is ten—no, a hundred times better than any of the Immers.” She straightened her shoulders. “I could have married him.”

Hanna climbed to the top of the ladder and sat there, elbows on her knees, peering down at Trudi.

“That man,” Trudi said, “he was a kind man, a good man.…” She
smelled his scent, felt the weight of his long body. How could Max be this close? This far away? “But people in this town, they can’t imagine that a man like that would bother with me. No—they find it easier to believe that he must have meant me harm.”

“Herr Immers said he was naked.”

“Herr Immers is right. You see, the man wanted to swim and didn’t have his bathing suit.”

“My mother swims without a bathing suit. When she’s out in the ocean. Or the river. Then she takes it off. My father says she’ll lose it some day.”

“He would say that.”

“Did the man swim?”

“He was a good swimmer.”

“Why didn’t you marry him?”

“Because he didn’t come back.”

“Maybe he’s on his way.”

“Oh, Hanna.” She was back to her endless days of waiting, of willing Max to come back to her.
“Tell me what you saw this time, Max.”

“I’ll paint it for you.” “Tell me now.…”
The flush of yellow-orange petals spreading across white walls of cities and into the sky. “He was a painter.”

“Like my mother?”

Trudi nodded.

“Do you miss him?”

All at once she was crying, crying in front of this child who slid down the ladder and wrapped her arms around her and kept saying, “You got me now.”

“And I’ll always have him too. You see—You see, Hanna, he had to go to another country.… He is a builder of cities, of houses so beautiful you can hardly imagine them.…” She cried as she evoked Max for Hanna, building light from memory and grief, the kind of light you find in shadowy spaces—not the pretty glimmer that passes quickly, but light that carries its own flip side of darkness, of oddness, ugliness even—like the flash of strawberry red against a woman’s white fingers.

But Hanna’s father was shocked by the story that his daughter brought home, and he was standing outside the pay-library the following morning when Trudi unlocked the door. With a clipped greeting, he stalked past her in his starched white jacket.

“Hanna is too young for stories like that.”

Trudi closed the door and followed him to the counter. “Stories like what?”

“About that man by the river. We all know you’d never seen him before.”

“Do we now?”

His eyes flicked from her and down to his hands.

She remembered how much she had wanted to touch those hands long ago. And she remembered the dress she’d worn the night she’d danced with him, the sleeveless chiffon with the Spanish bolero jacket that Frau Abramowitz had given her. She remembered walking on her toes in those absurd high heels, and she thought how much more comfortable she felt now in her flat canvas shoes and wash-softened housedress.

“And what if I had known him, Klaus Malter, what then? Would that change anything? What if I had known him for months? Or years? What if he was the kind of man who, after he kissed me, did not pretend it had never happened?”

As the dentist’s face turned red, a brighter shade of red than his beard, she knew that he, too, had never forgotten that kiss, had always remembered it and felt uneasy about it, and in that moment of victory, she thought how both their lives might have been easier if they’d talked about that night. Perhaps then, rather than this victory, she could have had his friendship.

“What if this man actually loved me?” she whispered.

“I— I can’t answer that.”

“I’m not asking you to answer it. I want you to imagine it.”

He flushed an even deeper red. “Hanna is only five. She is better off not hearing things like that.”

“Hanna came to me with questions—rumors—about a man without clothes by the river, about some danger I was in. All I did was tell her enough to stop her from worrying.”

“Even so—I don’t want her coming here and bothering you.”

“Your daughter does not bother me.”

“My wife and I—It’s one thing we don’t agree on, Hanna coming here.”

“But what about Hanna? Doesn’t it count what she wants?”

He was silent.

“Think of all I haven’t told her—like what really happened to her great-uncle and Eva.”

“Alexander died. That’s all Hanna needs to know.”

“She already knows more than that—And it’s not from me. She heard in the bakery that he jumped from the attic window.”

“And what did you say?”

“That she heard right.”

Klaus groaned.

“Your daughter says you told her Eva died from tuberculosis.”

“It’s something a child can understand.”

“That doesn’t make it true. Still—it’s in your family. Right now she believes Alexander killed himself because his wife died from tuberculosis. I haven’t told her otherwise. Even though I don’t like it. But if she asks me questions about myself, I’ll tell her the truth.”

The old women thought it was a good idea when the dentist hired Klara Brocker to look after his daughter and his apartment, since his wife was too absorbed with her painting and with hoarding her grief over her son’s death as though no one else had ever lost a child.

But Trudi couldn’t understand how Jutta could delegate her daughter to the care of this tidy woman with her plucked eyebrows and tight permanent. Once before, Klara Brocker had found a way to get something that had been intended for someone else, and her new role in Hanna’s life was harder to bear for Trudi than the trade of Ingrid’s jewelry box.

Hanna, who’d lived the first five years of her life with her mother painting right next to her, and the freedom to sneak out and wander about town, resented the new housekeeper. Not only was she watched constantly and dragged to church at least once a day for prayers, but she also lost her mother, who retreated to the third floor where she painted all day. Herr Tegern had designed a studio for her in the rooms where she’d lived as girl, and from the one huge window—in the falling pattern of her uncle—Jutta could see across town.

Rolf Brocker always arrived with his mother. A chubby boy with delicately shaped ears, he fought with Hanna over her toys and told her that his father had been killed in the war. Though she knew other children whose fathers had died as soldiers, they were older than Rolf and she. Now, when she went to the pay-library, she was usually with the housekeeper and her son. But Trudi knew how to distract Klara Brocker: she’d offer to watch the children and urge her to take her time finding the right books.

Even after her mother became far too ill to read, Klara Brocker continued to get books for the old woman. She’d come into the pay-library with the two children, shake her head, and say to Trudi, “I don’t know why my mother would read this trash.” But there’d be a greed in her eyes as she’d touch the romance novels which, aside from French cigarettes, Gauloises, were her one extravagance.

And Trudi would play along. “Your mother… she might like this,” she’d recommend, wondering what Klara would pretend once her mother died. Perhaps she’d stay away from the pay-library for a month, say, or even half a year, but one day, Trudi knew, she’d come in and wordlessly check out several romances.

A few days after the children started first grade, Trudi heard rumors that Sybille Immers had tripped Hanna on the playground, and that Hanna had punched Sybille’s arm. When both mothers were summoned by the principal, who wanted to assign each girl three rosaries as punishment, Jutta said she would encourage her daughter to defend herself any time she was attacked. While Trudi applauded her decision, the town only saw it as one other way the dentist’s wife set herself apart.

Much of the time, Leo Montag was in pain, and the new doctor in town, Frau Doktor Korten, stopped by daily to give him an injection. For a few hours, then, it would cease—that heaviness which grew from a pulse in Leo’s left knee and pumped throughout his frail body—but soon it would return, press its way from the same place as if the disk of steel had contaminated his flesh and transformed it all into steel.

A few months earlier, on the coldest day of winter, the stocky young doctor had arrived from Bremen and had bought the pianist’s mansion—which had stood empty since the war—with plans to turn it into a women’s clinic, though people told her it was too far from the center of town. She didn’t mind treating men, too, it seemed, because she’d drive wherever she was called. When she warned Leo that his ribs showed and urged him to eat more, he told her how heavy he felt. To move this burdensome body of steel took more stamina than he had, and he stayed in his bedroom, where Trudi brought him meals that he seldom finished, and where he drifted between sleep and his books that were stacked along the wall next to his bed.

Sometimes, to take the worry from his daughter’s eyes, he’d let her
help him down the stairs and settle him on Emil’s sofa while she sat and read to him; but he was far more comfortable in his room, surrounded by Gertrud’s photos. Over the decades, they had faded so much that her features were unrecognizable to anyone but himself—at most images of a ghost woman, nuances of pearly gray—yet what he saw was her black, tangled hair, the feverish pink of her face.