The Blind Side of the Heart (15 page)

Next moment, as she stood there frozen rigid, when it had become clear that she would not and could not do as her mother asked, she remembered how her mother had talked, years ago on the Protschenberg, about her God and Father’s God, as if their faiths were rivals. When Mother described human beings as earthworms, Helene took it as an expression of the hatred that Mother had always tried imparting to her, and it bore fruit when Helene dreamed of slugs and fell into a void that appeared to her like her mother’s womb.

Helene wanted to wash, wash her hands up to the elbows, her neck, her hair. She must wash everything. Her thoughts were going round and round. She turned away and stumbled down the stairs. She heard Mariechen calling after her, she heard Martha calling her name, but she couldn’t think, couldn’t stop, she had to run. She opened the front door of the house and ran up Tuchmacherstrasse and over the Lauengraben to the bridge, to Kronprinzenbrücke. Then she made her way further, on tiptoe in the dark, below the Bürgergarten and down the slope of the bank to the River Spree. Sometimes she could cling to the stout foundations of the bridge with her hands, sometimes she held on to trees and bushes. She went along the lower road to the Lattenzaun, past the Hop Flower restaurant, where there was still lively company and loud dance music. People wanted to be done with the war and silence and defeat at last. Only when she came to the weir, and heard nothing in the darkness but the gurgling and rushing of the river, was she able to stop. Crouching down, she held her hands in the icy water. Mist hung low over the river, and Helene listened to her breath as it calmed down.

It was late when the music from the restaurant had stopped, and her clothes were damp and cold from the night air and the river, and she went home. On tiptoe, she went up to her dark bedroom, felt around for Martha and slipped into bed with her under the blanket. Martha put an arm over her and a leg, her long, heavy leg, and under it Helene felt safe.

H
elene stood at the window, scratching away the leaves of the frost flowers with her fingernail. A fine layer of ice, still smooth, the frosty white shavings. Small heaps, tiny crystals. Father is dead. Martha had told her this morning. Helene tried out the words singly, for their meaning. You shouldn’t contradict yourself, but how did dead and the verbs to be or to have go together? He had no life any more – so the person who could call something his own was still somehow there. How did such a life want to be, to possess itself? She wondered why Martha hadn’t woken her in the night so that she too could have held her father’s hand. Martha had been alone with him.

What was it like?

What?

How did he die?

You saw him, didn’t you, little angel?

But the last breath. What came after that?

Nothing. Martha looked at Helene, eyes wide open. Unblinking eyes trying to say they couldn’t tell a lie. Helene knew that Martha wouldn’t tell her any more about it, even if there was anything else to know. She’d keep it to herself. So nothing came after that. Helene breathed on the frost flowers, touched the jagged blooms with her lips. Her lips stuck to the ice and burned. Skin came off, the delicate skin of her lips. Martha will have folded his hands, drawn the sheet over his face and turned the bed to the window so that his soul could look out at God. Her lips felt sore.

Helene would have liked it if Martha had woken her. Perhaps he wouldn’t have died if she had been holding his hand. At least not like that, so simply, not without her.

Candles were burning in every room in the house; day refused to begin. The clouds lay low and heavy over the rooftops, they hung between the walls, night was still swaying back and forth in the clouds above.

We’ll wait for the pastor, said Martha, sitting down on the stairs.

You wait. I’m going upstairs to read my book, replied Helene. She went up, but not to the room they shared, where her familiar friends were waiting, Young Werther and the Marquise of O, whose fainting fit Helene still thought extraordinary and incredible. She went up yet another floor. Overnight it had turned cold in here. No one had lit the small stove this morning. She went over to the bed and saw his nose poking up under the sheet. She wondered what he looked like now, but no picture would form before her eyes. Even the memory of how he had looked when he was still alive failed her; yesterday she had tried to get a little water down him and he wouldn’t open his mouth, not even a crack, she could find no trace of memory in herself of the way he’d looked yesterday. There had been hairs left all over the pillow, his long, ashen and finally yellowish hairs. She had plucked his hair off the pillow and held it in her hand for a long time, not knowing where to put it. Could she throw away her dying father’s hair? She could. She had taken his hair into the little closet in the yard and was going to drop it down the frozen hole in the ground there. The hair wouldn’t just drop in. It hadn’t wanted to leave her hand. Even in the closet she’d had to pluck it off her hands, hair by hair. And it had not fallen, it floated in the air so slowly that she felt revulsion and didn’t want to watch. Helene remembered that, remembered his hair yesterday, but not how he himself had looked. The sheet was white, that was all. Helene lifted it, first tentatively, then all the way off, and looked at her father. The skin over his eye socket shone, spotlessly smooth. He had a bandage round his head, to keep his jaw closed before rigor mortis set in. Helene was surprised to see his skin still shining, his face still gleaming. She touched his cheek with the back of her hand. The nothingness there was only slightly cool.

She put the sheet over him again and left the room on tiptoe. She didn’t want her mother in the room below to hear her footsteps, she mustn’t hear and know that Helene had been with him. Helene climbed downstairs again and stood by the window. She took a deep breath and puffed a hole in the frost flowers. Helene could see through the hole as the pastor, walking by, came down from the Kornmarkt, keeping close to the sooty walls of the houses, crossed to the other side of the street and came over to their house. He stopped. He looked for something in the skirts of his long coat, found a handkerchief and blew his nose. Then he rang the bell.

Martha offered the pastor tea. They spoke softly, and Helene could hardly hear them. The bell rang once and Mariechen opened the door to six black-clad gentlemen. Helene recognized one of them as Mayor Koban, who hadn’t once visited his friend’s sickbed, and another as Grumbach, but he was too shy to raise his eyes and meet hers. A carriage and pair stood waiting outside the door. The horses wore blankets to keep out the cold. They were snorting, and their breath looked like the vapour from a small steam engine. The six gentlemen carried the coffin upstairs, and a little later they carried it down again.

We must go, the people are waiting at the graveyard, they’ll be freezing, the chapel lost its stove as well as its bell in the war, said the pastor, adding: Is your esteemed mother ready to set out?

Only now did Helene prick up her ears.

No, said Martha. She won’t be coming.

She won’t be . . . ? The pastor looked blankly from Martha to Helene and finally back to Martha, who cast down her eyes.

No, said Helene, she doesn’t want to.

She says she’s tired, Martha explained, her voice sounding curiously weak.

Tired! The pastor’s mouth dropped open. Helene liked his Rhineland accent; he had been in this parish only two years. And she liked his sermons; she thought that in his language she heard something of the wide world, something that rose far above the world of the God of which he spoke.

Martha firmly took her coat. The pastor stayed sitting where he was. But on the last journey to the grave, he objected and fell silent. Where were his words about disobedience now?

We should go and let her do as she wants, Martha told the pastor sternly.

No, faltered the pastor. We can’t go without her, without his wife, without your esteemed mother. I will speak to her. May I? The pastor rose, hoping that Martha would take him to the lady of the house. But Martha barred his way.

Believe me, it’s no use. Martha was already smoothing her hair down, ready to set out.

Please. The pastor was not giving way. He showed clearly that he was not abandoning the attempt.

As you like. But you said yourself that people are waiting at the graveyard.

Martha nodded to Mariechen, indicating that she could show the pastor the way up to their mother’s room.

Is Leontine coming? Helene put on her coat and saw Martha blushing.

The girls heard the clink of the pebbles and buttons in the bell their mother had made for her room coming from up above. Then there was unaccustomed silence, no shouting, no banging. Martha’s blush left red marks on her face and down to her throat. She looked unhappy.

What’s the matter? Have you two quarrelled?

What gives you that idea? Martha was indignant. She quietly added: Leontine’s been prevented from coming.

The pastor and Mariechen came down the stairs. Mariechen put on her coat and opened the door.

Mother didn’t want to come, am I right? Helene looked searchingly at the pastor.

We won’t force her. Everyone must find his own way to God.

Not her. Don’t you know she’s Jewish?

The Jews too will stand before God some day. The pastor spoke devoutly and with stern but inescapable kindness. He seemed to feel so certain of his faith that Helene had to respect him.

Martha had booked a table in the Town Hall cellar for the funeral meal. None of the black-clad gentlemen said a word. They kept quiet and drank. Mariechen was crying quietly. And as the pastor kept quoting from the Book of Job, Helene wanted to close her ears in spite of his pleasant voice. She put her foot out to Martha under the table, gently touching Martha’s calf, but Martha did not respond by giving any sign, however small.

And so you see, Fräulein Martha, God takes to him those whom he loves best. And he gives joy and love to all who still have their path to tread through this life. We have only to look around in our own community. Fräulein Leontine is a good friend of yours, is she not? You see, her engagement to be married is the beginning of a new path, the path of her children and her happiness.

The familiar chord of A major rang out from St Peter’s Cathedral. The pealing bells seemed to be agreeing with the pastor.

Engagement to be married? Helene was astonished. Had her question been drowned out by the sound of the bells?

Martha was crying now, sobbing uncontrollably.

Fräulein Leontine is getting married in Berlin. Mariechen smiled at the gentlemen present with a certain pride, or perhaps just pleasure, dried her tears and patted Helene’s arm. No doubt she was relieved to think that a young lady who presented such difficulties as Leontine was to have a husband after all. Obviously Helene was the only person at the table who hadn’t known about Leontine’s engagement.

Did you know? Helene leaned forward, hoping Martha would look at her. But Martha wasn’t looking at anyone, she just nodded almost imperceptibly.

Even if you do not care to think of such things at this moment, Fräulein Martha, God the Father will provide for you too. You will marry and bear sons. Life, my dear child, has so much waiting for you.

So much? Martha blew her nose. Do you understand God, do you understand why he allows us to suffer?

The pastor smiled indulgently, as if he had expected Martha to ask this question. Your father’s death is sent as a trial. God means well by you, Martha, you know that. It is not a case of understanding, my dear child, facing the trial is what counts. When the pastor put his hand out over the table to place it consolingly on Martha’s, she jumped up.

Please excuse me. I ought to go and see to Mother.

Martha ran up the stairs from the Town Hall cellar and left. There was nothing Helene could do but remain seated at the table, although she guessed that Martha had simply been looking for a good excuse to run away.

She loved her father very much, said Grumbach, raising his voice in this company for the first time. The other men nodded and amidst the general assent he added grimly: She loved him too much.

God’s love is great. A daughter cannot love her father too much. She can learn to love and give only from God. Martha will withstand this trial, we do not for a moment doubt that. The pastor believed what he said and knew the effect his words would have. The gentlemen nodded.

Both his children loved him, both of them. Mariechen was still patting Helene’s arm.

When the funeral meal was over, Helene sent Mariechen to see her women friends ostensibly to buy yarn for new lace, but really so that she could return to Tuchmacherstrasse alone. All was still in the house. Helene knocked at her mother’s door once, twice, and when there was no answer she opened it.

Has Martha been here?

Her mother was lying in bed, her eyes wide open, and stared at Helene. You two are always looking for each other. Don’t you have anything better to do?

We’ve just buried Father.

Her mother said nothing, so Helene repeated it: We’ve just buried Father.

Oh.

Helene waited, hoping Mother would think of a few more words to say, even a whole sentence.

What is it? Why are you hovering in the doorway like that? Martha isn’t here, surely you can see that.

Helene went downstairs and out of the back door. Frost still lay on the black trees and foliage. It looked as if day could not break fully, as if it would be morning for ever, now, a November morning although it was early in the afternoon. Helene went into the garden and trudged over to the outside closet, with the dead leaves crumbling underfoot. The door was bolted.

Are you in there? Helene knocked hesitantly at the door. She heard rustling inside and finally Martha opened it.