What Is Left the Daughter (6 page)

"Wyatt, are you an excellent driver?" Hans asked. "Because I'm an excellent driver, and I can drive us to your village if you'd like to sit in back."

"We can all three fit in front," I said.

"Hans is going to stay awhile," Tilda said. "I thought the rooms above the bakery might work."

"I'll drop him off," I said. "We have to pass by there anyway."

"Cornelia Tell can use the revenue, I bet," Tilda said. "Hans, do you have any money?"

"I have some Canadian money, yes," Hans said.

"Canadian's all that will work in Middle Economy, Hans," Tilda said. "Maybe since the bakery's got late hours tonight, after dinner we can have an éclair. Wyatt, you can chaperone me, eh?"

"If you need a chaperone just to have an éclair in the bakery, all right, sure," I said.

"On the bus we talked about my getting hypnotized," Tilda said. "Actually, Hans has been hypnotized, isn't that right, Hans?"

"Nine times," Hans said.

"For me, once was enough," Tilda said. "Enough to know it worked."

"How do you mean?" I said.

"Well, Mom and Dad wanted the mesmerist to talk me out of being a professional mourner, right? But when I snapped out of the hypnotism, I looked right at Dr. Sewell and said, 'I've just had the most clear, vivid and wonderful dream that I'd done a great job at a cemetery up in Northport, on the Northumberland shore. And the woman who'd paid me said she would recommend me in the wink of an eye.' Fact is, the second she said 'wink of an eye' is when I'd snapped out of my trance. Dr. Sewell didn't snap me out of it. I did it on my own. So, you see, twenty-five dollars was spent to reassure me I'm doing the right thing."

"I'm sure Reverend Witt had a different result in mind," I said.

"I'm sure he did," she said. "But aren't you happy for me?"

"Productive visit to the city, sounds like," I said.

I drove the three of us to the bakery. Cornelia was all too pleased to have a tenant. She and Hans quickly settled on a price. I was irritated to see Hans Mohring pay for a whole week in advance. "You're my first German to rent," Cornelia said. "I've let my rooms be occupied by—let's see. There's been a Dutch family of four. Then there was that Swedish man and wife who admired Donald's sleds. I recall the Swedish husband said he couldn't fall asleep without a strong cup of coffee. It took me a while to realize it was a joke—I'm pretty sure. And there's been a number of French speakers from Quebec. The rooms above my bakery are a regular tourist trap, eh? Anyway, Hans, as for any European cuisine you may be used to, you're out of luck. My pastries have a reputation, however. I don't serve dinner, but I'll fix you a sandwich, meat and cheese, if you like. Tomato slices included."

"I'd be honored," Hans said.

"Honored, well! My sandwiches aren't war medals, Hans," Cornelia said. "They're just sandwiches."

"Hans is a student of philology," Tilda said. "He's careful with words. If he said honored, he meant honored, is my guess."

"I must've had the war on my mind," Cornelia said. "What with those German wolf packs turned our coast into a shooting gallery. Right, Hans?"

"I can understand your not wishing me to stay above your bakery," Hans said.

"Oh, I know you're just a student, Hans," Cornelia said. "Probably you aren't communicating shore-to-ship with U-boats."

"Please understand," Hans said. "Your government willing, I'll become a citizen of Canada. My parents, too, wish this for themselves. And my sister. They live in Denmark."

"Somehow you're not a German sailor or soldier, are you, Hans? And I wonder, how'd that happen? How did you finagle out of conscription as such? Do you come from an influential family, Hans?"

"Influential, no," Hans said. "Modest of income."

"There's Canadian citizens at the bottom of the sea off our province, yet you're welcome to stay long as you want, Hans Mohring. But you should know that every time I look at you, I might think of the bottom of the sea. That's not because of anything you yourself did, mind you."

"I'm not in the military because we left Germany," Hans said.

"Enough of this tug of war," Cornelia said. "Your rooms are nice and clean, Hans. I did the sheets yesterday, in fact. My private room is directly below your rooms, Hans, so if you have any questions, knock, and if I'm not in my nightgown, I'll meet you in the hallway and tell you what's what."

"What are the house rules?" Hans asked.

"The only house rules I've got," Cornelia said, "is that you just now paid the rent. Look, I'm sorry. It's just this war's got me so off kilter. For instance, if I'm listening to war bulletins on the radio, I can scarcely bake at all."

"I'm coming back later to have éclairs with Hans," Tilda said.

"Want me to chaperone?" Cornelia said.

"Wyatt said he would," Tilda said.

"You don't see me behind the counter, come right in anyway," Cornelia said.

"All right, then," Tilda said. "See you in a couple of hours, Hans."

Hans shook hands with me, Tilda and Cornelia Tell, in that order. "How do I get to my rooms?" he asked.

"Step out the door, turn right, you'll see another door," Cornelia said. "The door handle's painted black. You can't miss it."

Carrying his backpack and satchel, Hans left the bakery.

"You aren't still under hypnosis, are you, Tilda?" Cornelia asked. "I heard that some people never snap out of it, even though they appear to have."

"No, Cornelia," Tilda said. "I asked Hans to stay in Middle Economy with my thoughts very much my own, if that's what you meant."

"I put him through the wringer, I suppose," Cornelia said.

"Along the chin, if you look closely, and down his neck and shoulders, it's discolored," Tilda said. "Bruised up. He's taken a few beatings in downtown Halifax. The collar covers that up a little. On the bus, he saw me notice, so he buttoned up his collar like that. Still, once we got to talking, he told me about the bruises straight out. Germans aren't much in favor in Halifax these days."

"Haligonians might wonder does Hans, there, have siblings working on a U-boat," Cornelia said.

"Cornelia, sit down a moment, will you?" Tilda said.

Cornelia sat at the nearest table.

"Hans has got some sort of heart condition," Tilda said.

"Well, now, who doesn't?" Cornelia said.

"His is medically diagnosed," Tilda said. "Now and then he blacks out. I'm talking out of school here, but he blacked out right on the bus—keeled over, just like that. I'd been wondering why he hadn't sat next to me. Fetching as I am. When he blacked out, I realized, it was out of specific politeness. He wanted, just in case, to avoid falling against my shoulder or whatnot, impolite and too forward. Mr. Harrison, the bus driver, saw Hans slump over in the rearview, pulled to the side of the road, came back and propped Hans up and took his pulse. Hans wasn't completely out. Said 'Sorry sorry sorry' to everyone on the bus, which happened to be just me and Mr. Harrison, but still. It was an eventful bus trip home. But we talked and talked. What's more, Cornelia? I've some money left over and would've paid out of my own pocket for you letting him the rooms, and I mean without a second thought."

Tilda and I drove home in complete silence. She looked out the window the whole way.

I
ALWAYS WONDERED
what Hans Mohring thought of there being no books in my aunt and uncle's house. He couldn't help but notice this, him being a philology student. Me, I always felt a house that contains books (not only a Bible) has a concealed spirituality, and maybe I thought that because so few people in Middle Economy left their books in plain sight. Reading was a private enterprise, when it occurred, especially of novels. Come to think of it, Marlais, most of your mother's reading took place in the three-room Middle Economy Library, the only stone building in the village, located a short walk from the bakery. I recall Tilda shaking off the winter cold by the woodstove at home and saying, "This afternoon I've read straight through a collection by Katherine Mansfield. It's called
In a German Pension.
Katherine Mansfield is from New Zealand. Her stories are too excellent to summarize."

I shouldn't say no books were in the house, because Tilda signed out
The Highland Book of Platitudes
on her eighteenth birthday. How do I know that she never returned it? Because I'm looking at it right now. It's on my kitchen table. It's possible she considered
The Highland Book of Platitudes,
despite all propriety, as a kind of birthday gift to herself. As far as I know, the librarian at the time, Mrs. Bethany Oleander, born and raised in Newport Station, didn't get after her about it. Then again, I doubt that
The Highland Book of Platitudes
was in great demand. The book has a frayed red leather-bound cover. Your mother's brown leather bookmark, mail-ordered from Halifax, embossed with the initials
TH,
remains where she'd last placed it, between
[>]
and
[>]
.

Yet the book was in demand nightly by Tilda. She kept it by her bedside. Late some nights I'd hear her read from it aloud, never bothering to whisper. I'm jumping ahead a little here, but I remember the first time Hans Mohring came to dinner at our house, she boldly said, "Come see my library, Hans," took him by the hand and led him into her bedroom, door kept open, naturally. I chaperoned from the hallway. She said, "Take a look at this book, Hans. It's called
The Highland Book of Platitudes.
It's inspirational." My aunt served tea in the parlor. We were all there, my uncle, aunt, Tilda, Hans and me. Hans took apart and put back together the word "platitude" as the rest of us listened. "It's not that platitudes can't say important things," Hans said. "But in the dictionary meaning—I won't be exact here —'platitude' is a statement that's basically dull or trite, but spoken as though it's brand-new. The way many politicians present their ideas, for instance — you understand."

"I don't find the platitudes in my book in the least dull," Tilda said. "Not a single one." With that, I was immediately alerted to two things. First, the fact that Tilda was not pleased. Second, maybe Hans had just fallen from grace a little. That was my hope, at least.

"Well, thank you, Hans. I've learned a lot," my aunt said. "We're in for supper now."

Remember my mentioning those éclairs? Well, back on the evening that Hans Mohring had arrived by bus, the three of us did meet up for éclairs. Cornelia sat in the corner, and I knew she'd noticed, though she didn't comment, that Hans held his fork, prongs curved downward, in his left hand and lifted pieces of éclair, neatly cut, to his mouth without transferring the fork to his right hand, which I learned was the European style. The next day, Tilda introduced Hans to Donald and Constance, but Tilda spirited him away quickly. "I'm going to tour Hans through Middle Economy," Tilda said. "All the sights there are to see. That'll be done in half an hour, then we'll sit at the wharf and reminisce about the tour for three or four hours. The thing itself; the memory of the thing, which gives it the longer life." I knew, with that last sentence, Tilda had quoted
The Highland Book of Platitudes,
though I don't know if Donald or Constance realized it. Off they went. A week later, Tilda announced, "I've invited Hans Mohring to supper."

"What's the hurry?" my aunt said.

"The invitation's made," Tilda said.

"Which evening?" my aunt asked.

"Tomorrow evening."

"I'll get out my recipes."

"It'll be nice for Hans," Tilda said. "He's only been eating Cornelia's sandwiches."

"I hope he's shared them with you," my aunt said.

"Is that your way of saying you haven't seen me for supper lately?"

The next evening at about six-thirty, Aunt Constance had the table set with her best china and Christmas cloth napkins. No tablecloth, but she had polished the wood. Hans was seated next to Tilda. I occupied the one chair opposite them, my place setting noticeably centered alone on that side of the table. Of course, my aunt and uncle sat at either end. My aunt served baked salmon, boiled potatoes, bread and—rare at our table—white wine, and there was a pitcher of water, too. She said a prayer. Hans dug right in, wielding his fork in that different fashion. "Well, won't you look at that!" my aunt said, and we all turned to the dining room window. Half a dozen children had their faces pressed to the glass.

"Cornelia Tell must've said something to somebody," Tilda said.

"You're giving those kids quite the lesson in German etiquette," my uncle said, moving his fork from his right to left hand, spearing a piece of salmon and eating it. Hans caught on directly.

"After dinner, perhaps I'll sit on the porch and tell them a Grimm's tale," Hans said.

"How grim?" my aunt asked. "They're our neighbors' children, after all."

"No, no," Hans said. "The Brothers Grimm. They are famous German storytellers. Long dead now—very important. You know 'Hansel and Gretel'?"

"I read it to Tilda when she was a little girl," my aunt said.

"Originally, that's a story told by the Brothers Grimm," Hans said.

"Those Grimms brothers," my uncle said, "did they tell any truly heart-stopping tales? If you know one of those, Hans, go right ahead and scare hell out of those little rabble-rousers out there. Maybe toss in a few German words to boot."

"You don't mean to tell me Hansel and Gretel were German children," my aunt said.

"Also 'Rapunzel' and 'Rumpelstiltskin'—both of them," Hans said.

"Not 'Rumpelstiltskin'!" my aunt said.

"I'm afraid so," Hans said.

"Well, live and learn."

Tilda wore a dress of her own design and her own making. It was ankle length, made of cotton material so dark a blue it was almost black. I'd seen her sewing it, but I'd never seen her wearing it. Hans Mohring coming to dinner apparently was the occasion she was waiting for. The dress had a high collar, and Tilda had pinned an ivory cameo to it. So, what with Hans wearing his same white shirt buttoned to the neck, they reminded me of a portrait of a stuffy Victorian British couple that used to hang above the card catalogue in Mrs. Oleander's library. I now realize my making that connection of Hans and Tilda with the portrait meant I had a sudden concern about them becoming an old married couple. Who knows? Maybe they'd become well-to-do, maybe they'd end up living in England. I didn't like the thought, but you can't help where your mind goes, can you?