Your House Is on Fire, Your Children All Gone: A Novel (18 page)

Bernd Frick was now wearing a black suit every day, and when I arrived at the inn to pick up Alex, he didn’t seem to notice me. Before his wife’s death, he’d sometimes pour me a glass of soda, but nowadays he only smiled absentmindedly.

From New York, Olaf sent another letter to Hilde. He wrote that he was leaving for Buenos Aires. He missed her, dreamt every night of coming back. He hoped it wasn’t too hard on her,
staying with his parents; he knew how his mother could be. He’d be back with his pockets full of money. She would see.

Yet he didn’t come back from Buenos Aires either. Colorful postcards from Cairo, Vancouver, San Francisco, and Macao reached Hemmersmoor, where the mailman showed them around at the bakery.

“Don’t read it,” he warned the baker’s wife. “But look at that city. I didn’t even know that place existed.”

During the first two years of Olaf’s travels, the neighbors often asked about him. Yes, the accident at the factory had been a terrible thing, but was it really necessary to stay away so long? Where was he now? What did Hilde know about his whereabouts? Maybe he had sent a picture?

After two years the questions became more infrequent. And Hilde’s answers grew ever more terse. Yes, he was still writing to her. Yes, he would return soon. But after five years, Olaf still had not come back to Hemmersmoor, and slowly people forgot about him. Hilde lived with her father-in-law, helped him around the inn, and ran the daily errands. Sometimes, after she left the bakery, Mrs. Meier said, “What a shame. Such a young, beautiful girl.”

The Fricks, the wealthiest family in the village, found no peace. First Alex was sent to juvenile prison; then Anna married Rutger von Kamphoff and became the main source of village gossip. All eyes were on her wedding. Such a spectacle had never been seen in Hemmersmoor, and the villagers whispered that the von Kamphoffs needed Frick’s money to stay afloat. But half a year later, Anna was dead, and Rutger von Kamphoff stood trial for manslaughter. Nobody in our village had time for missing sailors.

After seven years Olaf finally came home. He was twenty-five, broader in the shoulders, with a harshened face and a mustache. He wore a peacoat and carried a canvas bag on his back and a new, shiny leather suitcase in his left hand. He looked taller too, the women of Hemmersmoor remarked. Mrs. Hoffmann sneered. “He must be a beast after all the years in those dark countries.” She had never forgiven the Fricks for her son’s death.

Olaf walked straight to his parents’ house, where for the first time he learned of his mother’s death. Jan Hussel’s accident had been the harbinger of only worse tragedies. Bernd Frick was a rich man, but his children had brought him only shame and disappointment. Some people claimed that the family was star-crossed; others said Bernd had been a bad father and spent too much time emptying our pockets. But maybe Olaf’s return would change the family’s luck. Alex had been released from juvenile prison and every night, after closing, helped at the inn. The house was clean, and Bernd Frick, though older, in good health.

And there was Hilde. Olaf felt dizzy watching her. She had filled out—the young girl he knew had turned into a woman. She was his wife, and what an odd idea that had to be. All these years he must have hoped to get back, and here she was now, and it was quiet in his father’s living room. She embraced him, whispering, “You look so strange.”

Olaf had big plans. He had spent little of his money and saved enough to build his own house. He wanted to run his own business, maybe take over the boat-repair shop from Peter Falkenhorst or sell motorbikes in Groß Ostensen.

This he explained to us in his father’s living room, while eating stew Hilde had cooked. “You could have let us know you were coming,” she scolded. My parents and my sister, Birgit, plus the Fitschens from next door and the Meiers with their daughter, Sylvia, had come to look at the trinkets Olaf had gathered on his travels. He showed us a blue scarab. “What an odd thing to worship,” Sylvia said, and turned the bug in her hand. Olaf showed us a stone Buddha he’d bought in Shanghai, masks from Africa, and a brass figurine of what he said was the Statue of Liberty in New York.

Our families shook their heads—wasn’t it peculiar that those foreign peoples should make such strange-looking things? What did they need a dance paddle for? Who had ever heard of dancing with a paddle?

Later, after the Meiers had gone, Bernd Frick opened a bottle of Bommerlunder, and Olaf started to discuss his plan of building a new house.

Bernd Frick’s hair was white now. His belly protruded over his pants, and lines had sunk deep into his face. And yet, sitting together, the sailor looked like a younger, taller version of his father, his features only softened by his mother’s prettiness. Even after years at sea, a certain softness remained around his mouth and eyes, one that Bernd and Alex entirely lacked.

“So where are we going to build it?” Olaf asked.

His father waited a few seconds before shrugging. “You might already have a plan.”

Olaf smiled. “I thought we should build upriver, right by the Droste. We’ll be close to the village, and if I should go into the boat business, I can expand right there. What do you think?”

Alex grunted approvingly. He was wearing a mustache now and was almost as big as his father. “Sure thing. I can help you.”

“We’re all going to help,” my parents agreed.

The elder Frick thought for a while. “It’s a good plan. And yet…” He folded and unfolded his hands. “You know, after your mother’s death I realized that I won’t live much longer either. I’m nearly seventy, and I might still have a few good years in me, but at some point not too far off in time I’ll die and you, as my only son, will inherit this house.” He sighed.

Alex frowned at his father’s remarks. He hadn’t missed his brother, and even though there was no bad blood between them, he didn’t like the prospect of Olaf eventually taking over the inn. His father didn’t like Alex to show his face at the pub, out of fear that the villagers still bore him a grudge over Broder Hoffmann’s death. But once enough time had passed, Alex intended to manage the inn.

“When Helga died,” Bernd Frick continued, “it was hard on me. She’d been my companion for thirty years. Without Hilde, the house would have fallen apart and I myself with it. What do you say? Why don’t you young people add on to this house, and once I’m gone it’s all yours?”

Olaf chewed his lip. His parents’ house was close to the village square, and he did not like the thought of being scrutinized by his neighbors and providing fodder for their gossip. Still, he had missed his mother’s funeral and felt an obligation to keep an eye on his father. “I’ll think about it,” he said and put an arm around Hilde, who had listened to the conversation without saying a word. “You’re hurting me,” she said and squirmed. He laughed. “I’m a klutz. I’ll be more careful.”

Early next morning I ran to the village square, hoping to meet Olaf alone and ask him about the ships he had worked on. I wanted to know how he’d felt, traveling the world all by himself, how big his ships had been, and what he had seen in the different ports. I had heard of Bombay, of Baghdad and the caliphs, but so far they had existed only in fairy tales. Olaf had seen these cities with his own eyes. What stories he might tell me.

I had another reason to wait for Olaf, however. After last night’s talk, I was hoping I could work for him and save enough money to buy a moped. I had never done construction but was convinced I’d be able to persuade him.

When Olaf finally appeared on the terrace of the inn, his hair was wild, and he squinted into the daylight and looked around as though our square was the most peculiar place on earth. I said hello, and he didn’t seem to recognize me at first. Then he shook his head and said, “Martin. I was just about to take a little walk.”

“Can I join you?” I asked.

We walked along the main street, and suddenly I forgot all the questions I had wanted to ask Olaf. I had known him all my life, but in his presence I again felt like a small boy. The village affairs, my love for Heike Brodersen, which wouldn’t abate—all that had to seem childish to him. Hemmersmoor and I had nothing to offer him.

“So what’s new in the village?” Olaf said.

“Are you staying for good?” I asked instead of answering him.

“Are you trying to get rid of me already?” he asked and laughed.

“No, but…” I couldn’t go on. “But maybe you need…” I stopped again. I decided it was still too early to ask him for work. “Right now everybody in the village is talking about you and your family.”

“Is that right?” Olaf seemed curious.

“Anna’s… Anna…” I bit my tongue, and underneath my shock of red hair my face turned red too. I was almost a head shorter than Olaf and didn’t have his broad shoulders, but my hands were as big as his. With a broad nail I scratched my cheeks and was happy to feel some stubble. Then I said quickly, “People wonder if Jan will try to get back at you.”

Olaf shook his head. “Is he still mad?”

“Once, when he ran into Hilde, he said you wouldn’t return, but if you ever should, he’d take care that you left again—on your own feet if you were quick, in a coffin if you weren’t. He was drunk though. Your father punched him.”

“He didn’t tell me,” Olaf said.

“Now you know,” I said stupidly. “People didn’t like it. They said you don’t punch a cripple. But if you ask me, Hilde was lucky your dad was there.”

Olaf nodded. “What else happened in those seven years?”

“Heidrun Brodersen was arrested for child murder, and Käthe Grimm disappeared.”

“Käthe? Crazy Käthe?”

“She went out one night and never returned. She got lost on the bog, for sure.”

Olaf cocked his head. “And what have you been up to?”

I shrugged my shoulders, took a deep breath, and said, “I want to buy a moped.”

Olaf laughed heartily. “Well, maybe I can help you.”

All spring and summer Olaf and Alex worked on the addition to the house, and I helped them in the afternoons after school. On slow days in the pub, even Olaf’s father stepped outside, and together we cut wood and hauled and laid bricks and interrupted our work only when Hilde served us a cold supper.

“We missed you,” Bernd Frick said one day in June. He wore no shirt, but his muscles were still firm. He wiped his chest with a handkerchief. “Sometimes I wondered whether you would ever return.”

“I sent postcards,” Olaf said.

“Seven years, thirteen cards. That wasn’t much to go on.” Bernd wiped his nose and fell silent, but Olaf could see that he wanted to say more and waited patiently.

“You know,” his father began, “I always wondered if the stories about the sea, about sailors, were true.” He laughed quietly. “You know, a girl in every port, that sort of thing.”

Olaf shook his head. “For some, maybe.”

“It was a long time. No one would fault you. I for one would not.”

“There was hardly enough time to get drunk,” Olaf said. “And I had a goal.”

“You never wavered? See, I was married for over thirty years, but I faced a few temptations in my time. I’ve known many who failed.” He sighed. “You must have seen many pretty girls in those strange cities. They must have liked a good-looking fellow like you.” His words came slowly now, and the smile could no longer hold its place. “Do you have anything you should tell me?”

Olaf swallowed. “Sailors are no angels, and when you’re locked up for months, some men go crazy…”

“Yeah, some go crazy,” Bernd finally said, and laughed and took a long sip from his beer. “I’m glad you finally made it back.”

Olaf’s first meeting with Jan was a few days later, one evening in front of Frick’s Inn. When it got too dark for us to work any longer, Jan suddenly appeared in back of the inn and inspected the half-finished addition. Silently the men looked at each other, and Alex and I took a few steps back; we anticipated a fight. But after another tense moment, Jan shrugged his shoulders, grinned, and said, “Hey, Sailor, how about some booze?”

Olaf invited us all; never had I felt so grown up. At the tables around us sat workers from Brümmer’s factory, who laughed boisterously about something old Jens Jensen had just told them. Alex and I drank beer; our clothes were stained and reeked of sweat. We had earned our place among the men, and I earned enough money to have biked to Groß Ostensen two weeks before, to stand in front of the motorcycle dealer’s windows and ask for a catalog.