Berlin Cantata (17 page)

Then of course all the rest took a part, tidying him and so on like that. Fear of the police was forgotten.

So I gave her credit. I liked her better not at all. But you see I am a person with a proper mind, as well as having a big heart. It has cost me all my life, as now you know, but I could not avoid seeing that if she cuts Anspach down from the rafters, she becomes one of us, you see. Not that this is any too good a thing. Believe me, I liked her no better.

Still, I determined that I must finally approach her with the information, which of course was known by others as well – not by the young but certainly by the old, by some, whose names I could list but why would you care – the information that she was foolish to be looking for this concrete place in the Velden woods, which were too small to hide in, but she should be looking in the Karlsheim woods instead. I told her this, about the Karlsheim woods. I even offered to take her and show her.

So I am a proper person, as well as big-hearted. No one can deny this. I will not shed my tears, you will not see me shed my tears, but this is beside the point.

I did not intend to tell her everything. I only intended to show her where the hiding place was. If that's what she was looking for, then if she found it, maybe she would leave.

On a Saturday we set off to Karlsheim, which for those unfamiliar with our territory I would say is quite close to Velden. It is an easy walk, but it is not on the lake. I brought my walking stick just in case. I like to be prepared for all occasions, so I brought also hats for Miss Anholt as well as myself, hard-boiled eggs and orange soda, and a shovel.

The woods are thick in Karlsheim. Even I could become lost. They are thicker than the Velden woods because they are not on the lake and are less tended. I led the way. Miss Anholt looked very doubtful, as if possibly this was one more joke being played on her and suddenly Giessen and all the rest would jump out of the woods yelling “Surprise!” or something equally stupid. But no one jumped out. To the contrary, I got very lost and we saw no one at all. Again Miss Anholt felt doubtful. But I have always had a good directional sense, even when lost, I make a wild guess and somehow it is the direction to go in. This is another one of my good traits, my ability to get out of a corner. And so I did. After an hour in which I will say that I sweated like a dreadful pig and to some degree likewise Miss Anholt and we consumed all the orange soda, I found what she was looking for, even if I felt it entirely foolish for her to be looking for it. This was the bunker, which was from the other war, the first war, before I was even born, the other war we lost. It was a stupid-looking thing, so overgrown and ridiculous, even an animal would not wish to live in such a thing. But of course sometimes we have no choices left. As for another example of this, if Miss Anholt kicked me out, I myself would have nowhere to go, having lived at the Writers House twenty-four years. This I would not say to her, of course. It would be humiliating. But I will admit it could have colored my thinking, in terms of opening my heart to her and helping her.

As it happened, certain flowers were growing in the clearing where I found it. These were buttercups, I believe. There were also many puddles. The thing itself was very overgrown, yet I recognized it, for there could be nothing else like it. It was not as if they built many such things. It perhaps had been for practice. Who knows?

I said, “Yes. Here,” and pointed with my stick.

Miss Anholt, I would say, stared at the spot as if it was a carcass, as if she was still staring at poor hanging Anspach. Of course she acted unsure, like she didn't wish to believe me.

“Yes. The bunker. Where they were. Yes,” I repeated.

I was making myself entirely clear, even to one who could speak only a Turkish child's German. So she did not wish to believe me – but what choice did she have?

I was not going to dig out this thing myself. That wasn't part of my plan. I sat on a rock, leaning forward on my stick, while Miss Anholt dug. For an hour it was as if I were the boss and she was the slave. This felt pleasant enough, I must say. Miss Anholt took off her jacket when the sun broke through. Finally I offered to substitute for her, but I had shown her enough of my weak leg and I was not mistaken that she would decline. Finally she threw the shovel down. She had achieved a pile of dirt and roots, nothing more.

“I cannot find anything,” Miss Anholt said.

“But I know this is where they hid,” I said.

“How
do you know?” she said.

And now you see how my big heart got in the way again. She was so pathetic and my disgust for the entire situation was so intense that it became inevitable that I would feel a certain sympathy for her. How else could I escape? All these hidden facts were already on the tip of my tongue. How could they not be? When you have a secret, the first thing is you wish to tell it. It's like a cat scratching at a door. All the time, let me out, let me out, let me play. So, yes, I told her more. I am not ashamed. It was only fair.

I said to her, first, to prepare her, of course: “You must not blame me.”

Of course she did not understand this. I had to make myself still clearer. “Not my fault,” I said, pointing to myself and waving a finger.

“For what?” Miss Anholt finally asked.

“I know a few things more.”

This she understood. But now she was getting impatient and perhaps she even sensed how all along she had been despised by us all, so that now she was despising me back. “Please, no games, Mrs. Baum,” she said.

“I knew they hid here…because Ute told me,” I said.

“Ute?” She repeated the name. And actually, I thought, it was like she had heard this name somewhere before, as if she were trying to remember where.

Now it may seem like I was teasing the girl, but I was not at all. No matter what you think, I am not like that. No, I was simply deciding, with each word, each answer, whether to put my neck further into a noose that I could not see. And then what the devil, I would think, maybe it was her neck, and not mine, that was going there. “She died many years ago,” I said, speaking extra clearly, as you speak to a child.

“Who was Ute?” On her face there was still great confusion.

So I repeated the following twice, and with gestures, so that she should understand: “I hardly knew her. She was older. She was better friends with my sister Marie.”

Now she was so put out that all she could do was speak in English, a flood of words from which I could only pick out, like bodies in a rushing river, the fewest things to grab on to, “Marie,” “Ute,” “shit.” Of course “shit” was a word in English that I knew. I was driving her mad. Though for sure I knew this already, that she was mad. Finally I pitied her. What else could you do with a madwoman?

I pushed myself up on my stick so that I could reach her with a hand out. “Ute…the mother…of your sister Karen,” I said.

Now of course the madwoman accused
me
of madness, with her eyes. “What do you say? My sister was Helena.”

“Your half-sister
. Half-
sister…” I chopped at my arm, ridiculously, to show what is “half ”. “Karen,” I repeated.

I was beginning to think our dear Miss Anholt was not only mad but dense. But it must have dawned on her. “Karen?… My father?” she asked.

I felt quite proud of myself for having gotten through to such a slow person. So I went on, in the spirit of generosity: “It's true. I can take you to her. I can take you to Karen.” My fingers ticked along, to show I could take her.

“Karen? My sister? Alive?” Miss Anholt's voice rose to quite a high level.

“Yes of course. In Karlsheim,” I said.

This was all the digging we did for one day. Later I felt very definitely that she resented that we had not told her before, but it was impossible for me to explain to her how I had been influenced to have a change of heart. I did tell her, however, I explained, about Petra. Petra is Karen's other sister, Ute's other daughter, who cares for Karen. This, however, I did not immediately explain, that Karen needed caring for. I wished Miss Anholt to see and decide for herself. I hoped she would learn something from this.

“But does she know? Do they know?” This is Miss Anholt again being I shouldn't say naïve exactly. I pretended not to understand her question, or how she said it. She had a grave look that told me how important she felt it was. Really, her brow all curled up. I don't believe such looks.

“Does who know what?” I asked back.

“That Karen's father is not Petra's father. I can't go over there, ‘oh, hello, Karen, my sister,' if…”

I stopped her right there. “Petra is not naïve,” I said. “This is one thing Petra has never been.” And only because I wished not to keep looking at that grim expression of hers any longer, I added, “Petra's father was also a ghost.”

And when even this seemed to puzzle her, I flapped my arms like wings, to show how quickly that one disappeared into the night. You see it was never a picture of one happy family at Ute's.

“But Karen?” Miss Anholt keeps asking.

“You'll see, you'll see,” I said.

I didn't care to say more. I didn't care to give away too much. As I previously mentioned, I wished Miss Anholt to decide for herself.

I understood for sure this was all for show, anyway, this concern of hers about who knew what. She intended to meet her sister in any event.

Now of course Petra was not exactly shocked that Karen's miraculous “sister” wished to visit her, as Miss Anholt's presence among us had been well-known to people for months. It was bound to be a matter of time, that sort of thing, Petra thought. When I called her on the telephone, she told me how she even made plans for this day, how much she already troubled herself to prepare Karen for such a “disturbance.”

Nonetheless she says we must not come to see Karen for two days or three. And why is that? Because Karen has sneezed two or three times! But you see this is just like Petra, always to make a fuss of something, to place little difficulties. She is not at peace unless she is making something a little more difficult. “Oh no, don't come now, come later, call first, we'll have to see about this.” This is Petra. She has always been this way. Even her mother said this. Ute, what a pity, her life. First Petra, then Karen. Such a life. It makes you glad to have no children. And such a husband as Jürg Fenstermacher? God relieve me.

But at last the day comes when, oh my, yes, now, the two or three sneezes all are stopped, come today at fifteen hundred thirty hours, not fifteen, not sixteen, fifteen hundred thirty precisely. But of course I was familiar with this behavior. What could be done? Fortunately Miss Anholt is a prompt person. This much I can say for her.

In the car to visit Karen, Miss Anholt asks me, clear as day, in perfectly good German, by the way, so that then I began to think she must be hiding from us her abilities, in order to eavesdrop or some such thing, she asks, “Mrs. Baum, do you know who turned in my parents?”

Perhaps she had only been practicing this sentence, to make it perfect. I said to her, “Miss Anholt, I don't know who.”

This happened to be a lie. Many years ago I heard this story. Many years ago, when I was young. And why should I forget such things? But I objected to Miss Anholt's question. She asked too much. She wished to make too much trouble.

I added, however, and this was true: “For sure it was not Ute. She felt bad for your father. She brought them food. Always… Also, your father gave Ute money for Karen.”

This made Miss Anholt's eyes quite wide.

“Of course. Ute said so. He was honorable.”

I felt I should say this, that her father was honorable, in order that she be somewhat relieved, but then I could not in good conscience avoid explaining to her, “You know, it was illegal, then. For a German and a Jew…” And I made such gestures as she would understand, unmistakably, my meaning.

“Yes, I know it was illegal,” she said, in a very chilled way, so that I knew it was true what I had thought, that she despised me.

But when you are a person such as myself, with my sense of how things should be, you do not let the feelings of the other person deter you. I had seen Miss Anholt on the previous evenings, sitting in the common room at the television, playing over and again a tape she possessed of her mother and her father. What she was looking for, God only knows! It was a very old tape. Or I suppose a new tape of an old film. Whatever it was. But I saw Miss Anholt's tears. It was the first time I had seen such a thing, and I must say it surprised me. She didn't seem that type of lady.

Petra's house is in Karlsheim, and it is very small, even for a house in Karlsheim.

The very first thing she says, so that you'll know at once what a great favor she is doing you, is “Karen has a cold still.”

Very nervously Miss Anholt asks, “Would she like to see me?”

Of course Petra doesn't answer this. Instead she says, “This way,” and leads us to the back room.

It is another thing about Petra, that she never likes to answer someone's question directly. She feels it is doing them too big a favor.

I will admit that I watched Miss Anholt's face quite carefully to see how she would react. She understood at once her sister's mental condition. Karen was sitting in bed in her nightgown. She was watching an American police program. Of course a box of tissues lay on the bed, but I could not tell if she needed them or if Petra had put the box there so we would be sure to know how much we were imposing.

“Karen, this is who I told you about,” Petra said.

“It's almost the end,” Karen said, as she was watching the police program very intently.

“It's almost the end of her program,” Petra repeated to Miss Anholt.

So we all stood around while this very stupid program went on. Karen became very excited by it, however. This disturbed me. Why should her small brain be so interested in the television? Also she began to shout things out. “There! He's getting him now!” Such things as that. Her smile was very broad, very embarrassing. Miss Anholt was in quite a panic, I would say, though of course she said nothing.