Bone and Blood (22 page)

Sinful sunshine – the words came into Aisling's mind uninvited. Sinful – a word that sounded like it was sent from Gran who had already rung this morning to say that she was having a special Mass said in the local church and would go there with Dad in memory of Katharina. Brigitte sat at one end of the breakfast table without tears and Aisling sat at the other end of the breakfast table watching the sunshine make patterns on the white cloth – strong enough sunshine to mock the transparent shade of the window's voile cloak. It wasn't the sunshine's fault that Katharina was dead so why did it seem disrespectful?

The early lunch was already cleared away. Yola had been and gone. She would come to the funeral but she would travel there herself. Aisling couldn't work out if it suited her or if she was pulling back to allow space for the family.

Brigitte watched the clock, ‘Why is she not here yet? It is 1 o' clock already.'

‘It's only five past twelve,' Aisling had to point out. She wished again for more of Brigitte's family. The phone calls yesterday evening from her brother Joe and even James from America had helped.

‘Uncle Liam didn't ring yesterday, did he?'

‘He hates the phone. It makes him stammer. I hope I die before him; I'd hate not to make it to his funeral. If I do die before him, I should make sure they don't tell him until it is too late to come to my funeral. Tell them. Tell who?' she sighed.

‘Where is Monika?' she said for the 100
^th
time.

Monika had insisted she would come to pick them up and came bang on 1 o' clock as arranged. At least Monika looked the part – she looked like death warmed up in spite of the 28 degrees. Her brother, in a dark navy BMW, was their chauffeur to-day. Just back from his holiday, his relaxed tan jarred with his black suit and tie. Aisling could see his reflection in the driver's mirror, the crown of beads of perspiration on his forehead. Brigitte had never met the brother either so that helped ease the tension between her and Monika. He was leaning on the car waiting and came forward to shake their hands before ushering them into the back seat. After some words of sympathy, he apologised for his poor English. Yet on the drive there he proceeded to offer more fluent English to the collective conversation than anyone else.

She felt stilted. It wasn't her clothes: the black dress her mother had selected for her was perfect. She worried a bit about her legs. It was too hot to wear tights – funeral or no funeral – but she was sure there were streaks in the self-tanning lotion that she had smeared on last night to try to soften the whiteness of her legs against the black. She'd decided to put the imitation Phillip Treacy headgear in her hair after all. Her auntie Liz had given it to her the day before she left –'I'll never be able to look at it again without crying about Michael.'

‘Thanks a bunch,' Aisling had thought, ‘So what about me?' Today she felt like she was going to Michael's funeral again so why not wear it? Her mother had insisted she bring it and found a suitable cardboard roll so that it didn't get squashed in her rucksack. ‘You don't know what the Germans are like when it comes to funerals – maybe everyone has to wear a hat and this way you don't have to go out looking for one at the last minute.'

Brigitte wasn't the hat wearing type in any situation – a pity really because she looked formidable in the black suit. She looked even more mannish than usual in the black jacket and white shirt underneath, in spite of the skirt in place of her usual trousers. Yola had insisted on taking the aunt to the hairdresser's first thing ignoring Brigitte's insistence that Katharina wasn't there to care and Yola could do it perfectly well at home. Aisling had heard Yola whisper something about her family from Ireland. She knew how to press buttons, Yola did. Brigitte's hair had a bit more body than usual and it lifted her broad face.

There was stand with an urn on it. Of course, the ashes. Aisling followed Brigitte and placed her hand on the urn too. She was glad of Auntie Liz's waterproof mascara when the unexpected tears came. The service was led by a dykey-looking woman in a trouser suit who looked more like a lesbian than Monika, but then so did Brigitte. Aisling felt a smile at the corners of her mouth which helped keep the tears away. She wondered whether the aunt would feel betrayed or not if she caught that Jules thought. What the hell, she'd be gone anyway in a couple of days.

Monika escorted them to the front pew. The chapel looked bigger with all the seats full. The full seats surprised her. She had pictured a service with themselves only – a kind of secret burial on foreign soil. Maybe Monika even had a wake without telling them. No, of course not, there was no place for the neighbours, the casual acquaintances, or friends of the family calling at the wake to pay a few respects. Here if you wanted to mark the death, you went to the funeral. These must be Katharina's friends.

There were readings – a bit from some Pastor Niemoller. With a name like that he must be German but Monika read it first in English and introduced it as one of Katharina's favourite pieces of writing. At first Aisling thought it was a prayer which would be a bit odd given Katharina was clearly an atheist. Then she realised that it was obviously guilty stuff for what Germans did to the Jews but in the circumstances, listening to it from the aunt's position, it came over really differently.

Whatever way you looked at it, it was tough on the aunt. No wonder there was an unusual gulp from the seat beside her. No tears or tissues though. The black guy who read the Nelson Mandela bit was a better choice. The bit about letting your light shine was a bit soppy but it gave room for a broad enough interpretation of God to suit nearly anyone. A couple of others were short poems in German. The organ music played classical pieces in between –long enough and short enough to match the poetry. It seemed a short step from that to the final words of the dykey pastor and following Monika past the unfamiliar faces out into the sunshine and towards the grave. Or rather following Monika and Brigitte as Monika had engineered Brigitte to walk beside her and checked every few seconds to ensure an equal pace. Both of them stood side by side at the grave after the pastor said the final ashes to ashes bit.

Two pillars of pain stood there waiting. The friends stood around them looking uncertain. Monika had explained to Aisling in the car the German ritual was for everyone to go for coffee and cake after the funeral and she had given directions in the chapel at the end of the service. Aisling hadn't grasped where the coffee and cake would be served but she guessed that it was unlikely to be in the little cafe they had visited the day before.

Meanwhile they loitered at the grave. There were a few of Katharina's friends who hugged Brigitte as if they knew her but Brigitte muttered only, ‘Thank you for coming' in English whether she knew them or not and whether they spoke to her in German or English. Aisling stood beside her shaking hands with anyone who offered and saying as little as possible. It was the one part of the whole funeral that really reminded her of Michael's. Did they do this usually at German funerals she wondered, or was it Monika's concession to the Irish dimension? At least it didn't take as long as the endless queues at Michael's funeral and there was nothing like the guard of honour from his college to embarrass everyone to death.

Monika was organising lifts for those who had come by public transport to wherever the coffee and cake was offered. She suggested that Brigitte and Aisling use her brother's services as chauffeur again and was clearly shocked when Brigitte announced that they would take a taxi home

‘Then we will take you home,' Monika blurted it out. You could see that she wanted to hang onto Brigitte as long as possible as a way of keeping Katharina with her a bit longer. It had clearly never occurred to her that Brigitte would not come. Aisling wanted to give her lessons – insist, don't listen to her, pretend she hasn't said it but that was the Irish way and probably would not work with Brigitte.

‘I have arranged a taxi,' Brigitte had the battle-axe expression firmly installed and headed towards the gate where there was indeed a taxi waiting. She must have arranged it yesterday.

‘As you say,' Monika's face reddened – as if she had been given a good slap. She looked almost attractive as she stood under the sunshine, which insisted on finding ways through the flickering green of the trees above.

Aisling wanted to say, ‘Take Monika home with you, for God's sake and leave me free to go off with the tasty looking brother who looks even better with the loose tie and the jacket over his shoulder. I'd be happy for him to take my mind off things.' But she stayed silent.

In the taxi, she heard the aunt ask in German if he knew Café Buchwald in Moabit. He did.

‘I thought we were going home,' she asked puzzled.

‘That was only to put Monika off. We're going for Coffee and Cake.'

The streak of nastiness in this gesture made Aisling smile in spite of herself. She was going to miss the old dear when she left Berlin.

‘You don't think that maybe you should call a truce with Monika? You might be glad of her some day.'

‘Glad of her: after what she's done to Katharina,' Brigitte practically spat it out.

‘Well, the cancer's hardly her fault, is it?'

‘Maybe not, but something caused it.'

Aisling gave up: it's not my war she thought. Let them be.

Café Buchwald was like taking a trip in a time-machine back a few decades.

Less retro than the cemetery but retro enough in its own way. The tables and tablecloths, the armchairs were similar style to the stuff in the aunt's living room. It didn't take a lot to work out that this was a favourite hangout for the aunt and Katharina. The aunt even met a couple of old ladies that she knew from the old days who engaged in a conversation about the funeral.

While she was talking to them, Aisling studied the cakes. The Germans certainly knew how to do cakes. The display was a dream feast to someone with her sweet tooth. It was too hard to choose from the selection and she felt rushed in spite of the extra time. She went for a strawberry Torte and regretted it almost immediately when she spotted the chocolate cake that they served up to the aunt. Maybe she'd make a trip back here herself even though it was so old-fashioned. The aunt must have seen the green-eye and made her eat half of hers as well as her own. They sat over the remains of the coffee and cake, both uncertain, until there were no crumbs left to make shapes on the plate. Finally Brigitte looked at her watch. So the taxi was ordered again.

Aisling determined to make her escape as soon as they were outside. When they were in reach of the taxi, she suggested it, ‘Would you be all right if you went back on your own. It's so hot; I fancy a look around and maybe going somewhere for a beer. I can get home myself later by U-Bahn.'

‘I will go with you to take Schnaps. The taxi can take us where you want to go.' So much for making an escape. There was no arguing with that tone. So Aisling was stuck with her for another hour or two.

‘Where do you want to go?' Brigitte added to absorb any doubt. ‘All those people and the heat have made me thirsty too. I don't know if I'm still fit to take a beer in a pub at my age, I might wet myself but it might test out my nappy which is still dry.'

Aisling looked at her – was this a joke or was it kind of delayed shock?

Brigitte looked at her with eyes and mouth in matching sarcasm, ‘No, my dear child, I'm not joking. At my age you never know when your bladder will let you down. I cried so much last night that I'm dried out and there should be room for a bit of beer. I made good use of the bathroom at Café Buchwald and checked out my nappy. Katharina got me a packet of these disposable nappies for old people once when I had a bit of a waterworks problem and was afraid of wetting the bed. I hate them. But to-day I thought why not use one in case my bladder let me down at a crucial moment. It's surprisingly comfortable – as long as it's dry. Apparently they can hold a litre!'

Aisling laughed so much then she wished she were wearing one herself. She stuck her arm in the aunt's like they were friends for the last few steps to the taxi, ‘Well, let's test it then. It's a scientific experiment we're carrying out. I really want to go to this place I've read about but I haven't got my guidebook. I didn't really think I'd need it at a funeral. It's near some well-known station.'

‘Ostbahnhof, Zoo, Gesundbrunnen?'

Aisling shook her head, ‘Something Strasse.'

‘Friedrichstrasse?'

‘Yeah, that's it, I think. It used to be the place where people had their papers checked when they crossed from West to East Berlin. I read in the guidebook that they set up a kind of concert place and cafe there. It sounds a bit more human than the museums.'

‘Could it be the Tränenpalast, the ‘Palace of Tears', at the border crossing? A good name for such a place. But a place with a beer garden there. I have never heard of it. I would be surprised if the Tränenpalast is still there. Katharina told me that everything is changed.'

‘The guide book might be out of date – it was a bit of a bargain but it said that it has been used for concerts and stuff and there's a bit of a beer garden. According to them it's one of the few places left that you can get a real feeling of what it was like passing from west to east before the developers get at it.'

‘Let's ask the driver,' Brigitte suggested.

The taxi driver knew immediately where to take them when they mentioned Tränen-Palast. He was able to tell them that nothing much had changed there since the days when he crossed over himself. Everything was very temporary because there's some dispute about what they are going to do with it. It was due for development but, as far as he knew, you could still get a beer there. He dropped them off near a bit of scaffolding which almost concealed the beer garden. The sun was still strong enough for them to be glad of a bit of shade. They both laughed again when Brigitte ordered a Pils. Must look a bit bizarre to the waiter she thought, who squinted a bit facing the sun, but it was hard to phase these Berliners.