Necessary Lies (12 page)

“You had a fever, again. The doctor said you had to stay in bed. You were in no shape to go anywhere,” Anna says.

What a mess it all is Anna thinks, what a tangled mess. She is covering Käthe's arms with a warm woollen sweater, light blue with white trimmings. It is lamb's wool, silky to the touch. She feeds Käthe small morsels of bread with cream cheese and lean turkey. Baby food, she thinks. Käthe eats slowly, chewing each mouthful for a long time.

“Did you sleep well?” she asks and Käthe nods. They don't talk much these days, but the silence is never uncomfortable. Even if there are things Anna finds hard to forget. “Your wife called me,” Käthe would say to William, meaning Marilyn. “Anna is my wife, Mother,” William would protest. “Is it really so hard to remember?”

When the meal is over Anna gathers the paper plates and places them in a plastic bag she has brought with her. She will throw it out on her way home; she does not want to leave any garbage in Käthe's room. By the time the room is cleaned it would fill with the smells of stale food. She carefully gathers the crumbs from the table.

“Leave it,” Käthe says. “They can clean it up,
nein
? That's their job.” She always says the same thing, and Anna always nods and keeps cleaning. This is what she has learned long ago, a thing William found so hard to do. “Just nod and do your own thing,” she kept telling him, “it's not impossible.”

Käthe points to a small lamp by her bed. “Touch it,” she says. Anna touches the brass base with her finger. The lamp lights up.

“Julia gave it to me,” she says. “It's very convenient. I don't have to look for a switch when I wake up at night.”

“It's nice,” Anna says. “Very nice.”

It was William who has made Anna think of his childhood as lacking. “Deprived” is the word he used. A war, he said, can be an excuse to deny a lot to a child.

“There was never enough love,” he said, and Anna thought of a little boy pulling at his mother's skirt. He could plead and whine all he wanted and the most Käthe would do was to tell him to stop it, or hand him over to his nanny. He always felt the sting of her stubborn, silent mourning for his father.

Bel ami, bel ami, bel ami!
he remembered the song from some afternoon tea-room, in Breslau, his mouth full of poppyseed cake, crumbs falling onto a tiny china plate with little flowers all around it. This was an unusual time, his mother was smiling then, listening to the song. For a moment her face was carefree, and so pretty that he thought her an angel. She was wearing a white dress with a v-shaped collar, with a single pink rose pinned to it. He felt a desire to put his head on her breasts, quickly, to feel the beating of her heart before she had the time to stop him. She was tossing her hair back and then, suddenly, as if she could read his thoughts, her face grew tense, and she sat up straight. “Let's go, Willi,” she said, ignoring his protests. He had not even finished his cake.

“Is that all that happened?” Anna asked. It seemed to her strange that he would remember a moment of such little consequence. There could have been so many reasons to hurry.

No, he didn't like it when she said things like that. He didn't want her to find ordinary explanations for what he had felt. His mother was full of them, too. “But it was the war, Willi. Your grandfather was in prison! Those were dangerous times!” Words like these came too late, he said, and only after he had complained of her silence. A belated effort to soften his heart, or maybe just one more call of duty, a little, self-satisfied station on his mother's way of the cross. How could she hope to atone for all the incomprehensible moments of harshness? To make him forget the sharp pulling of his arm, her kisses that brushed his skin lightly without leaving a trace. His mother never raised her voice. He used to dread her calm more than he would dread an outburst, her subtle sighs of resignation echoed by every wall in the room.

This was a dangerous zone Anna was trying to enter, a minefield of hurt feelings. She may have learnt quickly what not to say, but that didn't mean she understood.

William said that his mother had always kept him at arm's length. He liked this expression; it suited what he wanted to convey. Not too far, and not close enough. He was her duty, her responsibility so faithfully fulfilled, but he was not her joy. When Anna objected that there must have been other times, he conceded. Yes, during that terrible winter trek from Breslau. When he thought he would die and she, holding him close to her, promised he wouldn't. She kept me warm, he said. She fed me. Then, there was nothing more important than hot cabbage soup and fur gloves she somehow managed to get. But as soon as they were out of danger she was back to her old ways.

His presence, William would tell Anna, was his mother's punishment, a cross she had to bear with patience and humility. This is what he had really remembered from Breslau. These walks on which she always hurried him home. On which there was never enough time for another swing, an ice-cream. So, in the end, he would hurry, too, home to Gretchen, his beloved nanny, who waited for him at the door.

It was Gretchen who pinched his cheeks, drew his bath and tickled him until he sputtered with laughter and saliva. Gretchen who taught him songs and stories he would remember for a long time after. “Hear this?” she would ask, and he listened to the thunder rolling through the sky. “The Wild Hunt.” She told him about Wodan, the king of the gods, leading his frenzied gallop through the sky. Wild, wild horses carrying their masters, the warriors slain in battles, galloping through the darkened sky, in hot pursuit of some fantastic game.

“Good warriors, Gretchen?”

“The bravest. The best. The most valiant. In the heat of battle a beautiful Valkyrie, a maiden on horseback, would appear to the chosen one. 'Get ready,' she would say, 'Get ready, my brave one. For you the great Wodan will open the sacred doors of Valhalla.' And so went the valiant warrior, his eyes still filled with the memories of the fight. He would join Wodan at the last battle, at the twilight of the Gods.”

During all these uncomfortable evenings in Käthe's living room, when conversations faltered, or went in circles, or stopped at unpredictable moments, it seemed to Anna that both, mother
and son, tried to catch each other at some grave transgression. All they were looking for was one more proof that would finally lay bare what they both knew was there all along.

Anna remembers one such evening, a few years ago. Käthe's sixty-fifth birthday. William bought her an old musical box and restored it himself. It was lovely, Anna thought, with its inlaid pattern of fern-like leaves. Käthe still lived alone, then, on Terrebonne Street, a housing complex for seniors.

Anna had her own worries consuming her then. Marie had just come back from Poland, her first trip after martial law was declared. She talked of dark grey streets, of people walking without a smile in their faces, trying to remain invisible. All telephone conversations were monitored, all letters opened and read. There was no food, no coal for the winter. Police were everywhere.

She had visited Anna s parents. “No one says
martial law
there. They all say
the war,'
she said. ”Your mother said it was worse than the war because this time it was not the Germans who were pointing the guns at them.”

For days afterwards Marie spoke of nothing else but dark, dirty cities, of the Wroclaw Central Station smelling of spilled beer and sour vomit, of people standing in line-ups for hours, motionless, seemingly resigned to what was happening to them. Her visa said three weeks, but she had to leave after two - she couldn't take it any more.

Käthe opened the door wearing a grey dress. Her only piece of jewellery was a golden chain with a small crucifix. They talked for a while, an innocent talk of the winter, the chill of the northerly winds, the slippery pavements, a city forgetful of its pedestrians.

There was a routine to their visits and this was not an exception, in spite of the musical box wrapped in golden wrap, and a card with best wishes of happiness and peace. They brought a cake from the Patisserie Beige in Outrement and a box of Belgian chocolates. Käthe cooked dinner. At that time her arthritis did not bother her that much. The movements of her hands were still quick and precise. Like William's, Anna thought, but of course never said it. The table was set for three,
with Käthe's embroidered tablecloth, white damask roses on white linen, the wineglasses enamelled with grapes and vine leaves. The whole apartment smelled of garlic and parsley. And something else. Marjoram.

“Sit down,” Käthe said. “Before it all gets cold.”

“Doesn't she mind living alone?” she kept asking William. “Shouldn't we ask her to move in with us?” She thought of
Babcia
who came to live with her parents the day
Dziadek
died. But William only laughed.

“Of course not. She lives her own life. I told you she doesn't need anyone else.” He was right, Anna thought, in a way. Käthe had her own friends, former nurses like her. At the time when she was less fragile, they went out to concerts, for walks. William recalled the times of her treks to the Rockies, to the Sierra Mountains, to the Grand Canyon, but Anna only saw pictures of these trips, Käthe in shorts and sweatshirt, knee-high woollen socks, a green knapsack on her back, leaning on a walking stick. Behind her were the mountains, the canyons, the springs.

Later, when her arthritis made hiking impossible, Käthe's friends came to play bridge with her, leaving behind them full ashtrays and greasy aluminium trays from store-bought hors-d'oeuvres. “Buy and lie,” they called them. Alice Woolth, Bernice Camden, Vicki Norton. Old, wrinkled women, sitting around Käthe's dining room table, smoking, remembering old patients. The woman who called Bernice at four thirty in the morning asking for the result of her pregnancy test from two months before. The man who looked up at Alice as she was wheeling him down the hall to surgery and asked if those three little donuts counted as food.

“Open it, Mother,” William urged her. Käthe unwrapped the golden wrap carefully, folding it, putting it away for later. “Come on, play it,” he said and she did, listening to the chiming notes of the Viennese waltz as if it were a funeral dirge. These were William's words, said to Anna after they had left, for at the time she thought he was hiding his disappointment so well, navigating the conversation past the usual points of no return.

The first signs of trouble came soon enough. “Have you talked to Julchen?” Käthe asked, and Anna stopped eating, waiting for William's reply.

“No, I haven't heard from her for a while,” he said, and she relaxed for his voice was still normal, still ready to take this question as an innocent inquiry about a granddaughter, nothing else.

“You haven't?” Käthe asked, her voice raising slightly, the first sign of a reproach she was still trying to cover. She hurried to the kitchen from which she emerged with a bottle of soya sauce, even though no one asked for it. William shot Anna a telling look, “See,” he seemed to be saying, “I told you.” But Anna averted her eyes. She was not going to encourage him.

“So what have you been up to, Mother?” William asked when Käthe sat down again. There was this false cheerfulness in his voice, the cheerfulness Anna did not like. It was a sign that he had been hurt and was now putting on a face.

“You should try to see her more often, Willi,” Käthe said. “I'm not going to interfere in your affairs, but a child is a child. You have to call her. She needs guidance,
nein
?
Ya, ya
, you will do whatever you want, you always did.”

“Lovely soup, Mother,” William said, and Anna nodded. “Yes, excellent.” On white china plates the broth looked pale, but it was strong and fragrant with herbs.

Käthe gave William a stern look as if he were still a little boy learning his lessons. A fork in the wrong hand, a drop of wine staining the tablecloth were no mere slips; they justified her suspicions that there was more at stake. His character, his entire life.

When they had finished the soup, Anna picked up the plates and carried them to the kitchen. From there, she could hear Käthe's voice asking William what used to be so important that he had to leave Marilyn and Julia for months. “Your wife and child,” she said. Wasn't he aware how hard it was for a woman to raise a child alone?

“Anna is my wife,” she heard him say. “I don't want to talk about Marilyn.”

When Anna came back into the dining room William gave her a telling look. “See” it said. “I
am
trying.” He uncorked the bottle slowly, poured a small amount of wine into his glass to taste it and then filled the other two. Anna stared at her glass. The pink enamelled grapes on green stems seemed to quiver every time the table moved.

“To what shall we drink?” he asked. “Family love?”

Käthe took a small sip from her glass. William drank almost half of the wine, as if it were water, and Anna was tempted to do the same.

The pork roast with steamed white cabbage was an excuse for silence. Anna chewed on the meat, poured more sauce on the potatoes, praising the taste of wild mushrooms, the touch of coriander in the steamed cabbage. Then would come the cake, Anna thought, a cup of tea, and they could say good bye for at least another week. But that was not to be.

“Loyalty and duty, Willi,” Käthe announced all of a sudden, “set intelligent men apart from the rabble.”

“What is that supposed to mean?” William asked.

“Exactly what you've heard,” Käthe said. “I'm telling you what I think. But why should you care what I think? I'll die soon. Don't make a face like this, Willi. Lord is merciful and I don't mind going. Not at all.”

“I've had enough, Mother,” William said, standing up. “We won't take any more of your time.”