Authors: Rachel Seiffert

The Dark Room (25 page)

BOOK: The Dark Room

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Micha looks at them all, looks hard into the faces of the soldiers, checks for Opa’s cheekbones, his high forehead, his deep-set eyes. A cigarette held in the fingertips, turned in toward the palm. Micha is sweating. He doesn’t find him. He goes back along the wall, looks again, but still he doesn’t find him.

The young woman is watching Micha. He catches her eye and she looks away. He tries to imagine what he must look like, staring so
hard at these terrible scenes. He wonders if he should hurry, or stand farther away, or cry. He doesn’t know. He doesn’t care now; he is trying hard not to be a coward today. Micha calls across the room.

—
Do you speak German?

She looks up, frowns, hasn’t understood. She says something. Micha thinks it sounds like an apology.

—
Do you speak English?

—Yes, some. I am sorry.

—
Perhaps you can help me. Do you know if all the pictures were taken here? In this town?

—Oh. The pictures on this wall? The occupation?

—
Yes.

—Oh. I think so. I’m not sure, wait.

She puts down her book, hurries to the wall, heavy shoes loud in the small room. Micha stands a little way back while she works her way along the pictures, reading the inscriptions, the names and dates.

—These were.

She points for Micha.

—On this panel. The others were taken in Belarus, too, but further north, and also west. They are there to tell you that these things happened all over the country, you see?

—
Yes. Thank you. Do you know which SS divisions served here? Waffen-SS?

—They are listed here, I think.

She goes to the shelves in the corner by the door, brings back a book, handwritten. Micha thinks she is excited to be helping, not self-conscious. He is still sweating; his scalp, his hands and feet.

—Yes, look. Here on this page.

A long list, Wehrmacht, SS, Police, but Micha sees Opa’s division. He thinks it must show in his face because the young woman avoids eye contact when he looks up.

—
Thank you.

—You’re welcome.

She smiles, embarrassed, still looking away, returns to her chair by the door and her book. Micha stands a while longer by the photos, not looking at them, and grateful, too, that the young woman is not looking at him.

This is not so bad.
Micha talks to himself. Very quietly, but it helps to hear a voice.
I came here to see this; that Opa was here. I was ready for this.
He is surprised to be so calm. Micha signs the visitors’ book; full name, full home address.
I was here; so was he.

—
Do you know if there is someone I could talk to? About the occupation?

—A historian?

The young woman is surprised, her book held open in midair.

—
Or maybe someone who remembers it. Who was living here then?

—I don’t know. I have to think about it.

—
I can come back tomorrow.

—You want to speak to someone tomorrow?

—
If you can think of someone. Today, even.

—Well, tomorrow. Maybe.

—
Yes?

—I think maybe my grandfather can help.

—
He would speak to me?

—Well, I don’t know. Maybe he knows somebody.

She doesn’t sound so sure. Micha tells her he’ll come back in the morning, says he would be very grateful if she would ask her grandfather. She nods and takes Micha’s hand when he offers it, embarrassed again.

In the morning the grandfather is there, but he doesn’t want to talk. He came to size you up, the young woman tells Micha. He hasn’t seen a German for years. She blushes as she translates, hides her smiles behind her hand.

—He says there is a man in the next village you should talk to. Jozef Kolesnik. He will remember the Germans. You should go to him this afternoon. My grandfather will tell him you will come.

—
What time? After lunch? Do I have to wait until after lunch?

Micha tries to catch the old man’s eye, but he just chews at his bottom lip and nods at his granddaughter. He walks away without another glance at Micha.

The village is not far; three, maybe four kilometers. The clock outside the bakery says a quarter to two when Micha arrives, and it takes him no more than five minutes to find the house. There was no time arranged; just afternoon, after lunch, but Micha is nervous that there is nobody home.

He checks the address again, knocks at the door one more time, and then he is not sure what to do, so he sits down and waits.

The house is green. Wooden and painted blue-green. Micha sit on the steps leading up to the narrow veranda which runs the length of the building. There are more steps at the far end, down to a small garden and a muddy lane. Two low windows face out over the road, and after half an hour or so, Micha gets up and taps on the glass. No reply. He tries again, fingertips against the next window, cupping his hands around his eyes and peering inside. No noise or movement, nobody home.

—
Hello?

Micha’s breath clouds the glass, and he wipes it away quickly with his sleeve. The house stays quiet and still.

Micha’s hello sits in his ears: a loud voice in a quiet afternoon. On the veranda, he watches his hands shake, and then slowly steady again. He stands there a while, uneasy on the steps of the silent house, then he wheels the bicycle across the street and sits down on the low wall opposite. A safe distance, hands in his pockets, photo of Opa resting against his palm.

If he remembers Opa.

I want him to remember Opa, and I don’t.

Micha gets up and walks, leaves the bicycle and walks. First to one end of the street, then the other. The minutes go by, a few
people, a few cars, but none of them stop at the house. He sits down again.

He had not thought of this.

It is already late; shadows creep across the street toward him. From this distance, with the road in between, the house looks different. Not so empty, perhaps. Micha imagines a light coming on, behind a curtain, and the idea doesn’t seem so strange. Here, across the way, Micha can imagine there is someone inside. Behind a door, or under a window; sitting quiet and still while the stranger called too loudly through the glass.

He doesn’t have a watch, doesn’t know how long he has been here.
Two hours. Three. More.

The sun is not warm now, but it is not evening, not yet, and so not yet time to go. Micha’s legs are numb from sitting. He walks up and down until the pins and needles come, and then he unlaces his boots and rubs his feet. When Micha looks up he is not alone.

An old man stands on the porch, an old woman next to him, both of them watching him.

—
Jozef Kolesnik?

Micha picks up the bicycle and wheels it back across the street. He didn’t see them coming.
They must have come through the garden. From the lane.
The old man holds a bag of shopping, and Micha thinks,
It’s fine, he has been shopping. Shopping, not hiding.

—
Jozef Kolesnik? Do you speak German?

—Yes.

—
You are Jozef Kolesnik?

He does not answer. Micha stops walking.

—
You did get a call? Someone told me they would call.

—Yes.

Micha steps forward. He doesn’t know what to say. Three hours he has been waiting. The sun is low and Micha has not left the street in case he missed him. Afraid he would come, afraid that he wouldn’t. And now he is here

—
I wonder if I could ask you some questions? Just a few? Would that be possible?

—About what?

The old man is three steps up on his porch, and behind him stands his wife. Micha puts one hand in his pocket, fingers on the photo, resting against the smooth side, prints on the gloss.

—
My name is Micha.

Micha pulls out his hand, holds it open, unsteady, and the photo stays hidden away. The old man shifts his bag of shopping from one hand to the other, but he doesn’t respond.

—
I am Michael Lehner.

—You are German.

—
Yes.

The old man turns to his wife, and she takes his arm, says something. Micha thinks she is asking him to leave; asking the old man to ask him to leave.

—
I was at the museum. I was told you might remember.

The old woman talks to her husband. He answers and she breathes out, a heavy sigh. Micha waits for them to speak to him, but they don’t. They just look at him, and he looks at them, and Micha is terrified of what he is about to do. Of the reaction it might produce.

No.

It is too hard. He tastes salt. Panic at the back of his throat.

If he remembers Opa. Will he remember good things? Will there be good things to remember, or only bad?

Tears are on their way; Micha can feel them. In his chest now, but on their way to his eyes. The old man speaks.

—Remember what?

Micha doesn’t answer; he holds still.

If I show him, then he will say yes, I knew him, or he will say no, I did not. It will be something. That will be something at least.

There is sweat on Micha’s back and in his hair.

—
Wait.

But it is too hard. The words don’t come, only tears.

—
Sorry.

Micha’s mouth is thick, his eyes are full.

—
Sorry.

He holds on to Andrej’s bike and hides his face with his arm. It is dark behind his sleeve.

—
Two minutes.

The old woman steps down off the porch. She has toilet paper in her shopping bag, and pulls off some sheets. Micha wipes his face, his nose, and the old woman pulls off more. Jozef Kolesnik looks down at his feet. His wife takes Andrej’s bicycle and leans it against the fence and then she goes into the house.

He is shocked, the old man. A German boy cries outside his house. Micha thinks he is angry, too, but he doesn’t speak. He sits down on the veranda steps, and Micha wants so much to sit with him and lean against the smooth wood of the rail. His wife brings Micha vodka, and a handkerchief, but she is not friendly. Micha knows she wants him to go, and that her husband does, too.
Stop crying and go.

—Jozef Kolesnik.

The old man holds his hand on his chest.

—Elena Kolesnik, my wife.

She nods and then he stands up.

—Please go away.

He takes a step closer to Micha, speaking quietly, one step down off his porch.

—It was many years ago. A bad time. I am an old man. Please go away.

So strange that he says please. It is deliberate, a kindness. He holds out his hand; a gesture to help Micha away from his house.

Micha is close enough to look into his eyes, but he doesn’t. He could still show him Opa’s photo, but he doesn’t. It is dusk and it is too hard. He takes Andrej’s bike and he leaves.

• • •

When he gets back to Andrej’s, the house is dark and no one is home. Micha washes and shaves and gets into bed. He leaves the light off and stares at the wall, the day gathered like a headache behind his eyes.

Later, Andrej knocks at the door, brings in a tray of food.

Micha offers him his glass of beer, and drinks from the bottle. Andrej sits quietly with him while he eats. Micha’s eyes are still swollen from the day’s tears; he thinks that Andrej must see that. He stays with him and Micha is glad.

In two days, I will be with Mina.

Micha cries again and Andrej lifts the tray from his lap and pulls the blankets over his legs. He turns off the light and whispers something in the dark before he goes. Micha doesn’t know what he says, but it’s good to hear something. A voice before he sleeps.

HOME, SPRING 1998

It is time for all the usual late-spring things. Cycling to school now that the weather is good, tackling Shakespeare with the final-year class, going for slow walks with Oma through the park.

Micha carries his winter habits with him, though, and goes to the library most days after school. Sometimes to read, but often just to sit; a quiet cushion between work and home. He is not sure why he does it, so he keeps it to himself; always back and making dinner by the time Mina gets in.

He is not ready for it, but life moves on.