The Other Me (32 page)

His is all bone and sinew. I notice his shortened fingers in mine, the nubs of swollen flesh and missing joints. A blue-black vein pulses under the blotchy back of his hand. He’s ill, I realise. I can smell it on him – an oily, rotting, sickly scent, and a tang of chemicals.

‘Gwyn,’ he murmurs, his voice cracking. ‘I never thought… never imagined she wouldn’t be here.’ He raises his head and looks at me. His blind eye is weeping. ‘I’m sorry, Klaudia. So sorry.’

Tears sting my eyes. I swallow. ‘We should have contacted you. Let you know.’ We should have. I feel guilty.

‘Where are you staying?’ my father asks from his position by the mantelpiece. He’s standing stiffly as a soldier. A force field radiates from him: an impenetrable shield.

‘With us, of course,’ I say quickly.

‘No. I wasn’t presuming…’ Ernst leans back against the sofa wearily. ‘I’ll book into a hotel.’

‘Nonsense.’ I look at my father. ‘Mum wouldn’t hear of it if she was here. Would she, Dad?’ I add pointedly.

My father tears his gaze away from Ernst and stares at me, the corners of his mouth tightening. ‘Ernst must do what he thinks is right.’

The force field is hard and bright. I look away from it.

‘You are staying with us. I can make up the spare bed in a few moments. I’ll show you where it is.’ I hear Mum’s voice in my head. I let her use my tongue. ‘Perhaps you want to use the bathroom or rest for a little while? You’ve had a shock.’

He pats my knee. The effort seems too much for him. ‘You are kind.’ His voice is a whisper.

Ernst is settled in the spare room with his suitcase, and I’m on my way up, my feet on the stairs with an armful of clean sheets, when my father beckons me into the living room with a curt nod. He shuts the door.

‘I don’t want him staying.’ He glances down.

‘Why?’ I hug the bundle of sheets closer. ‘I know you two don’t get on, but he’s your brother.’

He sucks his bottom lip under his teeth. ‘Ernst isn’t like us. He’s an American now. He has different values. He’s not… a believer.’ He paces the floor. ‘He’s an atheist,’ he hisses.

I don’t react. I lift my shoulders and let them fall. ‘So?’

‘I didn’t want to tell you this, but he’s an alcoholic. He’s unreliable. I don’t trust him. He’s not a good person, Klaudia.’

I seem to remember my mother mentioning something about Ernst being unreliable years ago. But what my father is saying doesn’t add up. I didn’t smell drink on Ernst. He doesn’t have the bloated look of a heavy drinker. He just seemed tired and ill.

‘I don’t care about that.’ I fumble for the door handle with my free hand and turn it. ‘Apart from you, he’s the only relation I’ve got. Whatever’s happened in the past… it was a long time ago. I’m going up there to make his bed. He needs a proper rest. We can’t turn him out on the streets in his state. Let him stay for a couple of nights.’

My father has forfeited his power in this house. There has been a shifting of guilt and blame, a resettling of authority. I leave without waiting for a reply, gripping the pile of sheets, breathing in clean washing powder scents and my own determination.

I am excited by Ernst’s arrival. Something warm and bright flickers inside me, a kind of hope, unexpected and startling: I’d given up on seeing him again. It’s extraordinary to think that there’s someone else in this house with the same blood as mine. Someone who met me as a child, and who knew Mum too. There will be time to talk, to discover stories perhaps, stories that might colour in some of the missing pages. I’ve lost so many people. I won’t be that scared girl anymore. I won’t be a liar. I feel a hunger for the truth. Whatever happened between my father and his brother, they will be able to sort it out now, under this roof. I want Ernst to stay.

ERNST

1996, London

Pain axes deep under my breastbone, cutting me down. Gwyn. My love. My lost love. I’ve been imagining you safe in your home, alive and well, content in your routine. The effort it has taken to get here, Gwyn, I wasn’t sure if I’d make it. When the plane hit turbulence, quivering and dropping over the ocean, I moaned in my seat like a child. I wanted to land safely, because I needed to get to you. I believed that it would be enough to see you – not to touch you or hold you; not to tell you that I love you – just to watch you move around your living room, to set tea on the table, put a hand to your hair, patting a stray wisp into place. Being in the same house, I’d smell your cakes baking and hear the murmur of your voice next door. I didn’t come to make trouble. Just to see you. To see Klaudia. To say goodbye.

Gwyn. Darling Gwyn. I don’t have a photograph of you in my wallet. I’ve had nothing to remind me of you all this time. Just your signature on a Christmas card once a year, some little note with news about your lives in England. A few scribbled lines.

That night in Wales, after we’d disentangled ourselves, you sat up and leant over to switch on a sidelight, picking up your watch to peer at its face. Do you remember? I resented the intrusion of that bright beam into the place we’d lost ourselves, the way it found us out. It was the signal that time was up, the normal world claiming us for our separate roles.

You bent and kissed me. ‘I have to go.’

Loss scrabbled inside. ‘Gwyn.’ I’d grabbed your wrist. I think I hurt you. My throat was closing up. ‘Is this it? Is it over?’

I felt the slight tug as you resisted the shock of my fingers. ‘Of course,’ you said. ‘I thought you knew. This can’t happen again.’

I felt ashamed. ‘Sorry,’ I murmured. ‘I just… I just…’

You put a finger on my lips. ‘I know,’ you breathed. ‘I feel it too.’

I watched you stumble about the room gathering clothes; you held them in a bundle to your stomach, creamy breasts spilling over the top. And as you bent down one last time to kiss me, you said, ‘I don’t regret it. I never will.’

I have those words etched into my bones.

I struggled onto my elbows and sat up. ‘Don’t worry,’ my voice croaked, the effort of being noble almost killing me, ‘I won’t interfere with your life, your marriage.’

God. I wanted to pull you back into bed with me. I was getting hard again, just watching the swing of your hip, the curve of your belly. I wanted to be inside you again, burning up, held tight in the core of you. I’m not a priest or a monk, Gwyn. I’m a man. I can’t deny the physical attraction.

I remember at the time how I pushed the blankets down over my unruly erection. ‘I’m here if you need me,’ I managed. ‘If you change your mind, I’ll always be here for you.’

But you shook your head as if I was the inexperienced one. ‘Find yourself a wife, Ernst. You’re still young. You deserve to be happy. Settled.’

At breakfast the next morning, the atmosphere was tense and hollow as a sprung board. There we sat, the three of us with our knees almost touching under your kitchen table; we drank tea, crunched on triangles of toast, and talked of when my taxi would arrive to take me to the station. You took the tray into the kitchen, and I followed under the pretence of bringing the milk jug. I tried to give you some money, but you folded your arms, shaking your head. ‘For all the extra food,’ I insisted. ‘Please.’

I wanted to give you something useful. Your pride got in the way. Or perhaps you were like Otto. Perhaps you saw money as sordid too.

‘Otto wouldn’t hear of it.’

You were so polite and formal. Such an actress. But that veneer of distance was eggshell thin. If I’d touched you, I would have crushed it. Your nerves were dancing under the surface. You glanced behind me towards the living room, where Otto was reading the paper. When you looked back at me, your eyes were distracted, desperate.

I wanted to hold you close, Gwyn, push my nose into your hair. The night before, the soft, pale cushion of your skin had turned pink where I’d touched you, so that your paleness created a canvas to draw a map of our lovemaking on. I’d wondered if those marks were still there under your clothes.

You’d composed yourself enough to look at me again, and this time you were calmer; you tipped your head to the side, listening.

‘That’s the doorbell.’ Your face was stretched with the effort of not crying.

‘Darling,’ I mouthed the word silently, not daring to touch you.

Your eyes glittered with tears. One spilt onto your cheek and you wiped it away. ‘Goodbye, Ernst,’ you said, keeping your voice steady.

I left some money in the tea caddy when your back was turned.

I kept my promise, Gwyn. I went back to New York. My only communication was to send Christmas cards. I had no return post, no messages at all for the first couple of years. And then a Christmas card arrived, with your new address in London. Inside you had scribbled a couple of lines to explain that you’d had a daughter. A daughter! Imagine what I thought. Of course, I wondered if she was mine. But you didn’t say anything. So I began to doubt it. And it was your prerogative to keep it a secret. Otto would believe that the child was his. He had no reason to think otherwise. Perhaps she was. I had to respect what you wanted. I sent a telegram with my congratulations, addressing it to both of you. I meant what I said. I wasn’t going to interfere with your marriage. Not if you didn’t want me to.

Going to stay with you in London six years later, all I could think about was you. The joy of you. I didn’t know how to feel about Klaudia. In my mind I’d settled it that she belonged to Otto. And I’d hoped that having a child might have softened him, made him feel more secure about his marriage, less possessive over you.

I slept in this room the second time I came to stay. I recognise the wallpaper. The same dark wardrobe stands in the corner. Klaudia was a little girl then. Long-limbed, anxious, watchful, she’d covered her mouth when I made her laugh, chewed the ends of her plaits. When I put jazz records on, she began to sway, moving her shoulders and hands. I persuaded her to dance, and as soon as she did, I saw that dance was a substance to her, like the sea is to a swimmer – it was her natural environment. It buoyed her up.

For Christmas I gave her a doll that was almost as big as her. I bought a bottle of perfume for you; I can’t remember the name of it now, but it was something expensive and musky I’d found in Saks. I’d tried dozens of scents, stopping by different counters, sniffing out the one that would suit your dark hair and violet eyes. I knew it needed to be exotic, but warm and natural. I bought a silk scarf too, by Chanel. I’d wanted to spend so much more on you. The store was full of glittering treasures: diamond necklaces and sapphire earrings, evening dresses in crepe de chine and delicate combs made of mother of pearl. But I knew I mustn’t be too extravagant. You wouldn’t like it. It would make Otto suspicious.

I was to stay for a week over the Christmas holidays. I’d wanted my visit to be a success; I’d planned to arrive with presents for everyone; I needed to show you and Otto, and myself, that I could play the part of the generous uncle without disrupting anything or threatening anyone. That was my hope. From a distance you can convince yourself of anything.

Inside this narrow bed, clean sheets tucked tightly around me, I am too tired to move. I lie, trussed up, rigid as a corpse, and think about the confines of my brother’s life, and my own. I am not foolish or arrogant enough to delude myself into presuming that my money and business have made my life big. Far from it. It’s people that count, and I haven’t had anyone to grow bigger for. Otto, in this tiny house with his simple work and lack of ambition, has married the woman he loved. Has a daughter. He even has a faith to cling to. In the end, it’s he that’s escaped the past.

I wish I could believe that his love was the best that you could have had. I saw his need of you, Gwyn, his jealousy; the way he wanted you to himself. It scared me. That’s not love. But it was the best he could do. I knew that. And you forgave him for it.

Will he want to hear what I have come to tell him? I hired a private detective to help me. Even back then, inside that chaos, German efficiency endured: there are files of names available if you know where to check. I have been busy. In the years before I became ill, I went to the farm. My first time in Germany since I emigrated.

When Otto was a child, his prickly pride, his yearning to belong, his constant need for reassurance and authority, seemed to make him less, make him weak. But I envy him now. He had you, Gwyn. He had the good fortune to find you; the power to keep you.

There is a scent on these sheets that I remember from last time. The washing powder that you used: rinsed clean, blue, a whiff of the sea. I bury my nose inside folds of cotton. Wanting to block out the other smell. I hate catching the sour stink of it on myself. It reminds me of the filthy sucking mud, that stench of damp and fear and death, lice biting under my belt, dirty, scabby flesh. It pitches me into endless battles: all the same horrors, enacted differently over and over. The screams of the Reds as they came at us, tanks rolling over foxholes, crushing men, explosions that ripped out sound, leaving me deaf, until reality came back with the tumbling rain of earth, and the heavier thump and slap of torn limbs landing. How to describe the sound a leg makes as it hits the ground?

Throughout the parched heat of summer and the blank cold of winter, I was like the men around me, full of thoughts of home, the longing to return to civilian life. Even those days at the farm with Meyer raising his belt, Bettina giggling in the yard, seemed blissful and beautiful and utterly perfect. Of course Sarah and Daniel wouldn’t be at the lake or the cottage. I knew that. Even though I dreamt of them: Daniel glancing up over his book, Sarah holding out her hand to me, half turning inside sunlight, the thick cream of spring blossom enfolding her. But that is how a soldier endures – by fixing to a belief that he will return to peacetime. And that everything he left will be the same.

I don’t know why I wasn’t killed in the trenches or the gulags. I stopped asking that. I don’t think there is an answer, a reason. There is no higher purpose. No God. Just good luck, or bad luck. And then one day, it was over: the war, the prison camp. But the cruel trick is that the thing you longed for all those years, the memory you created to sustain you, doesn’t exist. There is no return. There is no going back.