Your House Is on Fire, Your Children All Gone: A Novel (20 page)

“Nonsense,” Bernd Frick said. “What an idea.”

“Why do you deny it? She looks like Hilde. Why did you give her away? Who is the father? Who?”

For a long time nobody spoke. Hilde stood with her gaze directed toward the floor and her bare feet. Finally Olaf’s father said, “She thought you were dead.”

“And you covered it up for her. Took her to Liese.” Olaf took a few steps forward and struck his father with his fists. The older man’s head flew back and then his knees buckled; he slumped to the floor.

With a shriek, Hilde flew toward Bernd, covering his head with her hair. She held him tight, rocking him, stroking his cheeks. “Yes,” she said to Olaf, “we both hoped you’d never come back.”

When asked what had happened to Olaf Frick, people in Hemmersmoor shrugged. “The call of the sea,” the baker volunteered. “All these years in those godless countries, they leave a mark on you.”

The mailman wouldn’t say; he never received another postcard from Shanghai or Macao. Soon enough, the village girls redirected their attention to Rutger von Kamphoff, who looked even more suave now that he was wearing black. He was once more available, and every young woman wanted to know how in the world she could get invited to the manor.

Jan Hussel, when asked, stroked the black fingers of his prosthetic hand. “Stupid affair,” he said and shook his head. “He could have made good after all.” He seemed genuinely distressed and said that he regretted not having had the opportunity to talk to Olaf one last time.

Listening to Jan’s answer, Alex shrugged. He had made me swear not to betray his secret; he had to protect the family’s reputation as well as its business. He wouldn’t always be the von Kamphoffs’ driver. Whenever the people in the village mentioned Olaf, he shook his head. “Not enough life around here.”

T
hrough my scholarship, which I started in the fall, I stayed in contact with the Big House, and sometimes I received an invitation to one of the dinner parties there. My mother was beside herself with joy, and when the black Mercedes stopped in front of our house, she would have liked to gather the whole neighborhood to watch me get into the car. “Rutger has an eye on you,” she reassured me each and every day. “Keep in close touch with him.” She didn’t know just how well I followed her advice. I kept quiet about the meetings Rutger arranged for us from time to time, and which he kept secret from his family. He still wore black.

One day in the spring, just before Easter, I came home to find the house empty. My mother had pushed my lunch into the oven, and in her note, which I found on the kitchen table, she wrote that she would spend the afternoon in Groß Ostensen. My dad was working on the fields with my brothers and wouldn’t be home before dinner.

I sighed in relief. The more time I spent at the Big House, the smaller my own home seemed to become. I hated the smells that wafted from our kitchen through the whole house, and I
couldn’t watch my father eat anymore. It was horrible how noisily he slurped his soup; after every bite of meat he scratched between his teeth with his fingernails. My brothers chewed with their mouths open while continuing their conversations. I was only too happy not to find any of them at home. I’d be able to prepare for my rendezvous with Rutger undisturbed. The chauffeur would pick me up at four o’clock.

Rutger’s marriage with Anna Frick had scandalized his family, and only Frick’s money had finally convinced Bruno von Kamphoff and his wife to relent. Anna had been one of us, a village beauty with rosy cheeks and without manners. I knew what happened when girls like us got mixed up with people like the von Kamphoffs. And even though I sensed that Rutger meant well, I had not entirely given in to his greed. My dad wasn’t as rich as Frick. I had only my young skin and my brown hair. Nobody had touched me yet.

This is what I thought while washing myself and putting on a new dress, one that Rutger hadn’t yet seen dozens of times. I brushed my hair and pushed away pictures of my friend Linde. How much better was I prepared to take advantage of the opportunity I was given. She would only have squandered it. And, anyway, her face was disfigured—she had even less to offer the future heir of the Big House.

Around three o’clock I heard a car in front of the house, and with surprise I saw that it was really the von Kamphoffs’ black Mercedes. The driver got out, walked slowly toward our door. Had he been given the wrong time?

With hair loose and without any makeup, I ran down the stairs and opened the door. How big was my surprise when I found not the elegant young man I was used to but Alex Frick
taking off his black cap and grinning at me. “Anke?” he said. “The car is ready.”

“You?” I said. I couldn’t explain Alex’s appearance. “What is this?” I knew that Frick’s younger son had returned to Hemmersmoor, but I hadn’t seen much of him in the village. My parents had not frequented Frick’s Inn since Broder’s death; Alex’s light punishment, they said, had been bought from the authorities. Three years for a son. What kind of justice was that?

“Indeed,” Alex said. “I’m the new chauffeur. Can I come in?”

“The chauffeur?” I asked.

“Oh, are you already one of them?”

“You are too early,” I said and heard how stupid this sounded. “That’s not what I meant. You shouldn’t be here. If my mother comes home…”

“Not before dinnertime.”

“You don’t know that.”

“And your father is working in the fields. You’re all dolled up.” Alex inspected me from top to bottom. He couldn’t have been more than eighteen years old, but he had grown a lot and was as heavy and slow moving as a much older man. He looked funny in his uniform, funny and somehow adorable, like a circus bear. He had the lazy movements of a man who knows he can punch holes into a wall.

Alex crossed the doorstep without my invitation. I had to move to avoid him. “Go, get yourself ready,” he said. “I’ll wait down here.”

“If my parents find out…,” I said.

“I know what I did. But I’ve lost a sister.” Alex looked around our entrance hall. “I know how it feels.”

“I had nothing to do with that,” I said angrily.

“I didn’t say you did.” He smiled. “But it looks as if you might take her place. Rutger was very particular when he gave me instructions.”

I felt myself blushing. Had Rutger talked about me with Alex? I was flattered to hear that Rutger did indeed have plans for me, but how could he talk about them with his driver? What was he thinking, sending Alex to our house? Didn’t he know what had happened?

“Perhaps he’ll fire me if you ask him real nicely.” Alex’s smile grew wider, until I couldn’t look him in the eyes anymore. “I’ve paid the price, Anke,” he added. “I don’t expect your parents to like me, but what happened was nothing but a stupid prank. I was a boy. I didn’t mean to kill your brother.”

Speechless, I stood in the hall; I was still holding my brush in my left hand.

“I’ll wait in the car,” Alex finally said. “Ms. Hoffmann.” He nodded and adjusted his cap.

I was utterly confused. I wanted to tell my mom about what had just happened, wanted to run into the fields to search for my father. I wanted to meet Rutger. Finally I ran up the stairs to my room and put on makeup. I wanted to find good reasons for Alex’s appearance, and I found them all too quickly: he was Anna’s brother, he needed work, and at the Big House he was still near his father, without having to show his face in Hemmersmoor much. Besides, Rutger would never have heard of my brother’s death—our lives weren’t part of the von Kamphoffs’ conversations.

Twenty minutes after he’d arrived, Alex opened the car door for me, closed it carefully, and soon we had left the village behind us. The radio was playing with the volume turned low. A singer from Hamburg could be heard, yearning for white sails, sailors, and foreign lands. The skies hung low over the fields, rolled out like down comforters. It was one of those days that promised warmth and sun but still held back both. Light green showed on the bushes along the road; everything looked clean and polished. I was wearing only a light cardigan over my dress and goose bumps spread on my arms. Perhaps it would rain later on.

He didn’t ask once. He rolled down the window, and even though it messed up my hair, so that I had to move away, he kept it open. Halfway to the manor, close to an old barn that hadn’t been used since a fire had nearly destroyed it, Alex braked and let the car slowly roll ahead. I watched the blackened roof of the barn and the large holes in its walls.

“One day I’ll take over my father’s inn,” he said.

“Yes,” I said.

“Can I help you with something? I still have to drive the old man to a show in Bremen tonight. I don’t have much time.”

I shook my head as an answer to his peculiar question. “I don’t need anything.”

“I have some coffee with me.” He reached under his seat and a moment later came up with an orange thermos. “It’s only lukewarm.”

“No thanks,” I said cautiously.

“Not very hot.” Alex stopped the car. He unscrewed the top of the thermos and poured himself some coffee. “It doesn’t
matter to me that it’s lukewarm. The body absorbs lukewarm liquids better.”

“Oh,” I said.

“Read it somewhere.”

“Fine,” I said.

Alex drank the black coffee and then switched off the engine. He opened his door and inhaled deeply. “The air gives me the hiccups,” he said, and belched into his hand and laughed. Then he got out, put his cup on the roof of the car, and stretched.

“We should continue,” I said. “Rutger is waiting.”

“Sure,” Alex said. “Sure thing.” Then he opened the left passenger door and sat down next to me.

“We’ll be late,” I said.

“Maybe.” Alex stretched out his hand and touched my breast.

“Hey.” I forced myself to laugh; it could only be a stupid joke.

“Hey,” he echoed and put his other hand on my hip. His hands were enormous, his fingers thick and short. Short hairs sprouted on them.

I scooted all the way to the right, and he followed me. I grabbed the door handle and pulled, but Alex’s left hand closed around my arm and he simply shook his head. Then his hand cupped my other breast.

I could have screamed, I could have tried to push open the car door and run away, but I didn’t want him to hit me. “Rutger will…,” I said and couldn’t finish the sentence.

Alex nodded. “You look funny,” he then said.

The soft afternoon light filled the car, and when he pressed
me down onto the backseat, for one short moment I could see the pale sun behind a thin layer of clouds. Then Alex’s face appeared above me. All this happened slowly; he didn’t rush, didn’t show any haste. He sat on top of me, unbuttoned his jacket and threw it onto the front seat. Then he loosened his tie and pulled it over his head. He unbuttoned his shirt and let it drop onto the seat next to my face. Finally Alex raised himself as much as he could and opened his pants.

“You know,” he said, “my brother had all these funny drawings on his skin.”

I nodded. I hadn’t seen them myself, but my friends had told me about Olaf’s tattoos.

“Some of the boys in that institution had them too.” He paused for a moment. “I don’t think I could carry around the same symbol or picture for the rest of my life. Or a name.” He seemed to think about this diligently, as though he wanted to make sure he got the words right. “‘Anke,’ for example. I mean, if you don’t like that girl anymore, it’s still there, and you’re constantly reminded of her.”

My voice was very low and hoarse. It seemed important to answer him. “Maybe a shape, a simple one. Maybe a triangle, a circle, or a square.”

Alex laughed—he seemed to be genuinely amused. “A square. Simple,” he repeated and grinned.

“Yeah, a black square. Doesn’t have to mean anything. Just a square.”

“‘Hey, what’s that mean?’ ‘Why, I love squares,’” he said, and we both laughed. My voice shrilled in my ears.

“Yeah, a square,” I said.

Alex was quiet for a while, sat in his underwear next to me in the backseat. “I’d like to see somebody tattoo his body onto his body.”

“What do you mean?” I asked. His hands had forgotten about me. Say something, Anke, I told myself, keep it up. Just say something, just talk and occupy him. Occupy him.

“The shape of his body tattooed onto his skin, just a bit smaller, so it fits. His fingers drawn onto his fingers, his arms onto his arms. Well, the face would be difficult.”

I tried to smile. “The eyes, yeah. The nose—you could do that.”

“And one thing would be missing. You know, he’d have the whole body tattooed on his body, but one hand would be missing, or a calf. And everybody would look at the missing limb, because it’s just missing.”

“That would be strange,” I said. “Would you tattoo the skeleton onto the skin as well?”

“Maybe,” he said absentmindedly, but I could hear that he hadn’t given it a thought. “There would be two people, only one would be incomplete.” With those words he moved a little away from me, lifted up the hem of my dress and pulled down my panties. The radio was still playing, the singer had a famously clear voice, and she sang about islands in the sea and deadly typhoons. Alex climbed out of the car and turned his back on me. He dropped his pants to the ground. His back had two or three red spots but was otherwise completely white. He focused entirely on untying his shoe laces and seemed to forget about me. I listened to the music, made plans to jump out of the car and escape Alex, whose pants still hung around his ankles. I had time. I was fast. I would succeed. But Alex’s presence, his
massive white back, rendered all plans incomprehensible, and when he stepped out of his shoes, I hadn’t even tried to run. I was just lying in the backseat, waiting until he was ready for me.

Alex turned, climbed into the car, lay down heavily on my chest and forced himself into me. He didn’t face me but seemed to look out the rear window. He didn’t try to kiss me.

When he was done, he kept lying on top of me. Behind me I could see a narrow strip of sky; in front of me loomed Alex’s head with its greased hair. The singer received much applause for her ballad about a lonely sailor, and then launched into a song about the
Klabautermann
. The audience joined in for the chorus.