Your House Is on Fire, Your Children All Gone: A Novel (6 page)

Inge nodded. “He died in Lithuania.”

Johann von Kamphoff grunted. “A shame,” he said. “I think I might be able to help you out a bit. Is there anything you need? Does your son need anything? I don’t want to embarrass you,
but if you’re missing something, please let me know.” His face had been unusually grim during his little speech, but now it lit up again. “We have to help one another, right?” he said. “You are a wonderful worker. I’m not offering any handouts.”

Inge nodded. She didn’t know what to say to all this. “Thank you,” she squeezed out and smiled. The old man smiled back, winked at her, and quickly turned away.

My father’s voice became audible again only after the heat had driven Johann von Kamphoff back to the manor house. “You can’t work like this,” he moaned. “Yes, Mr. von Kamphoff. Absolutely right, Mr. von Kamphoff.” For a while he stared ahead, lost in thought; then he turned on Inge. “And all this because of you. Smile, make a pretty face. Encourage that old goat. You’ll see what it gets you.” Anger colored his face purple.

Inge stayed silent and quickly looked at me and Anke; she hadn’t forgotten about our presence. “Should I return to the fields?” she asked quietly.

Now my father turned to look at us. “Nonsense,” he exclaimed quickly, and his anger subsided momentarily.

Around noon Friedrich stepped into the garden to bring his mother sandwiches and an apple. He looked at Anke and me as though we were apparitions, and then frowned. My father took our lunch from the truck, handed me the sandwiches my mother had wrapped in coarse paper, and said, “Go ahead. You can show Friedrich the maze. But don’t yell and scream. Nobody has to know you’re in there.”

Only slowly did we leave our parents. Friedrich seemed displeased by the idea of having us around. He stopped and turned
to look at his mom time and again, but she waved him away. Scowling, he followed Anke and me through the garden. “I already know the maze,” he said. “It’s boring.”

“You’re boring,” Anke shot back.

“Why do you want to go to the maze?” he asked. “The hedges are all bare.”

“Anke has never been there. It’s her first time at the manor,” I said importantly.

“I know it inside and out,” he said quickly. “And I’m allowed to go to the stables whenever I want. Maybe they’ll let me ride one of the horses sometime soon.”

“They don’t belong to you,” Anke said. “You don’t belong here.”

“So?” Friedrich said. “Without Linde, you wouldn’t be here. And she’s only the gardener’s daughter.”

“And she isn’t allowed to ride the horses either.”

“But I’m a boy.” Friedrich blocked Anke’s path. “Why are you so dolled up?”

“Because my mom won’t let me run around in old rags,” she quipped, but Friedrich had already shoved her to the ground. “Dumb cow,” he said.

I knew what I owed my friend and slapped Friedrich hard in the face. I thought he would hit me back, but he only looked at me for a moment, then turned and ran away. “Friedrich,” I called after him—I feared my dad would be angry if he found out what happened—but he didn’t come back.

When it was time to return home, it stayed very quiet in our truck. My dad turned to gaze at me from time to time but didn’t say a word. Anke’s dress was soiled, and I could feel that she
regretted ever having agreed to come. She could have baked cookies with her mother; now she had blisters on her hands, hadn’t found the maze to her taste, hadn’t seen any horses, and, worst of all, hadn’t caught a single glimpse of Rutger von Kamphoff.

“Thank you, Mr. Janeke,” she said nicely and icily in front of her house. “You want to come over tomorrow?” she asked me while she was climbing out of the truck. “My dad is going to decorate the tree with us.”

“You go,” my father said. “I’ll be okay on my own.” But I shook my head. I had given my word.

That evening my mother took me aside and questioned me about Inge Madelung. How was she dressed? What did she talk about with my dad? Was she really constantly at his side? What had she said and done?

I loved my father, but I feared my mother. I had to give her something if I wanted to stay in her good graces.

“The owner of the manor seems to like her well,” I said, and told her about the old man’s peculiar behavior.

“It’s a shame,” she said. “What a cunning person. Well, she doesn’t own a thing, so she has to go after our men.” But no matter how much she cursed and complained, the news seemed to please her. She praised my effort, tousled my hair, and stroked my cheeks. “Be nice to Friedrich,” she said. “See if he tells you something.”

Later that evening my dad called me and asked if I had made friends with Friedrich. I confessed what had happened, and what Anke had said, and he nodded. Finally he said, “It’s not as easy for Friedrich as it is for you girls.”

“But he’s dumb and stupid,” I said.

“He’s only afraid.”

“Afraid of us?”

“He’s not from here, and you let him feel that.” He paused a moment. “Do you really want to come with me again tomorrow morning?”

“Yes,” I said. “Do the von Kamphoffs really have a black woman in the basement?”

My father looked at me in surprise; he’d never been interested in rumors. “Maybe you and Friedrich can find out tomorrow,” he laughed. Then his face was all serious again. “Don’t tell your mother anything about Mrs. Madelung. It will only upset her.”

I nodded.

“She doesn’t understand the work I’m doing, how good it feels to have someone who is meticulous, hardworking, and who you can count on. Your mother sometimes suspects the worst things imaginable, but we know better, don’t we?” he asked.

I nodded again.

“And be nice to Friedrich. Maybe you can still become friends,” he said slowly. “Are you still playing with your model train?”

The next morning, while my mom was boiling water for his coffee, my dad came to my room, and with my help, he snuck out of the house for a few short minutes without my mother noticing. When we reached the manor house in our three-wheeled truck and Inge Madelung came to greet us, he took a large wooden box from its bed. “It’s nothing,” he explained. “Only old toys Linde has no use for anymore.” And as an answer
to Inge’s surprised look, he quickly added, “She never owned any dolls.” His face turned red and he grinned sheepishly. “I guess I always wanted…” He stopped himself. “I can help you carry all that junk home.”

“I can handle it,” Inge protested, but my dad would have none of it.

“It’s pretty heavy,” he said. “Really is.”

I followed the adults, and when we came to Inge’s doorstep, they suddenly grew eerily quiet. I remember how embarrassed my father seemed. With that big box of his, he stood in front of Inge’s door and large drops were visible on his forehead, but it is clear to me now that he wasn’t sweating because of the unusually warm weather. I still see Inge’s hand around the doorknob, hesitating, unable to make a move. But Friedrich had heard us come and finally opened the door from the inside and let us in. His face looked grim. We must have been the first visitors in the two years since they had come to Hemmersmoor.

“Just put it down somewhere,” Inge said to my father. “I’ll take care of it later. Thank you so much.”

My dad didn’t leave immediately though. He set down the box and slowly looked around Inge’s chamber. “A bit tight,” he said. “They couldn’t find anything smaller for you, right? But it’s clean, everything’s shipshape.” He nodded. “It’s a lot of toys.”

“What do you say?” Inge asked her son.

“Thank you,” Friedrich said.

“Thank you so much,” Inge said and started toward the door.

“Yes, we should get to work,” Dad said. But he took another moment to inspect the room. “No photo of your husband?” he suddenly asked.

Inge blushed. “I lost everything,” she quickly answered.

“That’s right,” Dad said. “Well, we should really go. Maybe Linde can help Friedrich put everything together?”

“Well, yes, but…,” Inge said slowly, turning around to look at her son.

“But shouldn’t I help you outside?” I pleaded.

“We’ll be okay without you,” my dad answered.

“But if she’d rather help?” Inge said.

“We’ll be fine,” he said brusquely, and a few minutes later I found myself alone with Friedrich in that small room. He stood in front of the large box, obviously curious about what was inside but too proud to make a move.

“Anke isn’t here,” I said into the silence. I remembered my mother’s instructions: I had to befriend the boy.

“She’s stupid,” he said.

“Not at all,” I shot back. “Maybe a little.”

“You are nicer,” he said matter-of-factly, and then we unpacked the toys together, assembled the tracks, and cleaned the railroad cars. “And you really don’t want them anymore?” he asked.

I shrugged my shoulders. “My mother says I’m too old for such things.”

“I’m just as old as you are.”

“But you’re a boy,” I said.

He looked at me in puzzlement, then stared at the steam engine in his hand and said, “I think your dad likes my mom.”

I paused a moment in horror. Until now this whole affair had been a complicated game between my parents, but to hear those words from Friedrich’s mouth made it all real. He was right, there could be no doubt. “Don’t be silly,” I said.

“See for yourself.” He stood up and ran over to a dresser, pulled open a drawer, and showed me its contents. “He always brings her things, even when she doesn’t want them.” Inside the drawer was a small clay vase, which I had made for my father at school, and next to it a necklace with a blue pendant. A crocheted handkerchief, a bar of soap that smelled of roses, a pin cushion. “Almost every day he gives her something.” Friedrich’s tone of voice balanced between accusatory and confidential. “She thinks she’s keeping it secret, but lately she’s behaved so differently.”

“Different how?”

“Yesterday she hit me because I came home with my clothes dirty. And then she immediately started to cry. I tried to console her, but she wept all night. And this morning she slapped me because I wasn’t ready on time.”

“You’re lying,” I said. “That’s a lie. Your mother is an evil woman.”

“Take that back,” he said.

“Don’t hold your breath,” I replied. “Mom is right—your mother is bad.” I slapped his face.

Yet this time Friedrich did not run away. He hit my face and tears came to my eyes; I pulled his hair. He screamed, grabbed my dress. Then he bit my arm, and I stepped on his toes and pushed him. Friedrich stumbled and fell, landing on the postal car. Maybe we would have bloodied each other, but at that moment we heard steps outside the front door, and Friedrich jumped to his feet. “If you tell on me, you’re dead,” he whispered.

A moment later Inge Madelung opened the door, and behind her appeared the old owner of the manor with his immaculately shined shoes. “Wouldn’t it be great? There’s nothing
like a brisk ride across the moor.” He laughed and raised his left hand in a fist.

“Friedrich?” Inge said. “I hope you don’t mind the mess. Mr. Janeke—”

“Nonsense,” said Johann von Kamphoff, stepping carefully over the tracks and engines. “I really don’t want to bother you and keep you away from the garden, but I’d like to know if you have everything you need.”

Inge, Friedrich, and I stayed silent and watched the owner unabashedly inspect the small room. And didn’t it all belong to him? It was his property, his own house. He walked about, put a finger to his mouth, then swished it along the high edge of a small wardrobe. “Ah,” he exclaimed. “What a woman. Perhaps I should have you work in the Big House. All that hard work in the gardens must wear you out. And Janeke is a crank. He’s no companion for someone like you, Mrs. Madelung.”

Mortified, I cast down my eyes. The old owner turned to Friedrich. “Hello, young man,” he said with a smile. “Does your mom take good care of you? She’s telling me that you resemble your dad very much. Is that right?” He turned to Inge and winked at her before addressing the boy once more. “We will find some better rooms for you and your mom. A man like you needs a bit of space, right? A good desk to study at too. You shouldn’t grow up in such a tiny box.”

Friedrich nodded quietly. Inge went to stand behind him, as though she needed to protect her son. She seemed very small, and her voice was barely audible. “Thank you very much, Mr. von Kamphoff,” she said. “But you have done enough.”

“Nonsense,” he said, and slowly walked toward the front door. “You are a formidable mother. Those weren’t empty words.
Next week we will furnish you with a better room.” He was silent for a moment, then looked at her with a serious expression. Slowly he nodded his head. “This weather, this weather…” Before leaving, he touched her cheek and caressed it. “Nature is sometimes odd.”

On Christmas it rained all day and night, yet it was so warm that the people in Hemmersmoor opened their windows anyway and took long walks in shirtsleeves and rubber boots. The star singers carried umbrellas, and the water in the canals rose and flooded the bogs. The Christmas trees seemed out of place; the gingerbread cookies softened and wouldn’t taste right.

Mom remained suspicious of my dad, and my report about Johann von Kamphoff’s visit to the widow’s chamber only confirmed her opinion about Inge Madelung. I kept quiet, however, about what Friedrich had showed me; I was too afraid of the consequences. The warm weather couldn’t soothe her, and on Christmas Eve my mother argued with my dad. She felt he didn’t tell her everything, and what she suspected must have been even worse than the truth. “I can’t believe you’re not at the manor tonight,” she said after dinner. “You and the Crow are so close these days. I don’t understand why you come home at all.”

My father lowered his head and didn’t answer. We could hear how he slowly exhaled. His head and neck turned red.

“She hasn’t changed, that bitch. First she lets some soldier get her pregnant, and now she’s trying to steal my man.”

My father jolted upright. His face was glum and he shook his fists, but no words came from his half-open mouth. He blew out the candles on the Christmas tree, took his hat and coat,
and returned only after midnight. I had to unwrap my presents alone in my room.