3
Walli Franck was playing the piano in the upstairs drawing room. The instrument was a full-size Steinway grand, and Walli’s father kept it tuned for Grandma Maud to play. Walli was remembering the riff to Elvis Presley’s record ‘A Mess of Blues’. It was in the key of C, which made it easier.
His grandmother sat reading the obituaries in the Berliner Zeitung. She was seventy, a slim, straight figure in a dark-blue cashmere dress. ‘You can play that sort of thing well,’ she said without looking up from the paper. ‘You’ve got my ear, as well as my green eyes. Your grandfather Walter, after whom you were named, never could play ragtime, rest his soul. I tried to teach him, but it was hopeless.’
‘You played ragtime?’ Walli was surprised. ‘I’ve never heard you do anything but classical music.’
‘Ragtime saved us from starving when your mother was a baby. After the First World War I played in a club called Nachtleben right here in Berlin. I was paid billions of marks a night, which was barely enough to buy bread; but sometimes I’d get tips in foreign currency, and we could live well for a week on two dollars.’
‘Wow.’ Walli could not imagine his silver-haired grandmother playing the piano for tips in a nightclub.
Walli’s sister came into the room. Lili was almost three years younger, and these days he was not sure how to treat her. For as long as he could remember, she had been a pain in the neck, like a younger boy but sillier. However, lately she had become more sensible and, to complicate matters, some of her friends had breasts.
He turned from the piano and picked up his guitar. He had bought it a year ago in a pawnshop in West Berlin. It had probably been pledged by an American soldier against a loan that was never repaid. The brand name was Martin and, although it had been cheap, it seemed to Walli a very good instrument. He guessed that neither the pawnbroker nor the soldier had realized its worth.
‘Listen to this,’ he said to Lili, and he began to sing a Bahamian tune called ‘All My Trials’ with lyrics in English. He had heard it on Western radio stations: it was popular with American folk groups. The minor chords made it a melancholy song, and he was pleased with the plaintive finger-picking accompaniment he had devised.
When he had finished, Grandma Maud looked over the top of the newspaper and said in English: ‘Your accent is perfectly dreadful, Walli, dear.’
‘Sorry.’
She reverted to German. ‘But you sing nicely.’
‘Thank you.’ Walli turned to Lili. ‘What do you think of the song?’
‘It’s a bit dreary,’ she said. ‘Maybe I’ll like it more when I’ve heard it a few times.’
‘That’s no good,’ he said. ‘I want to play it tonight at the Minnes?nger.’ This was a folk club just off the Kurfürstendamm in West Berlin. The name meant a troubadour.
Lili was impressed. ‘Are you playing at the Minnes?nger?’
‘It’s a special night. They’re having a contest. Anybody can play. The winner gets a chance of a regular gig.’
‘I didn’t know clubs did that.’
‘They don’t usually. This is a one-off.’
Grandma Maud said: ‘Don’t you have to be older to go to such a place?’
‘Yes, but I’ve got in before.’
Lili said: ‘Walli looks older than he is.’
‘Hmm.’
Lili said to Walli: ‘You’ve never sung in public. Are you nervous?’
‘You bet.’
‘You should play something more cheerful.’
‘I guess you’re right.’
‘How about “This Land is Your Land”? I love that one.’
Walli played it, and Lili sang along.
While they were singing, their older sister, Rebecca, came in. Walli adored Rebecca. After the war, when their parents had been desperately working all hours to feed the family, Rebecca had often been left in charge of Walli and Lili. She was like a second mother, but not so strict.
And she had such guts! He had watched with awe as she threw her husband’s matchstick model out of the window. Walli had never liked Hans, and was secretly glad to see him go.
All the neighbours were talking about how Rebecca had unknowingly married a Stasi officer. It had given Walli status in school: no one had previously imagined there was anything special about the Francks. Girls especially were fascinated by the thought that everything said and done in his house had been reported to the police for almost a year.
Even though Rebecca was his sister, Walli could see that she was gorgeous. She had a fabulous figure and a lovely face that showed both kindness and strength. But now he noticed that she looked as if someone had died. He stopped playing and said: ‘What’s the matter?’
‘I’ve been fired,’ she said.
Grandma Maud put down the newspaper.
‘That’s crazy!’ Walli said. ‘The boys in your school say you’re their best teacher!’
‘I know.’
‘Why did they sack you?’
‘I think it was Hans’s revenge.’
Walli recalled Hans’s reaction when he had seen his model smashed, thousands of little matchsticks scattered across the wet pavement. ‘You’ll regret this,’ Hans had yelled, looking up through the rain. Walli had regarded that as bluster, but a moment’s thought would have told him that an agent of the secret police had the power to carry out such a threat. ‘You and your family,’ Hans had screamed, and Walli was included in the curse. He shivered.
Grandma Maud said: ‘Aren’t they desperate for teachers?’
‘Bernd Held is frantic,’ Rebecca said. ‘But he was given orders from above.’
Lili said: ‘What will you do?’
‘Get another job. It shouldn’t be difficult. Bernd has given me a glowing reference. And every school in East Germany is short of teachers, because so many have moved to the West.’
‘You should move West,’ said Lili.
‘We should all move West,’ said Walli.
‘Mother won’t, you know that,’ said Rebecca. ‘She says we must solve our problems, not run away from them.’
Walli’s father came in, dressed in a dark-blue suit with a waistcoat, old-fashioned but elegant. Grandma Maud said: ‘Good evening, Werner, dear. Rebecca needs a drink. She’s been fired.’ Grandma often suggested that someone needed a drink. Then she would have one, too.
‘I know about Rebecca,’ Father said shortly. ‘I’ve talked to her.’
He was in a bad mood: he had to be, to speak ungraciously to his mother-in-law, whom he loved and admired. Walli wondered what had happened to upset the old man.
He soon found out.
‘Come into my study, Walli,’ said Father. ‘I want a word.’ He went through the double doors into the smaller drawing room, which he used as his home office. Walli followed him. Father sat behind the desk. Walli knew he was to remain standing. ‘We had a conversation a month ago about smoking,’ Father said.
Walli immediately felt guilty. He had started smoking to look older, but he had grown to like it, and now it was a habit.
‘You promised to give it up,’ his father said.