The blind side of the heart

On a February day, when the sun shone down out of a blue sky and the snow still lying in the streets was reddish-brown with the ashes scattered on it, Helene was standing in the pharmacy weighing out sage leaves on her scales for a customer. The customer wanted a whole pound. Helene dug the little shovel into the jar and tipped measure after measure into the scales. Perhaps the customer was going to put sage leaves in her bath. The bell rang as the door opened. Helene looked up. The small boy who had been standing in front of the jars of sweets for a long time left the pharmacy, hands in his pockets. The smell of burning coal and petrol drifted in from outside. It was midday, and apart from her present customer there was only another elderly lady waiting to be served. The telephone rang. The pharmacist appeared in the doorway of the back room. For you, Helene, he called and looked at her as if he were pleased. It was the first phone call that had come for her in all these years. I’ll take over; you go and answer it. The pharmacist took Helene’s place and she went to the telephone.
Yes? She had probably said it too quietly; now she called in a louder voice, against the rushing sound on the line: Yes?
This is Carl, Helene, I have to speak to you.
Has something happened?
I want to see you.
What?
Can you leave work early today?
It’s Wednesday. I leave at noon anyway. I’ll be coming out in quarter of an hour’s time.
Helene had to hold the phone close to her left ear to make out what he was saying.
Excellent, shouted Carl. We’ll meet at the Romanesque Café.
When?
Loud crackling interrupted them.
Darling, one o’clock at the Romanesque Café.
One o’clock at the Romanesque Café. Helene hung up. She had been pressing the receiver to her ear so hard that her temple hurt. When she came back into the front of the shop, the pharmacist was wrapping up a packet of Veronal and taking the elderly lady’s money.
You can put your coat on now, Helene, he said in kindly tones, smiling at her mischievously, as if it were in his power to fix a rendezvous for her with the man she loved.
Helene crossed the Steinplatz. A thaw had come, changeable weather. She wondered why Carl wanted to see her so urgently. Maybe the philosopher in Hamburg had sent an answer. The man from Freiburg had written just before Christmas rejecting Carl’s application. He was impressed, he wrote, by Carl’s summa cum laude, but not so impressed by Hegel, and the posts for assistant lecturers were all filled. Helene stopped in Fasanenstrasse. A bicycle rang its bell behind her. It suddenly occurred to her that the cyclist might be Carl, who rode his bicycle in all weathers. She turned, but it was only a baker’s boy who must have thought the road itself too slushy for him to ride on it. Helene stepped to one side, standing on a small mound of ice that was melting at the edges, and let the baker’s boy ride past on the pavement. The wheels of his bicycle splashed slush on her coat. They were just waiting for Cassirer’s answer now. In January, all doors were still open to Carl in Berlin. He could choose between those two professors who were vying for him here. But what he really wanted even more was to build up a reputation for research of his own, and for the last few weeks it hadn’t looked as if he still seriously expected a reply from the philosopher Cassirer in Hamburg. What else could seem to Carl so urgent; why didn’t he want to wait until this evening? Perhaps he wanted to see her to discuss the forthcoming visit to his parents that weekend? She was afraid to meet them. She and Carl had almost quarrelled the evening before. Helene had said she couldn’t go to see his parents empty-handed, she wanted to buy them a present. Carl didn’t think that was right. They needed the money badly for other things: food, books, and not least for their future life together when they moved to a proper apartment. Helene wanted to give his parents a little green vase that she had seen at Kronenberg’s, in a corner at the front of the display window. A green vase? Carl had said incredulously, and it had seemed to Helene that he was mocking her. Even this morning, when they said goodbye to each other, Carl had told her his parents really wouldn’t be expecting any present. They had wanted to meet Helene for years and, after all, his parents knew that they weren’t exactly rich. Carl had been putting together the books he would need this morning, standing with his back to her, and murmured something else. What did you say? Helene had to ask, and he had turned round and said, in a casual tone of voice: The fact is, they don’t know you’re living with me. Helene had to sit down. It was a good three years since she had begun sharing his room. Every month she tried to buy as much of the food for their housekeeping as possible with her own money, since Carl refused to take any of it for the rent because his parents paid that. So did he want her to pretend to his parents on Sunday that she was still living with her aunt?
Carl had tried to calm her down, assuring her that he was going to tell them the truth himself on Sunday.
But in Helene’s eyes that was worst of all. How could he take his long-standing fiancée to his home for the first time and say, during lunch: Oh, we’ve known each other for four years now, we got engaged to be married two years ago, but anyway we’ve been living together for over three years? Helene rubbed her eyes.
Look, you would never come with me to see them, how was I to explain that yes, you were living with me, but you didn’t want to meet them?
Oh, so now I’m to blame, am I?
No, Helene, it’s nothing to do with blame. It would have struck them as uncivil. How could I say that you simply didn’t feel confident enough?
Helene had wanted to answer back but didn’t dare, and she felt uncomfortable about that. She had scrubbed at her eyes until Carl came over and held her hands. Who did his parents think, she wondered, was washing and mending Carl’s clothes, making sure he had a hot meal in the evening and keeping the room bright and cheerful, feeding the sparrows on the windowsill, watering the orchid in its herbarium when Carl crossed the Monti della Trinità every summer to go on holiday with his parents near Lake Zürich? When they went away his father did research work at the Swiss National Observatory, working out cycloids and mapping sunspots, while mother and son went to concerts together. His sister hadn’t accompanied them on those holidays since her marriage. Carl had kissed Helene’s hands and assured her that they would clear it all up on Sunday, the two of them. It was only a small thing they had to explain between them then; this was about their life together, after all, and everything that still lay ahead in their future.
Helene had to take care not to slip as she walked along. Ice still lay under the melting snow in many places. She had to wait outside the Memorial Church for a long time; the cars were driving slowly and skidding on the road. Carl was a good cyclist, he’d be careful, or he might have left his bicycle at the library. The big Kurfürstendamm clock said ten to one. Helene felt restless and stationed herself under the awning above the huge window of the Romanesque Café.
She was sure Carl had some good news to tell her. Perhaps he’d been offered another post somewhere? Perhaps he hadn’t made up his mind between the two offers here and wanted to ask her which she thought the best choice? But if he had spent the morning in the library, as he had said earlier that he would, then nothing world-shaking could have happened there. Helene smiled nervously. She remembered how Carl would sometimes stop reading in the evening because he wanted to tell her some great idea that had occurred to him. Helene’s eyes searched to both right and left of the Memorial Church on the other side of the crossing. Wasn’t that a cyclist wearing a cap like Carl’s over there? But perhaps he had left the library some time ago and had telephoned from Viktoria-Luise-Platz? And perhaps that was because he’d met the postman and the postman had brought him a letter from Hamburg. Hamburg was said to be a beautiful city. Sometimes Helene dreamed of living in a city with a harbour. She liked to see big ships. It seemed to her one of the disadvantages of her birthplace that it was neither by the sea nor in the high mountains. She knew mountains only from a distance, and anyway the Lusatian Hills were small and not real mountains at all. The sea was clear and distinct in her mind’s eye; she had painted it in glowing colours for Carl, but she had never actually seen it.
Helene came out from under the awning and took a few steps to the left towards Tauentzienstrasse, in case he was coming that way. She looked around searchingly, wishing he would arrive. The four points of the compass just weren’t enough here, and she didn’t know which way he’d be coming. The sea, no . . . but she did know the big ships on the Elbe at Dresden. The clock said five past one. Suddenly Helene thought she knew why he had to see her in such a hurry, and laughed with relief. He had bought their wedding rings. Helene straightened her hat. Why hadn’t that occurred to her before? He wanted to give her a surprise, that must be it. Perhaps he’d meant them to meet inside the café here and she had misunderstood. He was inviting her out in honour of the day. Helene looked around her. She couldn’t very well go in; she might miss his arrival. A car hooted. Couldn’t that woman with her two children move a little faster? But the traffic was getting worse and worse, and suppose there was another storm? Helene looked up at the clock. Quarter past one. Perhaps something had kept him. It wasn’t like Carl to be late. When they had arranged to meet somewhere, he was usually waiting for her at the appointed place when she arrived. Helene looked in all directions once again, turned a few steps to the right. He might be coming along Budapester Strasse. The square, the tall church, the pavements, the roadways, they were all clearly visible despite the bright sunshine. Advertising pillars, people standing in line outside kiosks. Both cars and passers-by skidded in the slush; a coachman had to keep cracking his whip to get his horse moving. Helene shifted from foot to foot; her feet were wet and cold. She remembered the horse falling over on the day they arrived in Berlin. Had that horse died? A heart attack, trouble with its brain or lungs. An embolism. She had decided to take her boots to the cobbler this week. This would have been a good day; she’d have had time today. Since she didn’t have a second pair she’d have to wait in the shop until the cobbler had stitched them up and resoled them.
A few minutes before one-thirty Helene decided that if Carl hadn’t arrived by the time it was half past she would go and look inside the café. Perhaps he was finally planning to grant her long-cherished wish to go roller-skating, and had gone to the roller-skating rink to find out how to hire skates and buy tickets. They said it was expensive. The Russian girls at Helene’s evening classes had often talked about the roller-skating rink and the latest acquaintances they’d made there. They met regularly at the rink to pirouette and twirl around. These girls were all younger than Helene and came from good Jewish families. Roller-skating must be fun. Helene waited until the big hand of the clock rested on the numbers six, then seven and finally eight. Then she went in.
The café was full. Customers sat at the little tables, and the mirrors all the way up to the ceiling made it look as if there were even more of them. It was lunchtime, many of the guests were eating meat roulades and potatoes, and the aroma of Savoy cabbage hung in the air. A distinguished-looking gentleman in black waved to a second man in strikingly informal garb; he wore pale, wide-legged trousers, braces over a crumpled shirt and a white beret. All he needed was an artist’s palette in his hand. This was a place where people liked to withdraw into one of the attractive chambres séparées. Wine was drunk from tall glasses. Helene’s throat tightened. She looked around and, sure enough, there were customers both young and old eating alone at many of the tables, but no Carl. The clock above the panelled bar said quarter to two. Why was her heart beating so hard? There was nothing for her to worry about. Helene went out of the café again into the Kurfürstendamm. A small crowd of people had gathered, an elderly lady kept calling Thief! Thief! Others were holding a boy who couldn’t be more than ten or twelve. He wasn’t struggling, he was crying. You little rascal, said one of the men holding him. But that wasn’t enough for the old lady. Rogues like you ought to be locked up, she scolded him, you just wait until the police get here!
Helene decided not to wait any longer. She knew that Carl wasn’t going to come now.
Perhaps they had misunderstood each other and he had meant a different time? But she knew perfectly well that he had said one o’clock. Wasn’t it possible that he had meant something else? Maybe another place? They had often met on this corner; maybe he had wanted to meet somewhere else today and mentioned the café by mistake, but with another one in mind? Helene didn’t know where to turn, where to go; she felt afraid, although she told herself there was nothing to fear. She went to a kiosk and bought cigarettes. It was the first time she had ever bought any for herself. She really needed the money for the cobbler, but she couldn’t think about going to the cobbler now, she wanted to smoke a cigarette. She didn’t have a cigarette holder; she’d have to smoke without one. She broke two matches before she managed to light the cigarette. A little piece of tobacco came adrift, tasting bitter on her tongue. It wasn’t easy to hold the cigarette in gloved fingers. Helene didn’t know which way to look now. She was standing in the middle of a busy crowd of people whose lunch break was over and who were hurrying back to work. Some of them might have appointments to keep, and had to run to the station and take a train going west.
The wind blew in her face, a west wind from the direction of the Memorial Church. Helene tried breathing deeply to inhale the smoke. South, east, north. But before she could draw the smoke into her lungs her bronchial tubes closed against it and she had a coughing fit. So she puffed the cigarette instead. Little clouds of smoke came out of her mouth. The rather sour, bitter taste of it made her feel pleasantly light-headed. She took short, quick puffs, blowing out her cheeks as far as she could, and finally letting the cigarette end fall in the slush at her feet, where it went out at once.
Helene didn’t know where to go in search of Carl now. She walked down Tauentzienstrasse to Nürnberger Strasse, round several blocks, past the school where she had taken her evening classes – they had finished months ago now – and she did not turn into Geisbergstrasse until dusk was falling. She could see the black roof of their building from the other side of the square; no light, however faint, showed in their attic room.
All the same, she went up to make sure that no one had come in. The door was locked, the room itself exactly as they had left it in the morning. Helene didn’t take off her coat. She went downstairs again, past the young man who lived on the third floor and kept forgetting his keys, so that he often had to sit outside the landlady’s apartment with a stack of papers, perhaps revising a stage play or the scenario of a film, until someone came to let him in. He generally had a pen in his hand and was scribbling something in the margin of the typewritten pages. Helene went down Bayreuther Strasse to Wittenbergplatz, over Ansbacher Strasse and back to Geisbergstrasse, to Viktoria-Luise-Platz, up to the attic room and back down to the street again. The third-floor tenant must have been let into his room by now.
Helene had stopped wondering why Carl had wanted to speak to her so urgently in the middle of the day; she was just hoping he would appear and they could fall into each other’s arms. Something must have detained him. Helene smoked a second cigarette, then a third as she walked around the streets for the third time, and in the end she had smoked eight. She felt very sick. She wasn’t hungry at all.
She told herself she wanted to be home when he returned. They could eat together when he arrived, he would put his hand against her cheek – oh, if only he would come home.
She took off her boots. She didn’t want to disturb the landlady by asking for hot water. So she sat on the bed, wrapped the blanket round her cold feet and tried to read the new book that Carl had brought her two days ago, but she couldn’t get beyond the first poem in the volume. She read it again and again, read each line several times, and said the last three lines out loud to herself: And then I thought I saw/you, far off, drain the glass /from which I drank before. Then she began again at the beginning: After that hour has passed/What next, what news is heard? /Those friends who went there last/Will send no word. Helene understood only a fraction of what the poem said, her mind was somewhere else, half still in her thoughts, half closed off entirely while her heart beat fast and her eyes narrowed. It was as if, as she repeatedly read the lines of verse, some certainty were forcing itself upon her, taking her over. At one point Helene stood up. She was freezing. There was a basket under the washstand and Carl’s vest, ready for washing, hung over the edge of it. She put it on next to her skin and his pyjamas over it. Overnight she counted the time by the distant chiming of clocks. When the first sounds could be heard stirring in the house in the morning twilight she stayed sitting on the bed by the wall, thinking: something has to happen now to make you get up, get washed and dressed. See you tomorrow, the pharmacist had said yesterday. She couldn’t keep him waiting. Helene heard steps on the stairs, their stairs, the last flight that led only to the attic. There was a soft knock on the door. Helene knew that Carl wasn’t forgetful, he always had his key on him; she didn’t want to open the door. The knocking grew louder. Helene looked at the door. Her heart was thudding, exhausted with beating all night long. Helene knew that she had no choice: she must stand up, she stood up; she must go to the door, she went to the door; she must open the door, she opened it.
The landlady stood outside, still in her dressing gown. Fr?ulein Helene, she said, looking not at Helene but at the floor. Helene held on to the doorknob; she was so weak that the floor seemed to move and rise, turn round, sway back and forth. The landlady was in some difficulty. Well, many people found it hard to talk early in the morning. My telephone rang, she said, Professor Wertheimer told me his son wouldn’t be coming back, he said he’d had an accident.
Which son? thought Helene.
She knew it was Carl who had had the accident, she had guessed it even before she heard the steps on the stairs and had to open the door. But which son, which son was the landlady talking about now? Helene said: Yes. She didn’t want to move her head unnecessarily, no nodding it, no tilting it, after all, if it turned it might fall off her shoulders.
I asked Professor Wertheimer if you’d been told yet. He said he didn’t think you could have been. I told him I would do it, I could go up to you. Professor Wertheimer said he didn’t know where you lived, but if I could make sure you were told that would be good. He asked me if I had your address. I said I’d have to go and look. I suppose he still doesn’t know you’ve been living here?
Helene clung to the doorknob with both hands.
He’s dead. The landlady must be saying that just in case the message had been misunderstood. That’s what I had to tell you.
Helene took a deep breath; some time she’d have to breathe out again. Yes. Still holding the knob tight in both hands, she closed the door until the latch snapped into place.
If there’s anything I can do for you, Helene, she heard the landlady saying on the other side of the door, will you let me know?
Helene did not answer. She sat down on the bed and took the book on to her lap; she kept blinking: I knew your glance, your eyes, /And deep there, it still seems, /Our fate, our joys arise, /Our love, our dreams. She was reading out loud now, as if she were reading to someone and this was the only way the poem could get out of her. She could not raise or lower her voice even slightly. Helene read the poem through to the end again one last time. The night was over. Then she closed the book and put it on the desk. Helene opened the window. Cold air streamed in. The first streaks of light as day dawned were showing in the sky. There was a pale and delicate tinge of pink among them. She mustn’t take off his vest. Helene washed and put her dress on again. Her shoes were still wet; she had forgotten to stuff them with newspaper. Her coat smelled of yesterday’s smoke.
Helene never managed to get to work that morning. At the last corner, when she could already see the pharmacy’s familiar shop sign, she turned away. She went down the street leading away from the pharmacy. She had not made up her mind where she wanted to go, she had no idea where she could go. She simply put one foot in front of the other. Cars drove past, people walked by, the tram moved on its rails, perhaps squealing, although the city seemed to Helene to be perfectly silent. She was not out of breath, only silent.
Finding it so easy to put one foot in front of the other aroused a memory in Helene, although it went away again at once. Helene crossed streets; she didn’t have to look right and left any more. The pink light had lit up the sky, the world was bathed in pink now, a sallow tone of pink that didn’t suit it. Dark-blue buildings turned violet, and next moment morning had come, there was not a trace of pink left. The pharmacist would wonder where she was. But she was here. She could telephone him and say she couldn’t come to work today. Let him wonder why; she never took time off for sickness, but today she couldn’t, couldn’t go to work. Helene put one foot in front of the other. Tomorrow? What sort of a day would tomorrow be? What could tomorrow be like? Helene didn’t know. She found herself standing at the foot of the broad stone steps in Achenbachstrasse. Otta opened the door and told her that Martha was still asleep and Leontine had gone out an hour ago – she had gone to work.
Helene sat down by the washstand in Martha’s room. It would be only a few hours until Martha woke up. She had been on night duty. Helene was not really waiting, just sitting there and letting time pass. She wasn’t waiting for Martha, she wasn’t waiting for Leontine. Helene wasn’t waiting for anything any more. It was reassuring to find that time passed all the same.
Later, Martha brought her a glass of tea, found her something to eat and telephoned the pharmacist for her. When Martha sat down she held on to the edge of the table, when she walked along she kept touching the wall. Helene knew that there had been something the matter with Martha’s sense of balance for some time. Helene watched the steam rising from the tea in the glass. Martha said something. Helene lowered her head until her chin was on her breast; she could smell him better that way: Carl, the smell of him rose to her from the neck of her dress. Very slightly, so that Martha wouldn’t notice, she raised one arm. Yes, his smell was there in her armpit too, clinging to her along with his vest. Martha said something in a louder voice now, loud enough to make Helene listen at last; she must drink her tea, said Martha, she ought to eat something too. Helene couldn’t imagine ever eating.
She could sit, she didn’t know if she could swallow. She tried it, she swallowed, she put the glass down. That might do for this morning.
At midday she drank the cold tea at a draught and then drank water from the jug on the washstand. The jug was empty, her throat hurt from stretching and closing as she drank. Then Helene sat down again and went on not waiting for anything. Days passed.
If Martha was at work, Helene lay down on her back on Martha’s bed and moaned. Sometimes she wept quietly.
When Martha and Leontine said Helene ought to put on her coat, she put on her coat and followed them. Martha went to number 11 Viktoria-Luise-Platz and brought Helene’s things down from upstairs. She gave Helene’s key back to the landlady and asked her not to tell Carl’s parents that Helene had been living there with him. His parents had paid the rent until the end of the month.
Meanwhile Helene had been sitting on the bench in the square outside the house, watching the basin of the empty fountain and the sparrows hopping about on the edge of the little puddles, dipping their beaks into the water. They were bathing. The water must be cold as ice.
Martha and Leontine wanted Helene to go out as much as possible, to keep moving. Helene kept moving. Martha said Helene had to eat. Leontine said no, Helene didn’t have to do anything. Hunger came back of its own accord. It was good that Helene wasn’t waiting for anything now, not waiting to feel hungry, not waiting for food. Sunday arrived. The plan had been for Carl and Helene to visit his parents that day, Helene remembered. Were his parents praying? God wasn’t there, she heard no voice, no sign appeared to her. Helene didn’t know when Carl’s funeral would be. She didn’t feel brave enough to go to the telephone; she was a stranger to them, after all, and she didn’t want to bother his family, especially now. Time contracted, rolled itself up, folded itself.
Sunday had gone, other Sundays would come and go too.
The sun shone with more warmth now, crocuses were in flower in the beds beside the broad streets. Leontine and Martha said goodbye to her; Leontine was sending Martha to a sanatorium for a month. Dysfunctional equilibrium. What a pompous way of saying she had a poor sense of balance. She had to convalesce and detoxify her body. Martha cried when she said goodbye; she was so sorry that now, of all times, she couldn’t be there for her little angel. Martha clung to Helene, threw her long, thin arms round her so tightly that Helene could hardly breathe. What did anyone need air for anyway? Helene didn’t try to free herself, it was Leontine who had to pull Martha away. Martha was angry, she accused Leontine of hurting her, using expressions Helene had never heard from her before.
Don’t you dare separate me from my sister, you bitch, I won’t be parted from her.
But Leontine was sure of herself, and there was no way around it: she didn’t want to lose Martha, so she must get her out of the city, perhaps for a month, perhaps for two. Leontine took Martha away with her first by physical force, then by dint of severity. Helene heard Leontine still talking to Martha as they left the apartment, much as you talk to an animal, not expecting any answer. Without Martha there, Leontine seemed to feel she had no right to stay in Fanny’s apartment. Helene didn’t ask Leontine if she had gone back to her husband.
She hardly saw Leontine. Once Leontine brought some medicine for Fanny, another time she came to fetch a pair of winter shoes that she had forgotten. Helene went with Leontine to the door, where she turned and placed one hand on Helene’s shoulder. Martha needs me. You do know I have to take care of her now, don’t you? Helene nodded; her eyes were burning. She wanted to put her arms round Leontine and hold her close, but she just blushed. And Leontine let the hand slip off her shoulder again, opened the door and left.
Helene was sleeping alone in the room overlooking the courtyard now; she had pushed the beds apart again. She went to work at the pharmacy and was glad that the pharmacist was reserved in his expressions of sympathy. He didn’t pester her with questions. Yet he could hardly know how numb Helene felt. In spring the pharmacist told her she was getting thinner and thinner. Helene knew she was; her clothes were hanging off her, she forgot to eat, and when food was placed in front of her she ate without any real appetite.
One day a letter for her came from Carl’s mother. She wrote to say she was in deep mourning; life without her youngest child was hard. Was she deliberately saying nothing about her other two sons, whose death, Carl had said, she so persistently refused to accept? Carl was buried in Weissensee cemetery, she wrote. Recent events were bringing some changes to their life. Her husband had been offered a post in New York, and this time they were thinking of accepting it. None of their children lived in Berlin now and their daughter was emigrating to Palestine with her husband. Finally, Frau Wertheimer wrote, she knew that Helene might not welcome this request, but in spite of Carl’s death she herself would dearly like to meet her. Carl had spoken of Helene to his parents with such affection, such enthusiasm, he was so much in love that they were sure he had been planning to tell them about a forthcoming engagement in due form when they were all to have met that day in February. Or perhaps she, Frau Wertheimer, was wrong and the young couple had just been friends? She was writing this letter to invite Helene most warmly to visit them, and asked her to telephone. If for whatever reason Helene didn’t want to, she would understand. She wished her every happiness in her young life and was confident that she would find it.
Helene didn’t want to go. No part of her wanted to accept the invitation. But like her free will, her fears had left her too. If Carl’s mother wished for a meeting so much, she would grant that wish. Using Fanny’s telephone, she called her at their house by the Wannsee and they agreed on a date for her to visit in early May.
She bought white lilac and took it to the Wannsee. A gardener opened the gate to her. A housemaid met her at the front door. Would she like to leave anything in the hall? Because of the warm weather Helene was not wearing a jacket, only her thin organza scarf, and she didn’t want to take that off and give it to the maid. The housemaid took the lilac from her, so Helene stood there empty-handed as she heard a voice behind her saying: Welcome.
Good day. I’m Helene. Helene went to meet the lady.
Carl’s mother offered her hand. I’m Frau Wertheimer and my husband will be here any moment. I’m glad you came. A light floral perfume rose from her. Thank you so very much.
Don’t mention it, said Helene.
What did you say?
Helene wondered whether she had said something wrong. I was very happy to come. The professor’s wife’s eyelids fluttered slightly; for a moment her candid glance reminded Helene of Carl. She looked around.
Would you like some tea? Carl’s mother led Helene through the high-ceilinged entrance hall. Paintings hung on the walls. In passing, Helene saw the Rodin watercolour Carl had mentioned to her. She wanted to turn and look at it, but was afraid his mother might not think that the right thing to do. The dark picture could have come from Spain. In her long, elegant tea gown, which suggested an oriental princess’s evening wear, Carl’s mother walked through the next room. Its tall windows looked out on a garden where the rhododendrons were in bloom, their pale violet and purple shining against the dark green of the smooth leaves. The grass was tall and sprinkled with wild flowers. Insects danced in the air above. Helene knew from Carl that this garden went down to the lake, and they had a landing stage where their sailing boat and a rowing boat were tied up. Over fifteen years ago, Carl’s brothers, lost in the war, had sailed and rowed those boats.
Carl’s mother went into the next room. Chinese vases a metre high and furniture in the Biedermeier style stood there. The wide double doors leading to the terrace were open and the lake lay below. The smell of newly mown grass rose in the air with the warm moisture of spring; the gardener must be cutting it, although he was nowhere to be seen. This was more of a park running slightly wild than a garden, for wherever Helene looked she couldn’t see a fence. Only some white-painted arches showed where a circular rose garden stood a little way downhill.
Shall we sit down? Carl’s mother pulled back one of the chairs and adjusted the flat cushions for Helene to sit in it. The table was laid for three. In the middle was a dish full of strawberries, which must have been imported from the south, since native strawberries weren’t ripe yet. The strawberries lay on a bed of young beech leaves. A parasol provided shade. Birds were twittering in the rhododendrons and the tops of old broad-leaved trees. Was this the place that Carl used to visit on those Sundays when they went out to the Wannsee together and Helene sat reading in the garden of the inn? She had formed no idea of the appearance of Carl’s home when he visited his parents. Vines climbed up the ochre wall of the house, their leaves still young and soft. So was it from all this splendid colour that Carl came when he fetched her at the inn? Perhaps he had sat at this table, on this chair, and looked at the fading blossom of the apple tree as Helene was looking at it now. Did his mother always wear that fine, sweet, unusually light perfume? The fuchsias in large pots and containers on the terrace were putting out their first flowers and large, almost improbably bright green ferns grew beside the flight of steps that broadened as it went down to the garden leading to the water. The colours dazzled Helene’s eyes. She sat down carefully; the chair creaked and wobbled slightly. The tablecloth was delicately embroidered with flowers. Even Mariechen couldn’t have done it better. Helene carefully ran her hand over the embroidery.
Would you like to wash your hands and freshen up a bit?
Rather apprehensive, Helene made haste to say yes. Only on the way back to the house did she take a surreptitious look at her hands, but she couldn’t see any rim of dirt under her nails, or anything else suspect.
The bathroom was made of marble, even the stove was covered with marble tiles, and the soap was perfumed with sandalwood. Helene took her time. They’d wait for her out there. A pair of horn-rimmed glasses lay on the shelf above the stove. Helene recognized them. It looked as if Carl had only just put them down to go and lie on the lounger in the garden and rub his eyes. When Helene had found her way back to the terrace, she heard a male voice that reminded her of Carl.
Carl’s father’s likeness to his son took Helene’s breath away. She just nodded when he greeted her, her lips forming a smile, while Carl’s mother introduced her husband to Helene by name.
The three of them sat down. I don’t have much time, said Carl’s father when his wife poured him some tea. He didn’t say it to Helene, he said it to his teacup, glancing at the large wristwatch he wore.
You’re very pretty, said Carl’s mother and rather shyly, but admiringly, added: And so blonde.
She’s very blonde, yes. Carl’s father drank from his cup quite noisily. It sounded as if he were washing out his mouth with the tea.
So pretty, too, Carl’s mother repeated.
Leave the poor child alone, Lilly, you’ll embarrass her.
Are you studying, may I ask? The professor put this question too without looking at Helene. He took one of the strawberries and put it in his mouth. His wife pushed a small fruit dish with an even smaller fruit knife over to him, no doubt so that he would find some use for it this time, and before Helene could answer she told Professor Wertheimer: No, Carl told us, remember? She’s a trained nurse.
A nurse? It was a moment before the professor could think what to say next. Well, nursing is a very useful profession. A friend of our Ilse . . .
Ilse is our daughter, Carl’s mother explained.
But Carl’s father was not going to be interrupted. A friend of our Ilse trained as a nurse too and now she’s a doctor.
In London, added Carl’s mother, and asked if she could pour Helene some more tea.
Helene drank her tea. She didn’t want to tell them she was working in a pharmacy now, she didn’t want to explain, unasked, how she and Carl had imagined their future. They had intended to go together to Freiburg or Hamburg, where Helene would study. Probably chemistry, pharmacy or medicine. Carl was in favour of chemistry, she preferred the idea of medicine, but perhaps pharmacy would have been the obvious choice after her work in the pharmacy in Berlin. The snag was that Helene had no money to pay for her studies. But independently of that, her wonderful idea of studying had now moved into the remote distance; it seemed to Helene as if that wish belonged to another, earlier life and was not her own any more. Helene no longer wished for anything. The visions that they had developed, discussed and conjured up together were all gone, had vanished with Carl. The man who shared her memories no longer existed. Helene looked up. How long were they going to sit there saying nothing? Carl’s father had eaten half the dish of strawberries without using the fruit knife. A last trickle of black liquid came from the teapot, and the joy and excitement of Carl’s mother, so palpable at first, seemed to have died down as they sat at the table.
Well, then. Carl’s father took the napkin that he had tucked into his shirt and put it down beside the unused fruit bowl and the little knife.
My husband works a great deal.
That’s not quite right, I don’t work a great deal. I just like working. The professor affectionately put his hand on his wife’s arm.
He has a small observatory up there. Carl’s mother pointed to a terrace higher up the slope, with several telescopes showing above its balustrade.
Only a little one, said the professor, standing up. He nodded to them both and was about to take his leave, but Helene stood up too.
You were so lucky to have Carl as a son. He was a wonderful person. Helene was surprised by her firm and cheerful tone. It sounded like birthday congratulations.
Carl’s mother was crying.
He was her darling, Carl’s father told Helene. Neither of them had said a word about their other two sons.
Carl’s father went over to his wife’s chair, took her head in his hands and pressed it against him. She was hiding her face behind her long, slender fingers. Something about the gesture reminded Helene of Carl, the way he came over to her when she was sad and exhausted, the way he had warmed her cold, tired feet.
The professor let go of his wife. I’ll tell Gisèle to bring you some more tea. Helene was going to refuse it; she didn’t want to stay, she couldn’t bear the silence and the beautiful colours here any longer. She opened her mouth, but no sound would come out, and no one noticed that she had risen to her feet to leave when he did. The professor shook hands with her; his hand was warm and firm. He wished her every happiness, and disappeared through the double doors into the house. Helene had to sit down again.
He was my little darling, said Carl’s mother, with a tenderness in her voice that sent a shiver down Helene’s back. Carl’s mother was kneading her handkerchief on the table in front of her, watching its folds as it fell apart again. Her long fingers ended in oval nails with white half-moons which were so regular that Helene couldn’t help gazing at her hands.
He wanted to marry you, didn’t he? Carl’s mother looked straight at Helene. It was a glance that wished to know everything and was prepared for anything.
Helene swallowed. Yes.
Carl’s mother had tears running down her delicate, beautiful face. Carl couldn’t help it, you know. He was born to love.
Aren’t we all? That was the question that went through Helene’s head. But no, probably we weren’t. Very likely it was a fact that some people loved more warmly than others and Carl really couldn’t help it. She was wondering how the accident had happened and whether she could ask, if such a question would seem to his mother inappropriate, indiscreet. How exactly did he die? On the other hand, Carl’s mother still couldn’t know that they had been going to meet that day, that he had died on his way to her. That she had waited for him in vain.
She would also have liked to know whether Carl had wedding rings on him at the time of the accident, but she didn’t dare ask his mother that. It wasn’t her place. His last intentions were his alone, or perhaps for his heirs too, and his heirs were his parents.
There was still snow on the ground, said Carl’s mother, drying her eyes with her handkerchief. Fresh tears were trickling out and rolling down her cheeks, hanging on her chin, collecting until they were so heavy that they dripped on her oriental dress, where they made dark patches that kept growing larger.
Helene raised her head. We were going to meet that day.
No glance, nothing to show whether Carl’s mother had heard Helene’s distinctly spoken words.
The sun was shining, said Carl’s mother, but snow was still lying on the ground. He slipped and hit his head on the radiator of a car as he fell. The car couldn’t stop in time. They brought us the bicycle. It was mangled. I rubbed it clean. There was a little blood sticking to the spokes. Only a little. Most of it must have been left on the road.
The housemaid brought another pot of tea and asked if there was anything else they would like. But when Carl’s mother didn’t seem to hear her she went away again.
The snowdrops he had been holding were still fresh. The police officer brought us everything. The snowdrops, his glasses, the bicycle. He had a bag of books with him. There were nine marks in his wallet, nine marks exactly, no groschen, no pfennigs. Carl’s mother smiled suddenly. Nine marks, I wondered if someone had stolen money from his wallet. Her smile faded. There was a lock of fair hair in it. Yours? He died instantly.
Carl’s mother dabbed at her eyes, but in vain. It looked as if dabbing them just made the tears flow more freely. She blew her nose, she wiped the corners of her eyes with a part of the handkerchief that was still fairly dry.
Helene sat up straight. She couldn’t sit here any longer, and one of her legs had gone to sleep. My heartfelt sympathy, Frau Wertheimer. Hearing her own words, Helene was horrified by the false sound of her voice. She meant it, she wanted to say it, but the way she had said it sounded all wrong, indifferent and cold.
Carl’s mother raised her eyes now and looked at Helene from under her heavy, wet eyelashes. You are young, your life is ahead of you. Frau Wertheimer nodded as if to emphasize what she was saying, and there was warmth in her eyes such as Helene had never seen in a woman before. You will find a man who will love you and marry you. Beautiful as you are, and so clever.
Helene knew that what Carl’s mother was foretelling, to comfort them both, was wrong. She was saying it, yes, but her words hinted at a subtle distinction: Helene could look for another man, she would find one, nothing easier. But no one can look for another son. The likening of one man to another, the competing functions of a human being, the reduction of that human being to his place in the life of those who loved him seemed to Helene fundamentally wrong. But she knew that to shake her head and deny what Carl’s mother had said would hurt her feelings. It was impossible to compare their grief, and there would have been something cruel in it; each of them was mourning a different Carl.
I must go now, said Helene. Although her cup was still full, she rose to her feet. The chair grated harshly as she pushed it back. Carl’s mother stood up; she had to hold the folds of her tea gown. Perhaps she had shrunk inside it. She pointed to the door with one hand, so that there could be no doubt, so that Helene would start on her way through the interior of the house. Helene wanted to wait for her to go first, but she herself was to go ahead. Do go first, said Carl’s mother; she didn’t want Helene looking at her. Helene heard her walking through the drawing room behind her, past the place where Carl’s glasses lay, past the tall vases and some framed silk embroidery that Helene noticed for the first time, past pastel pictures of herons and moths, bamboos and lotus flowers. They were back in the entrance hall. The Rodin picture was of two women, girls dancing naked.
Thank you for asking me. Helene turned to Carl’s mother and offered her hand.
It’s for us to thank you for coming, she said, and had to move her handkerchief to her left hand to give Helene her long right hand, which was curiously warm and dry, yet damp at the same time. A light hand. A hand that would not be held any more and would itself hold no one’s.
The housemaid opened the front door for Helene and went to the wrought-iron gate with her.
As soon as the gate had latched behind Helene and she could go down the road, past the wood and into the light of the sun shining pitilessly down, she began to cry. She couldn’t find a handkerchief in her little handbag, so she dried her tears on her bare forearm from time to time, and when her nose ran she picked a maple leaf and blew her nose into that. Young oak shoots in the undergrowth. She walked through the wood, past the red-flecked trunks of the pine trees, over protruding roots. Dust rose from the sandy forest floor.