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‘Nonsense. She doesn’t mind. In fact, she insists I visit her more often… Have you seen my black shoes?’
‘Darling, the whole idea of coming here was to spend time together like families do. You seem to be looking for every excuse to run away…’
‘With these daily public concerts it doesn’t feel like a family holiday anyway…’
‘Will you stop harping on your concerts? Just don’t play if you don’t want to…’
‘Oh, it’s my fault now! You were the one who spoilt it from the start, Mother!’
‘I am surprised you still call me that…’
‘Pathetic…’
‘We are as good as strangers to each other!’
‘Better leave it that way.’
‘No sense of responsibility! No sense of duty to your family whatsoever!’
‘Grandmother is also my family.’
‘Liar! Hypocrite! You don’t give a damn. You only care about yourself. And do you know what the most unsightly thing in the picture is? You’re secretly relishing your small fame here! Your complacency is revolting! Who do you think you are? Striding around like the world’s greatest pianist… Just let me remind you that you are still a nobody!’
‘I’ve had enough of that…’
A delicate knock on the door interrupted the scene.
‘A call for Signor Krauss.’
Frau Krauss looked at her son sharply:
‘Again?’
There was no phone in the room, so Helmut went downstairs to take the call.
‘Yes?’ He motioned to the receptionist to give him something to write with. ‘Yes… What’s that again? I understand… Do you have any idea how long it might take?… Right… I see… Any news about the other business?… Oh, I thought it… No, there can’t be any mistake. Tell him to keep looking, it’s very important… Yes. Thank you… No, there will be no need. I’ll be in Florence for the next four or five days… See you there. Good bye.’
He went back to his room to pack his things. As he was passing his sister’s room, he saw her sitting on the edge of her bed with her coat on.
‘Irma. Damn it. I forgot. I’m sorry. It’s too breezy for walks anyway.’
‘It’s fine really. Are you…?’
He was gone before she could finish the question.
His mother was still in his room. She was standing with her back to him, looking out of the window.
‘I’ll pack your suitcase for you,’ she said dryly, exhaling cigarette smoke. ‘Now, don’t be a finished pig and take her out for a walk.’
Helmut didn’t know which of the extremities was worse: thunderous quarrels with his mother or dead silence with his sister. Irma and he hardly knew each other. She was used to awkwardness in her presence and bore it with greater ease. After about ten endless minutes of silence she suddenly spoke almost giving him a start: ‘Do you remember the scarf?’ Helmut glanced at the piece of brightly coloured cloth wrapped around her neck. He didn’t remember. It must have been from Celia. Buying presents for Irma had always been Celia’s responsibility.
‘Yes, of course…’
‘I wore it for the Fuehrer’s birthday last year.’
‘How charming… I didn’t know you had been invited.’
‘No, silly! We went to see the parade.’
‘Oh, I’m sure he spotted you in the crowd and was blinded by your elegance.’
Irma didn’t mind jokes at her expense, she was glad she had managed to start a conversation.
‘It’s a pity we can’t see the parade this year,’ she said. ‘But Mutti was so determined to take you on this trip. We really wanted to do something special for you…’
‘I am sorry to be a disappointment.’
‘You don’t like being with us at all then?’
‘On the contrary, I’m thoroughly enjoying myself.’
‘Isn’t it too cold for swimming?’
‘It’s all right.’ A heavy pause. ‘Can you swim?’ he asked.
She giggled:
‘Helmut, I can barely walk.’
After less than a week’s absence he came back from Florence fresh and rested, and he came in peace. Frau Krauss had also changed her line of behaviour. She had probably expected too much from him in such a short time. It’s no use losing patience with each other. After all, her son has so many things to comprehend and accommodate – grandeur, large-scale things. Someone so young and short-tempered can’t do it overnight.
The weather had turned warmer. He swam a lot and with pleasure; talked little and almost politely. In the evenings he played Beethoven’s sonatas at the request of his ever-growing audience. Frau Krauss seemed to have every reason to be happy, but somehow she wasn’t. ‘Something’s about to happen,’ she thought. And then there were more calls from Florence, which she didn’t like at all. Something was building up. She watched her son closely but couldn’t see much behind his breezy calmness. ‘Shall I talk to him?’ She didn’t know how or what about. The denouement came soon enough.
‘I have to go back to Berlin,’ he said one day, with ill-concealed relief.
‘Darling, we are staying for at least another month.’
‘You are. I’m not.’
‘Helmut, what’s going on?’
She followed him to his room. Irma was in hers; she opened the door slightly and listened.
‘It doesn’t make sense to me. It never will.’
‘…’
‘Everything…’
‘…’
‘I betray nothing, Mother. You are the traitor here…’
Irma sneaked out of her room and stood in the corridor with bated breath.
‘Grandma has found two sponsors for me in America.’
‘What sponsors…?’
‘The people who have signed affidavits of support…’
‘I don’t understand. What are you talking about?’
‘One of them is Grandma’s cousin twice removed; the other is her friend’s husband living in New York…’
‘And why do you need their support, may I ask? Helmut, look me in the eye!’
‘You know why. They are helping me to get a visa.’
‘Is that what you’ve been up to all this time? I am your mother and you…’
‘I didn’t want to tell you until the American immigration office gave its approval. Well, now they have, and my decision is official. There’s a stack of immigration papers to be completed. I have to go to Berlin immediately. It’s good bye, Mother. And I can’t say that I am sorry.’
There was a shocked silence.
‘I should have known that she was up to no good. She almost ruined my marriage. And now she got her hands on you.’
Irma slipped into the room and sat in the chair by the door. Her presence caused another long silence. Frau Krauss lit a cigarette. Helmut was folding his clothes and putting them in neat piles.
‘It was my decision,’ he grumbled. ‘Grandma only helped.’
‘Oh, I bet she did. She’s always ready ‘to help’. Now hold your horses, son. We’ll hear what your father has to say on the subject.’
‘He already knows. Grandma has written to him.’
‘And all that is happening behind my back!’
‘It has nothing to do with you. It’s my choice, they are only helping me.’
‘Helping you? One can help someone who has at least some means and experience. You have nothing, Helmut, you’re a child. She’s ruining your life! What are you going to do? What are you going to live on?’
‘Father has promised to consider the question.’
‘Oh, damn your father, his mother, and their entire rotten family! They’ve done enough to kill me a thousand times, but I’m still alive, Helmut, and I’m not giving up now… Irma, girl, the holiday’s over thanks to your brother. We’re leaving together.’
‘I’m not going in your car, Mother,’ Helmut warned. ‘I’m taking the Rome-Berlin express.’
Frau Krauss asked Irma to leave and took her place in the chair.
‘One day you’ll realize how cruel you’ve been to me. Where’s my fault, Helmut? What have I done to deserve this? You could display some semblance of fondness, at least for Irma’s sake.’
‘Oh, about Irma. You really shouldn’t have dragged her all the way down here, not in her state of health, and not in a car.’
‘Helmut, look at me!’ her stern voice rang with indignation. ‘I didn’t drag her here. She wanted it. We did it for you! You hadn’t seen your own country for years. We wanted to introduce you to your Fatherland, to show you the new Germany…’
‘You mean the autobahns and the swastikas? I saw the picture, full-sized. I don’t need to see it again…’
He called Irma and she came instantly, as if she had been waiting behind the door.
‘Irma, would you rather go by train? Don’t look at Mother, look at me. Would you like to go by train?’
Irma blushed and dropped her eyes.
‘Leave the poor child alone, she wants to go with me.’
Frau Krauss rose and walked out slamming the door hard behind her.
‘Just give it some thought,’ Helmut insisted. ‘You can rest on the train, meet new people. And we’ll get home much faster…’
‘Are you going to America?’ Irma was on the verge of tears. Helmut turned away in annoyance – he hated dealing with crying girls.
‘Not tomorrow. It will take another month or two to get a visa.’
‘Could you at least stay until mid-September? To celebrate your birthday with us.’
‘I’ll think about it,’ he lied. ‘Are you going with me or with Mother?’
She didn’t answer.
There were six of them. Six tired, gloomy people heading to an unknown destiny in a shaky covered lorry.
One of them, Rilke, a young man with a stubborn look on his pock-marked face, was of a tougher sort. He rested his elbows on his knees, clasped his hands, and studied the ashy faces of his companions, telling himself again and again that he would never be reduced to their pitiful state.
His throat felt dry. He felt dust grind on his teeth. But the greatest inconvenience of all was the uncertainty. He scanned the blank faces again. The question on everyone’s mind, but not their lips: ‘Where are we being taken?’
‘Transported to another place? But why so few of us? To be killed? Why waste petrol to take us so far? Besides, we’ve been showered and given clean clothes… To work? Makes little sense. Only two of us are strong enough. That one is old. This one is too skinny. And the Red Cross is as good as dead.’
The Red Cross was the only person Rilke knew: they were from the same barrack. A sad man of few words, worse for wear, with that dejected look on his thin face that Rilke didn’t like in people. He had to make an exception for the Red Cross, though, because the man was kind, truly kind – clumsy, foolish – but kind. At the risk of being beaten, he often engaged in negotiations with guards about medicines and blankets for sick people. This had earned him the nickname ‘The Red Cross’. The man laughed when he first heard about it, and that was the only time he was seen laughing. He said his real name, but nobody remembered it. They just kept calling him the Red Cross. ‘Good man,’ Rilke thought. ‘Good man… But spineless. By the looks of him he gave up a long time ago. People like him don’t survive anyway. And he knows it. Pity, really…’
The lorry stopped for about half an hour. They could smell food and hear people chatting. Rilke’s stomach groaned. He rubbed his aching thighs to help circulation. ‘This has to end soon,’ he said. No one bothered to make a comment.
Rilke tried to focus on happier things. It was a sunny day, judging by the bright light peeping through cracks and holes. They could hear sparrows chirp briskly. The noise was growing – it sounded like somebody was throwing bread crumbs around, and more and more birds raided the place to sample the treat.
‘Unbelievable,’ Rilke thought. ‘A few millimeters of plywood separating me from normal life. Spring, freedom. Sunshine. Chats with friends over a beer or two. Flirting with girls. No, better not to think about it.’ He caught the Red Cross’s eye and pointed at the elderly man, as if asking, ‘How is he?’ All this time the man had been sitting with his face buried in his hands. The Red Cross touched his arm and said quietly: ‘You can lean on my shoulder.’ The man shook his head. Maybe he was praying, and as soon as Rilke thought about it, something biblical happened: the back side of the lorry flung open, and a bucket of water was shoved in, a whole bucket of fresh, cool water. ‘Hey, things aren’t that bad,’ Rilke said, splashing and cheering just like one of those sparrows. The Red Cross nodded, rubbing water into his scalp covered with thick jet-black stubble – the only convincing evidence of his young age, Rilke noted to himself.
The doors slammed and the engine started. The Red Cross supported the old man, who nearly fell off his seat. It was getting hotter. Their spirits flagged again and they were almost rocked to sleep when the lorry stopped with an abrupt jerk. No more than fifteen minutes had passed since the previous stop. Rilke thought it was strange. Perhaps, there was something wrong with the lorry. Then they heard hurried footsteps and barking reprimands: ‘… Supposed to have arrived half an hour ago…’ Inaudible voices delivered explanations. The back of the lorry flung open again.
‘Frankel!’ the barking voice called.
