In the Fall They Leave, page 16
“But sometimes life is like that, no? The striking coincidence one can hardly believe. Let’s assume that what he said is true. So then, his only motive might be that he’s drawn to you because you have so much in common and also because you are a beautiful young woman. Not merely pretty. You have something deeper.”
Heat infuses her face. “But I feel that if I continue to allow this man to visit or if I go to events with him, it will be a betrayal of everyone here as well as of my country.”
“Whether you are betraying yourself should also be of concern. And too, there is this question: Do you want to take the whole person into consideration or do you want to judge based on a generality?”
“I understand,” she says finally. “I judged Private Schalk on a generality at first and then got to know him.”
“So you have much to think about.”
Marie-Thérèse puts a bit of sugar into her tea.
“Mademoiselle, can you help me later tonight?”
A chill finds its way into her hands. “There are more?”
“Just a few.”
“When you didn’t ask my help, Matron, I assumed, partly, that they were all gone. Or that…you didn’t trust me anymore.”
“I do trust you, and I’m sorry to have to involve you again. If you don’t wish to, only say so. I will manage.”
“Please, don’t ask Liese.”
“I remember you cautioned me before.”
“Actually, I’ll do it.”
That night they nurse four wounded soldiers in the cellar, the soldiers’ relief at being momentarily safe making them careless. She has to keep asking them not to talk so loudly, groan so loudly. In fact, please try to keep quiet altogether. This causes the least wounded one to snuffle in laughter and then flirt. It wasn’t meant to be easy, she tells herself, and resolves to do what she can in reparation.
Freezing rain and drizzle scour the city. Snow squalls blow in from the North Sea. Walking Jackie and Donnie, Marie-Thérèse overhears people complaining in low voices about the rationing; the confiscated pigeons, bicycles, and telephones; the electricity restrictions, travel restrictions, and curfew; the forbidden telegraph cables, newspapers, and French language. They complain, too, about how Belgian men are being sent to German labor camps and how there are German officials in every public office now, and old men still clean the streets on hands and knees in the cold and wet, pushing themselves up awkwardly to salute passing German officers. Those old men standing crookedly become an indelible symbol of the Occupation. While walking with the lieutenant, she senses people not daring to spit outright but doing so with their cloaked though contemptuous looks. Nor does she like seeing the ubiquitous posters declaring in bold lettering the latest German offensives and victories in France. Often there are blank places on walls showing streaks of glued paper where posters had been. “People are tearing them off,” he says. “I’ve heard there will be severe penalties.” She recalls those words when visiting the children in the gardener’s cottage and seeing a pile of twisted papers amid the broken-up branches near his hearth. She knows, then, that taking the posters isn’t merely an act of sabotage. “Papa,” she says, “do you think you should?” She indicates the twists of paper.
“Lies burn brightest but only for a short time.”
Interspersed among the German war proclamations are notices of free concerts and theatrical events for the people of Brussels. Classical music, opera, plays, popular music—so many free events, and several each week. Townspeople have been scorning these enticements. Marie-Thérèse is of that mind as well; yet drawn to the music, she attends several performances with the lieutenant despite a deepening sense of guilt. Why go, she asks herself repeatedly, if it makes you feel bad? But she knows why. Because it’s so good to hear music performed beautifully. She’d nearly forgotten how much she loved it. And too—honesty bringing the scald of shame—she has begun to enjoy Rudi’s company, his knowledge of music and rueful appreciation, his overlooking the insulting glances and halfhearted salutes, his—she ridicules herself for thinking this way, but there it is—essential decency. For a few weeks, enjoyment and distress create a stalemate. Eventually, though, distress wins out. She resolves to refuse any more invitations. But as with the cook’s breads and rolls, this resolve soon fails. Until the evening of a Christmas concert that should have filled her with hope and delight.
Garlands of fir branches drape walls and stage front. Five musicians—three in German army uniform and two Belgians in formal civilian clothing—take their places onstage in an ornate chamber hall within the grand Hotel de Ville. As they raise their instruments, the two cornets, a French horn, trombone, and bass trombone catch the light and appear silver in places, gold in others. There is no conductor, but one of the Belgians signals with his eyes, and the program opens with Johann Sebastian Bach’s “Arioso” from Cantata #156. It’s too much—the densely woven beauty, the acute sense of aliveness, the awareness of deepening love for the man alongside her, and, too, grief over the war, her own guilt, fear, and anxieties. An effortless spill of tears then, sliding unchecked to her cloak. A Charpentier prelude follows the Bach, then two sixteenth-century Flemish songs. The audience of mainly German soldiers and officers applauds with enthusiasm after each piece. Surreptitiously, she stanches the flow while the quintet closes with several of Thomas Morley’s Elizabethan madrigals.
Rudi waits until she takes a deep breath and nods, and then they’re walking out of the gilded hall, his arm bracing hers.
They both notice the poster that had been obscured by the crowd when they’d arrived for the concert. It’s right there, facing them as they step out into the cold. View the ruins of Louvain! Sunday Railroad Excursions. See the former Halles Universitaires and Cathedral. Trains departing…
Neither one comments.
As they make their way to a table in a far corner of a crowded café, an officer calls out, “Fräulein! Where are your two amusing dogs? Or have they been transformed into your handsome lieutenant?”
“Better that way,” another observes, “than the other.”
The lieutenant offers a salute which the seated officer ignores. “Fräulein,” he goes on, “why didn’t you come back and see us?” He turns to his friends. “She had two ravenous mongrel dogs with her and an old mongrel man. Quite charming creatures—the dogs, that is. We fed them all our sausages. The old man we did not feed, needless to say. How is your uncle, Fräulein? He hasn’t died yet, has he? I wouldn’t have given him two more days.”
“He is still alive, sir.”
“And how is it you never returned?”
“I had to be elsewhere, sir.”
“Yes, I see.”
Officers at other tables join in the laughter.
“Well, go on, you two. It’s clear that youth trumps age. Lieutenant, I commend your taste and wish you continued success. Though beware of her charms. You don’t want to end up at the end of a leash.”
When they finally reach the table, Rudi apologizes. His forehead is scarlet. “It’s among the things I don’t like about military service,” he finally says. Her own face feels icy, her eyelids swollen. As she sips mineral water and he coffee, a waiter brings the slices of Zwetschgenkuchen Rudi ordered.
“This is wonderful,” he says of the supremely expensive cake. “So many plums! Please, Marie-Thérèse, have some. You’re quite pale. You must be hungry.”
She regards her slice, rich and moist with Damson plums. After a moment, she sections off a small piece with her fork, raises it, pauses, then places it on her tongue. It seems an act of further betrayal, and the sweetness an assault. She places the fork on the plate.
“But you haven’t really tried it! It’s excellent!”
“Danke, it is, but you see I’m not used to so much sweetness anymore. Will you please have it?”
“We’ll get you something else! Waiter!”
“Nein, danke.” She slides the plate to his side of the table. “Are there…many plum trees where you live?”
“You know, that’s a question I can’t answer. I suppose so. I never paid much attention to things like that.” He begins on the second piece. “Tell me about your uncle.”
“My uncle? Well, there’s one in London, my father’s brother, and two in Paris.”
“So, your uncle must have been able to get travel papers, surely not an easy feat. Good for him.”
“Oh! I see. You’re referring to that elderly man they mentioned.” Her hands have gone cold. Her temples throb. “He wasn’t an actual uncle,” she continues after taking a sip of water. “Just a former patient. He seemed rather weak and unsteady, so I offered to help him get home.”
Patient. Home. Dangerous lies?
“A chance meeting then.”
“Yes. I didn’t know his name, so I just referred to him as ‘uncle’ out of respect.”
“Ah. Of course.”
“The uncle who lives in London, my father’s younger brother is an osteopath. Medicine seems to be in our family.” Why am I saying so much? Stop it!
“I imagine you’ve visited London quite often, then.”
She smiles as if it’s the most natural thing in the world to be discussing an enemy country. “Several times. My roommate and I once considered working there.”
“You have a roommate? Was she at the skating party? The blond one?”
“No. My roommate returned to Germany in August.”
He scrapes up a few crumbs. “London is a fine city. I enjoyed the park, Hyde Park, I think it’s called. We have parks like that in Berlin, of course. I once read that an English writer famously said—or wrote, I forget which—that when one tires of London, one is tired of life. I suppose every country has its London. I feel that way about Berlin.” He finishes his coffee and glances in the direction of the officers’ table. They’re still there, louder now. “Ah well. Again, I apologize. This isn’t such a pleasant end to the evening.”
“There is need for an apology.” She lowers her eyes first.
“We should go,” he says after a moment. “We just have time before the curfew.”
Snow is falling when they exit a tram, rounded clumps in no hurry to reach the ground. A candle burns here and there in windows hazy in the snow. It might have been peaceful, but Marie-Thérèse’s pulse is raging. Turning to her when they reach the nurses’ residence, he breaks the silence. “Next week, then? There’s to be a Mozart sinfonia.” The word sinfonia lilts upward in hope.
“Please forgive me, but I cannot.”
“Then the following week, possibly?”
“No, I’m sorry.”
He studies her face. “Was it that poster? The one about Louvain? You were so quiet and sad in the café and on the tram, I thought it might be that. I find it atrocious to be conducting excursions to a city we ruined. That isn’t right. Nor all these…deprivations. I must sound like a traitor. But you understand, yes?”
“I do. You’re not like that.”
“Then what is it? You’re simply not…attracted?”
This is excruciating. But then something catches her eye, a shape that resolves into the figure of someone on his knees, right there in the street. “It’s…how you must follow orders no matter what. It simply wouldn’t work, Rudi. Also, my family…there’s too much against it.”
He looks down at the snow a moment then at her again. “I’m very sorry, mademoiselle. I must accept your decision. But…it’s hard.”
“For me as well. I’m sorry too, Rudi.”
“It’s truly impossible?”
“I’m afraid so.”
He takes her gloved hands in his. “Please. Don’t be sad. You’ve made a wise decision. Allow me to just say that…I hope to see your name on a recital notice one day. I wish you well, mademoiselle. I’ve enjoyed your company so much. You will be in my heart.” Raising one gloved hand, he kisses it, then walks away, cap and shoulders white in the snow, footsteps dark on the stones.
And you in mine. She stands there, watching, but he doesn’t look back.
In the street the man reaches for his bucket and sloshes water over cobblestones, melting the snow. After clearing her eyes and blowing her nose, she goes out into the road.
“Papa, stop. This is absurd, in the snow.”
He continues scrubbing.
“You’re soaking wet. You’ll catch cold. The matron can’t allow this.”
“She has to.”
She gets a broom from inside and together they finish the block. She has to help him stand. “Papa,” she says, inside the clinic. “Forgive me, please. There will be no more such outings.”
He takes the broom from her and turns away. She thinks he nodded.
Birds
In the nurses’ sitting room Marie-Thérèse studies the postmark. Faint letters come clear: Cuxhaven.
Cuxhaven? Is Jacques in Germany? Or…Rudi? She tears open the envelope and pulls out a single thin sheet. Greetings, Fräulein Hulbert. Her stomach plummets. She scans down to the signature. Konrad Schalk. Private Schalk. The upright careful script evoking his schoolboy voice.
It is very nice here in Cuxhaven this time of year. I like to watch snow clouds out over the water. I can see the snow approaching from far away. It looks like a wall of haze and is most beautiful. At times seagulls fly in the snow! This is a remarkable sight that makes me happy. They are white and the snow is white, but the sea and clouds are gray. I think how fortunate I am to have my two eyes and this is a miracle.
My greatest wish is that this letter finds you well and happy, Fräulein Hulbert. I think of you often and remember how kind you were to me. Every day I read a story from the book you gave me. It was most clever of you to disguise its cover. No one here at the rehabilitation hospital asks about my book or tells me not to read Herr Chekhov. So that is very nice. Another patient has made for me a little bookstand. Pieces of wood come down and hold the pages open. It is a useful device! Now I can sit in my chair and read quite well.
I am writing to wish you happiness at Christmas. I hope you will be with your family on that blessed day and that there will be a Christmas tree in “my” ward. I will think of it that way and of you there. Do you still walk Jackie and Donnie? I wish one day to have a dog such as Jackie. Now, however, he would pull me off my unsteady feet. Yes! I have a prosthetic limb and am learning to walk again. This, too, is a miracle. Soon, I am told, my arm will be ready for a prosthetic limb as well.
I enclose for you a piece of driftwood from the North Sea. It is wrapped in gauze, which I thought you might find amusing. I hope it is not broken. God bless you and your family this Christmas.
Yours sincerely,
Konrad Schalk
The piece of driftwood has fallen to the floor. Unwinding its gauze “bandage,” she sees that it has been broken. But the two pieces are porcelain smooth and nearly as white. Wrapping them back up, she recalls how she once mentioned that wounded soldiers might benefit from learning to knit or crochet. It could be therapeutic, she suggested, feeling productive. Everyone in the sitting room that evening snickered at the thought of German infantrymen fumbling with knitting needles or crochet hooks. Now she realizes it wasn’t such a good idea after all. Anyone with Private Schalk’s injuries would feel bad, being left out.
She rereads his letter and then finds herself repeating one of its sentences throughout the day. They are white and the snow is white, but the sea and clouds are gray. It seems almost a prayer.
A few days later, Janine wriggles down from her arms to stand at a window. Snow is falling and bare tree limbs hold white replicas of themselves. A sparrow is flitting from one branch to another, knocking off snow. Then it perches, fluffing its feathers and becoming twice its size. Janine makes a small sound that might be an exclamation. The bird fluffs its feathers again, shaking off snow. Janine tugs at Marie-Thérèse’s arm.
“I see him,” Marie-Thérèse says. “He’s taking a snow bath!”
But Marie-Thérèse is really observing the little girl, standing there rigid with interest, her eyes fixed on the sparrow, her hands clasped.
When the bird flies off, Janine begins looking for others.
Marie-Thérèse begins chattering away about sparrows, and when no other birds appear, she expects the grille of detachment to lower. But instead, Janine indicates she wishes to walk back to her bed by herself instead of being carried. And as she does, her head turns from side to side, like the sparrow’s.
Elli holds Janine’s hand while the gardener carries sacks of grain and straw onto the tram. It’s a Sunday afternoon, gray and cold, the streets quiet, the shops and cafés closed. Marie-Thérèse is tired, not having slept well the night before. Given Janine’s renewed interest in the world, she asked the matron’s permission for this outing. It was granted with some reluctance. But during the night Marie-Thérèse worried about all the potential variables, the dangers. Still, Elli was eager to go; even Janine appeared interested.
Others exit with them at the Exhibition Hall stop, and then it seems like some silent pilgrimage. At the entrance to the hall, a soldier checks the gardener’s papers and smiles at the girls, who press close to each other.
Inside the large hall, the light is dim, the air heavy and somewhat foul. Pigeons burble, the pitch often rising as if in complaint. The gardener’s allotted area is near one set of sliding doors.
Marie-Thérèse didn’t anticipate the number of guards. They’re walking up and down aisles formed by rows of sectioned off aviaries as well as standing to either side of the sliding doors. The ones walking the aisles sometimes pause to observe the birds. One guard is actually talking to them.
The gardener undoes the latch to his assigned aviary and begins speaking in Polish to his ten pigeons. Marie-Thérèse hands him a pail of water she drew from a spigot in the corridor. A brush and dustpan hang from the wire fencing, and he uses these to sweep old straw and droppings into the cloth bag he brought. When the floor and boxes are clean, the trays and pans refilled, he and the girls pick up each of the pigeons in turn, the gardener and Elli speaking to them and using their names. The birds haven’t flown for nearly two months now, except for short flights in their narrow space. Marie-Thérèse is more concerned about the gardener and how much longer of this captivity he’ll be able to endure. He tells her that the one named Bishop—who likes to fly in diagonals—isn’t well. The pigeon didn’t rush to the grain trays with the others. The gardener examines the bird and then each of the others, checking their eyes and holding his ear against their chests. In the old man’s eyes, she sees what she does not want to see.
