A Book of Memories (116 page)

By daybreak the wind had died down.

The only thing I kept thinking about was that I had to deny ever having known Melchior.

They asked to see my papers; I demanded to know the reason for their investigation; they in turn ordered me to pack my things and then took me to the police station in Bad Doberan.

I heard the raging of the sea, although outside there was hardly a breeze.

While huddling in my cold prison cell I decided to face all the consequences of my action, and afterward I'd have the valet kill my friend.

After they returned my passport, apologized for the inconvenience, and requested that I leave their country as soon as possible, I toyed rather wickedly with the idea that in parting I'd tell them all about Melchior's escape; and to make them even happier, I'd tell them that in the valet they'd put an innocent man to death, because I was the murderer.

In the meantime, the sea had calmed down and was gently lapping the shoreline; I was all set and waited for my train.

There was nothing much to see from that bench, so I left the cool waiting room for the warm spring sun outside.

I knew I'd find Maria Stein at home; she was still too scared to leave her apartment, her neighbors did her shopping for her.

She opened the door; the blue sweat suit she was wearing was stretched at the elbows and knees; she was holding a cigarette in her hand.

She didn't recognize me.

The last time she had seen me was at my mother's funeral.

Five years had passed, yes, and I saw her again at Mother's funeral; she'd been let out of prison earlier, but she didn't come to see us.

Or maybe she pretended not to recognize me so she wouldn't have to talk to me.

She led me into the room where they had tormented each other all night long; the bed was still unmade, and from the window you could see the train station.

My father, or the man whose name I carry, said to her. All right, Maria, I understand, I understand everything, and you are right; Maria, all I ask of you is to look out the window.

I'm not asking this for myself, it's for you; I want you to be sure that I'm really leaving.

Will you do it? the man asked.

The woman nodded, though she didn't quite understand.

The man got dressed, the woman put on her robe in the bathroom; without a word the man walked out of the apartment and the woman walked to the window.

But not before taking a look in the mirror; she touched her hair and face with her finger; her hair was gray and looked strange to her, but the skin on her face seemed smooth and tight, and she realized she'd better put on her glasses.

She found them under the bed; now she could see the man better.

As if an empty overcoat were making its way through the waist-high rubble-strewn weeds, on the trail still frozen hard; someone was leaving, was gone, in that cold dawn in the light of a streetlamp.

The first snow that year fell in January.

The woman was happy to see it, was grateful for it, for she kept telling herself all night long in her messed-up bed that it was no use, no use; with every little scream and sigh, with every choked breath, she tried to silence this dreadful inner protest: no, no, no, she couldn't be the wife of a murderer, she just couldn't do it, she didn't want to.

I'll still be your mistress, like before, that I can't deny myself, but nothing more.

I have to raise two children, and I am a madman, he said.

No, nothing more; we'll just make love like animals.

That we don't need, the man said at the very moment he penetrated her, and not for the first time that night.

The word was on her lips all night, but she couldn't say it; instead she said, I couldn't care less about your children.

You're the only one I can say this to, child, she said to me; I didn't tell him that I couldn't be the wife of a murderer.

And she turned her body so the man had no choice but to penetrate her even deeper.

Besides, it wasn't you, it was never you I was in love with, him, always him, and I'm still in love with him, him and nobody else.

János Hamar, with whom Maria Stein was so much in love, left a few months later to take up his post as chargé d'affaires in the Montevideo embassy; he left his light summer suit in our house.

In love, in love, the woman groaned with his every move inside her; all my life I've been in love, and still am, even in prison, that's why I survived, because I never stopped being in love, with him, only with him, I never even thought about you, it was always him, you I only used.

Well, use me.

I always have.

It's also possible that all this didn't happen quite this way.

But one thing is certain: early on the morning of Christmas Day, 1956, the man walked down that dark, rubble-strewn trail and reached the well-lit railroad tracks at the point where the commuter train makes a sharp turn just before entering the Filatori Dam station.

The woman waiting in the window was about to turn her eyes away, there was nothing more to see, when she saw him turn around, pull something from his pocket, and look up, probably trying to find her window.

This became his last wish, that she should see it.

He shot himself through the mouth.

She called me child, but talked to me as if I were not a child, and neither man's son.

From the hints she dropped I could more or less figure out what must have happened between them, though it was much later that I deciphered the meaning of her words; but my childhood experiences did give me some understanding of what is meant by hopeless love.

You're the only one I can say this to, child, she said to me; I didn't tell him that I couldn't be the wife of a murderer.

I couldn't become your stepmother.

If there is some sort of god somewhere, he'll forgive me; honor must be important to him, too.

He knew it two days in advance; he had plenty of time to warn me.

I wouldn't have run away; if they had asked me to, I probably would have turned myself in on my own, because I've always done everything for them; but not like that.

No, not at that price.

My mother earned her living with her body, you know; she was pretty and she was a whore, but she was also a miserable consumptive, a poor man's whore; if she had to, she sold herself for pennies, yet she taught me that you must have your honor.

And if no one ever taught you that, I'll teach it to you right now.

They broke down my door, dragged me out of bed, slashed all the upholstery with knives, though they knew better than anyone they wouldn't find anything, and if they did, it would be something they had planted there themselves, because I gave everything, my whole miserable life, to the cause.

And yet I didn't give them anything; they exist only if there is some sort of god, and there isn't.

If I gave anything, it was to myself; so whatever happened to me, I brought it on myself.

They handcuffed me, woke up the whole building on purpose, wanted everybody to see that even a member of State Security had something to be afraid of; they blindfolded me and got me downstairs from the fifth floor by kicking me all the way, making sure I hit the wall at every landing.

They took him away on Easter morning, in 1949.

The day before, I talked to your mother on the telephone; she told me the forsythia in your garden was in bloom, wasn't it wonderful? we were both ecstatic, spring was here, we chattered away on the phone, even though she also knew.

She knew what was waiting for me in the next three days; I knew it, too, yet it was more than I could imagine.

But I will tell you all about it, child, everything, step by step.

I've never told anyone, and I still can't, I'm still in their clutches; but now I will tell you, I don't care what happens.

I was never a big fish.

She was in charge of the day-to-day maintenance of secret locations used by State Security; she had to make sure that the furnishings and special equipment were in proper order, and that the houses were cleaned, well heated, and the staff well fed.

My rank was much higher than my actual position; the only reason they hauled me in was that they wanted at least one defendant who was involved with the practical end of the operation; I was needed to complete the picture.

She was still sorry she didn't just mow them all down, shoot all the bastards when they came for her.

I had time to reach for my pistol, but I still thought it was all a mistake, a misunderstanding that could easily be cleared up.

They couldn't trick me again, that's for sure.

They watch my every move, you know; I'm on all their lists.

They won't take me back, but I can't leave for good either.

Where would I go, anyway?

The only thing my neighbors know is that I did some time.

But they could start spreading the word anytime that I was still one of them.

She raised a finger to her mouth, stood up, and motioned me to follow her.

We went into the bathroom, which was filthy; she flushed the toilet and turned on all the faucets; there were piles of dirty laundry everywhere.

Giggling, she whispered into my ear that she wouldn't buy their poison from them.

Her lips tickled my ear, her glasses felt cold against my temple.

Luckily, her neighbor knows the score, goes to a different food store every day, she'd never bring milk from the same place twice.

Milk is the easiest to put the stuff in.

When they let her out, they gave her this apartment because it was bugged already.

She turned off the faucets and we went back to the living room.

All right, now listen, all of you, hear the things you all did to me.

I will tell this child everything.

I was like a fly caught by a huge warm hand.

For once you'll hear me out, hear what you've all done to me.

From that moment on she wasn't talking to me, and I also felt as if the two of us were not the only people in the room.

They took her away in a car, the ride was long.

Afterward, judging by the sound, they lifted the grating off a sewer or some other trapdoor and on steep iron stairs led her down what may have been a large water tank.

It couldn't have been any of the houses under her care; this was special treatment, then, to make sure she didn't know where she was.

They waded through knee-deep water, climbed a few stairs, and then they locked her up behind a steel door.

She could hear no sound; she tore off the blindfold with her handcuffed hands and hoped her eyes would get used to the dark.

A few hours must have passed; wherever she reached she touched wet cement; the space she was in felt enormous and every little move produced an echo.

She tried to determine at least the height of the ceiling, so she started yelling.

Later, the steel door opened, people came in, but it remained as dark as before; she tried to get out of their way, but they followed her; there were two of them, they were closing in, she heard the swish of truncheons; she managed to avoid the blows for quite a while.

She came to on a silk-covered sofa.

She thought she was dreaming and in her dream she was in a baroque mansion; she didn't know where she was.

Her instincts told her to pretend she was still asleep; gradually she remembered what had happened to her.

The handcuffs were gone, and this confused her; she sat up.

They must have been keeping an eye on her from somewhere, because the moment she did, the door opened and a woman came in carrying a cup.

It seemed to her that it was late afternoon.

The tea was lukewarm.

She was grateful to the woman for bringing the tea; but as she sipped it, she noticed an odd look on the woman's face, and the tea tasted strange.

The woman smiled, but her look remained cold; she seemed to be very intent, as if waiting for some reaction.

She knew they tried out all sorts of drugs on people here; this she still remembered, but as she tried with her tongue to locate the strange taste in the tea, her mind went blank.

The first thing she remembers after that was a feeling of being very ill; everything was huge and bloated; as soon as she looked at something it began to swell, and from this she concluded that she must be running a high fever.

And all sorts of loud sentences were screaming inside her head.

It seemed to her that she was talking but that she screamed her words, and every word hurt so much she had to open her eyes.

She saw three men standing before her.

One of them held a camera; the moment she budged he started clicking, and after that he wouldn't stop.

She screamed at them, she demanded to know who they were and what they wanted from her, and where was she, and why was she sick; she wanted to see a doctor, wanted to jump out of bed, which was some kind of low couch next to the wall in a large sunlit room full of mirrors; but the three men didn't say a word, they kept out of her way, and the one with the camera took pictures all the time she was having this fit of anger.

First she lost the feeling in her legs, she collapsed, but managed to hold on to a chair; she wanted to grab the camera, but the man photographed that, too.

Then the other two fell on her, punching and kicking, while the third one kept clicking away.

This happened on the second day.

On the third day they pulled her up from the water tank on a rope; she was blindfolded again, and she kept knocking against the iron stairs, but she was glad, because at least she knew where she was, she knew for sure, she heard them slam the steel door.

A long journey followed; they gave her no food or drink, they didn't let her go to urinate; she was so weak she made in her pants.

First she heard the crunch of gravel under the tires, then an iron gate creaked open and they pulled into a closed space, presumably a garage, where the car quickly filled up with the smell of gasoline and exhaust fumes; then with a huge bang they slammed the door shut.

She was overjoyed.

Because if they were going to take her down a winding staircase now, and then along a narrow corridor, where linoleum covered the stone floor to muffle footsteps, and if they were going to shove her into a cell that was like a woodshed, then she knew exactly where she was.