“Nowadays,” Anna continued, “doctors can tell if a person is dead or only seemingly dead. But in the past, thousands of years ago, when Jesus was alive, doctors didn’t have that kind of knowledge. So, perhaps, Lazarus was only near death and his family put him into a tomb. That’s not like our graves but rather like a small stone house for the dead. Anyway, when Jesus called him, Lazarus may have just woken up from his coma. And the people thought it was a miracle. Do you understand?”
Karla nodded. She looked disappointed. “Then Jesus didn’t do any miracles?”
“I didn’t say that. He may have performed miracles. But you know, people have different ideas of what a miracle is. For instance, sometimes a person is very ill and recovers and that’s like a miracle, isn’t it?”
Karla didn’t look convinced. Obviously for her a miracle was something much more magical, something exotic, like Jesus walking on water.
“You were angry at God yesterday because you felt he didn’t help you,” Anna continued. “But think about it. That fire could’ve been a lot worse. The whole house could’ve burned down and you could’ve been hurt badly. But that didn’t happen, did it? I woke up in time because I felt in my sleep that something was wrong.”
Anna, try to stay true to the facts here. You heard her scream.
“You think God made you wake up?” Karla’s face brightened.
Anna smiled at Karla. “What do you think?”
Karla nodded. “Cool.”
Anna laughed. “I guess you could call it that.”
There was a sudden lightness in the air. “So, God may have also taught us a lesson. No more lighting candles without me being present, okay?”
Karla nodded. “Can I paint now?”
“Of course you can.”
Karla got up, ran to her room, and dug out her drawing pad from underneath the pile of art utensils.
Did we achieve anything?
Anna wondered. At least Karla seemed happier again.
As Anna expected, Karla made a drawing of her experience at night. She drew the inside of her bedroom. A little girl was standing next to the window, looking at flames consuming the curtain. In the next room, a woman was lying in bed. A long arm, clothed in white, reached down from above through the roof, and a large hand touched the woman’s shoulder.
Anna nodded and smiled as Karla showed her the picture.
She needs to believe.
Chapter 11
“Mama, today we went to the Albis. It’s a mountain near Zurich. There’s a restaurant there called Gingerbread House. A witch came out of the house. Of course, it’s not a real witch, Anna said. Just the owner dressed up as a witch. At first, I was a little scared, but she was a kind witch. She gave the children candy. She was a little mean to the adults, though. She grabbed a lady’s purse and snatched a hat off an old man’s head. But she gave the things back. It was funny.
“Mama, I wish you could’ve seen her. She was wearing a long black coat and a black hood and she had a long red nose. She was carrying a broom and swept people’s feet away. I asked Anna if you were able to see her from Heaven. Anna said she didn’t know for sure but she believed you could. I wish you could let me know if you can see me.
“I miss you, Mama.” Karla swallowed and took a deep breath. She was sitting in bed before going to sleep, cuddling her patchwork doll. The flame of the candle on her mother’s shrine flickered lightly. Anna had bought her a new glass candleholder, which enclosed the candle and was safer than the old open candle. They had moved the shrine away from the window. After the fire, Anna had decided they might as well paint the whole room, not just the one wall. Karla had been allowed to pick out the color. It was a very light green, which matched the color of the rug and Karla’s green-and-yellow bedspread.
It was Sunday evening. Anna and Karla had been on an outing, and as usual before going to sleep, Karla told her mother about her day. The occasional flickering of the candlelight made Karla feel that her mother was listening.
“Next to the Gingerbread House, there’s a farm with lots of animals: cows, sheep, goats, donkeys and chickens and rabbits. After lunch, Anna took me there and I got to watch the farmer milk the cows and I got to pet the sheep and the baby cows.
“Maja came with us. Maja is my friend from school. She is one year older than I am but she is in the same class. That’s because she doesn’t know German well enough yet. We both take German classes and we practice together. Maja is from Croatia. That’s in Eastern Europe, Anna said. Maja’s mama died as well. She died because of the war. Maja lives with her aunt and uncle now. She misses her mama, too. Sometimes, we tell each other stories about you and her mama. Sometimes we get sad and cry, but the stories are fun.
“I don’t think it’s right that God takes people away and won’t let them come back. Maja said that God needs people to help him in Heaven. But he should take people who don’t have little children. Anna says that sometimes we don’t understand God, but we have to trust him. I don’t understand God. But I don’t want him to be mad at me. I pray every night and sometimes that makes me feel better.
“Anna says she thinks you can hear me, although I can’t hear you. Sometimes, I can feel you. It makes me feel better, better than praying to God even. I hope God isn’t mad now. Anna says not to worry. He’s very generous and kind. All right, good night, Mama. Sleep well. I’ll talk to you again tomorrow.”
Chapter 12
Anna smiled as she kissed Karla’s flushed cheek. She blew out the candle on the shrine and opened the window. It was still warm after a scorching day. She left the door to the living room open, so the nightly breeze would cool the room enough for Karla to be able to sleep. Tonight, however, she might sleep soundly after the fun and excitement during the day’s outing.
Anna had listened as Karla told her mother about her day. The evening “talk” had become a ritual just like the story time, the shrine, and her evening prayer. They seemed to help her. She had become a little happier overall during the past few weeks, ever since she started her art lessons with Jonas. She had bonded with her teacher right away. Anna hoped it would last. It would be good for Karla to have a male role model in her life. And Jonas seemed a very caring person and good with children.
There were still times when Karla was desperate. A few nights before, she had woken up and screamed. When Anna came rushing into her bedroom, thinking that the child had another one of her nightmares, she found Karla wide-awake in bed. She seemed all confused.
“I can’t remember what Mama looked like,” she cried.
Anna hugged her and pointed at the photo of her mother on the chest of drawers. “You just need to look at the picture of her, then you’ll remember,” she told her.
Karla eventually calmed down. Anna put her mother’s photo on the nightstand right next to her bed. Karla looked at the picture for a while, then her eyelids fluttered and she fell asleep again.
Such incidents showed Anna that the hurt was still there. The open wounds may heal with time but the scars would remain. The traumatic event of the car accident and her mother’s and grandmother’s deaths had robbed her of that feeling of security and comfort that was so important in a young child’s life.
Anna remembered the pain of loss when she was little and her father and mother split up for some time. It was much less traumatic than what happened to Karla, but even decades later, Anna could still feel the terror and pain, when the so-far secure world at home became undone.
Anna’s parents were a strangely matched couple. Father, the American artist, the freedom-loving creative dreamer and Mother, the strong woman, too demanding of herself and of others. They quarreled about everything.
One day after school, Anna noticed her father’s car in front of the house. He normally wasn’t home that early. She opened the door, dropped her schoolbag next to the wardrobe, and rushed to meet him. A few steps into the hallway, she stopped, hearing loud voices in the kitchen. Then the door opened and her father stepped outside, his face flushed. Anna saw her mother sitting at the table. She was supporting her head with her hands. Her blond hair, which was usually tied in a neat bun, had become loose and was hanging into her face. Her shoulders were heaving. A head of lettuce, carrots, and a colander with green beans were spread out on the kitchen table, waiting to be transformed into dinner.
Anna was familiar with her parents’ fights, but somehow, this time, she felt that things were more serious. “Why is Mama crying?”
Her father bent down and hugged her. “Anna,” he said. He spoke with a slight American accent. “Mother and I are having problems. I’m going to move out for a while until things get better again.”
Anna’s heart stopped. She held on to her father, digging her fingers into his arms. She searched his eyes for any kind of sign that this all wasn’t true.
“Don’t worry, we’ll still be together. You can visit me and I’ll visit you all the time.”
It was only then that Anna saw the suitcase next to the wardrobe. “Don’t leave, Daddy, please. Don’t leave.” Anna’s head was spinning and she felt she was suffocating.
“Anna, you have to be brave. Be kind to your mother. She needs you now. I’ll call you tonight, all right?” He picked up the suitcase and opened the door.
“No,” Anna screamed at the top of her lungs. “Don’t go.” She fell to her knees and began to cry loudly. The world as she had known it shattered and a cold wave of fear washed over her.
“Anna, come here.” Her mother stood at the kitchen door. Her face was swollen from crying. She held out her arms. “Come, honey. It’ll be okay. I promise.”
Eventually, things were okay again, at least on the surface. After a few weeks, her father moved back in. The feeling of abandonment Anna had felt that day, the fear of everything safe and secure being snatched away from her, never quite left her, though. Sometimes, when she came home from school and saw her father’s car outside, she was overcome by dread. Would he leave again?
Chapter 13
It was another hot summer day. The horizon above the lake to the south was tinged with a smoky yellowish haze. Jonas kept the balcony door and the windows open, but there was hardly a breeze. He stepped out on the balcony. In the north, heaps of black-gray thunderclouds began to form.
Inside in his studio, Karla was painting with oil pastels. She was wearing an apron to protect her clothes. Her hands were smeared and there were streaks of green, blue, and red on her face. Small pearls of sweat had formed on her upper lip and she kept wiping her forehead, adding more color to her face.
Jonas laughed out loud and Karla looked at him surprised.
“Come on, I’ll show you something,” he said and pointed at the mirror on the closet door. Karla got up and the two stood in front of the glass and grinned at Karla’s colorful face.
“Like an Indian on the warpath,” Jonas said. “I guess today is almost too hot for working. But let’s see what you got.”
They looked at Karla’s picture. It was a summer scene, a landscape with a pond, skirted by trees and bushes. On a blanket next to the pond was a picnic basket with fruit—apples, bananas, grapes—and a big bottle of what could have been lemonade. A little girl with dark hair stood by the pond, obviously Karla. A woman with long blond hair sat on a blue blanket or towel under a yellow sun umbrella. As in many of Karla’s paintings, her mother was present. It was almost an obsession and Jonas knew it was one of the ways Karla tried to keep in touch with her.
Whenever she drew or painted her mother, her painting habits changed. Normally, when Karla drew other objects from imagination, she didn’t bother with a realistic outlook of her drawing. She was very inventive and it was that kind of unusual composition that gave her pictures power. However, when Karla drew her mother, she tried very hard to make her look realistic. She kept erasing her drawing, which she didn’t do when drawing other objects. It was as if she wanted to re-create an exact likeness. Often the drawings of her mother were less successful and lacked the strength the other objects in her paintings had.
“Your mama?” Jonas asked, pointing at the woman, although he already knew the answer.
“Yeah,” Karla said and glanced at him, then looked back down at the picture. “I paint her so I don’t forget what she looks like,” she said in a low voice.
“Oh, I see,” Jonas said. “But you have photos of her, don’t you? They’ll help you remember.”
“Yeah, but it’s not the same.”
“What do you mean?”
Karla wrinkled her forehead. “It’s . . . like cheating.”
“Cheating?” Jonas asked.
“Mmm.” Karla nodded. “I need to remember without a photo.” There was a tinge of panic in her voice.
Jonas sat down and put his hand on her shoulder. He sensed what Karla meant. He remembered the first time he became aware that Eva’s face was fading in his memory. It gave him a little jolt and he stood in front of the photo trying to bring her face back. It was a natural progression, time erasing both reality and memories. And for a young child like Karla, it must be frightening.
“I think I know what you mean, but I don’t think looking at a photo is cheating. A photo is like any other work of art, like the pictures you draw of your mother. They just help us remember. I look at my wife’s photos all the time. See.” Jonas got up and opened the door to the living room. “Look at all the pictures of her.”
Karla came to the door and nodded, scanning the photos in the living room.
“I don’t know, Karla, but sometimes I think the two of us make a mistake.”
Karla looked at him surprised. “Why?”
“We live too much in the past. I still grieve for Eva and I know you miss your mama. But we need to move on and live in the present, not always think of those who are gone.”
“I don’t want to forget my mama,” Karla said, her voice determined, almost angry.