—I got fruit today. You must have some.
All their food sits in a small crate on the floor. They are silent while Lore eats. The apple is sweet and sharp, stinging at her gums, the raw edges of her tongue. Oma says she has grown into a young woman. Wiebke takes a brush from the cupboard and loosens out Lore’s braids. Her hair crackles with static and stands out around her head. Lore feels its light touch against her cheeks, the lazy warmth of being cared for. Wiebke’s fingers stroke her scalp, dividing the hair into sections. Oma stands by the open window.
—Mutti is with the Americans, isn’t she, child?
Lore nods.
—I knew it. As soon as I saw you, I knew it.
Wiebke’s fingers feel strong and sure in Lore’s hair.
—And Vati? Do they have him as well? He is with the Russians, then?
—I don’t know.
—Do you have Mutti’s address?
—No, Omi.
—So she doesn’t know you are here now?
—No, but she told us to come.
They are quiet for a while. Wiebke’s fingers brush against Lore’s neck as she plaits. Lore hears her grandmother’s breathing, soft and hoarse, smells the late summer sun on the stones outside, the musty damp of the cool walls inside. Her throat is too thick to speak.
There is too much to tell
.
Oma steps across the room, pulls Lore to her feet and puts her arms around her. Lore shuffles to steady herself, catches the seat with her knees, chair legs scraping loud against the bare floor. She puts her hands on the old woman’s back, feels the spine beneath her blouse.
—You mustn’t feel ashamed. You mustn’t feel ashamed of them.
Her grip is angry. Lore breathes hard against the tight circle of her arms. Oma pushes her away, holds her at arm’s length. The old woman’s hair is dusty, the same color as her skin. Her eyes are gray and watery, fixed on Lore’s face. Lore feels her neck flush, itchy and hot. Wiebke sits down on the chair next to them with her brushes.
—We can find them. The Red Cross will have their addresses. They will come back, Mutti and Vati. They are only away for a while.
Lore can’t look into Oma’s face. She looks at her cheeks instead, the soft folds of skin on her neck. The old voice crackles as she speaks.
—It is all over now. Finished.
Sweat prickles in Lore’s armpits. Oma’s fingers hold her fast, pressing into her shoulders.
—Some of them went too far, child, but don’t believe it was all bad.
. . .
Lore scrubs at Jüri’s face and fingers, ties the red rag neatly around Liesel’s head.
—Oma is coming to fetch us, so we have to get ready.
—Is Vati coming?
—Vati isn’t there.
Lore tries to make it sound as normal as possible, as if it was what they were expecting all along. She looks around to see if Tomas is watching, but he has his back to them, packing away their things. Jüri’s eyes are blank. Liesel cries, and then she screams. Thumping Lore’s arms with her fists.
—You lied!
Her sister’s punches numb Lore’s arms, but she doesn’t defend herself. Lets Liesel cry; says nothing; can think of nothing to say. She ties her braids into place with neat strips of rag. She rubs her boots clean and tears new laces from the edge of Peter’s diaper. She inspects the silent Jüri and raging Liesel, decides to wash their shirts, at least rinse out the worst of the dirt before Oma arrives.
Tomas fetches water for Lore, sits with her while she works at the children’s clothes.
—I didn’t tell Oma about you.
—No. Yes, that’s good.
—I don’t mean about the prison. I mean I didn’t say anything. She doesn’t know you are with us.
—Yes, I know.
—I didn’t know what she would say. I couldn’t do it. Not yet.
—No, it’s good. I have told the children I’m a secret brother. For now.
—Yes.
—You will tell her about Jochen, and that will be enough.
Tomas’s fingertips rest against the sides of the bucket. Lore waits, but he doesn’t touch her.
. . .
Wiebke climbs across the rubble to fetch them for Oma. Lore watches her count the children.
—Jochen isn’t here.
Jüri stands between the broken walls. He doesn’t remember Wiebke.
—Where is Jochen?
—He is dead, in Russia.
Wiebke looks at Lore.
—The Russian zone. They shot him at the border.
No other words will come.
Wiebke clambers back ahead of them. She whispers to Oma out on the street while Lore tidies the children, stands them in line, straightening their still damp clothes. Oma stares at them, lays a hand on each head in turn. Lore waits for the questions, wonders if Tomas is hiding nearby. Watching from the ruins, seeing the thoughts swarm in her head. The things to tell and not tell, the struggle to explain. Lore wonders if Tomas is surprised, too, when Oma asks nothing about Jochen. She thinks he might see Oma nod at her from where he is hiding. But knows he will be too far away to see the old woman’s clouded eyes. The high spots of color in the cheek which Oma presents for a kiss.
Liesel cries again when they get to Oma’s, says that Lore had promised her Vati would be there. Oma is surprised, irritable at first, frowning as she unpacks their shabby belongings. After she has folded the blankets and closed the cupboard door, she explains gently to Liesel and Jüri that Vati is probably with the Americans. Liesel stops crying, wipes her pale cheeks, whispers.
—Is he being punished now?
Oma blinks at her granddaughter and they all stand in silence while Wiebke slices a loaf for them to eat.
. . .
The first night they sleep with Oma and Wiebke in one room. Curtains are hung from hooks in the ceiling, dividing the small space into even smaller sections. Oma and Wiebke have a bed each, with a fabric wall between. Wiebke insists that Lore and Liesel take her bed, and she makes up a mattress for Jüri next to it on the floor. Wiebke lies on their blankets and makes a bed for Peter in an old drawer. Oma says good night to them all, and then draws the heavy curtain around her bed.
Lore stares at the dark folds, tries to hear if her Oma is crying. About Jochen, Mutti, Vati. No noise penetrates the divide.
We are home
. Lore tries to whisper to Liesel, but her sister lies with her back to her, refuses to respond.
With Oma
. Lore repeats the words to herself. The bed is soft and hot, the room is quiet. Mutti is with the Americans, and maybe Vati, too. Tomas is hidden in the ruins and Jochen is dead. Lore cries, can’t stop herself, stuffs the sheet into her mouth. Jüri slips over to her in the dark. He strokes her hair clumsily and dries her eyes with his sleeve.
—I knew Vati wouldn’t be here, Lore.
—How?
—Tomas told me.
—Oh. Why didn’t you say anything?
Jüri shrugs.
—He told me that men get put in prison after wars. There are lots of fathers in prison now, Lore. I think it’s really not so bad.
Lore puts her arms around her little brother and he climbs into bed next to her.
—Is Tomas alone now?
—I think so, Jüri. Probably.
—Will he be sad?
—I don’t know. Maybe. When did he tell you about the fathers?
—Ages ago. Can’t remember. Tomas said we should come and find him by the church spire again. Will we do that?
—Yes, of course.
—Tomorrow?
Lore can’t remember what she told Tomas about Vati, if she told him anything at all. She thinks of all the fathers in prison, repeats to herself,
It’s really not so bad
, can’t make herself believe it.
Still, she is glad to have Jüri warm in the bed with her. Glad that he and Liesel said nothing to Oma about Tomas, too. One lie left intact, one secret brother kept. She kisses his head.
—You were very good today.
Wiebke sits in the hospital corridor with Lore while Peter is weighed and measured.
—Your Oma is a proud woman. It’s all very different for her now. She has nothing left. Only me.
She laughs. Wiebke has freckles and fine lines around her eyes. Her hand rests, cool and soft, on top of Lore’s.
—She will get extra ration cards for you now. You will have food every day, more for Peter. And some clothes, too. She will take care of it.
Lore leans gently against Wiebke’s shoulder, feels the light hum of her voice through her skin.
—And she will get used to having you all back. Your Mutti stopped writing, even before the end. Oma was very worried. I know she was.
Lore fills her head with the touch of Wiebke’s hand and her calm lasts into the evening.
Jüri is excited and leads the way. They clamber across the mountains of rubble. Lore lifts Peter onto her back and he holds tight around her neck while her boots slide over wallpapered chunks of house. They climb down into a small courtyard. The paving is cracked and
sunken in places, but it’s sunny and colorful. Weeds flower yellow and purple through the broken slabs and along the tops of the walls.
A door hangs loose on its hinges at the far edge of the courtyard. Jüri pulls it open and leads Lore down into the cool dark. Tomas is inside. He lights a candle and smiles. His thin face creases and his tongue shows pink through the gaps in his teeth. Jüri jumps on the cellar steps.
—He says he will stay here. Didn’t you? You said that?
Tomas is looking at Lore, still smiling. Her fingers tingle.
—I cleared it out. I can build a stove and then it will be warm and I can cook.
—He’ll be here and we can visit him.
Jüri races round the courtyard shouting while Tomas collects floorboards and windowframes in the rubble. He builds a fire outside and Lore cooks potatoes, warming bricks in the embers for Tomas. Something to ward off the chill of the cellar night when she and Jüri and Peter have gone back to Liesel and Oma and Wiebke, and Tomas is alone.
What remains of Oma’s house is even smaller than the room at the farm. The houses across the street are not so badly damaged, and Oma finds a room for her grandchildren to sleep in at her neighbors’, the Meyers, who remember Lore and Liesel as children, and who have apple trees in their garden, which leads down almost to the lake.
Oma establishes their daily routine. Each evening, they sit down and eat with her and Wiebke, and then she walks them across the road to sleep. In the morning she fetches them again for breakfast, exchanging pleasantries with the Meyers as Lore hurries her brother and sister down the stairs. Wiebke spreads out the tablecloth and lays cutlery for every meal. She divides the food out carefully under Oma’s direction and they eat together three times a day. Oma cuts
up her bread with knife and fork, tells the children to chew slowly, but the food is always gone too soon, and they always leave the table hungry.
Summer is fading, but the weather is still fine. Liesel stays angry with Lore. She spends her days helping Wiebke, hanging out the washing in the overgrown garden, cleaning, going out with her for the long hours spent waiting in line at the shops. Oma sits at the table by the window and writes letters. Spends whole mornings away at the Red Cross, and afternoons resting behind the curtain around her bed.
Lore takes care of Peter, and Jüri tags along. He whispers to himself, kicking at stones in the road, and Lore blocks her ears. Thinks he is talking to Jochen, doesn’t want to hear. Whenever they can, they go to the cellar. Quick visits to their secret brother, in the quiet time while Oma sleeps and Wiebke sits with Liesel, knitting and mending the holes in their clothes.
Tomas is always pleased to see them, smiling quietly. Lore thinks he waits for them. Listening for their sliding footfalls on the rubble around his cellar home, lonely on the days they don’t come. She is shocked each time at how thin he is. The gaps in his teeth, the rags bound around his feet. Between visits she remembers him differently, and it always takes her time to adjust to his grubby reality, his prominent bones. She stares at him: his clothes, his skin, and even his eyelashes, powdered with dust from the crumbling cellar walls.
Herr Meyer fiddles with the camera. Old fingers uneasy with the settings, old eyes mistrustful of the light. He shuffles the children into place by the gate, in front of the hedge, to where the broken house is hidden from view.
—We should have started earlier. Before lunch. I can’t promise you anything now. It could really be a waste of film, and Herr Paulsen will charge us too much for the printing, anyway. We should wait until tomorrow.
The photo is for Mutti. Oma knows which camp she is in now, can send it to her. It will help her, she says. Oma has borrowed clothes for them to wear in the picture. Peter keeps pulling the sailor’s cap from his head, but Liesel is pleased with the blue silk scarf covering her spiky hair.
Oma has written a letter to Mutti, from all of them. They have signed their names at the bottom, without reading it. Lore doesn’t want to know what it says. She is glad Oma didn’t make her write it. She helps Wiebke get the children ready. It is cold. Jüri rubs his hands and knees, Liesel lets her teeth chatter.
Herr Meyer brings the photo back toward evening. A serious, large-eyed group standing on cracked paving stones. Lore tall, Liesel next, then Jüri, and last of all Peter, standing right at the front, holding on to Jüri’s leg. The shoes on Liesel’s feet are too big, and Jüri’s ears jut out from his narrow head. Lore’s part is crooked despite Wiebke’s best efforts, and her eyes are half closed. All of them thin. Cheek and wrist bones prominent, knees large, and borrowed clothes limp against their frames. Lore feels she is looking at strangers, or people she knew long ago.
The picture is stuffed into the envelope with the letter. Lore feels her stomach shrink while Oma writes the address. Mutti will see that Jochen is gone.
They wait for news and the days grow cooler. Peter cries less, has started to smile again, and his face fills out a little. He talks to Lore in half-words, standing next to her, and determined to walk. Instead of carrying him, Lore reaches for his hand, but it doesn’t replace the reassuring weight in her arms. She agrees with Tomas, the time is not yet right. Jüri and Liesel stick to the bargain: their secret brother remains a secret. Still Lore risks going to the cellar more often.