Someday We'll Tell Each Other Everything (11 page)

18

This time, when I left it was horrible. The fury of his first embraces had been reawakened, and when I was at the gate he hauled me back into the house and threw me onto the bed. He didn't even take my clothes off, he just pulled my dress up and my knickers down, tossing them somewhere. His heavy body buried me in the pillows and covers. I could hardly breathe. He really hurt me. I was almost crushed beneath his weight; there was something bestial, irrational about his desire, something that reminded me of things that must have happened long before my time, things I could not know and yet think I do know, as if my memory were only part of a larger collective one. I pushed my head back for air. I pressed my clenched fists to my chest. When I tried to say something he put his hand over my mouth and whispered in a peculiar voice, “Be quiet!”
His pants were around his knees, he forced my legs apart, his erection wanted to get inside me. But I closed up.

I really didn't want it this time. I pulled his hand away and said, “No!” That's all. Then I wriggled off the bed, adjusted my clothes, and left.

When I arrive at the Brendels', Marianne is standing outside the shop chatting with the landlord's wife. Johannes is nowhere to be seen. Alfred comes toward me across the yard carrying a bucket. He greets me warmly and asks, “So, did you have a good rest at your mother's? You've put on a bit of weight. Well, it's the right thing to do, to let your mother look after you when you've got problems.” His mouth twists into a crooked grin, and then he carries on with his work. Marianne gets me a glass of fresh milk and puts it on the kitchen table. “Johannes is upstairs in the darkroom,” she says, and the layer of cream swimming on top of the milk almost makes me sick. But I drink it down and go upstairs.

I knock gingerly. “Wait a moment,” he calls out, “I'm almost done!” But it's several minutes before he opens the door. Wet prints are hanging from pegs. He puts his arms around me and strokes my face. “Are you feeling better?” he asks. “Have you come back to stay?” and I mumble, “Yes, everything's fine again.” Then he wastes no time in showing me the pictures. The ones from Henner's farm are there, too. He shows me one after the other, explaining
how
he took it and why he took it
like that
. I listen patiently, waiting for the moment when he discovers the woman in the window and everything comes out. We finally get to that photo. The picture is not especially good—slightly blurred and dark—but you can definitely make out a female figure behind the curtain. Johannes sees it too and falls silent. I can sense every nerve in my body; I can feel my mouth stiffen and it's getting more difficult to swallow.

Johannes just stares, and I want to tell him everything. I'm going to tell him the whole truth, then I'll get my bag and go back to Henner. That's how I want to do it.

Johannes turns the picture a fraction. Then he smiles and says, “Look, there's a woman at the window. Now I know why he wouldn't let me in the house. He didn't want me to see her . . . Shame you can't really tell who it is behind the curtain . . . I don't know what women see in him. Do you get it?” “No,” I say flatly. I don't know how long I'll be able to go on like this, how far you can spin out a lie. But I suspect it will be for longer than I'd ever imagined.

Some quiet days follow. I help Frieda in the kitchen and I do a lot of reading. Sometimes I gaze over at Henner's farm, but there's nothing in particular to see. The day after I came back, Siegfried took me aside at lunchtime and said, “We need to talk about school, Maria. It starts again next week. I've spoken to Marianne. You can stay with us, but on condition that you go to school—you need to get your exams.”

I let him say his piece, and even though I'd made my mind up long ago, I play at being obstinate. When I start yet another sentence with “But . . . ,” Siegfried interrupts me and says there are no buts. I feel so grateful to him for his advice.

Then I wander around the yard, looking for something to do. It's all a bit of a mess; there are tools leaning against the wall beneath the overhang of the barn roof: manure forks and pitchforks, shovels, rakes, an old scythe, wheelbarrows, a worn-out tractor tire, and plenty more. The yard is full of hay and chicken droppings. I fetch a large broom and sweep everything toward the gate. Frieda watches from the kitchen window, nods her approval, and asks me to get some onions later from the vegetable garden for dinner. Siegfried wants fried potatoes with bacon. Marianne is going around with a large watering can, emptying liters of water into her enormous plant
pots. She is humming to herself, and occasionally she picks off the dead leaves. Whenever Siegfried appears she acts as if she's terribly busy, but when she's alone she'll sometimes sit on the bench beneath the chestnuts and close her eyes.

I stand still in a cloud of hay and dust, breathing in the air. The work on the farm is good for me. I can see immediate results—unlike with school. My tiredness at the end of the day is intense and physical, and I sleep deeply.

Several days pass like this; I'm taking a break from Henner.

On the evening of August 31, a Friday, we're sitting watching the news on television. They've signed the unification treaty; the GDR is joining the Federal Republic. We will be one country. But Siegfried looks anxious and says, “They can't just impose their system on us overnight. It needs to be a slow process of transition, or everything here will fall to pieces.” “Don't start,” Marianne says, gesturing at him dismissively. “Why can't you just be happy about it?” But he shakes his head and says, “It can't work like that. Soon there won't be any farms here, if we're all forced to operate like they do over there.”

I'm finding it hard to concentrate. I keep getting distracted, wondering whether Henner's watching TV too, but I've never noticed one at his house. The reunification ceremony is to take place on October 3. After that date the GDR will cease to exist. How weird. The country we were all born in is just going to disintegrate, vanish, never to return. Johannes is in a state of great excitement and has a little too much to drink. I think he's happy. In fact Siegfried doesn't look too unhappy, either, but he always has to have something to grumble about. Marianne changes the subject and says she's desperate to see the Bavarian Alps. Hartmut and Gisela have said they're welcome any time, but they're coming to us again for reunification. Johannes is feverish; he wants to celebrate reunification in a big city, not here in the village. Frieda and Alfred throw in the odd “Ah” or “Hmm,” and Lukas seems
a little bored. But Siegfried doesn't let him go to his room. “You should always remember this. It's a historic moment.”

Now I'm feeling in a celebratory mood, and we all stop talking for a while to listen to the newsreader. It's always been the same woman. She used to report on sessions in parliament and the fulfillment of five-year plans.

All of a sudden Siegfried leaps out of his chair. He paces once around the room, sits back down and says, “The machinery Höfer's got in his mill over in F. dates from before the war. If he's forced to comply with Western regulations then he's done for. And it's the same at the paper factory—you know how ancient those machines are, Marianne. Don't forget, I've been over there at Hartmut's and I've seen that biodynamic farm. They've got completely different rules and regulations. Just the safety legislation alone . . . It's not going to work. I swear, soon it's not just going to be the people at the chemical factory without a job.” He's seething and talking at the top of his voice. Marianne's annoyed that he's ruining the moment for her. She turns down the volume on the television a little and says, “But you were always having a go at the GDR. Is there really nothing about it that makes you happy?”

“Of course there is,” he thunders. “That's not the point . . . but the future is going to be very different.”

“I don't understand what you're saying, Siegfried. Give it a bit of time, will you? Nobody can predict the future.”

Now Siegfried is sitting at the table. In a calmer voice, he says, “It's not hard to predict the future for Höfer's mill. He'll have shut down in six months. Guaranteed.”

He shakes his head, adding, “We can't rush through in a matter of months what they've taken decades to develop over there. That's just nonsense, Marianne.”

Now we're all feeling on edge. Johannes gives me a sign and we leave the room. As we going upstairs he says that his father is right, but still, it's a good thing.

19

It is the beginning of September and I'm going to school again. In the mornings Johannes takes me to the bus stop on his motorbike; in the afternoons I walk back. I have to repeat the class and so I'm a year older than the others. The things the girls talk about seem so remote to me. Like how they kissed a boy for the first time over the summer holidays, or how a boy tried to touch one girl's breasts. They giggle coyly, finding it all a bit indecent. Most of them are still fifteen. I was probably like that at their age. The boys shun me. In fact, they don't talk to me at all.

I'm an outsider. I've done things with Henner they've never even heard of. There is a huge gulf between us. They won't bridge this gulf until later, by which time I probably won't be here anymore.

The lessons are easy. I mean, I know most of it already. Often I'll have a book under my folder and read for an entire period. There's nobody I can talk to anyway. I might become a bookseller. At least that's something I'd find really interesting.

We all know what Johannes is going to be.

He's photographing like a demon. I'm no longer his principle subject. He's now started taking pictures of the villagers' faces. He wants to have one of Henner, too, but he hasn't asked him yet. I haven't seen Henner for a few days, apart from once, when he was driving behind us as Johannes brought me to the bus.

Now I'm walking from the bus stop to the Brendels' farm. It's about three kilometers. To my left are meadows with the river beyond. A wooded hill rises above the far side of the river. The Indian summer blows gossamer strands of spiderwebs across the countryside, and they get caught in my hair. In the field to my right the corn is ripening; I pick a tender cob and eat it. As I walk I feel a greater sense of freedom than I've ever felt before.

A car approaches from the distance. It's so quiet here that you immediately know when something's coming. It passes slowly and stops a few meters ahead. He pushes open the door. “Get in!” he says; I don't need to be asked twice. He gives me a look out of the corner of his eye, and I return it with a smile. Then we drive on to the Brendels' farm.

Marianne is out by the fence talking to Frieda, who for the last few days has been using a stick to help her get around. When we arrive, Henner winds down the window and says, “Hello, everybody! I picked up Maria. She's going to come over to the paddock to ride Jella.”

I have no time to be surprised, as he's already put the car into reverse and we're on our way. “That's fine!” I hear Marianne say. “I'll tell Johannes.” We drive the short distance to his farm and disappear into the old house. Each time I find this place stranger, because
outside everything is advancing at such a pace; it's just Henner who isn't. He hasn't been caught up in the flux; he's the same as he ever was.

To begin with he's rough again, because he's hungry for me, he says, adding, “You come so seldom, Maria, it's not good.” We're standing in the kitchen. It's been a few days, and it could have been longer if he hadn't happened to be driving along that road. It's not merely desire, it's hunger; those are the words he uses. Each time he's seized by this hunger and he wants me so much that his hands and mouth do and say coarse things. It doesn't take long for my desire to equal his. And because he knows this he ignores my token resistance, which I only offer because it seems the proper thing to do, but also because it drives him wild.

I would never concede to Johannes what I give to Henner instinctively. Why, I cannot say for sure. It wouldn't suit Johannes to be like that, nor am I like that when I'm with him. His passion for his photography is greater than his passion for me. And yet he does love me.

With Henner it's the opposite. His desire is absolute. Everything else follows from that. I can always see straightaway just how much he wants me; I can see it in his eyes and in his expression. His roughness is just as natural as Johannes's tenderness. I no longer find it terrifying. Now I know that it's part of him; making love gently is not Henner's way.

Later he gives me a book that had belonged to his mother. That collection of poems with the one that's stayed in my mind. I've rarely been so delighted by a present. The book is old and beautifully bound, and it smells of Henner and the farm. I keep stroking the binding. Inside his mother inscribed her maiden name, Helene Mannsfeld. Carefully I cross it out and write my own name underneath. He smiles and says the book has found a good home; I'll understand the poems, I'll know about the wanderers without a goal . . .

Then I have to go; it's late.

Shortly before seven o'clock I'm having supper with the Brendels.

Alfred is sitting opposite me; he asks me how it was at Henner's—he didn't see me riding, even though he might have from where he was up in the meadows by the railway embankment. I say that I went riding in the woods, and then he wants to know whether I was on Jella. I spot the trap and say, no, it was Artus—I fetched him from the stables rather than the paddock—and I rode out to the woods through the cornfield behind the house. “I see,” Alfred replies. “I see, so now she's able to ride the young stallion; it wasn't that long ago that she was having trouble on the quiet mare.”

With my mouth full I nod at him and say, “I've been practicing.”

“I see,” he mutters. “I see . . .” Apart from Frieda, who gives me an inquiring look, no one has noticed the edge to his voice. I help myself to more of the cold roast and smile at Alfred.

I find it easier to lie in the evenings. In the mornings, when a cool light illuminates everyone's faces, leaving no shadows, I usually feel dreadful. In the clarity of these early hours my behavior seems to weigh more heavily, my conscience appears keener, my morals sharper. Later in the day my sense of morality disappears. At night it's nonexistent.

The landlord asks whether I could come work this weekend. The local heritage association is having a gathering, and he's going to need more staff. He has a pretty little dance hall beyond the bar, and that's where the meeting is being held. The evening is a real challenge. It always starts harmlessly enough—the chair gives a speech about the beauty of the local area and how important it is to preserve our heritage—but this is just an excuse to drink to excess afterward. At the start they're all sitting in their seats, chatting with their neighbors. But as the evening progresses, chaos sets in. Sooner or later
everyone has moved from their seat and, because we mark all drinks on people's beer mats, we have to run around matching the right beer mat to the right person. Some put their beer mats in their bags, others lose them. It's hopeless.

Many of them wear traditional outfits, and I have to put one on, too. Marianne thinks it's “fetching,” as she put it. But Johannes just makes a face.

They play all the old easy-listening favorites and sing folk songs. I join in with some of them—the ones I like best—and occasionally one of the elderly men comes and spins me across the dance floor. Then the next one is already waiting and I'm passed around like a trophy. That's when it starts getting dangerous. I have to slap wrists because their hands are everywhere. Much to my irritation, their wives ignore this behavior. I can only hope it will be over by midnight. Most of them are around sixty; they won't be able to keep at it for much longer.

Just before one o'clock the ballroom is indeed empty, but five stragglers are still sitting at the regulars' table. They've had so much schnapps and beer that even the landlord doesn't think they'll be able to make it home. One of them is Riedel, the former village policeman. He's been retired for two years at least, but he still knows everything that's going on. They say that he had his sights on Henner for years and made life difficult for him. When Henner's wife left, it came out that the police and the Stasi had assigned her to monitor Henner—at least this is the latest version of the story. In his youth Henner was politically active, and he used to spend time with a musician called Lutz, who wrote political songs and was later sent to prison. At any rate his problems started when his wife moved in. To begin with everything was normal, but then suddenly the police checks at the farm became more frequent. Henner, Lutz, and another friend would sometimes meet there. This friend purported to be a horse breeder, but in fact he was a set painter for
the state theater. After Ursula, Henner's wife, had been there for a while, the policeman would arrive with a colleague on those very evenings when Henner had company. The colleague was almost certainly with the Stasi. The Stasi may have thought of itself as an entirely secret organization, but in these villages everyone had a pretty good idea of who worked for them and who didn't.

They confronted Henner with a record of the things he must have said, but only a few people could possibly have heard. He soon worked out the connection between Ursula and the police visits, and he challenged her. She denied everything, but the next morning she disappeared with all her stuff. One drunken evening not long after that, Henner punched Riedel in the face. When they came to the farm to arrest him, he put up one hell of a fight and spent a few weeks in prison. In the end the only thing they could pin on him was a charge of obstructing the police.

Henner never again let a woman stay on his farm for long, and after his spell in prison his drinking got serious.

There he is at the table, the village policeman, waving his arms and holding forth about how great it is that Germany will soon be one country again. At that moment Henner enters the room. He's stone-cold sober, and he's probably come because of me—he knows what the heritage association is like—but when he sees the policeman he goes straight to his table and sits down.

The old men are drinking whatever they can lay their hands on. Schnapps, vodka, brandy, everything at once. And then something happens. I bring another round to the table, and the policeman puts his hand on my bum and says, “If I were any younger, I'd have this girl here and now.” He laughs like a nutter. I wriggle from his grasp and go back to the bar. Then Henner stands up. He steps behind the policeman's chair, grabs him by the collar and hauls him to the door. “Stop that!” the landlord shouts. “I don't want any trouble here. Go home, Henner, go on, go!”

I run after them, while the others stay sitting as if nothing had happened. They're outside, just by the door, and I really believe Henner's going to kill the policeman. He has his hand around his throat, the policeman is choking, and I say firmly, but in a calm voice, “Leave him. I'll go home with you right now, but leave him, please—leave him, leave him . . .” I don't know how often I repeat it, but all of a sudden the policeman is lying there on the ground, retching. Henner takes my wrist and drags me away. He's so incensed that I don't recognize him anymore. I try to free myself from his grasp, but he doesn't let me go. He kicks the gate open with his foot and pulls me in. He even kicks the dogs when they greet him, and then he pushes me away. My wrist is hurting like mad. He bolts into the house, sending various things flying. The pan containing the leftovers from lunch hits a wall, and he smashes up a chair. I stay by the door, watching him. I'm not afraid. The worst is over after a few minutes, and the kitchen is in a dreadful state. “That miserable bastard, that wanker, that fucker . . . ,” he spits out again and again, but this outburst eventually fades. When he's ready to sit down, I go to the fridge to fetch vodka, which never runs out here, and half fill two glasses. He drinks slowly, without looking at me, and then he empties my glass, too. I go behind him and put my hands on his temples, leaning my head on his. He seems paralyzed still, as if he didn't know I was there. His head is slumped forward, there's no tension in his shoulders; he's sunk into himself.

I stand there until I can't take it anymore. Then I tell him, “I'll come back tomorrow. I have to go home now, Johannes is waiting. But I'll be back tomorrow.” I stress the words because I don't think he can hear me. Tomorrow is Sunday. I have no idea how I'm going to be able to get away from the Brendels' on a Sunday, but that doesn't worry me. Henner has never needed me as much as he does now. He nods and I urge him to go to bed. And he does; he gets up and staggers over to the bedroom. When he lies down, I sit on the edge of the
bed and place my hand on his head. He takes my hand and holds it tightly for a while. Then I leave.

The next morning I sleep in, and by the time I come down for breakfast later than usual, they already know what's happened. The drinking session, the argument, my intervention, and how I went home with him. Gabi from the tavern was here to get milk and eggs, and she told them everything.

Johannes asks if I've taken leave of my senses, going home in the middle of the night with Henner, that brutal man—everyone knows how abusive he can get. “Home . . . ,” he repeats, slapping his forehead. I hardly know what to say; I splutter and stammer, saying I thought I could calm him down. I was afraid something far worse might happen if I left him alone. Johannes interrupts me and says, “That's just my point. Something far, far worse might have happened—you and Henner, alone at his house, given the state he was in. You're so naive, Maria, it really gets on my nerves.” I try to justify myself, but it's pointless. They all agree with him. I can count myself lucky that he didn't “violate” me—that's the word Marianne uses, and she says it over and over again. She seems to like the word, or maybe she's jealous and wouldn't mind being “violated” by Henner herself. I have bad thoughts when they go on at me like this. What was I doing at his place for so long? The landlord said I was at Henner's for ages. At least an hour, he said, he saw me leave. Any longer and he would have called the police. He could have raped me three times in that hour, I say. And the police couldn't have done a thing about it. As far as I'm concerned, the landlord can go to hell, and that's that.