Lore (32 page)

Micha takes two more photos. He doesn’t ask Kolesnik to look at him; he doesn’t say anything at all.

When he has finished, Elena stands up, steps behind the camera with Micha. She smiles at him, gestures for him to sit down next to her husband, signals that she wants to take a photo of the two of them now.

Micha looks over at Kolesnik, who is staring at his wife. She carries on talking, excited, urging Micha gently over to the chair.

—
If you don’t mind, I’d rather not
.

It feels rude, cruel, but Micha really does not want to have his photo taken with the old man. Kolesnik translates, and Elena stops. She is hurt, but not as much as he is. Still sitting, large hands lying motionless on his narrow knees.

Micha apologizes. He packs up his camera quickly and leaves.

Andrej and his friend stand in the kitchen doorway, both men looking angry and embarrassed. Micha stands by the sink, scrubbing his hands. The bicycle chain broke on the way back to the village, and his hands are grimy with oil and rust; brown-black under his nails. Still unsettled from taking the Kolesniks’ photo, Micha’s hands feel weak under the icy flow of water from the tap. He turns around from the sink when the two men step into the room.

—Andrej says you shouldn’t have brought the old man here.

Micha already knew this would be said.

—
Please tell him that I didn’t invite him. He came here to find me. I am sorry
.

Micha listens to the murmuring translation, looks down at his soapy-greasy hands.

—Andrej says that this man is a murderer.

—
I know. Please tell him I know that
.

Micha thinks,
It’s over
. Friendship. The visit.

—
I will leave tomorrow. Please, can you say I will leave, and that I am very grateful for the time here? His hospitality, and his mother’s
.

Micha sees Andrej nod, sees the relief.
He doesn’t have to tell me to go
.

Micha turns away. He is angry; tears smarting at his eyes. He turns the tap on again, scrubs at his fingers under the cold jet, but the oil just spreads under the soap.

—
Do you remember him?

It is evening and Micha is back. Elena Kolesnik let him into the house and left him alone in the kitchen with her husband.

—
This man?

Micha has put the photo on the table, so the old man won’t see that his hands are shaking. Raw from scrubbing, from gripping the handlebars against the chill evening wind. Kolesnik pulls the picture closer to him.

—This is here in Belarus?

—
No, in Germany. 1938
.

—I know this face.

Micha was ready for that. Preparing himself all day. All of these days.

—Who is he?

Micha doesn’t know how to answer. He wanted Kolesnik to know; he didn’t want him to know; he wanted Kolesnik to know without having to say the name. He says it.

—
Askan Boell
.

—Yes. He was Boell, and he was SS.

—
Waffen-SS
.

—Yes, Waffen-SS. I remember him.

It is like relief. What Micha feels is like relief.

—
What do you remember?

—They were fighting here for weeks and then it all went very quickly. It was early morning and suddenly the Red Army soldiers were here. In the town, just by the church.

—
1944
.

—Yes. They held me there, with the others like me, and then they brought the Germans there, too. Not all of them, some were dead, some were gone already, but they brought the ones that were left. Like clearing the ghetto, the Nazi ghetto. They stood them there with us, and I remember Askan Boell was one of them.

—
You saw him?

—Yes. The Russians pulled him out. They went down the line, and they pushed him down, made him kneel, you know. In the main square. They had guns, of course. A gun at his head, and they said his name, this Boell.

Alles vorbei. All over. Opa Askan Boell
.

Micha doesn’t know what to say. He thinks,
I should be recording this
. The tape deck is wrapped in sweaters at the bottom of his pack by the door in Andrej’s house.

—
Do you remember anything else?

—The Russians wanted to shoot us. Some of them wanted to shoot us on the spot. That’s why they stood us there so long, arguing. I remember that.

—
He was my grandfather
.

Kolesnik stops speaking. He looks at Micha, and Micha thinks for a moment that the old man looks angry. He hadn’t expected to say it like that, but that is how it came out. Micha shifts under Kolesnik’s gaze, sits up straighter in his chair.

—
Why did they want to shoot my grandfather?

—They wanted to shoot us all.

Micha sits for a long time. For what feels like a very long time, and he tries to work out what it is that he feels. And he tries to work
out if he can ask what he really needs to ask. Kolesnik sits opposite him, and Michael can hear him breathe, and he thinks he can feel it when Kolesnik looks at him and when he looks away.

—He was here. Summer, autumn 1943.

Kolesnik moves. Micha sees that out of the corner of his eye. He tries again.

—
Did you see my Opa do anything?

Micha doesn’t look at Kolesnik when he says it, and he waits, but Kolesnik doesn’t answer, so he has to look at him.

The old man has his head in his hands.

Kolesnik has pushed the photo away, too. The light from the window shines on the gloss, and Michael can’t see his Opa, just the many tiny folds in the surface of his picture. The deep crease across his legs.

—
Jozef?

—He killed people. I am sorry, Michael. He killed Jews and Belarusian people.

Micha is glad he can’t see his Opa, glad that Kolesnik looks away.

—
You saw that?

Kolesnik rubs his eyes.

—I know that he did.

He knows
.

Micha looks at Kolesnik, but the old man looks out of the window.
He knows
. Micha can’t see into Kolesnik’s eyes, but he sees the crease in his forehead, and the shadow across his face.

—
How do you know?

—1943. The ones who were here then. That’s what they were here for. All of them, all of us.

—
But you said. Yesterday you said not everyone did. The man who shot himself
.

—I remember him because he shot himself.

—
What do you mean?

—I am sorry.

Micha watches as Kolesnik rests his face in his large hands. He listens to the voice which comes through the gaps in the old man’s fingers.

—There were so few who didn’t do it. I could tell you all the names and faces who didn’t do it because they were so few.

He knows this. Micha knows this is true.

—You understand?

He does, but he doesn’t say anything. Fists pressed hard into his eyes.

Micha goes past Kolesnik’s house with his bags on his way to the bus. Kolesnik is in the garden, standing under the tree, when he sees Micha at the gate.

—Michael!

Kolesnik is pleased to see him, hurries up the path with smiles. Micha thinks he will never get used to it; that Kolesnik likes him.

—Something to eat? You have time to stay?

—
No, sorry. I think the bus will be there soon
.

—I will walk with you then, yes?

—
Yes. Thank you. That would be nice
.

At the bus stop, Micha leaves Kolesnik with his bags while he buys apples for the journey. He doesn’t need apples, he doesn’t need anything for the journey, but he can’t stand the silence of waiting with the old man next to him.

Micha is glad to be leaving. He tries to be, but he is not sad to say goodbye to Kolesnik. And though Micha knows Kolesnik likes him, he thinks the old man is also not sorry to see him go.

Kolesnik doesn’t wait for the bus to leave. He nods at Micha through the window, presses his broad, dry palm to the glass, and goes. Micha sits and waits alone, willing the bus to move.

Mina keeps laughing and crying and saying she is so tired. More tired than she’s ever been. Micha lies down in the bed with her, although he can see that the nurse doesn’t like it. Mina laughs again when the nurse leaves the room, and Micha folds the white blanket back over her arm, looks into his daughter’s tiny face.

—
What will we call her?

—I don’t know. I don’t know.

Mina lies the baby girl on Michael’s stomach, and he can feel her faint warmth through his shirt, but no weight.

—
What’s your name?

Micha sees Mina smile at him and he laughs.

Mina sleeps, but Micha stays awake with their girl. At least he thinks he does, but Luise wakes him up when she comes in.

—I have champagne.

She has flowers, too, and Mina’s parents bring baby clothes that are far too big, and then Micha’s Mutti and Vati come. It is awkward, the crowd of family in the hot hospital room, and Micha gets drunk quickly on Luise’s champagne. It is a long time since his last meal. He stands outside in the corridor and watches as his tiny girl is passed from hand to hand around the room.

—Will you phone Oma?

Mutti asks as she leaves.

—
No
.

Micha watches his mother’s face contract, and out of the corner of his eye he sees his father turn his back.

Luise stays on after the others have left.

—I’ll phone her, then. If you like.

—
Whatever
.

—Micha.

—
What? I don’t want to see her. She knew about it. She covered it up
.

—You don’t know that.

—
He wrote her letters. He burnt them all afterwards. What do you think they said?

—Not now, you two, okay?

Mina gets out of bed and takes the baby from Luise. Micha watches his sister, but she won’t look at him. He thinks she might cry again, wailing like the day he came back from Belarus; at the kitchen table, fists balled, knuckles pressed hard against her teeth. But Luise is quiet today. She takes a deep breath, watches Mina sit down on the bed with her new daughter, and then she stands.

—I should go, anyway. Let you get some rest.

Micha shrugs. Mina lies back against the pillows and smiles at his sister.

—Come back tomorrow, won’t you? It was good to see you, Luise.

After Luise has gone, Micha sits down. He leans his head back against the wall and closes his eyes.

—I was thinking you could maybe go, too.

Micha opens his eyes.

Mina is trying to feed their daughter, coaxing the small mouth through the folds of blanket and nightshirt to her breast. She shifts forward, tries to find a more comfortable position. Micha sees the hair at her temples, damp with sweat. Dark rings under her eyes.

—Go home. Come back tomorrow. Don’t come when Luise is here.

It is Christmas again, with a new baby this time. Days and nights of rain-soaked windows and colored lights. Milky baby smell and spicy biscuit gifts from friends.

Micha often wakes angry, but it takes him some minutes to remember why. The events of the summer impossible to connect with the small body he wraps in blankets and diapers. Tiny creased fingers, long legs, black hair.
Opa’s great-granddaughter
.

School holidays, night feeds, dark days. The weeks slide by. Passing their daughter between them, Micha and Mina smile at each other. He pulls her close as soon as he is allowed. After a while, she puts her arms around him, too. Everything is different again.

Michael Lehner, thirty-one. Brother, nephew, son, and grandson. School-teacher. Boyfriend, and now father, too
.

In the months since he has been back, Micha has barely seen his family. Has told them nothing, only Luise. He has not been to visit Oma, and has had only two conversations with his mother. One at the hospital, the other on the phone, when she asked him to please go and visit his grandmother.

—Just for an hour or two, Micha. She doesn’t understand.

—
No
.

—She keeps asking if you’ve gone away. She thinks something dreadful has happened.

—
It has. It did
.

—To the baby, I mean. She thinks we’re hiding something.

Micha holds his tongue. Thinks of a thousand retorts. All of them angry. All of them obvious.

—Michael?

—
No
.

Micha and Luise fight about whether to tell their parents. Every time she comes to see Mina, and also in cafés, parks, on street corners. They meet to talk, and always end up shouting.

—They know anyway. Over a month you were away. You think they didn’t notice that?

—
They don’t know where I was
.

—Don’t be so naïve. They can guess. They can fill in the details. They’re not stupid.

—
So I can tell them, then? Fill in the details for them, save them the effort of speculation?

—You’re such an asshole.

—
Fuck you, Luise. They’re still not facing up to it
.

—Why? Because they don’t scream and shout about it all day every day?

—
Like me, you mean?

—Yes, like you.

Micha turns away and unlocks his bike. Luise wheels hers around him, so she can see his face.

—They know anyway, Micha. Just leave it alone now, okay?

—What do you want to call her?

—
I don’t know
.

—I thought of Dilan. My dad’s mother was called Dilan.

—
That’s nice
.

—Really?

—
Yes. Yes, really. It’s beautiful
.

Micha looks at his daughter lying on his knees: soft, dark eyes, unfocused.

—
Dilan
.

He moves his face closer, and she widens her eyes. He touches a fingertip against her palm to feel her grip.

—We can give her a German name, too.

—
No. I think Dilan is good
.

Mina is quiet.
Please don’t say Kaethe. Just your grandmother. Not mine
.