Lore (8 page)

—Lieschen, please. Anne-Liese. If you stop crying, I’ve got something for you.

Lore climbs up onto the chair, takes the sugar pot off the top shelf in the corner, where Mutti keeps it out of sight. Liesel stops crying immediately, licks her finger and dips it inside. She sucks, dips, sucks, and lets Lore dry her cheeks, wipe away the evidence of their fight. The twins have been quiet, watching, but now Jochen gets up
and slips across the room to where his sisters stand. Jürgen follows, trailing the blankets behind him off the bed. They both lick their fingers, hold them out ready to dip.

—No. Not you two as well.

—Why not, Lore?

—Just go back to bed, Jochen. You too, Jüri. Please.

—We’ll tell Mutti you pinched Liesel.

—We’ll tell her you gave her the sugar.

Lore sighs and holds out the pot to them, but Liesel pushes it away from the twins’ reaching hands.

—No, Lore. It’s just for me.

Jochen shoves her angrily, and Jürgen drops his blankets, steps forward to stand next to his brother.

—Shut up, Liesel.

—No, you’re not allowed, Jüri.

—You can’t tell us what to do.

—I’m older than you.

—Lore said we could, and
she’s
older than
you
.

Mutti stands behind them in the open door.

Lore’s stomach turns to water.

Mutti puts down the food from the farmer, picks up a cup from the table and hurls it to the floor.

They are all quiet now, except for Peter, who cries. Mutti picks him up and carries him to the chair by the far wall. She sits down with her back to them all.

—Go to bed. You too, Lore. Sleep.

Mutti leaves the lamp on, stays in the chair long after Peter has stopped crying. Lore lies next to Liesel and pretends to sleep. Watching through her eyelashes: her mother’s mouth smiling, murmuring to the baby, her mother’s eyes darting nervously around the room.

Lore remembers how Mutti cried, dry-eyed, standing with Vati in the hall. Thinks,
It is coming
. The end of the waiting.

.  .  .

Morning, and the sun falls over the windowsill into the room. Mutti sits in shadow at the table, sorting through their things, deciding what to keep and what to burn.

—Why? Is Vati coming? Are we moving again?

Lore doesn’t get an answer. She washes the breakfast dishes, standing the bucket in the shaft of sun by the window, turning her back to her mother. She can see the twins playing by the pump in the yard, but she can’t hear them through the glass. Liesel is sitting outside by the window, knitting socks and rocking Peter in his pram. The glass is old and thicker at the bottom than the top. Her sister’s hands ripple as they work the wool. Behind her, Mutti’s fingers fly through pockets and schoolbags. Books and badges and uniforms piled on the table. Green wood cracks in the stove. Outside it is windy and the children play without coats. Inside it is hot.

Lore stocks the stove from the piles on the table and watches Mutti sorting through the photo album. She pulls out the pictures too precious to lose, slipping them gently out of their white corner fastenings, lining them up on the quilt next to her. These are then tied in a clean rag and laid in a drawer, while the album is added to the pile on the table. Lore works through the morning, watching their clothes and papers burn, balancing logs around the chimney to dry for later.

The photo album burns badly at first, too thick and full for the flames to catch hold. The blue linen cover browns and curls and Lore’s eyes dry in the heat from the open stove door. Liesel will cry when she finds her uniform gone, the twins will ask for their books. Mutti stares at the now empty tabletop, mouth slack, cigarette burning between her fingers. Lore closes the stove door and opens the vents; the pages catch and the job is done.

.  .  .

Later, Mutti fishes the badges out of the ashes with the sugar spoon and wraps them in a handkerchief. She keeps the children inside, sends Lore out instead. Tells her to take Peter with her and walk at least a kilometer, follow the stream, find a wide point where the current is strong.

—Stay by the water. Away from the road, and be quick. I’ll watch for you.

Lore walks along the water with Peter on her hip, tells him,

—We are sitting them out here. These last days.

The enemy will be here soon, but she will not be afraid. She will be patient and brave, certain of the
Endsieg. Vati said. It will be over soon
. Everything will be new again, and she will be ready. The armies will spill over the mountains; the valley will be filled with noise and death; and soon after that will come victory.

She sits Peter down on the bank and throws her handful of metal into the water. The badges sink to the bottom, too near the water’s edge for the current to take them. Peter points to the nearest one with his fat, wet fingers. The enamel colors are dulled and the badge has twisted in the heat of the stove, but Lore can still make out the Party sign. She takes off her shoes and stockings and wades out into the cold water to retrieve them.

They walk on a little farther, alone in the wet fields, Peter sitting heavy on Lore’s hip, humming in time with her steps. She empties the handkerchief into the bramble bushes at the boundary with the neighboring farm. One or two of the blackened badges spring back against the branches and Lore kicks them into the undergrowth, throwing loose earth and grass after them. She washes her hands in the stream and dips Peter’s toes in the shallows to make him laugh. The sun warms their hair and the hills cradle their voices.

Lore thinks about Mutti waiting, watching for them. She cuts across the wide, quiet fields back to the farmhouse, with Peter asleep on her arm. Whispers to him.

—Before the victory there will be pain.

She steels herself for the blood and flames.

Lore is scrubbing potatoes at the window when the Americans arrive.

The twins have strayed from the yard again, Liesel has followed them, and Mutti has gone out to shout for them at the gate. Lore knows her mother has seen the jeep, but she knocks on the window anyway, leaving a muddy potato streak on the glass. Mutti doesn’t turn round. She was calling for the children, but now she is quiet, watching the jeep make its slow approach across the pasture to the yard.

When the Americans stop to open the top gate, Mutti turns and walks inside. She tells Lore,

—Keep working.

Wipes her hands and runs them through her hair, gets her lipstick from her pocket, and puts on her hat and coat.

Lore watches her mother; but if Mutti is frightened, she doesn’t show it. She goes outside and Lore carries on working. Fishing muddy potatoes out of brown water, dropping clean potatoes into clear water. Her hands are pink and the blood sings in her ears. She concentrates on the wet earth smell and her cold fingers. Pulse hammering at her throat.

Her mother meets the soldiers as they pull up in the yard. They leave the jeep running while they talk. Mutti stands straight with her hands by her sides. One soldier has a clipboard with papers, and he flips through these while Mutti speaks. Another leans against the jeep while he asks her questions. The soldier with the clipboard writes something down and then hands a piece of paper to Mutti, which she pulls close to her face to read. Lore stops scrubbing. The group outside is silent, but the jeep is still running. Mutti turns the paper over to read the other side and the American with the clipboard kicks at the ground with his toe. Mutti is speaking now. She
passes her hand across her forehead and gestures to the house. The American leaning against the jeep stands up straight and looks over to Lore at the window. The American holding the clipboard holds up four fingers, and Mutti shakes her head and holds up five. This is noted on the clipboard, too. The papers are signed by both Americans and by Mutti, then a copy is torn off and folded and sealed in an envelope, which Mutti holds in front of her with both hands as the Americans drive out of the yard without closing the gate behind them.

The children come back late, but Mutti doesn’t scold them. They pull the table out from the wall and eat together as usual. Boisterous with guilt and relief, Liesel giggles and the twins kick at each other under the table. Mutti says nothing about the Americans and Lore knows it is their secret.

She lies in the little bed with Liesel, eyes closed, listening as Mutti slides into the big bed with Peter and the twins and puts out the lamp. Americans are better than Russians. Russians steal and burn and hurt women, shame them. The Americans come with clipboards and don’t even look in the house.

Lore opens her eyes, thinks; the fighting could come now, in the night, like the bombs always did.

She remembers the badges in the bushes. She should have thrown them in the deep water; buried them under the stones on the riverbed.

Lore lies still and listens, but there are no guns, just her mother’s breathing. Only when she hears it deepen and lengthen does Lore allow herself to fall asleep too.

Mutti says she is sick and sleeps with her face to the wall. The children sit quietly, hungrily, while Lore searches her mother’s pockets for coins. She tells the twins to stay inside, takes Liesel and Peter across the yard and up the short track to buy food from the farmer.

His wife takes the money Lore offers and tells them to wait by the door. Liesel sneaks a look inside the house while she is gone, whispers to her sister about the huge stove and the tin bath hung on the wall. Lore watches the farmer’s wife making her way back from the barn. Remembers the order of their house in the village, and, further back, the family home in Hamburg before the bombs. Wallpapered bedrooms and hot water from taps. Liesel says it’s cozy in the farmer’s kitchen, with onions and smoked bacon and five new loaves sitting ready by the oven door.

—Is your mother still here?

—Yes, of course.

—Well, can you tell her my husband wants to speak to her, please?

—Of course.

—What did she mean, Lore?

Liesel struggles with Peter on her hip, so Lore swaps him for the egg basket.

—She didn’t mean anything. Don’t drop them, Lieschen.

—She thought Mutti was gone.

—No she didn’t. Be careful with the eggs, hold them higher or you’ll bump the basket on the ground.

Mutti stands at the door in her dressing gown. Her eyes are small and her hair flat and dull. She snatches the basket of eggs from Liesel and the children slip out into the yard.

—The boys were hungry.

—They had bread this morning.

—But there’s nothing else left.

Mutti gets back into bed and smokes the last of the cigarettes she has been rationing since they moved. Her remaining photos of Vati are lined up on the quilt in front of her. Peter dozes and Lore sits at the table and cries.

—How much longer do we have to stay here?

She remembers the women in the village: how the queues outside the shops looked like funeral groups, and the dye dripped in black puddles from their skirts in the winter rain. The air in the room is hot and dry. Dense with her mother’s cigarettes and sickness. In Hamburg, Vati sat out on the step with Lore and wriggled his toes in his thick woollen socks. He wore braces under his uniform. The twins crawled behind him in the garden, laughing, watching their reflections in his high black boots.
Soon the war will be over
. Lore closes her eyes and wills the army to come, the fighting to begin. She holds the valley in her mind’s eye. Sees the grasses along the edge of the country road, seed-heads unsteady in the breeze. A bird sings close by. She can hear it high and clear through the window glass.

Mutti’s skin is hot to the touch, the hair at her temples damp. She lifts the quilt and pulls Lore into the warm bed. The photos slide to the floor.

Lore feels safer in the bed, wrapped tight and secure. Mutti’s tears tickle her scalp, wet cheek pressed against her ear. She moves her lips, whispers, but Lore doesn’t understand. She pulls the quilt up higher, over her mother’s encircling arms. She is almost as thin again as she was in her engagement pictures, which lie scattered on the floor by the bed. Lore looks at them while her mother sleeps. Mutti, Vati, and Oma in Hamburg. By the railing along the
Jungfernstieg
, with the lake behind them.
Before I was born
. Their faces are familiar but unfamiliar, too. All three smiling, holding on to their hats, the wind pulling their coats stiffly to the right.

Mutti sets off for the town at dawn, promising fresh bread for breakfast, but she doesn’t come back until after midday. Lore takes Liesel and Peter down the track from the top gate to meet her. Her bag is empty, and her coat is open, flapping in the wind. Peter shouts for his mother, twisting in Lore’s arms, but Mutti doesn’t
take him. They stand squinting in the sunlight. Mutti’s hair blows across her face and Lore can’t see her eyes. She tells her daughters. The war is over. Our
Führer
is dead.

Liesel cries, and Mutti strokes her cheek.

—Just think of how he fought for us, Lieschen. He was brave.

Liesel nods and rubs at her tears with both hands. Lore hides her burning cheeks. There will be no battle in the valley now. No suffering or sacrifice. She is shocked and ashamed at her sense of relief. Breathes deep to fight her cowardice, to remember this forever. This field, the way they stand facing each other, how Peter holds his hands out and Mutti lifts him up and holds him against the sky and he smiles.

Mutti goes to the town again in the morning, comes back again without food. She gets into bed and stays there. The children are hungry and restless. Lore sends them out, but they play halfheartedly and soon come back inside. Midafternoon, Lore goes through her mother’s pockets once more, and takes Peter and Jürgen with her to buy food, from the neighboring farm this time. They get bread and sauerkraut, and an egg for each of them, which Lore carries in her pockets. She lifts Peter onto her shoulders, which is a bit high for him, and he holds on to her ears to stop himself from swaying. Jüri walks ahead and they sing in the twilight as they make their way back along the stream. Lore watches Jüri marching ahead of her. The back of his head is like a soft version of Vati’s in miniature, with the same swirl of hair at the crown. He turns around and walks backwards for a while, skipping to keep up the pace.