Shorter Days (7 page)

Whenever she sees Hanna and her pale son rushing frantically down the street, or heaving the weekly groceries from the trunk of the Renault with the help of Hanna's mother—under whose stream of words Hanna cowers as if under a cold shower—Judith is reminded of how cozy and secure her own life is. The fact that this woman has to do everything herself, that she can call on no one to share the burden of responsibility, fills Judith with fear and awe. She knows very well that she would never be able to raise the children, or even feed them, without Klaus; she knows that their lifestyle—sole wage earner and housewife—is on the verge of extinction. When she allows Mattis and Hanna into her world for an hour or two, she feels as if she's making a sacrifice to angry gods. And it really is a sacrifice to hear TV-inflected battle cries coming from the otherwise peaceful playroom, and to hear her boys joining in as if it were the most natural thing in the world. It's a sacrifice to Hanna, who sits at Judith's table letting her tea get cold, for Judith to let herself be dragged so deep into the life of a broken family. Judith slides the plate of cake toward Hanna, hoping she'll take some, that she'll stuff her mouth with homemade cake and that the shredded carrots, hazelnuts, and cinnamon will form a bulwark that will halt the flow of news from Hanna's dreary world. Of course, it doesn't work. Hanna talks of lactose-free yogurt and soy milk, of torrents of vomit and watery stools. Judith nods and murmurs, then inserts some praise, since she doesn't know what else to say. Hanna's pale face reddens slightly, she smiles—a rare look for her: “Yes, that's what everyone says, that we mothers work the hardest. My mom doesn't quite believe that, though.” Perhaps she should jump in and draw Hanna out. Perhaps Hanna wants to pour out her heart about her mother—she clearly does much for her grandchild but seems to cause problems for her daughter. But then Mattis emerges from the playroom with a giant gun he's hammered together from a Matador building set, his cheeks red and the hair on his neck dark with sweat. He sets his handiwork in his mother's lap: “Look what Uli and I made!” Judith is horrified by the precision of the weapon her son has constructed with the old-fashioned building kit, which he usually turns into animals and all manner of buildings. She's horrified by the trigger and magazine that Mattis is so expertly illustrating, so horrified that she barely registers the way Hanna turns from her son and begins to eat her cake and drink her tea without any comment aside from a single “Hm,” her whole body facing away from Mattis, until Kilian and Uli come to drag their guest back to the playroom.

Judith has an aversion to Mattis's grandma, a chubby woman with rosacea who loudly bemoans her only grandson's fate and takes responsibility for his alternative diet. Judith's own mother-in-law had to be convinced not to give plastic cranes or
Teletubby
dolls as Christmas presents, but she's helpful and friendly and doesn't interfere too much. She admires Judith's dedication to her household and is impressed by the children's health: “There must be something to that Waldorf upbringing.” Judith is grateful that her children manage fine with homeopathic cures from the medicine chest. The question of stronger substances, antibiotics or cortisone, has never arisen. What would she do if their little bodies rebelled with pain, if their fevers worsened, changing from necessary and healthy bodily functions into life-threatening afflictions?

Judith looks at her watch. It's already half past four. The walls turn dark yellow, then reddish. Soon it will be dark. Five is cleanup time in the garden. Klaus will come home and they'll have dinner. She allows the boys another handful of cookies and thinks. Hanna must have been held up at work. Mattis's kindergarten is open until five. The boys will be disappointed. Just as she's thinking about starting a ball game with Uli and Killian, she hears excited voices—high chirping sounds that could only belong to little girls. And then they're there, running around the corner of the building, rushing across the lawn to the sandbox. They're wearing identical jean skirts with embroidered flowers, patent leather boots with pink fur lining, and glowing down jackets. A multitude of pompons dances from their hats and scarves. The outfits would be more appropriate for sixteen-year-olds. The skirts end far above their knees and display legs in pink cotton tights. The girls immediately set about opening a restaurant. Thrilled, they pluck spoons, pans, and sieves from the wooden play box while the older girl provides commentary: “That's the blender! And this is the fryer—we can make french fries!” They holler from the house to the astonished Ulrich, who hesitates at first, but then grins and joins in, dragging his brother by the hand.

Leonie's red hair glows against the backdrop of the ivy-covered wall. She's wearing a suit, a light-colored tweed coat, and high-heeled boots. A leather briefcase swings from her shoulder. She walks quickly through the grass toward Judith. Judith is curious to see if she'll sink into the wet ground, but she treads so skillfully that she reaches the bench and sits down beside Judith without the slightest mishap. “I always wanted to call you up, but somehow it never happened. And so I thought we'd just look in and see if you were here. The garden is beautiful, you'd never expect something like this back here. It's fantastic—right in the middle of the city! And you even have a sandbox!”

Judith examines Leonie's face—her lipstick, her bright makeup, and the delicate pink freckles on her neck. She can tell that her neighbor doesn't feel quite as comfortable as she pretends. Unlike her children, she doesn't take it for granted that she can just burst in. I purposely didn't invite them, yet they showed up anyway. Judith takes a deep breath. She hates surprises. Mattis and Hanna still aren't here. She looks surreptitiously at her watch. It's too late now—they're not coming. There's great hustle and bustle between the sandbox and the hut. Uli and Leonie's eldest have taken the reins, and they are sending the two younger children back and forth, as both waiters and customers. Rosehips, mud pies, and stones are on the menu. Uli makes ivy and grass dumplings filled with mud and Lisa does her best to imitate him. Judith is proud to see how sweetly Kilian treats the younger Felicia. “We were expecting visitors, actually—a neighbor's son,” Judith says, purposely not mentioning any names, “but it seems they've been held up. Would you care for some tea?” Opening the wicker basket at her feet, pulling out the thermos, saucers, spoons, paper napkins, and the can with cubes of barley malt, and setting it all on the table restores Judith's sense of security—the more so as she can sense Leonie's admiration for her ability to spontaneously conjure up the makings of a tea party.

Felicia and Kilian have gotten into an altercation in the sandbox. Both are howling. Judith can't tell what the trouble is. Leonie stands up immediately. “Feli, what's wrong?” She translates her daughter's wails. Kilian stands sullenly at her side. “You don't want to be the customer? What do you want to be? The chef? And Kilian?” He mumbles something. “You want to be the chef too?” Leonie squats down with them, heedless of boots or coat. “You know what? I'll be the customer. I'm super hungry. You guys cook me something! What do you serve here?” Kilian is already laughing again. “Dumplings and spätzle and bread pudding!” Felicia chimes in: “And cu'tard!” She doesn't let go of her mother's hand. The two older children join in. “I want to cook something too!” Uli cries. “Me too!” Lisa adds. Leonie takes the bucket that Uli is holding out to her. She fills the molds with the big wooden spoon. Her nose shines, she laughs. Uli chatters away eagerly, showing her the sand toys. It's a new experience for Judith's children, having a grown-up take part in a game, acting with them and following their directions. They like it—they laugh and talk excitedly. At the same time, they look wary, as if the situation could turn at any moment, as if the visitor might suddenly transform into a shadowy creature. At home Judith does crafts with the boys. They press flowers, braid, and weave. She lets them help her with the housework too, when they want to, but she doesn't play with them. The world of childhood, where a fantasy land made from a few pillows and sticks can provide a whole day's entertainment, is sacred. It shouldn't be disturbed by a grown-up's influence. At the Waldorf kindergarten, too, the teachers serve only as models to be imitated, working like nineteenth-century mothers in the house and garden with flour mills, mixing bowls, and washboards. The children are allowed to participate when they feel like it.

“Mmm, yummy! You're good cooks. I want more!” Leonie cries, patting her stomach. The children bring her sand-filled containers, they pick leaves and flowers and lay them at Leonie's feet. It reminds Judith of natives making offerings to an idol. Nonetheless, she likes the way Leonie sits on the rim of the sandbox with legs outstretched, how she closes her eyes and sniffs appreciatively when Uli holds fat mud balls served on an ivy leaf under her nose. At the same time, she knows this unwanted visit will upset things. Lisa and Felicia have temporary glitter tattoos on the backs of their hands and chewing gum in their cheeks. Now and then they fish long red gummy worms from the pockets of their jackets and share them with the boys. They chew delightedly, exuding the smell of artificial strawberry. Kilian tugs on Leonie's bracelet: silver and multi-colored Ernie, Bert, Cookie Monster, and Grover charms jingle from Leonie's freckled wrist. “Who are they?” With support from her girls, Leonie tells them about
Sesame Street
. They're stunned when Uli exclaims: “We don't have a television!” Tonight there will be questions: between bites of bread, called from behind the bathroom door, and whispered from under the blankets. Questions that will take energy to answer and that will bring uncertainty and confusion, maybe even awaken doubts about the fact that Judith wants to keep certain things from her children for as long as possible. Judith tosses back the now-cold fruit tea. It's sour and makes her mouth water. She wishes she could spit it out. She's annoyed at Hanna. Why couldn't the stupid cow get here on time? Then she could have gotten rid of Leonie gracefully. “I'm sorry, we have visitors—maybe some other time.” Instead, this redhead is sitting here letting the children ogle her, totally oblivious. Uli touches her shimmering pantyhose tentatively: “How come you're so pretty?” She's upset everything—she doesn't even ask whether the children are allowed to eat sweets.

Judith stands and goes over to the sandbox. “Uli, Kilian, get the apples and the sweets. You can eat with Lisa and Felicia in the playhouse.” The prospect of cookies ends the game. Uli carries the cookie tin proudly and carefully; Lisa walks at his side, while her sister and Kilian follow slowly behind, each hand wrapped around a yellow apple. There's a clattering from inside the hut, and Uli's forceful voice giving orders for the seating arrangement and cookie distribution. “You even baked! I can't bake at all. Sometimes I buy those muffin mixes. I let the girls decorate them with smarties and sprinkles.” Leonie laughs and cleans her dirty fingers with a perfumed towelette. “We think carefully about what we eat in our household,” Judith says quietly. She tries to draw a line. It would be easier to be alone again—sun on her face, walled in, just her and the children, Klaus perhaps when he comes home, briefcase under his arm, eyes shining, his joy mirrored in the children's faces and shining back on her as well.

Meanwhile, Leonie has sensed something; she twists her towelette into a sausage and stuffs it into her coat pocket, takes two steps back, her body tilted toward the playhouse, listening: “They're playing so nicely in there—so peacefully.”

Judith just nods and puts the tea dishes back in the basket. Leonie takes the empty thermos to the faucet in the wall. How did she find it so easily? She's smart—she washes the thermos and hands it back to Judith. She's the kind of woman who would be easy to get close to: test lipstick, buy shoes, maybe even a second charm bracelet for Judith. From the Hackstraße days onward, it had been women, not men, who were in short supply. Judith finds most women trying and wearisome. As rivals they'd been irritating, now as mothers, members of this underprivileged and idealistic caste, they're tolerable only in small doses. Klaus has a large circle of friends: colleagues from the university, guys from his band, even old school friends he's kept in touch with. Judith is happy to cook for company, but when they put out feelers or extend invitations—“How about a barbecue next weekend at the Bärenschlößle . . .?”—she pulls back.

Leonie has turned away; her drooping shoulders convey her sense of helplessness. One more peep from the house and she'll call the girls and leave. Judith feels bad. She doesn't want to be a bitch. And the children really did play so nicely together. A window opens above. She touches Leonie's arm. “Look, Klaus is home. Maybe he'll make us coffee.” The other woman's face brightens, and her smile returns, wide and exuberant. Sören wouldn't have liked her: narrow sporty figure, red hair, too-small tits, a strong chin. She'd never have wasted years on a Hackstraße lover, popped pills, spread her legs on command. She's normal. There's no Tavor-fog behind her smooth brow. This “working girl” with her bag and elegant office clothes contributes a not-insignificant amount to the household income. She hires a cleaning lady, of course. When she looks in the mirror, she doesn't see a loser staring back at her. All that education, all the slaving away for Baumeister/Canetti, just to cook spelt dumplings and sew patches on torn pants? She doesn't have the slightest clue about the foul swill that sloshes around inside your skull. Give her a hot, caffeinated drink and let her go in peace. She won't make any horrifying discoveries about you, and you can go your merry way. Too bad it isn't a private way, with big
NO TRESPASSING
signs. You lack the courage to really take the plunge, as the Amish do: white bonnets and horse-drawn buggies, kneading bread and fetching water from the well, marrying only among themselves, defending their own plots of land with a shotgun.