Read Online Lore by Rachel Seiffert - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Rachel Seiffert
Tags: General Fiction
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without tears. Mouth opening, lips twisting against the small, strained noise.
—Vati!
—Lore. My Hannelore. She’s grown again.
Lore’s forehead pressed against his shoulder, Vati laughs and Mutti runs a nervous hand across her face.
They work quickly: Vati emptying drawers, Mutti filling bags, the soldier loading the truck. Lore stands at the front door with Liesel. Sleepy and bulky, dress buttoned over her nightshirt, and a coat on top of that. It is dark, difficult to see, but her parents don’t turn on the lights. The baby wakes. Vati picks him up and sings to him, Mutti watches for a moment and then goes upstairs to wake the twins.
Lore’s sister holds her hand, stares at her father, her baby brother.
—We called him Peter, like you, Vati.
—I know, Lieschen.
Her father smiles. Lore watches him, too. Still Vati, but somehow different. From the photos. From the last time.
Not this Christmas, the one before
. He meets Lore’s eyes.
—Come on. I’ll get some blankets. We’ll make it cozy for you in the truck.
They drive for what feels like hours. Out of the village and into the valley. Mutti wordless with Vati in the front, Peter asleep in her lap. No lights. They drive in the darkness and the engine noise.
Lore sits in the back with her sister and brothers, on top of all their bags. Liesel sleeps, mouth open, the twins stare at the back of their father’s head. They are silent, sitting shoulder to shoulder, leg to leg. Heads swaying with the motion of the road, eyes glassy with sleep and surprise. Lore whispers.
—It’s Vati.
And they nod.
They stop in a yard that glitters with frost. There are people withlanterns, and two beds in a strange room that smells of mud and straw. When Mutti blows out the lanterns it is no longer dark. There is a long window on the far wall, and Lore can see her father; his shoulders; a hunched, black outline against the gray dawn. She is cold in the bed with Liesel. He finds her an extra blanket, tucks it around her, and when he kisses her good night she smells his sweat, feels the stubble on his chin.
—Where are we?
—A farm. A safe place.
He whispers, Lore drifts.
—A good place to sit out these last weeks.
When she wakes again it is light in the strange room and he is gone.
It is a nothing-time between war and peace. Like treading water. Or holding your breath until a bird flies away. Weeks pass, spring arrives, windy and blue, and Lore’s days are long and shapeless.
The farm sits on the banks of a slow stream, tucked into the foot of a hill. Deep in the green of the valley. Lore knows there are armies on the march. Russians from one side, Americans from the other. In Hamburg they had the apartment, with the long garden and a maid. Even in the village, after evacuation, they had a whole house. Now they are here, and they are six in one room. Pushing the beds against the wall in the mornings, pulling them out again at night.
Lore watches the cloud shadows drift across the mountainside, remembers her father’s midnight visit in snatches, like a dream.
Over soon. You will see
. Months fall by and nothing changes. She does her chores, adjusts herself to the waiting, the war will be won soon.
Only a matter of time
.
The weather is glorious. Liesel and the twins spend their days outside; in the yard at first, but that soon gets boring, and they venture out into the fields beyond. Mutti worries when she can’t seethem; paces the room and then shouts when they finally come home.
Most days, the farmer’s wife brings food. Bread, dumplings, sauerkraut, eggs, and milk. Sometimes there is bacon, or small, shriveled apples from last autumn. She stands broad in the doorway and saves her smiles for the baby and the twins.
In the afternoons, Peter sleeps, Mutti and Liesel darn the holes in their stockings, and the twins play under the table. Unable to contain themselves, they fill the room with their whispering games.
On clear days Lore can make out a small
—Vati!
—Lore. My Hannelore. She’s grown again.
Lore’s forehead pressed against his shoulder, Vati laughs and Mutti runs a nervous hand across her face.
They work quickly: Vati emptying drawers, Mutti filling bags, the soldier loading the truck. Lore stands at the front door with Liesel. Sleepy and bulky, dress buttoned over her nightshirt, and a coat on top of that. It is dark, difficult to see, but her parents don’t turn on the lights. The baby wakes. Vati picks him up and sings to him, Mutti watches for a moment and then goes upstairs to wake the twins.
Lore’s sister holds her hand, stares at her father, her baby brother.
—We called him Peter, like you, Vati.
—I know, Lieschen.
Her father smiles. Lore watches him, too. Still Vati, but somehow different. From the photos. From the last time.
Not this Christmas, the one before
. He meets Lore’s eyes.
—Come on. I’ll get some blankets. We’ll make it cozy for you in the truck.
They drive for what feels like hours. Out of the village and into the valley. Mutti wordless with Vati in the front, Peter asleep in her lap. No lights. They drive in the darkness and the engine noise.
Lore sits in the back with her sister and brothers, on top of all their bags. Liesel sleeps, mouth open, the twins stare at the back of their father’s head. They are silent, sitting shoulder to shoulder, leg to leg. Heads swaying with the motion of the road, eyes glassy with sleep and surprise. Lore whispers.
—It’s Vati.
And they nod.
They stop in a yard that glitters with frost. There are people withlanterns, and two beds in a strange room that smells of mud and straw. When Mutti blows out the lanterns it is no longer dark. There is a long window on the far wall, and Lore can see her father; his shoulders; a hunched, black outline against the gray dawn. She is cold in the bed with Liesel. He finds her an extra blanket, tucks it around her, and when he kisses her good night she smells his sweat, feels the stubble on his chin.
—Where are we?
—A farm. A safe place.
He whispers, Lore drifts.
—A good place to sit out these last weeks.
When she wakes again it is light in the strange room and he is gone.
It is a nothing-time between war and peace. Like treading water. Or holding your breath until a bird flies away. Weeks pass, spring arrives, windy and blue, and Lore’s days are long and shapeless.
The farm sits on the banks of a slow stream, tucked into the foot of a hill. Deep in the green of the valley. Lore knows there are armies on the march. Russians from one side, Americans from the other. In Hamburg they had the apartment, with the long garden and a maid. Even in the village, after evacuation, they had a whole house. Now they are here, and they are six in one room. Pushing the beds against the wall in the mornings, pulling them out again at night.
Lore watches the cloud shadows drift across the mountainside, remembers her father’s midnight visit in snatches, like a dream.
Over soon. You will see
. Months fall by and nothing changes. She does her chores, adjusts herself to the waiting, the war will be won soon.
Only a matter of time
.
The weather is glorious. Liesel and the twins spend their days outside; in the yard at first, but that soon gets boring, and they venture out into the fields beyond. Mutti worries when she can’t seethem; paces the room and then shouts when they finally come home.
Most days, the farmer’s wife brings food. Bread, dumplings, sauerkraut, eggs, and milk. Sometimes there is bacon, or small, shriveled apples from last autumn. She stands broad in the doorway and saves her smiles for the baby and the twins.
In the afternoons, Peter sleeps, Mutti and Liesel darn the holes in their stockings, and the twins play under the table. Unable to contain themselves, they fill the room with their whispering games.
On clear days Lore can make out a small
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