Read Online Silence by Mechtild Borrmann - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Mechtild Borrmann
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would turn away and look over at her mother, who was mending clothes with trembling hands. Her mother did not leave the house anymore.
At night, Margarete Pohl now sat quietly at the kitchen table, gazing out at the darkness beyond the window. She did her daily chores mechanically, often pausing suddenly and staring ahead. Then, as if awakened, she would look around the room in surprise, as if the place were unfamiliar. Her nervousness had left her, and it sometimes seemed to Therese that her mother was glad at least to know where her husband was. Indeed, she had the impression that her mother thought prison was a place of safety for her father.
It was early on a Monday morning. The sun had lost some of its strength, but the days were clear and bright. The trees and hedgerows displayed the reds and golds of fall, and the sweet scent of late-season apples and pears mingled with the earthy smell of freshly plowed, winter-ready fields.
Therese was helping her mother with the laundry. She came out of the cellar with a wicker basket full of boiled linens and put it down in the yard. She used a rag to wipe the lines that were stretched out over five poles. She had tied the little bag of wooden clothes-pegs like an apron in front of her belly. The cold bit into her wet hands as she hung a wet sheet over the line. At that moment she saw him, standing by the back gate to the yard, and she cried out.
He had a gash over his right eyebrow, his left eye was swollen shut, his lips split open. Margarete Pohl came running up the cellar steps and stared at her husband. Then she clasped him in her arms, whimpering, “It’s not true. It can’t be true.”
Over and over again she touched his battered face. Over and over again she repeated the same phrase. Her father was weeping. Therese had never seen her father weep. Her mother pushed him into a chair in the kitchen, poured hot water from the kettle, wiped the crusted blood off his face.
Therese sat down beside him. He reached for her hand. Once her mother had treated the wounds, she took off his shirt and jacket. She staggered back and dropped heavily onto the kitchen bench. His trunk was covered with bruises.
Therese Mende remembered the silence. The kind of silence in which one breathlessly seeks words one does not know. Which one has to invent.
“Those will heal,” said her father, as if there were other things besides, things that would never heal.
Her mother put him to bed. When she came back down, she went at things with more strength, sweeping the kitchen with short, angry strokes of the broom. She, who went through life gently, almost lethargically, now seemed to have summoned up all her reserves. She went up to the bedroom repeatedly, as if to confirm that he really was lying there and that they really had dared to strike him. It was as if she could not believe that, outside, this day was continuing like any other.
That night, Therese was awakened by a sound in her bedroom. When she opened her eyes, her father was sitting on the edge of the bed. He put his finger to his split lips.
“Therese, I know it’s asking a lot, but you have to do something for me.”
She sat up. He undid a ribbon that was wrapped around a sort of leather wallet. She recognized identity papers.
“These things have to go, urgently, to the lookout tower behind the Kalder estate. Do you remember it? We used to go there sometimes. The clearing, not far from the Dutch border.”
She nodded. Wilhelm’s voice danced through her head. Collaborator . . . He stands accused of treason.
She had walked past the lookout a few months before, with her friends. “Yes. But it’s a ruin. There’s . . .” Her father put his finger to his lips again.
“The wall on the left-hand side is made of a double thickness of planks. The middle one is loose. You must take it out and push the folder into the gap. Make sure it sits firmly and can’t slide down.”
Therese nodded again automatically.
“Go to
At night, Margarete Pohl now sat quietly at the kitchen table, gazing out at the darkness beyond the window. She did her daily chores mechanically, often pausing suddenly and staring ahead. Then, as if awakened, she would look around the room in surprise, as if the place were unfamiliar. Her nervousness had left her, and it sometimes seemed to Therese that her mother was glad at least to know where her husband was. Indeed, she had the impression that her mother thought prison was a place of safety for her father.
It was early on a Monday morning. The sun had lost some of its strength, but the days were clear and bright. The trees and hedgerows displayed the reds and golds of fall, and the sweet scent of late-season apples and pears mingled with the earthy smell of freshly plowed, winter-ready fields.
Therese was helping her mother with the laundry. She came out of the cellar with a wicker basket full of boiled linens and put it down in the yard. She used a rag to wipe the lines that were stretched out over five poles. She had tied the little bag of wooden clothes-pegs like an apron in front of her belly. The cold bit into her wet hands as she hung a wet sheet over the line. At that moment she saw him, standing by the back gate to the yard, and she cried out.
He had a gash over his right eyebrow, his left eye was swollen shut, his lips split open. Margarete Pohl came running up the cellar steps and stared at her husband. Then she clasped him in her arms, whimpering, “It’s not true. It can’t be true.”
Over and over again she touched his battered face. Over and over again she repeated the same phrase. Her father was weeping. Therese had never seen her father weep. Her mother pushed him into a chair in the kitchen, poured hot water from the kettle, wiped the crusted blood off his face.
Therese sat down beside him. He reached for her hand. Once her mother had treated the wounds, she took off his shirt and jacket. She staggered back and dropped heavily onto the kitchen bench. His trunk was covered with bruises.
Therese Mende remembered the silence. The kind of silence in which one breathlessly seeks words one does not know. Which one has to invent.
“Those will heal,” said her father, as if there were other things besides, things that would never heal.
Her mother put him to bed. When she came back down, she went at things with more strength, sweeping the kitchen with short, angry strokes of the broom. She, who went through life gently, almost lethargically, now seemed to have summoned up all her reserves. She went up to the bedroom repeatedly, as if to confirm that he really was lying there and that they really had dared to strike him. It was as if she could not believe that, outside, this day was continuing like any other.
That night, Therese was awakened by a sound in her bedroom. When she opened her eyes, her father was sitting on the edge of the bed. He put his finger to his split lips.
“Therese, I know it’s asking a lot, but you have to do something for me.”
She sat up. He undid a ribbon that was wrapped around a sort of leather wallet. She recognized identity papers.
“These things have to go, urgently, to the lookout tower behind the Kalder estate. Do you remember it? We used to go there sometimes. The clearing, not far from the Dutch border.”
She nodded. Wilhelm’s voice danced through her head. Collaborator . . . He stands accused of treason.
She had walked past the lookout a few months before, with her friends. “Yes. But it’s a ruin. There’s . . .” Her father put his finger to his lips again.
“The wall on the left-hand side is made of a double thickness of planks. The middle one is loose. You must take it out and push the folder into the gap. Make sure it sits firmly and can’t slide down.”
Therese nodded again automatically.
“Go to
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