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Authors: Ursula Hegi
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her mother’s belt, her darkeyes watchful. Trudi had seen her many times before—she looked like her mother, with those long wrists and black curls—but she’d never talked with her or stood this close to her. If she could have any wish right now, she’d want to be tall like Eva.
Trudi looked right at Eva. “The second letter,” she told her, “says, ‘Dear St. Petrus, I took a trip on a train and rode on a ferry boat.’ She signs the letter again with ‘Virgin Maria.’ But the third letter—” She paused, hoping she’d get the joke just right so that Eva would laugh as her father and Emil Hesping had laughed. That’s how she’d known it was a good joke, even though she hadn’t understood what was so funny.
“The third letter says, ‘Dear Petrus, I went to a tavern and danced with a sailor.’ It’s signed ‘Maria.’” She waited for the laughter, but the only sound was an abrupt cough from Frau Weiler. It was quiet in the kitchen. Too quiet. Had she forgotten part of the joke? No—something was wrong. She had done something bad. It was hot in the house, hot and blue with tobacco smoke even though the windows were open.
Frau Immers chased a fly from the fruit compote. “I better check on that potato salad.”
“Let me help you,” Frau Blau offered.
“Herr Hesping—” one of the women said.
They all glanced toward the door, where Emil Hesping stood in a new suit, the kind of new that hasn’t been worn before. The front creases of his black trousers were pressed knife sharp, and his pearl cufflinks shimmered. He looked like a groom at his own wedding—except that everyone knew he was the kind of man who made jokes about others getting married and sinned against the sixth commandment even though his brother was a bishop.
He lifted Trudi up. Though he kept his lips in a smile, she could tell he had cried because his eyes were red. “Let me tell you a joke that’s proper for a little girl to tell. You too, Eva.” He took Eva’s hand. “You see, there’s this teacher who has a dog, Schatzi, and he doesn’t allow her to sleep on the sofa, but every day when he leaves for school, Schatzi jumps on the sofa and sleeps there all day. When the teacher comes home, she’s lying on the floor, but he knows. Guess how?”
Most of the women were busying themselves with lighting fresh cigarettes or pushing pots around on the flat surface of the stove; yet, they kept their movements slow and soundless so as not to miss a word.
“I don’t know how.” Eva Rosen looked at Trudi and made a face by wrinkling her nose. When Trudi grinned and wrinkled her nose too, Eva laughed.
“Ah—but the teacher knows,” Emil Hesping said, “because the sofa is still warm. And so he scolds Schatzi—teachers are very good at scolding, you’ll find that out once you start school. The next day, when he comes home, the sofa is warm again. He spanks the dog, and the following evening, when he checks the sofa, it is not warm. He figures he has finally trained Schatzi. But one day he arrives home just a few minutes earlier than usual, and guess what he sees? There’s Schatzi, standing on the sofa—” He pursed his mouth and made short puffs of breath that tickled Trudi’s chin. “There’s Schatzi, blowing air on the sofa to cool it down.”
A few of the women laughed politely. Trudi thought it was a boring joke. She could tell it bored Emil Hesping too because he winked at her. It was their secret that he liked the Virgin Maria joke much better. But then he winked at Frau Simon too, and something odd happened: Frau Simon’s neck grew longer, and her face turned as red as her hair.
When Eva slipped away, Trudi followed her. They wandered through the rooms where smoke shifted in hazy layers below the ceilings. People stopped talking as the girls came close to them; they stared at Trudi, told her again how brave she was. Her father leaned against the side of the piano, his face still, his eyes empty. Trudi
Trudi looked right at Eva. “The second letter,” she told her, “says, ‘Dear St. Petrus, I took a trip on a train and rode on a ferry boat.’ She signs the letter again with ‘Virgin Maria.’ But the third letter—” She paused, hoping she’d get the joke just right so that Eva would laugh as her father and Emil Hesping had laughed. That’s how she’d known it was a good joke, even though she hadn’t understood what was so funny.
“The third letter says, ‘Dear Petrus, I went to a tavern and danced with a sailor.’ It’s signed ‘Maria.’” She waited for the laughter, but the only sound was an abrupt cough from Frau Weiler. It was quiet in the kitchen. Too quiet. Had she forgotten part of the joke? No—something was wrong. She had done something bad. It was hot in the house, hot and blue with tobacco smoke even though the windows were open.
Frau Immers chased a fly from the fruit compote. “I better check on that potato salad.”
“Let me help you,” Frau Blau offered.
“Herr Hesping—” one of the women said.
They all glanced toward the door, where Emil Hesping stood in a new suit, the kind of new that hasn’t been worn before. The front creases of his black trousers were pressed knife sharp, and his pearl cufflinks shimmered. He looked like a groom at his own wedding—except that everyone knew he was the kind of man who made jokes about others getting married and sinned against the sixth commandment even though his brother was a bishop.
He lifted Trudi up. Though he kept his lips in a smile, she could tell he had cried because his eyes were red. “Let me tell you a joke that’s proper for a little girl to tell. You too, Eva.” He took Eva’s hand. “You see, there’s this teacher who has a dog, Schatzi, and he doesn’t allow her to sleep on the sofa, but every day when he leaves for school, Schatzi jumps on the sofa and sleeps there all day. When the teacher comes home, she’s lying on the floor, but he knows. Guess how?”
Most of the women were busying themselves with lighting fresh cigarettes or pushing pots around on the flat surface of the stove; yet, they kept their movements slow and soundless so as not to miss a word.
“I don’t know how.” Eva Rosen looked at Trudi and made a face by wrinkling her nose. When Trudi grinned and wrinkled her nose too, Eva laughed.
“Ah—but the teacher knows,” Emil Hesping said, “because the sofa is still warm. And so he scolds Schatzi—teachers are very good at scolding, you’ll find that out once you start school. The next day, when he comes home, the sofa is warm again. He spanks the dog, and the following evening, when he checks the sofa, it is not warm. He figures he has finally trained Schatzi. But one day he arrives home just a few minutes earlier than usual, and guess what he sees? There’s Schatzi, standing on the sofa—” He pursed his mouth and made short puffs of breath that tickled Trudi’s chin. “There’s Schatzi, blowing air on the sofa to cool it down.”
A few of the women laughed politely. Trudi thought it was a boring joke. She could tell it bored Emil Hesping too because he winked at her. It was their secret that he liked the Virgin Maria joke much better. But then he winked at Frau Simon too, and something odd happened: Frau Simon’s neck grew longer, and her face turned as red as her hair.
When Eva slipped away, Trudi followed her. They wandered through the rooms where smoke shifted in hazy layers below the ceilings. People stopped talking as the girls came close to them; they stared at Trudi, told her again how brave she was. Her father leaned against the side of the piano, his face still, his eyes empty. Trudi
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