her: the snub nose, the blue eyes, the hair line—but not her mouth, and everything about Henrietta which seemed pretty and lively is in Leo touching and awkward. He doesn’t look as if he were the best athlete in the class; he looks like a boy who is excused from sports, but over his bed hang half a dozen athletic awards.
He came quickly toward me, suddenly stopped a few steps away, his awkward hands spread slightly sideways, and said: “Hans, what’s the matter?” He looked into my eyes, a little below them, like someone who wants to draw your attention to a spot, and I realized I had been crying. When I listen to Chopin or Schubert I always cry. I wiped away the two tears with my right fore-finger and said: “I didn’t know you could play Chopin so well. Please play the mazurka again.”
“I can’t,” he said, “I have to go to school, they’re giving us the German subjects for our exams first thing this morning.”
“I’ll drive you there in Mother’s car,” I said.
“I don’t like driving in that ridiculous car,” he said, “you know I hate it.” Mother had at that time got a sports car from a friend “fantastically cheap,” and Leo was very sensitive about anything that might be interpreted as showing off. There was only one way to make him lose his temper: if anyone teased him or spoiled him because of our rich parents he would get red in the face and hit out with his fists.
“Just this once,” I said, “sit down at the piano and play. Don’t you want to know where I was?”
He blushed, looked down at the floor and said: “No, I don’t want to know.”
“I was with a girl,” I said, “with a woman—my wife.”
“Were you?” he said, without looking up. “When was the wedding?” He still didn’t know what to do with his awkward hands, and he suddenly tried to walk past me with lowered head. I caught him by the sleeve.
“It’s Marie Derkum,” I said quietly. He drew his elbow away, stepped back and said: “Oh my God, no.”
He looked at me angrily and muttered something under his breath.
“What?” I asked, “what was that?”
“That I have to take the car after all—will you drive me?”
I said yes, put my hand on his shoulder, and went with him across the living room. I wanted to spare him having to look at me. “Go and get the keys,” I said, “Mother won’t mind giving them to you—and don’t forget the papers—and Leo, I need some money—have you any left?”
“In the bank,” he said, “can you get it yourself?”
“I don’t know,” I said, “you’d better send it to me.”
“Send?” he asked. “Are you going away?”
“Yes,” I said. He nodded and went upstairs.
It was only when he asked me that I knew I wanted to leave. I went into the kitchen, where Anna received me grumbling.
“I thought you didn’t want any breakfast,” she said crossly.
“I don’t,” I said, “just some coffee.” I sat down at the scrubbed table and watched Anna at the stove as she removed the filter from the coffee pot and stood it on a cup to drip. We had breakfast every morning with the maids in the kitchen as we found it too tiresome to be waited on formally in the dining room. At this hour Anna was alone in the kitchen. Noretta, the second maid, was with Mother in the bedroom, serving her breakfast and discussing her clothes and cosmetics. Probably Mother was at this moment grinding some wheatgerm between her excellent teeth, while her face was covered with some stuff made of placenta and Noretta was reading the paper to her. Perhaps they had only got as far as morning prayers, consisting of quotations from Goethe and Luther and usually with an extra dash of moral rearmament, or possibly Noretta was reading to my mother from her collection of brochures on laxatives. My mother has whole files full of medical prospectuses, divided into “Digestion,” “Heart,” “Nerves,” and whenever she can lay hands on a doctor she pumps him for
He came quickly toward me, suddenly stopped a few steps away, his awkward hands spread slightly sideways, and said: “Hans, what’s the matter?” He looked into my eyes, a little below them, like someone who wants to draw your attention to a spot, and I realized I had been crying. When I listen to Chopin or Schubert I always cry. I wiped away the two tears with my right fore-finger and said: “I didn’t know you could play Chopin so well. Please play the mazurka again.”
“I can’t,” he said, “I have to go to school, they’re giving us the German subjects for our exams first thing this morning.”
“I’ll drive you there in Mother’s car,” I said.
“I don’t like driving in that ridiculous car,” he said, “you know I hate it.” Mother had at that time got a sports car from a friend “fantastically cheap,” and Leo was very sensitive about anything that might be interpreted as showing off. There was only one way to make him lose his temper: if anyone teased him or spoiled him because of our rich parents he would get red in the face and hit out with his fists.
“Just this once,” I said, “sit down at the piano and play. Don’t you want to know where I was?”
He blushed, looked down at the floor and said: “No, I don’t want to know.”
“I was with a girl,” I said, “with a woman—my wife.”
“Were you?” he said, without looking up. “When was the wedding?” He still didn’t know what to do with his awkward hands, and he suddenly tried to walk past me with lowered head. I caught him by the sleeve.
“It’s Marie Derkum,” I said quietly. He drew his elbow away, stepped back and said: “Oh my God, no.”
He looked at me angrily and muttered something under his breath.
“What?” I asked, “what was that?”
“That I have to take the car after all—will you drive me?”
I said yes, put my hand on his shoulder, and went with him across the living room. I wanted to spare him having to look at me. “Go and get the keys,” I said, “Mother won’t mind giving them to you—and don’t forget the papers—and Leo, I need some money—have you any left?”
“In the bank,” he said, “can you get it yourself?”
“I don’t know,” I said, “you’d better send it to me.”
“Send?” he asked. “Are you going away?”
“Yes,” I said. He nodded and went upstairs.
It was only when he asked me that I knew I wanted to leave. I went into the kitchen, where Anna received me grumbling.
“I thought you didn’t want any breakfast,” she said crossly.
“I don’t,” I said, “just some coffee.” I sat down at the scrubbed table and watched Anna at the stove as she removed the filter from the coffee pot and stood it on a cup to drip. We had breakfast every morning with the maids in the kitchen as we found it too tiresome to be waited on formally in the dining room. At this hour Anna was alone in the kitchen. Noretta, the second maid, was with Mother in the bedroom, serving her breakfast and discussing her clothes and cosmetics. Probably Mother was at this moment grinding some wheatgerm between her excellent teeth, while her face was covered with some stuff made of placenta and Noretta was reading the paper to her. Perhaps they had only got as far as morning prayers, consisting of quotations from Goethe and Luther and usually with an extra dash of moral rearmament, or possibly Noretta was reading to my mother from her collection of brochures on laxatives. My mother has whole files full of medical prospectuses, divided into “Digestion,” “Heart,” “Nerves,” and whenever she can lay hands on a doctor she pumps him for
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