has a set of napkins somewhere with swastikas stitched on. Your letters are here too.” (She pulled out a tied bundle.) “What rubbish you write! Do you think you are a poet or something?”
While her back was turned, Robert reached to retrieve his trousers from the floor. He looked to the window, found the heavy curtains drawn. It was hard to say how late it was.
“I met Poldi,” he said abruptly, and struggled to pull on the trousers under the bedding. A corner of the shirt got stuck on the buttons. He lay flat on his back and wrestled with his fly. “She said that Wolfgang was arrested.”
“What else did she say?”
“Not much. I think she was tipsy.”
The maid smirked at that, watched his struggle underneath the blanket. At last he threw back the bedding and sat there, with his shirttails hanging out.
“Please,” he said. “I beg you. Just tell me what is going on.”
She seemed about to refuse him, turn away, then stopped short and forced her shoulders into that peculiarly lopsided shrug of hers.
“There isn’t much to tell,” she said. “Wolfgang came home six weeks ago, Poldi in tow. Your parents kept it quiet, of course: no registration papers, no ration cards, all the while hoping the neighbours hadn’t noticed. They were worried he’d be arrested. Wolfgang’s never been denazified.” She paused, wet her lip, the down on her chin catching the lamplight. “And then, ten days ago, Herr Seidel was pushed out the window. He and Wolfgang, they had a fight.”
He looked up at her, found one half of her face eroded by shadow, the other lit up starkly, like the waning moon.
“And it really was Wolfgang who …?” He paused, and she waited him out until he found himself enacting it, making a shoving motion with both his arms.
Again the girl shrugged. “He confessed.”
“You saw it, didn’t you?” he told her softly. “Mother said you saw and you will testify. She’s angry with you.”
He expected a response, perhaps a denial, but she just stared back at him, wrinkling her nose at the last phrase. There was something about her face that moved him to pity; it mingled vulnerability with spite. All at once he wanted to be friends with the crooked girl.
“You come from an orphanage. It’s where Mother found you.”
“And what if she did?”
“How long were you there?”
“Seven.”
“Seven years?”
“Yes.”
“And I was in boarding school for almost six!”
“So?”
“So we have something in common.” He reached out his hand, hoping she would shake it. “And I’m not even angry you read my letters.”
She stared at his hand, first with bafflement, then anger, reached into her blouse, and retrieved a cigarette and matches. It wasn’t until she’d lit up that she seemed to trust herself to speak. “Asshole,” was all she said. She sat down on the desk, spat smoke across the room, kicked her heels into the wood.
But she didn’t leave.
“What’s that?” she pointed, shot a finger at the hat box. It was resting on a chair near the door, where it shared the space with a button-eyed teddy and a cutlass made of wood. The box’s lid was decorated with a glued-on bow.
“A present for Mother. I’ll give it to her after dinner. There was this hat maker’s in Zurich. I had to write away and have it sent.”
Robert had yet to drop the hand he had extended in friendship. The “asshole” did not trouble him. Her name, he recalled, was Eva. He itched to try it out loud.
“Go on, take a peek. They wrapped it up beautifully.”
She jumped down from her perch, snatched up the box, shook it, pulled off the lid. Inside sat a bright red hat with a soft felt crown and delicately moulded brim, cushioned on all sides by little balls of crumpled paper and wrapped protectively in a square of translucent silk. She stared at it with an expression the boy found hard to read: a tender shyness spreading through her features. Slowly, gently, her hands reached in and touched the
While her back was turned, Robert reached to retrieve his trousers from the floor. He looked to the window, found the heavy curtains drawn. It was hard to say how late it was.
“I met Poldi,” he said abruptly, and struggled to pull on the trousers under the bedding. A corner of the shirt got stuck on the buttons. He lay flat on his back and wrestled with his fly. “She said that Wolfgang was arrested.”
“What else did she say?”
“Not much. I think she was tipsy.”
The maid smirked at that, watched his struggle underneath the blanket. At last he threw back the bedding and sat there, with his shirttails hanging out.
“Please,” he said. “I beg you. Just tell me what is going on.”
She seemed about to refuse him, turn away, then stopped short and forced her shoulders into that peculiarly lopsided shrug of hers.
“There isn’t much to tell,” she said. “Wolfgang came home six weeks ago, Poldi in tow. Your parents kept it quiet, of course: no registration papers, no ration cards, all the while hoping the neighbours hadn’t noticed. They were worried he’d be arrested. Wolfgang’s never been denazified.” She paused, wet her lip, the down on her chin catching the lamplight. “And then, ten days ago, Herr Seidel was pushed out the window. He and Wolfgang, they had a fight.”
He looked up at her, found one half of her face eroded by shadow, the other lit up starkly, like the waning moon.
“And it really was Wolfgang who …?” He paused, and she waited him out until he found himself enacting it, making a shoving motion with both his arms.
Again the girl shrugged. “He confessed.”
“You saw it, didn’t you?” he told her softly. “Mother said you saw and you will testify. She’s angry with you.”
He expected a response, perhaps a denial, but she just stared back at him, wrinkling her nose at the last phrase. There was something about her face that moved him to pity; it mingled vulnerability with spite. All at once he wanted to be friends with the crooked girl.
“You come from an orphanage. It’s where Mother found you.”
“And what if she did?”
“How long were you there?”
“Seven.”
“Seven years?”
“Yes.”
“And I was in boarding school for almost six!”
“So?”
“So we have something in common.” He reached out his hand, hoping she would shake it. “And I’m not even angry you read my letters.”
She stared at his hand, first with bafflement, then anger, reached into her blouse, and retrieved a cigarette and matches. It wasn’t until she’d lit up that she seemed to trust herself to speak. “Asshole,” was all she said. She sat down on the desk, spat smoke across the room, kicked her heels into the wood.
But she didn’t leave.
“What’s that?” she pointed, shot a finger at the hat box. It was resting on a chair near the door, where it shared the space with a button-eyed teddy and a cutlass made of wood. The box’s lid was decorated with a glued-on bow.
“A present for Mother. I’ll give it to her after dinner. There was this hat maker’s in Zurich. I had to write away and have it sent.”
Robert had yet to drop the hand he had extended in friendship. The “asshole” did not trouble him. Her name, he recalled, was Eva. He itched to try it out loud.
“Go on, take a peek. They wrapped it up beautifully.”
She jumped down from her perch, snatched up the box, shook it, pulled off the lid. Inside sat a bright red hat with a soft felt crown and delicately moulded brim, cushioned on all sides by little balls of crumpled paper and wrapped protectively in a square of translucent silk. She stared at it with an expression the boy found hard to read: a tender shyness spreading through her features. Slowly, gently, her hands reached in and touched the
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