The German House Read online

  Later, Eva and Jürgen sat together at the corner of the long dining table. “No, not across from each other, Eva. We’re not royalty,” Jürgen had joked. Eva had undone her hair, and it was still damp where it hung down her back. There’s something wicked about it, Jürgen thought as he studied her out of the corner of his eye. Something wild. But he immediately suppressed his desire to kiss her. Not in his father’s house, not before he knew about Eva. They ate a venison stew Frau Treuthardt had cooked. Jürgen was giving a detailed account of the renowned architect who had built the house eight years ago “as a meditation on early Mies van der Rohe.” Eva thought of the doilies at home and tried to picture the architect in her living room. Then she asked Jürgen what the architect might say if he stopped by and found the furniture here suddenly covered in doilies. Jürgen looked at her blankly.

  “I’m warning you, that’s my dowry. Fifty-six doilies for all your needs.”

  Jürgen caught on and responded gravely, “Doilies too are known to reflect the architectural principle of symmetry.” Jürgen started laughing like a child who’s played a naughty trick. Eva joined in, then laughed even harder when she heard the architect’s name was Egon Eiermann. And how would Herr “Egg Man” react if he suddenly discovered the Friesian landscape, with its so very saturated sunset, hung over the mantel in his house? If he saw the cows? Amid the chuckles and giggles, though, Eva imagined her father and the way he sometimes gazed at the picture and sighed heavily. He felt homesick in those moments. And she saw the way her mother anxiously dusted the frame, because the painting had been expensive. And all it did was hang on the wall. Eva’s mood turned serious, almost sad.

  “I feel like I’m betraying my parents.”

  Jürgen stopped laughing too and took Eva’s hand. “You don’t need to be ashamed of them.”

  After dinner, they withdrew to Jürgen’s office. Jürgen put on a record and sat down next to Eva on the wide gray sofa. It wasn’t the first time Eva felt jazz was lost on her. She didn’t know where one song ended and the other began. She didn’t know what was happening in the middle, either. She liked music where she could tell what was coming before the next note was even played. That wasn’t the case with jazz. Eva asked Jürgen for a little more wine, which comfortably clouded her mind and made everything in the room look even nicer—the warm light, tall bookcases, the endearingly messy desk and floor-to-ceiling windows behind it. Eva blinked drowsily and closed her eyes. An image of people with suitcases appeared before her. There was a lot of jostling, and men in uniform hissed terse orders. An old woman with a yellow star on her coat pulled something out of her pocket, thrust it into a younger woman’s hand, and said, “Hold tight to your dignity!” The old woman was then torn away, and the young woman looked in her hand. Eva opened her eyes and sat up on the sofa. She didn’t want to think about what the witness had told them today, about the one thing of her grandmother’s that had been left to her and that was then stolen in the camp.

  “Which room do I get, anyway?”

  Jürgen, who had tipped his head back and was listening to the music, smoking, responded distractedly, “The housekeeping room. Do you want to see it? And the kitchen? If nothing else, it’s big—”

  “That’s not what I mean. I’ll need a desk too!”

  “You can use mine whenever you need to write a letter.”

  Jürgen stood up and flipped the record. Eva felt the onset of a stomachache. Game didn’t agree with her. Frau Treuthardt had also overcooked the venison. The chunks of meat, which were dark as it was, had been almost black. They weighed down her stomach like coal. Or rather, she was like the wolf whose belly was filled with rocks instead of little goslings, a fairy tale Stefan had asked her to read to him earlier today, even though he was big now. Jürgen returned to Eva’s side and placed a thick photo album on her lap.

  “I’d like to show you pictures of my mother.”

  Eva tried to ignore her stomachache and paged through the album. Jürgen’s mother was a delicate, black-haired woman who appeared blurry in almost every photo. There was one photo of his parents laughing and holding their little Jürgen between them. They were standing in front of a beer garden. Eva recognized Jürgen’s stern expression. And she knew where the picture was taken.

  “That’s on the Lohrberg, in front of the tavern.”

  “Yes, that was the summer of ’41, and two days later my father was arrested.”

  “Why?”

  “He was a Communist. I didn’t see him for another four years.”

  Jürgen fell silent and stubbed out his cigarette in a heavy glass ashtray. He evidently didn’t want to linger on the subject. Eva got the feeling he regretted having handed her the album in the first place.

  “Your mother was beautiful. And looks friendly. I would have liked to meet her.”

  Eva turned the page, but no more photos had been pasted there. A loose picture slid out. Eva caught it—it was a postcard depicting a mountainous landscape. She flipped it over, and the back was covered in writing. It was a child’s scrawl. “Dearest Mummy . . .” Before Eva could read any further, Jürgen had snatched away the card.

  “I was sent to the countryside, to the Allgäu region,” Jürgen said, and after a pause, added, “I’ve hated the smell of cows and milk ever since.”

  “What was so awful about it?” Eva wanted to know. Jürgen placed the card back in the album, closed the book, and set it on the glass table.

  “I wanted to stay with my mother. I felt I had to protect her. Like little boys do. Then she died.”

  Eva stroked Jürgen’s cheek. Jürgen looked at her, and suddenly a small but unmistakable fart escaped her. That damned venison. Eva’s face turned bright red. How embarrassing. Jürgen smiled gently. And kissed her anyway. They slid down onto the sofa, their breathing ragged, looked at each other, smiled shyly, then kissed again. Jürgen’s hand wandered up Eva’s bare arm. Then he carefully grasped her hair, which was nearly dry and smelled faintly of chlorine. Eva pulled Jürgen’s shirt out of his pants and slid her hands under it. He abruptly jerked back.

  “Are you trying to seduce me?”

  “Or is it the other way ’round?” Eva laughed.

  But Jürgen growled, “I’ve told you where I stand on the matter. Not before we’re married . . .”

  “But isn’t that a little old-fashioned?” Eva wanted to embrace Jürgen again. Not because she was overcome with desire—she just wanted to consummate the relationship already, to enter that final bond as a sort of vow of their commitment, as she saw it. But Jürgen gripped Eva’s hand, and she was shocked by his dark expression. For a brief moment, Eva thought he might hit her. She sat up straight and did not speak. The music ended on a held note that slowly faded out. The record ended. Eva said, “I don’t understand you.”

  “I’ll give you a ride home.”

  AS EVA AND JÜRGEN DROVE through the late-night city streets, and Eva tried to stifle her worsening flatulence, the lights were still on in the offices of the prosecution. David Miller and the other clerks were in the conference room preparing the questions and documents for the following day of hearings. In the murky circle of light thrown by a desk lamp, the blond man sat smoking in his office with the attorney general, conferring quietly about rumors that the judges had received threats from old SS associates of the defendants. And at City Hospital, Annegret was finishing her shift. She crossed the front courtyard, straight into an icy wind. Was it going to frost again? The question had dominated break time conversation among Annegret’s colleagues. The weather didn’t interest her; she almost never got cold, and even today she hadn’t bothered buttoning her tent-like, navy blue coat. She was headed left, toward the streetcar stop, but she noticed that someone appeared to be waiting for her: Doctor Küssner was leaning against his dark-colored car and pushed himself off as he saw her approaching. Annegret pretended not to see him at first. But he gave a small wave and even called quietly, “Nurse Annegret?”

  Annegret walke
d over and waited silently in expectation, while the wind tore at her open coat. Küssner was sheepish, babbling something about “just happened to discover we live in the same direction” and “happy to bring you along.” Annegret let him talk. She knew that this was the start of a new affair. She had sensed it coming for some time, registered his glances and intimations such as “My wife never has time for me.” And for several days, the cards had spoken clearly, turning up the king of diamonds in the appointed position. It was always the same.

  Annegret climbed into Doctor Küssner’s car. “Would you like to go straight home? Or might you be interested in a little something to drink?” He did not wait for her response, but started driving and continued nervously, “I’ve got to tell you again how well you managed things with the Bartels boy. The father still wrote to management, though. They’re hounding me now, but there’s nothing more we can do but hygiene, hygiene, hygiene. . . . Or are we overlooking something?”

  Rather than simply answering, however, something unusual happened to Annegret: she began to sob. She sounded like a sick cat caught in a drainpipe. Her round face turned pink as she grunted and wailed. It was not an especially attractive sight. Doctor Küssner slowed the car and kept looking at her. He finally pulled over and somewhat helplessly turned on the hazard lights. He had pictured this differently. But Annegret couldn’t stop. Never had she felt so acutely what a mess her life was. Over before it began. Doctor Küssner handed her his unused handkerchief, which his wife had ironed, and said, “We’re blocking traffic.”

  That made Annegret smile, and she calmed down. “It’s okay. I’d be happy to get something to eat now. At the little wine bar.”

  JÜRGEN HAD BROUGHT EVA home in the meantime. As they said good-bye, they agreed to meet that weekend—they planned an outing to nowhere in particular, a drive to the Taunus hills, perhaps, to take a little walk. “If the weather cooperates,” they said, almost in unison. Then they parted, both somber and skeptical. When Eva reached the darkened hallway of the apartment, she noticed light emerging from under the door to the living room. It was strangely quiet behind the door. Eva knocked gently but received no response. She entered the room and was alarmed by what she saw: her father lying flat on the floor, his feet and calves elevated on Edith’s armchair. His eyes were closed.

  “Daddy! What on earth happened?”

  “My back will be the death of me. I haven’t told your mother—she’s already asleep.”

  Eva closed the door quietly behind her and moved over to him. “Don’t you have any pills left?”

  Ludwig opened his eyes, which were red and strained. “They do such a number on my system.” Eva sat down on the sofa in her coat and regarded her father. She felt sorry for him. She almost felt the pain in her own back.

  “Lenze suggested I do this. Her husband’s got back problems of his own. Lie down on the floor and elevate the legs . . . it’s supposed to relieve the discs, those damned discs,” Ludwig groaned. He didn’t look at Eva, nor did he ask about her day, something he normally always would: So? Anything major happen today?

  Eva thought of the two fathers she had encountered earlier. Unprompted, she said, “There were two men today who both lost their families.”

  For a moment, Ludwig lay there quietly. He pulled his legs off the chair and turned painfully to the side, got onto all fours, then to his knees. He cursed. He still didn’t look at Eva. “Lots of people lost their families during the war—daughters and especially sons,” he said.

  “But this, this is something different. The people there were sorted . . .”

  Ludwig got to his feet with a final lurch and stood up fully. “Yes, well, I am glad I was never sent east. Now, daughter, tell me: how many rooms do the Schoormanns have?” Ludwig asked, his tone suddenly playful. Eva frowned at her father, who turned off the floor lamp by pulling the chain twice. Once for each bulb. Click. Click. It was dark in the room. A hint of light came in from the street, and her father looked like a big, shadowy ghost.

  “Daddy, thousands of people a day were killed in that camp.” Eva was surprised to find her tone almost accusatory.

  “Says who?”

  “The witnesses.”

  “People’s memories can fool them after all these years.”

  “Are you actually suggesting these people are lying?” Eva was shocked. She had rarely seen her father be so deprecating.

  “I’ve already said my piece on whether you should even do that job.” Ludwig turned to leave and opened the door.

  Eva got up, followed him, and hissed, “But this has to be brought to light. And these criminals, they’ve got to be punished. They can’t be allowed to just roam free!”

  To Eva’s complete bewilderment, Ludwig replied, “Yes, you’re right.” Then he left her where she stood in the darkened living room. Her father had never seemed so alien to her, she realized. It was a horrible feeling that she hoped would pass quickly. She heard a noise behind her, a sort of rhythmic brushing. Then a whimper. It was Purzel, sitting on the carpet and wagging.

  “Purzy . . . do you need to go out again? Well, come on then.”

  Out in front of the house, Eva waited for Purzel to finish his business. Her stomachache had subsided. She took a deep breath and exhaled, following the cloud of air with her eyes, then breathed out again, blowing an even bigger cloud. Purzel was sniffing here and there, even around his lamp post, but he wouldn’t relieve himself. Something’s wrong with him, Eva thought. She pulled her coat more tightly around herself. It would freeze overnight. Frost was already forming on the parked cars, like a layer of powdered sugar. There was just one car there with a dark exterior untouched by the cold. Inside were two people, whose heads kept merging into one. Eva recognized her sister Annegret kissing someone. Eva turned away and yanked Purzel, ready or not, by the collar into the house. Another married man, no doubt.

  It was already past two. Eva had put a second blanket on the bed, but she couldn’t warm up. The images kept swirling in her mind’s eye. Her father on his back—Jürgen spurning her—the witness sitting by the coat check, bent over like a bird that’s flown into a window and is now listening to its body, trying to detect whether it will live or die—the young woman on the ramp, who opens her hand after her grandmother disappears, to find a piece of soap lying there—the wife of the main defendant in the ladies’ room, washing her hands beside Eva. Eva tried to establish an order to her feelings, to the unknown, the love, the shock, the incredulity, the peculiar affinity. Like her parents and sister, she lay awake for a long time. Only Stefan slept soundly, sprawled diagonally in bed, an army of toppled soldiers and cake crumbs on the carpet. When she fell asleep at about four, Eva dreamed of Frau Treuthardt cooking venison stew in a massive pot in an outsize kitchen. Towering beside the pot was a pile of meat chunks almost as tall as Frau Treuthardt. “That’s far too much for two people,” Eva said to her. Frau Treuthardt glared at Eva impatiently and replied, “But I’m showing you right now. Just watch.” Frau Treuthardt took a single piece of meat from the pile and dropped it into the big pot, then another and another. One after the other.

  They didn’t have another hard frost, although it had been widely anticipated. Winter was slipping off undetected, or “pulling a French good-bye,” as her father said. Wide anticipation was now reserved for the proper arrival of spring. Eva went to the municipal building Tuesday through Thursday and spent Mondays in the office of the prosecution, where she translated written documents. She was dreaming with unusual frequency. At night, she encountered the people she had sat beside at the witness stand during the day. They would speak at her and not allow her any time to find her own words.

  The camp was becoming incredibly familiar to her: the blocks, the departments, the procedures. There was no one at home she could talk to about it. Neither her parents nor Annegret wanted to hear a thing about the trial. They even paged past the articles that appeared in the newspaper almost daily. Eva began to record what she heard during the day i
n a blue school notebook at night. Her initial feeling that she had some connection to the camp—that she recognized people, the wife of the main defendant—passed. Eva became acquainted with the other girls at the trial, who worked as secretaries for the prosecution or stenotypists in court. They sat together at lunch and chatted about fashion and dance halls. What had been said in court was not discussed.

  Eva and Jürgen spoke on the phone the evenings he didn’t pick her up and take her out. His father and stepmother had returned from their island and hadn’t discovered anything to betray Eva’s presence in the house. Frau Treuthardt kept quiet and, as Jürgen told Eva, frequently screwed up her eyes at him and clearly relished being his accomplice. His father’s condition had not worsened. On the contrary, the sea breeze had “blown away the cobwebs,” Jürgen said he repeatedly declared. To his son’s delight and dismay, he was meddling in the layout of the new catalog. Jürgen favored picturing a woman in mink on the cover. “We’ve got to start moving away from your cheapo Communist angle, Father!” But Walther Schoormann decided the cover would feature children playing in the snow. “Children are the future, something you clearly don’t understand, Jürgen!” That had been the cutting exchange. Eva waited every day for Jürgen to introduce her to his father and his father’s wife. But the invitation didn’t come, and Eva didn’t dare ask. They went dancing or to the movies, and they kissed when they knew no one would see. Sometimes Jürgen placed a hand on her hip or bust. But it seemed to Eva as though they didn’t have much of a future planned as a couple. One evening they went to see a Swedish film everyone was talking about, from the stenotypists and secretaries in court to Annegret’s colleagues in the nurses’ lounge, their wide-eyed commentary whispered from behind shielding hands. The film was restricted to viewers eighteen and over; Eva had insisted they see it and watched with growing arousal as the woman onscreen demonstrated her lack of inhibition with regard to sexual matters. The second time the woman’s naked breasts were displayed on the large screen, Jürgen stood and left the theater. Eva followed him angrily and cornered him in the dark entrance to Willi’s Gun Shop.