“She usually sat with him till he was done eating. Sometimes, though, she was there much longer. I was often tempted to sneak up to the door and listen in to see what they were talking about, and in general if they were talking at all or if they were just silent all that time. Of course, we’d been taught that eavesdropping was wrong. But the war made us unlearn a lot of things we’d been taught. It wasn’t that that held me back, but rather the fear of what I might hear. Especially because when he didn’t feel like eating, which sometimes happened, my mother’s eyes would be brimming with tears as she came out of his study. And that was how hatred toward my father began to grow in me. I hated him so much sometimes for those tears of my mother’s. Nowadays, yes, nowadays I can guess what went on between them.
“With every meal my mother took to him it became more and more important whether she’d leave there tearful again, or whether her expression would be calm. Even when I was in the furthest room I’d be listening for her coming out of his study, and I’d run to meet her to see if there were tears in her eyes or whether there was even the least hint of a smile on her face. I even tried to guess if it would happen when she took him breakfast or lunch or dinner. It was then that I first became aware of how much I loved my mother. While my father, every time she left his study crying I hated him more, never mind that he’d come back. I actually felt that it was my job to protect my mother from him. I had the feeling that every time my mother brought him a meal, he was taking her away from me. In fact, my love for my mother also protected me from him. It still protects me today, even though my mother is no longer alive either. If it hadn’t been for that, he may well have pulled me along after him. Because I inherited his bad conscience. I often feel as tormented as he must have been. You seem surprised that a bad conscience can be inherited. Everything can, everything can, my dear sir. We have to inherit it all, otherwise what happened will keep repeating itself. We can’t simply select from our inheritance only the things that won’t weigh us down. That way we’d be utterly entangled in hypocrisy. As it is we wallow in falsehood. Have you not noticed that lies have taken on the appearance of truth? They’ve become our daily bread. A way of life. Almost a faith. We absolve ourselves of our sins with lies, convince ourselves with lies, justify accepted truths with lies. Just take a good look at the world. In any case, I’ve inherited that from him. And I want it that way. Otherwise I might not have become as aware of the undying love I felt toward my mother.
“One day, as mother came out of the study carrying yet another uneaten meal, her eyes filled with tears, she looked in my direction and said abruptly:
“ ‘Your father wants to see you.’
“I felt no joy, believe me. Not even relief. I knocked at the door, my heart pounding. He was sitting on the sofa, in his pajamas, in rumpled bedding, wearing house slippers. He was hunched over, as if the simple act of sitting were agony for him.
“ ‘Come here,’ he said.
“His voice seemed alien to me. I wouldn’t have recognized it.”
“ ‘Closer,’ he said. At that moment I noticed that his face was even thinner and more sallow than when he’d first appeared. His cold eyes seemed almost lifeless. They were turned in my direction, but I couldn’t tell if he actually saw me. My heart was thumping ever more loudly in my chest, though all I was doing was standing in front of my own father. He was a good father, please believe me. He was exceptionally mild-tempered, he never got angry. He never so much as laid a finger on me, unlike my mother. I’d get up to mischief sometimes, and he’d always go easy on me. Now, for the first time I was afraid in his presence.
“ ‘I want to make my confession to you, son,’ he said. ‘To you, not to God.’ A shiver ran down my spine, though I didn’t really understand these opening words. ‘God forgives too easily.’ It was as if he was wrenching the words out of himself. I had the impression he was speaking not with his mouth but with his entire body that had been exhausted by the war, that was so skinny his bones poked through his pajamas. I felt like I could hear them rubbing against each other at every word. ‘Fathers should confess to their sons if memory is to survive. I don’t need you to forgive me. I need you to remember. Your memory will be my penance.’ He had tired himself, he lowered his head and for a long time we remained like that, me standing stiffly in front of him as if I were at attention, him on the sofa like he might come crashing head first to the floor. With a great effort he raised his eyes to me. They were no longer cold and lifeless. It was more as if they didn’t believe it was me standing there. He looked at me for a long time. He looked and looked, and still he didn’t seem to believe it was me. ‘I was ordered to check whether anyone else was still hiding there. In the orchard between the farmhouse and the barn there was a potato clamp. In those parts they dig pits, a bit like a cellar. I ran up to it, yanked open the door, and I saw you. Now that you’re standing here in front of me I’m even more sure it was you. I saw the terror in your eyes. Come closer.’ He stared into my eyes for a long, long time, from so close up I could almost feel our eyes touching. ‘Yes, these are the same eyes. They didn’t believe that the soldier with the smoking gun barrel, who could pull the trigger again at any moment, was your father. I hesitated for a second. That second made me realize that I have no right to live. Me, your father, I felt disappointed that it was you. I slammed the door, furious, and shouted back that there was no one there.’ He’d grown tired, he was clearly short of breath, but a moment later he took my head in both his hands and laid it on his shoulder. His body was shaking. ‘It would have been better for all of us if I’d not survived,’ I heard him whisper by my ear. ‘But I so wanted to see you all before I died. So very much. I love you, son. But that’s not enough to live. Go now.’ He pushed me away from himself.”
We sat there, both silently immersed in those last words of his father, because what can you say after all that, I’m sure you understand. The cafe was slowly filling up, it was getting more and more crowded and noisy. At some point he nodded to someone, or returned a nod. I didn’t look, thinking that at such a moment it would have been wrong even to show curiosity. Then, greeting someone again, he said:
“But no one could have predicted what would happen soon after. And while he was shaving, with a razor.”
After these words it was as if the life went out of him. Or perhaps he’d come to the conclusion that after what he had said, our meeting could return to being pure chance. And he no longer felt like talking. As for me, nothing came to mind to keep up the conversation. I only noticed to my own amazement that the pain in my right side under the ribs had gone away. I hadn’t even noticed when. It had ceased, just like that. So I’d have gladly had another slice of cake and another coffee. I was about to ask him if he felt like having more, but at that moment he glanced at his watch and said:
“I didn’t realize it was so late. I’m deeply grateful to you. Unfortunately I have to be going.”
He brought out his wallet, counted out the money and stuck it under the sugar bowl. As he was putting the wallet back in his pocket he suddenly hesitated and took it out again.
“Just a minute, maybe it’s in here somewhere.”
He began rummaging through the compartments as before. I thought that maybe this time he wanted to give me his business card. I put my hand inside my coat to get my own wallet and give him mine.