Even ten months after Alfonsa had lost her child, no one was able to convince her to step out into the open. The growing worry and helplessness among the nuns led to the decision to transfer Alfonsa to Saint Helena. Since the end of the war, the alpine cloister had become famous for its success in treating and curing all sorts of illnesses.
Alfonsa expressed her disappointment that they were sending her away by not saying “Sister” even once. During the drive to Saint Helena she hid herself under a wool blanket on the backseat, took one sleeping pill after another, and ignored every offer by the nuns to pause at a rest stop so she could stretch her legs or use the bathroom.
Two days after her arrival, Alfonsa appeared in my room. I turned my wheelchair away from the window to inspect her: a redheaded twenty-year-old with an expressionless face, stepping silently over to my bed.
“We haven’t been introduced,” I said, friendly, and extended my hand. “Ludwig Wickenhäuser.”
She ignored the hand and said, “Sister Alfonsa,” while quickly and efficiently replacing the bedsheets.
I made another attempt: “Alfonsa means ‘Ready for battle,’ no?”
She paused for a moment, then resumed beating the pillow even harder.
“How do you like Helena so far?”
“A dream.”
“You’ll settle in soon. Where do you come from?”
“From out there.”
“Did you always want to be a nun?”
“Yes. You, too?”
“I guess you’ve decided not to make any friends, hmm?”
“Not with a cripple, anyway.”
I rolled over and planted myself in her path. “I’m not one of your sisters. Get ahold of yourself, and don’t make this unnecessarily difficult. I mean to live for a few more years — so let’s try to get along. Because as far as I know, Sister Alfonsa, you couldn’t leave this place even if you felt like it.”
She pressed the dirty sheets to her chest, stepped around the wheelchair, and slammed the door behind her.
Our next encounters passed without a word. She thought I wouldn’t be able to tell, but I was familiar with women like her from way back. They didn’t spare so much as a look for the people, especially the men, whom they liked, or the women they compared themselves to, and simply turned away from them, thereby making it all the more obvious how much they longed to be spoken to and embraced. After so many quiet years I was excited to see if I could make this lady with her thin lips smile.
One evening after sunset I asked Alfonsa to come with me into the orchard to pick apples.
“It’s dark,” she said.
“I know,” I said, rolling outside and beckoning her to follow.
She remained standing at the door, watching me.
“Come on,” I called.
Even back then my eyes were well past their prime, but unless I was very much mistaken she hesitated slightly at the threshold, before disappearing.
From then on I invited her each evening to come into the orchard with me. And each evening she turned me down — but stood there looking after me a little longer every time.
Almost two months passed before, one night when the crescent moon was especially thin, she took a first step outside.
“One more,” I encouraged her. “Just a little one.”
So we edged our way forward, night after night. The other nuns trusted me, and gave me a free hand. In my thirty-six years there I’d never once tried to approach one of them, and they had no idea what I’d been like before. After so much time, I barely knew myself.
Winter had long since arrived, and there were no more apples to pick, when Alfonsa finally stepped all the way out to my wheelchair.
“Congratulations,” I said.
“How did you know I could do it?”
“I didn’t know,” I said. “But I figured, when the air is black, it swallows up space, the whole sky, and makes the outdoors feel much smaller.”
She looked around. “It’s as if I were in a room. A very, very big room.”