PART THREE
BAADER-MEINHOF
She knew there was someone else in the room. There was no outright noise, just an intimation behind her, a faint displacement of air. She’d been alone for a time, seated on a bench in the middle of the gallery with the paintings set around her, a cycle of fifteen canvases, and this is how it felt to her, that she was sitting as a person does in a mortuary chapel, keeping watch over the body of a relative or a friend.
This was sometimes called the viewing, she believed.
She was looking at Ulrike now, head and upper body, her neck rope-scorched, although she didn’t know for certain what kind of implement had been used in the hanging.
She heard the other person walk toward the bench, a man’s heavy shuffling stride, and she got up and went to stand before the picture of Ulrike, one of three related images, Ulrike dead in each, lying on the floor of her cell, head in profile. The canvases varied in size. The woman’s reality, the head, the neck, the rope burn, the hair, the facial features, were painted, picture to picture, in nuances of obscurity and pall, a detail clearer here than there, the slurred mouth in one painting appearing nearly natural elsewhere, all of it unsystematic.
“Why do you think he did it this way?”
She did not turn to look at him.
“So shadowy. No color.”
She said, “I don’t know,” and went to the next set of images, called Man Shot Down. This was Andreas Baader. She thought of him by his full name or surname. She thought of Meinhof, she saw Meinhof as first name only, Ulrike, and the same was the case with Gudrun.
“I’m trying to think what happened to them.”
“They committed suicide. Or the state killed them.”
He said, “The state.” Then he said it again, deep-voiced, in a tone of melodramatic menace, trying out a line reading that might be more suitable.
She wanted to be annoyed but felt instead a vague chagrin. It wasn’t like her to use this term—the state—in the ironclad context of supreme public power. This was not her vocabulary.
The two paintings of Baader dead in his cell were the same size but addressed the subject somewhat differently, and this is what she did now — she concentrated on the differences, arm, shirt, unknown object at the edge of the frame, the disparity or uncertainty.
“I don’t know what happened,” she said. “I’m only telling you what people believe. It was twenty-five years ago. I don’t know what it was like then, in Germany, with bombings and kidnappings.”
“They made an agreement, don’t you think?”
“Some people believe they were murdered in their cells.”
“A pact. They were terrorists, weren’t they? When they’re not killing other people, they’re killing themselves,” he said.
She was looking at Andreas Baader, first one painting, then the other, then back again.
“I don’t know. Maybe that’s even worse in a way. It’s so much sadder. There’s so much sadness in these pictures.”
“There’s one that’s smiling,” he said.
This was Gudrun, in Confrontation 2.
“I don’t know if that’s a smile. It could be a smile.”
“It’s the clearest image in the room. Maybe the whole museum. She’s smiling,” he said.
She turned to look at Gudrun across the gallery and saw the man on the bench, half turned her way, wearing a suit with tie unknotted, going prematurely bald. She only glimpsed him. He was looking at her but she was looking past him to the figure of Gudrun in a prison smock, standing against a wall and smiling, most likely, yes, in the middle picture. Three paintings of Gudrun, maybe smiling, smiling and probably not smiling.
“You need special training to look at these pictures. I can’t tell the people apart.”
“Yes, you can. Just look. You have to look.”
She heard a note of slight reprimand in her voice. She went to the far wall to look at the painting of one of the jail cells, with tall bookshelves covering nearly half the canvas and a dark shape, wraithlike, that may have been a coat on a hanger.
“You’re a grad student. Or you teach art,” he said. “I’m frankly here to pass the time. That’s what I do between job interviews.”
She didn’t want to tell him that she’d been here three straight days. She moved to the adjacent wall, a little closer to his position on the bench. Then she told him.
“Major money,” he said. “Unless you’re a member.”
“I’m not a member.”
“Then you teach art.”
“I don’t teach art.”
“You want me to shut up. Shut up, Bob. Only my name’s not Bob.”
In the painting of the coffins being carried through a large crowd, she didn’t know they were coffins at first. It took her a long moment to see the crowd itself. There was the crowd, mostly an ashy blur with a few figures in the center-right foreground discernible as individuals standing with their backs to the viewer, and then there was a break near the top of the canvas, a pale strip of earth or roadway, and then another mass of people or trees, and it took some time to understand that the three whitish objects near the center of the picture were coffins being carried through the crowd or simply propped on biers.
Here were the bodies of Andreas Baader, Gudrun Ensslin and a man whose name she could not recall. He had been shot in his cell. Baader had also been shot. Gudrun had been hanged.
She knew that this had happened about a year and a half after Ulrike. Ulrike dead in May, she knew, of 1976.
Two men entered the gallery, followed by a woman with a cane. All three stood before the display of explanatory material, reading.
The painting of the coffins had something else that wasn’t easy to find. She hadn’t found it until the second day, yesterday, and it was striking once she’d found it, and inescapable now — an object at the top of the painting, just left of center, a tree perhaps, in the rough shape of a cross.
She went closer to the painting, hearing the woman with the cane move toward the opposite wall.
She knew that these paintings were based on photographs but she hadn’t seen them and didn’t know whether there was a bare tree, a dead tree beyond the cemetery, in one of the photos, that consisted of a spindly trunk with a single branch remaining, or two branches forming a transverse piece near the top of the trunk.
He was standing next to her now, the man she’d been talking to.
“Tell me what you see. Honestly, I want to know.”
A group entered, led by a guide, and she turned for a moment, watching them collect at the first painting in the cycle, the portrait of Ulrike as a much younger woman, a girl, really, distant and wistful, her hand and face half floating in the somber dark around her.
“I realize now that the first day I was only barely looking. I thought I was looking but I was only getting a bare inkling of what’s in these paintings. I’m only just starting to look.”
They stood looking, together, at the coffins and trees and crowd. The tour guide began speaking to her group.
“And what do you feel when you look?” he said.
“I don’t know. It’s complicated.”
“Because I don’t feel anything.”
“I think I feel helpless. These paintings make me feel how helpless a person can be.”
“Is that why you’re here three straight days? To feel helpless?” he said.
“I’m here because I love the paintings. More and more. At first I was confused, and still am, a little. But I know I love the paintings now.”