The familiar chord of A major rang out from St Peter’s Cathedral. The pealing bells seemed to be agreeing with the pastor.
Engagement to be married? Helene was astonished. Had her question been drowned out by the sound of the bells?
Martha was crying now, sobbing uncontrollably.
Fräulein Leontine is getting married in Berlin. Mariechen smiled at the gentlemen present with a certain pride, or perhaps just pleasure, dried her tears and patted Helene’s arm. No doubt she was relieved to think that a young lady who presented such difficulties as Leontine was to have a husband after all. Obviously Helene was the only person at the table who hadn’t known about Leontine’s engagement.
Did you know? Helene leaned forward, hoping Martha would look at her. But Martha wasn’t looking at anyone, she just nodded almost imperceptibly.
Even if you do not care to think of such things at this moment, Fräulein Martha, God the Father will provide for you too. You will marry and bear sons. Life, my dear child, has so much waiting for you.
So much? Martha blew her nose. Do you understand God, do you understand why he allows us to suffer?
The pastor smiled indulgently, as if he had expected Martha to ask this question. Your father’s death is sent as a trial. God means well by you, Martha, you know that. It is not a case of understanding, my dear child, facing the trial is what counts. When the pastor put his hand out over the table to place it consolingly on Martha’s, she jumped up.
Please excuse me. I ought to go and see to Mother.
Martha ran up the stairs from the Town Hall cellar and left. There was nothing Helene could do but remain seated at the table, although she guessed that Martha had simply been looking for a good excuse to run away.
She loved her father very much, said Grumbach, raising his voice in this company for the first time. The other men nodded and amidst the general assent he added grimly: She loved him too much.
God’s love is great. A daughter cannot love her father too much. She can learn to love and give only from God. Martha will withstand this trial, we do not for a moment doubt that. The pastor believed what he said and knew the effect his words would have. The gentlemen nodded.
Both his children loved him, both of them. Mariechen was still patting Helene’s arm.
When the funeral meal was over, Helene sent Mariechen to see her women friends ostensibly to buy yarn for new lace, but really so that she could return to Tuchmacherstrasse alone. All was still in the house. Helene knocked at her mother’s door once, twice, and when there was no answer she opened it.
Has Martha been here?
Her mother was lying in bed, her eyes wide open, and stared at Helene. You two are always looking for each other. Don’t you have anything better to do?
We’ve just buried Father.
Her mother said nothing, so Helene repeated it: We’ve just buried Father.
Oh.
Helene waited, hoping Mother would think of a few more words to say, even a whole sentence.
What is it? Why are you hovering in the doorway like that? Martha isn’t here, surely you can see that.
Helene went downstairs and out of the back door. Frost still lay on the black trees and foliage. It looked as if day could not break fully, as if it would be morning for ever, now, a November morning although it was early in the afternoon. Helene went into the garden and trudged over to the outside closet, with the dead leaves crumbling underfoot. The door was bolted.
Are you in there? Helene knocked hesitantly at the door. She heard rustling inside and finally Martha opened it.
It’s all right. Martha pushed her hair back from her face, suddenly radiant.
Is it? Helene saw Martha’s glazed eyes. She didn’t want to hear any lies.
Yes, everything’s all right! Martha took a deep breath and spread her arms. Helene clasped Martha round the waist. Oh, not so stormy, little one! Martha laughed out loud. Don’t forget, we’re out of doors, everyone can see us!
Oh, Martha, you’re dreadful. Helene smiled, she was ashamed of herself, for all she had been thinking of was comfort. She wanted to comfort Martha, she wanted to know everything about Leontine and Martha, yet she had firmly resolved to ask no questions.
Shall we go upstairs? Martha gave Helene a lustful glance.
Helene couldn’t say no, but she did say: I only wanted to comfort you.
Yes, you do that, comfort me! Martha was breathing audibly and deeply again, in and out. Under her thick coat she wore her new black dress with its high collar. Mariechen had made it specially for the funeral. Its black was a pretty contrast with Martha’s white skin. Her cheeks and her large, delicate nose were reddened by the cold. Her glazed eyes looked brighter than usual. Comfort me!
Helene tried to take Martha’s hand, but Martha snatched it away. She was holding something in that hand, something that now disappeared into her coat pocket.
The sisters went upstairs and closed the door of their room. They dropped on to the bed that they shared and undressed. Helene returned Martha’s kisses, receiving every one of them as if it were meant for her, as if they were not both thinking of Leontine.
My breasts aren’t getting any bigger, Helene whispered later in the blue twilight.
Never mind, said Martha, they’re getting prettier. Isn’t that something?
Helene bit her tongue. Martha could have said that Helene had only to wait another two or three years, after all, and time allowed her to hope, but her kindly answer showed Helene how difficult it was for Martha to pay attention to her sister today. Yet Helene too was thinking mainly of Leontine and her engagement to a man in Berlin. Perhaps Leontine had written Martha a letter, and Martha had been reading it in secret in the closet and put it in her coat pocket before she could take Helene’s hand. A goodbye letter to explain where this fiancé of hers had come from all of a sudden, and why she was going away after all, in spite of her previous promises. Helene wondered what would become of Martha now. But Martha obviously didn’t want to talk about Leontine.
I’m thirsty, said Martha.
Helene got up. She took the water jug off the washstand, poured some water into a mug and handed it to Martha.
Lie down on me, little angel, come on.
Helene shook her head. She sat on the edge of the bed and stroked Martha’s arm.
Please.
Helene shook her head again.
Then I’ll go downstairs. I think I heard Mariechen just now. I’ll help her with supper. Martha stood up, fastened her woollen stockings and put on the black dress.
As soon as Martha had gone out of the door and her footsteps had died away on the stairs, Helene reached out to pick up the coat lying on the floor. She did not find a letter in the pocket, but a handkerchief wrapped round a syringe. A memento of their father? Helene’s thoughts were all in disorder. Why would Martha hide their father’s syringe? Helene found tiny drops of blood on the handkerchief. She quickly rewrapped the syringe in the handkerchief, and the handkerchief fell open once more. Helene rolled it all up together and put the little bundle back where she had found it — why was it in her sister’s coat pocket; why did she go into the closet with that syringe and not with a letter from Leontine?
NO FINER MOMENT
In the winter after the death of the girls’ father the Spree froze over from its banks, until in January the ice floes were so close together that the boys of Bautzen tested their daring by crossing the river on them. To Helene, the spectacle was evidence of biblical truth. Couldn’t water freeze even in the desert, and wasn’t Jesus walking on water historical evidence of that fact? Smoke rose from chimneys early in the morning, clouds of it enveloping the town where it stood on its granite rock. Only the tip of the Lauenturm, the Cathedral of St Peter and the leaning Reichenturm, visible from afar, emerged from the mists of Bautzen in the morning hours. Even the high walls of the Ortenburg and the Alte Wasserkunst, the Old Water Tower, were lost in the vapours. Most households ran out of firewood at the end of January, and where money was short and coal deliveries slow people chopped up small items of furniture, stools and benches, garden furniture that seemed useless to them in midwinter. Martha and Helene saw their cash running out. If they managed to sell a calendar or a picture postcard, the money was spent right away. Bread had never been as expensive as it would be tomorrow. They tried to find someone to lease the printing works, but nothing came of all their advertising and enquiries. The factories down by the river were laying off workers, and anyone who could leave went to Breslau, Dresden or Leipzig. Any big city offered better chances of finding food and heated accommodation.