Peter! That was his uncle’s voice. He must have come out of the front door to call for him. Peter kept still and didn’t respond. Come on in, time for coffee!
His uncle had never invited him to have coffee. Peter had once helped himself to some out of the pot on the sly, tasting it with plenty of milk and sugar.
Peter waited until he heard nothing but the snorting and breathing of the animals, then climbed back up to his hiding place. He could see the house from the skylight. There was a wooden roof over the porch, with benches to left and right where you sat to take off your wellington boots and put on wooden clogs. If it was as cold as today, Hasso lay there on the planks of the porch among the shoes and the benches. He liked chewing shoes, it was his one vice, but he was forgiven because he barked so well. Peter could see Hasso’s tail from the skylight, thumping down on the porch floor at regular intervals. Then he saw Hasso jump up and wag his tail. His uncle appeared on the porch, shouting: Peter!
That call, just his name, showed that they were being thoughtful of the visitor. Usually his uncle was never as patient as that, calling his name instead of cursing that lout, where could he be this time? Peter had to smile. She would soon come out on to the porch too. Would she call his name? Peter felt excited. He wasn’t going to show himself, never. Peter! Let her call, let her wait for him, let her hope he’d turn up. Peter felt his trousers with one hand; they were covered with bits of hay and straw.
Wait a minute, he heard his uncle say, turning to the dog, I’ll soon ferret him out. Peter needed to pass water, but he didn’t want to leave his place here, he wanted to see her come out on to the porch and look for him.
Where’s Peter? he heard his uncle asking. Find, Hasso, find. His uncle slapped his thigh impatiently. His aunt must have put the potatoes on indoors. His mother was staying for lunch. His aunt had made cabbage roulades. Peter had suggested pickled herrings; he remembered that his mother had liked those as much as he did. Rollmops and pickled herrings. But his aunt didn’t like fish. They lived eight kilometres from the coast and his aunt had never eaten fish in her life, so there was never any at the farmhouse. Peter remembered how his mother often used to cook fish for him. With juniper, he thought, what a nice word. He said it out loud: Juniper. The little black berries that his mother used to flavour the fish. Peter liked to smell her hands; even when she had been gutting and cooking the fish her hands had their own special smell. Perhaps he could forget the smell of his mother some day. It wasn’t until four in the afternoon that her train would leave Gelbensande, taking her to Rostock, where she would change for Berlin. Hasso wagged his tail. Obviously he didn’t take Peter’s uncle’s command to find him seriously.
Peter took his handkerchief out of his trouser pocket and wiped his hands with it. He washed his hands often, several times a day. The other boys at school said that made you infertile, which was a good idea. Peter couldn’t imagine ever having children. Now his mother did come out on to the porch. She wasn’t wearing her headscarf any more, and she must have left her coat indoors too. Her hair was piled up on her head. She must be freezing. Peter saw her fold her arms and stand uncertainly at the top of the few steps under the porch. Her breath was white vapour in front of her face. She had a beautiful face. Wide and regular. Her high forehead, her narrowed eyes — Peter remembered how bright they were, as bright as the Baltic Sea in summer. His uncle had come out into the yard and was telling Hasso to look for Peter. Seek, Hasso, seek. Peter saw his uncle going to the outhouses; after all, Peter had been told to look after the piglets this morning. His uncle disappeared from view, and Peter heard the door of the shed underneath him open. Cautiously and quietly, he squeezed in among the bales of straw. He heard his uncle call his name, then a clattering, a thumping as if his uncle were stamping his foot and kicking over a bucket, the squealing of the piglets as if he had kicked them.
His uncle’s footsteps went back through the cowshed; perhaps he thought Peter was there with the cows. Once again he heard his name, its sound muted by the straw. Hasso barked, only briefly this time and far away.
After the back door of the shed had closed and he thought the coast was clear, Peter crawled out of hiding. Now the skylight showed him the porch as well as Hasso and his uncle. His mother must have gone back into the warm again. Was she asking questions, asking about him? Perhaps she was proud that he was going to secondary school. His aunt and uncle didn’t like to talk about that, but they hadn’t dared to disagree with the teacher and his strong recommendation. Oh, very well, his uncle had said after that interview at the school. So long as Peter went on helping on the farm he could stay at school. Peter knew where he wanted to go later. A few weeks ago a College of Film Studies had opened in Potsdam near Berlin; he had read about it in the newspaper. And one Sunday there had been a long talk about it on the radio, saying how it was going to train talented young people. Who knew, perhaps he was one of those? They’d all be marvelling at him yet, his uncle and aunt, his father, his mother.
Down in the shed the geese were cackling and flapping their wings. Someone must have scared them; geese didn’t start cackling for no reason. Only when they were hungry or when someone had alarmed them. Peter would have liked to climb down and take a look, but it was too risky. Smoke was rising from the farmhouse chimney. Peter was hungry. Time for dinner, his aunt called this time, coming out under the little roof of the porch. Come along, dinner time, Peter!
It was a pleasure to resist his hunger and the sight of his mother, a huge, compelling, sweetly painful pleasure. Peter imagined them sitting there, his uncle cursing, his aunt embarrassed and complaining quietly, his mother in silence. Was she sitting on the bench in the kitchen where he slept at night? He was sure she wouldn’t ask: Where does he sleep? She didn’t ask such questions, she’d be thankful that he’d been able to live here for the last few years. Peter had once heard his aunt and uncle quarrelling about money, and it had sounded as if his father sometimes sent some money for him. But Peter didn’t know about that; what he did know was that he had to earn his keep, and he did, he was earning his keep and earning the time he spent at school instead of on the farm. How would she speak of him? Was she saying my Peter, was she just saying Peter, or simply the boy? Perhaps she wasn’t talking about him at all. Perhaps she was sitting there in silence. She might not understand why he didn’t show up. It could be embarrassing to her to think her son was so rude that he didn’t want to see her. Well, let it embarrass her. Peter rammed his fist against the bulge in his trousers, pressed it, handled it delicately. Let that mother of his down there leave, she could piss off. Didn’t she realize she was waiting in vain? She wouldn’t ever get to see him, not now, not today, not ever. Let her push her fair hair back from her forehead, wash her white aprons and go back to that sister of hers near Berlin. Go away, he thought, just go away!