“Presents from the children,” says Amalie, when Windisch asks: “Where did you get the glass from?”
For a month Amalie has been talking about a crystal floor vase. She points from the floor to her hips. “That’s how tall it is,” says Amalie. “It’s dark red. On the vase is a dancer in a white lace dress.”
Windisch’s wife’s eyes grow large when she hears about the crystal vase. Every Saturday she says: “Your father will never understand what a crystal vase is worth.”
“Ordinary vases used to be good enough,” says Windisch. “Now people need floor vases.”
Windisch’s wife talks about the crystal vase when Amalie is in town. Her face smiles. Her hands become soft. She lifts her fingers into the air as if to stroke someone’s cheek. Windisch knows she would spread her legs for a crystal vase. She would spread her legs, just as she strokes the air softly with her fingers.
Windisch becomes hard, when she talks about the crystal vase. He thinks about the years after the war. “In Russia she spread her legs for a piece of bread,” the people in the village said after the war.
At the time Windisch thought: “She is beautiful, and hunger hurts.”
AMONG THE GRAVES
Windisch had come back to the village from being a prisoner of war. The village was raw from the many dead and wounded.
Barbara had died in Russia.
Katharina had returned from Russia. She wanted to marry Josef. Josef had died in the war. Katharina’s face was pale. Her eyes were deep.
Like Windisch, Katharina had seen death. Like Windisch, Katharina had held on to life. Windisch quickly tied his life to her.
Windisch had kissed her on his first Saturday in the stricken village. He pressed her against a tree. He felt her young stomach and her round breasts. Windisch walked through the gardens with her.
The gravestones stood in white rows. The iron gate creaked. Katharina crossed herself. She wept. Windisch knew that she was weeping for Josef. Windisch shut the gate. He wept. Katharina knew that he was weeping for Barbara. Katharina sat down in the grass behind the chapel. Windisch bent down to her. She grasped his hair. She smiled. He pushed up her skirt. He unbuttoned his trousers. He laid himself on her. Her fingers clutched the grass. She panted. Windisch looked up past her hair. The gravestones were bright. She trembled.
Katharina sat up. She smoothed her skirt over her knees. Windisch stood in front of her and buttoned up his trousers. The churchyard was large. Windisch knew that he hadn’t died. That he was home. That this pair of trousers had waited for him here in the village, in the wardrobe. That in the war and as a prisoner, he hadn’t known where the village was and how long he would continue to live.
Katharina had a stalk of grass in her mouth. Windisch pulled her by the hand. “Let’s get away from here,” he said.
THE COCKS
The bells of the church strike five times. Windisch feels cold knots in his legs. He goes into the yard. Above the fence, the night watchman’s hat passes by.
Windisch goes to the gate. The night watchman is holding on tightly to the telegraph pole. He’s talking to himself. “Where is she, where has she gone, the fairest of roses,” he says. The dog is sitting on the ground. It’s eating a worm.
Windisch says, “Konrad.” The night watchman looks at him. “The owl is sitting behind the stack of straw in the meadow,” he says. “Widow Kroner is dead.” He yawns. His breath smells of schnaps.
The cocks crow in the village. Their cries are harsh. The night is in their beaks.
The night watchman steadies himself against the fence. His hands are dirty. His fingers are bent.
THE DEATH MARK
Windisch’s wife stands barefoot on the stone floor of the hallway. Her hair is dishevelled, as if there were a wind in the house. Windisch sees the goose-pimples on her calves. The raw skin on her ankles.
Windisch smells her night shirt. It’s warm. Her cheek bones are hard. They twitch. Her mouth tears open. “What time do you call this?” she shouts. “I looked at the clock at three. Now it’s already struck five.” She waves her hands about in the air. Windisch looks at her finger. It’s not slimy.
Windisch crushes a dry apple leaf in his hand. He hears his wife shouting in the hall. She slams the doors. She goes into the kitchen shouting. A spoon clatters on the stove.
Windisch is standing at the kitchen door. She lifts the spoon. “Fornicator,” she shouts. “I’ll tell your daughter what you get up to.”
There’s a green bubble above the teapot. Above the bubble is her face. Windisch goes up to her. Windisch strikes her in the face. She says nothing. She lowers her head. Crying, she places the teapot on the table.
Windisch sits in front of the tea cup. The steam eats his face. The peppermint steam drifts into the kitchen. Windisch sees his eye in the tea. The sugar trickles from the spoon into his eye. The spoon stands in the tea.
Windisch drinks a mouthful of tea. “Widow Kroner has died,” he says. His wife blows into the cup. She has small red eyes. “The bell is ringing,” she says.
There’s a red mark on her cheek. It is the mark of Windisch’s hand. It is the mark of steam from the tea. It is the death mark of Widow Kroner.
The bell rings through the walls. The lamp rings. The ceiling rings. Windisch breathes deeply. He finds his breath at the bottom of the cup.
“Who knows, when and where we die,” says Windisch’s wife. She clutches at her hair. She works another strand loose. A drop of tea runs down her chin.
Grey light dawns on the street. The skinner’s windows are bright. “The funeral takes place this afternoon,” says Windisch.
THE LETTERS
Windisch is riding to the mill. His bicycle tyres squeak in the wet grass. Windisch watches the wheel turning between his knees. The fences drift past in the rain. The trees are dripping. The gardens rustle.
The war memorial is swathed in grey. The small roses have brown edges.
The pot hole is full of water. It drowns the bicycle tyre. Water splashes on Windisch’s trouser legs. Earthworms wriggle on the cobble stones.
One of the joiner’s windows is open. The bed is made. It’s covered with a red plush bedspread. The joiner’s wife is sitting alone at the table. A pile of green beans lies on the table.
The lid of Widow Kroner’s coffin is no longer leaning against the wall. The joiner’s mother smiles from the picture above the bed. Her smile stretches from the death of the white dahlia to the death of Widow Kroner.
The floor is bare. The joiner has sold the red carpets. He has the big form now. He’s waiting for the passport.
The rain falls on the back of Windisch’s neck. His shoulders are wet.
Sometimes the joiner’s wife is summoned to the priest because of the baptismal certificate, sometimes to the militiaman because of the passport.
The night watchman has told Windisch that the priest has an iron bed in the sacristy. In this bed he looks for baptismal certificates, with the women. “If things go well,” said the night watchman, “he looks for the baptismal certificates five times. If he’s doing the job thoroughly, he looks ten times. With some families the militiaman loses and mislays the applications and the revenue stamps seven times. He looks for them on the mattress in the post office store room with the women who want to emigrate.”
The night watchman laughed. “Your wife,” he said to Windisch, “is too old for him. He’ll leave your Kathi in peace. But then it’ll be your daughter’s turn. The priest makes her Catholic, and the militiaman makes her stateless. The postwoman gives the militiaman the key when he’s got work to do in the store room.”