“En quel honneur?” said Herbert. “Her German is probably better than little Bert’s.”
Perhaps it was true, or else when she was among Germans she did not want to hear what they said. She had just returned from the square behind the station where the bus to Pottenstein was usually parked. But everything had been changed around; there wasn’t even a schedule in sight, and everyone on the platform was trying to find out when some train would come by to take them away from Pegnitz. She was seven and a half months pregnant, she had been travelling for hours now, and her back ached. All at once she turned and looked at Herbert. He looked back — respectfully, she believed. She pushed her way over to him through the crowd on the platform and said in her haughtiest English, “Sir! Vare iss ze boss to Buttonshtah?” which was enough to tell any careful census taker (Herbert, for one) her nationality, schooling, region, village — what part of village, even, if one was particular over details.
The fact of the matter was that she was on her way home to Pottenstein and that her shape was bound to be something of a shock to her parents. However, once they had recovered consciousness they would certainly try to help. For instance, they had a friend, a garage mechanic who had worked for two years in America and knew the customs. He had returned to Pottenstein for two reasons: one, when Americans invited him to their houses they would offer him something to drink and never a bite to eat, which showed that they were not refined; and two, he had been offended by the anti-German tone of the television commercials for a certain brand of coffee. This man would be called in to look at the letter she had intercepted, stolen, read in secret, and reread until she could see every word with her eyes tight shut. He would tell her how to use the letter in order to further her case — providing she had a case at all.
Just as Christine understood all this from the beginning, just as information arrived in the form of an unwieldy package the colour of bricks, Herbert, with sober face, began to speak with the accent of their train conductor. He said she was not far from Buttonshtah, only a few miles. He believed there existed a bus service.
“I know, but vare iss ze boss?” she complained, before she remembered that she was not supposed to know any German, let alone German spoken with that accent. She had been deceived by the look of Herbert; he was nothing more than a local product like herself. “Country pipples,” she said, and showed them what it was to walk off with your nose in the air. Christine caught again, faintly, Dear Ken sorry I haven’t written sooner but you know how it is
Herbert did not want to rub it in but he did say, “You know, an American could live fifty years in Pottenstein without knowing it was Buttonshtah.”
The Norwegian still thought the girl might be an American. He said that perhaps she had mistaken the “P” of “Pegnitz” for the first letter of “Pottenstein,” and been too disturbed to read the rest. But Herbert laughed and said no American would do that either.
By now Christine knew all this. Herbert, who knew nothing, had fixed upon the essence of it: the girl was ashamed of being thought German by other Germans.
Little Bert tugged at Christine, trying to tell her something. “Is there time?” she asked Herbert.
She saw him nod before a new wave of soldiers pushed him back. He’ll write a letter about that, she thought. Little Bert was very good about standing in the queue outside the door marked “Ladies” and neither giggled nor stared once inside. She found it curious that he had asked her and not his father; it was certainly the first time. When they came out Herbert was nowhere in sight; there were twice as many people as before milling about and protesting, and they saw the cultural group, quite red in the face now, the women clutching their furs as if the inhabitants of Pegnitz were bandits. Their leader had lost his spectacles and was barely recognizable without them. His eyes were small and blue, and he looked insane.
“A short wait. In there,” said the stationmaster, running past Christine with a long list of passengers’ names in his hand.
“We can sit down for a few minutes,” said Christine. “In any case, we could never find your father in this confusion.” She saw a place on a bench and squeezed little Bert in beside her. Nearly every inch of bench was occupied by women carrying luggage tied with string. A window on the side opposite the platform gave onto the freight yards.
“Read to me,” said little Bert.
She noticed that some of the women glanced at them with consternation, even disapproval. It was true that little Bert seemed spoiled and that his voice was often annoying to adults.
“I suppose we seem like a funny-looking pair,” she said to him. “Both of us filthy, and you with your bath sponge.”
“The ladies are funny too,” he said.
The women sat grouped by nationality — Polish, French, Greek, Russian, Dutch. Her eyes caught on the Frenchwomen, who were thin and restless, with cheeks flushed either by rouge or tuberculosis, and hair swept up and forward and frizzed with tongs. They were almost uniformly dressed in navy-blue suits and white blouses, and their shoes had thick wooden soles. Their glance was hostile, bright and missed nothing.
But they are not dirty, she said to herself. No more than we are at this moment. I shall tell the truth about it, if I’m asked. Herbert hasn’t washed or shaven since yesterday. He brushed his teeth at Stuttgart, nothing more. As for little Bert …
“Whatever happens,” she said to little Bert swiftly, “we must not become separated. We must never leave each other. You must stop calling me ‘the lady’ when you speak to your father. Try to learn to say ‘Christine.’ ”
The child sighed, as he did sometimes when Herbert took too long to explain. “Read,” he said sleepily.
“I can’t remember a thing about Bruno.”
“Look in your book.”
“My mind is a blank.” Nevertheless she opened it near the beginning and read the first thing she came to: “ ‘Shame and remorse are generally mistaken for one another.’ It’s no good reading that.” She leaned against the child and felt his comforting breath on her arm.
“What happens then?” said little Bert after a pause. “That’s not what you were reading before.”
Their familiar bun-faced conductor now made an appearance. “Oh, thank God,” said Christine. “He’ll know about the train.” He had stopped just inside the door. He scowled at the waiting women and, being something of a comedian, did an excellent impersonation of someone throwing a silent tantrum. First he turned red and his eyes started, then all the colour left his face and he could not part his lips, could only gesticulate. It was extremely clever and funny. Little Bert applauded and laughed, which drew the conductor’s attention. He walked over to them slowly with his thumbs in his belt and stopped a few inches away, rocking on his heels. Suddenly he prodded the bath sponge.
“What have you got there?” he asked. “Who said you could have it?”
“Don’t use that tone with the child,” said Christine. “Children don’t always understand games.”
“Yes, I do,” protested little Bert.
She was surprised to feel the panic — stronger than mere disapproval — that the other women were signalling now. She wondered if they weren’t simply pretending to take fright. It was so evident that he had no power! Why, even the little girls from the summer camp had not been taken in.
He retreated a step — to lend the distance authority required, perhaps — and cried, “Who told you to come here?”
“Please lower your voice,” she said. “We aren’t playing. We have every right to sit where we choose, and the child has a right to his toy.”