Julius was made a captain and we took our first holiday. We went to Rome. I remember a long train journey during which we ate hard-boiled-egg sandwiches and slept in our clothes. The shops dazzled me; I wanted to buy presents for dozens of people, but I had only Bibi. I chose a marble darning egg and a pair of sandals that were the wrong size. I had thought of her feet as enormous, but to my surprise they were narrow and fine. She could not take two steps in the new sandals without sliding. She kept the shoes as a souvenir. Julius found them in her trunk, wrapped in white tissue paper, after she died.
A change in Bibi’s status came at about that time. Julius had wangled an excellent scholarship for her. With that, and the money she earned at Possner, Bibi could afford an apartment. She said she was happy as she was, but Julius wanted Possner employees to live decently. Also, she roomed with a family of refugees, and Julius did not want her to waste her mental energies talking about the tides of history. I can truthfully say that Julius has never discussed historical change. Do leaves speak? Are mountains asked to have an opinion? Bibi still resisted, saying there was no such thing as a flat in Cologne; but Julius found one. He personally moved her to her new quarters — one room, gas ring, and sink. Just about what she was leaving, except that now she lived alone. I don’t know how the room was furnished — Bibi never invited me to see it. She still came to us for three weekly evenings of housework, still ate her bread and soup and put the money we paid her aside. We were astonished at the size of her savings account when we saw her bankbook years later.
Julius was not so much concerned with Bibi as with Possner. When he helped other people it was because he was helping the firm. His life was his work; his faith was in Possner’s future. I believed in Julius. In one of the books belonging to him — the books that gave me so much trouble on winter afternoons — I read that belief, like love, could not be taken by storm. I knew that Julius lied sometimes, but so do all divinities. Divinities invented convenient fables and they appeared in strange disguises, but they were never mistaken. I believed, because he said it, that we would not live among ashes forever, and that he would give me a new, beautiful house. Because he vouched for Bibi’s genius I had to believe in it too. It was my duty to imagine Bibi ten years from now with a Nobel Prize for chemistry. This was another Bibi, tall and gracious and speaking pure German. She had stopped singing tunes from The Merry Wives of Windsor in such an annoying way, she no longer sat like an elephant or laughed with her mouth wide open or held bread on the palm of her hand to spread it with margarine.
If, in this refined and comfortable future, I corrected Bibi’s manners it was a sign that the postwar social amnesty could not go on. In fact, the rules of difference were restored long before the symphony orchestras were full strength, the prisoners were home, the schools were rebuilt. Seeing where Bibi was going, I began wondering where she had started out. Her name, Beate Brüning, was honest and plain. She hinted that once she had not lived like other people and had missed some of her schooling on that account. Why? Had she been ill, or delinquent? Was she, as well as Silesian, slightly foreign? Sometimes male ancestors had been careless about the women they married. Perhaps Bibi had been unable to give a good account of herself. My textbook of elementary biology in high school explained about the pure and the impure, beginning with plant life. Here was the picture of an upright, splendid, native plant, and next to it the photograph of a spindly thing that never bloomed and that was in some way an alien flower. Bibi’s round face, her calm eyes, her expression of sweetness and anxiety to please spoke of nothing but peasant sanity; still, she was different; she was “other.” She never mentioned her family or said how they had died. I could only guess that they must have vanished in the normal way of a recent period — killed at the front, or lost without trace in the east, or burned alive in air raids. Who were the Brünings? Was she ashamed of them? Were they Socialists, radicals, troublemakers, black marketeers, prostitutes, wife-beaters, informers, Witnesses of Jehovah? After she died no one came forward to claim her bank account, though Julius was scrupulous about advertising. Whoever the Brünings were, Bibi was their survivor, and she was as pure as the rest of us in the sense that she was alone, swept clean of friends and childhood myths and of childhood itself. But someone, at some time, must have existed and must have called her Bibi. A diminutive is not a thing you invent for yourself.
Of course, my life was not composed of these long speculations, but of subthemes, common questions and answers. One day new information about Julius came into my hands. As I stood on a chair to fetch a pair of bedsheets down from the high shelf of a cupboard, a folded blanket and an old jacket belonging to him came slipping down on top of me. I clutched at the edge of the shelf to steady myself and had under my fingers someone’s diary. Still standing on the chair, I let the diary fall open. I read how Julius and an unknown girl — the writer of the diary — had pushed the girl’s bed close to a window one sunny winter afternoon. “No one could see us,” the girl felt obliged to note, as if she were writing for some other person. A bombed wall outlined in snow was their only neighbor. The sky was winter blue.
Now I am free was my first thought, but what did I mean? I wanted to live with Julius, not without him. I did not know what I meant.
I remembered the new, beautiful house he had promised, with the clock from Holland, the wallpaper from France, the swimming-pool tiles from Italy. I sat down and read the diary through.
On the girl’s birthday Julius took her to a restaurant, but friends “connected with him professionally” came in. After twisting and turning and trying to hide his face, Julius sent her to the ladies’ room with instructions to wait there for five minutes and then go home without stopping to speak to him. “What a bad ending for an evening that began with such promise,” the diarist remarked. Did she live in Cologne? “Two nights,” she recorded, or “one afternoon,” or “one and one-half hours,” followed by “did everything,” then “everything,” then finally just the initial of the word, as if she herself were no longer surprised or enchanted. One dull lonely weekend when she had not seen Julius for days, she wrote, “The sun is shining on all the rooftops and filling every heart with gladness while I Over the rooftops the sun shines but I My heart is sad though the sun is filling every heart …”
“Helga, are you all right?”
Here was Bibi breaking in — anxious, good, and extremely comic. Her accent would have made even tragedy seem hilarious, I thought then. I began to laugh, and blurted out, “Julius has always had other women, but now he leaves their belongings where I can find them.” Bibi’s look of shock was on my behalf. “… always had women,” I repeated. “I said I didn’t mind.” The truth was that each time had nearly killed me. Also, the girls were poor things, sometimes barely literate. Looking down at the diary on my lap I thought, Well, at least this one can spell, and I am his wife, and he treats me with consideration, and he has promised me a house.
“Oh, Helga,” Bibi cried, kneeling and clutching my hands, “you have always been kind to me.” She muttered something else. I made her repeat it. “I don’t understand; I don’t keep that sort of a diary” was what Bibi had said.
So in the same hour I found out about Bibi and Julius too. Here was my situation: I was pregnant, and I should not have been standing on a chair to begin with. I was ill. I had such violent spasms sometimes that Julius would ask if I was trying to vomit the baby. I had absolutely no one but Julius, and nowhere to go. Moreover, as I have said, I did not want to live without him. As for Bibi, when I was feeling at my most wretched she was the only person the smell of whose skin and hair did not turn my stomach. I could not stand the scent of soap, or cologne, or food cooking, or milk, or smoke, or other people. Bibi looked after me. Once she said shyly, “I know, I know that mixture of hunger and nausea, when all you long for is good white bread.” I remember sweating and trembling and thinking that it was she, it was Bibi, who was the good white bread. I never hated Bibi. I may have pitied her. I knew a little about Julius and I had a fear of explosions. I could have said to Julius, “I know about Bibi and you.” What next? Bibi then departs and Julius and I are alone. He knows I know, which means we live in ruins and ashes forever. All I could feel was Bibi’s utter misery; I saw her stricken face, her rough hands, and then I began to cry too, and we two — we two grown-up war orphans — dried each other’s tears. I am quite certain Bibi never knew I had understood.