The blind side of the heart - By Julia Franck Page 0,165

It hardly even occurred to Peter not to do as his mother said. He washed his hands, scrubbed his nails with the nailbrush and sat down at the table.

And wash that coal dust off your face, please, said Helene.

I’m Black Peter, said Peter, laughing at the mention of the card game. He liked playing games and if the others laughed at him he laughed with them.

I heard you saying a rude rhyme just now, said Helene. She put the top half of the mackerel on Peter’s plate and cut the piece of bread in half.

Me?

Do you know what Jews are?

Peter shrugged uncertainly. He didn’t want to annoy his mother; nothing was further from his mind. People?

So why say a rude rhyme about them?

Peter shrugged again.

I don’t like it. Helene spoke soberly and sternly. I never want to hear it again, is that clear?

Peter looked out from under his fringe and had to smile. He looked mischievous, smiling like that. He couldn’t believe she was so upset just over a silly rhyme.

What sort of people are Jews? Peter was still smiling. He really wanted to know, but he would have to accept the fact that Helene wasn’t going to answer him. She felt inadequate, painfully inadequate. Was she being cowardly? How could she explain what kind of people Jews were to her son, who she was herself, why she couldn’t talk about it? No one knew where a child of Peter’s age might take what he knew; he could come out with it tomorrow at school, telling the teacher or the other children. Helene didn’t want that. She didn’t want to think of him in danger. He understood her, Helene was sure of that, Peter was a clever child. Jews were just people, surely that was enough by way of explanation? Helene did not respond to his smile; they ate their fish in silence.

Mother, he said when he had cleaned his plate, thank you for the mackerel, that was a fabulous mackerel. Peter could tell most fish apart, he liked the differences, their different names and flavours. Helene didn’t like the word fabulous. Everyone was using it, yet it was a very vague word, totally misleading. When she gave him the clasp knife in November it would be too late for fishing near the city, most of the river banks would be frozen, the fish would be swimming too far down, he probably wouldn’t be able to catch anything edible. Helene sketched a smile. Where did these sudden polite thanks come from? Had she ever told him he ought to thank her for a meal? The cat down in the yard would get the fish bones. No one knew whose cat it was; it was a beautiful animal that looked like a Siamese, white with brown paws and bright, clear eyes. Peter was going to wash the dishes, and Helene thanked him in advance. He liked doing it, he helped his mother whenever he could. Helene took her ironed overall and said goodnight. She was on night duty.

Dense mist lay over the water, the ships’ sirens were sounding in unison. Up in the city, the golden sun shone, casting long shadows as day dawned.

Let’s go picking mushrooms, said Helene on her day off. After repeated requests, she had been given a Sunday off because of the child. She packed her basket. Conditions couldn’t be better; it had rained yesterday and last night the moon had been full. Half the city might be out and about in the woods on a Sunday, but Helene knew her way around and would find the really remote clearings. A tea towel, two knives, some newspaper, because she didn’t want the mushrooms rubbing against each other and bruising when they were lying in her basket.

They took the train to Messenthin and soon left its thatched, half-timbered houses behind. Helene knew her way through the forest. The spruce trees stood close together, then beech and oak trees were foremost. The air was cool, with the scents of early autumn, of mushrooms and earth. Smooth beech leaves, many of them already turning bronze, shrivelled oak saplings. Helene went first, walking fast. She was familiar with these woods and the clearings in them. She felt hungry, which was not ideal when you wanted to find mushrooms. Her eyes searched the thickets, the undergrowth, it was too dark here, too dry there, they’d have to go further into the forest, to places where bees still settled on the tree trunks