The blind side of the heart - By Julia Franck Page 0,17
stood at the sink by yourself, hearing nothing but your own breathing and the gurgling of the laundry in the enamel basin of water, the effervescence of the washing powder, the foaming soda; here it was the gasping of two girls, no gurgling yet, only fast breathing, an effervescent bubbling, until Martha suddenly turned round.
My little angel. Martha took Helene’s hands, the hands that had just been stroking her, she spoke softly and clearly: I come off duty at four tomorrow and you must meet me outside the hospital. We’ll go down to the river. Martha’s eyes were shining, as they often did these days when she announced that they were going for a walk beside the Spree.
Helene tried to free her hands. It was hardly a question, more of a statement when she said: With Arthur.
Martha laid her forefinger on her sister’s lips. Don’t mind.
Helene shook her head, although she did mind. She opened her eyes very wide, she wasn’t going to cry. Even if she had wanted to cry, it wouldn’t be any use. Martha stroked Helene’s hair. Little angel, we’re going to meet him in the old vineyard on the other side of the railway line. When Martha was happy and excited, her laughter gurgled in her throat. He’s going to study botany in Heidelberg. He can live with his uncle there.
What about you?
I’m going to be his wife.
No.
The No came out of Helene’s mouth faster than she could think it, came bursting out. She added, quietly: No, that’s impossible.
Impossible? Anything’s possible, my angel, the world is all before us. Martha was radiant, joyful, but Helene squeezed her eyes shut and obstinately shook her head.
Father won’t let you.
Father won’t let any man come near me. Martha released Helene’s hands and, in spite of her remark, she had to laugh. He loves me.
Father or Arthur?
Arthur, of course. Father just owns me. He can’t give me up. Even if he wanted to, he simply can’t do it. He won’t let anyone have me.
Well, not Arthur, that’s for sure.
Martha turned on her back and clasped her hands as if about to pray. God, what can he do about it? I have two legs, I can walk away. And a hand to give Arthur. Why are you so stern, Helene, why are you so anxious? I know what you’re thinking.
What am I thinking?
You think it’s because of Arthur’s family, you think Father has reservations of a certain kind. But that’s not true. Why would he mind? They don’t even go to synagogue. Sometimes Father says bad things about those people, but haven’t you noticed his smile? He’s making fun of them in a friendly way, like when I call you a grubby sparrow, little angel. He’d never have married Mother if he thought the same way as he talks.
He loves Mother.
Has he told you how they met? Helene shook her head and Martha went on. How he travelled to Breslau and met Fräulein Steinitz with her striking hats in the printing works there? She was stylish, he says, a stylish young lady in a sea-green coat, the colour the printers call cyan. She still has it. And she wore a different hat every day.
Stylish, murmured Helene to herself. The word sounded like a chocolate; it was meant to describe something high-class, but chocolates just tasted bitter.
Her uncle was a hat maker and she was his favourite model. She won’t throw out any of those felt confections that look so odd today. I once heard Father telling her angrily she’d been in love with her uncle, that was why she couldn’t part with those old hats. Mother only laughed, she laughed so much that I thought Father’s suspicions must be right. Do you think he minded her being Jewish?
Helene looked at Martha incredulously and narrowed her eyes. But she isn’t. Helene shook her head to reinforce what she said. I mean, not really.
You just don’t notice because she doesn’t wear a wig. And what synagogue would she go to? She doesn’t keep separate sets of dishes, she leaves the cooking to Mariechen. But of course she’s Jewish. You think they call her the foreign woman here in Bautzen because she speaks with a Breslau accent. Do you? Do you really believe it’s a Breslau accent? I don’t, it’s the way her whole family talk. She uses all those words that seem to you familiar, and you have no idea that they show what she is.