The blind side of the heart - By Julia Franck Page 0,41

hoping he would feel well fed and go away again, Grumbach just stayed put in his chair, cheerfully rocking back and forth, and making himself at home. As if it were the most natural thing in the world, he would unstrap his wooden arm and hand it to Helene to be put in the corner.

How wonderful to see everything growing and flourishing, said the visitor, as his eyes caressed Martha’s back. When she made her father’s bed, bending far over it, her apron parted slightly at the back to show the dress underneath. It seemed to the man that she was bending over just for him.

All gone to rack and ruin, said Helene’s father, blinking.

What, Father? What’s gone to rack and ruin? Martha was at the washstand again, and the guest in the wing chair was getting the back of his hand stroked by her apron.

The house, just look at the paint peeling, flakes of coloured paint everywhere, big ones.

It was true that little had been done to maintain the house in the years of his absence. No one had bothered about the paint, which was fading up here under the roof and peeling off the wall like dead skin.

Grumbach was not to be distracted from his silent lust by his friend, the girls’ father, deploring the state of the house. The touch of Martha’s dress seemed to him too sweet for that. Only when Helene stood up did Martha turn to face them. Her slightly flushed cheeks were shining, her little dimples looked enchanting. The innocence that the guest could read in her wide eyes might make him feel some shame. Helene hoped so.

Can I help you? Helene asked Martha, with a sharp glance at the guest who liked to be called Uncle Gustav.

Martha shook her head. Helene squeezed past Martha and the visitor, and knelt at the head of the bed.

Are you awake? Helene whispered to her father. Since his return she had felt she must speak to him formally. He lacked the ability to overcome the reserve between them in words or by showing her any attention.

Father, it’s me. Your little girl. Your golden girl.

Helene took her father’s hand in hers and kissed it. I’m sure you wonder what we were doing all the time you were away. Her tone was imploring. She wasn’t sure whether her father heard what she was saying. We went to school. Martha taught me to play piano studies: Desolation and then the Well-Tempered Klavier, Father. I’m afraid I don’t have the patience to play the piano. And three years or more ago we went to the railway station with Arthur Cohen and his baggage to see him off. Did Martha tell you about that? But just think, Arthur couldn’t join up to fight in the war. They didn’t want him.

A Jew, said Grumbach, interrupting Helene’s whispering. He leaned back in the wing chair and added, with a derisive click of his tongue, who’d want the likes of him?

Helene half turned to him, just far enough for him to have to see her gaze fixed on the back of his hand as it touched Martha’s dress, and narrowed her eyes. The guest breathed heavily, but he left his hand where it was, on Martha’s apron. Helene supposed he saw that as his due reward for saying no more. She turned back to her father, kissed the palm of his hand, his forefinger, each finger separately, and went on.

When Arthur reported for military service, they said they couldn’t call him up without proof of his residence in Bautzen and they wouldn’t send him to any regiment. Arthur objected, until they finally gave him a medical and told him he had rickets, he’d be no use in the war. He’d better go to Heidelberg and study there, they said, if he had the money and recommendations he’d need. In case of doubt, a young doctor would be more use than a soldier with rickets.

Helene’s father cleared his throat. She went on.

You remember him, don’t you? Arthur Cohen, the wigmaker’s nephew. He went to school here in Bautzen; his uncle paid the fees. He was a good student.

Her father began coughing harder, and Martha glanced up from what she was doing at the washstand to look sternly at Helene. Her expression showed that she was afraid her relationship with Arthur Cohen might come to light. She didn’t want either her father or his guest to know about those walks by the Spree; she didn’t want