They Went Left - Monica Hesse Page 0,42
people from Feldafing when they arrive.”
“How often do you go?”
“Every couple of weeks.”
“I heard her say we needed blankets. And we’re bringing food?”
He nods but doesn’t elaborate out loud this time, and the line of conversation seems exhausted, anyhow. Scrambling for another subject, I look at the horses’ reins, easy in Josef’s hand. “What’s the other horse’s name?” I picture something that would go with Feather, something like Smoke or Coal.
Instead, Josef’s mouth tugs at the corner. “Franklin Delano Roosevelt.”
I laugh. “The American president?”
“The Americans donated the horse.”
“Franklin Delano Roosevelt,” I repeat.
And then suddenly, like a swift kick in the stomach, this name brings forth a memory: a dark movie house, a newsreel, grainy footage, an announcer’s voice saying the Americans had reelected their president for another term.
K is for the KinoTeatr, where I take you when Mama needs rest, where we sit in the balcony and count the hats of the men below, where we watched the inauguration of Franklin Delano Roosevelt, because Mama needs rest, so we go to the KinoTeatr, because it has a balcony, where we watched the Inauguration of Franklin Delano Roosevelt because Mama needed rest.
“KinoTeatr?” Josef repeats.
I snap back.
Damnit. Damnit. Shit and piss. My face flushes a deep magenta as I realize with complete horror that I’ve said at least some of that out loud. I wonder how much.
“KinoTeatr?” he asks again.
“Sorry,” I mumble.
“What were you reciting?”
“Nothing.” But obviously, it wasn’t nothing. “It’s just an alphabet game my brother and I used to play. A name for every letter. I don’t know why I said it out loud. Sometimes my brain gets stuck.”
“You said that when I met you,” he says. “It was one of the first things you said—that your mind must have been playing tricks on you.”
I flush again, even deeper red if possible. “It’s—it’s hard to explain,” I stammer. “Sometimes timelines get mixed up in my head. Or I’ll think I remember something that didn’t happen, or I’ll forget something that did. I’m better, though. They wouldn’t have discharged me from the hospital if I wasn’t better, and I’m still getting better every day.”
Even though I’m trying to put Josef at ease, I’m realizing, with fragile pride, that the sentiment is true. I have gotten better. I arrived in Foehrenwald two days ago, and before just now, my brain has gotten stuck only once: when I watched Josef get in that fight. I don’t know whether it’s because I’m in a new place that’s not haunted by memories or because I’m on my own, but until now, I managed not to act crazy in front of Josef, or anyone else for that matter. I made him laugh. He saw me be quick-witted. He saw me be a person. “I’m getting better every day,” I repeat.
“You don’t owe me an explanation,” he cuts me off indifferently.
I wince a little at his nonchalance. “I’m sorry. I apologize for boring you with my health.”
“All I said was, you don’t owe me an explanation.”
“Well, I don’t owe you anything, apparently.” This, I meant to sound like a joke, but it comes out caustic, too. He looks at me quizzically. “What you said yesterday,” I explain. “That you didn’t want us to feel beholden to each other.”
“That’s true.”
His answer doesn’t sound as though he’s trying to joke. His tone of voice is serious, which I find both reassuring and frustrating for reasons that are hard to articulate. I shouldn’t want to feel beholden to him, after all. I should be glad he’s specified that I don’t owe him anything. But at the same time, I just did something strange in front of him—I recited something odd about an old movie house—and told him I’d been in a hospital. Shouldn’t he want an explanation? Even if I didn’t want to give one, shouldn’t he be concerned or at least curious?
“The horses. How did you learn to work with them?” I ask now, trying to find a thread from before.
“I grew up working with horses,” he says.
“Did you grow up on a farm?”
“No. I grew up in a city.”
“A city in Germany?”
He hesitates a bit. “You ask a lot of questions.”
“Where I’m from, the people who still drove wagons were mostly the farmers who came into the city on market days.”
“It wasn’t a farm.” It’s clear he means that to be the end of his answer, his eyes are back on the road, and I’m still trying to put my finger on what it is about Josef and