Tante Eva Page 10

  You would think this all would make me accepting of Maggie and her adventurous ways, but, sadly, I can’t say that it does. I am deeply worried about her. I know she respects you. I don’t want to put too much pressure on you, or too many expectations, but I guess I am hoping you can keep some sort of eye on her for me. Perhaps it is too much to ask. She is a grown woman—she is not a little girl anymore. So what can any of us really do? You know that more than anything I wanted to provide my children with a great education. Something that I had to work so hard to get myself. I wanted to hand it to them. And now I wonder if that was a mistake. It was as if she used what I gave her against me, in every way. All of her knowledge she wields like weapons at me, trying to hurt me, belittle me, disagree with me on every little thing. She is shockingly rebellious, still, well past the years I was prepared to deal with rebellion. And I am without ideas on how to handle it, besides cutting her off financially, which I try to do, but then don’t really do. Maybe I am weak. I know I am afraid.

  Perhaps you had similar or have similar problems with Elena. I don’t know. I guess I know very little about you, Eva. And it may be my fault. I should come visit. I would love for you to visit me someday. I know your feelings about America, but it’s not that bad. Or at least, you could come and see for yourself, make your own decision. I would love to show you my life here.

  Please call me collect if you need to, if you feel that Maggie is in danger. If she gets sick . . . anything. I’ll be frank—I can’t stand her boyfriend. She knows it. It’s one of the reasons we don’t get along right now. But I think if it wasn’t Tom, it would be someone, or something else. We are just not destined to be close right now. It kills me. It does, it breaks my heart, when I’m not wrapped up in my rage for her.

  I hope they are not a burden in any way. I know they are staying with Elena. Do let me know if there is anything I can do to be of help.

  Busserl,

  Liezel

  Chapter 21

  It had been nearly a week since Liezel’s letter had arrived, but it still was strong in Eva’s mind. Liezel’s neat, slanted script. She wrote like their father, and like Willi. There was nothing feminine in her handwriting.

  It was the first letter from her sister that hadn’t been opened by others. Of course, there was Krista. But that was different, and it appeared Krista hadn’t opened this letter anyway. The letter felt different than her other letters; it felt more personal. Truer. Could it be that Liezel still loved her, still loved Eva? It hardly seemed possible. They knew so little about each other’s lives. They were not close.

  Eva’s mind was in a good place; she’d had a good week, uneventful, but good. Not too much brandy, not too many late nights, not too much leg pain. She felt almost stable, perhaps optimistic. Liezel’s confiding in her had done something for her, even more than Maggie’s arrival. Hans hadn’t visited; normally he was the cause of her well-being. But Liezel needed her because of her daughter. It wasn’t lost on Eva that Liezel’s suffering and pain about her daughter were bringing Eva a kind of strength. Or that consequently, Liezel’s need for Eva couldn’t be an altogether good feeling for Liezel. It stemmed from her fear for Maggie, her insecurity for her daughter, and Eva comforted herself in knowing that she gave Liezel some hope, some comfort just by being in the same city as Maggie.

  Liezel was getting older, but just as before, when Liezel had visited her all those years ago, Eva’s image of her sister had not aged. In Eva’s mind, Liezel haunted her still as a ravishing young woman, awkward and powerful in her beauty. But to have a daughter Maggie’s age, she herself could not be so young anymore. Perhaps Maggie had a picture of her mother. Eva doubted it, but would ask. Maggie and Tom were coming today, for coffee and sandwiches.

  Before setting out to buy good fresh bread and cheese for her visitors, Eva looked carefully in the mirror. It’s not only Liezel who never ages in my mind, she thought, while touching her carefully creamed and made-up face. She saw a woman deep in middle age looking back at her, but she saw the reflection as a mask. Behind it was her true self, a young, sexual woman, a silly young woman in need of care. Behind it, was the woman she was with Hans, even the woman she was with Elena and Maggie, the woman she felt she was everywhere, really, even while at the cheese store. Especially while listening to music, wrapped in her blue robe. The reflection was nothing much—nothing more than a misleading, physical appearance.

  She had offered to meet them at the train station, but they refused. Eva worried about the skinheads, and almost told them to take a roundabout way to the building, but she didn’t want to make it any harder. Maggie would be with Tom. And for all the doubt that Tom inspired in people, he would most likely ward off the advances of the skinheads. Of course, it was even possible they wouldn’t be there today. They were not out every day in this cold weather. And today was quite cold.

  For a brief moment, Eva was ashamed of her apartment, of her room. Maggie had been there before, but she had been younger. Eva had mopped the floor, laid out a lovely embroidered Austrian tablecloth with matching napkins. The sun was shining today despite the cold; she had nothing to be ashamed of. She put on the Nina Simone record and cut bread and cheese and made coffee. She’d bought a nice bottle of red wine, too. She looked around her room—it was simple, but it was hers. And it was well tended.

  They arrived, knocking on the door, Maggie saying through the closed door, “Hallo, Tante Eva Ich bin’s, die Maggie.”

  Eva had decided she could wear her robe. She opened the door somewhat grandly, swathed in the blue silk. Maggie’s eyes lit up. They kissed each other’s cheeks, and she shook Tom’s hand and let them both in.

  “They still haven’t fixed the elevator, Tante Eva. Not even the new government has done that for you.”

  “It keeps me strong. Americans pay money to go to gyms, but all I have to do is walk up the stairs to stay healthy.”

  Tom was breathing heavily.

  “Are you okay, Tom? Please sit down.”

  “I’m fine, I’m fine. I’m just a smoker. So it takes me a minute,” he said with difficulty, “to catch my breath.”

  Maggie looked at him with an expression that Eva couldn’t quite read. It wasn’t concern.

  “Oh, Tante Eva, I remember this apartment so well. You look beautiful, too.”

  “Setz dich, Maggie. Du bist reizend.” Eva was touched. “Coffee?”

  “Yes, please.”

  Eva poured the coffee and noticed her hand shaking. Surely they noticed too. But what could be done? She was nervous, excited.

  “How are things? Elena tells me you’ve found an apartment. How wonderful.”

  “Yes! It’s quite cheap and it gets nice light. The windows are big,” she said, looking at Tom. The look Maggie gave was one Eva knew, a look for confirmation, for approval. A wariness to it. Tom did not look back at his girlfriend, but was glancing around the room with a detached interest.

  “Yeah. It’s great,” he said, meeting Eva’s eyes, his breathing much more controlled. “And I got work at a club, a great underground club. Great music. Live bands, a DJ on the other nights. In the States, I’m what they call a barback. I don’t know what they call it here.”

  “I understand,” said Eva.

  “I have two interviews for teaching English this week,” Maggie said. “I feel good about things. I’m sure Elena will be happy to have the place back to herself. We’ll be moving out at the end of the month.”

  “It was her pleasure to help you out. And she appreciated the rent money. Really,” Eva said.

  “You’re playing the record I sent you.”

  “Oh, yes. I play it every day. I love it so much.”

  “I brought you some more!” said Maggie, and picked up a bag she was carrying. “Billie Holiday’s Lady’s Decca Days. And a man named Johnnie Clyde Johnson, a blues singer. You like the blues, too, right, Tante Eva? Not
just jazz?”

  “Thank you! Yes, I’ll love it all. Thank you so much.”

  Maggie gave Eva the records, and Eva turned them around, looking at the backs and then the front again. “I love Lead Belly. I love gospel, too. I love all Black American music.” Eva laughed, hearing herself put it like that. But it was true. “Maybe I should go to America and visit your mother. And see for myself how Black people in America live. I’ve only seen movies about them.”

  “You should,” Maggie said, smiling, but with some caution. Just the mention of her mother irritated her, Eva could see. “It’s hard to generalize too much. There is a growing Black middle class in America. But on the other hand, one in every eight Black men has been in jail, or something awful like that.”

  “I wonder if you’d like rap music,” said Tom. Now that he’d settled into his chair, Eva felt she could see him better. His eyes were glassy.

  “Rap music?”

  “It’s what the young African Americans are doing,” explained Maggie. “I’m not sure what you’d think of it, actually. It’s quite vulgar and violent. It’s not as soul searching as the blues or jazz can be.”

  “African Americans?”

  “Yes, that’s what Blacks are calling themselves.”

  “Not the West Indians,” shot back Tom. “The West Indians prefer to call themselves Black. They’re not African Americans.”

  “Not every Black person in America calls themselves the same thing, I suppose,” Maggie said.

  “Mostly, they like to call themselves ‘niggas.’” Tom said wryly. “Mind if I smoke?”

  “No, please smoke,” Eva said, getting up to get an ashtray.

  “I hate that word,” Maggie said.

  They were fighting, in front of her, too. It wasn’t a good sign.

  “Tell that to the rappers,” Tom said, and lit a cigarette.

  Someone knocked. “That will be my neighbor, Krista. She must hear you. Do you remember her?” asked Eva, quietly walking to the door. “She was so fond of you.”

  “Yes,” said Maggie, nodding her head.

  But it wasn’t Krista. It was Hans.

  “Hans! Komm rein, bitte. Meine Nichte, Maggie und ihr Freund, Tom. Das hier ist der Hans.”

  Maggie and Tom stood, wanting to shake hands.

  “Hallo, hallo,” Hans said, quickly, not really looking at them. He turned, as if he were leaving.

  “Warte doch! Geh nicht. Warte!” Eva said.

  “Ich warte in meinem Auto,” Hans said and then, to Maggie and Tom, “Nice to see you.”

  “Oh, Tante Eva. Is this a bad time? We can come back anytime, you know.”

  “No, no. I didn’t know he was coming. I never know when he is coming. I’m sorry.”

  “No, that’s fine. We’ll see you soon. We want to walk around here, check out some of the squats.”

  “Yeah,” said Tom. “A friend of mine lives near here. We were going to visit him, too.”

  “That’s so nice you have a friend around here,” Eva said, with relief.

  Maggie hugged her. Her niece smelled sweet, like vanilla. She said, “I’ll call you. We’ll go to Café Einstein. Do you remember going there with me? We won’t be able to sit in the garden, because it’s too cold. But it would be fun to go back there.”

  “Yes, yes,” said Eva, but she wasn’t really paying attention. She could only think of Hans, downstairs, waiting for her.

  When she got downstairs, she looked for his old car, but then she saw the Cadillac. She felt bad for hurrying Maggie and Tom out and for not inviting Krista as she’d promised. Hans leaned over the expanse of car and opened the door for her, from inside. “Komm,” he said. “Wir fahren nach Wandlitz.”

  “Wie lange? Kann ich etwas mitnehmen?”

  “Nein, nein. Wir haben keine Zeit. Komm.”

  She didn’t ask where Paula and the kids were. She had her purse with her pills, and she had grabbed the present for Hans. Hans was always in a hurry, often for no reason. But that was okay. He would maybe buy her something then, she thought, giddily. A new toothbrush. A sweater.

  The drive was lovely. They were warm in the car, the sun shining brightly on the windows. Eva looked at Hans: he was calm, happy.

  Wandlitz was a suburb of Berlin, about a forty-minute drive if there was no traffic. Built by the Party for the well connected, it was really one big neighborhood of similar two-story houses, with, at the time they were built, state-of-the-art kitchens, good heat, and most of all, privacy. Nestled in the thick woods, each house was nearly invisible from the far end of its driveway. Built in the early 1960s, it had once had a guard twenty-four hours a day at the entrance, and East German military men drove around the quiet neighborhood, guns hanging out of their windows. They drove slowly, looking left and right, in their thick gray uniforms, their loaded arms shining with a yellow fluorescent band.

  Now, the area had faded some, Eva noted as they entered. It seemed quiet. She had heard that many people had left. Many people had left Berlin and the East in general. And so many others from farther East had arrived. But not here—no immigrants had made it out here.

  Hans clearly still lived here. He had taken her here once for an entire week, years and years ago. They were very much in love then. They were new together. Paula had been gone for two weeks. He didn’t feel the need to try to be secretive about her. Why try? Everybody knew everything. It was the way things were then. And yet they had been somewhat discreet. During Eva’s stay there, she almost never left the house. No one saw her. He brought her things. Once, they went to the private restaurant of Wandlitz. Beef stroganoff, wonderful, buttery spaetzle. Chocolate cake. One of the most wonderful meals she’d ever had. They didn’t touch once, though she had wanted to. She tried to put her foot on his, under the table, but he had pulled away. It was enough that they were out together. Discreet, but not trying to fool anyone. Who didn’t have a mistress?

  Inside, the house smelled airless and stale, as if no one had been there for a while. Hans put down his car keys on a table in the hallway and lit a cigarette.

  “Bring mir ein Bier. Du weisst noch, wo die Küche ist, no?”

  “Ja, sicher.” Eva took off her shoes first and rubbed her feet for a moment. She padded quietly into the kitchen; it hadn’t changed at all. The same refrigerator, the same stove. The same counter tops. She opened the fridge and took out two bottles of beer, then looked for glasses. She didn’t remember which cabinet they were in but found them shortly. The glasses seemed dusty, so she rinsed them out before pouring the beer into them.

  “Danke, Schatzi,” he said as she brought him the beer and leaned over and kissed him.

  “Do you live here still?” Eva asked. “It seems as if you don’t.”

  “We are in the process of moving. Paula has taken the kids already to Poland. I still have business here, and I always will. I’ll be here often. Very often. But we won’t need this big house. I’ll maybe find a small flat or stay at a nice hotel. You’ll like that, Schatzi, won’t you? And I have my cabin.” He finished his beer quickly. “So many things have changed. Are changing. I’m not leaving for at least six months. Or so I think. I can’t know for sure.” He turned to her, and stroked her face, her neck.

  “Don’t leave me, Hansi. Don’t leave.” She did like the idea of the hotel in the moment—its lack of permanence. Or even a flat that was just his. Strangely, she felt the idea of Paula permanently away was a threat to her. The change—the endless upheaval. But that was why he was so quiet. That was why he seemed so calm. He had this secret. He was always calmest when he had a secret from her.

  “I’m not leaving for at least six months, I just told you. Maybe longer. And Paula is gone the entire time. So it will be just us.” He wrapped his huge body around hers, squeezing her tightly. She felt soft under his arms, like a cushion for him.

  “You’ll
come often, to visit me?”

  Hans took a long drag of his cigarette and crushed it in an ashtray. He was smoking Marlboro Reds, which he never smoked. A Cadillac, now American cigarettes. He had often smoked cigarettes from the West, but German ones, either Davidoff or West. “I’ll be here on business every month. We’ll see each other when I can.”

  Eva began to cry. Business was always first, like Hugo and his art. Why couldn’t he just say, “Doch, I’ll come to see you.”

  “No crying, Eva.”

  She stood and looked out the large windows. The windows had not aged, didn’t seem dated or fragile with the years. They were made of thick glass, with beautiful black metalwork. And they seemed recently cleaned, too. Outside, the trees were thin black lines, crossing each other endlessly, making a dense web. Snow lay on the ground, white and unharmed. “Make love to me,” she asked, quietly, and put down her beer.

  Later, when the evening light had faded completely in the bedroom, Hans stood up and said, “Follow me.”

  Eva wanted to stay in bed. “What?”

  “I have to show you something. I want to give you something.”

  “Can’t it wait until tomorrow? I have a Christmas gift for you, too.”

  “It’s not a Christmas gift.”

  He walked ahead of her, naked except for slippers, and then he took two robes out of the closet in the bedroom. “Hier. Zieh das an.”

  Reluctantly, Eva put on the robe. It smelled of mildew. “Wo gehen wir?”

  “Downstairs. It’s colder down there.”

  It was dark. Eva held on to Hans’s robe in front of her as they went down the steep stairs. Hans tried to get the light to turn on, but the bulb was out. “Scheisse,” he said, and then he fumbled around in a box and switched on a flashlight. “Komm,” he said. “Schau.”