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Giving

Darkness, colourful shadows cooled and moved away in Ella’s dream; what remained was empty, cold darkness. A ray of light, thin as a hair, fell through the keyhole, luminous dust poured through the gap under the doorway, there were footsteps, the sound of knocking at a distant door. Without making a sound, Ella sat up in bed, felt with her hands for the edge of the sheet, the edge of the cloth, the fortress where she was still sitting, if uncertainly. It could be the lodger, a man to be avoided. She bent forward, felt her way along the floor, soft wood, lowered herself to it on her knees and lay face down. Her ribs felt sharp, one hip met the floor, her breasts were too young, her mount of Venus too low, she pushed herself and her bones and her hair under the bed, making her way along on the palms of her hands, she pressed her knees down and pushed herself well back to the edge of the night, where she could feel the skirting board against her hip bones. The skirting board was pleasantly cool, it gave her firm support, she was safe here, or almost. She heard a note in her ears, was it a gong, a bell? Ella couldn’t place it; her skin longed to be cool, but the bowl she had fetched in the night was too far off, the soothing water was out of reach. A soft patter of feet, someone coming along the corridor without shoes on, it couldn’t be the twins, they weren’t here; the pattering sound grew louder, its movement like a wave, its sound a regular, apparently innocent rustling. Dwarves maybe, little kobolds who wanted to bathe in her lakes, in the pools in her basins, a scratching sound, that could be the dog. Ella could deal with sounds, the knocking grew louder, that wouldn’t be the lodger who, after all, had a key, although no door apart from his was ever locked, and he always came into rooms without knocking.

Abracadabra! The yodelling note of the female voice was reminiscent of a jackdaw. A kind of grating gurgle, she knew that voice, yes, it reminded her of Käthe. Maybe it was the effervescence of a woman’s voice, a cheerful warbling, as if to wake nightingales from their winter inactivity. Why would she be calling to Ella, what did she want from her in here?

Light shone in, fell on the entire room. Ella could see two feet in Mongolian shoes, the kind that Käthe wore.

Good morning, Ella! The feet came over to the bed. Ella heard the covers being pulled back. Ella?

Happy birthday! That was Thomas, whose bare feet Ella now recognised in the doorway.

Where is she? Have you seen her? Is she up already? The covers slipped halfway off the bed and hid the view. Ella? In surprise, Käthe went round the room, stopped at Ella’s desk, paper rustled.

But Ella didn’t want to show the two of them where she was hiding. She saw the feet go out of the room; they would go on looking for her in the bathroom and the smoking room. Ella crawled out from under the bed and knocked the dust off her nightdress, stardust from her hiding place in the ground. Wouldn’t it be much better to sleep under the bed in future? She’d feel as safe as in a cave. Why did modern people sleep on beds, unprotected, visible from afar?

Where were you? The figure of Thomas reappeared in her doorway. We were going to wake you up, but you weren’t here.

I was in the loo, lied Ella, and saw from Thomas’s look that he didn’t believe her. Maybe he had just come from there himself, and let her little lie pass only out of kindness because there were much more important things today. He put his arm round her shoulder, pulled her close and whispered in her ear: I hope all your wishes come true, dear little big wild sister. His cold nose brushed her cheek. I have a little present for you, it’s in the shed at Michael’s place.

Ella nodded.

Is anything wrong?

No. She had to say something, think up an idea quickly so that he didn’t notice anything. I don’t have quite enough money yet, but a promise is a promise. This evening in the Johannishof?

You look so scared. Thomas was watching her.

Ella pulled her nightdress over her head and dropped it carelessly on the floor, so that Thomas would pick it up and put it over the chair. Scared? She was going to need at least ten marks. Ella had only thirty pfennigs. She put on her trousers and sweater.

I have one mark twenty, you’re welcome to that. I told you you don’t have to invite me — anyway, it’s your birthday. A person doesn’t get to be sixteen every day, we were still the same age yesterday, now you’re a year older than me again. And Thomas, laughing, nudged her in the ribs.

We’re the Löwenthals, I reserved the table for us last week. They’re sure to think: oh, what an attractive couple, how young they are. Just married? Ella disguised her voice and rolled her eyes; she enjoyed going out with Thomas as a married couple. Michael had told them about the Johannishof, his parents had celebrated their bronze wedding there with their relations from the West. Ten waiters serving one table, the food was carried over to the customer under a domed cover, the waiters wore snow-white gloves, it was a really classy place. Young people didn’t go there, it was only the upper classes who ate in the Johannishof. Like the Löwenthals.

Thomas took Ella’s hand and led her out of the room and along the corridor to the smoking room. There was a smell of Earl Grey tea in there, and the room was full of the music of stringed instruments.

So there’s my birthday girl, where have you been hiding? Cheerfully, reproachfully Käthe lit the big candle. This child was born sixteen sweet years ago, she sang.

Ella clapped her hands like a small child.

But as soon as Käthe had finished singing her little ditty, she said sternly: I have something really special for you this year. She turned to the green curtain behind her back that, together with the big sliding door, divided her bedroom from the smoking room. Picking up the poker, she waved it like a magic wand. Hocus pocus fidibus, three black cats! Now she opened the drawn curtain with the wand. Abracadabra!

Ella couldn’t see at once what Käthe was conjuring up. She pulled the tea trolley through the doorway. There was a pale mound on the tea trolley, a white hill, a shining, glittering mountain.

Who stole the chocolate out of the pantry at festival time, who stole the nuts and raisins if it wasn’t my magpie of a daughter?

Ella looked at Käthe, shocked.

Maybe you think I don’t notice anything? But I don’t like being robbed, particularly not by my own child. The crystallised ginger and candied grapefruit slices, who stole those out of my Czech bowl in the glass-fronted cupboard? Who nibbles the bacon before it gets to the table? Whose fault is it that I’ve stopped buying such things?

Ella shook her head. It wasn’t me, she said in a hoarse, helplessly indignant voice, knowing that she was a very good liar so long as she believed what she was saying herself. She didn’t know about any theft, anything, she knew nothing at all about it, and she wasn’t a magpie.

Your brother then, was it? There was anger in Käthe’s voice; the simplest way, she thought, to convict Ella of lying was to cast suspicion on her brother. Ella wasn’t going to let Thomas be wrongly accused, she would want to confess.

But Ella shook her head again, looking incredulously at Käthe: Do you really think. . would you believe it of. .? Thomas? How could Käthe drag him into it? Neither Käthe nor Ella took their eyes off each other even for a moment to look aside at Thomas, who didn’t defend himself. He knew as well as the two of them what game they were playing, and he didn’t want to be caught between them.

It was you. Käthe clapped her hands; she wanted to finish this conversation. She had no doubt at all that Ella had been stealing her provisions. That was why she was getting something really special this year. This is your birthday present!

What? Ella stared at the tea trolley.

Sugar. Käthe didn’t reach out a hand to her, did not make any loving gesture, did not wish her a happy birthday. She turned on the very low heel of her Mongolian shoe and walked out of the smoking room.

Sugar? Ella went over to the tea trolley and incredulously touched the white mountain of fine crystals. The sugar rustled beneath her fingertips.

I expect she thinks she’s giving you a treat.

Is that meant to be a comfort? Did Thomas really think that Käthe wanted to give Ella a treat with all this sugar? A real treat? Why not crystallised fruit, then, why not crisp bacon rind, why not onion pie?

My birthday present is sugar? Plain sugar?

The door opened and Käthe came in with a tray. Breakfast for everyone, she filled three cups with tea, put small boards at her place and Thomas’s, held the loaf of bread to her breast and cut several slices. Whenever she cut bread like that, moving the blade of the bread knife towards her body, the bread in front of her full breasts, Ella thought that in the posh nursery of Käthe’s childhood no one had shown her how to cut bread on the table.

Ella sat down at her own place. She had neither a little board nor a knife in front of her. She reached for the bread, but Käthe smartly slapped her hand, making it tingle.

You eat your sugar, she said sternly, triumphantly; there was no doubting that firm voice. Only when you’ve finished it all up do you get something proper to eat again.

Incredulously, Ella looked from Käthe to the tea trolley and back at Käthe again.

I’m sure you’ll manage it easily, little magpie. And then perhaps you’ll be cured, and see for yourself how stupid stealing is.

You want me to eat that whole mountain of sugar?

What do you mean, that whole mountain? It’s a little hill weighing ten pounds, no more, no less. Ought I to have bought sixteen, one for each of your years of life? Ninety, a hundred, one for each pound of your weight? Käthe cut her bread twice, quartered a clove of garlic and put a quarter of the clove on each piece of bread. The salt was in clumps in the salt cellar; Käthe salted her food generously. The first quarter piece of bread and garlic was already disappearing into her mouth, she chewed noisily, munching, smacking her lips. In between meals I shall lock the sugar up here in my cupboard so that you don’t go throwing it away on the sly. That would be a shame. There’ll be nothing else for you until you’ve finished it, only sugar.

Ella rubbed her eyes with her fists; if she went on rubbing like that for some time not only would her eyes be red, she would make tears flow, pitiful, heart-rending tears that would soften any heart. The warm tears ran down her cheeks, her eyelids fluttered, her nostrils widened and quivered.

Don’t make such a fuss, there are millions of people in the world going hungry. You’re too well off here, you’re ungrateful, sly, disrespectful. I’m teaching you respect, that’s all. Käthe cut another slice of bread, broke it in two and gave half to the dog. The arm of the record player made a dragging sound; the disc had come to an end and the needle was scratching over the vinyl. Käthe put the other half of the slice of bread on her board, buttered it and took a mouthful.

Ella’s eyelid twitched; sheer rage took hold of her.

And by the way, there are also postage stamps missing from my desk. Here Käthe opened a thick quarto magazine, Meaning and Form, its title spontaneously arousing Ella’s desire to mock.

To keep herself from snorting with laughter, Ella sucked in her cheeks and bit her lip. Next moment she widened her eyes and puffed out her cheeks. You think I stole them? Her indignation could not have been greater. She felt no shame — although she had in fact been to blame. She had taken postage stamps from Käthe’s desk, and not for the first time. She nodded vigorously, so vigorously that Thomas gently kicked her under the table. Oh yes, of course, I steal everything! Ella was incandescent, shooting sparks. But I left the letters there — the letters you were writing because you wanted to marry a dead man.

You did what? Meaning and Form sank to Käthe’s lap. What letters?

To the Ministry. Ella picked up the dessert spoon on the table in front of her, went over to the tea trolley, pushed the spoon into the sugar and carried it to her mouth as if there could be nothing more delicious in the world. Curiously, she observed Käthe’s wandering eyes. It was beginning to dawn on her what letters Ella meant.

My desk is nothing to do with you. You have no business with it, none at all!

Retrospective acknowledgement of my marriage to the father of my children. Ella was obviously quoting; her tone was sarcastic. You were positively begging: You must understand! The man who –

Keep your hands off my things or I’ll throw you out!

— who had certainly wanted to marry you, only unfortunately he couldn’t, oh dear! Ella rolled her eyes.

What do you know about it? Käthe slammed Meaning and Form shut. Enough was enough; she banged the journal down on the table.

There was no stopping Ella now, in her delight at scoring off Käthe with something that would hurt at least as much as that comment on a magpie daughter and the mountain of sugar. But now that he’s fallen at the front, and you have to make your way alone with two small children, oh, how glad you’d be of a widow’s pension!

You don’t know anything about it! Käthe’s voice rose, if only to drown out Ella’s, to keep from hearing what Ella was saying. She went on, undeterred, as if Ella were not speaking the painful truth. Both fell silent for a moment, breathless, red in the face. At this point Thomas picked up his board and left the smoking room in silence, while Käthe shouted at Ella: You can take your school bag and go and live somewhere else, it’s as simple as that!

Oh, and where am I supposed to go?

Just get out.

You really wanted to marry a dead man? Have a common-law relationship made official after the event? Because you felt sure that but for the laws he’d have married you? What makes you so certain of that? Ella laughed; she had never before seen Käthe so sober, so nonplussed, in a state of amazement that she would have liked to interpret as shame, but couldn’t, because Käthe wasn’t denying anything, her face hid nothing, it merely showed sheer horror as she looked at the girl.

Käthe opened her mouth, took a deep breath, and said nothing.

I won! Gossamer-thin, malicious jubilation streamed through Ella. True, Thomas had not come back, so there had been no witness to her exposure of Käthe, but an important question had been asked, the curtain had been drawn back. As for the postage stamps and the raisins, and your stupid camping stove which capsized with us that time we were out in the boat, so it’s lying somewhere at the bottom of the Müggelsee today — I ask myself what you mean by communism. Aren’t your goods ours as well? And our neighbours’ goods? Why do you give a mountain of sugar to me and not the Republic?

Because you’re a thief.

Let me share it; I’ll share the ten pounds of sugar with everyone who comes to see us, we’ll let the tea trolley stand there in the corner, and you can tell your friends the story of your criminal child, and I’ll tell them my story about communism, and we’ll invite them to help themselves — go ahead, take as much as you want.

I’ll be in the studio. With these words Käthe stood up and marched to the door.

Why didn’t you come looking for us when we were out in the boat? Ella called after her. You didn’t even notice we were missing! Not for three days, not for three nights, and all the time we were out on the stupid Müggelsee until our boat capsized. The water was icy. We were lucky it happened so close to the bank; who knows how long we could have swum in the lake?

What were you thinking of?

You didn’t miss us one whole evening, one whole day, you didn’t miss us for a moment! Not until we came home dripping wet and shivering, and then you were beside yourself. We had to tell you we’d been gone for three days, out on the Müggelsee at a temperature of zero. And you wouldn’t believe us. People don’t exist for you unless they’re in front of your eyes. You don’t bother about anyone but the poor –

You two taught yourselves a good lesson. A sense of responsibility for yourself begins –

You’re cruel, you and your sense of responsibility. You want to be a heroine for everyone in society, people can’t be poor enough to please you, you’re sorry for the poor — but with your children you suddenly go on about taking responsibility for themselves! Every man for himself, and where will your society be then?

Don’t shout like that, Ella, it reminds me of your father.

As if there were still poor people today. There are only good people, heroes every one of them.

Käthe coolly scrutinised her from head to toe. Take a look in the mirror, my girl, you’re sixteen today, it’s about time you stopped wailing and complaining so much. Clear the table. She pushed the door handle down and turned back once more. It’s eight thirty, school has begun, so why are you still hanging around here?

Just as you like. I’ll be off.

Ella didn’t have to explain anything else, because Käthe had already gone out of the room, closing the door behind her.

Ella did not clear the table. She stuck the handle of the spoon into the top of the sugar mountain. The spoon tipped over sideways. Ella switched off the light; it was fully day now. Thomas wasn’t around any longer. He must have gone to school, he hated arriving late, while she was late all the time. She hadn’t been to school much at all recently. Two boys were in love with her; she made eyes at them both and didn’t love either of them. She enjoyed the soulful looks of a handsome lad known to everyone as Johnny, who had all the girls hanging on his every word, what with the circles under his eyes and his slight squint, but few sounds ever passed his lips. Everyone at school knew about him. They had once danced rock’n’roll together, Ella in the petticoat she had made for herself and nothing on underneath it, he with the circles under his eyes and his longing glances. At the end of the night Ella had turned away, drunk with his unspoken love and already rather tired of it. She had given the last dance to short-legged Siegfried, who had then triumphantly taken her home on his moped. Inflamed by the jealousy with which he had watched Ella and Johnny all evening, Siegfried kissed her stormily before she had made it to the steps up to the front door. Legs, Ella, legs! His thick hair smelled of grease and the night’s cigarette smoke. Ella had only just opened the door when he came in with her, she hung her jacket up on its hook, and he kissed her arms and the hollows of her armpits. She laughed, and he kissed her open mouth; she retreated, and he followed her until they had both landed in her room and on her bed. Door closed, Siegfried on his knees, he had kept his leather jacket on, the peaked cap was still on his head, slightly askew and crumpled; it was meant to make everyone think of Marlon Brando. The rough, see-through chiffon of her petticoat was scratching Ella’s throat, a brief pain, a slight burning sensation, and Siegfried was rocking up and down in defiant delight. Ella didn’t move, she didn’t think of Marlon Brando, she was watching her toes in the air. The petticoat was tickling her nose now, and she didn’t want to sneeze.

Johnny and Siegfried were not the only boys to have fallen for Ella, but they had fallen so heavily that within a few months Ella could hardly walk into the school without finding herself faced with making a firm decision. A decision that she didn’t want to make, and still less could she make it. Ella listened for sounds in the house, for anything that might tell her Käthe was coming upstairs to her studio, for a key turning in the lock and the lodger coming in, although he hadn’t been here since early January. But nothing stirred, she heard only the pendulum of the grandfather clock and, in the distance, the dog barking, perhaps because the postman had come into the yard. Käthe’s shoulder bag was hanging over the armchair; it was made of green leather and printed in a way that made it look like the skin of a reptile. She found the large purse embroidered with a black-and-white pattern. She opened the catch, took out a ten-mark note and six large silver coins, and put it back inside the reptile.

Ella waited at the tram stop until she couldn’t feel her toes for the cold. She let six trams come and go before she boarded one, and she stayed in it until it reached the terminus. On the way back she got out at Friedrichshagen. For twenty pfennigs she sat in the cinema, where there were only children and pensioners at this time of day. All winter the same film had been showing, The Tale of Poor Hassan, who was blamed for his naivety as a believer; of course the rich and powerful had blamed him for his poverty and thought up God only to enslave people like him. God as a calculating instrument of the exploiters. When the film ended it was nearly two. Ella bought herself a roll and dripping and munched it as she waited under the suburban railway bridge for Thomas. He would change trains here when he came out of school.

What have you got me as a present? she asked breathlessly when she had spotted him in the crowd streaming out of the station doorway, had run after him and put both her hands over his eyes from behind.

Thomas ducked to shake free of them, and turned to face her. The headmaster wants Käthe to come and talk to him. You can’t stay on at the school if you don’t attend.

So?

No final exam, no university studies. Thomas was looking earnestly at Ella.

Will I need them?

Here, I’m to give you this from Johnny. Thomas opened his briefcase and took out a small picture frame containing some pressed flowers behind glass. Ella squinted at the picture they made, oh no, please not!

Thomas took a letter out of his jacket pocket. And this is from Siegfried.

Ella turned away. I don’t feel well.

And happy birthday from Michael too, he’d be pleased if we go to the garden at the weekend. We were going to tell you together, but you didn’t come to school.

A surprise?

We’ve been raising a plant for you. It really grows only in South America. We made a biotope under glass for it. You’ll see.

Is it in flower?

Let it be a surprise. And Roland says happy birthday, he asked if you’re having a party.

We’re having a party on our own, just you and me. I’ve got the money, we’re going to the Johannishof.

I’m supposed to give this to you. The letter shook in Thomas’s hand; he had been holding it out to her for some time. Siegfried wants you to read it when you’re alone.

So what? I don’t want to read it at all. She looked down the street, and a fleeting smile appeared on her face, as if she recognised someone in the distance. The tram from Adlershof squealed as it came along the curving rails.

Here, take it. Thomas tried putting the letter under Ella’s arm, which she was pressing close to her body, hand in her coat pocket, because it was cold. But at that Ella raised her arm, took a step back, and the letter fell to the ground.

You threw it away. Ella laughed.

Thomas shook his head. You’re so childish. You could at least take it.

But suppose I don’t want to read it? I don’t want it. Ella crossed her arms and, as if by accident, trod on the letter. The ash-grey slush under her feet sucked at it.

Then why do you go dancing around in front of him? With your hair like Brigitte Bardot’s, hopping around on the dance floor in a petticoat?

Is that forbidden? Ella rolled her eyes and squinted with one of them, not sure whether to suggest to her brother that she had a guilty conscience when in fact she didn’t. His fit of morality annoyed her.

Do you enjoy tormenting them? They all seem to be crazy about you, and you are too, crazy about yourself and no one else. Was that contempt in his eyes or lack of understanding?

This is my birthday. Ella was pouting, but Thomas turned away from her.

Here’s to you, darling. Thomas held out the glass of sparkling wine to her.

Cheers! Thank you, my dear. Here’s to us, Achim. Ella giggled. Shall I call you Achim?

I’d rather be Hans-Joachim. Thomas cleared his throat.

As soon as they had finished their sparkling wine, the wine waiter came along and changed them for cut glasses for red wine. Would you care for a Hungarian wine? It’s a little young, but I think you will like its mellow aroma.

Bring it on. Thomas adopted a jovial tone. The wine waiter let him taste the wine and then filled both their glasses.

Two waiters carried in plates under silver covers, put them down in front of Ella and Thomas and said together, in solemn tones: The festive menu for Herr and Frau Löwenthal. First solyanka Moscow-style. The covers were raised to reveal surprisingly small porcelain bowls of a brown soup that smelled delicious to Ella.

Do you have a plain vegetable soup for my husband? He’s a Buddhist and doesn’t like eating dead pig.

The waiter hesitated only briefly, then bowed his head and came back a few minutes later with another cover. Solyanka Moscow-style without meat. He raised the silver dome and took three steps back, head slightly bent, expectantly waiting to see if there would be any further request before turning away and going back to the kitchen.

Amazing, they’ve rehearsed it all, whispered Thomas, every step, every glance. Reaching for it and shaking it just once, Thomas unfolded the fabric napkin and stuffed one corner in the neck of his sweater, as he had often seen Käthe do, and he had once seen her father the professor do the same.

You look like a baby. Ella giggled. Infected by the general formality, she put her hand over her mouth as she did so.

So? That’s what you do. We start with the spoon on the outside. They both picked up their spoons at the same time and, while Ella tried to drink her soup as quietly as possible, Thomas cautiously stirred the thick broth. They’ve taken as many of the bits of meat out as they could, he said, nodding appreciatively and letting the soup fall back into the bowl in a glazed steam. He preferred not to drink it.

How could they get all those tiny scraps of meat out of the soup? But it tastes really good, do try it. Ella sighed with enjoyment. Their glasses were refilled; as soon as they had taken a sip the wine waiter came along to top them up. A waltz was playing in the next room; through the large, open double door they could see the other guests dancing there. They were getting on in years. A graceful elderly lady with hair dyed deep black was wearing a mustard-yellow dress cinched in at the waist, its wide skirt seemed to have thousands of little pleats. She had pinned her hair up on top of her head and she danced almost perfectly, as if the music had been written for her. Perhaps she was a professional dancer?

So who’s the fairest of us all? Ella had finished her soup, was leaning back in her chair, arms folded and was watching the dancer’s light steps with envy and admiration.

What a question, darling. Thomas took a slim blue folder out of his case. It had a dark ribbon round it. For you, but I don’t want you to open it.

The bowls were taken away.

‘Dream Sleep’, it’s called, said Thomas, leaning over the table so that guests sitting near wouldn’t notice. On my left a stone cries out in the dark / slowly my being ends. .

Ella sat opposite him, wide-eyed. She wanted him to think she was listening, he knows those wide eyes, the show of astonishment before there was anything to be astonished by. He wasn’t going to let that annoy him now, and without finishing the verse he went on, further down in the poem: Hands reach out, grasp the void, / faces take distance by storm, / circle a consuming light / that burns a dazzling white. Ella was playing with her fork, her expression didn’t show whether she was even listening, so Thomas skipped the next verse as well in order to get to the end of his poem, which now seemed far too long, as quickly as possible: Gone is the image that brought delight, / the yearning song has died away, / and through the dark and russet night / cold silence blows this way. He also left the next verse out and went straight to the last one, which he wanted to read, even if Ella was yawning now and covering her mouth with her hand. . The wind moves, moves its eyes / And my Self changes, as I see, / the world is silent, all sound dies, / a world cold and dead with no comfort for me. .

Ella was beaming, her happy gaze went to the two waiters carrying in new plates with silver covers over them.

Chicken breast in aspic with leeks and mustard seeds.

Putting his forefinger to his lips, Thomas asked her to keep quiet and not show him up again over the meat. Ella loved aspic, he wasn’t going to send his back, she simply ate half of his serving. She put out her fork right across the table to his plate as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

Oh, wonderful, how good that tastes! Poor Thomas, you’re not going to get much to eat today. Ella bowed her head in pretended regret. She was enjoying the meal, she didn’t want to suffer pangs of conscience. Doesn’t that smell good? Go on, do try it. I mean, the chicken’s died for us already. You can’t just send parts of its body back, then it would have died for nothing.

Leave me alone. Thomas was red in the face. He was embarrassed by the attention she was drawing to them.

Chickie chickie chickie. . Ella’s fork reached over the table to Thomas’s plate again as if there were a little chicken there to be enticed out.

Tongue with mustard sauce and green pepper served with boiled potatoes in butter and parsley for the lady, bean casserole for the gentleman.

Ella looked triumphantly at her brother. Serves you right! She nodded eagerly to the waiter and took the fork from his hand even before he could put it down beside her plate, as a substitute for the big fork that she had used by mistake for the chicken breast in aspic, and she dug its prongs into the ox tongue. A poem! Ella was quoting Käthe, who described any delicious meal as a poem. Ella chewed, closing her eyes. I can see our Baltic estates, dear husband, our trees on the Darss peninsula bending in the wind, red deer trotting down to the sea early in the morning, bending their heads and drinking salt water, I see dunes where seagrass grows, reed beds rippling, and the white-flecked meadows by the brackish water where the singing swans raise their cygnets and graze, they bend their long necks and dig holes as they search for roots, further on, near the outskirts of the village of Ahrenshoop, the first buttercups are in bright yellow flower, and our kindly, fat cows walk among them, cheerfully crushing them. Cautiously, Ella opened her eyes and looked to see whether Thomas was listening, picturing the pretty cattle with their gentle eyes and tender tongues. Ella licked her lips. This is delicious!

Thomas ate a mouthful of bean casserole and looked at her. Your cheeks are glowing.

Here’s to glowing cheeks! Ella raised her wine glass and drank to Thomas.

Here’s to you. Thomas raised his own glass and emptied it. What makes you so cruel, Ella? Don’t you ever think of any living creature but yourself?

Heavens, where would that get us? Who else would you like me to think of? Aren’t I thinking of our cattle and our deer on the Darss peninsula? Are we nothing but creatures, then, do we do so little creating ourselves?

Thomas shrugged his shoulders. When Ella was getting on his nerves he could manage not to look at her for hours on end. One of those long periods could have begun just now.

Cheer up, little one, this is all about the fact that I like eating meat, right?

Thomas put down his wine glass, threw his head back, raised it again and belched gently at Ella. It’s an experiment, take it that way. No one has to kill and eat animals. My pacifist contribution to the world.

Ah, I see. Ella nodded in agreement, as if she were finally accepting what he said. A waltz was followed by slow music intended for couples in love and newly married, like them.

Shall we dance? Ella winked at Thomas and dabbed her mouth ceremoniously with her napkin. He put down his wine glass. Taking his sleeve, she led him through the double door to the dance floor.

There’s only one man I can be happy with, Ella whispered in Thomas’s ear, and that’s you. All the others want to touch me, stick their tongues in my mouth, fuck me, hurt me. Ella shook herself. It’s disgusting, they’re as greedy for it as animals. You’re different. She turned right, holding Thomas so close that he had to turn with her.

You think so? Thomas’s eyelashes fluttered, and he did not step back but danced hesitantly on the spot, so that Ella trod on his toes.

I certainly am. Ella nodded vigorously. No doubt about it, you’d never want that, not with me, and perhaps — she hesitated — no, certainly not with any other girl.

Ella pushed his arm, pressed her knee against his so that he would keep moving his legs. She pushed him on, but he turned against her arm. What is it, don’t you like dancing? Your shoulders are drooping as if you were a sack of potatoes. Thomas had blue eyes with a green glint to them on many sunny days, and when he was happy. Today they were a shade of grey in the dim lighting of the restaurant. Are you tipsy already? Ella giggled.

Thomas shuffled from foot to foot on the spot. I wish I were the one.

What one?

The one you look at, the one you want. Thomas’s sad expression intrigued Ella. He went on: I’m not sure if I’m really any different from other boys. You hope so. But why would I be different?

You just are different, you’re not an animal.

Yes, I am. Thomas was nodding now, I’m a mammal. Or if I may say so, a human being.

You’re not your body’s slave. Ella impatiently guided Thomas through the dancing couples, and he let her lead him, but that was not enough of a signal.

Not the slave, maybe, but the servant. Not just of my body, of other people’s as well.

Then human beings are barbaric because they’re born through sexual intercourse?

Well, aren’t they? Thomas looked doubtfully at Ella. Barbaric, I mean? Maybe it’s not just because of the two sexes, there are a few other details involved.

I don’t know. Ella was laughing now, she held Thomas’s arm up so high that it served as an arch and she could twirl in the dance under it. I can’t imagine you doing it with Violetta or any other. . you don’t want to, do you?

Thomas did not reply; he didn’t know what to say. I’ll have to sit down. He was moving more slowly, and looked as if he might stop.

Not yet. Ella twirled again. There’s nothing nicer than feeling dizzy as you dance.

Do you think, whispered Thomas, searching for words, affectionately, sternly, do you think you’re the only one to feel helpless? What can I do about it? I’m a boy. I don’t want to be a girl.

You’re drunk.

Thomas shook his head. How would I be different when I’m going to be a man, when I’m a boy? He felt exhausted and wanted to lay his head on Ella’s swaying shoulder. She was tireless when she began dancing, they could go on all night like this with him following her, holding up his arm for her to twirl under it, holding out a hand while she moved to one side as soon as he wanted to rest his head. Can I stop nature in its tracks?

Yes, stop it in its tracks. Stop all nature in its tracks. Come on, let’s swear never to grow up. Ella raised her fingers in the air, her eyes were shining. I’m going to stay small and never be anyone’s wife.

Is that what you want me to swear? Never to be anyone’s wife?

Husband for you, of course, swear never to be anyone’s husband. .

They danced, and Thomas watched their shadows on the dance floor.

There’s something I must tell you, he called out so that she could hear him; she had moved so far away that only their fingertips touched now and then.

Ella raised her eyebrows, but showed no sign of getting closer to him, so he would have to say it louder, shout it. He couldn’t manage that.

Later, when they were back at their table, raising their full wine glasses, drinking to each other, he said: I can’t do it.

Do what?

Stay a child. I can’t.

Disappointed, she shrugged and assumed her haughty expression, that negative look from under her long lashes that laid all the Johnnys of this world low. She drank the wine in her glass straight down, waited for the waiter to arrive, gave him a half-smile and enjoyed his awkwardness. As soon as he had topped up the glass she took another sip. The wine was pleasantly astringent, her gums felt rough, her teeth felt rough when she ran her tongue over them, her palate felt rough. She had slight nausea, in line with the intoxication of her thought. Of course, Thomas had begun loving girls some time ago, the looks he gave them had not escaped Ella, he couldn’t see enough of them, when a certain girl crossed his path his deep gaze was embarrassing to Ella, and to Violetta if not also to Michael; Ella guessed it, but she didn’t want to know about it. His desire was not of the flesh, it was a sacred, spiritual, crystalline desire, she felt absolutely sure of that. She nodded to herself, so as not to lose her certainty. Never mind all that talk of gazelles — Siegfried liked her legs in particular. Her knee was a bulging mound, a clumsy joint run wild, she thought as she crossed one leg over the other and jiggled it in time to the music.

You are different, she said, and smiled at her own earnest tone of voice. I didn’t have time to want anything, Eduard was just there, and I hadn’t even started bleeding, I mean before. I wasn’t a woman yet. He thinks he made me one. But I’m not letting anyone make me anything. Do you understand?

Thomas nodded vaguely, took a large sip from his glass, and he might have been thinking of God from the way he gazed at the ruby red of the wine. He probably wasn’t listening to Ella.

And now here’s the lodger. Oh, what luck. Ella said it in a cold, contemptuous voice. Well, we’re really in luck after that mess we were in, she said, imitating Käthe’s tone of enthusiasm, he got us heating, genuine oil-fired central heating for the whole house, and we needed it so urgently.

You scratch my back, I’ll scratch yours. Exhausted, Thomas shrugged his shoulders.

I don’t want him scratching mine.

What do you mean? Thomas’s mouth dropped open, as it so often did.

Close your mouth or you’ll catch the flies. What I say. You know exactly what I mean. Didn’t you say so yourself in the poem about the Red Way? The central heating demands tribute. Her eyes were sparkling with an unpleasant, angry, impotent light.

Would you like chocolate cream with vanilla sauce or red-fruit fool with sago and whipped cream for dessert? Soundlessly, the waiter had approached, and was looking from Thomas to Ella and back again.

Yes, very snug, aren’t we? A lodger like that who doesn’t bother anyone? Ella tightened her lips.

Stop it. His voice was not angry but pleading. Thomas was begging her to stop talking about Eduard and the lodger and other men. Tell Käthe, tell her about it and then you can get rid of him.

You think she’d believe me? She doesn’t believe anything else I say, she’ll only think I’m showing off. Her lodger is beyond reproach, haven’t you noticed?

Excuse me, chocolate cream or red-fruit fool with sago and whipped cream? The waiter cleared his throat.

One of each, please. The chocolate cream for her, the fruit fool for me.

No, I don’t want either. A cigarette, please, do you have a cigarette? Ella interrupted him, banging the table with her fist angrily, as if their air of distinction was getting her down. The waiter disappeared backwards as silently as he had come.

Shall we order another bottle of wine?

Thomas’s eyes were fixed on Ella. She had been ignoring him for some time now, she wasn’t looking at him but straight past him, cutting him out of her field of vision.

I’m so sorry. His lips were quivering almost imperceptibly. He moved his hand in Ella’s direction over the white tablecloth, half clenched into a fist, an old signal between brother and sister; perhaps he thought she would push her own fist against his, a silent token of forgiveness. But she didn’t know what she was supposed to be forgiving him for. The waiter had placed a small silver salver beside her. It held a piece of dark blue felt, with a single cigarette in the middle of it.

Go on, cry. Ella reached for the cigarette and placed it in her mouth. When the waiter struck a match and lit it for her, she drew on it strongly. Once again she smiled at the waiter. He stumbled, and she quickly snatched at his hand, turned it over and inspected it in its white glove. What a hard-working hand. A glance up at him. Have you been working here long?

Excuse me, he stammered, and red shot into his face; with his left glove he touched his gleaming nose, his right was caught in Ella’s hands. Is everything all right?

Oh, very much so. Ella smiled and drew on the cigarette, holding it with one hand while she still held the waiter’s hand in the other. Smoke came out of her nostrils, a lot of it. She practised that because she though it was funny to breathe smoke like a dragon. She batted her eyelashes. Would you take this out of here, please? She looked deep into the waiter’s eyes.

Excuse me? His glance wandered over the table, on which only the refilled wine glasses now stood; he had cleared all the rest of the china and cutlery away.

My cheek, my face, me, I’m a girl, take me out of here with you.

Now the waiter looked at Thomas. Can I be of any assistance, sir? Would you like the bill now, shall I call a taxi?

That would be a good idea, yes. Thomas rolled his eyes. Chandeliers hung from the ceiling, their glass droplets reflecting the lights. My wife isn’t feeling very –

Huh, my wife — I’m not his wife. That’s my little brother. I’m paying the bill. And then I’m going away with whoever I want. Tell me, will you take me with you?

The waiter preferred not to answer this question, and hastily went away.

Ella reached for Thomas’s glass, which was still full to the brim, put her lips to the rim of the glass and blew bubbles into it, sucked up wine, raised her head: Oh, my dear little brother. She put her forefinger in the glass, put it in her mouth, deep, deeper, she sucked her finger and put it back in the wine. If I could only love, you know — she tried whistling on the rim of the glass — everything might turn out well. Really well. I’d be happy with Johnny. Or Siegfried. If I could only love.

Without moving his head, Thomas looked surreptitiously to all sides. They were being watched; the older, distinguished-looking customers were entertained by the young couple. But Ella, with her tongue out, licked the rim of her wine glass. Couldn’t you play a musical note on the rim of a glass? Which is worse, do you think, not being able to love or not being loved? She directed her question at the glass, putting out her tongue as far as it would go, perhaps getting it right to the bottom of the wine glass before the glass itself suddenly shattered between her hand and her mouth. Perhaps she had pressed it too hard, had bitten it?

The wine had spilled over her dress. Ella carefully removed a gossamer-thin splinter of glass from her tongue. She spat, several times, to get other shards out of her mouth, she spat on the tablecloth and on her dress, waving the stem of the glass, which she was still holding, back and forth like a conductor’s baton. Thomas had jumped up and hurried round the table. He mopped at her with his napkin, carefully collecting the tiny shards of glass.

Don’t swallow, show me your tongue again. Sure enough, he found another long, thin splinter on her tongue.

Your taxi is here. The waiter had brought the bill in a small silver booklet.

Where’s the money?

There. . there. Ella’s mouth was making baby sounds as she spat, dribbling, so as not to swallow any broken glass, and she pointed to her school bag lying on the floor. Thomas crawled under the table to retrieve it, and had to empty the whole bag to find the money at last lying loose in it. He picked out all the coins and the note and placed the money on the little silver booklet that the waiter was holding open. As the waiter went on standing there motionless, Thomas put his hand in his own pocket and added something to it.

I’m sorry, sir, that’s not enough.

Can you send us the bill at home?

What about your taxi?

We’ll take the suburban train. I’m sorry about this. Thomas took a pencil out of Ella’s bag and wrote the address on the bill for the waiter. Another waiter brought their jackets. But Ella couldn’t stand up on her own, and had to be supported. Thomas hauled her up, got his arm under hers, supported her back while her sour breath blew in his face. His poem was still lying on the table. How could he ever have mentioned his doubts of the Red Way to her? She’d hardly listened to his poem, he had written it for nothing, given it to her for nothing.

Can I walk? Ella spoke like a small child now as she sank to the floor and fell to her knees, holding Thomas’s hand.

You can, yes, you can. Thomas was sweating all over and wondering how he was going to get Ella home.

Daddy dear, I love you, said Ella, pressing her cheek to the back of Thomas’s hand, kissing his hand, turning up her eyes soulfully, I love you and only you.