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Drying

It began with the air losing humidity, drying up, so that her throat was scratchy, her eyes stung and there was a tickle in her nose. Dry air made life impossible in the long run, or at least very difficult. Ella turned the heating off. If you were a scorpion you could survive in the arid desert, but it wasn’t so easy for a young girl.

No one needed intense heat in winter, so Ella turned off the central heating not only in her room but also in the smoking room. Someone or other kept turning it on again. Ella seldom left her room except to go to the bathroom and fetch water — she wanted to keep her eye on the heating and the bowls of water she put out. She couldn’t discover who kept turning the radiators on again. The heating dried out the air, dried out the carpets, pictures and walls. Cracks appeared in the fabric of the house; eyes wide open, Ella watched them proliferate daily from her bed. The plaster was crumbling above the curtain, just where the wallpaper met the ceiling. Right beside Ella’s bed the wallpaper came away from the wall, buckling because it was so dry. At first it had been only a crack, but for some time Ella had been able to lift the wallpaper so that a length of it came off all the way down the wall, a dry strip of paper with remnants of paste behind it. Ella herself was drying out, scales flaked off her skin, not just out of her hair, the skin of her shins and her arms was getting scaly too, her lips were brittle. Ella did not often embark on a conversation. If she was asked a question, she nodded and saved her saliva for herself, like her tears. She would rather keep her mouth shut to minimise the tickle that made her cough and that she felt whenever she opened her lips and said something. Ella filled all the buckets and basins in the house with water and kept them in her room; she didn’t want to dry up entirely. The basins and buckets stood close to each other on the floor, all the vases and bowls that Ella had gradually been able to find over the last few weeks were on her desk, Ella spread wet towels over the radiator to keep the air moist if someone went and turned the controls on again behind her back.

On the first of February Ella was going down the corridor to the bathroom; she had to take a pee. She did that as seldom as possible so as not to lose fluid, but she couldn’t avoid going to the lavatory once or twice a day. For she also had to drink, and if she sweated she lost fluid only to the room that was so dry. As soon as she had the handle of the bathroom door in her hand, the door was opened, someone seized her wrist and dragged her in. Blue evening light outside the window. Touch me, said someone whose hoarse voice Ella knew, he took her hand and guided it to his trousers, pushed it inside the waistband from above, stuffed her hand down until her fingers felt the skin right there, smooth and slightly damp. She knew the vague sounds he made, Ella didn’t want to see the lodger as well, she looked out of the window at the yard, the evening now drawing in, what you would expect in December, there was the motorbike in the light of the courtyard lamp, and then she saw Käthe and one of her assistants from the studio, perhaps she was telling him how to get the motorbike over the iceberg and into the garage. The lodger smelled yellow, smelled of cigarettes and schnapps. He pushed Ella down on the bench, her hand fell out of his trousers, he pressed her hand, stuffed it back against his thin body, inside his sweaty trousers, and moved it with his own so that it rubbed against his skin, good, yes, that’s good, rub, damn it, rub me, you dirty little tart, you filth, and he rubbed until Ella felt the sliminess, the moisture, and the lodger let go of her hand.

He blew his broad, fleshy nose in a check handkerchief, the same handkerchief that he used to wipe his trousers down. There’s little errands you can run for us, Ella; he opened and closed his zip, wiped the fabric one last time and stowed the handkerchief away in his trouser pocket. Information about that teacher Matzke, little reports on the salon in this place, your smoking room — he imitated Käthe’s tone of voice — when Käthe has visitors, when her brother comes from America, her friends from Paris, her cousin from London, that’s what we need. Everything about the bourgeoisie. What about your grandmother? Is she still alive, does she still keep her domestic staff, is she spending the money she raked in? Jewish decadence. Write a little report. What did Käthe and Eduard quarrel about? Go on, you can tell us everything. It will be to your advantage. If you work for us you’ll get your school-leaving certificate. That’s an offer. Ella’s eyelid was trembling, some of the slimy stuff was caught on it. Fluid, anyway. With all the information he had, didn’t the lodger know that she had hardly ever been to school in the time before Christmas, and since Christmas she hadn’t been there at all? What was she to say about which teacher, and who to? The slimy stuff was dripping from her eyelid to her cheek. Ella didn’t want to soil her sleeve with it. She stood up and tore off a piece of the newspaper that was stacked beside the lavatory instead of proper toilet paper. Carefully, she dabbed the slimy stuff off her eyelid. Who needed proper toilet paper? Did everyone in this house have a regal, velvety soft behind? What a waste to buy toilet paper if you had old newspapers in the house! Once read, those not used for lighting fires and cleaning windows would only be thrown away.

Do you hear me, Ella?

Maybe she ought to shake her head so that he’d know she didn’t hear him, or more precisely didn’t want to hear him? Ella turned on the tap and washed her hands. Soap wasn’t much use. She drank from her cupped left hand, she couldn’t drink from the right hand, the one he had used. She didn’t need a towel, she could leave those few drops of water on her face, they did it good, her dry face, her burning skin.

Can I go now?

With his curiously slender, short-fingered paw the lodger groped between Ella’s legs. We have a secret, you and I. It would be better for you to go along with me. Paw still between her legs, he pushed Ella over to the window. Do you see your mother out there? Do you think she’d like to hear that you’re chasing her lodger? Now, get out. The lodger pushed Ella over to the door. She left.

In her room, Ella crouched on the floor and then lay down, her hand turned away from her body as if it wasn’t hers any more.

The water that Ella had poured into old wine bottles didn’t evaporate easily. Thomas had said that was because of the small surface area and the narrow necks of the bottles. So she had knocked the necks off the bottles, robbed them of their narrow necks. She had to be careful not to touch the sharp broken glass when she topped them up with water. Ella lay flat on the floor, a flounder in the desert. Drying up alive. A flannel on her mouth, under her nose, that was how she thought of the water that brought hardly any relief. Ella breathed in moist air. On the floor was better than above it; Ella preferred sleeping under her bed. She curled up on the floor, she forced her bones under the bed.

At first no one noticed that all the containers had disappeared.

Crusted residues formed on their sides and rims, yellowish scabs showing former water levels, like the annual growth rings on timber. Ella thought it was salt, encrusted salt tracing the course of her dehydration. No, said Thomas, it was calcium, the calcium in the water leaving a deposit. A strange idea. The wet flannel on her mouth was drying, she was breathing more calmly now, dry air paralysed her. Her eighteenth birthday was approaching. If anyone came into her room these days, said something, asked a question, she simply lay there flat on the floor under her bed in silence. Her eyes were sometimes closed, but she was not asleep. What she missed most, now that she had stopped sleeping, were dreams. Someone came into the room.

It’s me, said Thomas. He lay down on the floor so that his face was level with her, and pushed a glass of water under the bed towards her.

Ella drank. It wasn’t easy; she could hardly raise her head, only tilt the glass and put it near her lips.

Coming for a bike ride with me?

Ella shook her head. The blue elephants are out there, and I don’t want anything to do with them.

I’ll shoo them away.

If she’d had the strength for it, Ella would have laughed. As it was, she just said: If only you could.

Thomas thought. Tell me about the mountain when our father came up it, with his bike and his easel. He had a bike, didn’t he? Wasn’t our father glad to see you? Didn’t he pick you up and hug you, you were his little doll, weren’t you?

What?

Go on, tell the story again. Thomas turned on his side, one arm under his head, and looked expectantly at her.

When our father came back I was in the way.

Nonsense, you were his little doll, he picked you up.

Only when he left.

No, when he arrived.

Ella shook her head. She didn’t remember much, but she did remember that she had lied. For herself and for Thomas. She had said their father tossed her up in the air. But that was nothing but her made-up picture; she saw a man tossing a little girl up in the air. So it couldn’t be true. If it had been her, she wouldn’t see the little girl in her memory, she would feel the dizziness of being whirled around, she would remember her father’s arms. But there was no such memory. Only a physical memory of being in the way. Her body, what Ella was and would be, was in the way. I was in their way. There were little mauve flowers where I was sitting, the meadow was full of cranesbill. They wouldn’t let me into the house. They locked the door on the inside. I can still hear myself screaming: I want to come in. And I’m shaking the door, and I know it will never open again. Like in the fairy tale. A door that will stay shut for ever. It will be overgrown by plants, one day it will be invisible. One day no one will ever find any trace of that door. So I scream as loud as I can: I want to come in too. Let me in. I want to be with you. I cried as loudly as I could.

What about me?

You were happily waving your legs in the air under the tree, that’s where she put you to sleep in the daytime, in the handcart under the walnut tree. Later you screamed too. And I went over to the handcart and pinched your hand to make you stop.

Do it again. Thomas reached his hand out to her. Pinch me again.

I can’t, I don’t have any feeling in my hands. I don’t think I can move them any more.

Stop making things up, Ella. Thomas withdrew his hand and lay on his front, propping his head in his hands. Stop it, please! You drank out of that glass just now. Maybe Thomas thought he could outwit her.

Just now, yes.

And not now, this minute? Thomas waited for a while, probably hoping for Ella to answer. But she didn’t, and he got up and left the room.

She couldn’t even think of sleeping. It was cold under the bed. It was dark when Ella stole down the corridor to the bathroom. There she turned on the geyser and waited until the water was hot. She lit a candle so as not to attract attention in the middle of the night; it might wake other people up. The candle stood firmly on the floor, fixed to the tiles with drops of hot wax. The taps crunched as she turned the cold one off, the hot one on. The white stream of water poured into the tub. Steam rose, the air was so cold, the water so hot. When Ella climbed in, the soles of her feet burned, her calves burned, all her skin burned. Gooseflesh without a feather coat to cover it.

Ella lay in the tub, the nape of her neck against the rim, which was still cool. She felt dizzy. There was a rattling at the door. It must be her imagination. No one went rattling at any old door in the middle of the night, it might wake other people up. Ella said nothing, and held her breath. But no one else woke up, and while the rattling of the door went on Ella saw, by the light of the candle, how the bolt was lifting bit by bit away from the door frame. Until the door sprang open. The lodger fell on his knees. Looking up, he saw Ella lying there naked in front of him. He kicked the door until it latched. Still on his knees, he approached the bathtub. Hey, look at that, a nymph. I knew it!

That made Ella giggle. Numph, he said, sounding as if he had a hot potato in his mouth as he turned his exotic word over on his tongue, which was already hanging out of his mouth. Ella hoped her dizziness wouldn’t overpower her. You’re insane, sick.

We still decide who’s sick around here, he said, putting one hand in Ella’s bathwater. Ella didn’t move. Nausea paralysed her.

Have you made up your mind? The lodger put his hand on Ella’s breast. They’re putting pressure on me. You’re going to cooperate, aren’t you? You want peace, you love your country?

Ella didn’t take in what she was hearing and didn’t believe what she saw. It was as if the lodger were taking the candle in his hand, putting it into the water, extinguishing the flame against her body.

Ella turned in the bathtub, until she couldn’t see anything. It was nice and quiet underwater. She felt something strange against her body, her hands, fingers, limbs. Was he pushing her into the water, extinguishing himself on her body? Darkness and cold. Something pushed into her and tore at her until silence came.

Then glaring light, only for a moment, she kept her eyes tight closed. Something was pulling at her, she was being raised and held tight and pushed underwater, but she knew nothing about it, and trusted the dizziness that made everything go dark.

A cold sheet. The yielding mattress made her backbone soft. Ella sat up; there was a light on the bedside table, there was twilight on the other side of the curtains, either morning or evening twilight, the door was ajar. Käthe appeared.

At last. She went up to the bed and put her hand to Ella’s forehead. We thought you were never going to come round. How long ago was it since Käthe last stroked her hair? What were you thinking of, having a bath in the middle of the night? Ella had seldom heard love in this woman’s voice.

Ella bowed her head.

Did you go to sleep?

Ella looked at Käthe in astonishment. Did I do that? She smiled, she’d been trying to sleep for weeks. Was she supposed to have fallen asleep in the tub? What about the lodger?

You can be grateful to him for finding you. But for him you’d have drowned.

And I didn’t?

He revived you.

He. . what?

He pulled you out of the tub, revived you and then called me. Käthe looked tired.

Ella didn’t know what to say. Her body knew that she had not been dreaming, had not fallen asleep, it hurt and burned down where he had been.

You must get better now, sleep a bit. And then, before Monday, we must talk. You have to go back to school. This can’t go on.

Ella nodded, the sheet was clammy with sweat, someone had put a hot-water bottle and several hot stones in the bed to warm her up and make her sweat. Sweat was clinging to her forehead, running down her temples.

Come on, I’ll help you. You need a dry nightdress. Käthe went over to the wardrobe and took a nightdress out. She went over to Ella’s bed and pulled at the clammy fabric. Raise your arms, it won’t work unless you do. Ella tried to raise her arms, but they were too heavy.

Ella. How long was it since Käthe had spoken her name.

Your voice is as soft as whipped cream, Mami, I love your voice.

Now, raise your arms in the air. Impatiently, Käthe tugged at Ella’s nightdress. You’re not a baby. She said ‘baby’ in a stilted voice, contemptuously, as if she were quoting her American brother and his wife. Affection made her uneasy. Maybe she just didn’t have the patience for love. Ella raised her arms in the air, lost her balance, and while Käthe was still pulling the nightdress off Ella tipped over backwards on the pillows.

Aren’t you eating anything? You’re nothing but skin and bones.

With some difficulty, Käthe got the dry nightdress over her head, turned and lifted her from the mattress, pulled it down over her torso. At last her head lay still again, no more dizziness, no cold, only the burning between her legs and the miserable dryness.

Mami, my dear, dear little Mami. Ella whispered it like a magic spell to make Käthe sit down again and stroke her hair, oh Mami-Mami-Mami dear. But Käthe didn’t sit down and wasn’t doing any more stroking. The first shock had given way to a sense of relief that probably struck Käthe as useless, and had been quick to go away again.

Stop calling me Mami. I’m Käthe. And you’re not a baby. Baby and Mami sounded just like each other as she spoke them now; apparently both were words of horror. Yuk, thought Ella, the word was on the tip of her tongue, yucky, but she wouldn’t say, couldn’t say a thing like that. Käthe dear, oh my dear, dear little Käthe. Ella closed her eyes. She wouldn’t be sleeping. She felt her heartbeat flutter in her eyelids. Ella heard Käthe switch off the bedside lamp and leave her room.

During the next few days Ella listened intently, she kept a keen eye on the bowls of water. She took up her position under the bed. Every hour she crawled out and inspected the bowls, reassuring herself, she went from container to container, topping them up with water from the big enamel jug where necessary, doing her rounds. Before going to the bathroom to fill the jug she listened intently, to make sure of not meeting anyone. Not the lodger, not anyone else either. She just wanted it all to be quiet.

At night she waited for morning twilight, which was late coming in February. In spite of all the containers of water she was drying up, her rough skin was scaly, the corners of her mouth burned, they were so brittle and sore, and so did her eyes. One morning Ella couldn’t stand the itching any longer, the nightdress felt scratchy and hurt her. She had to undress and lie down naked under her bed.

Small feet pattered past the bed, red and blue socks, two voices, or was it only one? The voices were just like each other. They were sliding over the floor on their knees, splashing the water in the bowls with their hands. Whee! They were kicking their feet and shouting with glee. Strange children, the twins whose names Ella had forgotten.

What are you doing there? One of the girls put her head under the bed and reached her finger out to Ella. Ella bit it. Ow!

The other girl looked under the bed. What are you doing there?

What are you two doing here?

We’re visiting.

Visiting. It’s carnival time, it’s the holidays.

I’m an Egyptian, said one of the girls She didn’t look like an Egyptian.

And I’m a duck, said the other, sitting down, fully clothed, in the biggest of the containers, an enamel washtub. She wiggled her arms and legs, water slopped out on the floor. One of the twins quacked, and the other, who was tired of being an Egyptian and wanted to be a swan, cackled. They were splashing in competition.

It would have been a relief to Ella if they had put the light out. Please switch the light off, said Ella, but no one heard her. Maybe she had just imagined saying it? Perhaps she was asleep and dreaming, talking, but no one would hear her because no sound came out of her throat? The twins’ screeching was loud, the water was splashing close to her ear.

What a performance! The indignant voice would have suited hard hooves. The door was flung open. What’s all this supposed to be? Someone pulled at one twin to get her out of the big tub. Who said you could play with water here?

It wasn’t us, said the twins in chorus.

Ella!

Ella didn’t answer. She heard whispering, the giggling twins gave her away, they got down on their knees and pointed under the bed. Even before Ella could bite, they shrieked: Ow! The woman with the hard hooves shooed them out of the room with the help of a broom. Get out, go on, out you go! At first the children thought it was a game, they sat on the broom, wanted to be swept away, squealing with delight. It took force and stern orders to stop them. Get out of here or you’ll be sorry! Scratching, biting, kicking. The girls were forcibly dragged to the door and pushed out. Their howls were like puppies yapping. Agotto barked outside, the door was finally closed. A gloomy silence; the hard hooves were coming soundlessly closer.

A woman’s hairy face appeared under the bed. Ella recognised it from the eyes.

Mami, whispered Ella through her brittle lips, my big strong Mami! She put out her arms to the face, but the face flinched back and disappeared, leaving only a pair of calves above Mongolian shoes in sight.

Come out from under there. Come on out, do you hear me?

Ella didn’t move; when no one could hear her she couldn’t hear anyone, and she didn’t think of anyone. The light went out, dark-ness settled, the light of the street lamps fell in from outside, Ella recognised the outlines of the windows on the floor, and the containers. She couldn’t sleep, she slept less and less, and for a shorter and shorter time. But she wasn’t awake now either. Her thinking didn’t obey her, she begged her memory please not to leave her. Time passed. She could watch herself from outside. Two faces appeared, four arms that took hold of her and put something on her. You’re not going out into the street naked, said Käthe, helping the girl into her coat. She was so weak that it took Käthe some time and trouble to get the sleeves of the coat over her clothes. Come on, help me, Käthe told the girl.

Ooooh — it sounded like a fluttering breath. Ella’s knees gave way, Käthe’s arm held her up more firmly. Mami dear, my little Mami, I’m so sorry. Ella laid her cheek against Käthe’s, but Käthe straightened her head, her face was firm and her eyes wide with worry. Mooo, groaned Ella, pushing her forehead against Käthe’s throat, mooo.

Stop that, please, Ella. Käthe showed the man the bag she had packed for the girl, and he heaved it into the car. Then Käthe was going to hand the girl over to him, but she was clinging tenaciously to Käthe herself.

Mooo, and she let her soft throat bend, her head sink down on Käthe’s large, soft bosom. Oh, look at your cow eyes, Mami dear, let me be your little calf.

We’re taking you to a good place, said Käthe, a place where you can rest.