But the staring didn’t bother him.
It was exciting, though, to hear the stories he told while he snapped away. He knew exactly what was at stake in those peace talks. What the Swedes were determined to keep, what the French wanted to get their hands on, and how even back then the Bavarians and the Saxons thought they could outfox the rest. Also that the focus of the war had shifted from religion to grabbing and holding territory. Which was why the small island where Camilla was born, and also Greifswald, where she later went to school and learned to play the organ, passed into Swedish hands for a long time. When people ask her where she’s from, Camilla still tells them sometimes, From Swedish Lower Pomerania.
That same period gave birth to the song Taddel’s father always sang when you spent the summer with us, Lena, on the island of Møn and couldn’t get to sleep at night. Actually it wasn’t a lullaby. It began with Fly, May bug, fly, and ended with Pomerania’s all burned down. In the middle was something really grisly: Pray, little one, pray, the Swedes will be here next day …
And it went on, They’ll pull out your legs and arms and all, set fire to your house and stall.
Come on, Lena, sing it for us! I know you love to sing.
Only if the rest of you sing along …
One, two, three: Fly, May bug, fly, your father’s gone to war …
But then all those photos your father took with Paulchen’s help—of the parking lot and later the town, where there was a pilgrimage chapel with a Madonna who could cure certain illnesses—were developed in Mariechen’s darkroom, and she used a trick that none of us …
No one ever got to see them, not even Camilla.
Your father merely commented, They turned out quite well; some of them were blurry.
But according to him, the Brückenhof came out nice and sharp. You could see how many outbuildings it had and that the hostel and the barns with their thatched roofs showed no signs of war damage.
He actually boasted of his skill as a photographer: Believe me, children! In one of the shots by the entrance to the hostel you can make out a person standing, a little fuzzy but recognizable. I’m sure it’s the Brückenhof’s innkeeper, a certain Libuschka, known far and wide as Courage.
And then he hinted at portrait photos he’d allegedly captured at the mill and in the Telgte chapel: On the bank of the Ems I got shots of a certain Greflinger and someone called Stoffel, who later became famous, and in the Chapel of Grace I have a young poet called Scheffler, kneeling and crossing himself.
But he didn’t say any of that till we got to the Danish island where we spent summers, where Camilla was happy because your father was always in a good mood and the weather was usually lovely.
The old man never went farther with us than across the meadow to the beach; he wanted to get back to his Olivetti …
… and typing kept him in a good mood.
Whenever we went to Møn for the holidays, little Lena joined us. You were so sweet …
… but sometimes you got on my nerves with your theatrics.
Well, that’s how I was. As they say, practice makes perfect. If little Nana had been there, though, I’m sure I’d have been much less theatrical. But at the time I didn’t know she existed.
Too bad you didn’t come along, Taddel …
… and all because the governor’s house, which Camilla rented, so called only because it was actually a cowherd’s cottage with no running water and no electricity, had only kerosene lamps and candles.
We didn’t mind …
… and in the evening it was really cosy.
But not good enough for Taddel; he wanted his creature comforts.
It’s like the Soviet Occupation Zone, you said.
I, on the other hand, loved being on that island, even though I often cried because I missed Mieke and Rieke, my big sisters. In the beginning, when I was little, my papa would pick me up in Berlin. Later, after I started school, I took the train all by myself through East Germany to Warnemünde, then the ferry across the Baltic and the Danish railway to Vordingborg, where my papa and Camilla picked me up. I could have brought little Nana with me if my little sister hadn’t been kept the family secret. No, no question of that. You boys treated me extremely well, even if I sometimes totally got on your nerves, according to Paulchen. Before going to sleep, Jasper and I would tell each other jokes. I loved jokes from the time I was small. Oh, yes. We took lots of walks, across the pasture to the beach, where I made my papa happy by singing a song in Low German that I’d learned in school: Kum tau mi, kum tau mi, ick bün so alleen … Or we went through the woods that started right behind the house and seemed like a real jungle to me. I was scared, and kept tripping over tree roots and falling down, which made me cry. Can we do without the drama? Jasper would shout …
Even then you could recite whole poems by heart, which none of the rest of us could do …
It was on the island, in that cowherd’s cottage, which to me was like a fairy-tale house, that I got to know old Mariechen better. Up to that time I’d seen her only now and then, when my papa was allowed to pick me up twice a week from my mama’s. In his studio I had to play with buttons that he’d borrowed from Pat; as you know, he was anything but a normal play-father.
That’s not quite true, Lena. It was me, your beloved brother Taddel, who got those buttons for you.
Does it matter? At any rate, while I was playing with the buttons, old Mariechen, who struck me as rather mysterious, photographed me several times with her equally mysterious box, whispering, Make a wish, little mouse, make a wish. Unfortunately I no longer remember what I wished for. Maybe—no, certainly—it was that my father would spend more time … Oh, well. But when she visited us for several days on the island, she had that mysterious box with her—Jasper and Paulchen told me all sorts of miraculous and terrifying things about it. You remember, Jasper, the time we all walked with Mariechen across the heath to the rampart, as my papa called that long encircling wall?
Exactly. And the old man dished up the story he always kept in reserve for when he took his and Camilla’s guests to the rampart. Supposedly he’d heard this story from Bagge, the teacher who rented us the house. He always began with a history lecture, because in eighteen-hundred-something, when Napoleon ruled over most of Europe and the English had bombarded Copenhagen with rockets and set it ablaze, an English corvette—or was it a frigate?—turned up by our island, in the channel that led through the sound to Stege, possibly intending to fire rockets into that town as well. But the peasants of Møn quickly drummed together a militia, about fifty men with a captain at their head, who was actually a nobleman and landowner. The men went to work with their shovels and in one night constructed an earth berm, and in the middle of the enclosure they made a mound, where they set up the only cannon they had on the island. Yes indeed, they’re supposed to have accomplished all that in one night. And the next morning they fired that cannon whenever the wind favoured the corvette, and it tried to set a course along the channel towards Stege. Naturally the corvette—or was it a frigate?—pounded away. Day after day, for almost a week. But then, on a Saturday, the Danish captain of the island militia sent out a rowboat flying a white flag, with three men on board, among them the owner of a large farm in Udby. The boat approached the frigate, and the farm owner negotiated for I don’t know how long with the English captain, because the following day, which was a Sunday, his daughter was supposed to marry the son from another large farm in Keldby. He explained that for a day the Danish militia couldn’t fire on the corvette because all the men were invited to the wedding. So he wanted first to propose a short-term truce to the English captain, and second to invite him and three of his officers to attend the wedding as guests of honour. The following Monday, the farmer said, the shelling could resume. After conferring briefly, the English found this proposal acceptable. And that’s what’s supposed to have happened. Right after the wedding, at which we can assume there was plenty of carousing and slobbering of cream pie, the
cannon fire resumed. It continued until the English warship simply turned round and headed back towards Zeeland under full sail, either because it couldn’t get through to Stege or because it was running out of munitions. The rampart still exists, as does the mound in the middle where the cannon stood, though in the meantime the moat’s been overgrown with weeds and brush. But Lena, you didn’t want to believe the story your papa told us, did you? You kept exclaiming, That can’t be, you’re lying again. Right, Paulchen?
How can you expect her to remember? She was much younger than us.
But I’m sure Lena remembers Frau Türk and her refreshment stand on the beach, where she bought little bags of liquorice drops and liquorice twists for her sisters, Mieke and Rieke.
No way. Or only vaguely. But I suppose it really was that way, because my papa often told crazy stories like that, especially to help us get to sleep after Camilla, who was always very good to me, had rubbed our backs. But I imagine you had the same reaction to the stuff he made up, Lara. And little Nana, too, when her papa visited her at her mama’s, which was far too seldom for her taste, and sat by her bed before she went to sleep. Just a pack of lies. Though some of them were delightful to listen to, weren’t they, Lara? But old Mariechen, who went to the rampart with us, used her box, which I found so mysterious, to take who knows how many photos of the rampart and the expanse of water beyond it, which at times was dark blue and at times gleaming silver. She bent forward and took the picture backwards, between her legs.
Three rolls of film for sure.
Father could never get enough pictures.
Later, when it was time for me to go back to school, she showed some of those little pictures to me, only to me. Taddel won’t believe it, and Jasper probably won’t either, but you could see that this time my papa hadn’t made up the story. The picture showed a crowd of Møn peasants, certainly more than fifty, standing in comical uniforms behind the rampart and the cannon. You could even see the ship in the distance, with two masts and lots of sails and puffs of white smoke obscuring the ship’s belly, because it kept pounding away, Jasper said. There were pictures of the wedding, of course, with all the guests dancing in a barn, and the English officers joining in, the captain dancing with the bride. It must have been hilarious. Laughing faces all around. Only the bridegroom looked serious, unable to laugh for some reason. Mariechen also showed me a portrait photo of the captain of the Danish militia. In spite of his enormous tricorn hat, he bore a striking resemblance to Bagge, the teacher from whom my papa was supposed to have heard this story about the rampart, which was apparently true. Since then I’ve almost always managed to believe my father’s stories, even when I had to say to myself, Typical, there he goes, lying again.
Just as we, sitting here talking and talking, can’t be sure what he’s going to talk us into next—and what will come of it in the end.
It could turn out quite embarrassing.
But it might also be amusing.
Or make us sad.
Even if it’s only stories from long ago, when we were children and had all sorts of wishes.
Make a wish! Make a wish! But Mariechen’s box did more than fulfil wishes. When she was furious on your account, or the wind was blowing from the wrong direction, or something else was gnawing at her—war’s eternally regenerating beaver teeth—she would transport all of us back to the Stone Age for the space of two or three rolls of film—remember, Paulchen? Click, click, and already we were gone, slipping backwards in time, banished to the moors and fens …
You must have seen us in her darkroom, transformed into a small horde, the children, the mothers, and me crouching around a fire, wrapped in animal skins and chewing on roots, gnawing on bones. A shaggy assembly, with cudgels and stone axes always within reach, so that later, on the last roll of film, when there was no end to the hunger, you eyed your old father, just hanging around, useless, babbling his tales.
Or you saw that she transplanted all of you, but finally only Taddel and Jasper, both of whom refused to believe in her box, into the darkest Middle Ages, condemning you to child labour on a treadmill. Spoiled brats! she hissed, and snapped picture after picture of you, chained to the treadmill day in, day out, quivering under lashes. But even Paulchen does not want to speak of that, although she let him watch as she developed the pictures, a favour never granted to me, although otherwise she provided everything I wished for.
Snapshots
THE YOUNGEST OF the eight children is about to have her turn. Finally, Lena says to Nana, who has hastily invited all the siblings to her rather small room, located in a commune in Hamburg’s St Pauli district. After listening patiently, Nana will now have a chance to speak. She has had to borrow some chairs, as well as plates and glasses.
Since they have all come, it is somewhat cramped round the table, where bowls of vegetarian fare have been set out: chickpeas mashed with oil, a smooth mush of eggplant seasoned with herbs, grape leaves stuffed with rice, endive leaves for scooping up the mash and the mush, olives, and Turkish pita bread. There is cloudy apple cider to drink. In the midst of all that, next to cut flowers in water glasses, are the technical sound devices the father has imposed on his son Jorsch.
It is drizzling outside, confirming everyone’s complaints about the summer as either quite or totally rainy. Nana is still hedging, does not want to be the first to let it all hang out, as Lena suggests. She begins rather breathlessly, speaking so fast that Taddel—or is it Jorsch?—feels impelled to suggest that she slow down. She talks about successful childbirths, mentioning in passing the pervasive stress in the hospital, where there is a shortage of nursing staff, as everywhere. Tales from a midwife’s daily routine, with only a casual allusion to a few short days off spent in Antwerp: Ah, we had such a lovely time there, the two of us.
Full of solicitude for her little sister—and before Pat and Jorsch can interrupt again or Jasper can start commenting on the vicissitudes of contemporary film-making—Lara, whom the rest all respect, comments, Actually you’re doing splendidly. Your Flemish boyfriend is obviously good for you. You seem so much more relaxed. Let’s hear your story now! Wonder of wonders, Nana clears her throat and begins.
As you know, theoretically I prefer to listen. I had no knowledge of all these things you’d experienced or been subjected to. Just as Lena had no idea I even existed till finally our papa couldn’t keep his secret any longer and said, when she was already twelve or thirteen and I’d just turned seven or eight: By the way, you have a sweet little sister—or something of the sort. I must say, it was rather late in the day for him to come out with it. Anyway, I grew up as an only child, though I knew I had many siblings, and on the rare occasions when I got to see you, you were all very nice to me, honest. But then Pat and Jorsch were off doing their apprenticeships, and Lara as well, because you wanted to be a potter, which appealed to me because I also liked to work with my hands … And Taddel, whom I hardly knew, had the pleasure of living out in the country, with Jasper and Paulchen, who weren’t actually my siblings, though theoretically the two of you also belonged in the family—as my papa always said, there wasn’t really any difference. I was the only one who didn’t. For the most part I was alone, but I secretly wished we could be a proper family, cuddly, I mean, especially when my father came for a short visit and mostly talked with my mother about books and book production, but also about forgotten or banned books and such, till I spoke up: Hey, I’m still here! But often the three of us would go out together, which was nice, to get ice cream or to buy something for me, which I didn’t want, because when I wished for something it was never clothes or toys, not even Barbies, but something else entirely, something you couldn’t buy. When I started school, at first I found it interesting to have such old parents who had a lot to say to each other, rather than young parents like my classmates’. Yet theoretically the two of them always told each other the same stories, as if they’d been together for ever and ever. Usually about people who also wrote books, or had written
books, or only wrote about other people’s books. Once, I recall, all three of us drove into East Berlin, with my mother at the wheel, and she secretly picked up something from someone. It was something forbidden that was supposed to be a success when it was turned into a book in the West. That was pretty exciting, because right after we crossed into the East we noticed someone tailing us, and he was there on the way back, too. It’s a spy, my papa said, who’s paid by his firm to follow us. But often we simply went to harmless places like amusement parks, with all kinds of booths and rides, because my papa adores such places. So we went to the biggest fair, the Franco-German folk festival in Tegel, where I took ride after ride with my papa on the flying swings. That was heavenly! We could never get enough. Round and around, soaring through the air. You know, he always loved the flying swings, and I did, too. My mother was petrified and refused to go with us. You couldn’t pay me to go on one of those, she said. And old Mariechen—whom I probably met for the first time when my papa brought her along to the folk festival, and who scared me a bit, just like you, Lena, because she always stood off to one side and watched—she didn’t want to ride on the flying swings either. Not for a million! she said. But then she snapped picture after picture of my papa and me with that photo box of hers, which my big sister Lara told me various miraculous and spooky things about, right, Lara? She caught us flying through the air, round and round, and both of us feeling so happy. Sometimes he was behind me, sometimes above me or below me, but sometimes next to me, so we could hold hands. Now and then we twirled round each other, to the left, then to the right, and I wasn’t afraid at all, because my papa was there and I had him all to myself. I was so happy! But the next time he came to visit and showed my mother and me the snapshots from the photo box, we were amazed. At first we didn’t want to believe what we were seeing: in all the snapshots my mother was flying along with us on the swings, round and round through the air, just what I’d always secretly wished for: the three of us as a proper family. He behind me, she in front of me, and me in the middle, and then the other way around. It looked so nice and cuddly, because we were so close and could hold hands. But my mother, who’d been laughing in all the snapshots, and had also screeched a little in fear, suddenly turned very serious and practical. She called the whole thing an optical illusion and clever distortion of reality. But then she had to laugh after all: That’s what comes of riding on the flying swings too much and never being satisfied. But even old Mariechen never breathed a word, I have no idea why, about my having a sister called Lena who was a few years older than me. And my mother dropped hints, but that was all. Later, much later, when old Mariechen wasn’t there any more, and I was fourteen or fifteen, and Lena and I knew each other much better—and now we’re real friends, aren’t we?—my papa took me to the Tiergarten, where we spent an hour going round and round in a rowboat. He let me row, and he talked, if I remember correctly, about the persecution of the Huguenots, about St Bartholomew’s Night, when so much blood was spilled, and all sorts of other terrible things. And then we went over to East Berlin, which was easy now that the Wall had fallen, and poked around Treptow Park, hunting for motifs, as he put it. What a fantastic time we had! You should have seen us: there was a sort of amusement park with booths and rides, and we took three rides in a row on the roller coaster, not only because my papa loved the roller coaster as much as the flying swings, but also because he needed this motif for a book. It was far from finished, but the main character would be an old man called Fonty who rode the roller coaster in the Tiergarten with his French granddaughter, and went rowing and such. And that’s why we went to Treptow Park, where he bought tickets for three rides in a row. But that roller coaster turned out to be creaky with age. It was left over from GDR times. It groaned and squealed so much as it went round corners that we thought it would give up the ghost any minute. At that point old Mariechen was already dead, but theoretically she would have been there if she hadn’t so inexplicably … Well, you know what I suspect. My papa said, Who knows what else our Mariechen would have seen with her box … He probably meant those things we most devoutly wish for, which sometimes come true, like that time on the flying swings when my mama, my papa, and I flew through the air.