Bone and Blood

  Bone and Blood

  A Berlin Novel

  Margo Gorman

  Copyright © 2014 Margo Gorman

  The moral right of the author has been asserted.

  Apart from any fair dealing for the purposes of research or private study,

  or criticism or review, as permitted under the Copyright, Designs and Patents

  Act 1988, this publication may only be reproduced, stored or transmitted, in

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  Matador®

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  Email: books@troubador.co.uk

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  Author Website: www.margogorman.com

  ISBN 978 1784627 072

  British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data.

  A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  Cover Design by Heike Theile

  Patrice lyrics from Nile Album ©Patrice

  Matador® is an imprint of Troubador Publishing Ltd

  Converted to eBook by EasyEPUB

  Contents

  Cover

  Medieval English lyric

  Chapter One – That Place

  Chapter Two – Snow in August

  Chapter Three – Dublin Discussion

  Chapter Four – Shades of Ireland

  Chapter Five – Gran

  Chapter Six – God Demands A Holocaust

  Chapter Seven – Berlin

  Chapter Eight – Funeral Parlour

  Chapter Nine – Left to Jules

  Chapter Ten – Past and Present

  Chapter Eleven – War years

  Chapter Twelve – Ferienlager

  Chapter Thirteen – Patrice at the Postbahnhof

  Chapter Fourteen – Letters

  Chapter Fifteen – Torn to Pieces

  Chapter Sixteen – Rituals

  Chapter Seventeen – Escape

  Chapter Eighteen – Liberation

  Chapter Nineteen – Post War Letters

  Chapter Twenty – Arrest

  Chapter Twenty-One – Alter St.-Matthäus –Kirchhof

  Chapter Twenty-Two – Funeral and Beer

  Chapter Twenty-Three – A Promise

  Chapter Twenty-Four – Loyalty

  Acknowledgements

  Acknowlegement to Memory and Memorials

  Medieval English lyric

  Fowles in the Frith

  The fisshes in the flood

  And I mon waxe wood

  Much Sorwe I walke with

  For best of boon and blood

  *

  Birds in the forest

  Fish in the river

  And I must go mad

  Much sorrow I walk with

  For best of bone and blood

  Chapter One – That Place

  Hard to tell. Hard not to tell. Now it’s too late. I didn’t want to burden you with such a story, Katharina. I didn’t want understanding, pity or disgust from anyone then. I don’t want it now. But I wanted you one day to have the letters I never posted to Mary, I wanted you to have Anna’s enamel can. Am I just a selfish old woman? Wanting to speak to you from my grave? Brigitte looked around. Did I speak aloud or in my head? These days I can’t always tell. The voile curtain waltzed closer and swept away again. Ghosting memories of the dead Katharina waiting to be buried. Ghosting memories of the stiff corpse of Anna in the camp so long ago.

  The sound of the tram promised to take Brigitte for Kaffee und Kuchen– the steamy music of Coffee and Cake in her head. She should have asked Yola to close the window – up, down, over – the handle with so many variations and Brigitte could manage none of them. Nothing. Nix. Katharina was as proud of it as if she had made it herself. She loved to pull back the curtains and open both windows fully.

  ‘It’s like having a balcony without having to move from the room,’ she would say every time, ‘You need more fresh air, Mama.’ And what good was fresh air now? What good did all the wandering in the Wald do her now?

  Brigitte groped on the table beside her. Her hand was surprised to touch softness. She turned too quickly and the pain shot up her leg to her spine. She shifted slightly to escape some of it. Ach so, it was the leather pouch of her mother’s rosary beads – resurrected from a dusty drawer the day Katharina told her. They gave her an excuse at least to sit and mutter to herself. But not now. She checked her bar of chocolate was there – milk, not her usual bar of black chocolate melting memories of bitter cold. Not many Irish people liked it. Surprised when she brought them dark chocolate, reminding her of the ways she had grown away from who she had been. Milk chocolate to-day because she wanted to have some to offer Peggy’s son – if he came. The packet of Taschentücher was in its place. What do you call them now in English: you don’t call the paper ones handkerchiefs do you? So many words escaped her grasp these days. But she wasn’t afraid of losing her memory. She wished for it. She craved and feared the blank depths.

  She wanted familiar fears like the fear of Katharina crinkling her forehead in frustration. The fly spray was also in reach on the table.

  ‘Mama, must you spray that poison? Think what you’re doing to the air you breathe, not to mention the ozone layer.’

  She loved the way her daughter spoke English, an accent like none other: not German, not foreign, but not Irish either. Brigitte ignored her words. She hated flies more than death itself. She hated them because they could always find food. The more death there was, the more they swarmed. Katharina knew nothing about flies. She saw only a single fly or a few small summer flies rise up from the rubbish. Brigitte knew the fly spray was a weapon against the death and decay you couldn’t see but the flies could always find. Sweeping heaps of them from under the cupboards and beds on her free day. The child crawled around with her – using her bottom shuffle to propel her forward. Quicker than a crawl. Chuckling at mama. She made it a game for the child and prayed she would grow up remembering the chuckle but fearful she wouldn’t. Anna was forgotten then so why did her ghost come back now?

  The sweet relief when your worst fear took over. Release. The other night when she woke too late to regain control of the warm wet flow. Relief. It was almost worth it even though she had to strip the bed herself, wash and dry the mattress before Yola came. She laughed then and now again with the memory – the hairdryer had never been used for her hair but had come in useful after all. They said it was your short-term memory went first and early memories could come back. Early memories would be all right but those memories of numb horror must stay in their place. She wanted those letters buried now, or burnt. Better if it could be both. Who to ask? Not Monika. Cremation she said. What about Anna’s enamel can for the ashes? She couldn’t ask. Not Monika.

  She touched the small frame of the photo of her daughter’s face; the only photo Katharina would allow to be on display, because it was so small. She wasn’t even smiling; but she was there and Brigitte smiled at her. The remote control for the TV was in its place too although she didn’t watch the news these days. And her glass of water – the blue sunshine water of Greece shining through from the Untertasse. Under-cup not saucer. But there is an English word; Katharina told her. The blue Greek sea held the word for her.

  ‘They call them coasters in English but maybe it’s an American word. Do you
like them? I’ll buy them for you.’

  ‘No I don’t want them.’

  ‘Don’t want them or don’t like them?’

  ‘I like them but I don’t need them.’

  Katharina was frustrated with her. ‘I’ll buy them for you as a memento. You never buy anything for yourself.’ Brigitte let her buy them to bring back the smiles and the walk down the hillside smelling of wild oregano, thyme and rosemary. She didn’t say, ‘I prefer the others.’ Let Katharina choose.

  Her tablet box was there too – filled carefully every Sunday. She preferred to do it herself. She touched the hard leather of her wallet beside it. Well it was a cross between a handbag and a wallet – big enough for her important papers and the money she needed to give to Yola and with a wrist strap so it was easy to carry if she needed to use the stick. The bag was another gift. Not a gift – a cast-off.

  ‘I don’t use it anymore, Mama. It would be better for you than your handbag.’

  True enough, it was handy for her when she took the shopping trolley. On the days when she went shopping alone. Not now.

  ‘Why do you have to have a hand bag with you all day when you’re inside? And with so much stuff in it. I gave you a small one so it would be light. Now you fill it full. Most of what’s in it you could put in the bureau. No one’s going to steal anything from you here. Yola will think you don’t trust her.’

  Her movements brought Yola from the kitchen. Brigitte was distracted by the face of her old friend, Mary, glimpsed through Yola’s curious compassion. How good to see you, Mary. Leitrim half-lilt. Half-tilt with the hills of Donegal and Ben Bulben brooding over them. Sharing the years of knowing nothing. Eighty-one was too young for Mary. She would have liked to go to send her off but she couldn’t face Ireland again. A wake with the constant flow of neighbours, tea, sandwiches and sympathy. No wake here for an only daughter. Monika knew nothing of wakes

  Waiting. She hated it because it brought her back to hell. Silence is better than making a story of it. Better than Anna’s voice in her head coming back after all these years. ‘Guck mal!’ The children said it. Look! They laughed when Brigitte mixed up the words Kuchen and kochen. Looking and cooking. ‘Guck nicht hoch!’ Anna said and pushed her head down. Others strained above her head at the window of the block. She could not move. Could not see .

  ‘Eine Frau?’ Anna had said then. Horror snapped the door shut.She muttered, ‘Nicht unser Fleisch und Blut’: Not our flesh and blood. Did ‘Fleisch und Blut’ mean the same for them as for us? Blood was for relatives so not me for sure. Not even German and certainly no witness to Jehovah. My guardian Anna must have forgotten my foreignness in the moment of the story. The whisper passed through her in the hours following. Surely misunderstood. Not possible. Even a group in anger could not do such a thing. In her block when one was caught for breaking some rule and everyone was punished, they suffered together: there was no attempt to put blame on the one.

  Anna talked with her taut body – willing me to see the sight as a warning. Desperate eyes reflected in the raw damp mirror image. Some patches of skin on my own hands amidst the raw flesh. Wishing for more callouses. But no blood on our hands. So little flesh on the bones. No flesh and blood. Not mine. She shut her eyes then. Fear of the people who created the Lager; fear of the dead woman; fear of the guards who stood by and let them do the work and condemned them all as animals. They could whip them as animals and go to Mass on Sunday. Anna told her the story of “Die Arme” later in breathless whispers. Anna spoke simple clear German. The problem was not the words. There are no words for telling such a story. Shut your eyes and shut your mouth.

  In the Lager, she had vowed she never wanted to see her own flesh and blood again. No leakage of horror to her family. The dream of Berlin would hold her always. Not enough courage to take her life or the unborn life. Another unkept promise to herself. She touched the bag with the store of tablets. Now she would be sure. At least she would die in one piece. More bone than flesh. More bone than blood. She would bury those memories with Katharina.

  Her daughter put bone back into a bloody handful of life. She loved the child so much it hurt.

  ‘Why don’t you visit Ireland?’ Katharina would ask, her broad brow holding her logical mind.

  Why don’t you? Brigitte would not ask later. Why this? Why that? Rather why than how. ‘How was Ireland? How was the camp? How was the war?’

  ‘Mama, why do you punish yourself? What for?’

  Brigitte would breathe again the despair in the air. Ducking and diving in the words to keep the conversation alive. ‘I wonder why the word for “Lager” in English is “concentration camp”. I thought concentration was paying attention.’

  Long ago in the dictionary days, games of kniffel, board games and laughter. Long before she met Monika – the Jules who captivated her. Days of long hair and songs against war, against America. Her hair hanging down as she leant over the book.

  ‘Oh now I see the link. It can mean bringing power, troops or prisoners together in one point, not just the power of attention.’ Katharina studied and the more she studied the angrier she became. ‘Tell me, what did happen in those days? Tell me, Mama. It’ll help you. It’ll help us.’

  How could telling help? Comfort now in the confirmation of despair.

  ‘Are you awake, Brigitte?’ Mary would have said Biddy. No-one called her the old name here. Sometimes she felt like Bridget but Bridget was young and Irish. Brigitte is someone different, a German mother, an old woman. She had to put up with Yola because Yola needed money and Katharina paid her. Sometimes she had the voice of a Blockova. Once she said the word aloud and Katharina flicked it back to her sharply, ‘What’s a Blockova? That’s a Polish word isn’t it? Where did you learn Polish?’‘I don’t know the English word for it. Why do I need a word for somebody who does not exist in English? In German they were called Blockälteste,’ she answered with an answer that was no answer at all.

  Katharina cut a fine slice of cheese carefully, controlling her exasperation at the point of the knife. ‘Oh I remember that word all right. You and your riddles and misinformation. You told me once ‘Blockälteste’ meant matron. I made a fool of myself in school with that English teacher. I’ll always see her look of pity. It wasn’t your lack of German. You and your half-telling.’

  ‘There are things they don’t teach you in school.’

  Matron – someone who cared for people, looked after them. She could not explain how the distortion of everything, even the words in your mouth and the thoughts in your head, were their greatest victories. Postponement had saved her but for what had it saved her? To sit here now with a blockova all to herself? She had succeeded for so many years to keep the Blockälteste’s face buried. Was it Yola who resurrected those times? Was it the white face of Katharina when she carried the news of her illness? The desire to sink her head again into the smell of stale human flesh. ‘Why am I here? I’d be better dead.’

  These days dawn sneaked in wearing Anna’s face and whispered Anna’s explanations. The rat-scratches of sound were a counterpoint to the blaring of Appell. The blockova would offer her bread and sausage again but this time she would refuse. She would say no. No to the pure light of day offering hope; no to the dusky grappling behind the block; no to the slab of musty bread from inside the breast of a jacket; no to the queue for the watery turnip soup; no to the wake-up call: No Appell.

  She must wait until the time was right. She would save some of the tranquillisers and sleeping tablets they gave her now. She would have to find out how many she would need. There must be no mistake. She wished now for the comfort of her own mother. There were so many mothers then. When she presented the tiny stiff bodies with the old man’s face to the mothers, did it bring back for them the time of conception? She had wished for marriage and children for Katharina. With grandchildren she could bury it forever. The burden would be easier for them to cast off. Young people look to the future. Grandchildren would turn the world over
again. Some-one to defend her against the memories. To hold in her arms a child who was born in a world without war. Not this world then because there is always war.

  If only Katharina had not met that Jules. Unnatural life. Monika looked so German. And Monika’s father, what did he do in those times? Too late to ask or even wonder.

  She’d rung Irma, who had offered to come for the funeral. Brigitte insisted no. It would be too much for her – all the way from Vienna to Berlin after her operation. But to hear her voice was something. Irma was lucky – she had grandchildren. In the days of memorials after the wall came down, she came back to Berlin and visited Brigitte on the way. They talked not of those times but about her grandchildren and now Irma sent their photographs every year on the 8th May if she did not come herself. No grandchildren for Brigitte. Would grandchildren be a comfort at this time?

  Chapter Two – Snow in August

  Aisling reached out to shuffle forward the music searching for something to put her feet on the floor. Sharon Shannon pulled her back and forward with memories of Dad buying her complicit beer. Bitter enough to the tongue but delight in her throat at the sharing. Her brother, Michael, and Mum hated the diddle-de-do of the accordion and screamed with mock pain at the “Man of Constant Sorrow”, but it brought her comfort and raised her to her feet to look in the mirror.