Bone and Blood Read online

  Shaking inside again – she had forgotten the strange, shaking feeling bringing cold from inside, not just from ice of the shower jet alternating between a trickle and full blast. Shaking but making herself stand there still while skitter ran down the inside of her legs. She learnt German early from Anna. Durchfall easier to spell than Diarrhoea. Falling liquid brown. Nowadays, she put one of those big nappies on before going for her afternoon nap. No brown stain of fear on the sheet when she woke. Anna’s warning. Vorsicht! Careful to pick off the lice carrying disease. Anna– her Bibelki, who was best at finding and cracking every last louse. The cold shower night and morning was the best defence against the louse. Anna loved Brigitte’s hair. She delighted in spreading her fingers through the soft, woody-brown curls with chestnut lights. Kastanien – Licht. Every night she told her how lucky she was they had not shaved it off and insisted on checking every hair for lice.

  Often Brigitte would fall asleep before Anna was finished. It was hard to know if letting her keep her hair was an arbitrary choice because of the chaos of the camp or recognition of her red star status. Chaos of the times, because many of the politicals had shaved heads. Not a real red star, Anna was quick to realise. A country girl come to the city. Irish not English. Her hair was one small protection against the cold and the push towards a grovelling place on the ground waiting for everyone. One small protection against being one more of those human skeletons, who looked like apparitions not people.

  How so many vermin could thrive there amidst so much cold and death was a puzzle. She made him cut off half of it and plaited it into a scarf as a birthday present for Anna. Even when Anna’s body was stiff and naked on the death trolley, they left Brigitte’s hair around her neck mixing with long wisps of Anna’s. Shaking now. Not from cold. She would be more comfortable in bed.

  ‘Was I too young then?’ Not too young for death when so many died. This grand-daughter of Peggy’s who comes. What age is she? Years do not bring age as fast as war. There is no mercy in war – or death. Aisling – a sister of the boy from Peggy’s fine Dublin family. Tragic. Accidents can happen of course. Peggy described the wake. How tired she was on her feet all day, making coffee and finding vases for flowers in the house of her son where people called after the death. Did they have a wake at the house? Bringing the boy back to the old house and the undertaker coming there for him to bring him to Dublin. When Mammy was dying, Peggy had to look after this girl, Aisling. One more excuse for not being there to nurse Mammy.

  Brigitte was the only one who could go to look after their mother. Katharina living with Monika. No job. A pension. She was the one who could save their mother from the nursing home. They didn’t expect her to go of course. The arguments were marshalled ready for the nursing home – even Liam had agreed. They were grateful to her – grateful for the face-saving and postponing any dispute about the home place or about money to fund a nursing home.

  Her brothers and sisters avoided her eyes at her mother’s funeral. Did their gratitude put a new barrier between Brigitte and them? Maybe they saw the renewal of her fear of sliding down into the cesspit where your body loses control over its functions. Maybe it was their expectation of her speedy return to Berlin. They would rather fight about the old place and everyone would take sides on that – one pitched against the other – guarding their bitterness against death and decay.

  She wished Peggy would come now but she knew she wouldn’t. My own flesh and blood. Fleisch und Blut. Had she learnt nothing? In death there is no flesh and not a lot of blood. The blood comes before death. It is the bones that are stronger and our bones are all much the same. Bone torn from bone by other women. Or kicked to death? All suffering. All anti-socials. But someone to protect her from Monika’s sorrow – her face looking like death itself – and to protect her from Yola who cared more than any flesh and blood. Or cared only about Katharina’s money. Both and neither true.

  Chapter Seven – Berlin

  ‘Take a taxi from the airport,’ her mother said, pushing a 50-euro note into her hand when they said goodbye.

  No way, Aisling thought. She hated the way her mother treated her like a child sometimes. Since she was back living at home, it was as if she’d never left. She’d checked on the Internet and there was a train from the airport to Berlin. She got out in Alexanderplatz – she could see from the map that it was a central point for lots of different trains – S-Bahn, U-Bahn. Taxi from here maybe? First browse for a map of Berlin. The smell of food was everywhere, tempting her. She stopped at a stall selling slices of pizza and ate her way around the station. Maybe she could linger a bit more before finding the aunt. She sent a text to her Dad – landed safely – on the way to Aunt Bridget. Time for a quick café latte at an Italian café, while she looked at the map she had bought.

  Hopefully the text would keep her parents off her tail. This funeral business kept them too close for comfort. Her mother was bound to ring the aunt at some point. Aisling was weary of constant anxiety and glad to escape it for a while. The conversation she had with her aunt, when her father passed the phone to her the day before, was short but Aisling managed to get a bit of information. Her aunt had said she was near the U-Bahn station, Bern..something Strasse on line number U8. She’d seen U8 somewhere. It looked easier than finding the exit for a taxi and maybe faster too. It was only when she was on the train that Aisling realised she hadn’t seen a ticket office or bought a ticket. She still had the one from the airport so she could produce something. Fingers crossed that the first thing wasn’t being caught at the other end.

  She was happy she’d saved the taxi fare – more money to add to her own savings and the stash her father had promised to put in her account so that she could afford to stay. If she’d planned the trip for herself, she’d have had to pay it from her allowance. Profit so far good. It was more fun to find her own way and to take the U-Bahn to Bernauer Strasse.

  When she emerged she found herself among high houses with layers of apartments – she looked for the street sign in case she was off in the wrong direction – Strelitzer Strasse. It was a bit of a shock to see some buildings so old and dilapidated after the city slick of Alexanderplatz. The renovated ones reminded her a bit of the new places down on Dublin quays. She found Hussitenstraße and the apartment block. The names were all on the entry phone system – Duignan – an Irish name among all the German names.

  When Aisling said her name she could hear Dad’s aunt say ‘Come in – up the stairs on the left.’ Inside the entrance door, she saw no stairs. She paused in the big high hall – there were lots of windows and entrances around a sort of internal courtyard. She had expected to be inside, not out again. Strange. She went through the first door on the left where there was a staircase. She heard a voice above her, ‘I’m here, Aisling.’ The tone had familiar echoes but her name was pronounced with a foreign intonation. Her father had warned her that his aunt was more German than Irish now and not to expect her to be like Gran.

  True and not true, Dad. The aunt was a bit of a Gran replicate in features and stature – it was the hair and the clothes that were really different. She wore black, loose trousers with a synthetic crease and a long, black sweater with slits up the side. That and the dark grey hair flat to her head made her look square and manly. Maybe that’s why Gran would never wear trousers even in the house and why she nearly always wore fine clinging jumpers – short sleeved ones when it was warm, long sleeved in the winter and a fine cardigan as an extra layer. If she was going out, she put on ‘an outfit’ even if it was only to the local shops. She wondered if Gran’s hair would look the same as this replica without the perm.

  ‘You are Aisling?’ The voice was warmer than Gran’s but further away too – like it came from toes toasted by stories around a turf fire. Not a city voice. She held out her hand. At least she’s not one of these slobbery old dears, Aisling thought to herself as she offered hers in return – like her mother’s aunt Maggie, who smelled of a mixture of fancy soap and per
fume on the first whiff which was drowned on the second breath by a smell that reminded Aisling of flea markets. Aisling couldn’t work out what to call her. Aunt Bridget? That didn’t feel right so she said nothing. Her eyes were red and her skin a light grey, about the same colour as her hair. She could do with a lesson from Gran on a bit of carefully applied make-up.

  ‘You don’t look a bit like Diarmuid,’ the woman sounded very Irish and puzzled on this note. Aisling wanted to laugh out loud. She couldn’t imagine how she could ever look like her dad with his round face, thin hair going grey and the bit of beer belly. Even Michael hadn’t looked a bit like him.

  ‘Come, come, I am keeping you standing there,’ she ushered her in waving her stick. There was another woman hovering in the background, who came forward into the hallway and offered to take Aisling’s white cotton jacket. Aisling shuffled off the jacket, dropped her rucksack in the hall and followed her aunt.

  ‘You will have a cup of tea after your journey?’ Was it a question or a command?

  The aunt’s tone was odd – young and not young, Irish and not Irish, country and not country. Something about her reminded Aisling of old black and white films. She led her through the door on the left, which was obviously the living room, and her aunt carried on through an archway into a dining area. Through the open door to the right, Aisling could see what looked like the kitchen. The table was set – a white cloth with 3 places set in fine china. There were rolls, different breads, cheese, cold meats and smoked salmon. Aisling was sorry she had grabbed a slice of pizza. The place really reeked of coffee – a good omen, as it was Aisling’s favourite smell.

  ‘I don’t know what food you like,’ the aunt was hesitant and unsure.

  ‘This looks great. I love grazing on cheese, ham, salami and all that stuff.’ Better to be casual at the start – ward off any expectations.

  ‘Perhaps you would like to use the bathroom before you ring your parents.’

  ‘Yes thanks.’

  The bathroom was white tiles and chrome, very clean and tidy but not that modern. The whole apartment had an old fashioned feel in spite of the modern white and plain flavour. In the dining area of the big living room, a layer of white voile full length to the floor screened the windows facing onto the street – no sign of a T.V. – but old pictures on the walls and a tall rubber plant in a corner. On a small table beside it, there was a vase of flowers, a crucifix and two lit candles. Perhaps an altar for Katharina? The aunt’s work or someone else’s? She kicked herself for missing the chance to say she was sorry about her daughter. What were the words? ‘Sorry for your loss.’ Sounded stupid. Losing someone like you mislaid them somewhere. She’d say something later. It was obvious anyway: wasn’t that why she was here?

  The woman, who the aunt introduced as Yola, brought in a pot of tea in a Chinese teapot with a straw handle but did not join them at the table. Maybe she was a sort of maid. No coffee in spite of the smell. Aisling was left with the aunt sitting in silence looking at her.

  ‘Dad is sorry he couldn’t come. He didn’t want to leave Mum alone and she’s not able for a funeral. Gran would have liked to come but she’s not very good at flying.’ Such a lie. Gran had made the long haul to the States only last year.

  ‘I didn’t expect it. I was so sorry to hear about your brother. Katharina too but she was too ill to travel. I didn’t expect anyone but I am glad of someone. It helps to have someone from my family here.’

  Heavy number. Aisling thought. Was there a concealed guilt-trip there somewhere? She wondered whether and how to ask about the funeral.

  ‘Katharina was living with her friend. She is organising everything. She will tell us when the funeral is – perhaps Friday.’

  Was it the accent or was the ‘friend’ a bit loaded –maybe a hint of Gran in that emphasis? Who was the friend?

  Aisling did some calculation as she cut her bread into small even squares – a slice of cheese and a slice of salami. She wished for some background noise to camouflage the sound of the knife and the munching of her teeth through the bread. She’d expected it to be a bit sooner. What would she do between now and Friday? Surely she couldn’t just sit here and wait to Friday – that was nearly a week. Her aunt drank the tea and nibbled at a bit of smoked salmon. She had the phone on the table beside her – another un-gran sign. Gran refused to even answer the phone at meal times. The phone hardly had time to ring before the aunt answered it.

  ‘Diarmuid. Yes she’s here. Sorry, I should have thought to get her to ring you right away. I’ll pass the phone over.’

  ‘Fine, Dad. No problems. Did you get my text? I’m sitting here in front of a mini-buffet. No, I don’t know yet. I’ll ring you later if you want. Tell Mum everything’s O.K. Apparently the funeral might be next Friday.’

  Aisling could hear her mother in the background ‘Next Friday – how will she manage ‘til then?’ She said good-bye and hung up. She’d talk to her mother later when she’d worked out her survival plan.

  Yola came back to hover around. ‘You want more tay?’ Aisling nearly laughed out loud at the ‘tay’ – it sounded like Mrs Doyle from Father Ted but at least she spoke English. She ate and drank more than she wanted. When the aunt suggested that she might like a rest after her journey, she was delighted to escape. Yola fussed around and then said she was leaving and would come back early the next morning.

  The ‘spare’ room was big enough to hold a single bed, a table desk under a high window and a wardrobe full of clothes. Someone – Katharina? – had stuck a notice board on the side of the wardrobe covered in old photos but you couldn’t see it from anywhere else in the room.

  Aisling lay on the bed and plugged herself into her I-pod. She must try the adapter for the charger too. She’d brought the docking station but she’d have to suss out how the aunt would react first. She must’ve dozed off a bit because she didn’t hear anyone come in but she heard another voice in the living room when she roused herself. Maybe this new arrival would give her enough cover to be able to escape for a few hours.

  When she went in, a woman with pure white cropped hair was sitting at the table. She looked a good bit younger than Aisling’s mother, who dyed her hair, but she was probably of a similar age. It was a funky style but didn’t look like she was trying to look younger. I must tell Mum she should try a different hairstyle, Aisling noted. This woman looked annoyed. So were they arguing?

  She stood up, ‘I’m Monika, Katharina’s friend.’ She put out her hand.

  ‘Hello Monika, I’m Aisling – second cousin.’ Aisling felt a bit foolish when she said that. It probably meant nothing to Germans.

  ‘You had a good journey?’

  ‘Yes fine thanks.’

  ‘It is good you could come. We were making arrangements just now about the funeral.’

  ‘You mean you are here to tell me that there is no room in your grave for my daughter after all.’

  Monika turned her pale face with the skin stretched taut over her high cheekbones to Aisling, ‘We have a problem. There are too many roots from a tree in the grave. We cannot bury a coffin in the earth. So we must arrange a cremation first.’

  ‘Too many roots!’ Brigitte made a sucking sound through her teeth to show the contempt for this. Too many roots indeed! Some strong German tree which had seen more life than herself was dictating how Katharina would be buried. It was bad enough before. Katharina had told her Monika would make the arrangements in that distant way she used for such communication about her own death. ‘Monika will make the arrangements for me when I am no longer here.’ She wanted to correct her, ‘When you are gone’ we say, but the words choked her.

  There was no way to answer Katharina when she spoke in that matter-of-fact way as if she was arranging an invitation to coffee and cake. Monika would do that too, she supposed. The funeral guests would be taken somewhere for coffee and cake. Without her, she promised. She’d take a taxi to their favourite place – alone if this girl from Dublin wouldn’t com
e with her. Katharina and her notes in German for Monika. Her own mother left in the dark.

  Cut out of her death as she was cut out of her life. Katharina burnt to ashes. The thought of it brought the smell back and the sight of the stiff body of Anna on a trolley waiting to go there. She wanted dignity for Katharina. Not Monika here alive reinforcing Katharina’s absence. A mother should not bury her own child. Was Katharina’s pain so much greater than all she had suffered to bring her into this life?

  ‘We can have another grave surely.’ She hated herself for the pleading tone in her voice.

  ‘There is so much paperwork to get a new grave, Brigitte,’ Monika sighed and put her head in her hands for a few seconds, then raised it again. ‘When we talked about it, Katharina said if my family did not wish her to be in our grave, she would prefer to be cremated and her urn placed in the wall.’

  Was it true what she said? Did Katharina not know how much her own mother hated cremation? And if so, why did Katharina not say it to her too when she spoke of the arrangements? All she would say was, ‘Monika will arrange it all. It would be too much for you.’

  Paperwork. Why Katharina turned the place upside down for her Birth Certificate. Her expression. Father unknown. Like so many years ago. Now Monika’s family could say yes or no to her daughter in their grave. Too many roots was just an excuse. Not enough roots was more likely. Katharina lived always on the surface of the earth – immediate. Her strong passion for one cause or another. Her impatience with the world. She worked always for others with no thought of herself. How dare they refuse her a place in their earth!

  ‘Well, if Katharina wanted to be cremated, it should be OK, then, shouldn’t it?’ Aisling filled the silence. She liked this way of talking about arrangements. It made it more real somehow.