The Other Side of Silence (15 page)

The visits are soon switched from the old classroom to Fraulein
Braunschweig’s small apartment two blocks away, in a small alley
near the Marktplatz. In the beginning Fraulein Braunschweig always
has coffee ready for Hanna when she arrives; but when she discovers
how voraciously the girl sets upon the sweetmeats she has prepared
a few casual questions bring to light how little Hanna gets to eat
in the Klatt household (a diet mostly of black coffee and stale
bread, and leftovers if she’s lucky); from then on she makes sure
that there is a full meal waiting on visiting days.

As the friendship develops, Fraulein Braunschweig also begins to
tell Hanna more about herself. About the young soldier, Otto, she
once was engaged to and with whom she’d planned to see the world.
But then the war with France broke out and he had to go.

“On the last night before he left,” she says, “I couldn’t stop
crying. I just knew he was going to die. But he was so full of
life, so happy, he believed so much that great things would be
happening to him in the war. And then – I suppose it was inevitable
– then he…then we…well, we were engaged and everything, so we
thought…” A long pause. “And the next day he went away. And he was
killed. And only after that I found I was pregnant.”

Hanna presses the teacher’s hand between both of hers. She is
crying. It is, ironically, Fraulein Braunschweig who has to console
her.

“I was too confused to think straight,” says the teacher. “And
of course I was still so young. All I could think of was what my
parents would say. So I got rid of the child.”

Hanna feels the skin on her jaws contract.

“Oh poor you,” she says, “poor, poor you.”

“That’s enough,” says Fraulein Braunschweig firmly. “It all
happened very long ago.” She gets up, reaches out and briefly
presses Hanna’s face against her. “In a way, you know, I’ve come to
think of you as the child I haven’t had. So it’s not so sad after
all. Come, I think it’s time for the books.”

Fraulein Braunschweig allows Hanna to browse at will through her
bookshelves. Over the months her small collection of travel books
is unobtrusively extended to make sure that there will always be
something new. Turkey, India, the Greek Islands, Ireland, South
America, Africa.

They do not speak about Fraulein Braunschweig’s past again; but
it is not necessary. She has said as much as she is prepared to
say. And there is so much else to talk about.

Many times their conversation returns to Jeanne d’Arc with whom
Hanna continues to have an intensely personal relationship. There
are episodes from Jeanne’s life which never fail to intrigue and
delight her. The journey from Vaucouleurs to Chinon, when she
innocently sleeps every night between her escorts Poulengy and Jean
de Metz, impressing them so deeply with her simple and forceful
presence that they never think of touching her. Her disarming,
girlish fondness for pretty clothes: a kidskin girdle, padded hose,
leather shoes, finely wrought chain armour of polished steel – and
of course her extravagant standard with its triumphant legend
Jhesu Maria
. The story of how, during the siege of Orleans,
Jeanne is wounded by an arrow which penetrates fifteen centimetres
into her flesh just above her left breast; she dissolves in tears,
yet has courage enough to pluck it out with her own hands before
she allows her soldiers to stanch the blood and dress the wound
with olive oil and lard. And also the story of how, imprisoned in
the castle of Beaurevoir
en route
to her trial and death in
Rouen, she lapses into despair and, disregarding, for once, even
the admonitions of her Voices, hurls herself from a tower twenty
metres high, without even spraining an ankle. On and on the stories
flow, and Hanna absorbs them all as if to quench a real and
parching durst.

On summer afternoons Fraulein Braunschweig sometimes takes a
walk with her through the old town and tells her stories from the
past, snatches of history interspersed with fantasy; apart from the
story of Jeanne, Hanna is especially fond of the fairytales
collected by the Grimms. It is as if the darkness in them
illuminates obscure corners of her own life. The scarier they are –
the opening of Bluebeard’s secret chamber, the killing of the
little Gooseherd’s horse, the deaths of Snow White, the unfairness
of the princess towards Rumpelstiltskin, the stepmothers and
witches and wicked queens – the more enthralled she seems. If
Fraulein Braunschweig is perturbed by this morbid fascination she
never tries, at least not openly, to discourage Hanna. The poor
child, she may think, has little enough to hold on to in the
monotony of her dreary days; she may as well be indulged a bit. If
there is time, the teacher will offer her informal lessons in the
subjects she liked most when she was still at school: history,
geography, literature. It remains rather rudimentary, but Hanna
soaks up everything. When it is time to leave, it is like returning
from one kind of world to another.

Invariably, Hanna is invigorated when she arrives back at the
Klatts’. This, after all, is only temporary. There will be an end
to it. One day it will be over and she and Fraulein Braunschweig
will set out to explore the far and improbable places of the world.
But soon this vigorous optimism abates. Every month, when the new
statement comes, she falls further into arrears with her debt. It
is slowly dawning on her that it will never ease, and can only get
worse. This is the whole logic behind her indenture. For better or
for worse, in sickness and in health, this will last till
death.

This makes Herr Dieter’s tempting offers of increased payment
for more exquisite favours that much more difficult to resist. Even
so it takes many months before she agrees to go beyond exposing
herself and administer more blatandy to his needs. It is only
because he is so understanding and kind about it that she concedes
at all. Initially he is satisfied to undo his trousers and sit back
to be fondled with her well-meaning if clumsy hands. As with
everything else, her gaucheness is painfully evident; yet in this
kind of fondling it appears to add to his appreciation, and
hopefully his enjoyment. Beyond this manual manipulation she will
not proceed, although he begs for her mouth; that she finds dirty,
a sinful act. Not against God, who does not exist anyway, but
against the body itself. (There are still many years to go before
Lotte will come into her life.) She is bemused to see a grownup,
important man grovel so, to hear him plead so urgently – and offer
so much money – for a favour as derisory as that. And perhaps, she
sometimes thinks, it may not even be so bad, really; if in the
beginning she was revolted by the sight and feel of his spurting
seed, she gradually relaxes into vague amusement. In a detached way
she feels almost proud to discover how much pleasure she can
dispense. But she will not cross the boundaries she has imposed,
whether through instinct or contrariness.

Still the daily burden of work continues, and stealthily
increases.

As do the costs incurred: because the children have found out
about the fines their mother imposes and now know how to blackmail
Hanna into doing whatever they wish. If that fails, they will break
something precious and blame her for it. Worse than any fine or
punishment (because sometimes Frau Hildegard, more and more unhappy
with the world as time goes on, will also deprive her of food; or
take the strap to her, beatings which seem to work her up into a
frenzy where she can no longer control herself at all) is the fatal
knowledge of that debt piling up, piling up, measuring the
lengthening distance between the present and the possibility of
release.

The only brief moments of escape are those late-night visits to
the study with its pool of light among the textured shadows, the
shiny surface of the big desk, the deep red of the leather
upholstery on easy-chairs and couch, the eyes of her benefactor as
he watches her strip off her clothes with gawky, graceless
movements, discarding a shirt, shifting a skirt down her legs,
stepping out of dropped knickers (and more often than not catching
her foot in them and briefly losing her balance); or as he leans
back to abandon himself, with eyes tightly closed, to the fumbling
of her chafed hands in his lap.

Whether she ever derives some fleeting pleasure or excitement
from it herself is difficult to tell. She is aware, almost every
time, of her nipples hardening. And occasionally, truth be told,
she becomes wet, which flusters and unnerves her so much that she
promptly and awkwardly puts on her clothes again. For this is the
most intimate betrayal of all: by her own body. But pleasure?
Unlikely. And yet it is not a purely mechanical or mercenary
encounter either. The few coins, the four or five or sometimes even
ten marks, do matter, and she does not hesitate to raise the price
if she has worked unusually hard or he shows particular enjoyment.
But that is not all. There is an intricate exchange in it as well,
a subtle sharing perhaps; or possibly the mere knowledge that, even
if it is only for a few minutes, half an hour, exceptionally an
hour, she has been of service to someone, she has done something
that is appreciated, in a dark and subterranean way she has been
acknowledged.

For she will always carry with her the early words he spoke to
her:
You’re not what one would call a particularly pretty
girl
. (But then, oh don’t forget, don’t ever forget!, he added,
But you do have lovely hair
.) And even more so the
conversation she overheard very soon after she first arrived in the
Klatt household. Frau Hildegard and one of her neighbours, a
bosomy, cheerful woman named Kathe, were talking in the lounge;
Hanna brought them coffee and Torte, and left. But as she closed
the door behind her again she heard her name, and stopped to
listen.

Frau Kathe is speaking: “Poor thing. So very plain. Not very
appetising to look at, is she?”

“We did not hire her for her looks, Kathe,” Frau Hildegard says
pointedly.

“No, quite. That much is clear. But I always say looks are
important for a girl. That’s all a man will notice.”

“Just as well then,” comments Frau Hildegard with a harsh little
laugh. “Then we know our menfolk will be safe. A pretty woman is an
invention of Satan.”

“How can you say that when you have such striking looks
yourself, Hildegard?”

“I was talking about servant girls,” Frau Hildegard puts the
matter beyond dispute.

“Well, of course, I’ve heard it said that for some men a plain
woman is a better proposition, because the plain ones are more
grateful for some attention.”

“There is plain and plain,” Frau Hildegard trumps her. “This
one, as you have no doubt noticed, is
severely
plain. So we
can both rest easy.”

Their laughter drowns out the tinkling of the coffee cups.

And so there is of course more than a touch of irony in the fact
that it should be Herr Dieter’s dalliance which leads to the abrupt
termination of Hanna’s service.

Not that they are ever discovered together, nothing as
melodramatic as that. (If only it
was
, Hanna may,
perversely, think after it is all over and the dust has settled and
she is back in the orphanage.) What happens is that Frau Hildegard,
driven by her concern for propriety and diligence, ventures up to
Hanna’s little box of a room in the attic on a tour of inspection,
one day while the girl is off to market. There is nothing untoward
to be discovered among Hanna’s pitiful possessions. Except,
perhaps, the shell from the girl on the beach; but it holds no
interest for the lady of the house. What does attract her
attention, however, is a tear in the old stained mattress in the
corner. Is it suspicion, or sheer nastiness, that makes the woman
stoop to put a hand through the tear and pull out a soiled linen
bag half filled with coins? She has no wish to count the money, it
is dirty; but at a guess she would say that it may well be a few
hundred marks. The equivalent of a whole year’s wages.
Before
the share of the Little Children of Jesus has been
deducted. Stolen. All stolen from the household over these many
months. That is the only logical conclusion.

Frau Hildegard chooses the hour of dinner, that evening, when
the whole family is assembled at table – Hanna hovering in the
background serving, almost too tired to stand on her feet – to
produce, with a show of disgust, the dirty bag which she places on
the corner of the long table next to Herr Dieter’s plate.

Everybody stares. Hanna takes a step back. Her only comfort is
that she is in the half-dark; hopefully no one can see her
face.

“And what might this be?” asks Herr Dieter, fingering the bag
with mild distaste.

“You ask that person,” says Frau Hildegard, half turning to
point at Hanna. “I found it in her mattress. Perhaps she will care
to explain.”

Everybody waits, Herr Dieter too.

“It is my money,” says Hanna. She reaches for the bag, but Frau
Hildegard sweeps it out of her reach.

“As far as I know you have nothing but debt. And this is a
substantial sum.”

“I’m saving it to pay off my debt.”

“I couldn’t care less what you want to do with it, my girl. What
I wish to know is where you got it.”

“I earned it,” says Hanna, barely moving her lips.

“
Earned
it?”

Another long silence. Hanna looks at Herr Dieter, but he is more
interested in reaching for the beer bottle to fill his mug, his
head turned right away from her.

“At the market,” says Hanna. “Doing things for people when I go
there. Carrying and stuff.”

“I keep a close watch on your coming and going,” says Frau
Hildegard. “You have never been away for long enough to do such
things. Anyway, this is not the kind of money people pay for small
errands.”