What Was Left, page 19
‘No, I’ve just seen pictures. Pretty. Successful, ja? She is still a doctor.’
Rachel shakes her head. ‘She’s a lobbyist now. Capitol Hill.’
‘We all thought Gunther was crazy, marrying someone over there, a girl he hardly knew. He had only been there for a year. And he told me that Americans were plastic, inside and out. He wasn’t planning to stay. But then he met Judy and changed overnight. He wrote that he was in love. That she was, what were his words, the one he had been waiting for. He was always such a mother’s boy—maybe that was why he had to go over there to find a woman. Because here, Mutti would always stand in the way.’
The waitress brings them glasses of water and a basket of bread with small, foil-wrapped squares of butter. Rachel tries to imagine Judy, with her immaculate hair and her layers of varnish, falling for Gunther. Being the girl of his dreams. She must have been different then.
Hans continues: ‘Our mother was a very strong woman. Not in the sense that you use today, she never worked outside the home, but everything within it was under her control. Gunther was always her favourite. He was the baby, the final child. The rules were excused for him. We were pushed from the nest, expected to fly, but it seemed that she preferred him to stay by her side. When she fell ill, she asked Gunther to return, and she tucked her wings over him once more. I was not around at that point, I admit. She hated my wife. Rolf, our other brother, had been driven away as well. So Gunther was the one who looked after her. He drove her to the chemotherapy, helped her sort out her affairs when the cancer became terminal. Not that he didn’t benefit from it—when she died she left him all her money and the house we had grown up in. We went to the funeral, of course, and there I saw that Gunther was changed by her death. He was pale, unwashed. He told me he blamed himself for having left her in the first place. I asked him when he was going back to America. It was the first time I heard him say bad things of Judy. She didn’t love him, he said, she only wanted him there so someone could look after Rachel. She took away his power, she made him seem small even to his daughter, whose mind she poisoned against him. I didn’t say, but I remember thinking that the only person whose thoughts had been poisoned were his, by our mother. There wasn’t a woman on earth good enough for her boys.’ Hans stops to butter a slice of bread and tear great bites from it with his tiny teeth.
‘What about the RAF. Was that when he got involved?’
Hans finishes chewing, swallows, and waves down the waitress to order two beers. ‘I can see that we’re going to be here a while,’ he says. ‘To answer your question, Gunther was always, how do you say, in love with idealism. He tried the student movement in college, before he went to America, but it wasn’t until he came back that there was a new fire behind his beliefs. Anger. The early RAF—Baader-Meinhof—many of them had died or were still in prison, but there was this new wave of resistance against the development of Western Europe. According to them, it was the new centre of imperialism. There was still West Germany and East Germany, you realise, communism was right next-door.
‘Americans, who had a strong military presence in West Germany since World War II, were the number one target, but also politicians and those private companies who were involved with the arms race. I thought Gunther was just going to these meetings, writing letters to the editor, distributing pamphlets on the street. But I began to see less and less of him. He sold Mutti’s house and then practically disappeared. He always saw himself as an intellectual, too smart for a regular job, and so this kind of thing appealed to him. But one thing that baffles me is the violence. As a boy he gave up so easily, he never fought back. Even raised voices made him anxious. So everything that they attribute to him—I still can’t see how he did it.’
The waitress brings out dishes then, steaming bowls of soup, thick with peas and chunks of pink ham bobbing to the surface.
Hans spoons some into his mouth. ‘They make the best soup here,’ he says. ‘Guten appetit.’
‘Was he violent? How did they know?’
Hans takes a few more mouthfuls and then sits back, wiping his lips with a napkin. ‘It’s what he was in prison for, in the end. They think that he was involved with bombing the American Embassy in Frankfurt, in ’85, but they never had the evidence to charge him with that. But the assassination of Fritz Kaufmann—there was never a doubt in their minds.’
Rachel nods. She feels a strange absence from her body. She couldn’t be sitting here, eating soup, hearing how her father killed a man, from an uncle she never knew she had. She puts down her spoon.
‘Who was Kaufmann? How did he die?’
Hans drains his glass of beer and signals to the waitress for another. He looks at Rachel’s beer and narrows his eyes, a quick look of disappointment that it is still full. Rachel takes a sip for his sake. It’s good, the bitterness and bubbles, and she drinks more.
Hans continues. ‘It was ’86, I think. Our mother died in ’83. I hadn’t seen Gunther since ’84. I get a knock on my door from two men in suits, detectives. They ask me all different questions about Gunther. I tell them what I know, which is nothing. What is this about, I ask, is he in trouble? Then the story comes out. Three days earlier this Kaufmann, who worked in foreign affairs, was shot and killed in his house—cold-blooded murder. I knew about it, it was all over the papers. His daughter, aged six, witnessed the whole thing. His wife had been outside, in the garden. Turns out that they were doing sketches based on the six-year-old’s description and the pictures looked a lot like Gunther. They showed me one, and there it was. My brother, unmistakeable. He had been wearing a mask, a ski mask, over his face, and the little girl had been in the kitchen playing when she heard her father shout. She ran to his office and from the doorway saw this man with a gun, standing above her father, who sat at his desk, the barrel to his head. Saw him pull the trigger. Blood and brains spatter. She couldn’t scream, she was so terrified, but then the killer turned to the door and saw her, and the gun was pointed at her. He lowered it, and here’s the strangest part. He took off his mask. The girl told the police, he made this face,’ Hans grimaces, ‘as if he was going to cry. And then he ran, pushed past her and ran from the house. The girl found her voice. She began to scream, bringing her mother in from the garden.’
‘My God.’
‘So there was a witness, and it was only a week or so before they raided an abandoned house in Dusseldorf and arrested him. The RAF cut all ties, ostracised him. He had given himself up by letting the girl see him. He took off his own mask! He spent five years in prison, and then was released into a witness protection program. He had given evidence, I assume, against those who had turned on him. His former comrades. I tried to stay in touch, but it was discouraged. And when he became so ill, they told me, and said that I could pay him a visit, but then it was too late. He didn’t want me around.’
Rachel must look stunned, because Hans reaches across the table, pats her shoulder. ‘It’s a lot to hear, isn’t it? I’m sorry that you have to learn it all at once.’
‘What I don’t understand,’ she says, ‘is why we never found out. I’m surprised my mum didn’t know. It must have been in the news.’
Hans looks out at the people walking past on the street. It is raining again and small rivulets trickle down the other side of the glass. ‘I should tell you, Rachel, that I never mentioned you or Judy to the police. They might have found out on their own, but the first thing I thought, when they told me what happened, was that Gunther took his mask off—basically turned himself in—because the little girl was like you. She was the same age that you would have been when he left you. The police never asked me about you and your mother, but I didn’t bring it up either. They could have found out on their own, but I figured you had been through enough thanks to my brother.’
‘I thought, perhaps Gunther never forgave himself for leaving, and that is why he took off his mask. The little girl was all that he had sacrificed—she was you—and he had killed her father. She would live with that image in her head. He never recovered. He tried to kill himself twice in prison. It was only when the dementia set in, after he was released, that he found some peace. Once he was able to forget what he had done.’
Rachel’s cheeks are now streaked like the window. Perhaps Gunther really did regret leaving. She thinks of the little girl, a grown woman now, and fatherless because of Gunther. It comes some way to explaining why he is now what he is. Not a revolutionary, a coward. Afraid to face his own mistakes.
Hans looks at his watch. He has to go, he says, he has gone over his lunch break by half an hour.
‘Where do you work?’ Rachel asks.
‘The Mercedes factory.’
He tells her his job: on the car production line, testing a component of the brakes. If only he’d been able to stop Gunther, she thinks, watching him with new eyes, as her uncle.
‘Will you come to dinner, tonight or tomorrow?’ he asks. ‘My wife would love to meet you.’
Rachel shakes her head. ‘My flight leaves tonight. I’m sorry. Maybe I can come back with my family one day.’
Hans nods. He is gruff, a little bitter, but beneath that is something else. Regret, perhaps, that he couldn’t change the past. When he gets up to leave he is a little unsteady. Drunk, probably, but she hugs him anyway. He insists on paying and brushes off her attempt to give him money. She must see Gunther now, she thinks, as she gathers her bag and her coat, leaving a few euros on the table for the waitress. It is all that is left to do.
She rings five times before he buzzes her in. The door is open when she comes up from the lift, and he sits in his chair by the window, silent.
‘I saw Hans,’ Rachel tells him, and watches his body shrink. His arms lift, crossed, as if to protect his head from blows.
‘He was nice to me,’ she says. ‘He told me what I wanted to know. I wanted to find out what happened, because tonight I am going home.’
Gunther doesn’t open his mouth, just lowers his arms, slowly.
‘I have a baby,’ she says, ‘and I left her. Lola is her name. She needs me. It’s time I return.’
Gunther’s eyes haven’t moved from the window. She notices how sallow his skin is, how the folds of his cheek sag below his jaw, like the jowls on a bulldog. His eyes are her own though—the very same shade of blue.
Rachel is overcome by the desire to rest her head in his lap, gather his hands in her own, and not let go until he tells her that he’s sorry for leaving and for the legacy of violence that he has given her. But he is a stranger, still, with a mind that is gone. What remains is of no use to her.
‘Do you want me to get your box?’ she asks.
Gunther nods. He points to the table beside the bed. His box is sitting on top of Rainer Maria Rilke’s Letters to a Young Poet. It’s a book Rachel read once, though she barely remembers it. She hands him his box.
‘Are you reading Rilke?’ she asks.
Gunther shakes his head.
She holds it in her left hand. The spine of it feels strange, thinner than the pages. Opening it, she sees why: there are some sheets of paper folded within.
‘Can I look?’ she asks, holding it out to Gunther’s watery eyes, hoping he’ll say yes.
He shakes his head. ‘Don’t look, take,’ he says in his monster voice, holding the contraption to his throat. ‘Take it with you. These books have to go. They will make us sink.’
Rachel clears her throat and puts it in her bag before he can change his mind.
‘I remember,’ she says.
He looks at her now, turning from the window for the first time that morning.
‘I remember your large hands, your long fingers. The songs that you sang, bits and pieces. Warum, warum, ist die Banane krumm.’
‘Wenn die Banane gerade wär, dann wär sie keine Banane mehr.’ The monster speaks. He smiles a child’s smile.
‘I remember you taking care of me. I remember waiting for you to return.’ Rachel shifts her weight from side to side, watching him, waiting for him to say something.
Gunther’s lips close—ragged old things, loose without words.
‘I wish you well, Gunther. You don’t remember, but I loved you. And you loved me. I knew it, even then.’
Gunther nods. He is pressing the speak button, again and again, but nothing but static comes out.
‘Can I give you a hug? I doubt I will see you again.’
He holds out his arms. Rachel bends down, awkwardly, letting her bag slip down and bang into her leg. He feels unsubstantial to her touch, like he’s already ash, easily scattered. He smells of stale urine, oranges and tea-leaves. She plants a kiss on his spotted forehead, trying not to wrinkle her nose. She turns, walks to the door, and has opened it when she hears the toneless sound of the machine.
‘What was that?’ she asks, turning back to look at him, his profile sagging in the light.
‘I hope you can swim.’
Rachel shuts the door. She feels light leaving him. A strange absence of sadness—she feels unaccountably free.
They have given her a window seat on the plane. Aisle 57, towards the back. She can watch the clouds from above. It will take twenty-two hours, and without any Valium it will feel twice as long. She buckles the seatbelt and places Gunther’s book on her lap. The flight attendant is walking the aisles, holding a yellow oxygen mask in one hand and the clear plastic bag dangling from the other. The woman towers over the seats, her blonde hair pulled into a high ponytail, her lipstick immaculate.
‘In case there is a loss in cabin pressure, yellow oxygen masks will drop from the ceiling compartment located above you. To secure, pull the mask towards you, secure the elastic strap to your head and fasten it so it covers your mouth and nose. Breathe normally. Even if the bag does not inflate, please keep in mind that oxygen is flowing. If you have small children or someone in need of your assistance travelling with you, please make sure to secure your own mask before assisting them.’
The attendant is looking at Rachel as she says this, probably because she is the only person in the aisle paying attention, and for the first time in her life of flying Rachel listens to the words themselves, not just the sound and the spectacle of them.
It comes to her, startling in its clarity. She never bothered to fasten her own mask first. No wonder it was so fucking hard to breathe.
Chapter 17
Somewhere over the Pacific, Rachel opens the book. The pieces of paper fall into her lap. She opens it, a letter, many pages long. It is dated 3 January 1985.
Dear Gunther,
I don’t know what to say. I shouldn’t have hung up on you, but I am still angry. No, angry is too weak a word, I’m furious. I don’t know how to tell Rachel, what to say to her. Things before you left were not great, but we never even talked about it. You can’t just run off and pretend that we don’t exist.
I am very sorry about your mother and I know that, even though she was ill, her death must have come as a great shock to you. It would have meant so much to her to have you there. But why would you want to stay?
You tell me it is the movement, but how can politics replace your family? I am afraid for you, for the situation you are getting yourself mixed up in. Do these people care about you? Does it matter to them if you live or die?
I admired your idealism since we first met all those years ago. You were uncompromising in your view of how the world should be. But now it seems like you have forgotten everything but that idealism. Everything including your daughter, Rachel.
I told her you will be gone for a long, long time. I wish she shouted or cried, but she was just very quiet. She went to her room, and I found her there later, staring at the wall. I hired a nanny to be here when I can’t. It was hard to find the right one because I wanted someone who will be around for a long time. Her name is Esmerelda. She is helping Rachel get used to you being gone.
You said that finding this group was like finding words to express what you have been feeling your whole life. But Gunther, please, think about how vulnerable you are right now—the anger you have at me for not understanding, at your mother for dying. Is this just a way to channel it? You said that if you are serious about a cause you must make sacrifices—that every time people have effected radical change it is because they believed a cause to be more important than an individual. Just think of what you are sacrificing, because once it has been given up, you may have lost it forever.
One thing you said is right. It is best, for our safety, that we stop writing. If you die, or end up in prison, I would be happier not to know.
You said that you feel more passionately about this cause than you have felt about anything. But remember, when Rachel was born, how you would stay up at night, watching over her crib, listening for her breath? You couldn’t sleep, and the doctor had to prescribe sleeping pills in the end, that’s how much you loved her.
Remember our conversations at lunchtime when you were home with her, and I was at the hospital, on my residency? I would call during lunch break and while I ate my turkey sandwich you would tell me, in detail, everything that Rachel had done so far that day. How many nappies. What she had eaten, played with, how she had slept. And I listened, enraptured, imagining this world that the two of you inhabited. Sometimes I wished it was me, but I knew that I would not be nearly as patient.
Rachel still talks about you, but less now. With school, the mornings are impossible, getting her out of the door, parting with her at the bus stop. She has your eyes, still, but the rest is her own: pigeon-toed, knock-kneed, wild-haired. She’s a beautiful child. She reads so fast now too—I’m glad that you taught her before you left. I can’t separate her from a book. I come home from work late some nights and see the glow of a flashlight under her blankets, long after she is meant to be asleep. I can’t scold her because I don’t want that to be the tiny amount of time we spend together, me telling her what not to do. So I lie down with her, her warm feet curled between my knees, and whisper the songs I remember you singing. She wants a story from when I was a little girl. I wish you were here to tell her your stories.
