PART VI. Head-Shaking, 1924–1930
Anni and the Somebodies
Later, my sister told me that she’d stared at the plumes of smoke and sweated in the heat of the fire that was devouring our house, until somebody covered her eyes and threw her over a shoulder and carried her away.
The next morning she was woken by a gentle voice; she opened her eyes to tell Papa or Mama or me about her nightmare — but the light falling through the window was unusually bright, and the air smelled different, like cow dung, and someone, somebody, passed her a cup of milk. Later a different somebody gave her a violet dress. Yet another somebody ran hot water for her to bathe in, water boiled especially for her. The same somebody who’d given her the violet dress suggested they milk the cows together, bake a cake, play with the cat. But Anni shook her head. The somebody with the gentle voice explained that she couldn’t go back home, that from now on she’d live here, with her new family. But Anni didn’t see any family. There was only a somebody, another somebody, and yet another somebody. She shook her head again and shouted for Julius. Somebody said, “Your brother’s in heaven now.” And then Anni shook her head so long that she got dizzy, and nobody said anything more.
Anni and Mina
Anni didn’t realize she’d set our house on fire. Her eight-year-old’s mind screened her from the knowledge. It rejected the truth for her own protection, as Anni herself rejected so many things. As the months went by, she practiced shaking her head, training herself, whenever other children called on her to play with them, or at lunch, when somebody suggested eating a little more. Or after her First Communion, when Farmer Egler asked her in a whisper whether she was interested in the closely guarded secret he kept inside his pants. And one day, when she discovered my I love you carved into the winding root on Wolf Hill and asked herself who’d written it and when, she shook it as if she never wanted to stop again, left and right and left, with raised chin, staring eyes, and white lips pressed firmly together, locks of hair whipping against her cheeks, wiping the world away.
When winter came, our burned-out house, surrounded by snow, looked like a black-and-white photograph. She went there looking for something, without knowing what. Something pretty, small, familiar, something to press against her breast and cherish. She poked a stick through the mound of ashes, whipped it at rats, wrote Mama and Papa and Julius with it in the soot. On each of these forays she pocketed something. A collection of Most Beloved Possessions accumulated in a basket under her bed, which she guarded like treasure: hairpins melted into one another, a stove tile broken in fifths, the spine from the cookbook, two smooth, gleaming candlesticks, a dagger, a handful of nails, arrowheads, teeth, and much more. A dirty black film covered everything, which Anni couldn’t get rid of, no matter how much she scrubbed each object in the cold water of the Moorbach. And whenever a somebody suggested she choose one of them for the Sacrificial Festival, she just shook her head and said, “It’s already been burned.”
One of her chores was to go and fetch rolls from the bakery every Sunday. If Reindl’s daughter was at the shop, the two of them would swap Most Beloved Possessions. Sometimes Mina would roam through the burned house as well, hunting rats and stuffing her pockets with whatever junk was lying around. In her company it was rare for Anni to shake her head, because, like many Klöbles, Mina treated her no differently than she had before the fire.
All the other people of Segendorf had changed. No matter whom she met, even people she didn’t actually know, they would greet her, ask her how she was doing, praise her new home, invite her for a slice of poppy-seed cake, or slip her an apple.
One day, while trading Most Beloved Possessions, Mina’s polished boots caught her eye, and she couldn’t resist the temptation to touch them.
“Do you like them?” asked Mina. “You can hug my leg, too, if you want. The leather came from Hunter Josfer.”
“Where did you find them?”
“They’re mine.”
“What will you trade for them?” Anni spread some of her Most Beloved Possessions before them. “You can take whatever you want.”
“Whatever I want?” Mina’s eyes glittered, she bent down, biting her lip and reaching for the dagger — then drew back, folded her arms. “No. These are my favorite boots.”
“Please, let’s trade.”
“No.”
“I’ll tell you something.”
“What?”
“My secret.”
“Like Farmer Egler’s?” said Mina. “Then I don’t want to know it.”
“No. A real secret.”
“Maybe I already know it. You have to tell me first.” A moment ago Mina’s hair had been gray, but now it shimmered blond, as if the sun shone on it.
“But you can’t tell anyone else,” whispered Anni, glancing back at the door to make sure they were alone. “Nobody!”
Mina nodded eagerly.
Anni held one hand in front of her lips and leaned forward: “Sometimes I wake up. Late at night. And then I have this feeling, as if …”
“What?”
“As if Julius is thinking about me.”
“Julius Habom!” gasped Mina.
“‘That’s impossible,’ I say out loud to myself, ‘he’s—’”
“Anni!” Master Baker Reindl interrupted them, shoving her long, lean body between Anni and her daughter. “Your rolls are getting cold.”
Anni nodded, silently gathered her things, and set off. Back at the somebodies’ house she put the rolls in the breadbasket, covered them with a kitchen towel, went to her room, pressed her face deep into the pillow, and screamed: “He’s burned, he’s burned, he’s burned!” Afterward she felt a bit better, washed herself, and went to milk the cows, shaking her head. She tried a few more times to get her hands on the leather boots her father had made, but had to concede that it was as good as impossible to separate a Klöble from something she liked. And Mina loved her boots.
Anni and Markus
As the years wore on, the attention people paid to Anni didn’t dwindle half as much as Anni did herself. She ate now only when her stomach ached or her fainting spells increased — a swig of milk fresh from the udder for breakfast, and half an apple at lunch. When evening came she was often too tired to chew.
Her cheekbones stood out, throwing shadows across her face, and her curls hung slack from her scalp as if exhausted. She could assist with the milking for only an hour or so before black filled her vision, and her arms were so thin one of the somebodies would have to help her lug the milk pail. On her excursions to our former house she was seized with fits of convulsive coughing, so she could seldom enlarge her collection of Most Beloved Possessions. Women beckoned to her, called her over to them, invited her inside; Master Baker Reindl gave her bacon rolls with cheese crusts, the innkeeper foisted jars of sweet rose-hip marmalade on her, and Farmer Obermüller’s widow let her sample her viscous cake batter. Not even the most persistent head-shaking could repel them. It was scarcely more effective at repelling people’s looks.