“You’re right on time. Someday you’ll grow into a very punctual man. Unlike your cousin. No surprise there. Poles aren’t known for their punctuality. Your aunt can’t leave the house anymore. She just lies there waiting, breaking the world record for head-shaking. Your uncle has to wash her and rub her impressive belly, while muttering words that sound as if they’re being said backward.
“You’re so warm. The better to soften me, you’re probably thinking. I’ll tell you something: you wouldn’t be the first to try. It’s nothing personal, I just don’t have much use for children. The only thing I really like about you is your discretion. You’re an even better listener than the dead. A while back I was walking around a house with a woman who couldn’t speak either. I miss her, sometimes. Else’s image is clear in my mind. My parents, though — I can’t even remember their faces. Whenever I try to picture them, everything goes fuzzy. Anni says it’s the same for her. That’s why I’ve decided against telling her about the fire. Why should I remind her of the deaths of two people whom we can barely remember?
“That’s certainly no reason for crying!
“I’m going to tell your mother she should name you Ludwig. After our last king. What do you think? You’re going to need that kind of name. With a mother like her. And a father like me.”
Frederick Arkadiusz Driajes followed Ludwig Reindl into the world after a lag of five days. During the birth Anni gripped my hand with her right, and Arkadiusz’s with her left — both of our faces were at least as painfully contorted as hers. Our worried creases smoothed only at the midwife’s satisfied nod, and Fred’s introductory scream was met with applause — which had nothing to do with him, but rather with the fact that at the same moment, not far away, the first cobblestone for the town’s new main street had just been solemnly lowered into place.
Eight months later, by the time Ludwig mastered crawling (and Fred his own mode of locomotion, a sort of lateral roll), the cobbles already spanned the village from north to south, running right through the middle, as Mina put it, like a river of stones. Only two years after that, the main street, which Ludwig was allowed to cross (and Fred not at all) only after looking carefully left and right, had been extended even farther south, forming part of Reichsstrasse 11 toward Innsbruck. And in the spring of 1938, while its constant through-traffic and the rattling of one-cylinder engines brought happiness to Ludwig (and bad dreams to Fred), the construction of the most angular sewer system in the whole German Reich was brought to a conclusion.
Ludwig’s (and Fred’s) seventh birthday approached, and everyone in the village who had any interest in knowing had long ago learned who his father was. Mina had turned out to be more competent at keeping secrets than I was. On many days I simply couldn’t resist the impulse to see my son. Together we wandered up and down the main street, adding up the number of cobbles, and then losing count. We tried to guess by the thunder of the approaching vehicles what kind they were, or else spat cherry pits over the river of stones. On mild summer nights Ludwig would steal out of the bakery, lay himself down in the grass not two steps away from the street, and sleep there better than in his own bed. Though I reminded him constantly how dangerous that was, showing him the squashed corpses of weasels, or giving him a slap, Ludwig wouldn’t be dissuaded — and so I had no choice but to tie myself to him with a rope and sleep beside my son, not three steps from the street, a human anchor in the grass.
Though I didn’t find much rest there, I took advantage of the little sleeper’s open ear.
“I’ve never really seen myself as a father. And I still don’t see myself as one.
“Maybe it’s enough if you and your mother do. Her faith — and not just in our wedding — is stronger than Pastor Meier’s.
“When you’re older, think twice about whether or not you want to have kids. I’m telling you, you can’t anticipate the consequences.
“You might wake up one day and realize that you love them!
“Or the opposite. Look at your aunt. The magnitude of her disappointment at having given life to a Klöble corresponds to the frequency and intensity of her head-shaking. Nobody understands that she doesn’t do it because she’s saying no, but rather because she’s glancing left and right, on the lookout for a better life.
“The problem is, she’s looking so desperately left and right that she doesn’t see who’s standing in front of her.
“She should never have gotten started with that Pole. She and I could have easily produced someone like Fred.
“I hope you don’t play with him. What a useless lug! He stands in front of life as if it was a door — he knows you can open it, but not how.
“Have you seen his drawings? He has talented little hands, I’ll give you that, but … who wants to look at dead birds? Who’s interested in the eyes of pigs? Or the wings of dung flies?
“The pictures make it clear how sick he really is. Anni’s right to destroy them. Like I’ve told her, Fred should learn to read. Reading breeds understanding. And understanding leads to more beautiful pictures.”
Finding Something without Looking for It
On his seventh birthday, Segendorf’s youngest parishioner opened the town’s very first encyclopedia. The thicket of words on the page so frightened Fred that he immediately clapped it shut again, preferring to follow his father on his patrol of the sewer tunnels.
“Don’t you at least want to learn your first word?” Anni shouted after them.
“It’s his birthday,” answered Arkadiusz.
“Tomorrow I’ll learn two first words!” Fred promised.
Arkadiusz was responsible for the maintenance of the underground tunnels, casting around for leaks, patching fissures, dislodging clots of ash, cleaning the outlet valves, exterminating rats, and, when the system flooded, submerging himself for as long as it took to trace the blockage to its source. Who better for the job than ARKADIUSZ, THE (FORMER) FOUR-MINUTE-AND-FORTY-THREE-SECOND MAN? Besides, down there the racket of motor-driven vehicles was pleasantly muffled, the trickling calm relaxed him like a warm bath. Anni told me how he often roamed the tunnels for hours at a stretch, doing the thing he’d always been so good at doing: waiting. For night, when the traffic would die down. For some message from his family, to whom after all this time and with Anni’s help, he’d finally been able to write again — since Segendorf was now, thanks to the widening network of roads, within reach of the German Reichspost. For Fred’s next drawing — brilliantly detailed sketches, in his opinion, which, despite their unusual subjects, filled him with pride, and at least one of which he always carried on his person. For a burst of inspiration that would reveal to him exactly which ingredient his homemade and less than entirely appetizing pierogi were lacking. For an end to the hateful diatribes that spewed from the Volksempfänger radio set, which Pig Farmer Markus liked to blare from his open window. For Anni’s dancing. For Anni’s song. For Anni’s nod.