The next minute I was sitting completely dazed on the kitchen bench, hardly hearing my mother scolding the nanny, who had gone off to enjoy herself in the fields with an admirer, leaving me alone in the house, and who was now wiping my bare legs with a damp cloth. Yet it was all my fault. I had begged her to leave me playing in the drawing room after lunch and go for a walk by herself, I wouldn’t tell my parents, I had kept my promise on previous Sundays. Eventually I had a temper tantrum, thrashing around wildly but taking care not to hit my nanny; I may have been screaming too. No, before I got to the point of screaming she would give in, relieved on the one hand, on the other worried about going for a walk by herself, though both of us knew, without ever saying so, what “by herself” meant on a Sunday afternoon.
I was left in peace, playing my solitary games in the cool room with its half-drawn curtains, while she had to worry about me, whether I would be up to any mischief, she didn’t know what I did when she was away, whereas I had some idea what her admirer would be up to with her in the distant meadow. So that, as I was later to realize when I was grown up myself, her worry about being with her lover would be combined with concern about neglecting a child.
I had goose bumps, the cloth which had been pleasantly warm from the water and the warm hand running it over my legs got cold from one minute to the next in the unheated kitchen, the cool evening air. When my nanny came back from her outing I said nothing, didn’t answer any questions about why I was cowering in the dusk between the stove and the sideboard, why I was keeping my arms so tightly crossed, why I couldn’t put one foot in front of the other like a normal boy. She didn’t notice the dark stain on my trousers, didn’t notice the swift, which was still lying on the carpet with a wildly beating heart, as though paralyzed, the last time I saw it. I was able to keep everything back from my nanny, but not from my parents, who returned at dinnertime from a visit, and now I was sitting in nothing but my Sunday shirt on the kitchen bench with a wildly beating heart, I had wet my trousers out of sheer terror.
I could hear the noise, but I didn’t comprehend a word that was being said, my blood was roaring so loudly in my ears. Silently my nanny let my mother’s reproaches and her unusually rough language wash over her, as she knelt in front of me she kept her eyes lowered, didn’t look at me, just as I would have given anything in the world not to meet her gaze, although I didn’t dare close my eyes and wish myself away from this scene, away from the tiled kitchen with its horrible echo, back in my quiet bedroom. My mouth was dry, I couldn’t even swallow, let alone confess my guilt, call out, “It’s all my fault, please leave her alone, she hasn’t done anything.” Perhaps I have never since then experienced such a powerful sense of injustice and torment, the young swift, my wet trousers, and the nanny I was fond of.
I have a dim memory of lying in bed, I had been there for ages and should have been asleep, while my mother kept repeating the same phrases over and over to my father, scraps of sentences that reached me from their bedroom, though I couldn’t make much sense of them, things like “the poor thing,” and “with his bare hands,” and “our own son,” and then later, if I heard correctly through the half-open door, again and again, now almost in a whisper, as though she had no strength left, maybe because she was so disgusted: “The eyes.”
What happened to the swift afterward, I can’t say. It’s possible it didn’t survive, that it expired after my father gently released it from its purgatory and ushered it toward the garden, though without touching it with his bare hands. Or it died, exhausted, toward evening on the soft, patterned carpet. Just as it is possible, although unlikely, that despite its experiences it had a long life before it, an airborne life which would bring it back for just a few weeks year after year to our latitude, to the neighborhood of dark curtains, cool drawing rooms, and cruel children, which, as though it had learned its lesson on that Sunday afternoon, it would take note of only from a great height, from a safe distance.
I learned my lesson too, though without realizing as much straightaway. It took me until the next morning, when I emerged from an uneasy sleep and my stupefied condition, and went the way I had gone the day before out of my room, along the corridor, then down the broad staircase, into the kitchen, where I was given a drink of milk, and finally into the drawing room, to the site of my downfall. All traces of the struggle had been erased, not a mark on the carpet, the curtain hung as neatly as if no swift had ever become entangled in it. However, the discovery I had made the afternoon before but only grasped now when I glanced across the empty battlefield hinted that I was destined to be an ornithologist: I had seen the legs of the swift.
To this day, there is a widespread notion that this is a bird that possesses neither legs nor claws; it spends most of its life in the air, and is said to lack such equipment. A bird that you hardly ever see close up, that impresses the viewer on the ground with its dexterous wing strokes and rapid flight, sometimes swooping low enough to make you instinctively duck, and lingering immediately afterward at a great height, an almost imperceptible dot that seems gradually to glide off into space. You never see a swift sitting on a branch, it never moves about on the ground. With such a creature it’s not surprising that ignorance shades over into superstition. People used to be convinced that swifts came straight from the moon.
Abhorrent as the young swift was to me, something connected me with it, my enemy and comrade in fear on a long Sunday afternoon in the drawing room: I had wrested knowledge from it which it tried to keep hidden from humans. For the bird to have clung to the curtain material, it must have had the necessary claws. And when it lay on its back on the carpet, close to death, with wings outstretched and helplessly twitching, I saw with my own eyes, from close up, the short, admittedly rather wasted-looking, but certainly existing legs of the swift. Legs such as all birds have. That made it anything but the mysterious creature of fable endowed with marvelous powers.
I raced from the drawing room across to the kitchen, where my breakfast was ready, shouting again and again, “The swift has got legs,” breathless, I wanted to go into all the details, but my nanny, pushing the plate of open bread rolls toward me when I finally sat myself down on the kitchen bench, just shook her head sadly.
Something was broken. I still have this vague feeling today, even though it has never become quite clear to me what happened. The look on my nanny’s face, her head moving gently from side to side, her bright, loose hair against the light, caressing her chin and cheeks. Was that the last breakfast Maria would ever serve me? She sat opposite me as though she knew something far more significant than my basic discovery about the swift, a terrible revelation hardly bearable even to an adult, let alone a child.
Did I idolize Maria? As a small boy, yes, certainly. And it only struck me years later that her head-shaking might have had more to do with her lover than with her possible dismissal. But at the time the effect on me was, must have been, to make me connect my nanny’s secret knowledge with the incident of the swift the day before.