From that day on, Lisa began memorising the alphabet, learning the syllables, forming words with a swiftness and eagerness that never ceased to amaze Hans. Seeing her contort her hand to trace the symbols, hearing her delicious attempts to pronounce diphthongs, Hans was overcome with true emotion (an emotion mixed with another, darker frisson) and a sense that all was not lost. Lisa applied herself to her studies with an almost furious determination. The only thing she did as she cleaned, sewed and washed the laundry was repeat the strange alphabet over and over to herself. In the evenings, as soon as her parents had gone to bed (or when their panting stopped after the rhythmic creaking), Lisa would light an oil lamp, put it close to her bed, and copy out the letters with her brother’s pencils. Her homework had to be good, better than good. Too much depended on it — her self-esteem, her future, the threat of being punished by her parents, Hans’s opinion of her.
One afternoon, while writing a report on a book, Hans became distracted by the noises in the house. This distraction was partly because he had found the work frankly tedious, and partly because Thomas’s excited voice echoing through the corridor on his return from school was difficult to ignore. He stretched and left his room to go to downstairs and have a coffee. When Thomas saw him come down, he did the same as always — greet him cheerfully, do four or five acrobatic turns, and grin mischievously before running off in search of other amusements. As he watched Thomas run off, Hans felt forlorn — there is nothing more difficult to capture than a child’s attention when he is playing, he reflected. Holding his cup to his lips, he puzzled over why an adult was primed for the hatred of another adult, but not for a child’s indifference. Thomas’s wandering gaze, which delighted in things only to forget them instantaneously, the restless eyes with which he viewed the world, were they enamoured of everything or did they retain nothing?
Thomas enjoyed picking his nose as thoroughly as possible, as though hoping to find some buried treasure deep inside his nostrils. He didn’t do this using just one finger, but by forming a relentless pincer with his thumb and forefinger (the thumb tunnelling inside while the forefinger acted as a support). He did his homework in the same way, with a look of bemusement and scorn. Or rather, that was how he contemplated it, without writing a single word in his exercise book. Since Hans had begun spending more time at the inn translating, he had been able to observe Thomas’s habits more closely, and to discover how little interest he had in studying. Because he liked the boy, and perhaps also to disguise the fact that he was helping Lisa, he would occasionally give Thomas a hand with his homework.
Thomas’s school curriculum consisted of reciting aloud, handwriting, arithmetic and above all Bible studies. Hans learnt that his fellow pupils were artisans, peasants and Jews — in other words he attended a municipal school. The week before, Thomas had misbehaved or so his teacher had thought, and had made him write out the slogan: “Patience, piety, purpose” a hundred times, as well as inflecting the three nouns through their different cases. The teacher had surprised Thomas exchanging shameful drawings with another boy. He had caned them both for a quarter of an hour in front of the class. He had told them it was for their own good and they must learn to face the consequences of their actions. On discovering what had happened, Herr Zeit had gone to the teacher to apologise. The teacher had reminded him that unless the same discipline they attempted to inculcate at school were maintained in the home, all their efforts would be in vain. In agreement with the school’s methods, Herr Zeit, furious, had gone home and caned his son for another quarter of an hour while listing all the sacrifices they, his parents, had made for him.
Hans had tried to give the boy reasons to study, but Thomas, with a mixture of naivety and common sense, had refuted his arguments one by one. What’s the use of reading? he would protest, digging his elbows into his schoolbook. It’s useful for everything, Hans would insist, for anything you might want to do. But I don’t want to do anything, the boy had retorted. Then you’ll need to know even more if you want to go through life doing nothing, Hans had said, grinning. There are only three ways of learning, Thomas — through experience, listening and reading. But as children are prevented from doing practically everything, including listening to grown-ups’ conversations, the only way to learn is to read, do you understand? Well, Thomas had said grudgingly, but what about writing, what’s the use of writing? Hans had responded with amusement: So you can do what mummies do. Mummies? the boy had gaped at him with astonishment. In ancient Egypt, Hans had explained, oh, and while we’re on the subject, if you can find Egypt for me on a map I’ll give you a bag of sweets, that’s what maps are for, too! In Ancient Egypt they would write the names of the gods because they knew words outlast statues, buildings, even the mummies themselves. Stuff and nonsense! Thomas had protested. How can a word last longer than a bit of stone! Stones are hard and words are not. And anyway, look, pencil is easy to rub out, see? … You’re right, Hans had admitted, although I don’t suppose you or I will ever be able to build a castle or a pyramid; it takes a very long time, lots of money and thousands of people. But you and I on our own, do you see? can write pyramid or castle without anyone’s help. Stuff and nonsense! Thomas repeated, picking his nose. But a moment later, as Hans began to walk off, he had stopped him and asked: Hey, what sort of life did those mummies have?
Excuse me, Frau Zeit said, entering the parlour, I’d like a word.
Hans, who hadn’t finished his coffee yet, gestured towards the sofa. Suddenly, the light began to wane. The afternoon was dissolving into the cauldron.
No, thank you, said the innkeeper’s wife, I prefer to stand. Well, I’ll get straight to the point, as I’m sure you have work to do and so have I. I wanted to talk to you about Thomas. About Thomas’s lessons. I gather you’ve been helping him out with his homework and teaching him who knows what else. I’m grateful to you for taking the trouble. But my son doesn’t need a private tutor. And if he did, rest assured we’d hire one. Thomas goes to a good school where he receives a proper education. Neither his father nor I enjoyed that privilege. Thomas complains of being bored at school and I’m not surprised, bearing in mind the sweets you give him and the games you propose that distract him from his homework. No, you listen to me for a moment. I know you mean well. And as I said, I’m grateful. But my son’s education is the responsibility of his parents and his teachers. And not of strangers lodging at the inn. Have I made myself clear? Good. I’m glad to hear it. No, that doesn’t matter. And, if I may say so it’s none of your business either. For that reason, as Thomas’s mother, I’m asking you not to teach Thomas anything, especially things that are of no use to him at school. As I said, I appreciate your good intentions. Now appreciate mine. Good afternoon. Let me know what time you want supper.
Before going out into the corridor, Frau Zeit added: Oh, I forgot. My husband says you’re using too much oil and he can’t keep filling the lamp. Tell your husband, said Hans solemnly, I need the lamp in order to work because tallow candles are a strain on the eyes, and I’ll pay him each week for the oil I use. Good afternoon.
When Hans was alone with his cup of cold coffee, he made two decisions — that night he would not dine at the inn and, come hell or high water, Lisa would continue to receive lessons from a stranger.