“I can handle it,” Inge protested, but my dad would have none of it.
“It’s pretty heavy,” he said. “Really is.”
I followed the adults, and when we came to Inge’s doorstep, they suddenly grew eerily quiet. I remember how embarrassed my father seemed. With that big box of his, he stood in front of Inge’s door and large drops were visible on his forehead, but it is clear to me now that he wasn’t sweating because of the unusually warm weather. I still see Inge’s hand around the doorknob, hesitating, unable to make a move. But Friedrich had heard us come and finally opened the door from the inside and let us in. His face looked grim. We must have been the first visitors in the two years since they had come to Hemmersmoor.
“Just put it down somewhere,” Inge said to my father. “I’ll take care of it later. Thank you so much.”
My dad didn’t leave immediately though. He set down the box and slowly looked around Inge’s chamber. “A bit tight,” he said. “They couldn’t find anything smaller for you, right? But it’s clean, everything’s shipshape.” He nodded. “It’s a lot of toys.”
“What do you say?” Inge asked her son.
“Thank you,” Friedrich said.
“Thank you so much,” Inge said and started toward the door.
“Yes, we should get to work,” Dad said. But he took another moment to inspect the room. “No photo of your husband?” he suddenly asked.
Inge blushed. “I lost everything,” she quickly answered.
“That’s right,” Dad said. “Well, we should really go. Maybe Linde can help Friedrich put everything together?”
“Well, yes, but…,” Inge said slowly, turning around to look at her son.
“But shouldn’t I help you outside?” I pleaded.
“We’ll be okay without you,” my dad answered.
“But if she’d rather help?” Inge said.
“We’ll be fine,” he said brusquely, and a few minutes later I found myself alone with Friedrich in that small room. He stood in front of the large box, obviously curious about what was inside but too proud to make a move.
“Anke isn’t here,” I said into the silence. I remembered my mother’s instructions: I had to befriend the boy.
“She’s stupid,” he said.
“Not at all,” I shot back. “Maybe a little.”
“You are nicer,” he said matter-of-factly, and then we unpacked the toys together, assembled the tracks, and cleaned the railroad cars. “And you really don’t want them anymore?” he asked.
I shrugged my shoulders. “My mother says I’m too old for such things.”
“I’m just as old as you are.”
“But you’re a boy,” I said.
He looked at me in puzzlement, then stared at the steam engine in his hand and said, “I think your dad likes my mom.”
I paused a moment in horror. Until now this whole affair had been a complicated game between my parents, but to hear those words from Friedrich’s mouth made it all real. He was right, there could be no doubt. “Don’t be silly,” I said.
“See for yourself.” He stood up and ran over to a dresser, pulled open a drawer, and showed me its contents. “He always brings her things, even when she doesn’t want them.” Inside the drawer was a small clay vase, which I had made for my father at school, and next to it a necklace with a blue pendant. A crocheted handkerchief, a bar of soap that smelled of roses, a pin cushion. “Almost every day he gives her something.” Friedrich’s tone of voice balanced between accusatory and confidential. “She thinks she’s keeping it secret, but lately she’s behaved so differently.”
“Different how?”
“Yesterday she hit me because I came home with my clothes dirty. And then she immediately started to cry. I tried to console her, but she wept all night. And this morning she slapped me because I wasn’t ready on time.”
“You’re lying,” I said. “That’s a lie. Your mother is an evil woman.”
“Take that back,” he said.
“Don’t hold your breath,” I replied. “Mom is right—your mother is bad.” I slapped his face.
Yet this time Friedrich did not run away. He hit my face and tears came to my eyes; I pulled his hair. He screamed, grabbed my dress. Then he bit my arm, and I stepped on his toes and pushed him. Friedrich stumbled and fell, landing on the postal car. Maybe we would have bloodied each other, but at that moment we heard steps outside the front door, and Friedrich jumped to his feet. “If you tell on me, you’re dead,” he whispered.
A moment later Inge Madelung opened the door, and behind her appeared the old owner of the manor with his immaculately shined shoes. “Wouldn’t it be great? There’s nothing like a brisk ride across the moor.” He laughed and raised his left hand in a fist.
“Friedrich?” Inge said. “I hope you don’t mind the mess. Mr. Janeke—”
“Nonsense,” said Johann von Kamphoff, stepping carefully over the tracks and engines. “I really don’t want to bother you and keep you away from the garden, but I’d like to know if you have everything you need.”
Inge, Friedrich, and I stayed silent and watched the owner unabashedly inspect the small room. And didn’t it all belong to him? It was his property, his own house. He walked about, put a finger to his mouth, then swished it along the high edge of a small wardrobe. “Ah,” he exclaimed. “What a woman. Perhaps I should have you work in the Big House. All that hard work in the gardens must wear you out. And Janeke is a crank. He’s no companion for someone like you, Mrs. Madelung.”
Mortified, I cast down my eyes. The old owner turned to Friedrich. “Hello, young man,” he said with a smile. “Does your mom take good care of you? She’s telling me that you resemble your dad very much. Is that right?” He turned to Inge and winked at her before addressing the boy once more. “We will find some better rooms for you and your mom. A man like you needs a bit of space, right? A good desk to study at too. You shouldn’t grow up in such a tiny box.”
Friedrich nodded quietly. Inge went to stand behind him, as though she needed to protect her son. She seemed very small, and her voice was barely audible. “Thank you very much, Mr. von Kamphoff,” she said. “But you have done enough.”
“Nonsense,” he said, and slowly walked toward the front door. “You are a formidable mother. Those weren’t empty words. Next week we will furnish you with a better room.” He was silent for a moment, then looked at her with a serious expression. Slowly he nodded his head. “This weather, this weather…” Before leaving, he touched her cheek and caressed it. “Nature is sometimes odd.”
On Christmas it rained all day and night, yet it was so warm that the people in Hemmersmoor opened their windows anyway and took long walks in shirtsleeves and rubber boots. The star singers carried umbrellas, and the water in the canals rose and flooded the bogs. The Christmas trees seemed out of place; the gingerbread cookies softened and wouldn’t taste right.
Mom remained suspicious of my dad, and my report about Johann von Kamphoff’s visit to the widow’s chamber only confirmed her opinion about Inge Madelung. I kept quiet, however, about what Friedrich had showed me; I was too afraid of the consequences. The warm weather couldn’t soothe her, and on Christmas Eve my mother argued with my dad. She felt he didn’t tell her everything, and what she suspected must have been even worse than the truth. “I can’t believe you’re not at the manor tonight,” she said after dinner. “You and the Crow are so close these days. I don’t understand why you come home at all.”
My father lowered his head and didn’t answer. We could hear how he slowly exhaled. His head and neck turned red.