“Damn mess,” cursed Mr. von Kamphoff, and then looked at Inge, who quickly turned away and pretended not to have overheard the men’s conversation.
“Erich,” the owner said, and pointed to my father. “Erich thinks he’s the only one who knows anything about garden work.” He laughed jovially. “But I wasn’t always a silly old man. I traveled the world. Saw Africa, the desert, the Muslims, the black devils. A fascinating continent.”
Even I was listening to the old man now, just like Anke. Maybe the black woman in the basement wasn’t just a rumor after all. Maybe the people in the village had been right all along.
Inge smiled. “How are your grandchildren doing?” she asked. “My Fritz worships your Rutger.”
Anke’s face lit up as soon as the widow mentioned Rutger von Kamphoff. The owner’s grandson had to be thirteen or fourteen, and all my friends wanted to marry him. He didn’t go to school in Hemmersmoor, but from time to time a black Mercedes appeared in our village, and when the von Kamphoff family stepped out onto our cobblestone streets, the villagers dropped whatever they were doing and stared open-mouthed at the spectacle. After each and every of Rutger’s visits, all the girls claimed he had winked at them.
Yet the old man didn’t seem to have heard the question. “It’s a shame that a young woman like you has to fend for herself,” he said. “Your husband was a soldier?”
Inge nodded. “He died in Lithuania.”
Johann von Kamphoff grunted. “A shame,” he said. “I think I might be able to help you out a bit. Is there anything you need? Does your son need anything? I don’t want to embarrass you, but if you’re missing something, please let me know.” His face had been unusually grim during his little speech, but now it lit up again. “We have to help one another, right?” he said. “You are a wonderful worker. I’m not offering any handouts.”
Inge nodded. She didn’t know what to say to all this. “Thank you,” she squeezed out and smiled. The old man smiled back, winked at her, and quickly turned away.
My father’s voice became audible again only after the heat had driven Johann von Kamphoff back to the manor house. “You can’t work like this,” he moaned. “Yes, Mr. von Kamphoff. Absolutely right, Mr. von Kamphoff.” For a while he stared ahead, lost in thought; then he turned on Inge. “And all this because of you. Smile, make a pretty face. Encourage that old goat. You’ll see what it gets you.” Anger colored his face purple.
Inge stayed silent and quickly looked at me and Anke; she hadn’t forgotten about our presence. “Should I return to the fields?” she asked quietly.
Now my father turned to look at us. “Nonsense,” he exclaimed quickly, and his anger subsided momentarily.
Around noon Friedrich stepped into the garden to bring his mother sandwiches and an apple. He looked at Anke and me as though we were apparitions, and then frowned. My father took our lunch from the truck, handed me the sandwiches my mother had wrapped in coarse paper, and said, “Go ahead. You can show Friedrich the maze. But don’t yell and scream. Nobody has to know you’re in there.”
Only slowly did we leave our parents. Friedrich seemed displeased by the idea of having us around. He stopped and turned to look at his mom time and again, but she waved him away. Scowling, he followed Anke and me through the garden. “I already know the maze,” he said. “It’s boring.”
“You’re boring,” Anke shot back.
“Why do you want to go to the maze?” he asked. “The hedges are all bare.”
“Anke has never been there. It’s her first time at the manor,” I said importantly.
“I know it inside and out,” he said quickly. “And I’m allowed to go to the stables whenever I want. Maybe they’ll let me ride one of the horses sometime soon.”
“They don’t belong to you,” Anke said. “You don’t belong here.”
“So?” Friedrich said. “Without Linde, you wouldn’t be here. And she’s only the gardener’s daughter.”
“And she isn’t allowed to ride the horses either.”
“But I’m a boy.” Friedrich blocked Anke’s path. “Why are you so dolled up?”
“Because my mom won’t let me run around in old rags,” she quipped, but Friedrich had already shoved her to the ground. “Dumb cow,” he said.
I knew what I owed my friend and slapped Friedrich hard in the face. I thought he would hit me back, but he only looked at me for a moment, then turned and ran away. “Friedrich,” I called after him—I feared my dad would be angry if he found out what happened—but he didn’t come back.
When it was time to return home, it stayed very quiet in our truck. My dad turned to gaze at me from time to time but didn’t say a word. Anke’s dress was soiled, and I could feel that she regretted ever having agreed to come. She could have baked cookies with her mother; now she had blisters on her hands, hadn’t found the maze to her taste, hadn’t seen any horses, and, worst of all, hadn’t caught a single glimpse of Rutger von Kamphoff.
“Thank you, Mr. Janeke,” she said nicely and icily in front of her house. “You want to come over tomorrow?” she asked me while she was climbing out of the truck. “My dad is going to decorate the tree with us.”
“You go,” my father said. “I’ll be okay on my own.” But I shook my head. I had given my word.
That evening my mother took me aside and questioned me about Inge Madelung. How was she dressed? What did she talk about with my dad? Was she really constantly at his side? What had she said and done?
I loved my father, but I feared my mother. I had to give her something if I wanted to stay in her good graces.
“The owner of the manor seems to like her well,” I said, and told her about the old man’s peculiar behavior.
“It’s a shame,” she said. “What a cunning person. Well, she doesn’t own a thing, so she has to go after our men.” But no matter how much she cursed and complained, the news seemed to please her. She praised my effort, tousled my hair, and stroked my cheeks. “Be nice to Friedrich,” she said. “See if he tells you something.”
Later that evening my dad called me and asked if I had made friends with Friedrich. I confessed what had happened, and what Anke had said, and he nodded. Finally he said, “It’s not as easy for Friedrich as it is for you girls.”
“But he’s dumb and stupid,” I said.
“He’s only afraid.”
“Afraid of us?”
“He’s not from here, and you let him feel that.” He paused a moment. “Do you really want to come with me again tomorrow morning?”
“Yes,” I said. “Do the von Kamphoffs really have a black woman in the basement?”
My father looked at me in surprise; he’d never been interested in rumors. “Maybe you and Friedrich can find out tomorrow,” he laughed. Then his face was all serious again. “Don’t tell your mother anything about Mrs. Madelung. It will only upset her.”
I nodded.
“She doesn’t understand the work I’m doing, how good it feels to have someone who is meticulous, hardworking, and who you can count on. Your mother sometimes suspects the worst things imaginable, but we know better, don’t we?” he asked.
I nodded again.
“And be nice to Friedrich. Maybe you can still become friends,” he said slowly. “Are you still playing with your model train?”
The next morning, while my mom was boiling water for his coffee, my dad came to my room, and with my help, he snuck out of the house for a few short minutes without my mother noticing. When we reached the manor house in our three-wheeled truck and Inge Madelung came to greet us, he took a large wooden box from its bed. “It’s nothing,” he explained. “Only old toys Linde has no use for anymore.” And as an answer to Inge’s surprised look, he quickly added, “She never owned any dolls.” His face turned red and he grinned sheepishly. “I guess I always wanted…” He stopped himself. “I can help you carry all that junk home.”