She followed him to his room. Irma was in hers; she opened the door slightly and listened.
“It doesn’t work for me. It never will.”
“…”
“Everything…”
“…”
“I betray nothing, Mother. You are the traitor here…”
Irma sneaked out of her room and stood in the corridor.
“Grandma has found two sponsors for me in America.”
“What sponsors…?”
“The people who agreed to sign the Affidavits of Support…”
“I don’t understand. Who are these people?”
“One is Grandma’s cousin twice removed; the other is her friend’s husband living in New York. Both have already signed the papers.”
“Is that what you’ve been up to all this time? Helmut, I am your mother and you…”
“I didn’t want to tell you until the American immigration office gave its approval. Well, now they have, and my decision is official. There’s a stack of immigration papers to be filled, so I’m going back to Germany. I’ve got no time to waste. It’s good bye, Mother. And I can’t say that I am sorry.”
There was a shocked silence.
“I should have known that she was up to no good. She almost ruined my marriage. And now she got her hands on you.”
Irma went in and sat on a stool.
Helmut was folding his clothes and putting them in neat piles.
“It was my decision. She only helped.”
“Oh, I bet she did. She’s always ready „to help“. Now hold your horses, son. We’ll hear what your father has to say on the subject.”
“He knows. Grandma has written to him, and they talked by phone.”
“And all that is happening behind my back!”
“It has nothing to do with you. It’s my choice, they are only helping me.”
“You are not getting a single pfennig from us. I wonder what you are going to buy your ship ticket with…”
“Father has promised Grandma to consider the question.”
“Oh, damn your father, his mother, and their entire rotten family! They’ve done enough to kill me a thousand times, but I’m still alive, Helmut, and I’m not giving up now.”
She turned to leave and saw Irma in the corner.
“Irma, girl, the holiday’s over thanks to your brother. We’re leaving together.”
“I’m not going in your car, Mother,” Helmut warned. “I’m taking the Rome-Berlin express.”
Frau Krauss signed Irma to leave and took her place on the small stool.
“One day you’ll realize how cruel you’ve been to me. Where’s my fault, Helmut? What have I done to deserve this? You could have faked up some sort of fondness at least for Irma’s sake.”
“Oh, about Irma. You really shouldn’t have dragged her all the way down here, not in her state and not in the car.”
“Helmut, look at me!” her stern voice rang with indignation. “I dragged her all the way down here because she wanted it! We did it for you! You hadn’t seen your country for years. We wanted to introduce you to your own Fatherland, to show you the new Germany.”
“You mean the autobahns and the swastikas? I got the picture all right. I don’t need to see it again.”
He called Irma. She appeared instantly – she had been waiting behind the door.
“Irma, would you rather go back by train?”
She hesitated.
“Don’t look at Mother, look at me. Would you rather go by train?”
She dropped her eyes.
“Leave the poor child alone, she wants to go with her mother.”
Frau Krauss rose and walked out slamming the door hard.
“Give it another thought. You’ll rest properly on the train, and we’ll get home much faster…”
“Are you going to America?” Irma was on the verge of tears. Helmut hated it; he never knew how to handle girls” tears.
“Not tomorrow. It will take another month or two to get a visa.”
“Could you at least stay until mid-September? To celebrate your birthday with us.”
“I’ll think about that,” he lied. “Are you going with me or with Mother?”
She said nothing.
There were six of them. Six tired, gloomy people heading to unknown destiny in a shaky covered lorry.
One of them, Rilke, a young man with a stubborn look on his face was of a tougher sort. He studied the ashy faces of his companions again and again, thinking that he would never be reduced to their state.
His throat felt dry. He felt dust grind on his teeth. It’s been a long journey with very little food or water. They’d been let out only once, and that was hours ago.
But the greatest inconvenience of all was the uncertainty. He scanned the blank faces again. The question on everybody’s mind but not lips: “Where are we being taken?”
“Transported to another place? But why so few of us? To be killed? Why waste the petrol to take us so far? To work? Makes little sense. Only two of us are strong and healthy. That one is old. This one is too skinny. And Red Cross has hardly any life left in him.”
Red Cross was the only man present that Rilke knew: they were from the same barrack. A sad man of few words, worse for wear, with that haggard look on his thin face which Rilke didn’t like in people. He had to make an exception for Red Cross, though, because the man was kind, truly kind – weak, foolish – but kind. At the risk of being beaten, he often engaged in negotiations with guards about medicines or blankets for sick people, and he sometimes got what he’d asked for. This had earned him the nickname Red Cross. The man laughed when he knew about it. That was the only time he was seen laugh. He said his real name, but nobody remembered it; they kept calling him Red Cross. “Good man.” Rilke thought. “Good man… But spineless. By the looks of him he gave up a long time ago. Pity, because his kind doesn’t survive. I’m different. I’ll never give up.”
They stopped off several times, for meals, apparently. They could smell food and hear the guards chatting. Rilke’s stomach groaned. He rubbed his aching thighs to help circulation. “This has to end soon.” Nobody obliged him with a supporting remark.
Rilke tried to focus on happier things. It was a sunny day, judging by the bright light peeping through cracks and holes. They could hear sparrows chirp briskly. The noise was growing. It sounded like somebody was throwing bread crumbs around, and more and more birds raided the place to sample the treat.
“Unbelievable,” Rilke thought. “An inch of wood separating me from normal life. Spring, freedom. Sunshine. Chats with friends over a beer or two. Girls. Better not to think about it.” He caught Red Cross’s eye and pointed at the elderly man, signing: “How is he?” The man had been sitting for hours with his face buried in his hands. Red Cross touched his arm: “You’d better lean on my shoulder.” The man shook his head. Maybe he was concentrated in a prayer, and just as Rilke thought about it, something biblical happened: the back side of the lorry flung open, and a bucket of water was shoved in, a whole bucket of fresh, cool water. “Hey, things aren’t that bad,” Rilke cheered splashing not unlike one