The German Girl Page 2

  Things changed when she insisted upon his bath. She got as far as pulling his shirt off him, before the lights in his eyes began to dim, like the setting sun outside, and he began swearing again, slapping at her hands, and arms, and making them sting. She bit her lip, tears pricking at her eyes; she hadn’t been prepared for how painful it would be when he forgot. Not that anyone had sugar-coated his condition. Their once-gentle hermit was now often sour and mean. It was a bitter pill to swallow.

  ‘Please calm down, Morfar. You need a bath. You’re starting to smell.’

  ‘I do not smell!’ he cried, outraged.

  She sighed, then picked up his shirt and pressed it to his nose.

  He shook his head like a dog, ripping the shirt out of her hands, and throwing it on the floor. ‘Stop it, Marta! I don’t want you here, I don’t need anyone, do you hear me? Get the hell out!’

  Narfi started to bark, and Jürgen suddenly looked dazed. ‘Bjørn?’ he said, reaching out a hand towards the dog, his ire momentarily forgotten.

  ‘Narfi,’ she reminded him. ‘And if you want me to leave, it’s simple – just get in this bath, and soap yourself,’ she said, handing him a bar of home-made lemon verbena soap from the small farm shop half an hour away. ‘I’ll turn my back.’

  Which is why she didn’t see it when he kicked the steel tub she’d spent the past twenty minutes filling with steaming water, until it cascaded onto the floor, slamming into the back of her legs.

  She whirled around, screaming blue murder. He stood, half-naked in the corner, laughing. His voice suddenly high, little a little boy’s.

  ‘You should see your face, Küken. Better than that day we stole ol’ Polga’s boat!’ She crossed her arms and he giggled. ‘Come on, Asta, since when can’t you take a joke?’

  ‘It’s Ingrid,’ she snapped. ‘And it’s not funny – I spent ages filling that.’ She knew he couldn’t help muddling names. But right then she didn’t feel much sympathy. He still smelled and it had taken such a long time to get that bath ready. She sighed, then got the towels and mop and cleaned up the mess.

  Afterwards, she walked up the stairs and fetched a clean shirt and a pair of tracksuit bottoms, which she thrust into his arms. ‘Put these on,’ she demanded, in no mood for an argument. She was too cross to be surprised when he complied. Then she gathered up his old, dirty clothes, which she’d take back to her own cabin to run through the washing machine. ‘You can smell for all I care,’ she said between clenched teeth, realising with annoyance that she was behaving just as Marta had, but unable to help herself.

  She slipped out of her soaking snow trousers. ‘I’m going to borrow a pair of yours for the walk home.’ She flashed him a hard look; she was different to her cousin – who was all fire and blather – in one respect. Ingrid was like a mountain goat, small and seemingly mild, but inside she was stubborn to the core and not afraid to use her horns if pressed. ‘I will bring them back when I see you in the morning, so I suggest you try and get over it.’ Then she felt a pang of shame, mixed with annoyance – it wasn’t like he could help getting muddled – and she softened. ‘You’ll be all right? You’ve got enough food?’

  He rolled his eyes. ‘I’m fine. You don’t have to look after me – I have underpants older than you.’

  She gave him a hard stare. ‘Don’t forget to keep the fire burning.’

  She ducked as he flung one of his slippers at her. Then she whistled, and Narfi followed her outside.

  It was only much later, after her mile-long trudge back through the woods, struggling through waist-high snow, when she was inside her own tiny cabin – one of just eleven in their hamlet, dotted around the vast lake and forest – that she realised he hadn’t been speaking Swedish at all.

  He’d been speaking German.

  2

  He’d called her Küken – little bird. The word turned over in her mind, like a sharp stone lodged inside a shoe, its uncomfortable pricking making her unable to think of anything else.

  Ingrid hadn’t even realised the moment he’d switched languages. For her, after nearly ten years of speaking it at home, it was as natural as slipping off her shoes as soon as she entered her apartment after a long day at the office: her boyfriend, Ben, had been German. Ex-boyfriend, she reminded herself, with a pang.

  Speaking German had become natural for her over the years, but it was not natural for Morfar. Not even close. It was a language he’d once got so angry at her for learning he’d almost turned violent.

  The memory was old, but the emotions were still as sharp as a blade’s edge. The kind of memory that every so often, when you recall it, leaves behind a fresh little wound. She’d been a child, and living in Stjärna – before her parents moved to the city when her father got a new job. Morfar had come into their cabin one day, and heard her practising German phrases. She was nine and wanted to surprise her new friend, Suzie, whose family had moved to their village. Suzie didn’t know Swedish yet and she was having a tough time because the other children kept teasing her, and Ingrid wanted to help. She was excited and pleased when her mother had come home with some second-hand Swedish to German language books and tapes that she’d picked up from the bookstore after her work at a dairy farm, forty minutes away. Ingrid had begun practising every chance she could get. She enjoyed playing with the wooden animals Morfar had carved for her over the years, and having conversations while she sat in front of the fire.

  ‘Guten Morgen, mein name ist Ingrid. Wie geht’s?’

  Suddenly, there was a wild, strangled sound, and she’d looked up in a fright, to see her beloved grandfather, her Morfar, turn grey, like dirty dishwater, like all the blood inside him had run down some invisible drain. Then, all at once, he flew at her, his eyes blazing, his hands curled into claws. The small wooden animals in her hands fell with a clatter to the floor and she yelped.

  He was barely recognisable and Ingrid’s bowels clenched in fear.

  He pulled her up roughly by the arm, his face a hair’s breadth away from hers as he screeched at her through bloodless lips, ‘STOP! Stop it right this minute! Do you hear me? I FORBID IT!’

  She gasped for air, hot tears spilling over her cheeks in streams that pooled inside the hollow of her neck. She shivered with shock. He’d never reacted to her like this before. His arms had only ever offered a welcoming embrace, his scratchy face had only ever been ready for a smile. His clever hands were always pointing things out, helping her put on an extra jumper or carving a wooden animal for her amusement – never this. They’d never been used to hurt her before.

  She gulped for air, as her brain whirred, looking for an explanation. It came up empty – she didn’t understand – what had she done wrong?

  There was the sound of booted feet hitting the wooden floor in haste as her father came charging into the room, alerted by the sound of Jürgen’s screams and Ingrid’s loud sobbing. ‘What’s going on here? Why are you holding her like that!’

  Jürgen had turned to him, his eyes wild, as he found a new source for his anger, letting Ingrid’s arm go at last. There were white marks, surrounded by red, from his fingers. ‘I found her – speaking – speaking…’ He broke off, not saying the word.

  Ingrid’s father looked incredulous, and his anger was quick to spark. ‘Speaking?’ He shook his head then looked at Jürgen with confusion. ‘She’s a child, Jürgen, they say things… perhaps things that they shouldn’t. What happened?’ he asked Ingrid, who was rubbing her arm, and struggling to catch a breath between her sobs.

  ‘I – I don’t know. I just said the words from the tapes. I was just trying to learn…’

  Her father frowned. ‘Tapes – what tapes? Learn what?’

  ‘G-German,’ she said, breathing heavily, gasping for air. ‘I – I wanted to learn for my friend, Suzie – she can’t speak Swedish, and I want to understand her better. What did I do wrong, Far?’

  Ingrid’s father’s eyes widened. ‘Nothing. You did nothing wrong, do you hear me?’ Then he tur
ned to Jürgen, his face hard. ‘What the hell, Jürgen?’

  Jürgen did not back down. ‘I will not have her speaking that language in this house!’ he’d raged.

  Her father’s eyes widened once more, his face twisted in sudden fury. ‘This is my house, Jürgen,’ he reminded him, his voice low, like a hiss. His fists balled at his sides. Truth be told he was more than a little shocked. Ingrid was a firm favourite of the old hermit, and he and Jonna often joked that if it weren’t for their daughter they’d never see him.

  ‘This prejudice of yours – it’s not welcome here. I see no reason why she cannot learn another language – it wasn’t the Nazis that created the language, and they do not represent an entire population, Jürgen. We haven’t challenged you on this before, because our generation did not live through the war but I will not allow you to poison Inge with such rubbish. Get a handle on yourself – she’s just a little girl trying to learn her new friend’s language.’

  Jürgen seemed to deflate, as her father’s words penetrated. The red mist that had consumed him evaporated, and he looked utterly ashamed. ‘Is your arm all right?’ he asked Ingrid.

  Ingrid sniffled, but nodded.

  ‘I—’ He cleared his throat. ‘Inge, I – I’m sorry,’ he said, seeming to fold into himself, the look on his face heartbreaking. ‘There’s – it’s just—’ He broke off, pressing his lips together. He took a deep breath. ‘I don’t know what happened to me, please forgive me,’ he said, looking from her to her father, who remained impassive, and back again.

  ‘I think it’s time you left, Jürgen.’

  He nodded. To Ingrid it looked as if he’d suddenly become old, something she’d never really thought of him being before.

  It was weeks before they saw him again. Ingrid couldn’t remember if her father had said anything more to her about the subject or if her mother had; all she remembered was missing him. She would stare out their cabin window, as the autumn wind chased away the last of the red-gold leaves and the first frost arrived, turning the berries outside to crystallised jewels, keeping one eye towards their drive for any sign of his familiar straw hat, and long-legged, ambling walk, wondering if he’d ever come again.

  When he finally did, snow had settled on the ground, and winter had dealt its last riposte, its victory ensuring they’d be bound inside by the cold for months. He brought her a new wooden toy, a small wooden bear that he’d carved just for her, like all her others. It was a snow bear, and its eyes were solemn and sad. Ingrid had understood, perhaps in some instinctual way, what he was trying to say, even if her parents didn’t. Morfar was the bear, and her speaking German had roused him somehow.

  The incident changed things slightly, especially for her father, who was never completely comfortable with leaving Ingrid alone with him after that, even though over the months and years there never was another outburst from him.

  She continued to learn German, though, encouraged in some way by her father, who hadn’t appreciated being told what to do in his own home. But Ingrid never did speak it around her grandfather again. She’d seen the naked pain in his eyes, behind the rage, and she hadn’t wanted to hurt him any more than he did her.

  She frowned, as she played with the cord of the telephone now, as she thought of it. It was late, but knowing her night-owl mother, she’d probably still be up, reading. Besides, Ingrid was sure that she’d want to know how it had gone. It killed her that they were living in Malmö, so far away from him.

  Jonna picked up on the second ring. ‘It’s me,’ said Ingrid, after hearing her voice.

  ‘How did it go?’

  ‘Morfar remembered me today.’

  ‘Oh, Ingrid,’ said her mother, softly. ‘Are you all right?’

  Ingrid blew out her cheeks. She would not cry about this. She’d promised herself after she and Ben had broken up and she’d decided to take over Jürgen’s care that she wouldn’t fall apart. It was going to be a good thing, a fresh start. ‘Yes. I can handle him.’

  ‘Well, I think you’re probably one of the few that could,’ she agreed. ‘But if it is too much and he’s getting worse, well, then we need to rethink things…’

  ‘It’s fine – honestly. You know Morfar – it’s partly the early dementia but also a lot to do with his pride and the fact that he doesn’t like to admit that he needs help sometimes,’ she said, thinking of his firewood. She knew he suffered from arthritis, which was particularly painful in the colder months, and was no doubt one of the main reasons he’d delayed on filling up his log pile.

  ‘Well, yes, he’s always been a bear when he thought people were sticking their noses in his business.’

  Ingrid nodded. ‘Always,’ she agreed.

  ‘You’ve spoken to his doctor?’

  ‘Yes, he told me what he told you – he says that he’s still there really, he just needs some help for now.’ She didn’t say the rest, she didn’t need to – her mother knew it all already, and it kept her awake most nights consumed with worry; the least Ingrid could do was give her some relief on that front. Unlike Marta she wasn’t going to give up, just because he was difficult. She thought of his crack about his underpants and shook her head, a small smile on her lips.

  The doctor had told her that it was his short-term memory that was the biggest concern if he continued to live out here. For the most part he was still roughly cognisant, and his long-term memory was fine but if he started to forget to eat, that’s when they might need to think about sending him to a care home. The trouble was, Ingrid knew Morfar: if that happened, he wouldn’t last long – he was too stubborn, too independent, and far too ornery. At least with her there he’d have some level of freedom, if only she could make him see that…

  She sighed. She’d worry about that later; for now, the one thing that was bothering her was his sudden switch into a language he claimed to despise. ‘That’s not the only reason I’m calling, though,’ she said.

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘He spoke German.’

  There was a sharp intake of breath. ‘German?’

  ‘Yes.’

  There was a snort as if Ingrid was teasing her; Jonna’s voice was quickly dismissive. ‘Can’t be, love.’

  Ingrid sighed. ‘Trust me – he was speaking German – I mean, almost like a native.’

  ‘What! Are you sure?’

  ‘Positive. I’d got so used to speaking it with Ben over the years that I didn’t even realise we’d switched languages.’

  They’d been together for nearly ten years; it had ended when they’d realised they both wanted very different things. Monogamy for her, for one… it was one of the reasons she’d taken a long, hard look at her life and finally taken the plunge to move back to northern Sweden – if she didn’t do it now, when would she? When she’d found someone else? Got married? Settled down? Those things would make it much harder. There was never a good time to change your life – but there were times when it felt like the earth turned on its axis in such a way that all you had to do was take a leap. Like when she heard about Morfar’s deteriorating condition – something her mother had been keeping from her, knowing how stressed she was about the end of her relationship. When she had finally told her the truth, the decision to move to her parents’ summer cabin and care for him had been instantaneous – and fortuitous, as Marta hadn’t hung up the towel, she’d burnt it and trodden on its embers.

  Jonna continued. ‘I – I always thought Morfar hated the language – I mean, it never made sense, really. But there was that thing when you were – I don’t know, maybe eight or nine? When your friend Suzie moved to Stjärna, I don’t know if you remember…’

  ‘Oh, I remember,’ said Ingrid. ‘Believe me.’

  Her mother sighed. ‘Well. Yes. I suppose it must have left an impression. Your father said he’d never seen him like that before. So angry… so wild. I never dreamt he could actually speak the language – considering how he reacted anytime someone spoke it.’

  ‘Me neither. But he seemed to
know it very well.’

  There was a small exhalation at the end of the line. ‘What did he say?’

  Ingrid thought back to while she was filling the bath. His voice had changed. ‘He sounded young, and he was saying something about a boat, he called me Küken – a little bird. Was it maybe an endearment of some kind he used on you?’

  ‘No, never,’ breathed her mother.

  Ingrid frowned. ‘Maybe he had to learn it against his will or something – at school, or later during the war? I know that Sweden was neutral but there was the fear that they might be invaded like Norway or Denmark, wasn’t there?’

  ‘Oh yes. A lot of the men were put on standby to train as soldiers in case that ever happened. Being neutral didn’t mean Sweden just carried on as if nothing was happening, it was still a time full of fear – watching planes pass overhead wondering if one of those bombs was going to be for you, listening to the news about the world going mad, mass persecutions, concentration camps, starvation… I remember a teacher telling me that it was like hiding away in an attic when there were burglars inside, but the burglars knew you were there, and you were waiting to hear them climb the stairs…’

  Ingrid blew out her cheeks. It must have been scary. Of course, Sweden had had to compromise a lot – it wasn’t squeaky clean in its neutrality as they’d had to concede a great deal to Germany for the privilege of that neutrality, and so, for the ordinary citizens, it stood to reason that they might have been afraid that their agreement with the Nazis was as ‘solid’ as the one the Nazis had with Poland, before they crumbled the country in two like a cookie they shared with the Soviets.

  ‘When I was growing up, he hated it whenever anything was in German – even the news. He would walk out the room if the television was on and they were speaking it. I always wondered if something specific happened during the war – something to him, you know, to make him react that strongly, but of course he never spoke of it.’