1. Chapter

Krempen lay forty kilometres from the city, and on Sundays railway connections were poor. Wolfgang had offered to drive her down, and insisted that she explain why she didn’t want him to. It was simply that she wanted to arrive there alone, and walk through the village as she used to, lugging her case. She would pass the meadows leading to her old school; and, under the inquisitive stares of the villagers, she would pause to put her trunk down.

She would see the distillery, no longer working but the chimney still standing, with a stork’s nest on top. What would the storks be doing now, in August? Preparing for their long journey, she thought. And on her journey, Susanne decided, she would have time to look forward to Krempen: to the little attic under the roof, the holidays, the long walks.

Wolfgang took her to the station. The train was late. Railway stations also observe the day of rest, she thought. They’re quieter, tidier — and the trains take their time.

“You’re staying a week?” he asked.

“Perhaps a little longer, if I like it.”

“Don’t forget we’re going on holiday ....”

“I won’t,” said Susanne. “And you mustn’t forget the fruit salad in the pantry. And do remember to eat once in a while.” Poring over his books, he often forgot about food.

How different people were. On the station, some hurried to and fro, others stood quietly by their luggage. The young man seated on his trunk was watching Susanne. Later he would say she had been watching him too, although she had only glanced at him for a second and then turned away with a disdainful look. She wouldn’t remember that: one often reacts without realising it.

The arrival of the train was announced.

“Shall I fetch you?” he asked.

“I’ll phone — or write.”

She stood at the open window of the carriage door. When the train started moving out he jumped up to kiss her again, and she realised that for the first time since she had known him, she was going alone on a holiday. No duties, no children. A whole week to herself: chatting with Gisela occasionally, reading, swimming, going down to the old wooden landing-stage. It was more than two years now .. . She’d been a child then, and now she was almost a married woman.

In the evening, Einstein will play the flute. He'll drive me mad one day with his eternal warbling, Gisela had written. Why had she married him if she didn’t love him? Because she could dominate him, and out of vanity. Susanne thought: The trains are a little slower on Sundays.

In Bieberstädt she had to wait a full hour for the connection. It was just six, and there was still a patch of sunlight at the end of the platform where she sat perched on her case. She had brought books and could have read, but she sat with her face up to the sun; and with the warmth and quiet, a feeling of tiredness came over her. Although she had slept till midday she was not completely rested.

She stood up and walked slowly across the rails. For a while she gave her attention to the flowers ringed by a little wooden fence next to the station. They were well kept. Flowers on stations.

The little inn smelt of beer and floor polish, and most of the tables were empty. Susanne ordered coffee and took a book of poems from her bag. The group seated near the bar were talking loudly about a man named Pansegrau.

“Waiter!” someone called from the window.

It was then she saw the young man sitting at the table on the far side. He handed the waiter his empty beer glass. A book lay before him on the table; but it was closed, and he was looking at her. He was somewhere in his mid-twenties and must have been looking at her for some time.

She tried to read but couldn’t get the feel of the poem because she felt his eyes on her and wanted to know for sure whether he was still looking. The coffee was hot and she saw that the young man hadn’t moved. He was still sitting there, his hands folded on the book, summing her up with an impudent eye as though she were the only thing worth looking at.

Hallo there. I’m through with my book and don’t feel like reading any more. So I’m looking at you — and you’ll be looking at me too, I’m sure. Are we waiting for the same train? We’ve at least an hour in that case. Meanwhile I’ve found out that you stop to look at flowers ....

Your farewell earlier on looked as though you were going steady. He’s a good-looking man and seems to love you more than you love him. And before the waiter brings my beer, you’ll look at me again.

He seemed the type Susanne didn’t like — the type that expected no resistance and were infuriated when they encountered it. They came to conquer but were not used to fighting. They’d done it so many times it was second nature. Their every action personified male aggression.

They were all alike, with their impudent coolness and complacent smiles, so sure of victory. She had experienced it all once before, five years ago. It was on the Baltic coast. The fellow had danced with her and then seen her back to the camping site. On the way back he tried to kiss her but she refused; whereupon he explained that when a

girl agrees to dance and spend the evening with a boy, she has automatically agreed that he may take her home and kiss her. That was the way of things. But when Susanne continued to refuse, he said she was not a normal girl. Cold and not normal. She was sixteen, he was twenty-one, and his accusation worried her for a long time ....

The waiter brought the beer. The young man drank then raised his glass to her, flecking the foam from his lips. Pretending her thoughts were elsewhere, she swept her glance indifferently past him, along the wall to the clock and across to the window. Outside, the signals stood impassively in the sun. The poem in her book, which she had read three times, said:

 

I clean my hands of plaster traces
And in the vase the yellow roses
Place:

Practising now for later days

— For tender hands.

 

The young man stood up, beer in hand, and came over to her. “May I?” he said and sat down.

She noticed immediately his light-coloured eyes — blue or blue-green but very pale and observant.

“Are you waiting for the six-fifty?”

She continued staring at her book, but it seemed silly to pretend he wasn’t there.

“And what if I am?” she said briefly, knowing it wouldn’t discourage him in the least.

“Then we’re both waiting for the same train,” he said.

She did not reply.

“Are you going far with your big trunk?”

She nodded.

“You’re not reading. You might just as well put the book down.”

She could either ignore him or put the book down. He was impertinent but he was right.

“What a shame —I would have enjoyed reading,” she said, placing the book on the table. He scanned the title and said,

“Someone once wrote, that to see the title of the book is halfway to knowing the reader. Would you agree?” “Perhaps. Sometimes.”

“Poetry is in fashion. Everybody’s scribbling verses. Are you?”

She shook her head. She saw now he was not absolutely sure of himself. He seemed a little more adult and less complacent, even a little timid. His glass was empty. He signaled to the waiter.

“Are you having beer?”

“No. But you’re drinking too much.”

“Yes,” he said simply.

“How much?”

“It depends.”

“How many a day?”

After hesitating he said, “Twelve, fifteen. Last Thursday it was more — twenty-three or so.” He said it as if it were nothing, the normal thing. He seemed surprised that she thought it unbelievable or foolish.

“You’re ruining yourself.”

“Does it show?”

“Not yet.”

He proffered a cigarette but she refused, and his hand shook when he lit his own.

“I would have thought you wrote poetry,” he said, neither joking nor ironic but with a sort of regret. Could he really have thought so? There was a strange kind of honesty about him, a thoughtful, serious quality.

When they returned to the platform he was carrying her trunk in one hand, his and a briefcase in the other. He was nearly a head taller than she.

“How far are you going?” he asked.

“To Krempen.”

“On holiday or do you live there?”

“Part o£ my holiday. I’m visiting someone.”

“Will you stay long?”

“A week.”

“Do you know the hole?”

“Quite well. I did my practical training there.”

The train should have arrived — it had gone seven. The platform and rails lay in the shadow of the power storehouse. Ten or twelve travellers waited patiently.

“My name is Christian,” said the young man suddenly. “Smolny.”

“I’m Susanne Krug,” she replied.

He held out his hand and bowed. He didn’t seem to know if he should smile or how long to hold the grip. Susanne withdrew her hand but momentarily she had felt the pressure and the hesitation and also the unexpected roughness of his hand.

“Shall I ask what’s keeping the train?”

She shrugged and thought: He’s different, he’s not that type at all. It’s so much nonsense in any case — there are no types.

“Why don’t they announce what’s happened to the train?”

“They probably think it’s not worth the trouble,” said Susanne.

“It annoys me,” he said. “They’re lazy because they know they’re going to get paid anyway. Doesn’t that make you angry?”

She said, Yes. From afar a train was approaching, and a garbled announcement flooded from the loudspeakers.

“They’re announcing the diving depths,” said Christian.

The train didn’t stop. It was a long goods train which clanked noisily through the station, each wagon with its own set of rattles.

Christian had stepped back from the edge of the platform and pulled Susanne towards him so that he stood between her and the passing train. He said something but the train carried his words away and she shook her head.

He didn’t understand. The rush of air blew her hair into her face. They stood facing each other and she thought: You’re not as I thought you were. I know your name now, but what does that mean? My hands hold my hair back so that I can look at you — and you’re different! Your eyes tell me you’d like to know who or what I am. Men always want to know so much, but you ... What made you timid? And why such hard lines round your mouth? And there’s a small scar above your eye....

It was a long goods train, and every wagon shook with its own individual rattle.