Stefan Kiesbye - Your House Is on Fire, Your Children All Gone

Yet he didn’t come back from Buenos Aires either. Colorful postcards from Cairo, Vancouver, San Francisco, and Macao reached Hemmersmoor, where the mailman showed them around at the bakery.

“Don’t read it,” he warned the baker’s wife. “But look at that city. I didn’t even know that place existed.”

During the first two years of Olaf’s travels, the neighbors often asked about him. Yes, the accident at the factory had been a terrible thing, but was it really necessary to stay away so long? Where was he now? What did Hilde know about his whereabouts? Maybe he had sent a picture?

After two years the questions became more infrequent. And Hilde’s answers grew ever more terse. Yes, he was still writing to her. Yes, he would return soon. But after five years, Olaf still had not come back to Hemmersmoor, and slowly people forgot about him. Hilde lived with her father-in-law, helped him around the inn, and ran the daily errands. Sometimes, after she left the bakery, Mrs. Meier said, “What a shame. Such a young, beautiful girl.”

The Fricks, the wealthiest family in the village, found no peace. First Alex was sent to juvenile prison; then Anna married Rutger von Kamphoff and became the main source of village gossip. All eyes were on her wedding. Such a spectacle had never been seen in Hemmersmoor, and the villagers whispered that the von Kamphoffs needed Frick’s money to stay afloat. But half a year later, Anna was dead, and Rutger von Kamphoff stood trial for manslaughter. Nobody in our village had time for missing sailors.

After seven years Olaf finally came home. He was twenty-five, broader in the shoulders, with a harshened face and a mustache. He wore a peacoat and carried a canvas bag on his back and a new, shiny leather suitcase in his left hand. He looked taller too, the women of Hemmersmoor remarked. Mrs. Hoffmann sneered. “He must be a beast after all the years in those dark countries.” She had never forgiven the Fricks for her son’s death.

Olaf walked straight to his parents’ house, where for the first time he learned of his mother’s death. Jan Hussel’s accident had been the harbinger of only worse tragedies. Bernd Frick was a rich man, but his children had brought him only shame and disappointment. Some people claimed that the family was star-crossed; others said Bernd had been a bad father and spent too much time emptying our pockets. But maybe Olaf’s return would change the family’s luck. Alex had been released from juvenile prison and every night, after closing, helped at the inn. The house was clean, and Bernd Frick, though older, in good health.

And there was Hilde. Olaf felt dizzy watching her. She had filled out—the young girl he knew had turned into a woman. She was his wife, and what an odd idea that had to be. All these years he must have hoped to get back, and here she was now, and it was quiet in his father’s living room. She embraced him, whispering, “You look so strange.”

Olaf had big plans. He had spent little of his money and saved enough to build his own house. He wanted to run his own business, maybe take over the boat-repair shop from Peter Falkenhorst or sell motorbikes in Groß Ostensen.

This he explained to us in his father’s living room, while eating stew Hilde had cooked. “You could have let us know you were coming,” she scolded. My parents and my sister, Birgit, plus the Fitschens from next door and the Meiers with their daughter, Sylvia, had come to look at the trinkets Olaf had gathered on his travels. He showed us a blue scarab. “What an odd thing to worship,” Sylvia said, and turned the bug in her hand. Olaf showed us a stone Buddha he’d bought in Shanghai, masks from Africa, and a brass figurine of what he said was the Statue of Liberty in New York.

Our families shook their heads—wasn’t it peculiar that those foreign peoples should make such strange-looking things? What did they need a dance paddle for? Who had ever heard of dancing with a paddle?

Later, after the Meiers had gone, Bernd Frick opened a bottle of Bommerlunder, and Olaf started to discuss his plan of building a new house.

Bernd Frick’s hair was white now. His belly protruded over his pants, and lines had sunk deep into his face. And yet, sitting together, the sailor looked like a younger, taller version of his father, his features only softened by his mother’s prettiness. Even after years at sea, a certain softness remained around his mouth and eyes, one that Bernd and Alex entirely lacked.

“So where are we going to build it?” Olaf asked.

His father waited a few seconds before shrugging. “You might already have a plan.”

Olaf smiled. “I thought we should build upriver, right by the Droste. We’ll be close to the village, and if I should go into the boat business, I can expand right there. What do you think?”

Alex grunted approvingly. He was wearing a mustache now and was almost as big as his father. “Sure thing. I can help you.”

“We’re all going to help,” my parents agreed.

The elder Frick thought for a while. “It’s a good plan. And yet…” He folded and unfolded his hands. “You know, after your mother’s death I realized that I won’t live much longer either. I’m nearly seventy, and I might still have a few good years in me, but at some point not too far off in time I’ll die and you, as my only son, will inherit this house.” He sighed.

Alex frowned at his father’s remarks. He hadn’t missed his brother, and even though there was no bad blood between them, he didn’t like the prospect of Olaf eventually taking over the inn. His father didn’t like Alex to show his face at the pub, out of fear that the villagers still bore him a grudge over Broder Hoffmann’s death. But once enough time had passed, Alex intended to manage the inn.

“When Helga died,” Bernd Frick continued, “it was hard on me. She’d been my companion for thirty years. Without Hilde, the house would have fallen apart and I myself with it. What do you say? Why don’t you young people add on to this house, and once I’m gone it’s all yours?”

Olaf chewed his lip. His parents’ house was close to the village square, and he did not like the thought of being scrutinized by his neighbors and providing fodder for their gossip. Still, he had missed his mother’s funeral and felt an obligation to keep an eye on his father. “I’ll think about it,” he said and put an arm around Hilde, who had listened to the conversation without saying a word. “You’re hurting me,” she said and squirmed. He laughed. “I’m a klutz. I’ll be more careful.”

Early next morning I ran to the village square, hoping to meet Olaf alone and ask him about the ships he had worked on. I wanted to know how he’d felt, traveling the world all by himself, how big his ships had been, and what he had seen in the different ports. I had heard of Bombay, of Baghdad and the caliphs, but so far they had existed only in fairy tales. Olaf had seen these cities with his own eyes. What stories he might tell me.

I had another reason to wait for Olaf, however. After last night’s talk, I was hoping I could work for him and save enough money to buy a moped. I had never done construction but was convinced I’d be able to persuade him.

When Olaf finally appeared on the terrace of the inn, his hair was wild, and he squinted into the daylight and looked around as though our square was the most peculiar place on earth. I said hello, and he didn’t seem to recognize me at first. Then he shook his head and said, “Martin. I was just about to take a little walk.”

“Can I join you?” I asked.

We walked along the main street, and suddenly I forgot all the questions I had wanted to ask Olaf. I had known him all my life, but in his presence I again felt like a small boy. The village affairs, my love for Heike Brodersen, which wouldn’t abate—all that had to seem childish to him. Hemmersmoor and I had nothing to offer him.