Julia Franck - The Blind Side of the Heart

Mother, wait for me!

Helene felt for a suitably smooth surface, leaned both hands on the trunk and swung one leg over it. The trunk was so broad, and although it had been uprooted it still stood so high, that she had to sit on it to get over. But how would she get down on the other side? There was a crack. It could hardly be the tree trunk breaking. The cracking sound came from quite close. The stench was back again. Helene’s throat tightened, she retched, swallowed and tried not to breathe, not another breath. It was a terrible stench, not carrion, more like liquid manure. How could that be? They’d got away from the cattle trucks, the train was behind them, she was sure of it. Someone sneezed. Helene turned round. Someone was cowering below the trunk, in the hollow pit left by the roots that now pointed to the sky. Helene opened her mouth, but she couldn’t scream. Her fear was so deep inside her that not a sound came out of her throat. Whoever it was had ducked, there were branches above his back, his head was out of sight, he was almost forcing it into the earth, probably trying to hide and hoping he wouldn’t be noticed. He was shaking so much that the withered leaves on the branches he had piled over him were shaking too. A crack came again. Obviously the man found it difficult to keep so still that nothing touched him and he touched nothing.

Mother? Peter was less than ten metres away now. His mischievous smile flashed over his face. Were you trying to hide? He spoke in a normal tone, he didn’t have to shout now, he was so close. Helene slipped off the tree, she slid and ran towards him, seized his hand and drew him away.

I can help you, Mother, if you can’t get over that tree, I’ll help you, I can do it, you just watch! Peter wanted to go back to the tree trunk, he wouldn’t go in any other direction, he wanted to balance on it and show his mother how to climb over a fallen tree. But his mother, steadily putting one foot in front of the other, hauled Peter along behind her.

Let go, Mother, you’re hurting me.

Helene didn’t let go, she ran, she stumbled, cobwebs stuck to her face, she ran holding the basket out in front of her as if to fend off the cobwebs, the wood was thinning out a little here, ferns and grasses on the forest floor, there was almost no wind, they had to get away. The cow being hunted was a man, there were probably several of them there on the rails, decomposing, stinking. Prisoners, who else would huddle under the branches of the fallen tree in such flimsy clothing? An escaped prisoner. Perhaps this was one of the transports taking supplies to Pölitz. Once the war had begun not enough fuel could be provided, not enough workers found, prisoners were taken away and made to work. Even women, so the nurses whispered to each other, were working in the factories, toiling away until they couldn’t work any more, or eat and drink any more, and one day they wouldn’t have to breathe any more. Had she seen the face of the runaway prisoner, had he raised his head, had she looked into his eyes, frightened eyes, black eyes? Helene saw Martha’s eyes before her. Martha’s frightened eyes. Helene saw Martha in the cattle truck, she saw Martha’s bare feet slipping on the excrement, trying to find somewhere firm to stand, she heard the groaning of the people crammed into the trucks, heard the man’s groaning, saw him trembling under the oak leaves, heard him sneeze. A shot rang out.

A huntsman, hooray, cried Peter.

Dogs barked in the distance and a second shot was fired.

Wait a minute, Mother. Peter wanted to stop and look around, work out which way the shots were coming from. But Helene wouldn’t wait, his hand slipped out of hers, she hurried on, stumbling, falling, leaning on fallen trees for support, clinging to twigs and branches, she went on and never stopped, putting one foot in front of the other. She could run. Rabbit with mushrooms, a really simple dish. The cunning hare sits in the dale,/between the hills and the deep, deep vale. Ah yes, in the vale. Cattle. How could she ever have eaten rabbit?

They went on through the forest for she didn’t know how long, until Peter, behind her, called out that he couldn’t go any further and stopped for a rest. Helene was not to be deterred. She just went on.

Do you know where we are? Peter called behind her.

Helene didn’t, she couldn’t answer him, all this time she had kept her eye on the position of the sun, making sure that when sunlight fell through the leaf canopy it cast their shadows to the right. Did the sun or the trees cast shadows? Helene didn’t know. A simple question, but insoluble. Perhaps it was her hunger driving her, making her heart race, making her sweat. Yes, she was hungry. There wasn’t a single mushroom in her basket, she had just run and run, not even knowing where she was going. She had meant to make sure she was going west, leaving the train behind. Perhaps she had. They had to go on. Helene saw that it was getting lighter over there; they must be coming to a clearing, or a road, or a broad bridle path.

A hand took hers. Peter had caught up with her; his hand was firm and small and dry. How could a little boy have so much strength in his fingers? Helene tried to free herself, but Peter was clinging firmly to her hand.

Forward, one step, two steps, three steps. Helene caught herself counting her footsteps, she just wanted to get away, well away. Peter clung on, reached for her coat; she shook her arm, shook it hard until he had to let go. She went on ahead, he followed. She walked faster than he did. The thinning of the woods proved to be a mirage, they were not thinning out at all, the trees grew closer and closer together, and so did the undergrowth. Clouds had gathered above the treetops. They were driving over the sky up there, chasing inland. How late was it? Late morning, midday, after midday? Her hunger told her it must be late, two or perhaps three o’clock, judging by the position of the sun in the sky. Mother! Mushrooms fried with thyme, simply tossed in butter with salt and pepper, fresh parsley, a few drops of lemon; mushrooms steamed, baked, simmered. Raw, she’d eat the first one raw, here and now. Helene’s mouth was watering, she stumbled on mindlessly. Leaves and twigs, thorns of berry-bearing plants, maybe blackberries, but where were the mushrooms, where were they? Mother! She had left the beech trees behind, she was in an old plantation, all spruce trees now, growing lower and lower, branches hanging down, needles crunching underfoot, the forest floor was going downhill. A little clearing, soft mossy mounds rising from the needles. A fly agaric and another, poisonous, on guard. And there it was before her, a mushroom, its cap curved, dark and gleaming. Snails must have been at it already, one or two little nibbled places showed that someone else had been feasting here. Helene knelt down, her knees pressing into the moss, bent over the mushroom and smelled it. The leaves, the cap of the mushroom, it all smelled of the forest, of autumnal food. Helene laid her head down on the moss and examined the mushroom from below; the gills were still white and firm, an excellent mushroom. Mother! His voice seemed to come from very far away. Helene turned. There they were, standing lined up in the hollow, mushroom after mushroom, last night’s offspring. Helene crawled under the branches on all fours, making her way along on her hands, holding back twigs, wriggling forward, and lay flat on the forest floor. What a wonderful fragrance. Mother! Helene reached for a mushroom, broke it off and put it in her mouth whole. The tender, firm flesh almost melted on her tongue, delicious. Where are you? Peter’s voice was faltering, he was afraid, he couldn’t see her and thought he was alone. Where are you? His voice broke. Helene had left her basket in the clearing. The second mushroom was smaller, firmer, fresher, its pale stalk almost as broad as its brown cap. Mother! Peter was fighting back his tears; she saw his thin boyish legs through the branches as he trudged across the clearing and stopped at the place where she had left her basket, leaned down and straightened up again. He made a trumpet of his hands and put them to his mouth. Mother!