Julia Franck - The Blind Side of the Heart

So Peter knew that she came from near Berlin. She had no husband, but all the same she didn’t want him back. She just wanted to see him. Peter felt himself tightening his lips, his teeth nibbled at the dry skin on them, softened it, bit strips off. What was she after? All these years later. He wasn’t going to show up anyway. Let her come.

His uncle fetched his mother from Gelbensande station in the morning, she was coming by train, changing at Rostock. Would Peter like to go to the station with him, his uncle asked, but his aunt said the sow had farrowed in the night and someone had to see to the piglets. The sow had had too many, she was two teats short, and the two extra piglets risked being bitten to death or starving, because each of the others jealously clung to its own teat. Peter was happy to go to the shed. He knelt down beside the sow where she lay and chose the strongest of the suckling piglets. The sow’s light-coloured bristles were curiously soft along her belly, some of the teats were fuller than others, some large and knotty, others small and long. The piglets kept their eyes closed. Peter hauled the strongest piglet off its teat and it squealed as if its throat were being cut. He would carry it around for a while so that one of the two runts of the litter could have a go. With the piglet in his arms, Peter trudged through the straw and climbed the narrow ladder to the hayloft. It was dry and warm up there, warmer than down below. Peter sometimes hid here to read and dream. You could see the whole farmyard through the cracks in the skylight. From up here he had a view of the gate, the entrance, the beginning of the poplar-lined road. He took his clasp knife out of his trouser pocket and cut a little notch in the frame of the skylight, which was already heavily carved, another notch, making a pattern, an ornament. It wasn’t long before a clattering sound was heard and the little truck appeared in Peter’s line of vision. His uncle got out, opened the gate, got in again, drove into the yard and climbed out once more to close the gate. Hasso started barking and jumped up at his uncle. Hasso was a good-tempered German shepherd, but bright enough to guard the farmyard. The last dog, a large mongrel whom Peter had taken to his heart, had been put to sleep because he didn’t bark loudly enough. The other door of the truck opened and a young woman climbed out. At least, from up here she still looked like a girl, slender legs under her skirt, fashionable shepherd’s check coat, blue headscarf. Peter recognized her blonde hair, as fair as if it had turned white. Her familiar figure, the way she walked, the way she put one foot in front of the other gave Peter gooseflesh. She was carrying a little handbag and a net shopping bag. She looked around hesitantly. Perhaps she had brought him a present. How old would his mother be now? Peter did a quick calculation, she must be forty-seven. Forty-seven! Still, six years younger than his uncle and aunt. The piglet in Peter’s arms squealed. Peter watched his uncle disappear into the farmhouse with his mother. He quickly climbed down the ladder and took the piglet back to the sow.

Peter! That was his uncle’s voice. He must have come out of the front door to call for him. Peter kept still and didn’t respond. Come on in, time for coffee!

His uncle had never invited him to have coffee. Peter had once helped himself to some out of the pot on the sly, tasting it with plenty of milk and sugar.

Peter waited until he heard nothing but the snorting and breathing of the animals, then climbed back up to his hiding place. He could see the house from the skylight. There was a wooden roof over the porch, with benches to left and right where you sat to take off your wellington boots and put on wooden clogs. If it was as cold as today, Hasso lay there on the planks of the porch among the shoes and the benches. He liked chewing shoes, it was his one vice, but he was forgiven because he barked so well. Peter could see Hasso’s tail from the skylight, thumping down on the porch floor at regular intervals. Then he saw Hasso jump up and wag his tail. His uncle appeared on the porch, shouting: Peter!

That call, just his name, showed that they were being thoughtful of the visitor. Usually his uncle was never as patient as that, calling his name instead of cursing that lout, where could he be this time? Peter had to smile. She would soon come out on to the porch too. Would she call his name? Peter felt excited. He wasn’t going to show himself, never. Peter! Let her call, let her wait for him, let her hope he’d turn up. Peter felt his trousers with one hand; they were covered with bits of hay and straw.

Wait a minute, he heard his uncle say, turning to the dog, I’ll soon ferret him out. Peter needed to pass water, but he didn’t want to leave his place here, he wanted to see her come out on to the porch and look for him.

Where’s Peter? he heard his uncle asking. Find, Hasso, find. His uncle slapped his thigh impatiently. His aunt must have put the potatoes on indoors. His mother was staying for lunch. His aunt had made cabbage roulades. Peter had suggested pickled herrings; he remembered that his mother had liked those as much as he did. Rollmops and pickled herrings. But his aunt didn’t like fish. They lived eight kilometres from the coast and his aunt had never eaten fish in her life, so there was never any at the farmhouse. Peter remembered how his mother often used to cook fish for him. With juniper, he thought, what a nice word. He said it out loud: Juniper. The little black berries that his mother used to flavour the fish. Peter liked to smell her hands; even when she had been gutting and cooking the fish her hands had their own special smell. Perhaps he could forget the smell of his mother some day. It wasn’t until four in the afternoon that her train would leave Gelbensande, taking her to Rostock, where she would change for Berlin. Hasso wagged his tail. Obviously he didn’t take Peter’s uncle’s command to find him seriously.

Peter took his handkerchief out of his trouser pocket and wiped his hands with it. He washed his hands often, several times a day. The other boys at school said that made you infertile, which was a good idea. Peter couldn’t imagine ever having children. Now his mother did come out on to the porch. She wasn’t wearing her headscarf any more, and she must have left her coat indoors too. Her hair was piled up on her head. She must be freezing. Peter saw her fold her arms and stand uncertainly at the top of the few steps under the porch. Her breath was white vapour in front of her face. She had a beautiful face. Wide and regular. Her high forehead, her narrowed eyes — Peter remembered how bright they were, as bright as the Baltic Sea in summer. His uncle had come out into the yard and was telling Hasso to look for Peter. Seek, Hasso, seek. Peter saw his uncle going to the outhouses; after all, Peter had been told to look after the piglets this morning. His uncle disappeared from view, and Peter heard the door of the shed underneath him open. Cautiously and quietly, he squeezed in among the bales of straw. He heard his uncle call his name, then a clattering, a thumping as if his uncle were stamping his foot and kicking over a bucket, the squealing of the piglets as if he had kicked them.

His uncle’s footsteps went back through the cowshed; perhaps he thought Peter was there with the cows. Once again he heard his name, its sound muted by the straw. Hasso barked, only briefly this time and far away.

After the back door of the shed had closed and he thought the coast was clear, Peter crawled out of hiding. Now the skylight showed him the porch as well as Hasso and his uncle. His mother must have gone back into the warm again. Was she asking questions, asking about him? Perhaps she was proud that he was going to secondary school. His aunt and uncle didn’t like to talk about that, but they hadn’t dared to disagree with the teacher and his strong recommendation. Oh, very well, his uncle had said after that interview at the school. So long as Peter went on helping on the farm he could stay at school. Peter knew where he wanted to go later. A few weeks ago a College of Film Studies had opened in Potsdam near Berlin; he had read about it in the newspaper. And one Sunday there had been a long talk about it on the radio, saying how it was going to train talented young people. Who knew, perhaps he was one of those? They’d all be marvelling at him yet, his uncle and aunt, his father, his mother.