Marianne Fritz - The Weight of Things

“Maybe we’ll both make it out alive. Then you can come with me to Donaublau. I’ll get you a job at the secondary school. As a janitor or something. Let me take care of it. I get along well with the principal. Let me take care of it.”

Wilhelm revered Rudolf, and he liked the idea of going to Donaublau with him, it sounded nice, peaceful. He was familiar with Rudolf’s tendency to swing from irate rebellion at the interminable madness of those years to soft, tranquil daydreams — and then to the naked fear he felt for Berta, the alpha and omega of his sentimental daydreams.

“Don’t forget the ‘Aquarelles’! Or the ‘Blue Danube’ either! You have to learn to play the fiddle. Swear to me. Cross your heart. I can feel it — I’m not going to make it back. There’s no use saying otherwise. I know.” As he said this, the Private First Class pointed at his temple. So firm was his belief that the assembly lines of war had already manufactured the decisive bomb or bullet that would bring his life to a close, that at times even Wilhelm came to think his friend’s survival unlikely.

Wilhelm never promised Rudolf he’d learn to play the fiddle; he was too old for that, he felt. But he did repeatedly swear, whenever Rudolf demanded it, that he would look at Berta through Rudolf’s eyes. It wasn’t hard to do: Rudolf could paint an aquarelle of Berta with words, so convincingly that Wilhelm could never see her except as Rudolf did, even if he tried.

And he knew he was thinking with Rudolf’s mind when he concealed from Berta the particulars of his friend’s death. But Wilhelmine insisted on wheedling it out of him.

It hadn’t been easy, but he’d managed to make his way to Allerseelengasse. Building 13 was the only one remaining that was halfway habitable. On the fourth floor, he’d knocked at door 12 and seen Berta with Rudolf’s eyes, a thing that wasn’t hard for him to do.

And Wilhelm kept the oath he had sworn to his friend. He stayed.

He even tried to learn the fiddle, but gave it up after a time. Berta started crying, utterly bewildered, when she heard the violent moans and groans he coaxed from the instrument; at last she took the fiddle away from him, saying, “Leave it, Wilhelm. Put it in the dresser. Leave it alone. It’s out of tune. I can’t tune it and you don’t know a music teacher who can. Just forget about it.”

“Be patient with me. I’m learning. Believe me, I really am,” he objected, and Berta simply smiled.

This smile he attributed to whimsy rather than contempt. And with time, Berta managed to convince him that she wouldn’t trade him for any man in the world. Not even for the best fiddle player.

BERTA’S ANSWER

Wilhelm shook Berta more and more violently, and his breath came faster and his face twisted.

“Why? Berta? Why?”

Berta giggled. “So. So,” she said, and her eyelids began to flutter open and closed, open and closed.

WILHELMINE ON HER WAY

Wilhelmine was restless, pacing back and forth in the courtyard. Her eyes scanned the north and west sides of the fortress. There was no sign of Wilhelm anywhere.

Wilhelmine was indignant, highly indignant. So great was her indignation that she waddled past the porter to see for herself whether everything in the fortress was in order.

She wheezed up and down the staircases, one hand balled into a fist, the other clutching her handbag.

Her indignation propelled her forward, and it was not until she became aware of the conflict between her movements and her indignation that sensible thoughts were able to once more work their way into her head. All the doors were closed, she saw; she was merely marching upstairs and down. So she waddled back to the porter, though it was difficult to track him down in this labyrinth. From him she learned that in order to get to Berta she had to take one specific staircase. She found this one staircase, wheezed her way up, sucked in several deep breaths while standing outside the door to the ward, then pressed the button, and the door opened.

She zipped past Sister Franziska Querbalkener, who called after her, “Hello! You! Madame! Where are you trying to go! That is against the rules! Hello!”

Once more, Wilhelmine stopped for a moment to catch her breath, and she used this moment to give Sister Franziska Querbalkener an annihilating stare: “I must be admitted to Ward 66, to see a certain Berta Schrei,” she said, in a tone that said quite clearly: “Don’t hold me up with your needling. I’m in a hurry!”

Sister Franzi shook her head. “Ma’am! You’re going the wrong way! Over here! Over here!” Wilhelmine again welled up with indignation. Yet after an arduous struggle with herself, she thought it best to let it pass, even if letting things pass was far from her strong suit. She nodded solemnly and said, “Of course. I know that. I’m not an idiot, you know.” And she marched past Sister Franziska Querbalkener with her head held high.

She stopped one more time, to gather herself in front of the door to Ward 66. She caught her breath before opening the door. Now she was in her element. She would create order, set matters aright, and save that catastrophe called Berta from Wilhelm’s doubting and brooding once and for all.

“So!” she said, and, “Here I am!” pinning Wilhelm in a devastating stare that clearly indicated what awaited him as soon as they had left the fortress behind. “Wait and see! Just you wait!”

INSEPARABLE FRIENDS

When Wilhelmine caught sight of Berta, she went up to her with arms wide: “Berta! You poor thing! How are you though? Just look at you! This hair! Who gave you this outrageous haircut?” She accosted Berta’s left cheek with a kiss, her right with another, examined her from all sides, took a look around the room, and declared with satisfaction, “The bed linens are clean and everything seems to be in its place.”

She ran a finger lightly over Berta’s nightstand and announced, thoroughly contented, “Indeed. No dust. That’s what I call order. See, Berta. Things have actually turned out quite well for you. They take care of you here. Here everything is in order, everything has its place.”

She pawed Berta’s cheek and then offered good-naturedly, “Isn’t that right, you poor little thing? It’s not so bad as all that. What do you say, my little dear?”

Berta giggled and dropped her head, ashamed. Hardly had the door opened when Wilhelm jumped up, jerking back his hand and sending the roses flying from Berta’s lap onto the floor. Desperately, he racked his brains for a clever turn of phrase, something to make light of the situation. He soon found it, or so he thought, for as soon as he spoke it aloud, he immediately regretted opening his mouth:

“You know our Wilhelmine, Berta! She sweeps in, tosses everything into disarray, and then, miracle of miracles (!), God looks down and all is squeaky clean.”

Wilhelmine’s eyes were on the Madonna. She sat down by Berta on the bed, ran her hand over Berta’s hair, reached nonchalantly for Berta’s necklace, and in a tone so gentle it made the sweat bead up on Wilhelm’s forehead, she cooed, “Berta! My child! My little disaster! You’re still holding onto that Madonna trinket!” She smiled, stared into Berta’s eyes, and Berta giggled, more ashamed than ever, before lowering her eyes to the floor.

Wilhelmine rested her right hand on Berta’s lap and left it there a long while, till Berta’s fluttering eyelids showed she had seen what there was to see on Wilhelmine’s ring finger. Berta reached up, let her arm drop, said, “So. So,” and set to twiddling her thumbs. Her own ring was locked up in the fortress depository.

Wilhelmine rolled the Madonna trinket back and forth between her fingers. When Wilhelm nudged her, she responded with an obstinate shrug. He wiped his forehead with the large white kerchief Wilhelmine had embroidered with a W and an S , then tugged at his necktie, opened the top button of his white shirt, and pushed the cloth down into his collar, mopping up the sweat on his neck.