Necessary Lies by Eva Stachniak Page A

his mother’s punishment, a cross she had to bear with patience and humility. This is what he had really remembered from Breslau. These walks on which she always hurried him home. On which there was never enough time for another swing, an ice-cream. So, in the end, he would hurry, too, home to Gretchen, his beloved nanny, who waited for him at the door.
    It was Gretchen who pinched his cheeks, drew his bath and tickled him until he sputtered with laughter and saliva. Gretchen who taught him songs and stories he would remember for a long time after. “Hear this?” she would ask, and he listened to the thunder rolling through the sky. “The Wild Hunt.” She told him about Wodan, the king of the gods, leading his frenzied gallop through the sky. Wild, wild horses carrying their masters, the warriors slain in battles, galloping through the darkened sky, in hot pursuit of some fantastic game.
    â€œGood warriors, Gretchen?”
    â€œThe bravest. The best. The most valiant. In the heat of battle a beautiful Valkyrie, a maiden on horseback, would appear to the chosen one. ’Get ready,’ she would say, ’Get ready, my brave one. For you the great Wodan will open the sacred doors of Valhalla.’ And so went the valiant warrior, his eyes still filled with the memories of the fight. He would join Wodan at the last battle, at the twilight of the Gods.”
    During all these uncomfortable evenings in Käthe’s living room, when conversations faltered, or went in circles, or stopped at unpredictable moments, it seemed to Anna that both, motherand son, tried to catch each other at some grave transgression. All they were looking for was one more proof that would finally lay bare what they both knew was there all along.
    Anna remembers one such evening, a few years ago. Käthe’s sixty-fifth birthday. William bought her an old musical box and restored it himself. It was lovely, Anna thought, with its inlaid pattern of fern-like leaves. Käthe still lived alone, then, on Terrebonne Street, a housing complex for seniors.
    Anna had her own worries consuming her then. Marie had just come back from Poland, her first trip after martial law was declared. She talked of dark grey streets, of people walking without a smile in their faces, trying to remain invisible. All telephone conversations were monitored, all letters opened and read. There was no food, no coal for the winter. Police were everywhere.
    She had visited Anna s parents. “No one says
martial law
there. They all say
the war,’
she said. ”Your mother said it was worse than the war because this time it was not the Germans who were pointing the guns at them.”
    For days afterwards Marie spoke of nothing else but dark, dirty cities, of the Wroclaw Central Station smelling of spilled beer and sour vomit, of people standing in line-ups for hours, motionless, seemingly resigned to what was happening to them. Her visa said three weeks, but she had to leave after two - she couldn’t take it any more.
    Käthe opened the door wearing a grey dress. Her only piece of jewellery was a golden chain with a small crucifix. They talked for a while, an innocent talk of the winter, the chill of the northerly winds, the slippery pavements, a city forgetful of its pedestrians.
    There was a routine to their visits and this was not an exception, in spite of the musical box wrapped in golden wrap, and a card with best wishes of happiness and peace. They brought a cake from the Patisserie Beige in Outrement and a box of Belgian chocolates. Käthe cooked dinner. At that time her arthritis did not bother her that much. The movements of her hands were still quick and precise. Like William’s, Anna thought, but of course never said it. The table was set for three,with Käthe’s embroidered tablecloth, white damask roses on white linen, the wineglasses enamelled with grapes and vine leaves. The whole apartment smelled of garlic and