from a corner and pulls it up
right next to her bed.
“My daughter,” he says.
Hanna pretends to be asleep.
“Hanna.”
She still says nothing. Will he not get tired and go away?
He will not. She feels a movement on the bedclothes. He has
inserted his hand under the top blanket. For a while he keeps very
still, then the hand begins to move closer as if it has a life of
its own, like a fat crab. It touches her hip and goes still again.
She lies very rigid.
He whispers, “Hanna.”
She does not answer.
“Surely it cannot be worth it,” he says, as if he is talking to
himself. “We can come to an understanding. You can go back to
school. You can even go on reading your books, provided they are
not too lewd or ungodly.”
She does not answer.
“My only concern is for your well-being,” he says. “You had us
all very worried indeed. Double pneumonia. But you will soon be
well, the doctor says. Are you not glad?”
She remains wrapped in silence as in a cocoon. No butterfly will
hatch here.
“You are really a good girl, Hanna. I am prepared to talk to
Frau Agathe.”
Hanna says nothing, but her whole body keeps rigid. He must know
she is not asleep. The hand begins to move across from her hip. It
reaches what it has been trying to find, and comes to rest, the
thick fingers cupped over it.
“Hanna?”
“I shall tell God,” she says through clenched teeth, her eyes
still tightly shut.
He utters a small harsh laugh. “If God has to choose between you
and me, who do you think he will believe?”
“Then I shall tell Fraulein Braunschweig. She will believe
me.”
The hand freezes, goes limp, moves away. She can breathe
again.
“Whatever happens,” he says, “you will have brought upon
yourself. You understand that, don’t you?”
“I’m going to die,” she says quietly.
Suddenly he erupts. “Then die!” he shouts at her. “For God’s
sake, die! But don’t come crawling back to me afterwards asking for
forgiveness.”
She doesn’t bother to respond. Her eyes are still closed when he
leaves. The bed is swaying, rocking, drawn along by a gentle
invisible current, like a small boat on the sea.
∨ The Other Side of Silence ∧
Eighteen
T here are a hundred
and ten women on the Hans Woermann which leaves Hamburg
harbour on a miserable dark day in mid-January. The ship carries
twenty first-class passengers, so the women transported to the
colony of German South-West Africa are housed in rather
unprepossessing quarters. Thirty of them, entered on the register
as the more educated or cultured of the crop, the gebildeten
Mädchen , because they can afford to contribute the sum of 150
marks to then-passage, are lodged in second-class cabins, each with
a bunk to herself. But the majority, the sixty einfachen
Mädchen , transported at the government’s expense in third
class, are herded into dingy cabins below sea level, two to a bunk
designed for one, four bunks to a cabin. It is the only way to
create space for the five thousand tons of freight which make the
journey affordable; the Company turns a blind eye, and the
passenger lists are amended accordingly.
It is on the list supplied by Frau Charlotte Sprandel of the
Kolonialgesellschaft in Berlin, on behalf of Johann Albrecht,
Herzog zu Mecklenburg, that an unfortunate spattering of black ink
first designates one of the passengers as Hanna X.
The woman assigned to share a bunk with her is Lotte Mehring.
The name immediately calls up the most intimate memories from
Hanna’s past, Die Leiden des Jungen Werther . But it is so
much more than a name. It is a new reality. Lotte is a small
slender girl with wispy blonde hair, mousy but not unattractive. A
few years younger than Hanna, widowed at twenty-two, she has been
shipped off by her late husband’s family before she could claim any
of the meagre inheritance his seven brothers preferred to keep to
themselves. Not that she would have wished to hold any reminder of
the brief marriage which
right next to her bed.
“My daughter,” he says.
Hanna pretends to be asleep.
“Hanna.”
She still says nothing. Will he not get tired and go away?
He will not. She feels a movement on the bedclothes. He has
inserted his hand under the top blanket. For a while he keeps very
still, then the hand begins to move closer as if it has a life of
its own, like a fat crab. It touches her hip and goes still again.
She lies very rigid.
He whispers, “Hanna.”
She does not answer.
“Surely it cannot be worth it,” he says, as if he is talking to
himself. “We can come to an understanding. You can go back to
school. You can even go on reading your books, provided they are
not too lewd or ungodly.”
She does not answer.
“My only concern is for your well-being,” he says. “You had us
all very worried indeed. Double pneumonia. But you will soon be
well, the doctor says. Are you not glad?”
She remains wrapped in silence as in a cocoon. No butterfly will
hatch here.
“You are really a good girl, Hanna. I am prepared to talk to
Frau Agathe.”
Hanna says nothing, but her whole body keeps rigid. He must know
she is not asleep. The hand begins to move across from her hip. It
reaches what it has been trying to find, and comes to rest, the
thick fingers cupped over it.
“Hanna?”
“I shall tell God,” she says through clenched teeth, her eyes
still tightly shut.
He utters a small harsh laugh. “If God has to choose between you
and me, who do you think he will believe?”
“Then I shall tell Fraulein Braunschweig. She will believe
me.”
The hand freezes, goes limp, moves away. She can breathe
again.
“Whatever happens,” he says, “you will have brought upon
yourself. You understand that, don’t you?”
“I’m going to die,” she says quietly.
Suddenly he erupts. “Then die!” he shouts at her. “For God’s
sake, die! But don’t come crawling back to me afterwards asking for
forgiveness.”
She doesn’t bother to respond. Her eyes are still closed when he
leaves. The bed is swaying, rocking, drawn along by a gentle
invisible current, like a small boat on the sea.
∨ The Other Side of Silence ∧
Eighteen
T here are a hundred
and ten women on the Hans Woermann which leaves Hamburg
harbour on a miserable dark day in mid-January. The ship carries
twenty first-class passengers, so the women transported to the
colony of German South-West Africa are housed in rather
unprepossessing quarters. Thirty of them, entered on the register
as the more educated or cultured of the crop, the gebildeten
Mädchen , because they can afford to contribute the sum of 150
marks to then-passage, are lodged in second-class cabins, each with
a bunk to herself. But the majority, the sixty einfachen
Mädchen , transported at the government’s expense in third
class, are herded into dingy cabins below sea level, two to a bunk
designed for one, four bunks to a cabin. It is the only way to
create space for the five thousand tons of freight which make the
journey affordable; the Company turns a blind eye, and the
passenger lists are amended accordingly.
It is on the list supplied by Frau Charlotte Sprandel of the
Kolonialgesellschaft in Berlin, on behalf of Johann Albrecht,
Herzog zu Mecklenburg, that an unfortunate spattering of black ink
first designates one of the passengers as Hanna X.
The woman assigned to share a bunk with her is Lotte Mehring.
The name immediately calls up the most intimate memories from
Hanna’s past, Die Leiden des Jungen Werther . But it is so
much more than a name. It is a new reality. Lotte is a small
slender girl with wispy blonde hair, mousy but not unattractive. A
few years younger than Hanna, widowed at twenty-two, she has been
shipped off by her late husband’s family before she could claim any
of the meagre inheritance his seven brothers preferred to keep to
themselves. Not that she would have wished to hold any reminder of
the brief marriage which
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