brought her little more than sweat and
tears, black eyes and broken arms and a miscarriage, which she will
relate in a low whisper to Hanna during the long nights they lie
together on the narrow bunk which reeks of despair and stale
urine.
“Why did you marry him then?” Hanna will ask one night.
“He wanted me,” Lotte says simply.
“Did you not know he would use you so?”
“No. But even if I had…” Lotte presses her small forehead
against Hanna’s hard shoulder. “I’m sure I would have married any
man who came along to take me away from our family.”
Hanna shakes her head uncomprehendingly. “At least you had a family,” she points out. “I had only the orphanage,
until they placed me out in service.”
“You don’t know how lucky you were.”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about, Lotte. You should
have seen that place. If I told you about Frau Agathe.” A quiet
shudder. “And Pastor Ulrich…”
“He could not have been as bad as my father. And my two
brothers.”
“But surely…” She cannot speak the rest.
“The first time he came to me in the night,” says Lotte, “I was
not quite ten. My brothers began soon after.”
“But where was your mother then?”
“She pretended not to know. She was too scared, you see. If I
went to her she would get very cross and say it was all lies. And
then she’d tell him what I said and he would beat me. And her
too.”
Lotte will begin to moan softly, as if in pain, and Hanna will
hold her against her body, rocking her very gently until the crying
has subsided.
“Please keep holding me,” says Lotte after a long silence. She
moves her fingers across Hanna’s face in the dark, and then stops
in surprise. “Why is your face wet? Have you been crying too?”
She cannot speak. She only nods. The dark makes confidences
possible which would otherwise be unthinkable.
“But you…”
“Don’t talk now,” says Hanna.
In the dark, in the slow dance of the ship on the sea-swell,
they hold one another, the small slight body and the stronger more
unwieldy one. Holding, holding. Lotte is almost as real to her as
Jeanne d’Arc, years ago, in her small bed in the orphanage. And
almost imperceptibly their hands move across each other’s face,
more lightly than the quivering of a butterfly wing.
“You know,” says Hanna once, “no one has ever held me. Not even
when I was very small. No one came at night to tuck us in. We were
taught to be strong, to devote ourselves to God and good things,
touching was bad, it made one weak. Except once, when a new little
girl came to us, Helga, and she was crying so much, she would keep
us awake at night, I went to put my arms around her and hold her.
Just hold her. But then Frau Agathe found out about it.”
“Tell me,” says Lotte.
And so it becomes Hanna’s turn. And then Lotte’s again. And in
the dark they hold each other very close, body to body, feeling the
new warmth they generate between them. Conscious, always, of the
night outside, and the cold of the sea, the endless near-black
depths below them, this warmth becomes infinitely precious, a
wholeness, a small but brave affirmation that yes, they are here,
Hanna and Lotte, two lonelinesses merging, two histories, a single
breathing living being, beautiful in the dark, vulnerable yet
strong while it lasts. What is this I, this you? From what
immeasurable distances do we come, what light or darkness are we
heading for – nights swarming with stars, palm trees waving in the
wind, glimmering in the sun – how much of eternity can be stored up
in an hour, a single moment? I love you.
She invents not only the geography of Lotte’s body but her own,
a new and breathtaking discovery: that this body she has learned to
despise, to loathe, can be capable of so much pleasure, can give so
much joy. That what used to be a source of pain and revulsion can
now be an affirmation, a place of celebration. This you have given
me, this I can give back
tears, black eyes and broken arms and a miscarriage, which she will
relate in a low whisper to Hanna during the long nights they lie
together on the narrow bunk which reeks of despair and stale
urine.
“Why did you marry him then?” Hanna will ask one night.
“He wanted me,” Lotte says simply.
“Did you not know he would use you so?”
“No. But even if I had…” Lotte presses her small forehead
against Hanna’s hard shoulder. “I’m sure I would have married any
man who came along to take me away from our family.”
Hanna shakes her head uncomprehendingly. “At least you had a family,” she points out. “I had only the orphanage,
until they placed me out in service.”
“You don’t know how lucky you were.”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about, Lotte. You should
have seen that place. If I told you about Frau Agathe.” A quiet
shudder. “And Pastor Ulrich…”
“He could not have been as bad as my father. And my two
brothers.”
“But surely…” She cannot speak the rest.
“The first time he came to me in the night,” says Lotte, “I was
not quite ten. My brothers began soon after.”
“But where was your mother then?”
“She pretended not to know. She was too scared, you see. If I
went to her she would get very cross and say it was all lies. And
then she’d tell him what I said and he would beat me. And her
too.”
Lotte will begin to moan softly, as if in pain, and Hanna will
hold her against her body, rocking her very gently until the crying
has subsided.
“Please keep holding me,” says Lotte after a long silence. She
moves her fingers across Hanna’s face in the dark, and then stops
in surprise. “Why is your face wet? Have you been crying too?”
She cannot speak. She only nods. The dark makes confidences
possible which would otherwise be unthinkable.
“But you…”
“Don’t talk now,” says Hanna.
In the dark, in the slow dance of the ship on the sea-swell,
they hold one another, the small slight body and the stronger more
unwieldy one. Holding, holding. Lotte is almost as real to her as
Jeanne d’Arc, years ago, in her small bed in the orphanage. And
almost imperceptibly their hands move across each other’s face,
more lightly than the quivering of a butterfly wing.
“You know,” says Hanna once, “no one has ever held me. Not even
when I was very small. No one came at night to tuck us in. We were
taught to be strong, to devote ourselves to God and good things,
touching was bad, it made one weak. Except once, when a new little
girl came to us, Helga, and she was crying so much, she would keep
us awake at night, I went to put my arms around her and hold her.
Just hold her. But then Frau Agathe found out about it.”
“Tell me,” says Lotte.
And so it becomes Hanna’s turn. And then Lotte’s again. And in
the dark they hold each other very close, body to body, feeling the
new warmth they generate between them. Conscious, always, of the
night outside, and the cold of the sea, the endless near-black
depths below them, this warmth becomes infinitely precious, a
wholeness, a small but brave affirmation that yes, they are here,
Hanna and Lotte, two lonelinesses merging, two histories, a single
breathing living being, beautiful in the dark, vulnerable yet
strong while it lasts. What is this I, this you? From what
immeasurable distances do we come, what light or darkness are we
heading for – nights swarming with stars, palm trees waving in the
wind, glimmering in the sun – how much of eternity can be stored up
in an hour, a single moment? I love you.
She invents not only the geography of Lotte’s body but her own,
a new and breathtaking discovery: that this body she has learned to
despise, to loathe, can be capable of so much pleasure, can give so
much joy. That what used to be a source of pain and revulsion can
now be an affirmation, a place of celebration. This you have given
me, this I can give back
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