Ursula Hegi The Burgdorf Cycle Boxed Set: Floating in My Mother's Palm, Stones from the River, The Vision of Emma Blau. Children and Fire by Ursula Hegi Page B
Authors: Ursula Hegi
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pulled a daisy from the blue jar and walked to the next grave. A rose … a snapdragon … a carnation … The vase on the Weskopp’s grave was filled with violets, and I took one of them, deep purple with black markings along the tips of the petals. By now Joachim’s bouquet had flowers of just about every color, and I carried it back to his grave. Sitting on the edge of the stone, I arranged the flowers so that the tallest ones were in the center.
“That’s a pretty bouquet, Hanna.”
My head snapped up.
Frau Weskopp was standing behind me. “Especially that violet.” Her lips closed into a tight line.
I felt as if the flowers bore tags with the names of the dead. “Thank you,” I managed to say.
“Where did you get them?”
“Home,” I said quickly before something within me made me confess.
That’s what she seemed to be waiting for—a confession. But I kept silent, though my heart was racing. The deep creases on her forehead pressed the flesh between them into puffy welts. Finally she turned away and walked down the path toward the exit.
I pushed the vase deeper into the earth. That’s where Joachim was. What was left of him. We’d never unhinge garden doors together and hide them around the corner. We’d never swim in the Rhein together or ride our bikes or play ball or—I caught my arms against my stomach, tight. Rocked myself back and forth. All at once I saw Joachim and myself, sitting on my wooden sled on top of the dike, our faces red from the cold.
“Hold on!” I shout out to him as I push off. Joachim sits in front of me. My feet are on the metal runners, my arms around my brother’s chest. I’m the one holding on; yet, I keep shouting, “Hold on, Joachim!”
My breath is a white lace scarf that touches his neck and reddish hair. Joachim is almost as tall as I. Sitting straight, I hold on to him as our sled hurtles down a slope that doesn’t end. But he is getting smaller in my arms. At first my hands barely meet in front of his jacket, but now I can cross my wrists, then my arms as if I were hugging myself. “Hold on, Joachim,” I shout once more, frozen tears on my face. My arms around myself, I know for the first time what it feels like to have lost him, to be without him not only this moment but millions of moments like this, linked and stretching into all my tomorrows. I see myself grown up, my newborn son in my arms, pouring a trickle of holy water over his head, forming the sign of the cross on his forehead, chest, and shoulders, whispering fragile words of insurance against purgatory:
“Im Namen des Vaters und des Sohnes und des Heiligen Geistes …”
But suddenly my brother is here again, solid in my arms, snowcoating his shoulders and swirling around us as the sled races down the white bank. The Rhein is frozen, and as we glide across it, huge turtles and tropical fish swim below the clear ice. On the other side of the river two riders gallop along the bank on blue horses
.
Through the Dance of Her Hands
T he pastor’s sister, Hannelore Beier, was a woman in her thirties with crippled hands. Her fingers overlapped and drew themselves toward her palms, birdlike claws which she refused to hide. When she taught Sunday school, she moved them gracefully, those stiff extensions of herself, weaving the texture of her words into our hearts.
Her eyes looked tired when she quoted passages from the Bible, but she never stayed with the Bible for long. From her bag she’d bring out old books bound in green or red leather; the lines in her face dissolved and her slight body seemed to grow as she took the words of Goethe and Mann and Rilke from the pages of those books and made them breathe as if they were being written now—for us.
Her favorite writer was Rainer Maria Rilke. One winter morning, in the church basement, she read us his poem about the panther in the
Jardin des Plantes, Paris
, and her voice evoked the powerful animal pacing behind the bars of his cage, until
“That’s a pretty bouquet, Hanna.”
My head snapped up.
Frau Weskopp was standing behind me. “Especially that violet.” Her lips closed into a tight line.
I felt as if the flowers bore tags with the names of the dead. “Thank you,” I managed to say.
“Where did you get them?”
“Home,” I said quickly before something within me made me confess.
That’s what she seemed to be waiting for—a confession. But I kept silent, though my heart was racing. The deep creases on her forehead pressed the flesh between them into puffy welts. Finally she turned away and walked down the path toward the exit.
I pushed the vase deeper into the earth. That’s where Joachim was. What was left of him. We’d never unhinge garden doors together and hide them around the corner. We’d never swim in the Rhein together or ride our bikes or play ball or—I caught my arms against my stomach, tight. Rocked myself back and forth. All at once I saw Joachim and myself, sitting on my wooden sled on top of the dike, our faces red from the cold.
“Hold on!” I shout out to him as I push off. Joachim sits in front of me. My feet are on the metal runners, my arms around my brother’s chest. I’m the one holding on; yet, I keep shouting, “Hold on, Joachim!”
My breath is a white lace scarf that touches his neck and reddish hair. Joachim is almost as tall as I. Sitting straight, I hold on to him as our sled hurtles down a slope that doesn’t end. But he is getting smaller in my arms. At first my hands barely meet in front of his jacket, but now I can cross my wrists, then my arms as if I were hugging myself. “Hold on, Joachim,” I shout once more, frozen tears on my face. My arms around myself, I know for the first time what it feels like to have lost him, to be without him not only this moment but millions of moments like this, linked and stretching into all my tomorrows. I see myself grown up, my newborn son in my arms, pouring a trickle of holy water over his head, forming the sign of the cross on his forehead, chest, and shoulders, whispering fragile words of insurance against purgatory:
“Im Namen des Vaters und des Sohnes und des Heiligen Geistes …”
But suddenly my brother is here again, solid in my arms, snowcoating his shoulders and swirling around us as the sled races down the white bank. The Rhein is frozen, and as we glide across it, huge turtles and tropical fish swim below the clear ice. On the other side of the river two riders gallop along the bank on blue horses
.
Through the Dance of Her Hands
T he pastor’s sister, Hannelore Beier, was a woman in her thirties with crippled hands. Her fingers overlapped and drew themselves toward her palms, birdlike claws which she refused to hide. When she taught Sunday school, she moved them gracefully, those stiff extensions of herself, weaving the texture of her words into our hearts.
Her eyes looked tired when she quoted passages from the Bible, but she never stayed with the Bible for long. From her bag she’d bring out old books bound in green or red leather; the lines in her face dissolved and her slight body seemed to grow as she took the words of Goethe and Mann and Rilke from the pages of those books and made them breathe as if they were being written now—for us.
Her favorite writer was Rainer Maria Rilke. One winter morning, in the church basement, she read us his poem about the panther in the
Jardin des Plantes, Paris
, and her voice evoked the powerful animal pacing behind the bars of his cage, until
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