easy to like.
Before long, Cordula’s father Johan Schwaiger became gravely ill, a consequence of his lifelong exposure to asbestos. He was dying to hold his grandson – figuratively at first. Soon he followed through literally, and Albert agreed to marry Cordula a year earlier than planned. The wedding was a grand affair.
Nine months later Markus came into the world, as healthy and lively as boys will, while his maternal grandfather was barely hanging on. Johan’s wife Liselotte was torn between the happiness of grand-maternity and the grief over Johan. She remained of this earth only a year longer than her spouse. She had always been a frail woman, forever marked by her ghastly experiences on the run in 1945. Her family stemmed from Silesia, a former part of the country in the east that was seceded to Poland after the war in reparation for damages inflicted. The Russian soldier who chased them off their property had taken a liking to her that Liselotte never reciprocated. The baby she carried arrived stillborn eight months later and nearly killed her in the process. When she settled in Eschershausen with her Auntie Annie, she was a broken woman.
In 1972 Cordula inherited the factory and the family fortune jointly with her (by then bed-ridden) great-aunt Annie. Initially nobody rocked the corporate boat, but board members knew a reshuffle was imminent and necessary and with Albert now at the helm, trust was not an issue.
Yes, for the first twenty-nine years of his life Albert had been happy to an unreasonable degree. Now his existence was inconsequential, a two-dimensional shadow play. On days when he bothered to shave he hardly recognised the reflection glaring back at him in the looking glass. Even his famous smile failed to dazzle now, least of all himself. Not a single day went by that he didn’t recall the former domestic soundscape, a delight he used to take for granted – Cordula’s uninhibited laugh, Markus’ tiny feet running over the parquet. His grief was so deep that he wondered why it didn’t finish him off like it had Liselotte, Cordula’s mother. Surely it was at least at strong as hers.
Increasingly he wished it would.
He knew thoughts like that were sinful and unchristian, but of late he had stopped caring. Purgatory couldn’t be worse than what he was going through now, day in, day out. The accident hadn’t paralysed him physically but it had crippled him emotionally.
Why me? Why did I survive when they didn’t?
*
It happened in 1978, a few days after the Christmas celebration that was supposed to be Markus’ best ever. They overshot their own expectations by miles. On the evening of December the twenty-third, Albert brought home a two-metre-plus pine tree and locked the living room door from the inside. On the morning of Christmas Eve he played records of Bach’s Christmas Oratorio and Silesian choirs singing Christmas songs sandwiched between tracks of solemn voices reading from the nativity story — Matthew or Luke — like his father had done when they were kids. Also like his old man he considered American crooner-carols by Bing Crosby, Dean Martin et al to be cheesy and crass. They were competent singers of jazzy pop tunes, but they made everything sound banal, casual, commercial – anything but truly festive.
Markus was busy baking cookies with his mother in the kitchen when he wasn’t trying to sneak a peek at the tree his father was busy decorating, lovingly placing strips of tinsel, blade by individual blade, one by one until it would look just right. Lunch was Silesian veal sausages with sweet gingerbread sauce followed by a digestive winter walk to collect moss for the wooden, hand-carved nativity scene. The combined scents of the baking, the freshly cut tree and the humid moss contributed immensely to the season’s atmosphere.
After coffee they put Markus to bed for a nap. The evening would be long, though the boy was too excited to get much rest beforehand. Later Tobi arrived for dinner with Dad in tow. Auntie Annie was collected from the local old people’s home though the roasted duck was too fatty for her delicate stomach and she left her plate mostly untouched. Everybody wore Sunday clothes, sang carols and read the nativity story from the bible.
Markus said, ‘Why doesn’t Santa come to our house?’
Cordula turned up her eyes. She had explained this many times but she knew he wouldn’t let it rest unless Albert said the words himself.
‘Because Santa doesn’t exist,’ he said.
‘But where do all the presents come from?’ Markus said.
By now they had reconvened to the living room where the glorious smell of fresh fir and real wax candles made the house glow with the spirit of a classic German Christmas.
‘I’ll answer that one, if you don’t mind,’ Tobi said. He was tempted to make a joke but held back as he was all too aware that Christmas was not a time for pranks in his brother’s house. ‘We’re celebrating the birth of Jesus and we’re so happy he was born and that he loved us that we buy presents for each other. The man with the red costume and white beard that you saw on 6 December…’
‘…was Saint Nicklaus. I know, Uncle Tobi, I know. What do you think I am, a baby?’ Markus said.
At midnight they went to midnight mass. It was Markus’ first year, the first time he insisted on going so they woke him after he had nodded off at half past ten. After mass came, at last, the exchange of presents. Albert could never get enough of the memory of the glow in his boy’s eyes when he opened the wrapped boxes. His own eyes matched his son’s when Cordula whispered in his ear what she had known for almost a week, but kept secret until that moment. Next year they’d have another mouth to feed. She was pregnant again.
Presently Albert made a huge effort to stem the flow of memories because between Christmas of ’78 and the accident he remembered little else.
Soon the bliss would turn to horror.
(make time stop then, in 1978, or let me remember something else, anything else)
It was hopeless. The maelstrom of memories would soon drag him under. He might read the newspaper for a while, ponder the suffering of the truly less fortunate from the poor, godforsaken countries of the world. Feeling sorry for them used to help take his mind off his own misery, but never for very long.
‘Any plans for today?’ Tobi said. Albert had forgotten he was even in the room. Of course there were never any plans.
‘I’m only asking because I have an idea, something I’m sure will cheer you up in more ways than one,’ he said.
‘I appreciate this. Really, I do. What you do for me…’ Albert said.
‘Well, okay, never mind. Maybe tomorrow. Something else, though,’ Tobias said and opened the shoebox he had been carrying under the breakfast tray.
Until now Albert hadn’t noticed it.
‘I was going through some old stuff and I found this,’ Tobi said and opened the box carefully. Inside, packed in rough paper and saw dust to protect them from scratches, were the wooden, hand-carved figures from the old nativity crib, Mary with Baby Jesus in a manger, Joseph, the donkey and the cow, shepherds, sheep and the Three Wise Men. Some relative, probably Auntie Annie, had brought this back from a pilgrimage to the Holy Land years ago. Albert knew it had been part of Cordula’s life for as long as she could remember. But, like the rest of the seasonal decorations, it hadn’t come out of the box since the accident.
A sad smile lit up Albert’s features. It lasted only a moment, was gone before it had spread to the farthest reaches of his soul, but it reminded Tobias of his brother’s charm, of why he was so well-liked. The smile, even brief, still had the power to enchant the beholder’s socks off. When it slipped away it left Albert’s face bereft, more desperate in comparison than if he hadn’t smiled at all.
‘It’s probably a bad idea. I was just thinking, since we don’t use these anymore, we would donate… No. Okay, I understand. Forget I asked. Can I get you anything else, maybe the paper?’ Tobias said, and left the room as fast as possible.
Albert was briefly furious. How could Tobi not know? Albert would never part with that crib or with anything else that reminded him of his family.
The