Olga Read online

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Part One

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Part Two

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Part Three

  A Note from the Translator

  About the Author

  About the Translator

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  Part One

  1

  She’s no trouble; she likes just to stand and look.”

  The neighbor the mother entrusted the child to didn’t believe it at first, but it was true. The girl, one year old, stood in the kitchen and looked at one thing after another: the table with the four chairs, the dresser, the stove with its pots and ladles, the sink that, with a mirror over it, was also the washbasin, the window, the curtains, finally the lamp hanging from the ceiling. Then she took a few steps, stood in the open doorway of the bedroom, and looked at everything in there as well: the bed, the bedside table, the wardrobe, the chest of drawers, the window and curtains, finally the lamp again. She regarded them with interest, although the layout of her neighbor’s apartment was no different from that of her parents, and the furniture was hardly any different either. When the neighbor thought the small, silent girl had seen all there was to see in the two-room apartment—the toilet was on the landing—she helped her up onto a chair beside the window.

  It was a poor part of town, and behind each tall house was a cramped courtyard backing onto another house. The narrow street was packed with all the many people from the many houses, the tram, carts selling potatoes and vegetables and fruit, men and women selling trinkets and cigarettes and matches from hawker trays, boys selling newspapers, women selling themselves. Men stood on street corners waiting for an opportunity, any opportunity. Every ten minutes a pair of horses pulled a carriage along the tram tracks, and the little girl clapped her hands.

  As she got older, the girl still liked to stand and look. It wasn’t that she had trouble walking; she walked nimbly and confidently. She wanted to observe and understand what was going on around her. Her parents scarcely spoke, to each other or to her. It was thanks to the neighbor that the girl had any words or phrases at all. The neighbor liked to talk, and talked a lot; she’d had a fall, couldn’t work, and often helped the girl’s mother out. When she took the girl outside, she could only walk slowly and had to keep stopping. But she talked about everything they saw, explained, taught, and expressed her opinion, and the girl couldn’t get enough of it; the slow walking and frequent stopping suited her just fine.

  The neighbor thought the girl ought to play more with other children. But things could get rough in the dark courtyards and corridors of the building: if you wanted to assert yourself, you had to fight, and if you didn’t fight, you were bullied. The children’s games were preparation for the struggle for survival rather than fun. The girl wasn’t fearful or frail. She just didn’t like the games.

  She learned to read and write before she went to school. At first the neighbor didn’t want to teach her, so that when she got to school she wouldn’t be bored. But eventually she did, and the girl would read whatever she found at her house: Grimms’ Fairy Tales, the tales of Hans Christian Andersen, and Hoffmann’s Shock-Headed Peter. She would stand and read for hours, leaning on the dresser or windowsill.

  The girl would have been bored at school even if she hadn’t already been able to read and write. The teacher drummed the letters of the alphabet one by one with a cane into the forty schoolgirls, and the pronunciation, repetition, dictation, and transcription were tedious. But the girl eagerly learned arithmetic, so she could check the stallholders when she went shopping, and she liked to sing. The teacher also took the history class on trips, so the girl came to know the city of Breslau and its surroundings.

  2

  She came to know that she was growing up in poverty. Just because the school, a new redbrick building with yellow sandstone windowsills and pilasters, was nicer than the other houses in the district, it didn’t mean the other houses were run-down. The school was the school. But when the girl saw the stately residences on wide streets, the villas with their gardens, the magnificent public buildings and wide squares and parks, and when she breathed more freely on the riverbanks and bridges, she understood that the poor lived in her neighborhood and she was one of them.

  Her father was a docker, and when there was no work at the docks, he sat at home. Her mother was a laundress; she collected laundry from upper-class households, carried it home in a bundle on her head, and returned it on her head again, washed and ironed and wrapped in a sheet. She worked day in, day out, but the work didn’t bring in much money.

  The girl’s father had been shoveling coal for days on end with no time to sleep or change his clothes when he fell ill. Headache, dizziness, fever—her mother cooled his forehead and calves with a damp cloth. When she saw the red rash on his belly and shoulders, she grew alarmed and fetched the doctor. She too was dizzy and had a fever. The doctor diagnosed typhus and sent them both to the hospital. Their leave-taking from the girl was brief.

  She didn’t see her parents again. She wasn’t allowed to visit them in the hospital in case she got infected. The neighbor took her in and kept telling her that her parents would get better until, after a week, the father died, and then, ten days later, the mother. The girl would have liked to have stayed with the neighbor, and the neighbor would have liked to have kept her. But the girl’s paternal grandmother decided to take her back to Pomerania.

  Things were already not going well between them in the days her grandmother spent arranging the funeral, clearing the house, and deregistering the girl from school. The grandmother had disapproved of her son’s marriage. She prided herself on her Germanness and had rejected Olga Nowak as a wife for her son, even though she spoke fluent German. She had also disapproved of the parents’ naming the girl after her mother. When she became the girl’s guardian, her Slavic name would be exchanged for a German one.

  But Olga refused to give up her name. When her grandmother tried to explain the disadvantages of a Slavic name and the merits of a German one, Olga stared at her in incomprehension. When her grandmother presented her with German names, from Edeltraud to Hildegard, that met with her approval, Olga refused to pick one. When her grandmother said that enough was enough and her name was Helga, almost the same as Olga, she crossed her arms, stopped speaking, and, when addressed as Helga, did not respond. This
continued on the train journey from Breslau to Pomerania and for the first few days after their arrival, until her grandmother gave in. From then on, though, she regarded Olga as a stubborn, ill-mannered, ungrateful girl.

  Everything was unfamiliar to Olga. After the big city, the small village and the wide-open countryside; after the girls’ school with its different classrooms, the mixed school with boys and girls all in one room; after the lively Silesians, the quiet Pomeranians; after her affectionate neighbor, her unfriendly grandmother; instead of the freedom to read, there was work in the fields and garden. She resigned herself to these things, as poor children do from an early age. But she wanted more than the other children: she wanted to learn more, know more, do more. Her grandmother had no books and no piano. Olga pestered her teacher until he gave her books from his library, and the organist until he explained the organ to her and allowed her to practice on it. When the pastor spoke disparagingly in Confirmation class of David Friedrich Strauss’s Life of Jesus, she persuaded him to lend her the book.

  She was lonely. The village children played less than city children: they had to work. When they did play, their games were just as rough, and Olga was skillful enough to hold her own. But she didn’t really fit in. She longed for other children who didn’t fit in either. Until she found one. He too was different. Right from the start.

  3

  As soon as he could stand, he tried to run. One step at a time wasn’t fast enough for him, so he would lift one foot before the other had reached the ground, and fall over. He would get up, take one step, then another, feel he was too slow again, try to move one foot before the other had landed, and fall again. Get up, fall down, get up—he kept on, impatient, undaunted. He doesn’t want to walk, he wants to run, thought his mother, who was watching, and shook her head.

  Even when he learned that his foot should only leave the ground once the other had reached it, he still didn’t really walk. He toddled in little scurrying steps, and when his parents put a harness on him and took him out on a lead, as was newly fashionable, it amused them that their little boy pranced like a pony as they strolled along. At the same time, they were a little embarrassed; the other children walked better in harness.

  At the age of three, he ran. He ran all over the rambling house, through its three stories and two attics, down the long corridors, up and down the stairs, through the connecting rooms, over the terrace into the park and down to the fields and the forest. When he started school, he ran to school. It wasn’t that he had overslept or lingered over brushing his teeth and would have arrived late. He just liked to run instead of walk.

  At first, the other children ran with him. His father was the richest man in the village; he provided food and wages for many families on his estate, settled disputes, helped maintain the church and the school, and made sure the men voted correctly. This made the other children look up to his son and want to copy him, until the respect the teacher showed the boy and the difference in his manners, language, and clothes alienated him from them. Perhaps they would have wanted him to be their leader, if he had wanted to be one. But he wasn’t interested—not because he was snobbish, but because he was willful. The others should play their own games; he would play his. He didn’t need the others. Especially not for running.

  When he was seven, his parents gave him a dog. Because they admired everything British and revered Victoria, the widow of the Prussian emperor Frederick III, they chose a Border collie to accompany and protect their son as he ran. This it did, always running ahead, constantly glancing back, with a good instinct for where the boy wanted to go.

  They ran on tracks through and around fields, on woodland paths and wide forest lanes, often cutting straight through the forest or across farmland. The son loved the open fields and the sunlit woods, but when the corn was high, he would run right through it to feel the ears on his bare arms and legs; he would run through the undergrowth so it could scratch and tousle him, and when it clung to him he could tear himself free. When beavers built a dam in the stream and made a pool, he ran through the pool. Nothing would hold him back, nothing.

  He knew what time the train arrived at the station and what time it left. He would run to the station and run alongside the train until the last car overtook him. The older he got, the longer he was able to keep up. But that wasn’t why he did it. The train took him to the point where his heart couldn’t beat or his breath come any faster. He could get there on his own, but it was more enjoyable to be taken there by the train.

  He heard the panting of his breath and felt the pounding of his heart. He heard his feet fall on the ground, surely, evenly, lightly, and in every fall there was a rise, and in every rise a hovering. Sometimes he felt as if he were flying.

  4

  His parents had christened him Herbert because his father had been a soldier with every fiber of his being; he had been awarded the Iron Cross after the Battle of Gravelotte and wanted his son to be a Herbert, a “radiant warrior.” He explained to him the meaning of his name, and Herbert was proud of it.

  He was proud too of Germany, of the young empire and the young emperor, of his father, his mother, his sister, and of the family estate, the impressive property, the stately manor. The only thing that troubled him was the asymmetry of the facade. The main entrance was displaced to the right, with three windows on the left and one on the right beneath five symmetrically positioned windows in the upper floors and roof. No one could explain this proportional imbalance; the house was more than two hundred years old and had only been in the family’s possession for a generation.

  When Herbert’s grandfather had bought the estate from an impoverished aristocrat, he had hoped to be ennobled one day, or, if not him, then Herbert’s father, the hero of Gravelotte. The father, too, hoped for an aristocratic title to go with the manor and the Iron Cross. But they remained just plain Schröder. Herbert later hyphenated it with the name of the village, because he didn’t want to be one Schröder among many.

  Despite their dreams of higher things, both grandfather and father were levelheaded and hardworking. They made the estate prosperous, built a sugar factory and a brewery, and had enough money to speculate with stocks and shares. The family wanted for nothing, and the children’s every wish was fulfilled, as long as those wishes were sensible ones. They couldn’t skip school or church, but they could go on a trip to Berlin; they couldn’t have novels, but they could have patriotic history books; they couldn’t have an English model railway with a steam-powered locomotive, but they could have a boat and a gun.

  After attending elementary school with the village children for four years, Herbert and Viktoria were taught at home. They had a tutor for math and natural history and a governess for cultural studies and languages. Herbert learned the violin; Viktoria had piano and singing lessons. Herbert also helped out on the estate, so that later on he would know what to expect of the manager and of the farmhands and maidservants.

  When it was time for Herbert to go to Confirmation class, Viktoria went as well, even though she was a year younger, which, strictly speaking, was too young. The parents wanted the siblings to attend Confirmation class with the village children, just as they had elementary school, but they didn’t want to expose Viktoria to their coarseness without her elder brother to protect her. Not that Viktoria would have been afraid of the other children. Brother and sister both had the arrogant fearlessness of those who will never have to feel fear or endure sorrow. It would do no harm, though, for Viktoria to learn the graces of delicate womanhood or for Herbert to practice a strong man’s chivalry. Both relished their roles. Sometimes Herbert would try and provoke the other children to make rude remarks, so that he could protect Viktoria, but the other children refused to be provoked. They didn’t want anything to do with the two of them.

  Apart from Olga. Herbert and Viktoria found Olga’s interest in their world, her curiosity and admiration, irresistible. The fact that they became friends with her so quickly showed how lonely they ha
d been without knowing it.

  5

  There is a photograph of the three of them in the garden. Viktoria is sitting on a swing, wearing a puffy dress and a little hat with flowers around the brim, and holding an opened parasol; her ankles are crossed, and her head tilted to one side. Leaning on the swing to her left is Herbert, in short trousers and a white shirt; to her right, Olga, in a dark dress with a white collar. These two are looking at each other as if arranging to push the swing together at any moment. All three look solemn and intense. Are they recreating a scene from a book? Are Herbert and Olga indulging Viktoria? Because she’s the youngest? Because she knows how to dominate her big brother and older friend? Whatever they’re doing, they’re doing it with solemn intensity.

  The three children look about eighteen, although a note on the back says the picture was taken the day before their Confirmation. Both girls are blonde; Viktoria’s loose curls are spilling out from under the little hat, while Olga’s straight hair is gathered into a bun at the back of her head. There is a sulky set to Viktoria’s mouth that suggests that, when she’s not at peace with the world, she can be peevish. Olga has a firm chin, prominent cheekbones, and a high, wide forehead, a strong face that becomes more and more pleasing the longer the eye rests upon it. Both look imposing, ready to marry, have children, and run a house. They are young women. Herbert is trying to be a young man, but he’s still a boy, small, sturdy, strong; he is puffing out his chest and holding his head high, but he is no taller than the girls and never will be.

  In later photographs too Herbert likes to strike a pose, in imitation of the young Kaiser. Viktoria soon grows chubby; eating reconciles her with the world, and the plumpness softens her peevishness while also giving her a childlike, sensual charm. There are no other surviving pictures of Olga for many years; only Herbert and Viktoria’s parents could afford a photographer, and Olga would not have appeared in that one photograph if she hadn’t happened to be there at the time.