Bone and Blood by Margo Gorman Page B

ago in the Lager. Nobody who knew or who could imagine it. Then she used to wonder what sort of God could do this but she found him still among the Bibelki, the Jehovah’s Witnesses. She could even see him in Günter when his face was close to hers – even when she saw him once with his belt in his hand, bending over that woman eating from the ground like a dog. She could see him demanding more than any human was capable of and taking away more than any human could imagine. The strange logic of the camp.
    She could see God in the woman he whipped too. Thanks to her mother. ‘Remember, you are no better or worse than anyone can be. If you keep yourself from the worst in them, you keep yourself from the worst in you. There, but for the grace of God, goes me or you.’ Her mother’s voice in her ear. Surviving. Anna’s heavy breathing in the other. A little bundle of bones and yet such a strange noise as she left them behind.
    She lifted the photo album to bring back the memories of Katharina making her First Communion. When her eyes closed again, it was Günter she saw striding up the aisle. She knew Günter was a Catholic and went to Mass every Sunday and prayed but she had never seen him in a church. It was only a picture she created in her mind. She never stopped asking herself how he could go to Mass on Sunday and do as he did the rest of the week. Maybe Günter prayed for these people whom he saw as no more than animals. She was lucky to be with the ‘Bifos’ or she would have died too. Günter respected the Bibelki. They managed to stay clean and mostly they refused to die of dysentery like so many of the others. He respected them more than the Communists, who were better organised. But it was the communist, Irma, who brought back the will to live, when Anna died. In Irma’s company, wanting to live became a habit again. A bad habit now that she wanted to die, even though there was nothing to leave and nothing to go to.
    Good strong wake laughter was what she needed then and now – not this civilised tidy planning done by Katharina from her coffin. A wake. A nice cup of tea to sip or slurp. A nice cup of tea – those were the words from her mother’s last days. Biddy tried to make everything nice for her. She would sleep again after a few spoonfuls of warm sweet tea. She wanted her sister Peggy to come. Her sister Peggy had always been able to be nice, to find niceness, to make niceness. She has a fine Dublin house and fine Dublin family and fine Dublin ways. She has coffee with Irish women in Dublin, who have never been to Leitrim or maybe passed through it once without knowing but some of them have been to Berlin. Not Peggy.
    Yola hovered, ‘Frau Duignan, would you like some coffee and cake?‘
    Brigitte said yes to please her. Kaffee und Kuchen. Yola spoke English. One of the reasons Katharina wanted Yola to help her was she liked to speak English. She was delighted when Brigitte corrected her. The big bonus for her was that she was paid to have the opportunity to learn English in Berlin. ‘Your daughter was good and kind. Why does God take the good and kind people?’
    Brigitte could hear Mary’s laugh like crackling in an old wireless. He won’t come for us too quick then will he? She wanted to laugh with Mary not cry with Yola but the tears came more easily. Tears and more tears. She wished Yola were gone. If she were alone the tears would dry up. I will die alone. She reached for a tablet – something that would help her survive now but not leave her short of a supply for her need to die later.
    Play it again, Katharina,who laughed although she didn’t like Johnny Cash.
    Diarmuid will not come after all. Peggy’s granddaughter is on her way. A strange young woman. Down to earth, Peggy says. She will find her own way. No need to involve Monika. Good. What is she looking for? Not the funeral of my Katharina, I am sure. At her