Someday We'll Tell Each Other Everything by Daniela Krien, Jamie Bulloch Page A

Grushenka?” he asks, and I say without hesitation, “Grushenka.”
    “Why Grushenka?”
    “Because she’s passionate. And honest. I don’t believe that Katarina Ivanov loves Dmitry at all. She’s a hypocrite.”
    He laughs and says, “That was a good answer, Maria. It’s reassuring.”
    The Brendels have been waiting for me. They’ve been sitting at the lunch table for ages, and when I come through the door Frieda says, “Where on earth did you get to? We’ve all been looking for you.” I take it as a sign that I properly belong here; they missed me; I mean something. It feels good. I mutter something about being tired and going for a walk, and only Alfred looks at me searchingly. Hartmut and Siegfried are deep in conversation. Hartmut has a lot to say, about how difficult it was in Bavaria to begin with, his studies,graduating as an engineer, his first job with a construction company, finally setting up his own planning office, and his marriage to Gisela, a teacher’s daughter from Garmisch-Partenkirchen. He met her in a mountain hut while skiing, and they’ve been together for almost ten years. Their children were planned and Gisela doesn’t have to work. Marianne is particularly interested by this; she had to put Johannes in a day care center when he was only eight weeks old, and she cried for days. This was normal, she was still working in town at the time. Marianne is not from the village. Siegfried met her at a dance in the county town. Both her parents worked at the collective paper factory, and Marianne did shift work there, too.
    By the time Lukas was born she had settled at the farm. It must have taken years for her to get used to farm life. Frieda had strongly advised Siegfried against marrying her. Town girls never became proper farmers, she said, even though she herself had married a teacher’s son. Marianne didn’t have much time with her second baby, either, but at least he didn’t have to go to day care. Frieda looked after the little one as best she could, and even Alfred helped out with the childcare sometimes. Deep down he’s a good soul, Frieda likes to say. I’m not so sure.
    To my left sits Johannes with his camera, to my right, Alfred, his mouth full. He has a way of eating that I find utterly repulsive, but for some reason he’s allowed to get away with everything, even eating with his mouth open and bending so far over his plate that his head almost touches the rim. Frieda says this makes the distance shorter, and so there’s less spillage on the table. There’s still much about the Brendel family that I don’t understand.
    Hartmut’s efforts in the West paid off. He has an office with two employees, his own house, a garden, a Mercedes, a nice wife, even if she’s a little sensitive—you can see this by the way Alfred’s black fingernails put her off her lunch—and two healthy children, who are “a little rough around the edges,” as Marianne will say later. Friedadoesn’t take her eyes off him and refills his plate the moment he empties it.
    They’re going to stay in Frieda’s part of the house, where there are six rooms: two for Alfred, the remaining four for Frieda. Plenty of space. For me this visit couldn’t have come at a better time. It helps me hide my secret. That evening there’s a violent storm; I sit at the window and look over at Henner’s farm. It’s pitch-black over there.

7
    The following morning the air is cooler and fresher than it’s been for weeks, giving me every reason to wear the scarf around my neck. Johannes disappears into his darkroom straight after breakfast and doesn’t even emerge for lunch. He’s displaying an obsessiveness that makes us all wonder, especially Marianne. He’s hung pictures of the farm beside those of the dead children. Johannes has photographed everything: Alfred mucking out the barn; Marianne feeding the chickens; Siegfried in the sawmill; the cattle on the pasture; the sheep; the geese; the chickens; Frieda