The Last Shot - Hugo Hamilton 29 стр.


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Franz became more worried as he moved on. He also became more eager. They hurried through the torn city to get to the street where he had lived with his wife Monica and his mother.

The house was gone completely. So were the houses next door on either side. He made his way across the mound of bricks, unable to believe that this was once the place where he lived since he was a child, and since he got married. There was nothing left. He went to the house of his wifes mother and found it had been burned out. None of the floorboards were left. It was black. He assumed the worst and once again felt like leaving Nuremberg for ever.

But Bertha insisted that he had to be sure. He had to look and make inquiries. They asked some of the people in the street what had happened and where all the people had gone to. Some of them were in the country. Many of them had died during the bombing. Some of the survivors were sheltering in camps on the outskirts of the city.

Bertha and Franz found a place to stay for the night. It was a place on the floor in a building among all the ruins which had been left totally intact. The house was packed with people and families. They slept in a room with twenty others. Franz was worried about the bicycles, which they had to leave along the stairs of the cellar where other families were asleep. They slept soundly under Berthas coat.

The following morning they found the bicycles where they had left them and went through the streets once more making inquiries. They went back to the street where Franz had lived, hoping that if Monica was alive, she would come back there too. Eventually, Franz met a neighbour who told him where his wife was staying.

Bertha and Franz talked about what they would say to her. He would give her the news slowly. She would realize that it was over. Monica could start a new life on her own.

They hurried over there. Both of them had become excited at the news of finding her-alive. At the door of an old apartment block which was half standing, up to the second floor, they asked one of the older children standing around for Monica Kern. It was the first time it really dawned on Bertha that they had been looking for his wife. It was when he announced her name that she stood back and prepared herself for the reality.

Monica came running through the courtyard. She was crying long before she reached Franz. She ran to him and threw her arms around him. She couldnt control the shock of her joy. She held on to him and repeated his name. Children who had been playing around in the courtyard all congregated shyly in the arch to watch, some of them perhaps wishing it was their own father.

Monicas tears were streaming. She stood back and looked at Franz. She pulled up her apron and wiped her tears so that she could see him properly.

I cant believe it, she said, clapping her hands together. They told me that a man was looking for me at the door. Franz, Franz, FranzThank God youre back.

She embraced him again. Franz turned her gently towards Bertha and introduced her.

Monica, this is Bertha Sommer who was with us in Laun. We came back on the bikes together.

Monica stepped towards Bertha and embraced her.

Thank you for bringing Franz back to us. I am so grateful. I still cant believe it. Weve heard nothing for weeks, months now. She pulled them both by the arms. Now, come on in. Im sure youre both starving. And exhausted. Youve come a long way.

She told one the older boys in the yard to take in the bicycles and put them in the cellar. Then she led Bertha and Franz up the stairs to a small room. There were four other women in the room. Monicas mother, who was very old now. Another elderly aunt and two younger women, one of them married, as Monica explained, and still waiting for her husband. They had all been staying together in the one room.

Our house is gone now, Monica said quietly. Luckily, your mother got away to the country before the bombing started.

I know, I heard from the neighbours.

Monica had an extraordinary enthusiasm and ability to turn the mood. Everyone had enthusiasm. It was all that was left. She couldnt stop herself looking at Franz and smiling.

What you must have gone through, she said. You must tell me everything. But first of all, you must have a good meal. We have a lovely lentil Eintopfall ready for you

Bertha, do you wish to use the bathroom first? We still have a tiny piece of soap. You can have it.

Monica showed Bertha to the bathroom on the landing. The entire plaster had come down from the ceiling. Bertha could look up at the evening sky and at the side wall of the building, which showed the remains of wallpaper and former homes. The bathroom had been arranged very neatly. There were flowers beside the bath. And towels hanging from a rail. The water had been brought up in buckets and basins, collected that way from the rain.

Bertha washed slowly. It was a deep luxury. Even the feeling of being inside a house with a private bathroom gave her a sense of home. She knew there were so many small things to enjoy in this world, now that the war was over. Water made her happy. She washed her feet.

Bertha wondered when Franz was going to give Monica the news of their intentions to go to America. Perhaps he would just leave a note. Perhaps he was already telling her now.

At dinner, they all sat around the table while Monica served the lentil stew. All in all there were eleven at the table. Five women, including Monicas mother and aunt, along with four young children belonging to the other women, Frieda and Caroline. Occasionally, there were great bursts of conversation. At other times, everybody was quiet, all staring at Franz. He was the only man they had seen in weeks. They all spooned the pale stew, young and old, unable to take their eyes off Franz Kern.

At one stage, Monica began to cry again.

I still cant believe it, she said, wiping her eyes with her apron again.

Her mother held her arm and said, Were all very happy for you, my dear.

They asked Bertha where she came from. And Bertha told them about her home town of Kempen.

Do they know youre coming back? Monicas mother asked.

No, not yet, Bertha answered. And suddenly, amidst this strange extended family in Nuremberg, she had a fierce longing to be with her own family. She could see their joy when she walked in the door. Bertha stared down at her soup, imagining the faces of her mother and her sisters.

How will you get home from here? Monica asked.

I dont know really, Bertha said. She looked at Franz for support. If ever there was a moment to speak up, this was it. But Franz postponed it again.

The chance was lost.

Ach, there will be lots of traffic heading in that direction towards Frankfurt, Monicas mother said. What do you think, Franz?

He said he wouldnt know. The chance was lost again.

The children were put to bed. They went to sleep on the floor while the adults sat at the table and talked. Franz had said nothing yet. Perhaps he was leaving it till the next day. Perhaps it seemed too cruel. At times, Bertha thought of bringing up the subject of herself and Franz. But there were too many people in the room.

They all had to sleep on the floor. There was hardly room for them all. As expected, Franz slept by the cooker, beside Monica. Bertha was given a place by the door, where she slept alone under her coat, looking up at the ceiling, at the patches where the plaster had fallen off and all the cracks where the plaster was ready to give. She was exhausted. But she couldnt sleep. She had a constant feeling that the plaster above her was about to fall.

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It was also the feeling that she was indoors. After so many days out in the open, sleeping under the stars, she felt claustrophobic. Her sense of smell had heightened, too, which added to her confined feeling. Most of all, she missed Franz. He was still so close to her, she recognized his breathing among the others.

She stayed awake all night, and slowly began to realize how far away he really was. Some time before dawn she decided it was too cruel to take him away again. She got up and gathered her things quietly and disappeared. The only thing that kept her from crying was the sound of her own footsteps and the thought of her own home in Kempen.

If Franz still wanted to come to America, he would know where to find her.

At 6 oclock, Bertha Sommer stood on the main road from Nuremberg to Frankfurt. There were many vehicles on the road already at that time of the morning. Most of them were full. Then came a convoy of American trucks and one of them stopped to pick her up.

She sat in the back of the truck with the soldiers. At first she was quiet. She knew she was ready to burst into tears any minute. But then the soldiers began to ask her questions in English and she had to concentrate. She made use of what phrases she knew to explain that she was going as far as Kempen, Niederrhein. She had to cross the Rhine, she told them awkwardly, with the aid of hand movements.

Later, one of the soldiers asked her if she could sing Lili Marlene. She said yes, but it was far too early in the day. They persisted. Eventually she did sing it for them. They clapped and cheered. Some of them offered her cigarettes. Some of them offered chewing gum. She didnt take either. Then they asked for another song, and she sang a song which was later made famous by Elvis Presley under the title Wooden Heart.

Muss i denn, muss i denn, zum Städtele naus,
Städtele naus, und du mein Schatz bleibst hier?

About the Author

Hugo Hamilton was born in Dublin. He is the author of six novels, a collection of short stories, and the acclaimed memoir The Speckled People, which is also published by Harper Perennial.

Praise

From the reviews of The Last Shot:

A remarkable book whose presence remains long after the reading is finished. Quiet though the tone of the novel may be, Hamilton is actually making a large proposition about love and our relationship with history through love To have managed this without falling into cliché would have been commendable; to have done it so sweetly, so convincingly and so powerfully is an achievement A fine novel from a very talented writer

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