Devotion(11)

‘Amen,’ muttered Christian Pasche again. ‘Amen.’

‘This eye’ – Papa pointed to it with reverence – ‘this eye has seen what has been prepared for those who serve our Almighty Lord. It cannot be swayed by the meddling of an earthly king. For this eye sees what is waiting for the faithful. It has seen Heaven.’


I sang clear and bright that night. Blinded in the dark, hushed, my body prickled to the world in a way it had not done since I was a child. The smell of pine needles and the curved fingernail of light above made me feel so joyfully alive that I was filled with gratitude to God for the verity of my being. I was exultant; I reconciled divinity with the smell of sap, imagined the Lord’s mansion as a wilderness. The sound of my voice against the mother tongue of pines swum around me until I could see eternal life forever under a canopy of trees, angels appearing like perfect circles of pine cap mushrooms, glistening wet, anointing my fingers with saffron milk.



What I feel now is eternal in its feeling, and so I cannot remember these first meetings without the presence of love. Thea’s neck, pale hair escaping, as my father declared Heaven’s certainty, remains with me to this day. Why have I remembered this if I was not, even then in my youth and innocence, already buckled with unconscious hope? When I think of Thea turning around and holding my eye, my rib cage, even now, fills with light.

What I would not give to have her, again and again, turning to me in the dark?





holy


The day after service threatened snow. I could smell it in the air and hear its weighted murmur. It filled my head so that I became distracted, dropping one thing after another as I cleared the breakfast table. I imagined the slow descent of snowflakes upon the shorn fields and envied my father and Matthias for being outside, witness to the moment they fell.

I was not expecting the knock at the door.

Mama and I looked at each other. Most women in the village simply called out before they entered, mouths already resuming whatever conversation was last interrupted by work, babies, prayer or mealtimes.

The knock came again.

Wiping her hands, Mama went to the door and opened it. I heard low voices, saw a deep red headscarf against the lane beyond and the heavy sky, then Mama called for me.

Thea stood on the flagstone bundled against the cold, clutching the basket that had held the gift of cheese, eggs and sausage we had delivered to her mother.

‘Hello,’ she said. ‘I’ve come to return this.’

‘You must be Fr?ulein Eichenwald,’ Mama said. I noticed she was staring at Thea’s light hair. Next to the unquestionable beauty of my mother, most other women seemed dull, but in that moment I thought Thea the more striking of the two. Her asymmetry was made starker, her strangeness more rare, more precious.

Thea’s smile faded a little. ‘May I come in?’ she asked. ‘Es ist kalt.’

Mama remembered herself then and held the door open, as Thea stamped the mud from her work clogs and stepped inside, pushing the scarf off her head. We smiled at each other, unsure of what to say next. I felt a blush creeping up my jawline.

My mother peered inside the basket as Thea handed it to her. ‘What’s this?’ She removed a small clay pot.

‘It’s a gift from my mother,’ Thea explained. ‘For Hanne’s cut.’

‘What cut?’ Mama glanced at me, brow furrowed.

I brought my hands to my face to cool the heat of my cheeks. ‘I nicked myself with the knife when I was mushrooming.’

‘Where?’

‘On my palm.’

‘Show me.’

I held out my hand and Mama examined the slight wound.

‘You didn’t tell me you’d hurt yourself.’

‘It doesn’t hurt.’

‘It’s deep. You could get an infection.’

‘The salve will help,’ Thea suggested.

Mama nodded, letting my hand drop to my side. ‘So you two have met?’ She set the pot on the table a little too hard. ‘Hanne, why don’t you offer Thea something to eat?’

‘Oh, I only came to return the basket. But thank you.’

‘Why don’t you walk Thea back home then, Hanne?’

Thea looked at me. Smiled. Again, the teeth barbed on the lips. Red headscarf on that strange hair. Blood in the snow.

She waited as I wrapped myself in a shawl against the weather, then followed me through the door, nodding to my mother on the way out.

‘Give my thanks to Frau Eichenwald,’ Mama said. Her eyes found mine. Be friendly, she mouthed, and then shut the door firmly.

The winter air outside was a whip-crack.

‘I’m sorry.’

Thea glanced across at me. ‘What for?’

‘I don’t know. Saying the wrong thing.’

‘You didn’t say anything at all.’ Thea reached out and took my wrist, gently unfolding my clenched fingers. Her hands were cool, firm. ‘How is your cut?’

‘Better, thank you.’

‘Your mother seemed cross about it.’

I eased my wrist from her fingers. ‘She is cross about everything I do.’

Thea raised a pale eyebrow. ‘Why? What do you do?’

‘I wish I knew.’

She nodded, wrinkling her nose.