up with a TV that was always on and the infirmities of her husband, for whom, in the best moments of their marriage, she had felt only indifference. Auguste heard the clatter of the garden gate, turned her head, and smiled in delight when she recognized her grandson.
“Hello, Oma,” said Marcus. “Am I bothering you?”
“You never bother me,” Auguste Nowak replied. “Would you like something to eat? I have some goulash and noodles in the fridge.”
“No thanks.”
He didn’t look good. He seemed stressed-out, and for weeks she’d had the impression that something was weighing on him.
“Come here and sit with me.” Auguste patted the cushion next to her, but he remained standing. She watched the play of emotions on his face. She could still read him like a book.
“The others are at the May Day dance,” she said. “Why don’t you go over there, too?”
“I will. I’m on my way up to the soccer field now. I just wanted to—” He broke off, pondered for a moment, and then looked mutely at the floor.
“What’s the matter, hmm?” Auguste asked. “Does it have something to do with the company? Are you in a financial bind?”
He shook his head, and when he finally raised his head to look at her, his gaze cut her to the quick. The expression of torment and despair in his brown eyes made her heart ache. He hesitated a moment longer, then sat down next to her on the bench and heaved a deep sigh.
Auguste loved the boy as if he were her own child. Maybe it was because his parents had always been busy with work and the company and had never had time for their youngest son; that’s why he had spent large parts of his childhood with her. But maybe it was also because he was so like her older brother Ulrich, who was incredibly good with his hands, a true artist. He could have gone far if the war hadn’t thwarted his plans and ruined all his dreams. He fell in France in June 1944, three days before his twenty-third birthday. In appearance, Marcus also reminded her a lot of her beloved brother. He had the same fine, expressive facial features, the smooth dark blond hair that was always falling into his dark eyes, and a beautiful mouth with full lips. But although he was only thirty-four, deep furrows of worry were etched on his face, and he often seemed to Auguste like a boy who had been forced to take on the burdens of a grown man much too soon. Suddenly, Marcus laid his head in her lap, the way he’d always done as a little boy when he needed consolation. Auguste stroked his hair and hummed softly to herself.
“I’ve done something really, really bad, Oma,” he said in a strained voice. “And I’m going to go to hell for it.”
She could feel him shudder. The sun had disappeared behind the hills of the Taunus and it was getting cool. After a while, he began to speak, faltering at first, then more and more rapidly, obviously glad to be able to share with someone at last the dark secret that was weighing on his soul.
* * *
After her grandson left, Auguste Nowak remained sitting in the dark for a while, thinking. His confession had shaken her, although not so much for moral reasons. In this family of small-minded people, Marcus was as out of place as a kingfisher among crows, and he had married a woman who couldn’t muster the slightest understanding for an artist like him. Auguste had been skeptical and concerned that the marriage might not be in her grandson’s best interest, but she had never asked him about it.
He visited her every day, telling her about his worries both great and small, about new assignments, about successes and setbacks; in short, about everything that concerned him. Things that a man should actually be discussing with his wife. Even Auguste was not very fond of the family; although they lived under one roof, they were bound not by affection or respect, but by mere convenience. For Auguste, they had remained strangers who said nothing when they spoke and were
Chelsea Camaron, Mj Fields