Free In Times of Fading Light by Eugen Ruge Page A

make its way into her conscious mind—the mingled odors of moldy food and pungent but useless foot salves were dominated by the sweetish, mothball aroma of the Russian naphthalene powder that drowned out all else. Nadyeshda Ivanovna used the stuff in concentrations inimical to all forms of life.
    Irina opened the door of her mother’s room again and shouted, “And could you please air this room!”
    She sat down and buried her face in her hands.
    “Like some more coffee?” asked Kurt.
    Irina nodded. “Sorry,” she said.
    Kurt poured her some coffee and then spread her a cheese roll just like the one she had taken into Nadyeshda Ivanovna’s room, carefully distributing the butter, which was slightly too hard, over the bread, and then handing it to her. “Irushka, I thought we had all that behind us.”
    Yes, thought Irina, I thought we had all that behind us too. But instead she said, “Listen, Kurtik, you go for a walk on your own. I really do have a lot to do.”
    “On my own?” said Kurt. “I go for a walk on my own every day.”
    “Then go into the garden,” said Irina, “and prune the roses.”
    “Prune the roses?”
    Kurt sighed, and Irina added, “I’ll bring you out coffee later, and a roll and raspberry jam.”
    Kurt nodded. “Rasp-bairy jam,” he repeated.
    Because instead of “raspberry” Irina pronounced it “raspbairy.” She also said not “GDR” but GairDairAir. She had done the same for thirty years, persistently developing a dialect of her own, and for thirty years Kurt had teased her about it.
    “What’s wrong now?” asked Irina.
    “Nothing,” said Kurt, keeping a perfectly straight face. And after a little pause he added, “First the jam is in the bear, then it comes out of the bear, and then you bring the roll and raspbairy jam out to me in the garden.”
    “Oh, you!” said Irina, hitting out at him. But she laughed.
    Kurt pretended to be running away from her attack on him, and went to the study to find his pipe. At that moment the phone rang again.
    “Wait, I’ll get it,” cried Kurt from his study.
    He hurried back and put his pipe on the table. Went over to the phone, lifted the receiver.
    “Yes?” said Kurt.
    “Hello,” said Kurt, and from the way he said “Hello” Irina knew that it wasn’t his mother this time.
    “Well, well,” said Kurt. “But why?”
    Then his face suddenly went gray.
    “What is it?” asked Irina.
    But Kurt just raised his hand, signing to her not to interrupt. “You don’t mean that seriously,” he said into the receiver.
    Then he listened for a while, saying quietly, several times, “Yes ... yes ... yes.”
    And then the conversation seemed to break off.
    “Hello,” said Kurt. “Hello?”
    Was it Charlotte after all? Had something happened?
    Slowly, Kurt came back to the table and sat down.
    “Who was that?” asked Irina.
    “Sasha,” said Kurt.
    “Sasha?”
    Kurt nodded.
    “But what is it? Where is he?”
    “In Giessen,” said Kurt quietly.
    Her body reacted instantly, as if something had hit it, while it took her mind quite awhile to work out what Giessen meant.
    For a long time, neither of them said anything.
    At last, Kurt began filling his pipe. Now and then he breathed out heavily through his nose, a sound he made when he was at a loss.
    His tobacco pouch crackled.
    Then the door of Nadyeshda Ivanovna’s room creaked. Slowly, very slowly, her shuffle approached the living room. Stopped. Next, through the slightly open doorway, came Nadyeshda Ivanovna’s voice, thin but penetrating, rising in its own characteristic way.
    “Don’t let Sasha forget to take a jar of pickles back with him after the party.”
    Kurt stood up slowly, went around the table, opened the door fully, and said, “Nadyeshda Ivanovna, Sasha isn’t coming today.”
    For a moment Nadyeshda Ivanovna was nonplussed. Then she said, “Never mind, the pickles will keep.”
    “Nadyeshda Ivanovna ... ,” said Kurt. He raised both hands, lowered