Free A Parachute in the Lime Tree by Annemarie Neary Page A

she had seen that look before. A painting, she thought, one of their saints, someone who believed he’d seen God. He didn’t try to touch her. It was as though her shame was enough for him. Sensing he was finished, she dived to find her clothes.
    ‘Not yet.’ Seated at his desk, he became the Professor again, his eyes clearer now, his pencil whispering on the paper on front of him. ‘Look up.’
    Whilst she did raise her head a little, she looked at a sunset, not at him. Then she found the delphinium again as he took what he wanted from her and put it down on the paper.
    When he had finished, he got up from the desk and, with his foot, edged the neat pile of clothes in her direction. ‘Out.’
    She shoved on enough bits and pieces to be decent and bundled the rest into the pockets of her coat. She was almost at the door when he threw her the key.

    Somehow she made it home, skirting the walls of the buildings, avoiding the strangers with beer already on their breath. She was desperate for Oskar but they always seemed to think up new ways of keeping him away. She conjured him up and had him kiss her eyes, her neck, the curve of her stomach, but it only made the longing worse. Oskar had always been there. As kids they’d ignored one another; Emmi was the one who used to slip through the connecting gate to share secrets and bonbons. Then, when the hate began to spread and the connecting gate was bricked up, they fell defiantly in love. He couldn’t stand the Hitler Jugend; he said it was all bullshit but that he’d do it if it meant they’d leave him alone. He was always so certain it would all blow over. Oskar: so blue-eyed and sure of himself and unafraid of everything. So different from her and careful with her and eager for her. Forever telling her she was the only thing that made it possible for him to live in this shithole of a city. If only she had Oskar, she could bear the rest of it.
    In her room, she took out Herr Goldmann’s spools, rolling them around on her table until their colours became more real than the memory of the Professor. All afternoon she worked, stabbing fiercely at her clothing with a fine needle; reclaiming it, filling up the moth holes on her grey coat with little scribbles of orange, purple, pink. In the distance, they were playing their music now; strutting too, no doubt, for the little leader.She thought of the Professor and hoped that what he had taken would be enough. Papa was late that night. Mama busied herself straightening the pictures in the drawing room, wiping away the dust that Beate no longer chose to notice.
    Next door, at the Müller house, guests had arrived. Arranged in the garden like new-grown shrubs, they clinked and drank and trilled happily. Of Oskar, there was no sign. It was when the garden was empty again, long after the last of the Party faithful had trailed past the house, some singing, others still bearing their torches, that Elsa heard Papa fumbling at the lock. Once inside, he slumped back against the door, his eyes closed, a package under his arm.
    Mama tripped along the corridor like a little duck, her fists out from her sides. She knocked over a photograph from the hall table in her rush to get to him. Soon she had her hands on his waist and was guiding him into the drawing room from behind. He slumped into a chair. Beate appeared at the kitchen door, eyes cast up to her heaven, a shrug on her shoulders. Mama was kneeling at his feet, gently clapping his cheek with one hand as she held him steady with the other. ‘What have they done to you? Elsa, a cup of water. Hurry now.’
    Elsa held the glass out at arm’s length to stop her hand from shaking. He didn’t take it, so she laid it on the table beside him. He held his head in his hands so all that could be seen of him was the fragile pink shell of his skull. He placed his hand over Mama’s. ‘I need to talk to Elsa,’ he said.
    Mama looked hurt and Elsa could tell she was angry with her already. Even