Free The Sinner by Petra Hammesfahr Page B
Authors: Petra Hammesfahr
have guessed that
I would be followed by another child who also needed strength.
Sometimes I tried to get Mother to admit that she was exaggerating a little. I broached the subject very skilfully, but it was futile. If I told
her I'd realized how bad I was and was trying to mend my ways, she
merely looked at me as if to say: "High time too." When I told her
that children at school were laughing at me, she said: "Our Saviour
was also mocked, even when He hung, dying, from the Cross. He
lifted up His eyes to Heaven and said: `Father, forgive them, for they
know not what they do.' What does that teach you?"
How I detested that question!
It was inadvisable to grant Mother even the smallest insight into
what I was really learning: reading, writing, arithmetic - and lying.
Ingratiating myself with the teacher so that she would intervene
when the others laughed at me too loudly and pointed their fingers
at me. Above all, I learned to hate my sister.
I really did hate Magdalena as fervently as only a child can.
Whenever I saw her lying in the kitchen and heard her groaning
and whimpering I hoped she was suffering the tortures of the
damned.
I continued to do so until that day in May, when I had been
going to school for a year. It was a normal day. No one had said
anything special to me that morning except the teacher, who shook
my hand during break. "Now you're seven years old too, Cora,"
she told me with a smile.
I came home at lunchtime as usual. Mother answered the door
and sent me straight to the living room. There was no lunch, no
saucepan on the stove, no loaf on the table. The bread was on the
top shelf in the larder, but the door was locked, and Mother kept
the key, her motto being "Lead us not into temptation".
She went upstairs to see to Magdalena. My sister had caught a
cold from me at the beginning of April and couldn't shake it off. Her
nose often bled without her blowing it or hitting it on anything; and
she spat blood even when Mother brushed her teeth. She vomited
frequently, yet she ate almost nothing. Her body was covered with
blue and red contusions, her hair was falling out, and she had
permanent diarrhoea. Mother dared not take her to Eppendorf for
fear she would need another operation. "Let us pray for tomorrow,"
she would say as we sat down to supper every evening.
Father came home late that afternoon. Tummy rumbling, I was
still seated in front of a bunch of fresh roses with such long stems
that they overtopped the crucifix by several inches. Thanks to
them, all we'd had for Sunday lunch was some bean soup without
so much as a slice of sausage in it. Father walked into the kitchen
and called me in a low voice. I saw when I joined him that he was
holding something in his hand.
A bar of chocolate! My stomach leaped at the very sight of it.
"For your birthday," Father whispered as he kissed me.
I knew what birthdays were from the other children in my class.
When Grit's daughters had a birthday, she threw a big party,
complete with cream cakes and potato crisps and ice cream. No
one had ever broached the possibility of my having a birthday.
Everyone had birthdays, Father explained, and nearly everyone
celebrated them. They invited friends, ate cake and were given
presents. He never took his eyes off the door as he spoke. We could
hear Mother moving around upstairs. She'd tried to get a couple
of spoonfuls of chicken broth down Magdalena a short while
before, but after the third spoonful Magdalena had brought it up.
Mother had had to change the sheets and carry Magdalena into
the bathroom to wash her.
We failed to hear her come downstairs. I'd just put the first piece
of chocolate into my mouth when she walked in. After two steps
she froze, her gaze commuting between my hand and my mouth.
Then she turned to Father.
"How could you?" she demanded. "One of them can't keep a
morsel down, and you stuff the other with chocolate."
Father hung his head.
I would be followed by another child who also needed strength.
Sometimes I tried to get Mother to admit that she was exaggerating a little. I broached the subject very skilfully, but it was futile. If I told
her I'd realized how bad I was and was trying to mend my ways, she
merely looked at me as if to say: "High time too." When I told her
that children at school were laughing at me, she said: "Our Saviour
was also mocked, even when He hung, dying, from the Cross. He
lifted up His eyes to Heaven and said: `Father, forgive them, for they
know not what they do.' What does that teach you?"
How I detested that question!
It was inadvisable to grant Mother even the smallest insight into
what I was really learning: reading, writing, arithmetic - and lying.
Ingratiating myself with the teacher so that she would intervene
when the others laughed at me too loudly and pointed their fingers
at me. Above all, I learned to hate my sister.
I really did hate Magdalena as fervently as only a child can.
Whenever I saw her lying in the kitchen and heard her groaning
and whimpering I hoped she was suffering the tortures of the
damned.
I continued to do so until that day in May, when I had been
going to school for a year. It was a normal day. No one had said
anything special to me that morning except the teacher, who shook
my hand during break. "Now you're seven years old too, Cora,"
she told me with a smile.
I came home at lunchtime as usual. Mother answered the door
and sent me straight to the living room. There was no lunch, no
saucepan on the stove, no loaf on the table. The bread was on the
top shelf in the larder, but the door was locked, and Mother kept
the key, her motto being "Lead us not into temptation".
She went upstairs to see to Magdalena. My sister had caught a
cold from me at the beginning of April and couldn't shake it off. Her
nose often bled without her blowing it or hitting it on anything; and
she spat blood even when Mother brushed her teeth. She vomited
frequently, yet she ate almost nothing. Her body was covered with
blue and red contusions, her hair was falling out, and she had
permanent diarrhoea. Mother dared not take her to Eppendorf for
fear she would need another operation. "Let us pray for tomorrow,"
she would say as we sat down to supper every evening.
Father came home late that afternoon. Tummy rumbling, I was
still seated in front of a bunch of fresh roses with such long stems
that they overtopped the crucifix by several inches. Thanks to
them, all we'd had for Sunday lunch was some bean soup without
so much as a slice of sausage in it. Father walked into the kitchen
and called me in a low voice. I saw when I joined him that he was
holding something in his hand.
A bar of chocolate! My stomach leaped at the very sight of it.
"For your birthday," Father whispered as he kissed me.
I knew what birthdays were from the other children in my class.
When Grit's daughters had a birthday, she threw a big party,
complete with cream cakes and potato crisps and ice cream. No
one had ever broached the possibility of my having a birthday.
Everyone had birthdays, Father explained, and nearly everyone
celebrated them. They invited friends, ate cake and were given
presents. He never took his eyes off the door as he spoke. We could
hear Mother moving around upstairs. She'd tried to get a couple
of spoonfuls of chicken broth down Magdalena a short while
before, but after the third spoonful Magdalena had brought it up.
Mother had had to change the sheets and carry Magdalena into
the bathroom to wash her.
We failed to hear her come downstairs. I'd just put the first piece
of chocolate into my mouth when she walked in. After two steps
she froze, her gaze commuting between my hand and my mouth.
Then she turned to Father.
"How could you?" she demanded. "One of them can't keep a
morsel down, and you stuff the other with chocolate."
Father hung his head.