little sardine cans and laid the tiny fish in a Escabeche marinade. To go with it there’d be white bread and Rioja. We settled on eight o’clock.
Philipp strode off like a Fury, Eberhard did the honours with the vice-dean, and the cleaning lady, still emitting heartrending sobs, was led gently on the arm of the minister to the exit. I had time and slowly wandered along the cemetery paths. If Klara had been buried here I’d have wanted to visit her now, and commune a bit.
‘Herr Self!’ I turned around and recognized Frau Schmalz, complete with small trowel and watering can. ‘I’m just on my way to the family grave, where Heinrich’s urn is at rest now, too. It’s looking nice, the grave. Will you come and see?’ She looked at me shyly from her narrow, careworn face. She was wearing an old-fashioned black winter coat, black button-up boots, a black fur hat over her grey hair pinned in a bun, and was carrying an imitation-leather handbag that made one wince with pity. In my generation there are female figures, the sight of whom rouses in me a belief in all the pronouncements of all the prophets of the women’s lib movement. Not that I’ve ever read them.
‘Are you still living in the old compound at the Works?’ I asked her on the way.
‘No, I had to get out, it’s all torn down. The Works found me somewhere on Pfingstweide. The apartment’s fine and everything, very modern, but you know, it is hard after so many years. It takes me a full hour to get to the grave of my Heinrich. Later today my son, thank God, will pick me up in his car.’
We were standing in front of the family grave. It was heaped high with snow. The ribbon from the wreath bequeathed by the Works, and long since decomposed, was fixed to a cane and rose up like a standard by the gravestone. Widow Schmalz put down the watering can and let the trowel drop. ‘I can’t do anything today with this load of snow.’ We stood there, both thinking of old Schmalz. ‘These days I hardly get to see my little Richard either. I live too far out. What do you think, is it right that the Works… Oh God, now that Heinrich’s no longer around I’m always thinking such things. He never let me, never let anybody question the Works.’
‘How much warning did you have that you had to leave?’
‘A good six months. They wrote to us. But then everything went so quickly.’
‘Didn’t Korten make a point of talking to your husband four weeks before your move, so that it wouldn’t be too hard on you?’
‘Did he? He never told me about it. He did have a close relationship with the general, you know. From the war, when the SS assigned him to the Works. Since then it was right what they said at the funeral, the Works was his life. He didn’t get much out of it, but I was never allowed to say that either. Whether SS officer or security officer, the fight goes on, he used to say.’
‘What became of his workshop?’
‘He set it up with such love. And he really cared for those vans and trucks. Then it was all got rid of very quickly during the demolition, my son could scarcely retrieve a thing. I think they scrapped it all. I didn’t think that was right either. Oh, God.’ She bit her lips and made a face as though she’d committed a mortal sin. ‘Forgive me, I didn’t mean to say anything bad about the Works.’ She grasped my arm appeasingly. She held on tightly for a while, staring at the grave. Thoughtfully, she continued, ‘But perhaps at the end Heinrich himself didn’t think it was right the way the Works was treating us. On his deathbed he wanted to say something to the general about the garage and the vans. I couldn’t understand him properly.’
‘You’ll permit an old man a question, Frau Schmalz. Were you happy in your marriage with Heinrich?’
She gathered up the watering can and trowel. ‘That’s the sort of thing people ask nowadays. I never thought about it. He was my husband.’
We walked to the parking lot. Young Schmalz was pulling in. He was happy to see me. ‘The good doctor… met Mum at Dad’s grave.’ I told him about my friend’s funeral.
‘I’m grieved to hear that. Painful, taking leave of a friend. I’ve been there too. I remain grateful for your help with our little Richard. And one day my wife and I would like to have that coffee with you. Mum can come along, too. Any particular cake your favourite?’
‘My absolute favourite is sweet damson shortcake.’ I didn’t say it to be mean. It really is my favourite cake.
Schmalz handled it well. ‘Ah, plum with floury-butter crumble. My wife can bake it like no other woman. Coffee maybe in the quiet lull between the impending holiday and New Year?’
I said yes. We’d telephone regarding the exact date.
The evening with Philipp and Eberhard was one of melancholic gaiety. We remembered our last Doppelkopf evening with Willy. We’d joked then about what would come of our games circle if one of us were to die. ‘No,’ said Eberhard, ‘we’re not going to look for someone new to make up the four. From now on it’s Skat.’
‘And then chess, and the last one will meet himself twice a year to play solitaire,’ said Philipp.
‘It’s all very well for you to laugh, you’re the youngest.’
‘It’s nothing to laugh about. Solitaire? I’d rather be dead.’
15 And the race is on
Ever since I moved from Berlin to Heidelberg I’ve been buying my Christmas trees at the Tiefburg in Handschuhsheim. It’s been a long time since they were any different from those elsewhere. But I like the small square in front of the ruined castle with its moat. The tram used to turn around here on squealing tracks; this was the end of the line and Klarchen and I often set off on our walks on the Heiligenberg from here. These days Handschuhsheim has turned trendy and everyone who thinks of themselves as having a modicum of cultural and intellectual flair gathers at the weekly market. The day will come when the only authentic neighbourhoods are places like the suburban slums of the sixties.
I’m particularly fond of silver firs. But so far as my sardine cans went, I felt a Douglas spruce would be more appropriate. I found a beautiful, evenly grown, ceiling-height, bushy tree. Stretching from the right-hand corner on the passenger side to the back left-hand corner, it fitted in neatly over the reclined front seat and the folded-down back seat of my Opel. I found a space in the parking garage by the town hall. I’d made a little list for my Christmas shopping.
All hell was loose on the main street. I battled my way through to Welsch the jeweller and bought earrings for Babs. It’ll never happen, but I’d like to have a beer with Welsch one day. He has the same taste as me. For Roschen and Georg, from the selection at one of those all-pervading gift shops, I chose two of those disposable watches, currently modern among our postmodern youth, made of see-through plastic with a quartz movement and a heat-sealed face. Then I was exhausted. In Cafe Schafheutle I bumped into Thomas with his wife and three puberty-ridden daughters.
‘Isn’t a security man supposed to make a gift of sons to his Works?’
‘In the security field there’s an increasingly attractive range of jobs for women. For our course we’re estimating around thirty per cent female participants. Incidentally the conference of Ministers of Culture and Education is going to support us as a pilot project, and so the technical college has decided to establish a separate department for internal security. That means I can introduce myself today as the designated founding dean. I’m leaving the RCW on the first of January.’
I congratulated the right honourable dean on his office, the honour, the prestige, and the title. ‘What’s Danckelmann going to do without you?’
‘It will be difficult for him in the next few years until he retires. But I would like the department to provide consultation too, so he can buy advice from us. You’ll remember the curriculum you wanted to send me, Herr Self?’
Evidently Thomas already felt emancipated from RCW and was adapting to his new role. He invited me to join them at their table where the daughters were giggling and the mother was blinking nervously. I looked at my watch, excused myself, and dashed off to Cafe Scheu.
Then I embarked on round two of checking off my list. What do you give a virile man in his late fifties? A set of tiger-print underwear? Royal jelly? The erotic stories of Anais Nin? Finally I bought Philipp a cocktail shaker for his boat bar. Then revulsion for the Christmas din and commercialism swamped me. I was filled with immense discontent with the crowds and with myself. It would take me hours to shake it off at home. Why on earth had I launched myself into the Christmas melee? Why did I make the same mistake every year? Haven’t I learned
