Willow Wren , livre ebook

The Willow Wren A Novel
Philipp Schott




Contents Dedication Definition of Willow Wren Disclaimer Part One Chapter One Chapter Two Chapter Three Chapter Four Chapter Five Chapter Six Chapter Seven Part Two Chapter Eight Chapter Nine Chapter Ten Chapter Eleven Chapter Twelve Chapter Thirteen Chapter Fourteen Chapter Fifteen Chapter Sixteen Chapter Seventeen Chapter Eighteen Chapter Nineteen Chapter Twenty Chapter Twenty-One Chapter Twenty-Two Chapter Twenty-Three Chapter Twenty-Four Chapter Twenty-Five Part Three Chapter Twenty-Six Chapter Twenty-Seven Chapter Twenty-Eight Chapter Twenty-Nine Chapter Thirty Chapter Thirty-One Chapter Thirty-Two Chapter Thirty-Three Chapter Thirty-Four Chapter Thirty-Five Chapter Thirty-Six Chapter Thirty-Seven Chapter Thirty-Eight Chapter Thirty-Nine Chapter Forty Chapter Forty-One Chapter Forty-Two Chapter Forty-Three Chapter Forty-Four Chapter Forty-Five Chapter Forty-Six Chapter Forty-Seven Chapter Forty-Eight Chapter Forty-Nine Chapter Fifty Chapter Fifty-One Chapter Fifty-Two Chapter Fifty-Three Chapter Fifty-Four Epilogue Acknowledgements & Author’s Note About the Author Copyright


Dedication
For my father, Ludwig Schott ( 1934–1994)


Definition of Willow Wren
Willow wren ( Troglodytes troglodytes ) — Very small, solitary, nondescript bird. Scarce. Found in cool, dense undergrowth of conifers in summer. Quirky. Moves mouse-like on the forest floor. Nests in snug burrows. Proud, very vocal, active, but furtive. Also known as the Eurasian wren, winter wren, northern wren and der Zaunkönig (the Fence King) in German.


Disclaimer
Based on a true story


Part One
The past beats inside me like a second heart.
— John Banville, The Sea


Chapter One
February 20, 1944
This memory stands out above many others. A glinting nickel in a fistful of pennies. I can feel my mother’s hand gripping mine, a thin leather glove squeezing my thick woolen mitten, squeezing it maybe a little too tightly. And I can smell the smoke — sharp and somehow metallic — mixed with the dry smell of powdery cement dust and the tang of brown coal fires and something else that I didn’t recognize at that age, something charred. I did not like the smells.
But this is principally a visual memory. The picture is detailed and clear in my mind’s eye, like a large format photograph taken by an expensive camera. The front of our three-storey building had been neatly peeled off, as if by an enormous can opener wielded by a fairy-tale giant. The only evidence that there had ever been an outside wall was the still lightly smoking pile of debris on the street out front. But then debris was everywhere in the city, so it was difficult to connect this particular debris to the wall that had once defined the outer limit of our domestic life. It was more as if the wall had magically vanished or had been excised and carried off.
We stood and stared, wordlessly, just staring. Bomb damage was not surprising given the air raid the night before — we’d seen plenty enough of it as we hurried from the train station — but what was surprising was the precision. The wall was gone, but just a metre beyond it the interior was absolutely intact. Nothing was out of place. No chairs had been knocked over. The paintings on the walls still hung straight. We were looking into our living room as if into a life-sized doll’s house.
This doll’s house impression was so strong that it distorted my sense of perspective. I remember suddenly feeling very small, as if my mother and I had been shrunk to doll size. I longed to grow to my full ten-year-old boy size again so that I could reach into the living room and delicately pick up a wooden chair between my thumb and forefinger. I even made the pinching motion inside my mitten with my free hand.
“Where is Papa going to sleep now?” I asked, when I finally found a way to make words.
“Don’t worry. The Party will find something for him.”
I nodded solemnly in response, trying to visualize Papa sleeping on top of his desk, papers pushed aside, a blanket and pillow brought by an aide. He had one rigid leg, the result of tuberculosis in his knee when he was a child, so my mental picture showed that leg sticking out from the end of the desk while the other one was tucked up.
“He’s an important man, your papa.” She said this flatly.
“Shall we go to his office now, Mama? Is that where he is?”
“Yes, I suppose that makes sense. I’m sure he’s very busy dealing with this, but since we’ve come all this way, and you got special permission to leave the camp.” The whole family, except Papa, had been evacuated from the city. I was in a Hitler Youth camp, very much against my liking, and Mama was with her sister in Mellingen, also somewhat against her liking.
Just then an older teenager came rapidly peddling up the street on a bicycle, weaving amongst the piles of rubble. He was tall and very pale, with black hair slicked back above a high acne pockmarked forehead. His dark grey uniform was slightly too small for his long thin arms and legs. I recognized him from Papa’s Ortsgruppe office, although I did not have reason to know his name yet. Later I would find out it was Erich. I remember being envious of his bicycle, as it was a relatively new dark red Kalkhoff. But honestly I would have been happy with any bicycle.
Erich waved to us frantically when he spotted us.
“Heil Hitler, Frau Schott!” Erich’s right arm shot up as he rolled to a stop.
“Yes?” Mama’s arms remained at her side. My mother was a solid and serious-looking woman. She was not large, but with her strong voice and her ability to wield an unblinking stare she certainly could be intimidating. That day she wore a very businesslike tan-coloured suit and had her hair pulled back severely in a tight bun.
Erich swallowed and blinked several times before continuing. “Ortsgruppenleiter Schott sends his regards and he also sends his regrets that he was unable to meet you at the train station or here at your home.” He paused for a response, but as there was none he went on, “As you can see the enemy attacked again with many bombers. It began at 3:15 this morning. Leipzig Connewitz was especially heavily hit. There are hundreds dead. Killed where they slept.” He stopped again, perhaps realizing that he was striking the wrong note. “But of course our Luftwaffe shot most of them down before they could do even more damage. So I am sure they have learned their lesson.”
“I’m sure they have,” Mama said dryly. “I suppose this means that Herr Ortsgruppenleiter will not be available to see his wife and son at any point today?”
“You are correct, Frau Schott. I’m afraid that will not be possible. He has arranged train tickets for you on the 13:20. He is concerned there will be another attack. Please stay away from the city until you hear from him.” Erich reached into his satchel and pulled out two brown cardboard tickets that had red swastika priority stamps on them.
This was of course a disappointment. This visit was to be a special treat to mark my tenth birthday a few weeks prior. For the first time I was travelling without my irritating siblings. And for the first time Papa was going to spend time with me alone and show me some interesting things. I had obtained special leave from camp to do this. I was still going to have a day with Mama in Mellingen, but that was more afterthought than main event. Feeling only disappointment and not horror or sadness in the midst of all this destruction and apparent death may seem odd, but that is honestly all that I felt then. Sometimes small boys have small concerns.
And as it happened, Papa was right. The train was only a few minutes out of the station when the air raid sirens began to scream. I put my hands over my ears and began to rock as I could not tolerate loud noises. I squeezed my eyes shut as well. When I opened them again, I saw that Mama looked very upset. She was looking down at her lap, frowning, and her eyes were moist. She clutched an elaborately embroidered white handkerchief. The transformation to this from the tough woman who had spoken to Erich was unsettling. I remember wishing I could comfort her, but I had no idea how to go about it.
She noticed me looking at her. “I’m sorry, Ludwig.”
“No, it’s okay, Mama. I am scared of the bombs too.” I felt brave and grown-up admitting this.
“It’s not that. But I shouldn’t make you worry. We’ll be fine.” She wiped her eyes and nose and turned to the window. I had some inkling as to why she spoke that way but pushed it out of my mind. I was just happy that she looked a little less upset now.
The train began to accelerate. I wondered whether the speed of the train affected the chance that it would be hit by a bomb. I surmised that it probably would and willed the train to go even faster, but then I saw smoke rising far in the northeast. We were heading in the exact opposite direction, so I felt better and smiled at Mama, but she did not seem to notice.
How could I know I would never see our beautiful doll’s house again?


Chapter Two
1934–1936
That may be the specific memory that is currently sharpest and uppermost in my mind as I embark on telling this story, but it is not the most important one, not nearly, nor is it the first one. I should begin with the first memory, or even just a little before it.
I was born on a Sunday in our house at 21 Mozar