Mohr by Reuss Frederick

Author:Reuss, Frederick [Reuss, Frederick]
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Publisher: Perseus Books Group
Published: 2007-04-30T16:00:00+00:00

“Are we going, Mama?”

They are moving in the direction of the large glass doors at the front of the store. A man wearing a frock coat with rows of brass buttons and white gloves bids them good-day and holds open the door.

“Aren’t we going to get anything?” Eva wants to know.

“Not now, sweetheart. I need to think about it.” Outside, the weather is changing again. The clouds are lifting. “Let’s walk a little.”

“Where?” Eva wants to know.

She can’t decide, and glances up the street to the tram stop. There is no longer a queue to get into the museum. She starts off in the direction of the National Theater, but after a few paces stops and changes direction. How will it feel to pass by the place? Will she feel anything at all? A worrisome prospect, to feel nothing, to be left cold.

It isn’t until they cross the Maximilianbrücke, are making their way down the steps to the footpath along the river, that she begins to feel easier. The air is cooler down by the water, the summer canopy a rich and luxuriant green. They pass a group of young boys splashing at the water’s edge. “Shall we have our picnic?” Käthe points to a small patch of grass just a short distance ahead. Eva races to claim it and sprawls out in the grass.

“Tell me what claustrophobia means,” Eva asks as Käthe unpacks their lunch.

“Claustrophobia is when you are afraid of being closed up in a small space.”

“Like Martin when he was stuck in the stove?”

“For example. And now that you know what claustrophobia is, I’m sure you won’t do it again. That was a mean trick you played.”

“Do you have claustrophobia?”

Käthe bites into her roll. “Sometimes.”

“What does it feel like?”

“Hard to describe.” The bread is slightly stale, but delicious. “Like you need more air. Just a little more room to breathe.”

Eva twists open her roll, examines the butter spread thickly inside, then twists it back together. “Did you have claustrophobia in the train?”

“Maybe. A little.”

“And in the store?”

“Maybe.”

“Mama?”

“Yes.”

“Are you afraid of going to China?”

A shy smile. “Maybe. A little.”

“Me, too.”

They eat in silence for a time. The boys throw stones from the riverbank. The sun breaks through the clouds. A breeze picks up. Sound of traffic on the Maximilianbrücke. “Did you and Papa take trips together in the old days?” Eva asks.

Käthe adjusts her skirt, stretches out in the grass. “Yes, we did. We took some wonderful trips together.”

“Where did you go on your honeymoon?”

“We walked to Innsbruck.”

“All the way?”

“And back again.”

“Where else?”

“We went to Berlin quite a lot. And Hamburg.”

“Did you go to foreign countries?”

“Yes, we did. After Papa’s feet healed. We wanted to recuperate.”

“Where did you go?”

“Well, I wanted to go to Italy.”

“And Papa didn’t?”

“No. Much too tame for Papa.”

“Where did he want to go?”

“Somewhere in the desert. Arabia. Across Morocco, up into the mountains to the Berbers. Algiers. Something like that.”

“What did you do?” Eva asks, looming over her mother, eating her roll.

Käthe closes her eyes, feels the warmth of the sun directly on her face for the first time all day.

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