In Times of Fading Light by Eugen Ruge Read Free Book Online

she had originally taken for bandits of some kind (as a child she always thought that Communists came into houses and pulled the sheets off neatly made beds, because her mother used to say they were opposed to good order)—only the Communists had seen her talents, had encouraged her to study foreign languages, had given her political tasks, and while her brother, Carl-Gustav, for whose art studies her mother had saved ferociously—to this day Charlotte remembered, bitterly, how she was told to watch the whistling kettle so as to save gas, and how her mother used to hit her on the back of the head with the breadboard if she forgot to turn the whistling kettle off at the right time, which was just before it whistled—while Carl-Gustav, then, had failed as an artist and immersed himself in the gay scene of Berlin, she, who had spent only four terms at domestic science college, was now on her way back to Germany to be head of the Institute for Languages and Literature, and the only thing she regretted was that her mother wasn’t around to know about this triumph, that she couldn’t send her mother a succinct note on a letterhead saying it was from Charlotte Powileit, Institute Director.
    But then night fell again. The hull of the ship plowed through the darkness, and no sooner had Charlotte fallen asleep than Adrian was there, leading her through winding underground passages, and something bad was waiting for her at the end of them ... she was awoken by her own scream.
    Whereas Wilhelm seemed to be feeling better every day. Not so long ago, on the Mexican side of the ocean, he had suffered from chronic insomnia and complained of lack of appetite. But the less Charlotte ate, the more of an appetite Wilhelm seemed to have. He slept well, took long walks on deck every day, even in the worst weather, and when he came back with his tartan cap drenched, but obviously indestructible, he complained that Charlotte spent all her time moping in the cabin.
    “I’m seasick,” said Charlotte.
    “You weren’t seasick on the way out,” replied Wilhelm.
    He, who for twelve years had stood around at any evening party like a forgotten walking stick, who to the last couldn’t read a street sign in Spanish, and had to enlist Charlotte’s help if a police officer spoke to him, suddenly figured as an enthusiastic expert on Mexico, and entertained the company at the captain’s table with accounts of truly amazing experiences, and although he had talked in riddles and hints ever since his Hamburg days— Lüddecke Import and Export —all and sundry were soon convinced that he had crossed the country between the two oceans on horseback, had fished for shark from a canoe in Puerto Ángel, and had personally discovered the Maya temple of Palenque among the jungle plants rambling over it—while Charlotte dunked rusks in chamomile tea.
    The icy wind with which the new Germany received them didn’t seem to affect Wilhelm in the least. Holding himself very upright, he stalked through the harbor area, holding on to his hat, with as much certainty as if he knew his way around. Charlotte tripped along after him, her shoulders hunched.
    Then they were in a hut, a pale man was looking at their papers, and while Charlotte was wondering how she should address a comrade of the Customs service in the new Germany—as Bürger or Genosse? —Wilhelm had settled everything and even ordered a taxi.
    What they saw of the city wasn’t basically very different from the harbor, and although at first glance Charlotte couldn’t see any recent evidence of ruins, just about everything looked ruined: the buildings, the sky, the people hiding their faces behind turned-up collars.
    Soup was being sold from a large container on a street corner.
    Two figures were trying to haul a handcart brimming over with old junk up onto the sidewalk.
    It began to dawn on Charlotte that the hat with the little black veil that she had bought especially for arriving back in Germany