Let Me Go by Helga Schneider Read Free Book Online Page B

in mind, but there is a man with whom your mother has never lost contact. He's a former colleague—"
    "From the . . . SS?"
    She nods.
    "And is he still alive?"
    "Yes, but not in Vienna. In Berlin."
    "Berlin?"
    "Yes. He's younger than your mother; he was born in 1915. After the war he was condemned by an Allied court to six years' imprisonment, but he served only three of them. He never married and lives with a sister who lost her husband and two sons in the war."
    She paused; her eyes were bright.
    "They never stopped writing to each other," she went on after a few moments, "and since your mother has been here . . . The letters are sent through me. Heinrich . . ."
    She smiled as though she had fallen into a trap.
    "His name is Heinrich?"
    "Yes. And now he sends the letters to my address so that I can pass them on to your mother. But lately she's been taking a long time to answer and writes only when I'm there with her. No, she's no longer the woman she once was . . ."
    She wiped away a tear.
    "In the past he came to Vienna a few times—I met him. Sometimes I would have dinner with them. I used to feel intimidated by him—"
    "What did he think about Hitler, after all that time?"
    She looked away and locked her fingers together.
    "Oh you know, he wouldn't have opened up when I was there . . ."
    "Would you give me his address?"
    Frau Freihorst hesitated for a moment, then nodded, rummaged in a little box, found a square notepad, tore off a page, and scribbled a name and an address on it. I took the sheet of paper, folded it, and put it in my pocket without looking at it.
    Time to say our last farewells.
    "I nearly forgot!" She went to the bag that she had left on an armchair, and with barely concealed satisfaction and a certain solemnity, she took something out of it.
    "Does this remind you of anything?" she asked, holding out a rather battered-looking teddy bear, missing an eye and an ear.
    I took it and stared at it, struck dumb with surprise. At first glance it didn't mean anything to me at all, then it came to me.
    "I . . . I can't believe it," I stammered.
    "Your mother took it with her that evening, when she abandoned you. She always kept it with her, until she got to Ravensbrück, and there she put it in a strongbox, along with documents, photographs, certificates . . ."
    "I can't believe it," I said again, unnerved.
    "It's yours," she said. "It's always been yours. When I took it from your mother—and I really had to steal it away from her, believe me—I still didn't know who I was saving it for. But it didn't deserve to end up in the trash, among eggshells and banana skins."
    "I don't know what to say," I murmur. "I'm touched."
    But there was nothing else to say. It was time to go. I felt worn-out, wearier than I would have expected. I held out my hand to Frau Freihorst, as though to sever the slender bonds that seemed to want to hold me captive. I looked around once more and felt a lump in my throat. I instinctively gave my mother's friend a quick hug.
    "Thank you. Many, many thanks for everything."
    Then Eva and I made our way toward the front door. We had sensed that Frau Freihorst wanted to keep us in the flat a little longer.
    We were about to leave when we heard her exclaiming, "I forgot, he's called Zakopane!"
    I turned around. "Who is?"
    "The teddy bear! He's called that because he was bought in Zakopane in Poland."
    I smiled. "Thank you. Now I remember my grandmother talking about him."
    Eva left first. I followed her and pulled the door shut behind me.
    "WHERE DID YOU get the teddy bear?" Her tone is acid, her expression threatening.
    "If you don't mind, I'll leave you alone for an hour or so," Fräulein Inge says. "I imagine you'd like to be on your own for a while."
    The guest room is cozy: a television, a wicker book-case full of books, pretty ornamental plants. I arrange three armchairs beneath one of the three big windows.
    "Come on, sit down," I tell my mother; but she goes on repeating, like a