The Blind Side of the Heart by Julia Franck Read Free Book Online Page B

eyes, Martha was already a grown woman. She seemed to her perfect. She had breasts with curving little buds, clear and tender and soft, and on some days of the month she secretly washed her little cloths. Only when she wanted to punish Helene for stealing raisins or saying something she didn’t like would Martha give her those little cloths to wash instead. Helene was afraid of Martha’s brusque instructions. She washed Martha’s blood out of the linen, took the little brown bottle of oil of turpentine, unscrewed the top and counted out thirty drops into the water for the final rinse. In winter she hung the little cloths up to dry in the attic, in front of the south-facing window. The turpentine evaporated, and the sun helped to make the cloths bright and white again. It would be years yet before Helene had to wring out any little cloths of her own; she was nine years younger than Martha and had started school only last summer.
    Further down, said Martha, and Helene did as she was told, she stroked her sister’s sides further down, all the way to the place where her hips curved gently, then on back and round to the base of her spine.
    Martha sighed deeply and there was a faint smacking noise as if she were opening her mouth to say something.
    Over your kidneys, here, said Helene.
    Yes, and up to my ribs, up to my lungs, dear heart.
    Helene hadn’t heard Martha turn a page for several minutes now. Martha was lying on her side, her back turned to Helene, still and expectant. Helene’s hands came and went, she heightened Martha’s craving, she wanted to hear another sigh, just one, her hands flew softly over the skin now, no longer touching everything, only a few places, very few, desire made them breathe faster, first Helene, then Martha, and finally both of them; it sounded like the gasping noise you made wringing out laundry when you stood at the sink by yourself, hearing nothing but your own breathing and the gurgling of the laundry in the enamel basin of water, the effervescence of the washing powder, the foaming soda; here it was the gasping of two girls, no gurgling yet, only fast breathing, an effervescent bubbling, until Martha suddenly turned round.
    My little angel. Martha took Helene’s hands, the hands that had just been stroking her, she spoke softly and clearly: I come off duty at four tomorrow and you must meet me outside the hospital. We’ll go down to the river. Martha’s eyes were shining, as they often did these days when she announced that they were going for a walk beside the Spree.
    Helene tried to free her hands. It was hardly a question, more of a statement when she said: With Arthur.
    Martha laid her forefinger on her sister’s lips. Don’t mind.
    Helene shook her head, although she did mind. She opened her eyes very wide, she wasn’t going to cry. Even if she had wanted to cry, it wouldn’t be any use. Martha stroked Helene’s hair. Little angel, we’re going to meet him in the old vineyard on the other side of the railway line. When Martha was happy and excited, her laughter gurgled in her throat. He’s going to study botany in Heidelberg. He can live with his uncle there.
    What about you?
    I’m going to be his wife.
    No.
    The No came out of Helene’s mouth faster than she could think it, came bursting out. She added, quietly: No, that’s impossible.
    Impossible? Anything’s possible, my angel, the world is all before us. Martha was radiant, joyful, but Helene squeezed her eyes shut and obstinately shook her head.
    Father won’t let you.
    Father won’t let any man come near me. Martha released Helene’s hands and, in spite of her remark, she had to laugh. He loves me.
    Father or Arthur?
    Arthur, of course. Father just owns me. He can’t give me up. Even if he wanted to, he simply can’t do it. He won’t let anyone have me.
    Well, not Arthur, that’s for sure.
    Martha turned on her back and clasped her hands as if about to pray. God, what can he do about it? I have two legs,