The Dark Room by Rachel Seiffert Read Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Rachel Seiffert
wrecked tram junction, winter clothes handed out, new boots and coats. Helmut washes the soot and sweat from his pyjamas in the darkroom sink, cleans the shop and secures it against looters, locking everything of value in the darkroom. Ledgers, till, order books, the remaining frames. Helmut closes the business, hanging a handwritten apology to the customers at the door. Charcoal on cardboard, softening, smearing in the autumn rain.
He takes no photos that winter. Camera, film, chemicals, paper, all safe behind the darkroom door. Helmut knows they are there, a small, comforting presence among the loss. He mourns. Alone, the coldest weeks go by. Sirens, bombs, fire, and hunger. Helmut sees corpses pulled from the rubble and runs away. At night his dreams bring confusion, and he wakes, expecting Mutti, routine, Gladigau, warmth, his father’s pipe smoke. He starts each winter day crying, covering his face with his hands.
Wet breath, wet cheeks, wet palms, the tears flood on.
In daylight it makes more sense. He sees the change in the city. The blocked streets, the missing buildings. Craters and mountains where once it was flat. Helmut can feel the difference between then and now, the pattern of the city shattered every night and the changes becoming part of each new day. He watches the people: chalking street and shop signs on the remaining walls, walking on and over and under and through. Slow progress across the rubble: ankles twisting, feet slipping, legs disappearing up to their knees. Still they go on.
New paths are beaten, old routines are dropped. After the bakery is bombed, the bread arrives in trucks.
Preferring to stay in familiar streets, Helmut finds a cellar to sleep in. It feels safe to him: tucked away in a tiny back court, the tenements around it all empty, in ruins. He finds a stove in the rubble and installs it on bricks by the cellar steps. Takes the heavy top bolt from the darkroom door and makes his new home secure.
In the nights when bombs fall, Helmut lies awake in his cellar and listens. If the impacts are close, he shouts into the noise, just like the night he ran from the bombers. Feeling his throat burn with his screams, hearing nothing but the blasts, the air thick with planes and flak. Warm with fear and then cooled by sweat, he makes a fire in the stove at dawn and sleeps in the quiet early light. If thebombs are far away, Helmut finds the distant thump and whine almost comforting, like the freight trains which had accompanied his adolescent sleep.
This far noise is preferable to silence. In the nights when the city lies quiet, Helmut is invaded by the dreams of his darkroom night, sharpened by hunger and cold. The broken windows are thick with frost, and Helmut peers through the glittering pane at his father, hand on Mutti’s shoulder, sitting in front of him. The ice melts, the image clears in the warmth of Helmut’s breath on the pane, then clouds again. Fogged, smudged by his reaching fingers. Gone.
Without work and without photography, Helmut’s days are empty and long, and the hours are drawn out through lack of food. He tries to sleep, but dreams drive him out of his cellar and onto the street, and his cold legs carry him to the station. There is a new guard, and Helmut takes his time, making friends, talking about the trains, just like he did with the old guard when he was a boy. The new man doesn’t like Helmut. His persistence, his crooked arm, his dirty coat. But after Helmut points out the tenement shell that used to be his home, the guard takes pity on him, listens to him more closely, lets him into the station to watch the trains. On cold days he sometimes takes a mug of thin soup out to the strange young man by the tracks. He asks after his family and nods appreciatively at Helmut’s descriptions of a hardworking Papi, a devoted Mutti, a dutiful only son. Helmut watches the trains come and go as he speaks, lets his voice drift on and on, eats his soup, doesn’t look the
He takes no photos that winter. Camera, film, chemicals, paper, all safe behind the darkroom door. Helmut knows they are there, a small, comforting presence among the loss. He mourns. Alone, the coldest weeks go by. Sirens, bombs, fire, and hunger. Helmut sees corpses pulled from the rubble and runs away. At night his dreams bring confusion, and he wakes, expecting Mutti, routine, Gladigau, warmth, his father’s pipe smoke. He starts each winter day crying, covering his face with his hands.
Wet breath, wet cheeks, wet palms, the tears flood on.
In daylight it makes more sense. He sees the change in the city. The blocked streets, the missing buildings. Craters and mountains where once it was flat. Helmut can feel the difference between then and now, the pattern of the city shattered every night and the changes becoming part of each new day. He watches the people: chalking street and shop signs on the remaining walls, walking on and over and under and through. Slow progress across the rubble: ankles twisting, feet slipping, legs disappearing up to their knees. Still they go on.
New paths are beaten, old routines are dropped. After the bakery is bombed, the bread arrives in trucks.
Preferring to stay in familiar streets, Helmut finds a cellar to sleep in. It feels safe to him: tucked away in a tiny back court, the tenements around it all empty, in ruins. He finds a stove in the rubble and installs it on bricks by the cellar steps. Takes the heavy top bolt from the darkroom door and makes his new home secure.
In the nights when bombs fall, Helmut lies awake in his cellar and listens. If the impacts are close, he shouts into the noise, just like the night he ran from the bombers. Feeling his throat burn with his screams, hearing nothing but the blasts, the air thick with planes and flak. Warm with fear and then cooled by sweat, he makes a fire in the stove at dawn and sleeps in the quiet early light. If thebombs are far away, Helmut finds the distant thump and whine almost comforting, like the freight trains which had accompanied his adolescent sleep.
This far noise is preferable to silence. In the nights when the city lies quiet, Helmut is invaded by the dreams of his darkroom night, sharpened by hunger and cold. The broken windows are thick with frost, and Helmut peers through the glittering pane at his father, hand on Mutti’s shoulder, sitting in front of him. The ice melts, the image clears in the warmth of Helmut’s breath on the pane, then clouds again. Fogged, smudged by his reaching fingers. Gone.
Without work and without photography, Helmut’s days are empty and long, and the hours are drawn out through lack of food. He tries to sleep, but dreams drive him out of his cellar and onto the street, and his cold legs carry him to the station. There is a new guard, and Helmut takes his time, making friends, talking about the trains, just like he did with the old guard when he was a boy. The new man doesn’t like Helmut. His persistence, his crooked arm, his dirty coat. But after Helmut points out the tenement shell that used to be his home, the guard takes pity on him, listens to him more closely, lets him into the station to watch the trains. On cold days he sometimes takes a mug of thin soup out to the strange young man by the tracks. He asks after his family and nods appreciatively at Helmut’s descriptions of a hardworking Papi, a devoted Mutti, a dutiful only son. Helmut watches the trains come and go as he speaks, lets his voice drift on and on, eats his soup, doesn’t look the