The Madonna on the Moon by Rolf Bauerdick Read Free Book Online

discover that my fright was fading, and in its place I felt a previously unknown clarity.
Exterminate this man!
That demand had knocked my legs out from under me, but I was on my feet again, calm and collected.
Send him straight to hell!
Only a crazy person, a drunk who had drowned her mind in
zuika,
could have whispered such a mad assignment into the ear of a fifteen-year-old, into my ear. Me, Pavel Botev? I’m supposed to exterminate this Dr. Stephanescu? What a joke! A
man I don’t even know, who looks anything but unpleasant in his photos. No. I wasn’t about to let a lunatic recruit me for some dirty business. Never.
    “Barbu is nuts. Stephanescu is a good guy, a close friend of my father’s.”
    Fritz’s words sounded like a casual remark, but I pricked up my ears. Heinrich Hofmann! My silent misgivings about Fritz’s father’s questionable pretentions to artistry
immediately found new and bitter nourishment. My mistrust grew to a dark suspicion but was still obscure, since except for a large dose of personal dislike I found no basis for it whatsoever. Only
one thing was clear: Barbu and Stephanescu had a common acquaintance. But “acquaintance” was much too weak a word. Fritz’s father Heinrich must be a friend of this doctor, who in
his turn had been my teacher’s lover in earlier years. Something must have happened between the two of them, something unpleasant, malign even, or why would Barbu reduce to ashes the face of
a man she had once kissed? And so what if Barbu still had a score to settle with this guy? That was her business! But what did Herr Hofmann have to do with it? He’d taken Stephanescu’s
picture at least twice, once when he was a student and now again as the Kronauburg party secretary. Hofmann frequented higher circles. He had influence. He exercised power. And with that power he
had it in for Barbu. Before fall vacation, Fritz had threatened that his father would make her life a hell. The teacher’s face had blanched deathly white. She was afraid. But why? I was wider
awake than ever before, burning with curiosity.
    Suddenly it made sense to me that Fritz had been explaining his lack of interest in school by saying that his days in Baia Luna were numbered. “Father’s looking for a house in
Kronauburg, and once he’s found a suitable piece of real estate we’re out of this hick town.” I couldn’t believe Fritz was serious. The very thought of voluntarily moving
away would never have occurred to Germans like the Schusters or the Schneiders. But once the picture of Herr Hofmann’s friend Stephanescu was hanging on our classroom wall, I realized that
Fritz had been telling the truth. Soon he would turn his back on Baia Luna. I looked over at him. As always, he was sprawled on the school bench—and suddenly for me he was no longer a friend
but a stranger—looking cool and unapproachable. But the coldness of alienation didn’t just emanate from Fritz. The chasm separating us yawned within me, as if it had always been there
and only now became visible.
    “Reader, page eleven,” announced Barbu. “The patriotic poem by Hans Bohn. Julia, please begin!”
    Julia Simenov, top student in the class, stood up and recited in a clear voice,
    “I love the land of the Carpathian forests,
    So rich in natural beauty and so vast,
    The land of new construction and of heroes,
    Where each new day is better than the last.”
    We were told to get out our notebooks. While everyone except Fritz and me was writing down the words of the patriotic poem, Barbu leaned against the wall at the back of the
classroom. She tugged at her blue dress and rubbed her chin while I chewed on my pencil. I didn’t notice her advancing until she had almost reached us. She walked up to Fritz. She ran her
hand over his head. It seemed to me a dreamy, strangely absentminded, and almost involuntary gesture. I heard her say, “Tell your father it’s over. Barbu isn’t afraid
anymore.”
    Fritz looked