Life Will Have Its Way Read online

  Anja became suddenly distressed, her pupils grew large and dark and her complexion became pale, “I just don’t know why they had to go after him like that, the whole thing about going to the West was my idea,” her voice quaked. “It was me that put in the applications, made the appointments, everything, you know he had nothing to do with it. He really had nothing to do with it. Nothing.”

  She stopped there, got up and went to the bathroom, I heard water in the sink. “You don’t have a few aspirin, do you?” she yelled out.

  I got the bottle from the kitchen and met her at the door with a glass of water, she was drying her face, her eyes looked red and tired but she still managed a partial smile. We settled back into our chairs in the living room and a period of awkward silence followed. She fidgeted in her seat, and cleared her throat several times, I had the impression she wanted to keep talking, but wasn’t sure.

  “Do you want to tell me more?” I finally asked.

  “Go ahead,” she said flicking her fingers back and forth, “what else would you like to know?”

  “Um, I guess more about Nikolaus.” I thought about all the time I had spent in Anja’s apartment, I scanned my memory for some sign of him there, a photograph, a memento, something, anything that might have indicated that someone named Nikolaus had at one time actually existed, had at one time lived in the same building. There was nothing. “What happened to him?”

  “Well, let see, let see, where was I?” she said to herself, now speaking with an almost noticeable lack of emotion. “They kept him downtown,” she pointed in the general direction of the local police station, “you know the building, don’t you?”

  One afternoon several months after his arrest Anja entered their apartment. The curtains had been drawn, a putrid combination of disinfectant and body odor hung heavily in the air. Nikolaus sat on the couch, barely recognizable, he was unshaven, his hair over grown, his thin pale body was buried somewhere beneath filthy, oversized clothing.

  “Nikolaus had always been so conscientious about his appearance, he’d always been so well put together, but the man sitting on my couch… he was none of those things, he was just a shell, nothing more than the shell of the man that I had known.” She paused and clapped her hands together, “Oh dear, I don’t mean to drone on, you certainly needn’t be burdened with all of this.”

  “No, no, Anja, please continue,” I said. To be honest, I was quite eager to hear more. Just about every family had a story similar to hers, a tragic story that involved the unfortunate arrest of a cousin, an uncle, a grandfather, a sister, a friend, but no one ever seemed willing to share the details.

  Anja went on. Nikolaus was cleared of all wrong doing, but it soon became apparent that he would never recover from the stigma attached to the accusation. Once he realized what the future held for him, he basically lost the will to go on. Anja arrived home one evening to find him nearly unconscious.

  “He took my hand, he was so weak. He kept trying to say something, but his voice was so shallow, so empty. I had to put my ear nearly to his mouth just to make out what he was saying.” Anja choked up, I could see the tears pooling in the corners of her eyes, she paused, pursing her lips as she tried to regain her composure. “He said he was sorry. Sorry for everything. That was the last thing he said.” She shrugged and raised her hand to push away a tear that had been slowly working its way down her cheek.

  “Life is funny, you know. If you really think about it, we don’t have much say in things.”

  “What do you mean?” I asked.

  “Oh, I don’t know, sometimes it feels like we’re nothing more than passengers.”

  “Passengers?”

  “Well, yes. In life, you’re put on your train and you must go where that train takes you.”

  “But what if you don’t like your train? Why not just switch trains?”

  “Oh no. No. You can’t switch trains.”

  “Why not?”

  “You can’t change fate my dear, you can’t change fate.”

  Chapter 7

  Tin cups clanked against their sacks as they scurried along the trail. The sun was slipping. Once it dropped behind the hills the fog would start to settle, pulling itself like thin, frosted taffy between the trees. The orange-red glow that rose up from behind the horizon after dusk painted the forest in an eerie glaze that neither of the boys liked but would never admit, not even to each other.

  Brena came to the door as soon as they walked up, anxiously drying her hands with a towel. Her brows furrowed as they drew nearer, she craned her neck to look past them, “Where’s Evie?” she asked, her voice slightly cracking.

  The boys stopped abruptly and looked at one another.

  “She’s not with you?”

  “No,” Erich replied, “why would she be?”

  “Erich, stop that, stop that right now. This is no time for joking around.”

  “Mom. I’m not joking. She’s not with us.”

  Brena stumbled down the stairs, her eyes filled with terror. She grabbed Erich by the front of his jacket, “She left with you! She left with you! You must know where she is!” She turned toward Lukas, “Please, Lukas, please, tell me you know where she is!”

  “She’s probably just playing with the baby goats.”

  “No, no, she’s not here, she’s not here, she hasn’t been here all day.”

  Erich managed to free himself from his mother’s hysterical grasp and took her firmly by the shoulders. “Mom! Mom!” he cried, shaking her, watching the color drain from her face and the life slip from behind her eyes.

  “Evie is gone! She’s gone!” Brena sobbed running toward the forest before shriveling and crumpling to the ground. “We thought she was with you,” she continued to wail, “we thought she was with you!”

  Lukas threw down his sack and ran off toward his father’s workshop. He returned moments later with a dozen or more people, mostly men. The boy’s father pushed his way to the front of the crowd and fell to the ground as soon as he reached Erich and his mother. He tried to keep his composure, for his wife, for his sons and for the people circling them with blank, worried faces who watched sympathetically, horrified by the pain and secretly rejoicing that it wasn’t theirs to feel.

  The children’s grandfather soon learned what was going on, he rushed to the growing huddle of people and worked his way to his daughter, kneeling next to her on the ground and running his hand over her hair as he’d done since she was a girl. “Brena, Brena, stay calm, we’ll find her, I promise you, we’ll find her.”

  Her husband tried to take her inside but she refused. She also refused a shot of hard liquor that someone suggested might calm her nerves. “No, no,” she said sadly as she pushed it away, “I must help find my Evie.”

  As word got out, the size of the group swelled, the volunteers were organized into small search parties and sent pair after pair into the cold, darkened night. Erich and Lukas were asked to stay behind with their mother. They sat quietly, watching the men, their lanterns flickering, as they disappeared into the forest. When everyone was gone and the air had grown silent, the boys finally convinced their mother to go inside. She fell exhausted into the couch where she sat, staring at the open door, anxiously jumping at every sound.

  One of the neighbors arrived with a kettle and a small plate of biscuits. While their mother was occupied with the woman, the boys went to their room. They stared at one another in silence, neither wishing to be the first to speak, both knowing what needed to be said.

  “I think she might have followed us.” Lukas whispered.

  “I know.” Erich replied with a gulp.

  “But how could she? We told her not to?”

  “I don’t know. It doesn’t matter now anyway.”

  “We have to tell them where she went.”

  “No way!” Erich snapped, “Are you crazy? Do you know how much trouble we’ll be in?”

  “I don’t care,” Lukas replied stubbornly, folding his arms tightly, “we ha
ve to tell somebody.”

  “No!” Erick stood over him, “You just be quiet about this! We don’t even know for sure if that’s where she went.”

  “Then where is she? Huh? Where is she?” Lukas shot back defiantly. “She didn’t just disappear!”

  About ten inches, thirty pounds and three years separated the boys, but they were as close as two brothers could be. Lukas knew he could say whatever needed to be said to his big brother and Erich was certain that if it ever came down to it, he could count on his little brother to stick with him.

  Chapter 8

  The adults in the house, although promising not to rest until she was found, eventually lost the battle and drifted off to a restless sleep. Wracked with guilt and indecision, Erich and Lukas stayed awake. They couldn’t bring themselves to tell their parents about where they’d been earlier that day. As the light of dawn threatened its inevitable approach, the boys realized their only choice was to go after Evie on their own. After a fair amount of rather heated discussion, they agreed to leave before anyone would notice they were gone.

  While Erich crept to the kitchen to gather supplies for their trip, Lukas rifled through the small wooden chest that stood at the end of his bed, the only space in the entire house he felt purely his own. He pulled out a small notebook and a rather dull but useable pencil and quickly scribbled a note to his mother. His thoughts jumbled together and his words didn’t seem to make sense, all he could do was imagine himself running to his father, grabbing him by the shoulders and shaking him until he was awake, then telling him everything.

  Lukas heard Erich approaching and in a panic crumpled the note between his fingers and held the pencil at his back. He could feel his heart beating, his jaw clenching, his hands shaking.

  “What are you hiding?” Erich snapped.

  “Nothing.” Lukas replied.

  “Show me what you have!”

  Erich took Lukas firmly by the arm and pried open his small fist, pulling the crumpled paper from it. “What is this?” he grumbled through his teeth, smoothing the paper only enough to read it before shoving it deep into his coat pocket. “We are not leaving a note!”

  Chapter 9

  I wrapped my scarf loosely and stepped out onto the landing. The city was wrapped in a veil of grey haze. Steam rose from the grates and dirty clumps of leaves blew through the gutters. It was unusually cold and I felt once again that I’d been robbed of a season.

  Even on the best days my street was sad and depressing but when the weather was bad, the mood turned greyer still. The trees protested their misfortunate place in the universe with sad misshapen leaves and gnarled branches that hung down to taunt passers when the wind was heavy. The plants that surrounded them hung limp, knowing a thirst that was rarely satisfied they waited patiently for rain. The buildings were unloved, underappreciated and painted with the most dreadful shades of grey. Why was the paint always grey? Okay, so perhaps sometimes it was beige, or dull, dirty yellow, but really, even then it might just as well have been grey. I yearned for a gifted graffiti artist to spray paint his way through my neighborhood, but he never came.

  From the corner of my street it was a twenty-minute walk to the subway station. My path was always the same. If I could cover the soles of my shoes with paint to mark each step, the steps would match up one with the other on all of the days to follow. I counted the blocks as I walked them, the stoplights, the road signs, I used the shops and stores as markers, checked them off in an attempt to break the monotony and distract myself from the anxiety I usually felt anytime I walked about outside.

  The caged look I shared with my fellow travelers assured me that I wasn’t the only one who felt perpetually tense and ready for something to happen. We were always waiting for someone to grab us or the person we were walking alongside. Waiting to be shoved roughly into the back of a car, and taken away, away from the street, away from our homes, away from everything we’d ever known. Yes, walking through the city was not unlike walking on sheets of ice, year round, day after day, bracing yourself constantly, continuously, waiting to fall, expecting to fall, knowing that eventually you were certain to fall.

  I took a final gulp of air as I pulled back the thick brass barriers that separated the rest of the world from the subway and walked into a wall of nicotine scented smoke that mingled with exhaust fumes and the smell of urine soaked concrete. Fresh air could no longer penetrate the filthy murk that formed just beyond the doors and ventilation windows, and therefore, no longer tried. Passengers moved robotically toward their trains in a giant dreary mass, they boarded in silence and dutifully took their places amongst a wall of tightly pressed strangers. No one spoke, no one made eye contact, even if you travelled with someone you knew it was unlikely you’d engage in conversation, anything worth saying would have been picked up by dozens of well-tuned ears.

  Chapter 10

  My workplace was in the center of a giant open room ringed with offices. Desks were lined in long rows, four deep with little to separate them. Privacy was non-existent and you could be sure that every move you made was done to an enthusiastic audience of at least twenty curious sets of eyes. I was told there’d been dividers at one time, but one of the old managers didn’t like having to walk around and around them to see what his employees were doing and had them all removed.

  I walked casually to my desk trying to act as though there was nothing unusual on my mind, as if I wasn’t missing someone I had just met, as if I wasn’t feeling left out of whatever must be going on in my neighbor’s apartment.

  Lena dropped her purse heavily into her chair. “What’s new?” she asked, a burst of wintergreen dispelling itself each time her teeth connected with the gum in her mouth.

  “Oh, nothing,” I replied, instantly fearing I’d given myself away by using the wrong tone.

  “Nothing? Can’t be nothing. You have to have something. I know you’re not that boring.”

  I offered a weak, forced laugh.

  Lena was very intuitive and I was a horrible actress. I could tell she sensed something, she knew I had something to tell. She knew I had a secret.

  “Ohhhh! Now I know you’re lying!” she squealed. “Is it something good?” she asked, leaning over my desk on her elbows.

  “No, really Lena, I really don’t have anything.” I pleaded.

  “Come on,” she leaned in closer and lowered her voice, “it’s about Wagner, isn’t it? I bet that wasn’t really his wife, was it? Am I right? Am I right? Oh, I know that’s it. That has to be it!”

  She looked so pleased with herself I had to laugh, Lena was such a big gossip I was amazed she could think I might possibly know something she didn’t.

  “I haven’t heard anything about any of that,” I managed to say rather convincingly.

  “Well,” she plopped onto a stool that sat between our desks, “I’m not going anywhere until you spill your dirt.”

  I shrugged.

  She drummed the edge of my desk impatiently with her fingertips, her nails clicking obnoxiously with each contact, a devilish smile covering her face.

  “Lena, I really don’t have anything to tell. I’m serious, and besides, I have work to do, I don’t have time for this.”

  Her hot pink lips puckered. “Fine, be that way then,” she said throwing her shoulders back, “just remember, next time you want to hear something juicy don’t come crying to me.” She hopped off the stool, pulled her purse from her chair, shoved it into her bottom drawer then walked toward the break room.

  The clock taunted me with its stubborn lack of movement and the morning took forever to pass. Lena stayed mad and pouted the rest of the day, refusing to talk, refusing to entertain me with her highly embellished and strangely addictive stories. My thoughts drifted constantly to Anja’s apartment.

  The girl’s presence had created quite a diversion from the uniformity of our existence and it was hard to think of anything else. I wondered what they were doing, how they were getting along. What the girl f
ound interesting as she investigated the rooms of Anja’s apartment in the same way she had investigated mine. I wondered if Anja had any luck finding something for her to eat. I wondered if the girl would ask for more jam.

  Anja’s jam was a mottled, chunky creation that was the color children make with paints when they try to use too many colors at once. She used a somewhat unconventional combination of fruits, making use of any and every bit of sort-of-fresh fruit she could get her hands on, bruised peaches, wrinkled apricots, the good parts of wormy apples and the few berries she’d managed to salvage from her secret spot in the garden.

  Every year she watched, hopefully, her sparse collection of strawberry plants come to life. The little white flowers would form around thick, yellow seeded buds, the petals would drop and the small green berries would grow larger and darker. But Anja wasn’t the only one waiting patiently for her berries to turn a rich, deep red. Time and again I watched her face fill with disappointment when she realized wild birds and hungry children had beaten her to them.

  When the day finally ended I hurried out without saying a word. Normally, I would have made quick rounds through the office to check what might be happening after work. Most of the staff was close to my age and we made it a point to keep each other entertained in a city that offered little entertainment. It was not until I was standing outside in front of the building that I realized my friends would be wondering why I hadn’t bothered to say good-bye. Lena especially would have her feelings hurt, she would be left believing I’d avoided her on purpose, that I still held a fantastic piece of gossip that I wasn’t willing to share. I struggled for a second trying to decide whether it would be best to keep walking or go back inside. My mind battled back and forth with itself then finally, propelled by the subconscious movement of my steps in the direction of the subway, I decided to go home.