Читать книгу A Piece of Me - Beatrix Ost - Страница 12

In the middle of the war, in 1943, my family moved from Hemmingen Castle to Goldachhof, the estate of my childhood.

Among my earliest memories are my father’s daily routines. In the morning, as his second task—the first being wake-up call—he went into the den to the grandfather clock, opened the glass door, drew his watch from the red slit of his vest with his left hand, pried open the gold lid, checked, compared it with the dial above—Ja, richtig—then his right hand pulled the cone-shaped weight up by its chain. Sometimes he gave the minute hand a push forward, when he had a premonition that his wife would be unpunctual. Then, he would lecture.

Since the beginning of the last century, since rail travel began, time has been standardized everywhere. That goes for you, too, my love.

I stand in the room, smell the familiar things, hear the ticking of the clock. The impatient clop of horses’ hooves outside. My father pulls the peaked checkered cap over his head and puts on his overcoat. His stockinged legs peer out from underneath; he is wearing leder­hosen. My mother hurries through the tiled corridor, tak tak tak tak, sticks her head quickly through the kitchen door, and calls out an extra order for Olga, our cook.

I need to go back there. The urgency is getting stronger, catching hold of me. I dream a dream.

I am in the house of my childhood. It is raining. So hard that it presses my umbrella down on my head. I run to the garden. The little stream is a raging river. A dog swims toward me. He looks like a rat. I must, must get across the current, but I cannot see the riverbank.