She gasped for air, hot tears spilling over her cheeks in streams that pooled inside the hollow of her neck. She shivered with shock. He’d never reacted to her like this before. His arms had only ever offered a welcoming embrace, his scratchy face had only ever been ready for a smile. His clever hands were always pointing things out, helping her put on an extra jumper or carving a wooden animal for her amusement – never this. They’d never been used to hurt her before.
She gulped for air, as her brain whirred, looking for an explanation. It came up empty – she didn’t understand – what had she done wrong?
There was the sound of booted feet hitting the wooden floor in haste as her father came charging into the room, alerted by the sound of Jürgen’s screams and Ingrid’s loud sobbing. ‘What’s going on here? Why are you holding her like that!’
Jürgen had turned to him, his eyes wild, as he found a new source for his anger, letting Ingrid’s arm go at last. There were white marks, surrounded by red, from his fingers. ‘I found her – speaking – speaking…’ He broke off, not saying the word.
Ingrid’s father looked incredulous, and his anger was quick to spark. ‘Speaking?’ He shook his head then looked at Jürgen with confusion. ‘She’s a child, Jürgen, they say things… perhaps things that they shouldn’t. What happened?’ he asked Ingrid, who was rubbing her arm, and struggling to catch a breath between her sobs.
‘I – I don’t know. I just said the words from the tapes. I was just trying to learn…’
Her father frowned. ‘Tapes – what tapes? Learn what?’
‘G-German,’ she said, breathing heavily, gasping for air. ‘I – I wanted to learn for my friend, Suzie – she can’t speak Swedish, and I want to understand her better. What did I do wrong, Far?’
Ingrid’s father’s eyes widened. ‘Nothing. You did nothing wrong, do you hear me?’ Then he turned to Jürgen, his face hard. ‘What the hell, Jürgen?’
Jürgen did not back down. ‘I will not have her speaking that language in this house!’ he’d raged.
Her father’s eyes widened once more, his face twisted in sudden fury. ‘This is my house, Jürgen,’ he reminded him, his voice low, like a hiss. His fists balled at his sides. Truth be told he was more than a little shocked. Ingrid was a firm favourite of the old hermit, and he and Jonna often joked that if it weren’t for their daughter they’d never see him.
‘This prejudice of yours – it’s not welcome here. I see no reason why she cannot learn another language – it wasn’t the Nazis that created the language, and they do not represent an entire population, Jürgen. We haven’t challenged you on this before, because our generation did not live through the war but I will not allow you to poison Inge with such rubbish. Get a handle on yourself – she’s just a little girl trying to learn her new friend’s language.’
Jürgen seemed to deflate, as her father’s words penetrated. The red mist that had consumed him evaporated, and he looked utterly ashamed. ‘Is your arm all right?’ he asked Ingrid.
Ingrid sniffled, but nodded.
‘I—’ He cleared his throat. ‘Inge, I – I’m sorry,’ he said, seeming to fold into himself, the look on his face heartbreaking. ‘There’s – it’s just—’ He broke off, pressing his lips together. He took a deep breath. ‘I don’t know what happened to me, please forgive me,’ he said, looking from her to her father, who remained impassive, and back again.
‘I think it’s time you left, Jürgen.’
He nodded. To Ingrid it looked as if he’d suddenly become old, something she’d never really thought of him being before.
It was weeks before they saw him again. Ingrid couldn’t remember if her father had said anything more to her about the subject or if her mother had; all she remembered was missing him. She would stare out their cabin window, as the autumn wind chased away the last of the red-gold leaves and the first frost arrived, turning the berries outside to crystallised jewels, keeping one eye towards their drive for any sign of his familiar straw hat, and long-legged, ambling walk, wondering if he’d ever come again.
When he finally did, snow had settled on the ground, and winter had dealt its last riposte, its victory ensuring they’d be bound inside by the cold for months. He brought her a new wooden toy, a small wooden bear that he’d carved just for her, like all her others. It was a snow bear, and its eyes were solemn and sad. Ingrid had understood, perhaps in some instinctual way, what he was trying to say, even if her parents didn’t. Morfar was the bear, and her speaking German had roused him somehow.
The incident changed things slightly, especially for her father, who was never completely comfortable with leaving Ingrid alone with him after that, even though over the months and years there never was another outburst from him.
She continued to learn German, though, encouraged in some way by her father, who hadn’t appreciated being told what to do in his own home. But Ingrid never did speak it around her grandfather again. She’d seen the naked pain in his eyes, behind the rage, and she hadn’t wanted to hurt him any more than he did her.
She frowned, as she played with the cord of the telephone now, as she thought of it. It was late, but knowing her night-owl mother, she’d probably still be up, reading. Besides, Ingrid was sure that she’d want to know how it had gone. It killed her that they were living in Malmö, so far away from him.
Jonna picked up on the second ring. ‘It’s me,’ said Ingrid, after hearing her voice.
‘How did it go?’
‘Morfar remembered me today.’
‘Oh, Ingrid,’ said her mother, softly. ‘Are you all right?’
Ingrid blew out her cheeks. She would not cry about this. She’d promised herself after she and Ben had broken up and she’d decided to take over Jürgen’s care that she wouldn’t fall apart. It was going to be a good thing, a fresh start. ‘Yes. I can handle him.’
‘Well, I think you’re probably one of the few that could,’ she agreed. ‘But if it is too much and he’s getting worse, well, then we need to rethink things…’
‘It’s fine – honestly. You know Morfar – it’s partly the early dementia but also a lot to do with his pride and the fact that he doesn’t like to admit that he needs help sometimes,’ she said, thinking of his firewood. She knew he suffered from arthritis, which was particularly painful in the colder months, and was no doubt one of the main reasons he’d delayed on filling up his log pile.
‘Well, yes, he’s always been a bear when he thought people were sticking their noses in his business.’
Ingrid nodded. ‘Always,’ she agreed.
‘You’ve spoken to his doctor?’
‘Yes, he told me what he told you – he says that he’s still there really, he just needs some help for now.’ She didn’t say the rest, she didn’t need to – her mother knew it all already, and it kept her awake most nights consumed with worry; the least Ingrid could do was give her some relief on that front. Unlike Marta she wasn’t going to give up, just because he was difficult. She thought of his crack about his underpants and shook her head, a small smile on her lips.