Maria Ullrich is hungry for colors.
She wants a red dress, hussy-red.
But it’s too soon for red, especially a red wedding dress. I promise Maria to sew a red blouse for her. For now I store her secrets and the clothes I’ve sewn for her.
One more month of mourning.
One more month of black clothes, Maria tells me. Then she’ll let herself be seen with her fisherman. First in church—nest of most gossip. Her church clothes I have ready. Pale blue. For walks along the dike with the fisherman she’ll wear pale green. Sundays after Mass she’ll invite him to her house for Mittagessen. He’ll bring the fish, she tells me, prepare it as he has countless times for her and himself—delicate with butter and with herbs. Her daughters will like him—he’s modest and kind, curious about them. Afterward they’ll be surprised he’s spoken so little but listened to everything, his expressions playing back to them what has pleased him, say, or moved him. Too soon to tell her daughters what she and the fisherman have decided decades ago—that he’ll claim them all as his daughters—and it is true, could become true, moving them toward an outcome both simple and merciful, unassailable by even the most rigid conscience. A wedding planned for summer.
In the weeks before the black sun, Lotte and Kalle cocoon. Let everything fall away from what matters as they prepare for their children’s return. They air out the little featherbeds. Arrange with the sexton’s hired man to tend to their livestock for one night and one day. As the Old Women observe that the Jansens are painting their shutters and repairing the back steps, they ease their concerns. After all, Lotte and Kalle look happier than they have in many months.
Together Tilli and Lotte wash bedding and make up the beds in the Kinderzimmer.
“Who’ll sleep here?” Tilli asks.
Lotte smiles.
“Are you expecting guests?”
“Better than guests.”
“Can you tell me?”
“Soon. But not a word to Sabine.”
They pull fresh covers over the featherbeds. Shake them till they plump up.
“Not a word.”
“Just that … it’s still a surprise.”
“What kind of a surprise?”
“The best of all surprises.” Lotte is feverish in her excitement. “Oh, Tilli, you’ll be so happy—”
“About what?”
“You’ll know in a few days.”
“Can you give me a clue?”
Lotte purses her lips.
Tilli waits.
“Our family will be bigger.”
Tilli’s heart skips. Soars. It’s going to happen. It’s finally going to happen. I’ll move in with Wilhelm and Lotte.
Lotte widens her arms, and Tilli is about to step into her embrace when Lotte hugs her arms around herself. “We’re bringing them home, our children…”
Tilli stares at her. “But they drowned.”
“They’re alive.” And what Lotte first revealed to Kalle with such hope and trepidation now pours from her, faster and louder, words tumbling and spiraling.
Tilli stands frozen, arms hanging. Has Lotte gone mad? Those children are dead.
“You’ll like our children.”
“I saw them,” Tilli says.
Lotte waits. Rocks back and forth on her feet and waits.
“At the Zirkus. With you. That day…”
As Lotte tells her how she and Kalle will row to Rungholt and return with their children, she feels closer to Tilli who believes her, mirrors her own magic. Still, Lotte has to ask her, “Do you believe me?”
Tilli nods and already she’s veering into what she’s best at: being useful to claim a place for herself. “You’ll need help with your children. They’ve been away for so long.”
Tilli will calm Sabine if she gets suspicious. Will keep Wilhelm safe until they’re all back.
Lotte lets Wilhelm help her while she bakes and cooks. “For your sisters and your brother.”
“When?”
“Soon.”
Wilhelm is afraid that Hannelore will take the yellow doll and that Martin will break his toys. Wilhelm must hide the doll in Heike’s room, make her promise not to tell.
Done with the heavy lifting of life, the Old Women help with the cooking. Help with their grandchildren. Teach them good manners and how to scrape the soles of their shoes and brush off sand so they won’t drag it through the house. Still, sand makes it indoors, and the Old Women sweep it away. Sweeping. Always sweeping. Sometimes four generations live in a row house or next door to you. The youngest and the oldest are most revered: the youngest adored; the oldest valued for the wisdom you can read in their faces. As you age, you grow into your true nature: more loving if you are born loving; more envious if you are born envious; more patient if you are born patient; more greedy if you are born greedy. The imprint of your life maps your features.