It was Christmas Eve, Eva’s favorite night—favorite moment of all the year. Elena was having her over. It would be just the two of them. Her brother had invited them to Austria, but neither wanted to spend the money. Some year they would go. But she was too prideful to ask for him to pay for her tickets, and he never offered to, of course. Eva had asked her daughter to come to her house, but she said, “Warum, Mutti? Deine Zimmer sind so trostlos. Lass uns Weihnachten bei mir feiern.”
“But you must get a tree and wrap a present. It can’t be just us drinking beer with no . . . I don’t know . . . with no atmosphere.”
“Don’t worry. I’ll get a tree.”
“I can bring candles. And other decorations.”
“Toll. And bring some brandy. I’ll have food, too. Not just beer. I promise.”
The only disappointment was that Eva couldn’t wear her robe. Hans had bought her a new dress during his last visit, which she wore, but it didn’t make her feel quite as special as her robe did. It was a tight red dress with big, puffy sleeves. She felt a bit garish in it, but she knew, too, that it was a nice dress. It wasn’t that she wasn’t grateful; she just, if she had a choice, would always be wearing her blue robe. Maybe she could find a blue dress somewhere.
Berlin was beautiful during Christmas. The entire city was lit up, music poured from people’s houses, from the shops. Red bows and silver icicle decorations hung everywhere, even from the humblest apartment buildings. “Fröhliche Weihnachten” was heard from every corner, from nearly every person, even those who normally were sour. Eva could feel Christ’s spirit. Feel God’s spirit. She drank a very strong coffee mixed with brandy before heading out to the U-Bahn to go to Elena’s. Her cheeks flushed and she put the two gifts she had for her daughter in a bag. One gift she left behind, the one for Hans. A shirt that she agonized over—was it too bright? He liked bright colors. It was orange, a rusty orange. She imagined him in it, imagined him kissing her full on the mouth, saying “Danke, Schatzi. Dankeschön.” She left the shirt behind, carefully wrapped in shiny gold paper. She left it on her neatly made bed. In another bag, she had a bottle of brandy and a big sausage. And in another still, her Christmas ornaments—the heavy candleholders, the silver glass balls, the gold angel that rested on top of the tree instead of a star. She knew it was a bit different, but she loved it. She had used it all her married life, all her adult life. And in the ornament bag were new boxes of candles. It all felt a bit heavy, but she was full of life. It was the day Christ was born! Her savior! She knew it wasn’t as important as Easter, but it was her favorite holiday. It was.
Kreuzberg was alive and full of joy. Everyone—the punk rock kids, the hipster families, the artists and even the Turks, who didn’t believe in Christ—everyone was friendly and smiling.
Elena, too, was joyful.
“Hallo, Mutti! Fröhliche Weinachten, liebe Mutti!”
“Oh, fröhliche Weinachten, meine Tochter, meine Elena!”
Her apartment looked so nice. Eva was touched that her daughter had done this. There was a nice white tablecloth, one Eva had given her, on the table. Some new chairs were placed around the table. They were used, Eva could see, but her daughter had done this for her, found some chairs so she didn’t have to sit on pillows on the floor. And a tree! A Tannenbaum! It wasn’t as small and scraggly as she’d expected. Not that she thought badly of Elena; it was just that trees were expensive and hard to haul about. But the tree was beautiful—full, green, fragrant of pine. Tears came to Eva’s eyes. God was good, God was love. There were a handful of ornaments already on the tree. Including a beer can turned upside down. Well, Elena always had a sense of humor. And a very funny idea of art.
“I brought brandy, mein Liebchen. Hier! Für dich. Für uns!”
“Danke, Mutti.”
“Und eine Wurst!”
“Danke, danke! Warte, Mutti. Lass uns darauf mit Brandy anstossen.”
She sat near the tree, the room aglow with lamps. Elena brought her a drink and she began unpacking the goods carefully. Her fingers moved with ease, despite her excitement. She carefully placed the two gifts under the tree and then began putting on the ornaments. She attached the candle holders to the branches, carefully placing a new candle in each one. There were the silver balls, the glittery red balls, the gold ones, too. She could hear Elena singing in the kitchen as she prepared food for the two of them: “Stille Nacht, Heilige Nacht, Alles schläft, einsam wacht, Nur das traute, hochheilige Paar, Holder Knabe in lockigem Haar, Schlaf in himmlischer Ruh! Schlaf in himmlischer Ruh!”
Eva stood and joined her daughter, walking into the kitchen, abandoning the tree for a moment, singing: “Stille Nacht, heilige Nacht, Hirten erst kundgemacht, Durch der Engel Halleluja, Tönt es laut von fern und nah, Christ, der Retter, ist da! Christ, der Retter, ist da!”
Later, full and drunk, they opened presents. She had bought Elena a set of warm wool gloves and a hat, and three expensive pads of drawing paper. Elena had given her a lovely, bright purple silk scarf, which she put on immediately, and a book on a photographer, an artist named Nan Goldin. The book unsettled her, but she knew her daughter meant well, that she was trying to share her interests with her mother. Hugo never attempted to share his love of the arts with her; he was content to have it be a separate thing, his work, his photography. But Elena wanted her mother to understand her interests. And Eva tried, sometime more than other times, to understand what moved her daughter.
“Komm, Mutti, lass uns Fotos von Vati angucken,” Elena said and took out one of the books of Hugo’s photographs that she owned. They sat flush against each other. The candles were lit; they had lit them at midnight, singing “Stille Nacht” one more time. Soon they would have to put them out. It wasn’t safe.
Elena had all of Hugo’s work. Eva had a few random photos, here and there, mostly of her daughter. Maybe one or two of Hugo and of herself. But Elena had books and books of Hugo’s work. She was the legal manager of his estate and the sole beneficiary. Eva had been named estate manager and beneficiary when Hugo died, but as soon as Elena was old enough, she gave the responsibility to her daughter. Elena was a better person for the job. There were the occasional requests to reprint his work, and even requests to include a photo in a show. Elena had organized a beautiful retrospective of his work five years ago, too. That was the last time Eva had really looked at his pictures. And even then, she didn’t look much—she glanced more than looked.
She knew he was a good photographer, but she didn’t care so much. So often, his picture taking seemed a way of not dealing with the world. Hiding behind the camera, trying to capture his subjects, and giving nothing of himself. Photography wasn’t a brave art. Perhaps no art was brave. Perhaps it was always a way of hiding oneself and stealing from others.
The book Elena had out was mostly family photos. Carefully printed, black-and-white pictures on thick paper. First came photos of Eva and Elena. Eva with her daughter, who was five at the time, in the backyard of their house. Eva’s hair, still thick and blonde, her skin smooth. Gravity had not called yet. Was she twenty-three in those pictures? Something like that. Wearing a dirndl she remembered well, a green, flowered bodice, a lavender apron. Her breasts were high and round, showing at the top of her dress. In the pictures, Elena could barely sit still. She had been a child! Eva knew she’d been a child, but to think of it too much was painful. Then came more photos of Elena: Elena in the kitchen, her head cocked sideways, a piece of fruit in her hand. A painfully huge grin. Elena quiet, a rare thing for her—she’d been such an active girl—sitting on her bed, naked, right after a bath.
And there were many photos of Eva. One photo was of her face, up so close that she looked strange, as if she were staring at her pores in the mirror. Eva hated that picture of herself. And Eva naked in bed, right after he’d made love to her. Eva in the kitchen, cooking. Eva in the backyard, reading. There were photos of Christa Wolf, the writer, a friend of Hugo’s. And of Fred Wander, another writer. Strange, how Hugo mostly socialized with writers. Strange how young they all were. It almost seemed impossible.
And then the photos jumped to years later.
Eva asked, “Was machen diese Fotos in diesem Album? Sie sind von viel später.”
“I know. But they are of Liezel. And I put them in, because she is family. And with Maggie coming, I thought it would be nice to have them.”
Liezel, during the one and only visit she made to Berlin. Right before she moved to Paris, where she then met Fred. Her dark hair, shiny and healthy, framing her face. Her eyes—she was all eyes. Slightly turned up on the sides—cat’s eyes. She had grown to be even more beautiful than Eva. Her baby sister. And then more photos of her, many without her clothes. Liezel in the guest room, naked, looking straight at the camera, but shyly covering her childish breasts. Liezel in the yard, sunning topless. Liezel, sitting up, most likely on top of him, her face covered by her hair, her body contorted with passion.
Well, it was the sixties, the beginning of them at least. That was what Eva thought, if she had the misfortune of thinking about that time. Both she and Hugo had lovers. Why did her sister feel like such a betrayal then? Her sister. Her baby sister. She didn’t know where to direct the anger, toward Hugo or Liezel. She was furious that they made her hate them, because she did hate them. For a very long time. But not forever—how could she hate them forever? Hugo died; Liezel moved so far away. Everything changed. Other things became important.
But looking at these photos on Christmas Eve, the blackness came over her. She wished it away. She prayed without saying a word. God, make it stop. The hate. She closed her eyes. When she opened them, she looked at Elena. Elena—her eyes hard. Eva hated her. An image of herself bashing her daughter’s head into the table came over her. She was outside of herself now, looking down on herself and Elena. She exhaled hard—she had been holding her breath. Mother and daughter held each other’s gaze. Then Eva grabbed Elena’s skinny forearm and pushed it down on the table, holding it there. She wanted to kill her, but at least she would maybe bruise her. Despite Elena’s youth, Eva knew she could physically dominate her. She knew she was bigger, and crazier. She had that blackness, the thing that hardens the heart cells.
“Au, Mutti, du tust mir weh!” Elena said, trying to pull her arm away from her mother’s grasp.
“Warum heute Abend?” Eva asked, leaning into her daughter, her grip strong. Elena’s hard eyes changed—she was afraid. Good. Eva then stood and went to the bathroom and peed. She had one pang of guilt, then she brushed it off.
“Ich hasse diese Fotos. Wirklich. Abscheulich,” Eva said when she returned and then she went into the kitchen to pour one more brandy. When she came back, Elena had put the photos away, but she was smiling strangely. Her fear was gone. It was as if she thought she had won some battle, surmised Eva. Well, Eva thought, let her see how she feels when she’s my age. She hated Elena now for her youth. She often hated the young. The hate would pass, she knew. Just as the blackness would drain out of her.
“That must have been very hard.” Elena said. “Vati wasn’t the angel I always thought he was. I know that, Mutti. I still love him, the memory of him. But I know he wasn’t perfect.”
“Good heavens! It’s Christmas Eve. Talk of joy and love, Elena. Your father was an angel. Perfect, no, but an angel, yes. Angels were just as human as us once.”
“Mutti, stay here tonight. Yes? It’s too late for you to go back to your place. Stay here with me.”
“Danke, Elena. Okay, Ich bleibe. Danke.”