Higher Ground, Anke Stelling [historical books to read .TXT] 📗

his. And that’s when we probably should have sat up and asked a few questions, but no one did. We were inexperienced in things like that, and we still are.

I started having doubts on the Sunday we were all supposed to go to the building site together.

March 2013; shortly before K23 was completed.

We were invited to brunch at Frank and Vera’s. We, meaning our family — except Lynn, of course, because she wasn’t yet born — along with Friederike and Ingmar, Silas and Sophie: a total of six adults and seven children. But it wasn’t a problem: there were plenty of pancakes and strawberries and caprese and bubbly. We spread out across the five rooms; you kids were getting on fine, and the new building would soon be finished. The move was imminent, the lawn seeds had been sown, and although Sven and I wouldn’t really be part of it, we felt as if the flat we were sitting in having brunch was already a little bit ours.

Everybody was happy, and there was a good atmosphere.

But Willi didn’t want to go.

Brunch had been eaten, it was already half past two, and we’d chatted for long enough. Brunch now had to be digested, and you kids urgently needed some fresh air. And everybody felt like seeing the progress on the building site.

Everybody except Willi.

Willi often has plans of his own, and in this case, he planned to stay at home.

‘No, I don’t want to,’ he said, while the rest of us were putting on our coats.

Vera sighed and tried a weak ‘Come on, we’re all going,’ but for Willi, that never counts as a reason.

Frank tried with: ‘Let’s see if they’ve already fitted the sinks!’ and then: ‘We could get ice cream on the way there!’ But Willi stood firm, at which point Silas suddenly said he’d prefer to stay at home too, and Jack said he would too, and the three of them went into Willi’s room and closed the door behind them.

We stood about awkwardly in the hallway, and Ingmar said: ‘Okay, I’ll go and speak to them.’ And he went into Willi’s room too. Then there were terrible screams.

‘Don’t touch me!’ Willi yelled, and: ‘I don’t have to listen to you!’ and: ‘No, I won’t look at you!’ and: ‘Shitty Sunday! Shitty walk! Shitty K23! Shitty Ingmar!’

It sounded like a complete overreaction, especially when we looked through the crack of the door and saw that Ingmar had made an effort to squat down so that he could talk to Willi at eye level. And he definitely hadn’t touched him roughly but was gently brushing his arm, like you’re supposed to before you speak to children.

Ingmar was very calm, nodding, smiling, and touching Willi, and Willi flipped out.

‘Okay, I’ll stay here,’ said Vera, in that resigned voice she’d acquired because everything was so difficult with that stubborn child.

And Frank shook his head and looked apologetically at me, Friederike, and Sven, and we shrugged to show we understood: but all of a sudden, an unexpected empathy for Willi stirred inside me. Which was odd because I don’t particularly like Willi. Because he’s so difficult and drives Vera and Frank to the brink of madness. He barely looks at other adults, including me, or if he does, then it’s with a wary expression, his chin jutting forward.

But then I realised it was a familiar feeling: one of impotence against the man squatting down and pretending not to fight, even though he is forcing you to do something and trying to wear you down. And to top it all, he hides it with a smile. If he laid a finger on me, I’d kick him in the balls.

Which is exactly what Willi did, and Ingmar’s smile vanished. He stood up, sucked in some air between his teeth, and came back out; by the time he reached us, his smile had come back too, and he shook his head and said: ‘Okay, no chance.’

And we adults all laughed, and the joke was on stupid Willi, and Vera stayed at home while we went to the building site — except that Jack and Silas trailed a few metres behind us, and I’d have loved to have known what they were talking about.

I didn’t say anything, but kept my newfound empathy to myself, along with my first doubts about just how friendly and harmless Ingmar was—

After all, somebody has to keep the show on the road.

Where would we end up if everybody did what they felt like doing?

Ingmar is responsible, good at organising, hardworking, and thoughtful.

He doesn’t do whatever he feels like, but what’s best for everybody!

What’s the first sign of paternalism Bea? Knowing what’s best for everybody.

The salad is ready.

I shut my laptop and sit down at the table with my family.

Carrots are good for your eyes because they contain vitamin A, but to absorb it, you need a binding protein. Without these molecules, the vitamin isn’t much use to the body. Without these molecules, vitamin A can even lead to toxicity.

I like Sven’s reserved nature, his reticence during supper.

Sometimes it’s a little oppressive, and I know that Bea is afraid of Sven’s mute rejection, and Jack says that his friends think Sven is creepy.

A loud father is nicer. Someone who knows about things and likes to hear the sound of his own voice. Someone who intervenes to keep the order, and who attracts attention. Who and what are we supposed to look at when we’re at the table?

‘How was school?’ I ask, making an honest effort.

‘Really good,’ says Jack, my ally, my good boy.

The others say nothing.

Kieran stands up to fetch tomato sauce from the fridge.

Tomato sauce on salad: no one says a word.

No one is sure whether it might contain precisely the molecules needed that Kieran might need to absorb who knows what nutrient.

Later I sit in my broom cupboard. Just a bit longer since I didn’t get anything worthwhile done all day—

Speaking of which, what is worthwhile? What’s an achievement?

I’m used