A bird’s body, hair feather white. Her grip surprisingly firm.
“I need my blue summer coat.”
She commanded and sent me on a search.
Closets, coat rack and the dresser.
But no summer coat to be found.
“I’m sorry,” I said apologetic. “I seem not to be able to
find your coat.”
She looked at me sternly.
“Silly girl, have you looked in the attic?”
Perplexed I looked at the old woman.
“Attic? But mam, you don’t have an attic.”
Her eyes got muddy with confusion and she waved me away.
I thought a misunderstanding had occurred so off I went
again.
Searched the same closets, the same coat rack and the same
dresser.
No blue coat. Meticulously crocheted doilies. Pillowcases
with monograms.
And under the bed rolled up rag rugs. Stripped in mellow
colors.
Years of hard work. Something for a woman to be proud of.
I left her after another thirty minutes, got on my bike and
rode to the next old lady.
The room was cramped, filled with ornament heavy wood
furniture.
“No wet rag on the furniture! It leaves streaks.”
The voice was not
kind, only demanding.
I moved carefully through the mausoleum of past times.
On one of the dressers stood a picture of two young ladies.
The owner of the apartment and my great aunt.
In another time my family had ruled this little country side
town.
My great grandfather owned the biggest house. Sat on the
board of the bank.
Decided who would be graced with a loan. He used to send my
grandmother.
A lean teenager to the liquor store. His name alone was
proof enough.
Now I rode my bike from house to house. Helped old ladies
clean, cook and take a bath.
I changed catheters, treated bed sores and searched for
summer coats.
When I was done dusting without using a wet rag I was
treated to a glass of water in the kitchen.
“During the war the trains stopped here. We all knew who the
Nazis were. The big farmers. Stood by the train and waved. Gave the soldiers
bread and apples. What a shame!”
I finished one glass and asked for another.
“You know how some people say that Hitler has a son.”
I nodded and drank.
“But he can’t have a son.
I know.”
Some sort of joy had joined her voice.
“My sister’s husband was in the same battalion as Hitler
during the war. Not the second. The first. And he told us that Hitler got one
of his balls shot off in the war.”
She giggled like a school girl.
The last house for the day was located all the way up the
hill. Past the nine hundred year old church.
Magnificent green wood house on the end of a road lined with
maple trees.
The man was dignified, gentle and almost rueful as he showed
me where the cleaning supplies were.
He didn’t disturb me as I worked. He sat in an old red
armchair and read. The walls covered in leather bound books.
On one of the walls in the airy entrance hall hung a
beautiful shawl. Crimson with gold thread. The shawl was covered in striking jewelry
and underneath a black and white photo in a silver frame. Two young men and a
woman.
“He was my best friend.”
I almost jumped. I had not heard him.
“Anton Nilsson,” he said and looked questioning at me. My
mother had informed me so I nodded.
“He fought in the Red Army. That was after the bombing of
the Amalthea of course. We disagreed about that...”
His eyes drifted out the window. I held my breath, waiting.
“But both of us thought Stalin was a curse.”
He smiled and his eyes came back to me.
“Beautiful shawl, don’t you think? Anton’s wife’s. When she died he gave it to me. I loved her...”
He took a deep breath in and shook his head.
“A young girl like you don’t want to listen to an old man’s
ramblings.”
He smiled and looked around where I had been vacuuming.
“You look done. I have fresh cinnamon rolls. Would you like
to stay for a cup of tea?”
We sat in his kitchen. Fragile cups with pink roses and
gold. He talked. I listened for hours.
And I regret I don’t
remember all he told me.
