The Posting
Editor’s Note: Read an interview with Sara Freeman about her writing process.
Everything overheard in those days. German on the streets, my mother and my father on the phone. They’re only children. My mother, Philip, and I: three bodies stuck inside the bright-yellow cage of a phone booth. He was in Bosnia on assignment. Assigned to what? We didn’t know. We were only children. We knew far away; we knew war-torn; we knew 10 days, maybe two weeks, maybe more. We knew we had moved to Berlin earlier that summer and turned a page we could no longer turn back.
The flight home to Toronto was a year away, a lifetime in our little lives. By August I’d stopped wishing for the rec center and its too-chlorinated pool, for the park near our house and the counselors who brought us there, those miraculously stoned 14-year-olds, letting us climb on the monkey bars and making us necklaces out of marigolds and calling it “camp.” I missed my best friend Eva, but not as much as I’d thought. And even when I missed her, I liked it, my missing, this nothing the same anymore, this everything suddenly in the past tense. I had been made for the habit of missing, living out of a single suitcase with the same four T-shirts and two pairs of soccer shorts, the one jean dress, which I wore only because it made my mother smile, the same way she smiled when she looked at herself in the mirror, a smile equal measures modesty and conceit. The smile of a discerning woman. I lived for those smiles, the rare exception of them; we all did.
It was my brother, Philip, 18 months older, who had a hard time of it. He would turn 13 that summer but had started wetting his bed like a much younger boy. Not every night, no, but once and then again and then again. Back at home, I might have let myself enjoy it, even gloat a little. He who could do nothing wrong, he who had been everyone’s favorite, my mother’s particular pet. But here, instead, I sat on the foldout chair in the kitchen of the cavernous short-term-rental apartment and watched as my mother stuffed the soiled single sheet into the too-small washing machine and turned to me with her index finger to her lips, lifting her coal-dark eyebrows, and I thought about how I was being asked to keep a secret all the time now.
One evening, waking up uneasy, aware of something happening just outside my reach—moving out of bed with the inevitability of a dream. My mother on the patio, cigarette in her mouth, like the movie star she was not. I let out a little yelp. Her words, their sound escaping my mouth, How could you? She looked surprised, although less alert than I would have thought; stubbed the cigarette out on the balcony railing, and came over to me, smelling of a stranger, cigarettes and something else, a new smell blossoming from somewhere deep. When she tucked me back in, she pointed to the other sliver of bed where my brother slept, his face contorted and red; Stumm, she whispered, our favorite German word. Our second secret. My brother’s bad habit and hers. She was training me, I was beginning to understand, to store them away.
In the daytime, walking in the Tiergarten. My brother’s mouth pressed to the spout of a water fountain, my mother not even saying don’t. The junkies sitting around the entrance of the Zoologischer Garten, girls not much older than me, with their agitated German shepherds barking at their own tails. I asked my mother why the dogs were like that, and she told me fleas reflexively, and I thought about the tiniest facts and how adults accrued them, how many there were that I had yet to encounter. How would I ever catch up?
Every evening, sharing an ice-cream cone from the Häagen-Dazs on Kurfürstendamm, my mother not even complaining about the tourist prices. With my father away, bills were dispensed from the neat stack in my mother’s wallet like a magic trick, ta-da, not a perpetual rummaging in deep pockets, coins jangling, my father’s nervous habit. You’re in Europe now, he’d warned us when we’d arrived at Tegel Airport. We needed to keep an eye on prices and remember the exchange rate, which could sneak up on us at any moment. My brother perked up then, literal-minded as he was, terrified of those calculations, the exponential dangers of being abroad. My father, before leaving on assignment, had even loaned him his cheap Casio calculator. No matter where we went, Philip set to converting the price of each purchase from deutsche marks into Canadian dollars, even though the currencies were nearly on par.
How many phone conversations inside those yellow phone booths, with the playing-card-size ads for call girls papering every side? My mother calling Realtors in German that sounded like her native French—a language she had always kept from us—those guttural sounds made pert and pinched in her mouth. Breasts everywhere. In ads on the U-Bahn and plastered to buildings and construction fencing. The Beate Uhse Erotik Museumtaking up an entire city block, with its displays of tasseled and G-stringed mannequins. One night, on our way back from ice cream, two women—girls, really—waiting in their miniskirts and go-go boots by a lamppost, their eyes surveying the road. I stopped and looked: a car slowing down, a beat-up shoebox with a man inside it with an ugly mustache, the woman looking to one side and then the other, and then her head dropping down to meet the mustache. A strangely elegant dance. My mother telling me, . I couldn’t tell if she disapproved of
