The evening meal was about to be served, and Ursula knew that something was up. The appetising food smells wafting into the living room from the kitchen were not only pleasurable but also piqued her curiosity, because she could count on the fingers of one hand the number of times she’d eaten asparagus. Yet here they were about to enjoy a substantial evening meal, and not the usual bowl of goulash or pan-fried bratwurst with some slices of buttered bread. She’d even helped her mother peel the tough skin of the asparagus spears, those bunches of fat white fingers, and with the pan simmering over a gentle heat she’d watched her combine the beaten egg yolks with the melted butter and lemon juice to make the bright yellow Hollandaise sauce. Ursula enjoyed learning about such things and would always be entrusted with laying the table because she liked the idea of waitressing.
The newspaper crinkled as papa set it to one side.
—Who fancies getting me a beer?
—Me! cried Ursula, jumping up from the chair.
—Bring a bottle of malt beer as well.
Snatching up the key, Ursula was out of the door in a flash and clomping down the wooden steps to the cellar. She wasn’t afraid of venturing into this underground space since she knew it like the back of her hand. Besides, this gloomy place looked very different once you switched on the light. It was then that it became a treasure trove where the sacks of flour for the bakery were stored, along with many other household items, such as jars of preserves and even a mound of egg-shaped coal briquettes for the stove. Although some children she knew were afraid of the dark, only thunder and lightning frightened her. That’s why, whenever there was a thunderstorm, she’d either make for the windowless toilet in the stairwell and lock herself inside it or go downstairs to the safety of the cellar.
Moving the Bakelite toggle switch, the glowing pear dangling from the low ceiling provided sufficient illumination for her to locate the crate of Hannen Alt in the corner. She lifted out a bottle before selecting a bottle of malt beer from another nearby crate.
When she got back, the white asparagus smothered in Hollandaise sauce, the boiled and salted potatoes and the thick slices of cold ham were already plated up on the table.
—Fetch your mother a glass of schnapps, will you Ursula, said her father, and then we can all have a toast. And pour a glass of malt beer for yourself.
Gerhard noticed Helmut’s puzzled expression.
—Share the bottle with your sister. It’s time she had some. Soon, the two of you will be drinking wine and spirits like us grownups, isn’t that right, Agnes?
Ursula brought out the green bottle of Nordhäuser schnapps from the cupboard and selected one of the glasses with the barley twist stem before carefully pouring out a measure to its very brim. She’d never been allowed to try this and papa had told her it came from the Harz Mountains. From her reading of Goethe’s Faust, she knew that one of those mountains was called the Brocken. The Devil took Faust to the top of it on Saint Walpurgis Night so that he could tempt him.
—Leave the bottle on the table, added Gerhard. I might have one later.
Ursula got two larger glasses for herself and her brother before releasing the top of the malt beer with a bottle opener. Helmut paid particular attention to ensure that the levels in both glasses were identical. Although she’d had a sip of it before, this was the first time she’d been given a full glass of her own. With its foamy head, it was different from lemonade, as well as being almost black, even darker than the chestnut brown Hannen Alt her father liked to drink.
—Don’t get too excited, said Helmut as he watched the foamy head dissipate on top of his glass. It’s not real beer.
—What do you mean?
—There’s no alcohol in it.
—Don’t listen to him, said Gerhard. He’s only saying that to put you off so that you’ll leave it and he can finish it off himself.
Gerhard clinked glasses with his wife and the children followed suit.
—Right. Since you two detectives aren’t stupid, you’ll have worked out by now that something is going on. So I’d better explain before we fill our faces. When your mother and I got married, I always wondered what if we could make enough money from the business to buy an additional property and retire early. Yesterday we found out that the paperwork has all gone through on a plot of land we’ve bought in Rath. In the next few days, building plans are going to be drawn up for a brand new house. Because that’s where we are going to be living in the future.
—What about here? The bakery? asked Ursula.
—We’ll still have this place. The house in Rath will just be a second home, but in a much nicer area. It’s near the Aaper Wald. Alright, that’s enough for now. The food’s getting cold, so let’s get stuck in.
Despite what Helmut had said, Ursula soon polished off the glass of malt beer. Besides, it was called beer, so they couldn’t sell something with that name if it wasn’t true. After all, you couldn’t call something bread if there was no flour or yeast in it. Plus, she liked the sweet, malty taste. As for the asparagus, she wasted no time and impaled one of the spears with her fork. Munching first at the tender tip, she declared:
—It’s delicious. So, now that we’re rich, does that mean we’ll be eating asparagus more often?
Helmut sniggered and almost choked on his food as a result. Meanwhile, Ursula was determined not to waste any of the sauce and was busily mashing one of the halved potatoes to soak it all up.
—We’re hardly rich, girl, said Gerhard. Just comfortably off. When grandpa lived in Essen, he slaved away in the Krupp factory like thousands of others. I never fancied that back then, even though I was a snotty-nosed little kid with my arse hanging out of my trousers.
After the shock of hearing the coarse language, which was followed by a sharp intake of breath on Ursula’s part and some stifled laughter from Helmut, Gerhard continued with his reminiscences.
—We didn’t even have electric light in those days. Imagine that. So we are definitely going places. And because we are on the up, that means you two need to pull your weight and grow up quickly. But remember this. Never look down on anyone who is poor. We aren’t any better than them. Money doesn’t buy you class.
As ever, Helmut finished his plate before anyone else. After the meal, they stayed where they were, drinking and chatting. It was around seven o’clock when the doorbell rang. Gerhard pushed back his chair and stood up.
—I’ll get it.
He was gone for a few minutes before returning with one of their neighbours, a war widow called Mrs Balzer. Ursula liked her, and she often performed alterations and other sewing jobs to make ends meet.
—Käthe, said Agnes. Have a seat.
—Pour Mrs Balzer a schnapps, will you, said Gerhard to Ursula.
After Ursula had done as she was told, Mrs Balzer took a drink.
—Is there something the matter? asked Agnes.
—It’s poor Franz. He’s come down with a bad case of shingles, so he won’t be able to work tomorrow.
Shingles? What’s that, thought Ursula, but decided not to ask, as everyone seemed quite serious. Franz was the name of Mrs Balzer’s brother and he worked in the bakery.
—Has he seen a doctor? asked Gerhard.
—Yes. It’s not contagious, so you and Karl should be fine.
Ursula couldn’t contain herself any longer.
—Excuse me, Mrs Balzer. What’s shingles?
—That’s our Ursula, said Agnes, smiling. Always asking clever questions.
—It’s like chickenpox, dear, said Mrs Balzer. He’s got a painful rash all over his back.
—Poor Franz, said Ursula.
Somewhat embarrassed to be the centre of attention, Mrs Balzer took another drink of schnapps.
—Have you had any extra work? asked Agnes.
—Yes. A couple of jobs.
—That’s good. We’ll leave the sign in the window for as long as you need it.
—That’s kind of you, Agnes.
—As for Franz, don’t you worry about him. I’ll muck in tomorrow.
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