“M” is for Martha

“M” is for Martha

by Nelly Shulman

David was not yet late, but the U5 train trudged especially slowly today and he felt a little uncomfortable, both because of the numbers on his watch and the gases inside him, under the jeans, the shirt and the sweater, under the puffer jacket and the much-too-warm scarf, this winter uniform of an urban nomad.

He was certain about the source of the gases: bean curry that he had devoured in one of the fast-food joints at Alexanderplatz station, where David had run after teaching his morning English classes. The flatulence was getting more urgent and he dared to shift a little. His carriage was nearly empty, but he was sure the two elderly German ladies on the other side would notice his faux pas.

To busy himself, David got out a neatly typed alphabetical list from his bag. His PhD supervisor at Free University was working on the first definitive edition of the intimate diary kept by Magnus, as he was simply known, the rebel GDR poet who jumped out of a window in 1985. David had already assisted the professor on the collection of Magnus's poetry and absurdist tales and knew the man's short life inside out.

“Only Herr Zwick is left,” David muttered. “Who'd have thought he'd still be alive?”

Herr Hermann Zwick and all his eighty years were waiting for David in Thoben bakery outside Hellersdorf station.

“Come at four,” the old man had instructed David over the phone.

David had lived in Germany long enough to know that at four o'clock the prices for baked goods were slashed in half. Herr Zwick, the former petty party boss and occasional journalist of the GDR era, already had his place in the reference section of the diary, but David's supervisor was interested in the enigmatic “M”, who appeared in an entry written two weeks before Magnus's suicide.

“M. promised to leave the horrid Zwick to move in with me,” read the entry. “Happiness is near.”

David almost missed his station and the two ladies tut-tutted after him as he ran out through the closing train doors. On the street, the wet December wind slapped him in the face and David dived into the inviting warmth of Thoben, where a small queue was already forming at the counter. The flatulence came back and he located the toilet sign, but he was a minute too late and an almost bald, wrinkled man in an old coat with a red Die Linke badge was looking at him with undisguised displeasure. “Herr Zwick,” David extended his hand. “I'm Herr McBray. Thank you for meeting me. As I explained on the phone—"

“You're not German,” Zwick stated bluntly, and David, whose German was almost native, nearly doubled over with a sharp pain somewhere in his gut.

“American,” he managed a smile. “Would you like some coffee and a— Ah, you already have one.”

Zwick masticated on a piece of fly's graveyard cake. His teeth were yellow and long, like a rodent's, and a nasty-looking mole nestled in a deep crease on his parchment cheek.

“I won't keep you long,” David promised. “As I said, I’m running an errand about Magnus's diary. I believe you knew him.”

Zwick's eyes, hidden under piebald eyebrows, grew cold and he nodded curtly.

“Please have a look at this entry.” David passed him a typed sheet. “Would you happen to know who this M. is?”

The old man fell silent and David's legs grew restless under the table. The toilet sign became even more alluring.

“It's my wife Martha,” Zwick said at last. “Don't bother tracking her down, because she did an Anna Karenina here at Hellersdorf station, after Magnus lost his balance having drunk himself senseless.”

His dry lips curled in a semblance of a smile and David sprang to his feet.

“Thank you very much. I won't bother you any further.”

He hurried to the sparse toilet where, settling himself on the bowl, David scribbled on the list:

M. — Martha Zwick, wife of Hermann Zwick, died 1985.

“All done,” he exhaled.