Stella Read Online Free PDF
Author: Siegfried Lenz
and looked back at the hotel. I immediately saw Stella at the window of her room. She waved. It seemed to be a weary wave; once she reached her arms out as if to catch me in them, and then she disappeared. Probably someone at the hotel entrance was asking for her.
Gernot Balzer, in my class and our best gymnast, brilliant at floor exercises, nudged me and drew my attention to Mr. Kugler, who was no longer sobbing but was now rubbing his throat and neck with a red-and-blue-checkered handkerchief. Kugler, probably the most absentminded teacher on the staff of any school, then inspected his handkerchief thoroughly, as if something interesting was to be discovered there. Gernot whispered to me, “I saw them, him and Ms. Petersen,” and went on to tell me, still in a whisper, what he had seen on the beach near the three pinetrees. They were both lying down in their swimsuits, he said, they were both reading. It seemed to Gernot that Kugler was reading something aloud to her, and I felt sure it was a chapter from the book on Kokoschka he was writing. He’d already told us about some of its main points. When a painter sees something, he had told us, he makes it his own. Absentminded as he often was at school, he was bringing up his four children in line with a methodical program. I once saw Kugler, whose wife was dead, in the dining room of the Seaview Hotel with his four kids. They had hardly sat down at a table before he was ordering fish frikadellers and apple juice for everyone, along with the paper and crayons that were always on hand at the hotel to amuse tourists’ impatient children. Before they began eating he told them to draw a vase, not its outline seen from the side but from above, looking into the opening at the top. I couldn’t get my mind around the idea that he too might once have shared a pillow with Stella.
I wonder what he thought me capable of, or indeed just what he was after when he turned up at our place one Sunday morning. I’d been cleaning out the barge and was in the boathouse checking on the ropes when I heard Mr. Kugler’s voice. He was talking to my father,who sounded none too friendly as he answered questions. Very likely he only tolerated the conversation because Mr. Kugler had introduced himself as my teacher. He had noticed, he said, that the rocks we had dumped between the boathouse and the beach were reminiscent of strange creatures. What he claimed to see in them said a lot for his powers of imagination. He thought he had seen one rock like a tadpole, others like a penguin, a monstrous egg, even a Buddha. My father listened to him patiently, laughed now and then, and kept his thoughts to himself.
Mr. Kugler was not surprised when I came out of the boathouse. He said he’d like to take a look around our place, that was all, but the way he stared at me—a cold, appraising assessment—made me doubt it.
The longer I studied your photo, Stella, the more it mysteriously seemed to come alive. Sometimes I thought you were giving me a look of silent understanding, just as I’d expected you would at the first English class after the summer vacation. You see, I’d been expecting us to communicate in secret ways that no one else would notice. When you came into the room and we stood up, I suppose I was feeling more on edge than anyone else. “Good morning, Ms.Petersen.” I felt restless. Stella had on a white blouse, a plaid skirt, and the necklace she often wore, a thin gold chain with a little gold sea horse hanging from it. I tried to meet her eyes, but she took no notice, and the glance she gave me was almost indifferent.
I wasn’t surprised that right at the beginning of the class she encouraged us to tell her about where we had spent the vacation, and anything special we had noticed—she’d done the same thing last year. “Try to express yourselves in English,” she told us. As no one volunteered, she asked Georg Bisanz, her favorite student, to start the ball rolling, and he
Gernot Balzer, in my class and our best gymnast, brilliant at floor exercises, nudged me and drew my attention to Mr. Kugler, who was no longer sobbing but was now rubbing his throat and neck with a red-and-blue-checkered handkerchief. Kugler, probably the most absentminded teacher on the staff of any school, then inspected his handkerchief thoroughly, as if something interesting was to be discovered there. Gernot whispered to me, “I saw them, him and Ms. Petersen,” and went on to tell me, still in a whisper, what he had seen on the beach near the three pinetrees. They were both lying down in their swimsuits, he said, they were both reading. It seemed to Gernot that Kugler was reading something aloud to her, and I felt sure it was a chapter from the book on Kokoschka he was writing. He’d already told us about some of its main points. When a painter sees something, he had told us, he makes it his own. Absentminded as he often was at school, he was bringing up his four children in line with a methodical program. I once saw Kugler, whose wife was dead, in the dining room of the Seaview Hotel with his four kids. They had hardly sat down at a table before he was ordering fish frikadellers and apple juice for everyone, along with the paper and crayons that were always on hand at the hotel to amuse tourists’ impatient children. Before they began eating he told them to draw a vase, not its outline seen from the side but from above, looking into the opening at the top. I couldn’t get my mind around the idea that he too might once have shared a pillow with Stella.
I wonder what he thought me capable of, or indeed just what he was after when he turned up at our place one Sunday morning. I’d been cleaning out the barge and was in the boathouse checking on the ropes when I heard Mr. Kugler’s voice. He was talking to my father,who sounded none too friendly as he answered questions. Very likely he only tolerated the conversation because Mr. Kugler had introduced himself as my teacher. He had noticed, he said, that the rocks we had dumped between the boathouse and the beach were reminiscent of strange creatures. What he claimed to see in them said a lot for his powers of imagination. He thought he had seen one rock like a tadpole, others like a penguin, a monstrous egg, even a Buddha. My father listened to him patiently, laughed now and then, and kept his thoughts to himself.
Mr. Kugler was not surprised when I came out of the boathouse. He said he’d like to take a look around our place, that was all, but the way he stared at me—a cold, appraising assessment—made me doubt it.
The longer I studied your photo, Stella, the more it mysteriously seemed to come alive. Sometimes I thought you were giving me a look of silent understanding, just as I’d expected you would at the first English class after the summer vacation. You see, I’d been expecting us to communicate in secret ways that no one else would notice. When you came into the room and we stood up, I suppose I was feeling more on edge than anyone else. “Good morning, Ms.Petersen.” I felt restless. Stella had on a white blouse, a plaid skirt, and the necklace she often wore, a thin gold chain with a little gold sea horse hanging from it. I tried to meet her eyes, but she took no notice, and the glance she gave me was almost indifferent.
I wasn’t surprised that right at the beginning of the class she encouraged us to tell her about where we had spent the vacation, and anything special we had noticed—she’d done the same thing last year. “Try to express yourselves in English,” she told us. As no one volunteered, she asked Georg Bisanz, her favorite student, to start the ball rolling, and he