Inga’s Persuasion
by Marion J. May
My sister Inga and I were nothing alike. She loved blue, while I loved red. She laughed to go along. I waited on the sidelines. Still, being only 18 months apart, we had friends in common. Some called us “twins” because, from afar, we looked almost the same. Similar in height, flat-chested, skinny, and with the same strawberry blonde curls as our mother’s. It wasn’t until you came closer that you could see the differences: Inga smiled and I did not.
“You’re always brooding,” Inga would complain.
“I’m thinking,” I’d snap back. “You should try it sometime.”
In our teens, I recognized how different Inga and I truly were. I realized that she could crush me without guilt or second thoughts. Her cheerful demeanor, eagerness to belong. It was all a ruse. Inga just wanted to be liked. To be told she was pretty. To be adored. To be in on secrets. To be part of the gang. It saddened me to think to that she might sacrifice me so lightly and so naively herself.
On the other hand, I envied her nature and wished that I, too, could easily perform and play along without reflection or remorse. Life might be easier that way. It seemed so for Inga. When I confronted her about her superficial ways, she would become angry and dismissive, accusing me of being “disagreeable,” “inflexible,” an “outsider,” labels she knew could hurt me. To keep the peace, I stopped probing, fearing even worse humiliation if she came back harder. Besides, Mother and Papa hated to hear us arguing.
As we grew older, I found it hard to believe we were even sisters. Living under the same roof, sharing the same bedroom, eating our meals at the same kitchen table. Inga and Papa would banter back and forth at mealtimes. Teasing, making jokes, mimicking relatives, neighbours, laughing ever louder while Mother and I exchanged eye-rolls in shared disgust. Our lack of appreciation for their sarcasm didn’t matter to either one of them.
But the evening Inga announced she would be attending a political rally at the stadium the following night — by herself — Mother uncharacteristically spoke out.
“You will not. A young woman has no place at such a gathering. You would only attract unwanted attention. And fall in with people who are not like us. Why?”
“And what is ‘us’?” Inga snarled.
“People — neighbours — who care for one another and believe in supporting one another. Not blaming others for their misfortune. That is easy to do, Inga. And too easy to fall into their trap.”
“What trap is that, Mother?”
“Being a follower — becoming one of the sheep.”
Mother had heard stories that seemed to put her on edge. New restrictions were being imposed, almost weekly. Jewish students were being barred from applying to universities. Mother’s favourite flower shop had been pummelled and looted by a gang of young, uniformed hooligans. The owner was forced to shut down. He was left to sweep up the fragments of glass, flowers and smashed vases — by himself — while some passing pedestrians hurled insults and jeers.
“I don’t care what you think,” Inga shouted. “I’m going with or without your say-so.”
Papa, overhearing the argument — which disrupted his beloved radio broadcast — emerged in the kitchen doorway.
“What is all this, Inga?” he asked playfully. “Are you upsetting your mother again?”
“Papa, tell her! Tell her to let me go!”
“I agree with Mother that you should not go by yourself. Take your sister,” he ordered.
“But, Papa, I don’t want to go. Inga can fend for herself!”
“Carol, you will go with Inga and there is no more to be said!” he asserted, raising his hand resolutely.
I clenched my jaw and restrained myself from talking back. It would be of no use. There was no changing his mind when it came to Inga.
Mother and I glared at the floor in defeat. Inga jumped to her toes and lightly kissed Papa on the cheek and smirked triumphantly.
And so, it was that I found myself, with my sister, on a cool April evening in Berlin in 1935 amongst a throbbing, hypnotic crowd of thousands of humans standing shoulder-to-shoulder. A mass of outstretched, straight arms saluting a tiny, frantic man in a beige military uniform shouting angry declarations across the stadium. His voice, punctuating his fervour, echoed from every corner. Long black and red flags twisted and furled on the stage behind him. Why was my sister here?
In the row ahead of us, I recognized a tall, red-haired boy from our school, with an older man. His father perhaps? Both appeared enraptured by the words of the orator. A newly-married couple from our neighbourhood, stood next to us. Mesmerized, the husband stood erect by her side. The wife was looking down at her feet, rolling her gloved hands over and over as if washing away ink stains. He nudged her elbow and pointed to the stage.
By the third encore salute, Inga demanded that I, too, raise my arm and declare my loyalty. I did. I did raise my straightened arm but I did not speak. I mouthed the words. I played along. I did what Inga wanted me to do because I knew then that she could destroy me and that sheep in numbers can be ruthless and cunning. Just wanting to be liked. To fit in. To share secrets. To belong. To be part of the gang.
I could bear everything else and weather all of our differences, but this night signalled the beginning of our end. Had I mastered her skills of persuasion, subtlety and charm, I might have prevented Inga from falling into the abyss of blind obedience. For this, I regret being blinded by my own bitterness and not showing genuine loyalty toward my only sister.
Copyright © 2021 by Marion J. May
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