by Belva Plain
Yes, they were perfect for each other. They were very young, and life was long. And he would be with her in a few weeks.… Thinking so, she fell asleep.
THE clang of ancient church bells woke her, so that for an instant there woke, too, a memory of the holidays they used to spend in mountain villages long ago when it was still possible to have such holidays. From the hall came voices, Lore’s and Mrs. Schmidt’s; they were saying something about the weather, which was apparently marvelous, and something about Caroline, who had slept late. Lore’s brisk, familiar tone was encouraging, and determined to be equally spirited, she got up to dress, fastened her hair back with a bow, and went downstairs.
Dr. Schmidt was at the table having, as he explained, his second breakfast, a Sunday luxury before church. He must be about Father’s age, she thought. Although with his ruddy face and mustache he did not resemble Father, there was an undeniable “doctor” quality about him. Asked to explain what that meant, she would have been unable to describe the quality; it was simply there.
“You slept well, young lady. I can tell by your eyes,” he said cheerfully.
Mrs. Schmidt, who definitely did not remind Caroline of Mama, unfastened the apron she had worn when she had, as she said, baked the hot coffee cake that lay wrapped in a napkin.
“Doctor and I are going to church. I didn’t know whether you or—”
“Lore does,” Caroline said. “Do go, Lore.”
“No, I can skip a Sunday for once. It won’t hurt me. I’ll have coffee with you, Caroline. You just go ahead, Amalia, we’ll be fine.”
“First names already! That’s nice. Friendly,” Caroline remarked when they were alone.
“Yes, very. They showed me around the house while you were asleep. I was really feeling funny about our being here, but they kept telling me that it was no inconvenience, even a pleasure, to have Arthur Hartzinger’s daughter as a guest. It’s a reminder of his student days, Doctor says.”
In little more than an hour, Lore had typically found out all about the family and the neighborhood.
“Doctor works in a rehabilitation hospital for crippled children. Amalia works in a government office in the town. They have no children. Travel is their hobby. Doctor said he’s glad they’ve been almost all over the world because the war is coming, and there won’t be any more traveling for a long while.”
“The war again! If people would only stop predicting one. It seems impossible when you look out at this May morning with the apple blossoms and the calm blue lake.”
Lore, not replying whether she believed in the coming war or not, spoke instead about the lake, which lay directly at the bottom of the sloping lawn.
“There’s a walk you can take for quite a long way, I think. I woke up early and did a little exploring. Or maybe we’ll wait for the Schmidts to take us later. There’s a tiny village up the hill. The church looks interesting. Seventeenth century, by my guess. Finish your breakfast and let’s go out.”
The air was filled with birdsong. The glint of light on the water was so strong that one had to shade one’s eyes. To right and left, houses in long gardens half hidden by trees rimmed the lake. The Schmidts had placed outdoor chairs around a table in the shade, and there now they sat, Caroline with a travel magazine from their parlor and Lore, never idle, with her knitting.
“I found this pink wool on a top shelf in your mother’s closet when we were cleaning up. Goodness knows what she was planning to do with it. I never saw her knit anything. There’s enough for a blanket, so that’s what I’m doing. There’s no sense wasting it.”
Caroline was looking at a color photograph of Angkor Wat in its dense green jungle and thinking that one day, she and Walter might see such things, this and the Taj Mahal, and—
Lore interrupted her thoughts. “France is just across the lake. We could take a tour boat one day if you’d like, and have a French lunch over there.”
“We can’t afford to, can we?”
“Oh, I have a few pennies of my own.” Lore laughed. “Or we could sell the rings.”
She had brought them with her, sewed into the lining of her handbag. One was Mama’s own ruby, and the others diamonds, blue-white, and almost flawless, according to Mama. They were lovely indeed, but it was shocking to know that these minerals, for that is all they were, had cost the entire proceeds from the sale of all the furnishings in the beloved house. The paintings and the grand piano, with Father’s insurance policy besides, had gone to buy these small pieces of mineral dug out of the earth.
“It does seem incredible,” Lore acknowledged when Caroline said that it was. “Wait till we see what the house will fetch. There’s sure, I hope, to be enough left for another couple of rings after putting something aside for steamship tickets and cash.” She sighed, then frowned as if she were counting. “I’ll stay here with you for the next two or three weeks, leave these rings here, and go back. If any questions are asked, you can say that I have a sister in Switzerland, and that’s why I’ve gone back and forth a couple of times. You don’t remember her name.”
“The Schmidts would never ask that.”
“I wasn’t thinking of the Schmidts,” Lore answered.
So even in this place, there were people to be feared. And saying no more, they returned to knitting needles and travel fantasies.
“Well, you two look as if you’ve recovered from yesterday’s ordeal,” observed Dr. Schmidt as he and Amalia joined them. “Sitting in a train for hours on end is more exhausting than a hike uphill.”
“I hope everyone likes roast duck because that’s what we’re having for dinner,” Amalia said. “I make it with black cherries. We like that better than orange sauce.”
They were affable, kind people. It must be hard to welcome strangers into your home, Caroline thought, and make comfortable conversation with them, especially since the Schmidts know our circumstances. They don’t want to show any pity, although surely they pity us.
“Sing for your supper,” Mama always taught, meaning that a guest must bring pleasure to the host’s house in return for hospitality.
“Duck is one of my favorites,” she said brightly. “But it’s so lovely here that I could just sit and enjoy it without any dinner at all.”
“Yes, it’s nice to relax and enjoy the spring. My husband doesn’t get a chance to do much of that, busy as he is at the hospital.”
“My father told me about your work with children and about when you were both students, too.”
“I will guarantee that he never told you about some of our practical jokes, Caroline,” the doctor said. “Your father was a terror when he was a student.” He laughed. “Oh, I could tell you—but I won’t.”
It was hard to imagine Father as a “terror.” But the conversation, just as Mama had said, was now off to a good start. It ran happily through the midday dinner and a long walk, and was still flourishing when at four o’clock they returned to the garden chairs and afternoon coffee. By that time they had exchanged information about Lore’s pastry, Caroline’s languages, her parents’ wedding—at which Dr. Schmidt had been present—and the Schmidts’ respective careers. Among other things, it had been agreed that Caroline, for the following weeks, would spend her time between giving intensive English lessons to Lore and volunteering at the children’s hospital. At that point, everyone being contentedly talked out, they all resorted to the still unread newspapers.
Except for the crackle of turning pages, there was for a while no sound until Amalia’s outraged cry.
“Listen to this! Complaints about refugees. ‘If we keep admitting them, we won’t have enough food for ourselves.’ As if we were admitting all that many to begin with! What an ugly attitude. Can you believe it, Willie?”
“I can believe it very well,” her husband answered her. “I’m surprised that you’re surprised.” And to Lore and Caroline, he explained, “We have a new chief of the alien police—that in itself is a new division of the federal police—and he is a first-class
rabble-rouser, I’m sorry to say.”
The familiar old alarm ran up and down Caroline’s spine, and it must have shown on her face because he said quickly, “Don’t worry, you’re all right. You’re here as guests, tourists with visas to continue on. So you’re really all right. Don’t worry.”
She knew she must make every effort not to. In the mornings she went to the hospital with Dr. Schmidt and there forgot herself in her pity for children born without a hand, injured in a car crash, or sometimes abused by unimaginable cruelties. In the afternoons she struggled with Lore’s English or helped her in the kitchen, where Lore, wanting in some fashion to “pay their way,” was busy at the stove.
By the end of the second week, they had established a routine for themselves, fitting into this household almost as if they belonged there. It was remarkable what native optimism—in Caroline’s case, almost surely inherited from Father—and sheer willpower could do. Besides, at the end of the month, Walter was coming.
MUCH later in Caroline’s life, she was to have many varied memories about that time, from the most significant to the trivial: sounds, moods, and colors. She was to remark on the curious fact that even as some of these were occurring, she was saying to herself: I shall always remember this.
There was the boat trip around the lake, not with Lore after all, but with Walter. It was the first time they had been out in the world together.
There was music—with him there was always music, Swan Lake or jazz according to mood—from the radio in the rented car.
There were the dresses of summer, lilac and yellow and pink, the last of her wonderful dresses, in which she felt lovely and loved.
Both Schmidts remarked upon the “very fine young man.” Yet, holding themselves no doubt responsible for their friend’s young daughter, they did not invite him to stay overnight in the house, but at an inn a few minutes away. He was invited to dinner, to which he brought, as he had done at home, a correct, small gift.
After dinner, the Schmidts kept tactfully to themselves. Still, Caroline and Walter were never left securely alone.
“I am waiting to be in a room with you behind a locked door,” Walter said.
Then one day the Schmidts lost a relative, Amalia’s aunt, who was to be buried near the Italian border. They would be gone all day until late that night. Left to themselves at last, Walter and Caroline drove to Geneva, a city that he knew well. They ate lunch, wandered about, cooled off in a church where they listened to an organist rehearse for a recital, and wandered out again into the sun. They bought pistachio ice cream cones; this was one of the facts that stayed in Caroline’s mind, though goodness only knew why pistachio should have marked the day, along with the fact that they were both so strangely silent with each other.
Dusk had fallen, dark blue and warm, when they returned.
“We don’t have to go into the house,” he said, and they lay down on the grass. “You can feel the sunlight still on it.”
It grew dark. They were still lying as they had used to lie at home, with their arms around each other and her head on his shoulder, when she opened her eyes and saw the moon.
“Look! The moon is green.”
He murmured something that she was barely able to hear: It was her name. Then he said, “We should go inside. I should leave you. Make me leave you.”
She understood his meaning and knew that she should rise now and let him go. But she could not do it, and neither could he. She felt his long, deep sigh.
When she opened her eyes again, the moon was still there. A night bird twittered once and was still. The whole world was still. The world beyond this hidden grove did not even exist. Closer and closer they pressed.
“Make me leave you,” he said again, while his hands moved her dress, loosening sash and buttons. She heard him saying something about not tearing it, and then she heard her own voice, hurrying, whispering, “It doesn’t matter.”
Long afterward, with the wistfulness that time brings, Caroline would think how inevitable it was that after the first time, the rest must follow. The remaining days were merely hours to be lived through until nightfall. Some distance farther down the shore, Walter had found a cove that apparently, he said, had no purpose except to accommodate lovers, and there they went.
Once he took hold of her left hand, saying gently, “I know you must be wishing for a ring on this finger. I know you have thought it because I have. But these are the worst of times. Listen, Caroline. I feel married already. We are married. In America we shall make it official.”
Suddenly there was only one day left. “I dread going,” he said.
“Must you?”
“There are things to attend to, preparations and stupid things, like money.” She watched him as he spoke. The lines on his forehead had deepened. She saw and felt his nervous tension.
“After all, I am leaving there for good. Besides,” he went on, “I may be of some use to your parents and Lore. I’m glad she’s been there for them. While you were here, I took her out to a restaurant a couple of times and once to a show. She’s told me how desperate they are about your mother’s visa. So, darling, I have to go. When I come here again, by midsummer surely, I won’t leave you, ever.”
LORE returned to report that everyone was well and the house had been sold.
“Some Party member bought it, or it would be more accurate to say that he stole it. But at least we’ve gotten two more rings out of it, not as precious as the first ones, but better than nothing. I’ve brought the steamship tickets, too, yours and mine.”
“Only yours and mine?”
“Yes, Walter’s taking care of his on the same ship, sailing from Le Havre. Your parents can’t commit themselves to a date until your mother has a visa.”
Weakly, Caroline asked when that might be.
“They don’t know any more now than they did in May, God help us.”
“It’s already almost July.”
“That’s true.”
“Why don’t they at least write to me?” cried Caroline. “Why don’t we hear from anyone? There’s been no mail since we arrived.”
“Censorship, of course. The mail’s not safe for anyone, especially for your mother. She doesn’t dare call attention to herself. They’re sending Polish-born citizens back to Poland, and since Poland won’t take them, these poor souls are stranded outdoors in camps on the border. No-man’s-land.”
“My heart’s pounding. My mouth is dry and my hands are wet. I think I’ll go lie down.”
“No,” said Lore, the nurse. “It will be better to take a walk in the fresh air. Walk until you’re tired out. Then you’ll sleep soundly.”
The days passed. They were both grateful for having work, Caroline’s at the hospital and Lore’s in the house, where she had by now almost taken over the kitchen.
“We can’t stay as permanent guests while they wait on us,” Lore said again. “I feel very uncomfortable as it is.”
“How much longer can it possibly be?” asked Caroline, expecting no answer.
At last, when she had almost stopped expecting anything, there came a note from Walter. It was ambiguous, alarming, and without a signature.
“There’s nothing new to tell you except that my business may possibly delay me longer than I expected.”
“Now what can that possibly mean, Lore?” And again came that hammering in the chest. “What kind of a letter is this?”
“Something to do with getting money out, I should guess. What else can it be?”
“If only we could telephone! Oh, between my parents and Walter, it’s unbearable. If I could only do something instead of waiting and waiting. It’s doing nothing that’s the worst.”
One night at dinner she burst forth, “I can’t stand it here any longer without knowing what’s happening at home. I’m taking the train to Berlin tomorrow to see for myself.”
The other three at the table stared at her.
“You what?” cried Lore. “Are you out of your mind?�
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“Lore, it’s the first of August tomorrow. What are we doing here? We can’t just stay forever.”
Dr. Schmidt seemed about to say something, stopped, and finally said it. “Caroline, you’re right, unfortunately, right about staying here. You can’t. Your visas will expire, and—as a Swiss citizen I’m ashamed to tell you that you won’t be allowed to stay in this country. They are sending people, political refugees, back across the border if they don’t move on. That starts this month.”
From across the table, Caroline met the doctor’s compassionate eyes. No one spoke.
Lore stood up. “I’m going upstairs to throw some clothes in a suitcase. I’m not a refugee. I can come and go as I please, and I intend to find out what’s going on. No, sit where you are, Caroline, I only need a few things. It’ll be a turnaround trip. One day, or maybe two, and I’ll be back.”
“I think,” said Caroline, “I’d better start putting my things in my trunk so I’ll be ready in case …”
There being no need to say more, she went to her room. The plain little room, really not much more than a clean white cubicle, with a linden tree close to the window, had become a refuge and was now no more. Where would the next room be? The next bed? All was uncertain again. A delay, Walter had said …
She was folding dresses when Lore came in. “Here are the other two rings. Put them with the first ones. They’re our savings. What are these stains on your pink linen?”
“Oh, that. Those are grass stains. I wasn’t able to wash them out. Not very expert at laundry, I’m afraid.”
“My goodness, whatever were you doing?”
Sometimes, not often, Lore made her feel as if she were ten years old, being scolded by M’amselle.
