The Fifth Column

by Andrew Gross

  I came by the brownstone in the afternoons, around three thirty, like Liz had said, after Emma got home from the day camp at her school. She was always happy to see me, even if the dour Mrs. Shearer, the woman Liz had spoken of who picked Emma up from elementary school on Ninety-second and Madison every day and took her home, was not. She took care of Emma till Liz got back around six. Mrs. Shearer was a tightly strung, seemingly guarded woman of around sixty with graying hair tied tightly in a bun; pinched, narrow cheeks; and a face that seemed perpetually unsuited to a smile. She always seemed to do her best not to let Emma and me be alone—I could see in her eyes my daughter’s questionable father who had been sent away for a violent crime—always saying it was time for her milk and a snack, or her homework, practicing simple arithmetic or writing cursive, which I was always happy to help her with myself, or that she had to climb into her pj’s before her mother got home.

  I tried my best to soften her up. I even brought her gifts and flowers. “I’m not exactly Al Capone, Miss Shearer. I threw a punch. And someone died because of it.”

  “It’s Mrs.,” she corrected me frostily. “And from what I’m told, you were drunken, Mr. Mossman. And it was not just someone, as you say, but a child.”

  “Yes, and I paid my debt for it,” I defended myself. “And trust me, I couldn’t be sorrier for what I did.”

  “That may be,” she said grudgingly, as Emma played with the View-Master, popping in a disc with images of the Wonders of the World. “Though I wonder if that boy’s parents would feel similarly.”

  I had written the McHurleys a dozen times from prison, though they never answered. It was part of my making amends. But how many more times could I say I was sorry?

  Still, I managed to enjoy the time I shared with Emma, and began to feel that we were picking up where we had left off before fate had come between us. She seemed delighted to finally have her father back. I helped her with work she would encounter when she was in school. With basic arithmetic and cursive. I played games with her. And we looked through the View-Master, describing animals in Africa and the pyramids in Egypt and the Great Wall in China, sometimes with a bit more historical background than perhaps a future first grader might appreciate, which caused her eyes to glaze until she kind of cocked her head at me and said, though never wearily, “Isn’t it time for a snack, Daddy?”

  As July turned into August, Mrs. Shearer let me take her on walks in the neighborhood. To Carl Schurz Park. Where we always played with dogs. Or to Gracie Mansion, where the mayor resided, where once or twice we saw his black limousine coming through the gate. We usually stopped at Oscar’s Fudge Shop on Third Avenue for a treat. In truth, about all I looked forward to in life were my twice-a-week afternoons with her.

  One day, as we headed out for such a walk, the door opened to the apartment across the third-floor landing. A pleasant-looking woman stepped out, maybe sixty as well, holding two envelopes she was obviously preparing to mail. Her deep gray hair was in a tight bun and she was dressed in a simple beige suit, her collar buttoned to the top.

  “Mein Schnitzel!” she exclaimed happily when she saw Emma, displaying a trace of a German accent. Her eyes lit up brightly and she bent down to give her a hug.

  “Aunt Trudi!”

  “And how is my little girl? So big and coming back from school.” She gave me a polite but wary glance. Anyone connected to Emma always seemed to give me the same watchful look.

  “I thought I knew all of Emma’s aunts,” I said with a smile. “I’m Emma’s father, Charlie,” I introduced myself.

  “This is my aunt Trudi, Daddy,” Emma said.

  “I’m Gertrude Bauer.” The woman stood up. “But everyone calls me Trudi.” She put out her hand, seeming gracious enough. Everyone else always seemed so guarded around me. I wondered how much she knew of me. Then she came right out with it. “You’ve been away, I understand?”

  “Yes. Too long,” I said, choosing not to explain it further and not sure what she knew. “But not any longer, I’m happy to say. Emma and I have a lot of catching up to do.” I squeezed her shoulder.

  “Uncle Willie and Aunt Trudi teach me about life back in Swisserland,” Emma said.

  “Switzerland, my dear,” Trudi Bauer corrected her.

  “Yes, Switzerland. And how to make schoggibirnen as well.…”

  “Schoggibirnen…?” I questioned.

  “It’s a dessert. The finest in the world.” Trudi Bauer beamed with pride. “Stewed pears. Steeped in chocolate sauce. My own family’s sauce, I’m proud to say. It’s Emma’s favorite.”

  “I didn’t know that,” I said.

  “But not with those run-of-the-mill tinned pears that are available in the stores today. I stew my own. In caramelized sugar. And the sauce.… One thing we Swiss know about is chocolate. Is that not right, my dear?”

  “Daddy, it’s so delicious,” Emma said, licking her lips.

  “Do you like sweets as well, Mr. Mossman?”

  “Sweets? Who doesn’t?”

  “Well, you will have to come over with Emma and sample it sometime.”

  “I look forward to it,” I said. “So you’re Swiss? From where?”

  “A little town called Chur. It’s capital of the canton of Graubünden. Near Austria. But we have been here many years. Have you been to Switzerland, Mr. Mossman?”

  “I’m afraid not. One day, perhaps.”

  “A place of great natural beauty. Hopefully, one day you’ll have the chance to see for yourself. Once all this madness in the world calms down.” Clearly, she was referring to the war, which in Europe was two years old now, even though Switzerland had remained out of it. “I’ve been telling Emma about the Alps. And about Heidi, of course. Our national heroine. We’ve even taught her a few words. Of German, I hope it’s all right. Do you remember?”

  “Eyes…,” Emma said, pointing her fingers to them. “Augen.”

  “And smile…?” Trudi said, a finger to her lips.

  “Lachlen,” Emma replied.

  “Läch-eln,” she corrected her, “but good. And…” She put a finger to her nose.

  “Na-se.” Emma smiled, pleased.

  “See, she picks up everything quick as a hare. Anyway, schnitzel, you can come over later if your mother is okay with it, and I’ll read you from Tales of Hoffmann. Not the opera of course, but the original romantic stories.…”

  “Will there be cinnamon cakes?”

  “Zimfladden. I can see if that can be arranged. You see, your daughter is a natural bargainer, Mr. Mossman. Did you know? And maybe a little Heine and Schiller, as well, my dear.”

  “Heine and Schiller? They’re German, are they not?” I asked.

  “Ah, so you know them. Not everyone does here. My parents were from Freiburg in southern Germany. They moved to Chur many years ago. Therefore we are German-Swiss, to be precise. In Switzerland, we claim four languages as our own. Right, Emma? I believe you can name them, darling?”

  “French, German, Italian…” She rattled them off quickly, tapping her fingers. “And…”

  “And, my dear, the toughest one that always escapes you…?” Trudi Bauer coached her.

  After a moment, Emma seemed to give up.

  “Romansh, I believe,” I answered. As an undergraduate, I had written a paper on the breakup of the Old Swiss confederacy in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries; how it got its independence from the Holy Roman Empire. For that I took a couple of semesters of German too. “It’s a cluster of many of the local dialects, I believe. No?”

  “Very, very good, Mr. Mossman. That one always stumps people. But it was for your daughter to answer, not her father, was it not?” She looked at Emma and said with a forgiving smile, “Nonetheless, we will still invite you for schoggibirnen one afternoon to give you a taste of our native culture. Our real culture,” she said, “not what has been taken over now by hoodlums and thugs.” Her face twisted into a weighty frown.

  It was clear Trudi Bauer was no fan of wha
t was going on back in Germany. Our real culture. And how the continent was engulfed in war. It was also clear that Emma adored her. And she, her.

  “I was just going down to the first floor to mail these.…” Trudi held out her letters when the buzzer rang at her entranceway. “Excuse me,” she said. She closed the door and in her deep accent asked who the visitor was before ringing him in.

  “Ach, I’m afraid I must go,” she said as she came back. “A customer. In our business, they come at all hours, I’m afraid.…”

  Below us, I heard the front door close and someone slowly climb the stairs. “We’re headed out,” I said. “We’ll be happy to post those for you.” There was a tray near the entrance that the mailman used for outgoing mail.

  “Would you be so kind? Here…” She handed the envelopes to me. “It was a pleasure meeting you, Mr. Mossman. I have heard about you over the past two years and that you are a great student of history. I admit, I am a bit nosy when it comes to my Emma.” She placed a hand to her head. “I couldn’t be more partial to her if she were my own granddaughter. It is nice to finally put a face to the name.”

  “And you too, Frau Bauer,” I said with a polite bow. “And I look forward to the shoggibirnen,” I said, pronouncing it as best I could.

  “Very good!” she exclaimed in approval.

  A man came up the stairs. He was around forty, tall, lean, in a brown tweed suit and peaked cap. A customer…? He tipped his cap to Mrs. Bauer and to Emma and me, though he appeared slightly uncomfortable to find us there. I could see he was balding. A mole on his chin. A clipped mustache.

  “I didn’t expect you until five, Mr. Atkins,” Trudi Bauer said.

  “My meeting ended early,” he replied, glancing at us. “I hoped you would be available.”

  “Not to worry, we’ll take care of these,” I said, waving the envelopes to her.

  “Thank you.” Trudi Bauer took her leave with a warm smile. “Please, Mr. Atkins…” She let her visitor inside the apartment and closed the door.

  “She seems nice,” I said, taking her letters and glancing at the addressees. One was for the electric bill, to Con Edison. The other was addressed to a woman in Colorado. Beatrice Hirsh. A friend or relative perhaps?

  “She is nice,” Emma said. “Now you said you would take me for ice cream, Daddy.”

  “You mean eis cream, of course,” I said in my best German accent, and my daughter giggled.

  6

  Over the next few visits, I ran into Trudi Bauer again a couple of times.

  Once when Emma was practicing cursive and I was reading the papers she brought over a cinnamon roll cake. Zimfladden, she called it. She was surprised to find me there, but seemed happy to find Mrs. Shearer; they seemed to know each other well.

  And I met her husband too. Willi Bauer. He was a jovial man, dapper in a vest with a pocket chain attached to his watch. Plump and seemingly easygoing in demeanor, his thinning white hair combed across his scalp, he also looked like he sampled a bit too much of his wife’s rich desserts.

  “Uncle Willi,” Emma called him, of course, and his ruddy face lit up when she got up from the table to give him a hug.

  “My wife informs me Emma has an expert in Swiss languages in the family now,” he said to me.

  “Not at all,” I replied. “I’m afraid I reached the limit of my expertise in our first conversation.”

  “No, no, modesty is not becoming, young man, and any student of history is a friend of ours,” he said. “I dabble at it myself. In any case, I’m sure Emma is over the moon to have you around again.”

  “I think so,” I said, with a glance to her. “I know I feel that way.”

  “I am.” Emma nodded brightly.

  “Well, I’m aware you have had a difficult path of it lately,” Willi said, with a glance to his watch. “But you’ve come through. My goodness, look at the time. I’m afraid I must go. An appointment. It would be my pleasure to discuss areas of your studies should you ever wish to share them.”

  “Very kind of you, Herr Bauer,” I said.

  “Please, Mister. We’ve been here for many years. And anyway, just Willi would be perfectly fine. Everyone knows me as that. We are no longer back at home.”

  “Willi, then,” I said, extending my hand.

  A few minutes later, as Emma and I were leaving, for the second time we caught a visitor knocking at their door. This one heavyset, portly, in a gray tweed suit and homburg, seemingly nervous to be surprised there. He quickly averted his eyes and barely muttered as we said hello to him and continued down the stairs.

  Above us, the Bauers’ door opened. “Herr Bitner…,” Willi Bauer said, letting the man in.

  “All these customers,” I said to Emma when we got outside. “Do you know what Uncle Willi and Aunt Trudi do for work?”

  “Mother says they sell beer.”

  “Beer? You mean, like in a bar?” There were, in fact, dozens of German bars all around Yorkville.

  “I don’t know,” Emma said. “I don’t drink beer. Last one to the park is a rotten egg.” She skipped ahead of me.

  “Wait a minute, Emma.” I ran and caught up to her. “Take my hand.” Cars and trucks darted in and out on Third Avenue. It was no place for a child.

  “Oh. Daddy, I’m six years old. I know how to wait for the light and cross the street.”

  That was the way it went for the first couple of weeks. I was pleased Emma looked at me as her father again. And thankful I could make it happen under Mrs. Shearer’s watchful and seemingly suspicious eyes. As if I was not to be trusted. And who always took the chance to remind me around a quarter of six that it was time to be getting on. True to Liz’s request, I never stayed around to run into her.

  “Please, have her back in thirty minutes,” Mrs. Shearer would say, always tapping her watch as we went out for a treat or to the park. “Mrs. Mossman wanted me to have her washed and changed before dinner.”

  “By all means, Miss Shearer,” I would reply, purposely teasing her.

  “Mrs.,” she would say back crossly.

  Which made me smile inside.

  * * *

  After another week, I couldn’t stay in my car another night so I went to the cheapest clean motel I could find, the Lido Lodge, not far from the beach, in the Rockaways. I swallowed my pride and took a job night to night washing dishes at an Automat just to earn the five-dollar nightly rate. It was clear, no one needed an ex-drunk teaching their kids, especially one who had been held responsible for someone’s death and spent time in jail. Jobs were still hard to find; the papers said the unemployment rate still hovered around 14 percent. The only thing that kept me going was my twice-a-week visits with Emma.

  One night, to relieve the boredom of being alone, I went to the movies to see Gary Cooper star in Sergeant York. The film started with a newsreel, The March of Time. It was how most of us saw the war at that time. By that time Hitler’s armies occupied everywhere from Scandinavia to North Africa, and his Luftwaffe rained a nightly hell on London. It seemed only a matter of time before the Brits would be forced to give in and sue for peace.

  This particular news report was by the famous Edward R. Murrow and showed the relentless nightly pounding of London: bombs exploding, disturbing images of caved-in buildings, and the dead and wounded being carted out on stretchers. And Parliament, with speeches by Winston Churchill, who was trying to hold the flagging spirit of his country together; and an animated speech by a defiant Adolf Hitler, addressing what was said to be a half million Germans about the “special destiny” of the German people and the need for more room to expand. Lebensraum, it was called, living space, the way in which the dictator justified his military expansion.

  And right now it looked as if no one could stop him, as—though we continued to supply goods and arms to Britain via the high seas—FDR also continued to bow to Congress and waffle on the sideline.

  After the film, hungry and lonely, I went to my local Horn & Hardart cafeteria and ha
d a sandwich for dinner.

  Lebensraum. I laughed to myself—I needed my own elbow room. My own living space. I couldn’t continue this way anymore. I was almost ready to beg Liz or Uncle Eddie—please, let me just flop on your couch. Only for a night or two.

  After I ate, I asked the restaurant manager if I could put an ad up on the window, ’36 Buick Roadster For Sale. Very low mileage. Need to sell now. I went back to my car. That night, it was in a parking lot behind a closed rug store on Queens Boulevard. The cops had twice found me sleeping in Silver Point Park in Rockaway and told me next time they’d arrest me for vagrancy. It was September now. It was starting to get colder at night. There were still people living in makeshift cardboard homes on the streets; others—loan sharks, booze peddlers, numbers pushers—huddled on corners, preying on anyone who had a dime. I almost felt desperate enough to want to find a way in to that sort of life. I had no idea how I would find real work. The result of the last two years seemed insurmountable. If I wasn’t overage I would have gladly walked into an armed service recruitment office and signed myself up. Just to have a bunk under me at night. I once had a dream how my life would go. I’d be teaching somewhere, in some bucolic college in New England. Married. With a beautiful kid or two. A book with my name on the cover. My twin brother would still be alive, practicing medicine. And that punch I’d thrown would never have happened.

  “If you’re there…,” I said with a laugh, summoning my old nemesis on my shoulder who I hadn’t heard from in almost two years. “I’m willing to listen to any ideas if you have any.”

  Fortunately, he didn’t answer. I’d banished him long ago back in prison.

  But little did I know I’d be hearing from him again tomorrow.

  7