“I’ll settle for warm tap water myself.”
They cleaned up at the basin, and Nick crawled onto their thin mattress.
Barbara nestled beside him, resting her palm over his soft-thumping heart. “You looked stunningly handsome tonight in the candlelight.”
He nuzzled his face against her neck. “I love you, my nimble heroine.”
She rubbed her hand over his ribs, onto the muscles of his stomach. “And I love you, my sturdy American man.”
They made hungry love in their narrow quarters. The room was so dark they could ignore the garish, mustard-yellow walls, the cracks that ranged like veins across the tile floors, and the checkered tablecloths-turned-curtains. Not even the room’s cigar and cooking oil odors or the groan of their rickety bed distracted them.
When they emerged from their cocoon-like clasp, the yowling of cats—pitched and mournful as heartache—intruded on them. They laughed at the weird synchronicity.
“Who’s wilder?” Barbara asked. “Us or the cats?”
“You, by far,” he said, twining his fingers in the whorls of her hair. “Cats can be tamed.”
Barbara drew the tip of her finger over his face. She loved the solidity of his brow, the evenness of his upper lip, the squareness of his jaw. “I’ve been thinking,” she said. “How’d you like to hike around the island?”
“That’d mean quitting our jobs.”
“Well, yes. We can walk the perimeter. Sleep under the stars. See the countryside.”
“We should build up our funds for Spain. And Germany, if we go.”
“Don’t worry about that. We know well enough how to manage on next to nothing.”
“Makes me nervous just to drop everything.”
“Didn’t I find this room for pennies a day? Haven’t we discovered how to dine on good food and wine every evening? Don’t I speak Spanish well enough to read Don Quixote?”
“But it’ll be nothing but dialect outside Parma.”
“They’ll probably understand Spanish.”
Nick made one of his I-can’t-believe-you’reserious faces. “Seems kind of foolhardy to me.”
“We managed in the wilds of Maine; surely, we can handle this sheep-and goat-filled place.”
“We didn’t need much money hiking, but here we have to pay for lodging and such.”
She ruffled his hair. “Think of it as an assignment from your father. To fritter away the days communing with agreeable souls. And do nothing but read, take photographs, and swim.”
“Sounds more like an assignment from you.”
She propped herself up on an elbow. “Please? I can’t bear the thought of not seeing the rest of the island.”
“Can’t you be practical for once?”
“Think of the pictures you can take. And show your father.”
Nick sighed. “Do you promise we can replenish our money after that?”
“Yes, yes,” she said, smothering his face with kisses.
✭
They quit their jobs, gave up their room, and purchased supplies, including a map of the island. Although a string of sunny days had warmed the stony landscape, the nights were still chilly, so Nick insisted they buy a wool blanket.
They hiked to Palma’s outskirts and picked up the trail running along the island’s shore. As they trekked the bumpy path, Barbara commented on the signs of spring: thickets of wild roses amongst rocky outcroppings; fields of lime-green grasses; tiny yellow flowers creeping close to the ground; all of it broken up by the occasional country hut, sprouting wheat field, or herd of bouncy goats.
Finally, Nick had to agree. “Yes, it’s invigorating, seeing the countryside.”
Late afternoon on their third day out, as they hiked a bluff overlooking the sea, Barbara pointed ahead. “Look, another of those Moorish watchtowers.”
They hustled down the path worn smooth by the island’s sheep and goat herders. The stone-block tower rose before them, its ochre walls glowing in the afternoon sun.
“This is the finest specimen we’ve seen yet,” Barbara said.
Nick studied the round sandstone structure. “It’s in great shape. Considering how old it is.”
“How old do you think?”
“At least 700 years.”
They walked to the base and eyed the doorway about ten feet up.
Barbara examined the walls. “You can see where the stairwell used to be. If that rope’s secure, we can check the inside.”
“I’ll give you a boost.”
They shucked off their knapsacks, and Barbara stepped into his knit palms.
“Up you go,” said Nick, springing out of his crouch.
“Got it.” Barbara latched onto the thick rope and pulled herself up. She scrambled into an expansive room. “You’ve got to see this. Can you shimmy up the rope?”
“I think so.”
Barbara blinked until her eyes adjusted to the dimness and stepped onto a ledge inside. The interior was a patchwork of rock and brick, with a fireplace and water-filled pit below. A stairway of stone steps a foot-and-a-half wide lined the wall. The stairs twisted twice around the circular chamber and opened to a ceiling portal.
Nick climbed in and took in the space. “Great architecture. Look how they’ve designed it to gather rainwater for the cistern.”
“I’d say we’ve found our home and castle for the night.”
They harvested some broomy brush, hauled several bundles to the tower, and fashioned a cushioned bed. As stars thickened the sky, they dropped onto the bed and slept deeply, exhausted from a day of tramping with the warm sun overhead and rocky ground underfoot.
In the morning, they climbed the interior stairs to the roof. As they ate the last of their bread and figs, Nick studied the map. “We could hike into this little village here. Get more food and water.”
“And find a cove for an afternoon swim.” Barbara stood and leaned over the tower wall, gazing at the sea. From the height of the fortress, she could see the coast’s broad expanse of undulating sandstone cliffs and white-sand coves.
Nick joined her. “I’ve got to take some photographs of this tower. It’s a beauty.”
Barbara pointed to the shore one cove over. “See that fishing boat? With the lateen rigging? Looks like they’re getting ready to go out.”
Nick planted an elbow on the wall and turned to face her. “I’ve always wanted to ask: Why’d you leave your sailor friend for me?”
Barbara worked her lips, considering the many things she loved about Nick. “Because one day you appeared before me—sturdy as stone. Because you know how to take a dare. Because of your manly shoulders. Because you understand architecture. But mostly because I trust you. Like the stars and the sea. Like atoms and gravity.” She eyed him with wry regard. “Enough reasons for you?”
Nick shook his head as if amazed at winning a long-odds gamble. “God, you’re beautiful. In every possible way.”
He looped his arm around her shoulder. They nestled side by side and took in the sun’s rays flushing the rock cliffs.
A distant hollering pierced the air. They twirled around, looked inland, and saw a man with a broad-brimmed hat and the loose-fitting garb of Mallorca’s farmers stomping toward them, gesticulating.
Nick walked to the inland side of the wall. “This doesn’t look good.”
Barbara followed. As the man drew closer, he repeated some reproach, apparently in the dialect of Mallorca, for she couldn’t decipher it. She waved to greet him. At twenty paces from the tower, he stopped and jabbered at them.
They could only look on, half amazed and all confused.
Barbara tried some Spanish on him, but he waved her off. He pointed at the tower, then at himself.
That was clear enough, she thought.
Nick gathered the same. “I guess this is his property.”
She held up her hands to appease him and said to Nick, “It’s not like we’ve done any harm.”
“Let’s pack. And pronto.” Nick b
ent over, grabbed the canteen, and made a broad gesture of putting it in his knapsack.
That seemed to satisfy the fellow, for he ceased his clamor.
Nick turned to her. “Can you get the rest of our gear while I gather this stuff?”
She scurried down to the chamber and crammed their blanket and belongings into her knapsack. Nick joined her, and they carried their packs to the opening and tossed them down. The man came around to the opening side of the tower. He stood there, his weathered brow creased like an accordion, watching their every move.
They let themselves down by the rope and hitched their packs over their shoulders. Signaling him with conciliatory waves, they hustled down the ridge trail.
“Too bad I couldn’t chat with him for a bit,” Barbara said. “I might have learned a few choice words of dialect.”
“Just as well,” said Nick. “Not the sort of thing you’d want to report to your mother.”
They took the first path into the interior and, in an hour, found the village they’d spotted on the map. They treated themselves to brewed coffee, filled their canteens, and bought some cheese, dried fruit, and a loaf of crusty bread.
Setting off again for the island’s ridge, they hiked four to five hours until the sun reached its apex, and the day’s unseasonable warmth slowed their pace and reddened their tanned faces.
“If we don’t find a way down to the water soon, I’m going to jump off this cliff,” said Barbara.
They slogged atop the rippled bluffs that separated them from the sea, their heavy packs grating against tired shoulders. Finally, they spotted a dip in the ridge, a place where a path led down to one of the many coves lining the island’s perimeter.
Barbara turned down the red-dirt path, sweat stinging her eyes and her legs wobbly from exertion. Once on the pebbly beach, she peeled off her clothes and bounded into the water. She called Nick, “Come on in.”
“Isn’t it cold?”
“Tingling cold,” she yelled.
In a minute, he was beside her. He bobbed with the waves, treading furiously and stretching his neck up as if the water offended. “This is beyond bracing.”
“Who needs a castle when we can have the whole island?” Barbara ducked under the water and emerged face first, wetting her hair away from her face. “This is the life for us. This, and no other.”
“Brrr,” Nick said, “It’s too cold for me.” Quick as a fish, he swam for the shore.
Barbara turned onto her back and butterflied parallel to the shore, watching Nick tug a cotton shirt out of his knapsack, towel himself off with it, and throw on his clothes. Back and forth, she swam, defying the cold, stoking the engine of her body.
When she swam ashore, huffing with exertion, she found Nick sitting, arms circling his pulled-in knees, staring at the sea as if he meant to bend it to his will.
She asked, “Can I use that shirt of yours?”
He nodded, his eyes still trained far away.
She fluffed her hair with the shirt. “Is something wrong?”
“Just thinking about your mother meeting us in Germany.”
“It’ll be fine. We’ll go on as usual.” She whisked the shirt over her arms and worked her way down her body. “I don’t let her tell me what to do anymore.”
“She doesn’t approve of us, though, does she? I mean, I don’t suppose any mother would.”
“If I don’t care what she thinks, why should you?”
He tugged his knees in closer. “You know we have to leave in October.”
“That’s months away. Why worry about it now?”
“I just want it understood. I might have a job waiting for me, a good one.”
Barbara slipped her blouse over her head and pulled on her shorts. She sat down beside Nick and pleaded with a cocked eyebrow. “What if we find work in Germany?”
“Waiting tables and scrubbing dishes? No, thanks. I want that Polaroid job.”
“My mother speaks German, you know. And I know it well enough to desist kinder, küche, and kirche.”
“I don’t even understand what you said.”
Barbara shrugged. “It’s too soon to make definite plans. Let’s just enjoy each day we have.”
“I’m telling you: I’m going back in October. You can come with me, or you can stay here by yourself.”
Why bother arguing, Barbara thought. She’d mount her best strategy—laughing in the face of adversity, surviving on her wits and resources—and challenge him to give himself over to life on her terms. For it was just this sort of living that nourished her, body and soul.
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
HELEN
The Black Forest, July–August 1933
Helen studied the scenery as her train labored up a rocky slope of the Black Forest, regained momentum on the trestle over Hells Canyon, and chugged into Freiburg station. Months earlier, when Barbara and Nick invited her to join them in Germany, she’d demurred. The American Jewish Congress had called for a boycott of German goods because of Hitler’s anti-Semitic views. And the violent outbursts in some German cities alarmed her.
Then her mother—Barbara’s Grandma Ding—died. Helen had barely gotten over the ache of divorce when this fresh grief overtook her. It made her want to run away and find a place where she could lose herself in her writing. She scoured news reports and uncovered no instances of trouble in the quiet hamlet of Freiburg. Besides, many claimed that after Hitler stabilized the country’s post-war financial slide, the unrest would fade.
By the time Barbara and Nick arrived in Freiburg, three days later, Helen had hiked miles of the byways streaming out of the quaint village—past fields of oats, rye, and red clover, along cow paths and streams, and beside forest patches. On one of her rambles, she discovered a lonely brown cottage nestled beneath a wooded ridge. When a passing cow herder confirmed it was for rent, her first thought was of Barbara. She’ll love it: the way its upright, compact profile stands out among the low farmhouses; how the patchwork grain fields flow around it; and the way the brook below meanders and burbles.
Upon greeting Barbara and Nick at the train station, she could hardly contain her excitement. “I’ve found the perfect cottage for us. We should look into renting it as soon as we can.”
Barbara grimaced. “Can we rest first? We’ve been on trains and in stations for the last 16 hours.”
Nick stood quietly beside Barbara, weighed down with gear.
“Yes, of course,” she said. “We’ve got rooms at Gasthaus Lafette.”
Helen led the way to their hotel and asked them to let her know when they were ready to explore. A few hours later, Barbara knocked on her door.
“Where’s Nick?” she asked.
“Organizing his photographs. He’ll meet us for dinner.”
Helen grabbed her coin purse. “I just have to show you the shops with cuckoo clocks. But first, let’s have a glass of beer. They make the most refreshing beer here.”
As they strolled to the beer hall and ordered, Helen struggled to put her finger on the curious change in Barbara—she was at once more childlike and mature. Her short-cropped hair flopped playfully around her face, but there was a discerning squint in her eye. Beneath her rugged brown tan, freckles flared. “You look different, Bar.”
“I suppose I am. Living each day as one pleases is transforming.”
“Nick doesn’t mind me showing up, does he?” Barbara had warned her, when they’d arranged to rendezvous in Germany, not to try to separate her and Nick. It won’t work, she’d written, for we completely inhabit each other’s souls.
“No, we were in perfect agreement about you coming.” Barbara fingered her glass of beer. “Perhaps he’s a little nervous.”
“Really?” she said, but it only seemed right. She’d learned from Barbara’s letters that Nick had been introducing them as Mr. and Mrs. Rogers with “uncanny ease.” Yes, she thought, he should be nervous about masquerading as a husband in front of the mother of his pretend bride—if, that is, he
possesses an ounce of decency.
But she decided that airing her objections would likely backfire and turn Barbara more secretive. Plus, Barbara was no doubt torn up over the loss of her beloved grandmother, and Helen wanted to see her through that.
“Well, it’s been just the two of us for so long now, having a wonderful time. It’s only natural.” Barbara scrunched a cheek. “Only please don’t pester him about his future and all that business.”
“All right.” But she wanted to know. “Can I just ask you, then?”
“Oh, Mother.”
“I can see you’re taken with each other. Shouldn’t I get to know him?”
Barbara shrugged. “He’s got a job offer from Polaroid, and they want him back in Boston by October.”
“That’s wonderful. And such a prestigious company.”
“I guess,” said Barbara.
“You’re not happy for him?”
“Oh, it’s corking for him. Only I’d like to stay longer. Find some work here.”
“That’s not likely, with all the hardship and inflation.” She reached out and patted Barbara’s hand. “Enjoy it while you can. It’s probably the last big adventure of your youth—for both of you.”
Barbara tucked in her lips.
Helen sipped some beer and eased the thick-glassed stein onto the table. “Bar, we should talk about Grandma Ding.”
Barbara stiffened. “Why? Does something need to be decided?”
“No, everything’s taken care of. Your Uncle Thomas and I sorted her things. What little money she left me I’m using for this trip.” God, losing her mother had been wrenching. Was there any connection as primal as that between mother and daughter? Her mother had cared for her from infancy, just as she was caring for her daughters. Now she wanted to comfort Barbara and give her the one thing she could still provide—a mother’s unfailing love.
“I can’t talk about Ding. It’s hard to even think about her.”
“I know. I hated telling you by letter, not being with you.” Losing her husband and then her mother had made Helen realize: Everyone is ultimately alone. She’d found a way to embrace her burden of solitude and responsibility and even eke some private freedom from it. She wanted to teach Barbara how she might get over the loss of her father once and for all.
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