The Point of Vanishing

by Maryka Biaggio

  Barbara said, “It’s not as if I was alone.”

  “But Nick never knew her.”

  Barbara thrust out her chin. “Maybe it was better that way.”

  “I mean, you didn’t have someone to talk to about her. Like we can do.”

  “I don’t want to talk about her.”

  “That’s what people do, Bar. They share their memories. It helps get over the loss.” At least, that’s what her mother had done after her father died. That and reassure her and her brother she’d take care of them.

  Barbara dropped her gaze. “It leaves me feeling dreary. And helpless.”

  “It’s part of life, Bar. That sadness. Losing people we love.”

  “Well, I don’t want to dwell on it. I just don’t.”

  Helen reached out and stroked her arm.

  “Don’t, Mother,” said Barbara, shaking off her hand. “Can’t we talk about something else?”

  Helen pulled back. “Yes, of course.”

  Barbara wasn’t making it easy for Helen to mother her—even now, after she’d once again left Sabra with the Meserveys. Not that Sabra minded. She’d proven more resilient and carefree than Barbara had ever been. In truth, Barbara needed mothering more than Sabra, who readily transferred her affection from one caretaker to another. Yes, that’d stung Helen at first, but she took solace in knowing one of her daughters had weathered Wilson’s abandonment.

  ✭

  The next day, on their way to find Albert Künstler, owner of the cottage, the three of them struck out on a tour of Freiburg. Helen had saved the best sites for this day. Although she didn’t approve of Nick and Barbara posing as husband and wife, she’d resolved to set aside her qualms for the sake of harmony. She hoped to break through Nick’s stolid mien or, at the least, coax him into easy conversation. He had a wide mouth; when he talked, it seemed to move on hinges. Demonstrative, he was not.

  So she was pleased when Barbara and Nick took to tallying Freiburg’s many charms: the men’s leather shorts and feathered felt hats; the lacy spire of the cathedral; the ubiquitous red geraniums in window pots; and the colorful market at Münsterplatz.

  They arrived at Herr Künstler’s compact grocery and dry goods store with a German-English dictionary in hand. Künstler was a man of middle age, with a mere ring of sandy hair and bulgy blue eyes. His movements were jerky and hesitating as if fueled by sputtering uncertainty.

  Between the man’s halting English and her rusty German, Helen confirmed that he did indeed own the brown cottage in Altenweg. He’d built it himself, and it was for rent—at two marks a day. Yes, he’d consider renting to them.

  “I keep one room,” he said in German. “A bedroom upstairs.”

  Helen translated for Barbara and Nick, who nodded.

  She turned to Herr Künstler. “That’s fine.”

  He’d prepare a lease, and they could review it the very next day.

  Upon their return, they found Herr Künstler tending to a rail-thin woman at the counter. He chattered away, pointing out one item after another on the shelves behind him, apparently suggesting additional purchases. Each time the woman protested, pushing her coins toward him. After a few more attempts, he gave up, plunked the coins into a drawer, and bid her Auf Wiedersehen.

  Helen, Barbara, and Nick gathered over the shop’s counter, and Herr Künstler presented them with the lease. They reviewed the language, often referring to their dictionary, and asked Herr Künstler to clarify confusing passages. No, he explained, they mustn’t dig in the garden or keep rabbits or dogs. They must pay in advance by the week. He and his sweetheart would spend Saturdays and Sundays there.

  They arranged it just so. He’d personally drive them and their belongings there in his car the next day. They’d all get settled in together, him for his brief holiday, and them for their two months in the Schwarzwald. But first, he declared, they would need supplies. He sold them all manner of goods—flour, sugar, sausages, prunes, dried fruits, and other items to “keep them happy and fed”—and promised he’d load the goods himself for their trip.

  Saturday was sunny and pleasingly warm, and the drive scenic—over rolling hills crowned with spruce and fir, by rippling grain fields, and past farmhouses with overhanging roofs. Herr Künstler’s sweetheart arrived on foot shortly after they unpacked.

  “This is my Hilda,” he said. He seemed abundantly proud of his miss—a buxom, cheery girl with a mop of thick black hair. After introductions, Herr Künstler took Hilda’s arm, explaining they must mend the fence before their Saturday walk to the village for coffee and kuchen. Herr Künstler and his sweetheart apparently had an arrangement that extended only to cottage stays, and he seemed reluctant to waste a minute of it.

  ✭

  After a few days of exploring and acquainting themselves with the neighboring farmers and patchy forests, Helen, Barbara, and Nick settled into the rhythms of country life. Twice daily, the tinkle of cowbells announced the flock of cows, sheep, and goats herded up to and down from pasture. The menagerie always stopped beside their cottage fence and drank from the carved-out log fed by the same trickling spout from which they gathered their water.

  Helen planned to use this time to finish the book about her and Barbara’s South Pacific travels. On a typical day, the three of them breakfasted together, and then Nick set off to hike and photograph. Barbara usually joined him, though some days she stayed at the cottage and used Helen’s typewriter to transcribe her penciled sheets—a story about her Appalachian Trail adventure—while Helen edited her typed pages.

  One day, while she and Barbara enjoyed a mid-day meal of fried eggs, tomatoes, and hearty bread, Helen risked some prying. “What will you do when Nick starts his job in Boston?”

  “Maybe find some work there. And write, of course.”

  “Have you two talked about a future together?”

  Barbara gave her the squint eye. “I suppose you mean marriage.”

  “Oh, has it been mentioned?”

  “We both think the best way to be married is not to get married.”

  “That’s a peculiar philosophy.” My God, Helen wondered, how far is she going to carry this arrangement? “As your mother, I must say it’s not necessarily in your best interest.”

  “I don’t care about people’s ludicrous morals. What good is marriage anyway?”

  “It’s a pledge. And affirmation to others.”

  “We don’t need to prove anything to anybody.”

  “What about Cynthia? The girl Nick was practically engaged to last year?”

  “She’s just somebody his mother thinks he should marry.”

  “Does she live in Boston?”

  “Yes, but that doesn’t mean he’ll be seeing her.”

  “He’s not engaged?”

  “How ridiculous, Mother. How could he be engaged and travel with me for a year now?”

  “I just want what’s best for you, dear.”

  “You don’t need to worry about me. I can take care of myself.”

  That was as much as Helen could get out of her. Although Nick seemed a nice enough fellow, there was something stiff and distant about him. Helen simply couldn’t get a sense of what went on inside him—whether he was contented or restless or had any particular passions, outside of a workman-like interest in photography. He seemed staid and unimaginative, quite the opposite of Barbara. Maybe once they wrapped up their great Wanderjahr and got back to the humdrum world, things would cool between them. And that, she thought, would be for the best.

  The three of them passed the time agreeably enough, sharing the cottage on Saturdays and Sundays with Herr Künstler and his sweetheart. Then, one Saturday, nearly two months into their stay, Hilda failed to appear, and Herr Künstler turned sullen. In the afternoon, he wandered off for the rest of the day. Helen awakened in the middle of the night to the sound of him trudging up the stairs.

  The next morning, she could hear shuffling around in his room, but Herr Künstler failed to come down for b
reakfast. Helen decided to leave him to himself and organized a berry-picking expedition. She, Barbara, and Nick returned a few hours later with three baskets of raspberries and settled in the kitchen, keeping their voices low. They’d only begun rinsing the berries when a sharp crack sounded, followed by a thud.

  Startled, Helen eyed Nick, then Barbara. “What was that?”

  “Sounded like a rifle.” Nick hurried to the base of the stairs and called out, “Herr Künstler.”

  “Something’s wrong.” Helen shoved her chair back and stood.

  Barbara lifted her nose to the air. “What’s that smell? Do you smell something burning?”

  Helen called upstairs, “Herr Künstler, Herr Künstler.”

  No response. She bounded up the stairs, with Nick close behind, and beat at Herr Künstler’s door. Then she smelled it—burning wood—and heard the crackle of flames. She twisted the doorknob and tried to push the door open. It wouldn’t budge.

  “Let me try.” Nick put his shoulder to the door and shoved. It gave only an inch. Smoke oozed out. “It’s barricaded. With his dresser.”

  “My God,” Helen said. “We’ve got to get to him.”

  Nick rammed the door hard. It resisted, bouncing him back. “It won’t give.”

  “Herr Künstler,” Helen yelled. There was no response.

  “We shouldn’t feed the fire,” Nick said. “It’s too dangerous.”

  Helen tried to push past Nick. “But Herr Künstler’s in there.”

  Nick closed the door, grabbed her hand, and pulled her down the stairs. “We have to get out.”

  Barbara ran upstairs to her and Nick’s bedroom. “I’m getting my things.”

  Nick galloped up after her.

  Helen gathered the typed pages of her book and wrapped them in a cloth. They had to get Herr Künstler out, somehow. Was there a ladder on the property? No, she’d not seen one. She called to Barbara and Nick, “Get my typewriter and clothes. I’m going to the Vogel’s.”

  Helen ran out, deposited her bundled pages beside the pathway, and dashed the quarter-mile down the road. She stumbled up to the Vogel’s porch, her lungs burning from the strain. She beat on the door. The stout Mrs. Vogel flung it open.

  Helen motioned back to the cottage. Flames leaped from the window of Herr Künstler’s room, licking hungrily at the air.

  “Herr Künstler’s in there,” Helen said in German. “Help. Something to climb with.”

  By the time she returned with the Vogels and a ladder, seven other neighbors had descended on the scene. Herr Vogel ran for the window, and two other men followed. He wedged the ladder against the house and climbed up but couldn’t reach the window. The men beat on the side of the house and hollered. But the flames only thickened, belching from the window and up the side of the house. The men pulled the ladder away and joined the others in front of the house.

  They all stood gaping at the flames and babbling. Why weren’t they fetching buckets to fill? Then, as if they’d agreed on a plan, the neighbors set upon the house, sprinting in and retrieving the thick-slabbed kitchen table, the odd variety of chairs, lamps, and bookcases—all the furniture from the first level. Next, they brought out smaller items, canisters, plates, and cupboard goods.

  They dashed in and out until the smoke grew dense and puffed out the front door and all the windows. Fire ate away the blue kitchen curtains. The roof flared with hot, licking flames. It was impossible, she realized. The slow-trickling trough of water on the property would’ve been useless against this greedy blaze.

  The neighbors gathered around and questioned Helen in sharp bursts. She explained in as many ways as she could contrive in her rudimentary German: Herr Künstler had done it. He set the fire. He locked himself inside. He might have shot himself. Finally, they seemed to understand and murmured to each other in disbelieving tones.

  Helen stood among the hushed crowd watching flames consume the cottage. With a roar, a wall crumpled and crashed under its dwindling weight.

  Police and a fire brigade arrived in cars and trucks. The police urged the onlookers to make room for the brigade to operate. Firefighters ran a hose from the stream a few hundred feet away but only managed to pump up halting feeble spurts.

  One of the police officers questioned a few of the neighbors and then addressed Helen in English. She explained it all, starting with Herr Künstler’s peculiar conduct, the sound of the gun, the dresser barricading his doorway. The officer nodded, encouraging her to tell every detail, and then interviewed the Vogels.

  The crowd gazed on as the fire consumed the cottage. There was nothing anyone could do. Before long, the fire reduced the house to a mound of rubble, with the round-bellied stove and scorched bedposts jutting up like pathetic ruins. The firemen poked around the smoldering heap. One of them hollered and pointed down. Everybody quieted. The policeman by Helen’s side said, “They’ve found him.”

  Helen pressed a hand over her heart. How dreadful. Herr Künstler had killed himself and taken his cottage with him. Why? Because Hilda had rejected him? Quite possibly, although she’d heard him complain about debt collectors and also learned from neighbors that his shop was struggling. Despair must have overtaken him. How sad. And senseless.

  She wanted to hold Barbara, comfort her, and be comforted by her. She turned around, searching for her. There she was, on the rise across the road, bent over her notebook, writing. Nick stood beside her, surveying the smoky scene, his expression drenched with shock. Barbara looked up, studied the firemen gathering around their gruesome discovery, and resumed her writing.

  My God, she thought, while the rest of us stand here dazed, Barbara is writing about it. The anguish that’d gripped Herr Künstler, the crowd’s stunned sense of mortality, the smolder of charred ruins, none of it touched Barbara. Was it that she couldn’t bear the pain? Or, like her heartless father, did she lack sympathy for the suffering of others?

  CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

  BARBARA AT TWENTY

  Boston, August 1934

  Barbara reread her mother’s letter. She couldn’t decide whether it pleased or annoyed her. She enjoyed the news about Sabra’s spunky ways and speedy recovery from a broken leg. The excellent reviews of Stars to Steer By, her mother’s book about their South Pacific sojourn, cheered her. And Helen had included a check for $20, which she greatly appreciated—and sorely needed.

  But her mother showed no respect for her new life: You can’t imagine how hard it is to write, shop, cook, clean, and everything else that needs doing around the apartment. Won’t you visit for a month? You could chum around with Sabra and get to know her again. Or maybe it’s time to come home for good since you’ve nothing to show for your time in Boston. And she demanded: Exactly how long do you plan on living in a boarding house, and when do you expect to bring in a regular paycheck and support yourself? Even worse, she scolded her about Nick: I hope you’re not making a fool of yourself, waiting on Nick like a mooning puppy. You ought to make some friends, like Sabra’s done, so you don’t have to depend entirely on Nick.

  Well, she’d not let her mother’s old-fashioned scruples sway her. She grabbed her pen and picked up where she’d left off on her letter: I’m getting on well enough with odd typing jobs, and I’m feverishly revising Lost Island. Nick comes around whenever he can, for lunch on some of his workdays, and we always go out on Friday or Saturday. Besides, he needs me now. He’s still terribly torn up over his father’s death.

  She stopped herself from adding anything else about her and Nick. Breathing a single word about her qualms would only lead her mother to insist all the more that she return to New York.

  Something had shifted between her and Nick since they’d returned from Europe. He seemed preoccupied, even distant. When he explained his job was awfully demanding, she told him: “I understand you need to get off to a zinging start at Polaroid, but I miss courting adventure with you by my side.” She did see him three or four times a week, but she always felt empty afterward, as if he
were a drug she constantly craved.

  And now, her funds were running dangerously low, even though she agonized over every nickel she spent. Helen’s last check would get her through the rest of August. But she had no new typing jobs in the offing, and she hated begging her mother for money.

  She was trying; she truly was. But reworking the tragic ending to Lost Island demoralized her, and no one wanted to publish her story about the Appalachian Trail. She’d just completed something new, “Mothballs in the Moon,” a grown-up story about two young people—a free-spirited woman and a society man—who slowly realize they’re meant for each other. She might even ask her father for advice on where to submit it. And she’d tell him about Nick, whose Dartmouth degree and research position would surely impress. Then, if she didn’t sell any of her pieces, she’d take an office job. She ended the letter by asking her mother if she’d pay her room and board for September, during which time she’d send out her new story and look for a regular job.

  ✭

  The week after she mailed the letter, one of the girls knocked on her door. “Barbara, you have a telephone call.”

  Barbara pushed back from her writing table and loped down the stairs, wondering who it could be. She hoped it wasn’t Nick canceling their Friday night date. She gripped the telephone earpiece and spoke into the black cylinder. “Hello.”

  “Bar, it’s your mother.”

  Barbara turned her back on the two girls sitting on the parlor sofa. They softened their voices, maybe so they could listen in on her. She asked her mother, “Is everything all right?”

  “Oh, yes. I’ve just been mulling over your letter.”

  “How’s Sabra?”

  “Fine. Amazingly energetic for a kid on crutches.”

  “She’s a real sport, that Sabra.”