The Best Contemporary Women's Fiction: Six Novels

by Jenna Blum

  His overly courteous tone, his use of the formal Sie, frightens Anna into composure. She grips the lip of the sink until her knuckles are as white as the porcelain. Then she looks at him as if to say, Go on, and what she sees startles her further: the Obersturmführer is in civilian clothes. He wears patched trousers and an ill-fitting jacket, the garb of a peddler or dockworker. His jowls are blue with stubble. For a moment Anna is amused by this pathetic dirty costume, this affront to his vanity. How it must gall him! Then her attention is riveted by a brown stain on his shirt. It looks like sauce of some sort, gravy or mustard. She longs to lick it.

  It is nearly over now, the Obersturmführer tells her. Pister has given orders that the camp be completely evacuated. Once this is done, it will be destroyed...

  He snaps his fingers beneath Anna's nose. Are you listening, Anna? Pay attention.

  Anna arranges her features into an expression of polite inquiry.

  I am meant to travel south with the other deputies, to ensure that the largest shipment arrives at KZ Dachau, the Obersturmführer continues. They have bigger containment facilities there. We're scheduled to leave tomorrow, before dawn.

  But what about us, Anna starts to protest, myself, the child—

  The Obersturmführer makes a silencing slash with a forefinger. However, I have decided to leave sooner, he says. Now, in fact. And instead of going to Dachau, I will travel to Munich and from there to Portugal, where I will board a ship for Argentina.

  Anna's gaze returns to the sauce on his shirt. Argentina. The very concept is as remote to her as the schoolroom in which she once studied it.

  You're thinking me a coward, the Obersturmführer says peevishly. But there's no good in hanging on, Anna. The war is lost, our cause in ruins. You were right when you said things fall apart, and in such situations, it's every man for himself, no?

  The Obersturmführer pauses for her response. Receiving none, he continues, You will come with me, traveling as my wife. I already have the documents.

  He pats the breast pocket of his threadbare jacket. After a moment, he produces a semblance of his former grin.

  But there is one other matter, he says. We can't take the girl.

  Anna's head snaps up.

  What are you talking about?

  I couldn't get papers for her. But it's impossible in any case. Use your brain, Anna! We have to be careful. There are borders to cross, there will be questions; she would give us away. I've arranged for her to be transferred into the Lebensborn program in Munich. The fellow in charge there is an old friend who owes me a favor. He'll watch out for her. She'll be perfectly safe.

  They lock glances, Anna's disbelieving, the Obersturmführer's beseeching. The kitchen is silent but for the tick of rain, the manicurist's cough, a distant rumble that might be thunder or the thud of artillery.

  We haven't time to dawdle, the Obersturmführer says, taking Anna's silence for agreement. You've a few minutes to pack. One small bag for each of you—

  No, Anna says.

  What?

  No.

  I admit it's not an ideal solution, Anna. But she'll be safer than if both of you stay here.

  No, I said.

  The Obersturmführer advances toward her and Anna backs away, wincing in anticipation of a blow. But he kneels at her feet, taking her hands in a grotesque parody of proposal.

  Be reasonable, he pleads. What will you do when the Americans get here? It will happen any moment now, I promise you. Do you know what Americans do to children? They drive their tanks over them, run them through with bayonets. I know, I've seen the reports firsthand. Come now, go upstairs and pack—

  No, Anna shouts. No, no!

  She slaps him. He makes no effort to protect himself other than lowering his head. Anna rains blows on it, pounding his skull with her fists. She grips his dark hair, coarse as steel wool, and pulls with all her might.

  The Obersturmführer clasps Anna about the waist. She can feel his face working, hot and wet, through her dress. She beats at his head, trying to push it away. He endures it.

  After a time, Anna stops as suddenly as she began, simply running out of strength. She stands with her eyes shut, swaying in the Obersturmführer's embrace, her hands resting on his hair.

  Slowly, the Obersturmführer withdraws his arms and rises to his feet. Sweat runnels down his face from temples to jaw.

  For the final time, he says, are you coming with me or not.

  Anna shakes her head: no.

  After all I've done for you, the Obersturmführer says. After all the gifts I brought you and the child. I fed you; I protected you when I should have shot you the first moment I saw you. I should have finished you off long ago—

  He pats his hip, where his holster usually rests; not finding it, he yanks his shirt from his waistband.

  Perhaps I should do it now, he says.

  Go ahead then, Anna shouts. Go on.

  But they both know the Obersturmführer is bluffing. His hand trembles so badly that he can't extract the weapon from beneath his belt. He lets the shirt fall over the hairy bulge of his stomach, hiding the small scimitar of a scar resulting from a childhood dog bite, this flesh more familiar to Anna than her own.

  I thought I knew you, the Obersturmführer says. I even loved you. Now I find that I don't know you at all.

  But I know you, Anna tells him. I've always known you for exactly what you are.

  The Obersturmführer gazes at Anna for some time with his ghostly eyes. Then he clicks his heels, executes a military turn, and walks to the door. En route, he stumbles over his own small feet, pitching forward. It is the first and only time Anna will see the Obersturmführer wearing civilian shoes.

  He catches himself on the jamb.

  Very well, he says. So be it. I wish you luck. You'll need it, I assure you.

  He opens the door and pauses, his hand on the knob.

  But we would have had a good life together, he adds. I would have provided handsomely for you, you know.

  Anna stands watching him grow smaller through the fly-specked window over the sink. The evening is green and watery, the trees dripping condensation on the Obersturmführer's bare head. As he climbs into a truck much like the delivery van, he stops and looks at the bakery for a long moment. Then he starts the engine and drives away.

  Trudy, March 1997

  44

  EVER SINCE THE BEGINNING OF MARCH, ANNA HAS BEEN acting strangely, although Trudy doesn't notice it at first. It is only in retrospect that she realizes her mother's walks around the lake are growing longer; that Anna returns somewhat disheveled, her hair mussed from her plastic rain scarf and with a blank staring look about the eyes; that she cleans the house obsessively and with astonishing thoroughness: beating the rugs, scrubbing the walls with watered-down Clorox, endlessly washing the sheets and—as she disdains Trudy's dryer but lacks a clothesline in the yard—hanging them from her bedroom window like flags of surrender. it is true that Trudy is a bit taken aback by Anna's ferocity, but she shrugs it off as spring cleaning, to which Anna annually subjected the farmhouse as well. At least Anna is keeping busy.

  But then toward the end of the month, as Easter decorations appear in the neighbors' windows and crocuses thrust purple heads through dirty crusts of snow, Anna begins to bake.

  She bakes in earnest and with a vengeance, starting early in the morning before it is light and continuing until well after dark. She bakes with fierce and silent concentration. She bakes as if being forced to do so at gunpoint, as if her life depends upon how much she produces, and she begins with bread. Black bread, white bread, marble bread, rye; loaf after loaf pulled from the oven and set to cool on the counters, the table, the windowsills. Trays of dinner rolls. Batches of Brötchen, enough to feed an army. And then the pastries start. Eissplittertorte and Erdbeertorte, ice-chip and strawberry tarts. Honigkuchen, Käsekuchen, Napfkuchen, Pflaumenkuchen: honey, sweet cheese, pound, and plum, respectively. Buttercream cake. Windbeutel—cream horns. Th
ey flow from the kitchen as if on an assembly line, so quickly overwhelming the refrigerator and cupboards that Trudy takes to leaving them wrapped on her neighbors' doorsteps in the middle of the night. Yet the floury Anna continues to bustle about the kitchen, bits of dough stuck to her cheeks and crusted in her hair. She shows no sign of stopping. And Trudy, dizzy from sugar and a nonsense jingle she cannot get out of her head—Backe backe Kuchen! der Bäcker hat gerufen. Backe backe Kuchen! der Bäcker hat gerufen—starts to wonder if Anna's ulterior motive isn't really to drive her from the house. Or to drive her mad.

  She complains as much to Rainer one night in his dining room, where they are lingering over Anna's latest confection, a Kirschentorte. They have already decimated a chicken dinner purchased—at Trudy's suggestion, since she recalls all too well the tough roast of her first night here—from the Lunds on Fiftieth Street. This was a meal Trudy was more than ready for, as prior to it she and Rainer walked three times around Lake Harriet. Rainer insists upon these bracing constitutionals: Human beings are animals, after all, he booms over Trudy's objections, and to deny oneself exercise is to ignore a basic need. So while he forges stolidly ahead, she scurries after him on the sleety paths, breathless and panting and keeping his fedora in her line of sight as a focal point. It is a shame, she thinks, that more men don't wear hats these days.

  Now Rainer reaches for the decanter of Grand Marnier and poises its lip over Trudy's tumbler.

  No thanks, Trudy says.

  Rainer refills her glass and helps himself to a second slice of torte.

  Perhaps you are overreacting, he says, returning to the subject at hand; perhaps your mother simply likes to bake.

  Well, yes, she does ... Trudy huddles in her chair. But this is different. It has a—a frantic quality, as if she's preparing for a disaster. she's clearly disturbed by something.

  Rainer shrugs.

  If that is the case, you should let her alone. The activity is no doubt soothing to her. she is coping with her troubles in the old World way, denial and physical labor; would you rather she vegetate in her room, as so many elderly do?

  No, says Trudy.

  There you are.

  But—

  At least we are being well fed as a result, Rainer says.

  He attacks his dessert, savaging the pastry with a fork. Trudy looks down at her own. Cherry filling pools beneath the crust like clotting blood. Trudy closes her eyes and focuses instead on the music Rainer has selected: Brahms' Second Concerto, her favorite. But tonight the solemn horns, instead of producing an ache in the throat, raise a chill in Trudy, along with the odd nagging feeling that she has forgotten something vitally important.

  Rainer sets down his silverware in surprise.

  What is the matter with you? he asks. You usually have the appetite of a horse.

  Trudy rubs her arms, which have rashed in gooseflesh beneath her sweater.

  I guess I'm just not that hungry, she says.

  What a shame, says Rainer, and pulls Trudy's plate toward him. He spears a cherry, which bursts in a spray of juice. Trudy looks away.

  Did you have a difficult day? Rainer asks.

  No more so than any other. I taught this morning, of course. The kids are all sick, coughing and sneezing and spraying germs everywhere—oh, I'm sorry, I forgot your allergy to students. You don't want to hear about that.

  You're right. I don't. Could you please pass the sugar?

  Trudy obliges, and Rainer pours a neat pyramid of crystals on the remains of Trudy's appropriated torte.

  Then I had a faculty lunch, and after that an interview. With a native of your hometown, in fact. A Mrs. Appelkind, from Berlin.

  Rainer merely grunts and keeps shoveling in his food. It is naturally something of a touchy topic between them, Trudy's Project. But she doesn't see why she should have to hide it. It is important to her, after all. And he has asked about her day.

  So Trudy continues, You should have seen this woman, Rainer. Three hundred pounds if she weighed an ounce. she ate the entire time we were talking, even on camera. she was so red in the face I was afraid she would have a stroke. And she did have high blood pressure, she told me, but she said that ever since the war she can't seem to get enough to eat ... Are you listening to me?

  Rainer doesn't answer. He hunches over his pastry, chewing quickly as a rabbit, the grape-sized muscles along his jawline appearing and disappearing as they clench.

  When he is done, he pushes the plate aside and regards Trudy through narrowed eyes. Trudy braces herself for a disparaging remark, or at least for Rainer to ask her why on earth she keeps bringing up her little Project, as it holds absolutely no interest for him.

  But instead Rainer says, Why do you always wear black?

  Trudy plucks at the sleeve of her turtleneck.

  This? You need to clean your glasses. This is navy blue.

  Navy blue, black, gray, it is all the same. You look like a walking bruise.

  I like dark colors, Trudy retorts. They lend me a certain sophistication.

  Rainer snorts and refreshes his drink.

  Women should wear bright clothes, he pronounces. Pink, for instance. or fuchsia. You are not entirely unattractive, despite being mulish and argumentative, and it does not suit you to appear to be constantly in mourning.

  Is this Rainer's idea of a compliment? Trudy raises her eyebrows and takes a sip of her liqueur.

  Rainer settles back in his chair and laces his hands across his stomach, studying her.

  I'm curious, he adds. What has caused you to be this way?

  Now what are you talking about?

  Your demeanor, your clothing, the way you carry yourself. It is as if you are ashamed of something and wish to be invisible.

  Stung, Trudy laughs again and jerks her chin toward the window, beyond which, although they can't see it in the dark, it is snowing.

  If that were true and I really wanted to blend in, she says cleverly, I would wear white.

  Rainer impatiently waves this away.

  What is it you are ashamed of? he asks.

  Trudy's smile slips.

  This is an absurd conversation, she tells him. Also boring.

  I don't think so, says Rainer. I find it exceedingly interesting. You strike me as being representative of that large segment of the population who believes that there is no nobler achievement than self-awareness. so I repeat, Dr. swenson. Tell me. What has made you this way?

  Trudy rolls her eyes.

  That is a question unworthy of a man of your intelligence, she says. You know it's impossible to answer. The variables are infinite: upbringing, genetics, defining incidents in childhood and adulthood, God knows what—

  Rainer salutes her with his glass.

  A valiant effort to dodge the question, he says, and perhaps acceptable in certain circles. But quite untrue. Psychological pablum. I do not buy it for a second. Nor do you, in fact; it contradicts your own theory, or at least your avowal as to why you conduct these interviews: trying to determine what factors made the Germans act in the ways they did. This, of course, does not interest me. What does is why you are so interested in them.

  I've told you, Trudy says sharply, exasperated. Do you think I have as little intellectual curiosity as my students? What I'm doing will be an invaluable addition to the study of contemporary German history—

  Again, untrue. Or rather, I don't doubt the validity of your eventual contribution, but you are being slippery, Dr. Swenson. What is the real reason behind your compulsion? This project is so dear to you that it surely must be a personal one. Perhaps it is somehow connected to the German mother whose excellent pastries we devour...?

  Trudy pushes away from the table.

  I'm going home now, she says. Thank you for a lovely evening.

  Rainer smiles at her.

  I see. So you can come into a stranger's home and expect him to regurgitate his secrets, but it is beneath you to do the same, is that it?

  I have had quite en
ough, snaps Trudy, and stands to leave. But Rainer leans forward and grabs her wrist, pinioning it to the table.

  Wait, Dr. Swenson, he says, eyes glinting. Don't go just yet. Please, be seated.

  Trudy glowers at him.

  Please, Rainer repeats, and indicates her chair. Trudy sits.

  That is better, Rainer says, releasing her arm. You must not be so quick to take offense.

  He lifts his tumbler, cupping it in his palm and thoughtfully swirling the amber liquid.

  It is true, he says, that I consider this project of yours mis guided on many levels. First, that the Germans should be allowed to speak of what they did: this is wrong. Why should they be permitted the cleansing of conscience that accompanies confession? It is analogous to adultery: the guilty party, far from spilling out his misdeeds and easing his mind while injuring the innocent other, should have to live with the knowledge of what he has done. A very particular kind of torture, subtle but ongoing. Let the punishment fit the crime—although, of course, if we were to take that as an absolute, so many Germans would deserve so much worse.

  Trudy shifts in her chair.

  Yes, but—

  Rainer holds out a large palm. Furthermore, he booms, even if I thought it morally right to invite such confessions, I would find your project offensive on the level of its naïveté. It is an offshoot of the American concept that it is somehow attractive to air one's dirty laundry in public. It is everywhere, this ideology: your talk shows, your radio hosts encouraging people to call in and whine and gripe and pick their little scabs. You are such a young and childish country, believing that one can better understand the injuries of the past by wallowing in them and analyzing their causes. You do not know enough to understand that the only way to heal a wound is to leave it alone. To let sleeping dogs lie, as it were, rather than enthusiastically kicking them as you do.

  Trudy, enraged, would like to point out that this is not only unfair but ridiculous: Rainer is just as assimilated as anyone else. He has lived in this country for decades; he has made a living here, taught its children, raised a family—

  You drive a Buick, for God's sake! she bursts out.