The Best Contemporary Women's Fiction: Six Novels

by Jenna Blum

  Rainer ignores this. He frowns at his glass, which he is rotating on its coaster.

  Yet I must admit, he tells it, that I admired your courage when you first bludgeoned your way in here. Thoughtless and headstrong, yes, but brave. For I have never been able to tell my own story to anyone. Not my wife nor my daughter nor even a stranger in a bar. Not a soul. And when the university contacted me to ask whether I would participate in your sister study, the Remembrance Project...

  He smiles tightly at the tumbler.

  Other Jews are telling their stories, I told myself; why not you? But ... I could not. I simply could not bring myself to do it. Then I saw your flyer and thought, Now even the Germans are talking.

  Rainer drains his glass and sets it down with a bang.

  So I called you, he says, and I played a nasty trick on you. Cruel and cowardly. I am ashamed of that now.

  Trudy looks at him. He sits tall and rigid, his posture Prussian.

  And yet you came back, Rainer says. I have often wondered why. The only conclusion I can draw is that you are a true masochist, a glutton for punishment.

  He glares at Trudy over his bifocals.

  Trudy bends her head to inspect her wrist, which she has been rubbing against her trousers under the table. The skin Rainer's fingers have braceleted is tingling, as though it has been asleep and is just starting to wake up. She smiles secretly down at it.

  I suppose I am, she tells him.

  45

  WHEN TRUDY LATER LETS HERSELF IN HER BACK DOOR, humming the opening bars of the Brahms, she is agreeably surprised to find that Anna is not in the kitchen. What a pleasant night this has turned out to be! True, the results of Anna's afternoon labors crowd the counters, cakes and pies exquisitely decorated and suffocating beneath airless shrouds of Saran Wrap. A more recent product, a Schwarzwalder Kirschtorte, awaits similar treatment on the stove. But Anna has apparently succumbed to either exhaustion or sanity, for there is no sign of her. She must have hung up the apron at a decent hour, Trudy thinks, and gone to bed like a normal person for a change.

  The Schwarzwalder Kirschtorte will go stale if left out until morning, so Trudy rips off an arm's length of plastic wrap and drapes it over the cake. The smell of chocolate frosting drifts up to her, rich and nauseating, reminding Trudy of skin that has been licked. Yet even this cannot spoil her good mood. The cake duly protected, Trudy shuts off the lights and walks down the hall to her study, still humming under her breath. She wants to watch Rainer's interview. Or rather, not to play the whole thing, but just insert the tape and put it on Pause, so she can see him once more before bed and say good night.

  But somebody has beaten her to it, for in Trudy's study Anna is huddled on the couch, staring across the room at Rainer on the television. Her expression is one of unadulterated horror. And because of this, and her long white nightgown, and the fact that her hair is in a single braid down her back, she reminds Trudy both of Bluebeard's wife—how that new bride must have looked when she opened the forbidden door to discover the severed heads of her husband's former curious spouses—and a child listening to the tale, too terrifying to be believed.

  Trudy sags against the jamb, suddenly bone-tired. Then she walks into the room and sits quietly next to her mother on the sofa.

  Oh, Mama, she says, closing her eyes. What are we going to do with you?

  She feels Anna reach past her for the remote. This Anna must have been practicing with, for abruptly, as Rainer is saying, They will burn your brain with its magnificent network of neurons, his voice cuts out. Trudy opens her eyes and looks at his large, square, rather florid face on the screen. His bifocals are slipping down his nose, his mouth open. He might be yawning, or reading a menu.

  Anna clutches the couch cushions for leverage as she starts to get up.

  Once more I am sorry, Trudy, she says. I will go to bed.

  No, that's all right, Mama. Sit if you want to.

  Trudy sighs and massages her eyes. Then she says, Don't you think it's time we stopped all this? Aren't you tired of it, Mama? Aren't you sick to death of it? I know I am. Why don't you just tell me about him.

  In her peripheral vision she sees Anna's hands—small, rough, hard-knuckled, the only parts of her that are not beautiful—tighten on the sofa.

  Who? I do not know what you—

  Oh, come on, Mama. Don't feed me that same old party line ... Trudy waves toward the frozen Rainer. You're obviously drawn to watch these tapes for a reason. And I don't think it's just because you want to know what happened to others during the war. It's a kind of expiation, isn't it? A penance. But the guilt is never going to go away unless you talk about it. So tell me, Mama. Tell me about the officer.

  Anna pushes herself off the couch and heads toward the dim safety of the hall.

  Not this again, Trudy, she says. It is absurd. I will not hear this. I am going to bed.

  Trudy leaps up and rushes past Anna, blocking her path. She pulls the door closed and leans against it.

  Not yet, you're not, Trudy says. Not until you tell me something about him.

  Anna folds her arms, and in the muted light from the television Trudy sees the stubborn set of her jaw.

  But Trudy persists, Because I remember him, Mama. I remember him, don't you get it?...Her voice, an octave lower than usual, quavers; she is close to tears. I dream about him, she says. A big huge guy with jowls and dark hair and very light eyes. Calls himself Saint Nikolaus. And he's always in uniform—he holds a fairly high rank, I think. A Hauptsturmführer? Sturmbannführer? Maybe an Obersturmführer—

  You shut your mouth, Anna says. You know nothing.

  Well, that's certainly true, retorts Trudy. And whose fault is that? You never would tell me. All my life I've asked you about him and you've given me nothing in return. So who was he, Mama? Who was this man whose mistress you were?

  Shut your mouth, Anna repeats, more loudly. As it always does when she is upset, her accent has thickened: the A's broadening to E's, the S's slurring to Z's. I do not know how you have gotten such ideas into your head, but—

  Because I was there, Mama. I saw things. I remember. And what I want to know is: How could you do it?

  Anna is breathing hard now, snorting air through her nose like a bull. Trudy can feel it, warm and damp, on her cheeks.

  Oh, I understand intellectually, Trudy continues. The old adage about desperate times calling for desperate measures—I know that was true. I've studied it for decades, read all the case histories—

  Case histories, Anna scoffs. You would never understand. Du kannst nicht.

  But I would, if you'd explain it to me. Help me understand, Mama! Did he force you? What were the circumstances? Tell me how it was so I can understand, in my heart of hearts, how you could have been with such a man!

  I will not discuss this, says Anna.

  She reaches past Trudy for the doorknob. Trudy puts her own hand over it.

  Or maybe he didn't force you after all, she continues. Or maybe he did in the beginning, but then you grew ... fond of him. Is that why you never talk about it, Mama? Is that why you kept the photograph all these years?

  Anna's arm drops to her side.

  What photograph, she says.

  Of you and him, Trudy says triumphantly. And me, on your lap. It was in your dresser at the farmhouse. And now I have it upstairs in my sock drawer.

  Anna looks horrified.

  That, she whispers.

  Yes, that. I've known about it since I was a little girl. And why else would you have kept it all this time if you didn't care for him? If you didn't love him—

  Anna leans forward and slaps Trudy across the face with all her might.

  Trudy, stunned, gasps to regain her breath. But before she can, Anna takes a step closer and grabs her by the chin, forcing Trudy to look at her, even as she did when Trudy was a child.

  How dare you say such a thing, Anna says. Now you will lis ten to me. I will tell you this once, and once only: I did it for y
ou, Trudy. Anything I ever did, it was all for you.

  Anna stares steadily at Trudy for another long moment. Then she releases her.

  And that is all I will say about such things, she says. I have closed the door on that time and I will never open it. Not even for you. Now you will excuse me. I am going to bed.

  Anna reaches for the knob again and this time the dazed Trudy moves aside to let her pass. She stands rubbing the tender spots Anna's fingers have left, listening to Anna ascend the stairs, as slowly as a queen.

  Anything I ever did, it was all for you.

  Right, says Trudy.

  She looks around the darkened study and gives a hopeless little laugh. For how can one argue with that?

  Then guilt rushes in to fill the vacuum of shock, a crushing thing whose tangible weight takes Trudy's breath away. She runs up the stairs after her mother and stands in front of Anna's closed door. All is quiet behind it.

  Mama, Trudy calls. She taps on the door. Mama?

  No response.

  I'm sorry, Mama, says Trudy.

  Silence.

  Trudy hugs herself, waiting.

  Did you hear me, Mama? I said I was sorry...

  Eventually Trudy trails down the hall to her own room, where she sits on the edge of the bed. Tentatively, she brings her hands to her face in the dark. Her cheeks are bruised and swelling where Anna has gripped them. And wet.

  46

  AND AT SOME POINT TRUDY MUST SLEEP, FOR AS SHE LIES first on her back, then curled and flinching like a dog, she sees this:

  She is sitting cross-legged on the floor of the bakery, which has been turned into a refugee center of sorts. There are mountains of suitcases, carpetbags, and heaped coats; some of the latter have people rolled up in them, resting. Others sit nearby, rocking themselves or staring at the devastated walls or whispering to children with whom Trudy has been forbidden to play. Still more are in the kitchen with Anna, helping her boil bandages or dole out cups of water. Trudy isn't frightened by the strangers or the odd sight of adults lying on the floor; the visitors lend the bakery a holiday feel. Even the dust they raise, which spins in the thin columns of light allowed by the boards over the window, seems to have a festive air.

  Then the old bald schoolteacher snaps his fingers in front of Trudy's face.

  Pay attention, child, he commands. Repeat after me: ein, zwei, drei.

  Trudy wriggles, trying to find a comfortable position. The cement is damp and unkind to childish buttocks, and she has been sitting for a long time.

  Ein, zwei, drei, she says.

  No, no, no. Ein, zwei, drei. Vier, fünf, sechs.

  Ein, zwei, drei, vier, fünf, sechs, Trudy repeats. She looks expectantly at the old schoolteacher, waiting for praise. She wants to please this strange man.

  But his lips purse in disgust.

  You are not concentrating, he tells her. You had better learn to do it right, child. Otherwise—

  He rotates his head slowly to the left, and the scourged flesh, a raw and weeping pink that has sealed one of his eyes shut, comes into view like a ruined moon.

  Do you want to end up like this? he asks. No? Then do it again, correctly this time. Ein, zwei, drei, vier—

  Trudy, her chest hitching in a prelude to tears, begins once again to recite the numerals. But the old schoolteacher is no longer listening. He scrambles to his feet, his blasted face blank. All around Trudy there is a kinetic movement and murmur as the other refugees do the same. For Saint Nikolaus has arrived. He stands at attention in the doorway, surveying the ragged bunch.

  Trudy doesn't jump up like the rest. Instead she backpedals on her rump, scrabbling her heels against the floor, trying to hide among the forest of legs as Saint Nikolaus strides into the bakery. She knows it is her he is looking for.

  Up! up, he calls. March.

  Obediently, their eyes on the feet, their refugees form a circle with Saint Nikolaus at its center. They parade past him as he claps and chants:

  Backe, backe Kuchen!

  der Bäcker hat gerufen.

  Wer will guten Kuchen backen,

  Der muss haben sieben Sachen:

  Butter und Salz, Zucker und Schmalz...

  Trudy finds herself walking along with the refugees. They plod past Saint Nikolaus in despairing rhythm, as dull and stolid as circus elephants. Then, suddenly, they are all gone and Trudy is marching alone. This does not surprise her: of course this lies well within the scope of Saint Nikolaus's many and peculiar powers. He makes people disappear.

  ...und Eier machen den Kuchen gel', he sings, tapping time with the toe of a gleaming boot. Backe, backe Kuchen! der Bäcker hat gerufen. Hup! Hup! Hup! Raise high the flags! Stand rank on rank together. Storm troopers march with quiet, steady tread—

  I think that's enough for one evening, Trudy hears her mother call. It's past the child's bedtime.

  Trudy's head swivels in her mother's direction. Anna is standing behind the display case, rubbing her arms.

  Saint Nikolaus ignores her.

  No, not like that, he scolds Trudy. Here. Watch.

  He goose-steps across the room, his boots thudding on the floor. He pivots and comes back toward Trudy. He is as tall as a tree; she tips her head up as he approaches and sees his worsted crotch, the muscles of his thighs pumping beneath the cloth.

  Now you, he says, and begins to mark time again.

  Raise high the knife!

  Sharpen the blade to cut Jewish flesh.

  Jewish blood will run in the gutters;

  On every corner the Hitler flag will flutter—

  Horst, says Anna. I really don't think—

  Trudy looks in her mother's direction. Anna is standing behind the display case, watching the scene with dark and sorrowful eyes.

  Saint Nikolaus rounds on her.

  WILL you be quiet! he roars. WILL you for once in your Godforsaken life just! shut! up!

  Then he spins and deals Trudy a backhanded blow to the face. She reels to the floor, her ears ringing. She doesn't feel the impact of his hand. Her right cheek is numb from forehead to chin.

  Saint Nikolaus's shining boots pass a few centimeters from her nose. Trudy hears him yelling something unintelligible overhead and hears Anna's answering cry. She tries to move, but the cement beneath her exerts a pull stronger than gravity.

  You're a disgrace, I've had it with the pair of you, Saint Nikolaus is screaming. Puling, whining, ungrateful! I've half a mind not to come back at all.

  And then the strangest thing happens: the ceiling must open up, or perhaps the sky, for treasures rain down, forks and watches and rings and brooches. They shower around Trudy in a crashing, clanging cacophony. Not a one touches her, however, for Anna is there, crouched over her, shielding Trudy in her arms.

  Yet terrified as she is, Trudy struggles to squirm free of her mother's protective embrace. The press of Anna's flesh turns her stomach, as does her smell. For Anna doesn't smell like herself, sharp like celery beneath flour and honest sweat. She smells of bacon fat, of fish starting to go off. She smells like Saint Nikolaus. She smells like the man.

  47

  RAINER COMES TO THE DOOR MORE QUICKLY THAN ONE might expect, considering that it is nearly three in the morning. Trudy, however, is not surprised; she knows that he, like she, is prone to insomnia. He is as fully clothed as a man can be at this hour without being actually dressed, in pajamas and robe and his monogrammed slippers. He is even wearing his bifocals, as though he has been expecting just such an intrusion. The only signs that Trudy has disturbed him are his hair, which stands up in a cock's comb at the crown, and a somewhat wild look about the eyes, and Trudy realizes belatedly that, given his past, Rainer will be even more alarmed than most by a pounding on the door in the middle of the night.

  Why, Trudy, he says.

  He lowers his chin to peer at her over his glasses, as if to confirm that she is truly there, then slides them off and slips them into a pocket of his robe. In his other hand is a paperback, a John Le
Carré thriller.

  My God, he says. What has happened to your face?

  Trudy shakes her head. It's nothing.

  It does not look like nothing, Rainer says, frowning. You really should have some ice on those bruises. Who has done this to you? What is wrong?

  His concern makes Trudy shy. She digs her toe into the weave of the welcome mat.

  I'm sorry to bother you at this hour, she mumbles.

  Don't be stupid. Come in. Whatever has happened, you can tell me just as well inside.

  When Trudy doesn't move, staring at her boots, Rainer takes her by the arm.

  You are letting all the heat out, he tells her.

  He walks Trudy into the living room and indicates that she should sit on the couch. But Trudy remains on her feet. She is panting a little, from the cold and her rush over here and the fear of what she has come to say.

  And the only way to say it is to say it. Rainer is waiting, watching her. Trudy puts an icy hand on her breastbone.

  I'm not who you think I am, she says rapidly. I'm not just an ordinary German. I'm the daughter of a Nazi officer. An SS officer. There. Now you know.

  Rainer looks down at the book he is still holding.

  I've never told that to anyone, says Trudy. Not even my ex-husband knew. And—

  She buries her face in her hands.

  I'm so ashamed, she cries. So ashamed. My entire life I've felt so—stained.

  Rainer says nothing, but after a long moment Trudy feels him grasp her shoulder. He steers her to a chair. Stay there, he says.

  He disappears down the hall. Trudy leans back, drained. The armchair, though cold, emits a comfortingly masculine smell, of chilled leather and polish and a whiff of Rainer's citrus aftershave.

  Rainer returns with a tea set on a tray. He sets it on an end table and switches on a floor lamp. The shadows leap and retreat a few yards, leaving a small ring of buttery light.

  Rainer taps Trudy's knee and passes her a cup and two aspirin.

  Take those, he says. They should reduce the swelling somewhat.