Dr. Reiter paused to adjust her glasses. She deliberately avoided looking at the class.
“I have made a lifelong study of the Holocaust, reading everything I could find on the topic since I was a child, because my father is a survivor. He was hidden by a Christian family. Towards the end of the war, they were betrayed. My father doesn’t know what became of them. He never knew their real names. He was sent to Auschwitz, but the gassing on arrival had stopped, or he would have faced certain death. After the war, he was sent to the United States to live with a sponsor, since his parents were presumed dead.”
“It was because of my father that I first became interested in the Holocaust, and the psychology behind it. After all, German culture was the most celebrated in the world. It was the culture of Martin Luther, Faust, Freud, Wagner. How did such a civilized, cultured, intelligent group of people degenerate into savagery so swiftly? And, more importantly, could the same thing happen to us, and if so, how can we stop it?”
It was so quiet a pin could drop. I felt a rush of admiration for the woman standing at the podium, followed by a flood of bitter jealousy. Over a hundred of my fellow students were spellbound by Dr. Reiter’s words, thinking their own thoughts about her, and I found this infuriating. She was mine, and mine alone. I saw her first.
I shook off these irrational thoughts. Was I going crazy?
Towards the end of the lecture, Dr. Reiter assigned homework. “Write a brief essay,” she instructed. “No less than two hundred fifty words, more if you like. Please answer the following question. If this was Nazi Germany, what kind of person would you be? A common citizen, just trying to survive the war? A hero, putting your own life and that of your loved ones at risk, perhaps sacrificing it for others, the way that Christian family did for my father? Would you be a member of the resistance? Or…would you be one of the people who betrayed the Jews, who sold out your neighbors, did whatever you could to not only survive the regime but conform to it? Try to be honest with yourselves, although I know it’s difficult.” She pulled her thin lips back in a weak half smile. “It is not a sin to be imperfect, to acknowledge that you are a work in progress, not yet complete. The sin is claiming to be perfect, because then you erroneously believe you have all the answers and there is no work to be done. Think about it.”
I had hopes of waylaying the professor on her way out of the room. When the time came, I faltered in confusion. What would I say? “Nice class?” like a frat boy trying to pick someone up at a bar? Goddamn my lack of social skills.
Dr. Reiter gathered up her materials, shoved them into her briefcase, crumpled up her coffee cup and tossed it in the wastebasket, then stalked from the classroom, her spine rimrod straight, very Prussian. Just like in the Student Union, she looked neither right nor left, displaying the same lack of interest in her fellow man.
“What a strange woman,” remarked the student sitting next to Maggie. She was wearing one of the cute, jaunty sailor caps that identified her as a sorority member.
“It’s gonna be an interesting class, though,” the guy with her responded.
I trudged back to my residence hall, mind churning. I had high hopes for this day. I figured this would be the day I finally attracted Ursula’s attention. Now that seemed like a hopeless endeavor.
Seriously, how was I going to get her to notice me? I didn’t have the nerve to raise my hand and ask a question in such a crowded lecture hall, in front of hundreds of students. And I suspected that Dr. Reiter wasn’t a question and answer type of instructor. She lectured, you listened, and that was it. After all, she hadn’t even raised her eyes to try to put a name to a face when she read out the roll, so how would she notice my little white hand waving in the air?
The whole situation felt hopeless.
I had to be early for the next class, so I could snag a spot front and center. Not that it would matter. Dr. Reiter appeared to notice the students in the front row as little as she did in the back. But it was the only thing I could think to do. I had to try.
Hmm. Maybe I could write an essay so spectacular it captured her attention. But how? I was a decent writer, but nothing special. Teachers were never driven to read my assignments out loud in class. I was one of those writers who stuck to the topic and accomplished the assignment. I didn’t have the gift of reaching others through the written word.
I pushed a curly lock of hair out of my eyes as I stormed through the lobby of my dorm, thinking furiously. How could I make my essay stand out from a hundred others when I wasn’t a particularly good writer?
Suddenly, I knew the answer. Every student in that class would write 250 words of bullshit. They would all be heroes in Ursula’s mythical Nazi Germany. Trying to kiss up, they would claim to do anything in their power to hide Jews at grave risk to their own well-being. And they would all lie, because if there were so many heroes in the world, the Holocaust would never have happened. The truth was most of the students would have done nothing, if not outright helped the Nazis. They probably would have attempted to join the Nazi party. Wasn’t that human nature? Everyone seemed to think they had it in them to rise above, but when the time came they found ways to justify their own heinous behavior.
Honesty was the key to getting Dr. Reiter’s notice. She wouldn’t notice another boring essay that made the same claims as the ninety-nine ones before it. But if I laid my soul bare, was unflinchingly, brutally honest, that was sure to attract her attention.
The truth was, as someone who spent my life feeling like an outcast, I would welcome the chance to finally be included. Condemning others to the same hopeless, loveless existence I’d known myself would be easy, as long as I was part of the in crowd for a change. If being brutal to outsiders was the price of belonging, wouldn’t I gladly pay it?
Back in my room, I flipped open my laptop and went straight to work before I could second guess myself. I wrote of my own lifelong sense of alienation, and how this would contribute to my willingness to exclude others, as long as it meant my own inclusion.
I would like to believe I wouldn’t hurt anyone, but I might be among the crowd cheering on the people who were doing the hurting. I can’t say for sure.
I reread my work, wrinkling my forehead in concern. This could backfire spectacularly. Maybe it was a test. What if Dr. Reiter threw me out of class, unwilling to teach someone who owned their inner monster? Shrugging, I hit print. There was no going back now.
I managed to arrive early enough on Wednesday to claim the coveted front row seat, which was easy, as there was a lot less students in attendance. This was typical of Baylor. The first day of class everyone showed up, then at least half wouldn’t be seen again until the final.
I hoped the professor would have us read our assignments out loud, or at least discuss them. Instead she instructed us to pass them forward. The person at the end of the first row handed the pile to Dr. Reiter. I felt a surge of jealousy as I watched their fingers brush.
Perhaps I should make an appointment with the counseling center.
Today, she didn’t even bother calling the roll. And with that, lost most of the class. She wasn’t even pretending that attendance mattered.
Without any introduction, Dr. Reiter launched into her first lecture, clasping her hands behind her back, like a schoolchild reciting. Papers rustled as students flipped to clean pages in their notebooks.
Throughout the lecture, Dr. Reiter never lifted her head to make eye contact with anyone in class. She could have been lecturing an empty room.
I held out hope that Dr. Reiter would want to speak to me about my essay, but as the days passed, there was no indication she’d even read it. Her lectures were fascinating and thought provoking, but she continued to avoid making eye contact with the students. It was like we were furniture.
I brainstormed ways to approach her, but I couldn’t come up with anything realistic. I could ask for help during office hours, but help with what? She’d assigned no other essays, and the only tests were the midterm
and the final.
The class was a slacker’s dream. She never took attendance. Every day there were less people present. If Dr. Reiter noticed, she gave no indication in her deadpan expression. She remained an enigma.
I despaired of ever getting close to her. The strange, overwhelming connection I felt must be a fantasy, a figment of my lonely imagination. It simply wasn’t meant to be. The woman had erected an impenetrable wall around herself, and there was no getting through it.
Then one day I was loitering in the Union, waiting for one of my fellow resident assistants. We’d just eaten lunch together, and she asked me to wait while she picked something up from the bookstore. I browsed the bulletin boards lining the hallways, idly reading handwritten ads hawking old textbooks, selling electronics, and offers to share gas on a trip to Syracruse.
Smack in the center, almost hidden by all the other larger ads thumbtacked around it, was this: Seeking part time companion for eighty-year old father. Two to three hours a day, no more than twelve hours a week, email if interested. [email protected]
My heart began to thump. There it was. My “in.” As if fate was intervening, after shaking its head about how hopeless I was.
I didn’t need to write down the e-mail address. I already knew it by heart. I was grateful I wouldn’t have to call and speak to Ursula. I’d be so nervous, I would stutter. I was terrible over the phone and only slightly better in person.
I spent hours composing the e-mail, striving to strike the perfect balance. Never in the history of the world did anyone agonize over so few words. My name is Maggie Dunlap and I’m seeking a part time position that works with my class schedule. I live on campus so a job within walking distance would be ideal. I worked as a camp counselor on campus and can provide references from Baylor University Staff. I am also currently a Resident Assistant, but other than my nights on call, I’m flexible and can work some evenings if necessary.”
I reread it over and over, changing a few words here and there, staring at it until my eyes felt like boiled eggs in my skull. I knew brevity was best. I was trying to score an interview, so I didn’t have to explain my qualifications in depth, just enough to pique her curiosity.
I tilted my head to one side, considering. Should I mention my mother was a nurse’s aide in a nursing home, slyly suggesting caring for the elderly was in my blood? No, I decided. One whiff of Jana and Dr. Reiter would run the other way.
Finally, I crossed my fingers and hit send, realizing a moment too late that Dr. Reiter never mentioned anything in her ad about how far away her home was from campus. My words implied that I knew it was within walking distance. How could I know that? I rolled my eyes at my own stupidity. I had the perfect opportunity to get close to Ursula, and I blew it. I was self-destructive. I overthought everything, like when I had stolen Laina’s panties. If I had just done it, she never would have suspected a thing. Instead, I spent days hemming and hawing and prancing around the overflowing drawer like a weirdo.
There must be something wrong with me.
I shook my head to clear it. Perhaps Dr. Reiter wouldn’t notice the gaffe. And if she did and mentioned it, I would just say Dr. Heinrich mentioned she lived nearby when we discussed my taking her class. He wouldn’t remember otherwise.
There was no reply to my email that day, or the day after, or the day after that. Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow. By the third day, I vowed to put it out of my head. I wasn’t going to hear back. Maybe Dr. Reiter had been freaked by my somehow seeming to know where she lived, or perhaps she’d already gotten someone for the position. Probably the latter. After all, I didn’t know how long that advertisement had been there. Maybe for weeks.
I was trying not to take the implied rejection personally.
After I had completely given up all hope, there was a message waiting in my inbox. I would like to meet you for a brief interview. Please come to Room 323 during my office hours 3-5 today or tomorrow. Let me know when to expect you. If neither of those times work with your schedule, I will make other plans to accommodate you.
This was the closest I’d ever gotten to receiving a text or call from someone I liked. My heart was hammering in my chest. It was just after eleven in the morning. In just a few hours, I would be in Ursula Reiter’s presence. She would finally look into my eyes and feel the same magnetic connection.
I dashed off a reply letting the professor know I was available at three. Then I turned my attention to my closet. What should I wear? My wardrobe was more extensive then when I lived under my parent’s thumb, but my clothes were utilitarian, befitting a college student. Jeans and flannel shirts and sweaters, clothing designed for the harsh winters of Northern New York. Nothing pretty, that I’d wear on a date. Not that this was a date.
I had a few dresses that I wore during the summer. They were a little light for early fall, but we were having Indian summer. The temperature was in the seventies. I decided to wear one, not caring if I looked slightly odd wearing a sundress and sandals in early October.
I then gave myself a full beauty treatment. Everything I knew about making myself pretty came from Laina. I washed my hair and teased out my curls, plucked my eyebrows, shaved my legs, and gave myself a clumsy mani pedi, cursing when I accidentally applied dark red polish to the sides of my toes.
Then I stood in front of my mirror rehearsing. “Hi, I’m Maggie,” I drawled, with a seductive toss of my mane. I stopped and gave a self-conscious laugh.
No, that kind of approach wouldn’t do, not at all. First impressions counted. Especially on a date. Rather, a job interview. I needed to come across as someone you’d trust with your elderly father.
“Good afternoon, I’m Maggie Dunlap,” I said to my reflection. My face was stern and unsmiling. One could picture me giving an enema with the same no-nonsense expression.
I rolled my eyes, turning my scrutiny to my outfit. It needed something else. I combed through my closet and found a dark blue blazer I’d worn once or twice. Shrugging into it, I gave myself the once over and approved the results. I looked professional and dependable.
Once again, I was watching the clock, struggling not to bite my nails, urging it closer to three o’clock. Today, if a resident stopped by right as I was about to leave, I’d tell them to find someone else. Fortunately, no one came.
I left my dorm at a quarter of three. As I walked sedately towards the academic quad, I noticed people glancing at me curiously. I was a bit overdressed for a college campus on an ordinary Thursday afternoon. I didn’t care. The only thing that mattered was making the right impression on Dr. Reiter.
I slowed as I neared the building where Dr. Reiter’s office was located. I needed to time my arrival perfectly. I didn’t want to be late, but if I got there too early, I would be standing outside the locked door in the narrow hallway waiting. That would be awkward.
I arrived precisely at three. From down the hall, I could see Dr. Reiter’s angular form bending to unlock her office door. I hesitated, painfully aware of how I looked, like an eager puppy. I loitered at the other end of the hall, allowing the woman time to get settled.
A few moments later I knocked and casually stuck my head in. “Dr. Reiter? I’m Maggie Dunlap.”
“Yes, come in, sit down,” the woman replied, gesturing distractedly at the two chairs facing her across the desk.
She didn’t even look at me. She frowned at the rickety wooden chair until I sat, then switched her attention to her computer screen.
I turned my head to look around the office. Back in the days when Baylor University had been Stadler Normal School, this building had been a dormitory. The rooms were much smaller than the ones in the present residence halls. It was hard to believe that two people had once shared this narrow, claustrophobic space. The twin closets now lacked doors. One held a bookcase, the other a file cabinet. There were two dressers built right into the walls, surviving clues betraying the former purpose of the room.
“It’s neat that this used to be
a dorm room,” I offered, trying to break the silence. “Did you live here when you attended Baylor?”
Dr. Reiter looked up sharply. “Of course not,” she replied. “This building was a dorm over sixty years ago. How old do you think I am?”
I bit my lip, willing myself not to cry. Damn. I was just making conversation, but I managed to insult her. “I didn’t know it was that long ago,” I explained.
“So, the job,” Dr. Reiter said, dismissing the subject. “It’s on a trial basis only. My father is leery of strangers. I don’t know if he’ll tolerate you. We’ll have to wait and see. I’m not comfortable leaving him alone, so this is an option that won’t disturb our lives. Your hours will be flexible. I’ll pay you ten dollars an hour, off the books. I just want someone to look in on him a few hours a day, stay in the house with him. If you can manage to give him lunch, that would be terrific. If not, a snack or something in the afternoon would suffice. He often goes without eating.”
I was nodding. Wasn’t Dr. Reiter going to ask me anything about myself? She was behaving as if I already had the job.
The woman folded her hands on her desktop and stared down at them. “I don’t like telling strangers our private business, but in this case it’s necessary,” she said. Her eyes burned like two dark coals in her pale face. “My father is a Holocaust survivor. He was hidden by a Christian family as a small child, but towards the end of the war they were betrayed by a neighbor, or so we’ve always believed. He was sent to Auschwitz. He survived because they were no longer gassing prisoners on arrival.”
“I know,” I said, hoping I wasn’t being rude. “I’m in your Psychology of the Holocaust class.”
Dr. Reiter looked me full in the face, blinking rapidly. “Are you now?” she asked, surprised. “I didn’t realize that. Well, it’s a big class.”
“Yes,” I agreed. “I always sit in the front row.”
Hiding Places Page 4
