by Anne Raeff
“We’re together now,” her father said, even when it was clear that she had made up her mind. She knew he would miss her, but perhaps he was also afraid that without her, he and her mother would no longer be able to live in the same house together, that all the silence between them would finally suffocate them. The strange thing was that the opposite happened. Though Ulli rarely saw her parents those first years after the war, it was obvious that something between them had changed. They sat next to each other on the couch instead of on opposite sides of the room. Every evening from eight to nine, unless the weather was extremely inclement, they walked, not arm in arm, not holding hands, but together, with determination. At some point her mother started working at the business with her father, not as a typist, but as a bookkeeper, for she had always preferred numbers to words. Perhaps they had become tired of being unhappy. Ulli hoped they found again what it was that brought them together in the first place, but perhaps they were only pretending—to themselves, to Ulli—because they did not want to burden her anymore with their unhappiness.
Thus, in an effort to keep her parents from worrying too much about her, Ulli told them two lies: that she had found a job as a clerk in a clothing store and that she was sharing a small place with one of her coworkers. It was time, she explained, to be on her own. “But this is entirely unnecessary,” her father argued. “You have a job. What about the business?”
“I have no interest in typewriters,” she told him. Afterward she felt bad for being so blunt, but it had seemed the only way to extricate herself.
He did not answer. He simply walked out of the room.
“What will he do without you? What will become of the business?” her mother asked, but Ulli didn’t reply. Ulli kissed her mother on the forehead as if she were a child. She realized that this was the first time she had kissed her mother since the night the Russians came. Then she left. She did not take anything with her. The apartment had everything she needed.
In the beginning, she was always half waiting for the original tenants to return. For the first few weeks she disturbed as little as possible. She slept on the kitchen floor on a pallet made from extra blankets she had found in the closet. She used only one dish, one fork, one knife, one spoon, one cup. She emptied the ashtray after each cigarette. She dusted the family photographs—the father in uniform, the wedding portrait, the children. There were two boys who, judging from their toys, had a fondness for automobiles. She forced herself to believe that they had gotten out before the Russians arrived, that they were living happily in the countryside with a plump great-aunt, milking cows and churning butter.
But they did not return, and she was relieved.
She started rearranging things to suit her needs. She threw away their toothbrushes. She still slept on the floor in the kitchen next to the radiator, where it was warmest. She found that she liked sleeping on the floor. It made her feel as if she were accomplishing something, as if sleeping on the floor was making her strong, building up her endurance, or training her for a very difficult future. After a while, though, she began to use the previous occupants’ things. She slept in their beds, ate at their table, and examined their photos. Ulli came to think of the apartment as her own.
The Meeting
Postwar Germany was rife with opportunities, and Ulli soon found her place in the postwar economy. She stumbled upon her new livelihood in a bar frequented by American soldiers and young German women who were looking for salvation in the arms of a homesick boy from Iowa or Alabama. When she first started going to these bars, she too believed in this possibility, and she often found herself waking up in an overly soft bed in a dingy hotel room next to a pimply boy with sour breath and a hangover who talked about his mother’s cooking and cars. It took quite a few such encounters before she realized that it was safer—and more lucrative—to play Cyrano for the lonely soldiers and their hopeful German girlfriends than to play at love herself.
The business started out quite innocently. Because of Ulli’s skill with English, soldiers solicited her help with the women they were interested in wooing. A soldier would ask her, for example, to tell a prospective candidate that she had a beautiful smile. The woman would laugh, he would buy her a drink, and she would ask him where he was from. At this point Ulli would ask him to tell her about his hometown, and she would tell the woman about the soldier’s sisters and about what sports he had played in high school, and the woman would invariably want to know whether he had been to New York and whether he had seen the Empire State Building. In turn, the woman would tell him about the fresh cheese on her grandparents’ farm, for so many of them had come from the countryside to seek their fortunes in the city. And before long they would be thanking her, the soldier pressing a few bills into Ulli’s hands before stumbling out of the bar arm in arm with his date. Thus Ulli became well known for her services in a number of the bars the soldiers frequented. With the money she earned, she could buy everything she needed on the black market—real coffee, vodka, stockings. She slept until eleven or twelve and spent the afternoons wandering the city or reading.
It was in one of those bars that Ulli met Leo and Isaac. They were sitting at a table in a back corner, as far away from the dancing as one could get. She noticed them immediately because they paid no attention to the girls. They seemed to be talking about something important, leaning in toward each other, gesticulating. It was a slow night for Ulli, so she sat at her usual table, watching them. They were drinking quite heavily. Every so often Leo called the waitress over and ordered more drinks.
Isaac was tall and thin, yet he did not have the usual slouch that tall, thin people have. He sat straight, and Ulli could see that his fingers were long and thin too, like a pianist’s, and when he leaned back in his chair, letting his arms fall to the side, his hands touched the floor. Leo was neither tall nor short, stocky but not fat. She noted his handsome, square face. His lips were thick, almost like a woman’s yet not feminine at all.
They seemed so engaged in their conversation that she was taken off guard when the waitress brought her a drink and, pointing to their table, said, “Compliments of the soldiers.”
She tried to refuse it. “Thank you,” she said, “but I was just leaving.”
“It’s already paid for,” the waitress told her, “so you might as well drink it.”
“Thank you, but perhaps you would like it?” Ulli suggested.
“I’m not allowed to accept drinks from the customers,” she said, leaving Ulli with the drink.
Instead of taking a sip, Ulli lit a cigarette and looked away from Leo and Isaac. Of course she could have put on her coat and gloves and hat and walked out the door. She was quite sure that neither of them would follow her. She felt, however, that this was a test, though she had no idea about what, so she did not leave, but she did not take a sip of the drink either. She tried to concentrate on the music and the dancers, who were, by this time, stumbling drunkenly around the dance floor. Finally, the stocky soldier stood up and approached her. He picked up the untouched drink and downed it in one gulp. “Thank you,” he said, and returned to his seat.
She left soon afterward, giving herself just a few more minutes so it would not seem that she was running away from them. “Good night, madame,” the soldiers called out as she made her way to the door, but she did not respond. Usually there were other people out when she went home, but it was a particularly cold night, so the streets were completely deserted. The trees were covered with ice, and the cold seemed to amplify the sound of her steps on the deserted street. She thought for a moment that she should be afraid of walking alone, but she did not feel any fear and was proud of herself for her adventurousness. If she had been the kind of person who whistled, she would have whistled, but instead she unbuttoned the top button of her coat. She did not want to feel constricted.
The next night, Ulli returned to the bar, but the two soldiers were not there. She spent the
evening translating for a young man from New Jersey whose father owned a butcher shop where he was planning to work when he got out of the army. “We’ve got a classy clientele,” he kept assuring his plump young girl. Ulli had read somewhere that Frank Sinatra was from New Jersey, so she told the girl that Frank Sinatra used to be their customer, and the girl smiled, saying she adored Frank Sinatra. The soldier was not at all puzzled by the fact that the conversation had suddenly turned from meat to Frank Sinatra, for he too was a great admirer.
Ulli never thought of her inaccuracies as lying but rather as embellishments, little flourishes she added, like the illuminated first letter in medieval manuscripts. She did it not because she wanted to trick the girls, but because she wanted them to find what they were looking for: a way out. Yet sometimes, if she sensed something particularly mean or annoying about one of the soldiers, Ulli would put words in his mouth that any woman, even the most naïve, would not be able to ignore. She told a very pretty and very young girl, whose father and brothers had been killed on the Russian front, that the young man from Indiana she adored had robbed a liquor store at gunpoint. He had been telling Ulli that he preferred a wife who did not understand what he was saying. He worried that she would learn English once they were in the United States, and then he would be at a disadvantage. Ulli asked him why, then, he had enlisted her services, and he said he wanted the girl to feel comfortable. “Women like to talk,” he said, “but if I had it my way, we wouldn’t say a thing. Then there would never be any disagreements.” When the girl left him for another soldier, a fat redhead from Maine, he blamed Ulli. The man was brutish but not entirely stupid.
Interestingly enough, most of the soldiers did not engage Ulli’s services. Perhaps, even though they did not put it into words, they too liked not having to talk. It made things simpler, more straightforward. Ulli’s clients were the romantic ones, she supposed, and she liked to think that the brides they took back with them to small towns across the United States were not disappointed when they were finally able to understand their husbands’ words. She wondered whether the woman with the boy whose family owned the butcher shop had ever figured out that Frank Sinatra had not been their customer and, if she had, whether it mattered. Perhaps they shared a laugh about it. Or perhaps there had been so many other letdowns by then that even Frank Sinatra seemed insignificant.
The next time Ulli saw Leo and Isaac, a few nights after their first encounter, they were sitting at the same table. Ulli mingled with the other customers, looking for someone in need of her skills. She never pushed herself on anyone, but if she noticed a couple trying to communicate, she would approach politely and explain what she could do to help. Ulli was standing at the bar when the tall soldier got up and made his way to her. “My friend and I would like to invite you to our table for a drink,” he said, like a butler announcing the arrival of an important guest. He spoke perfect German.
“I’m sorry, but I’m waiting for someone,” she replied. He bowed almost imperceptibly and retreated.
Ulli grew tired of standing at the bar, so she found a table. After about an hour the stocky soldier came to her table. “Are you still waiting?” he asked in English.
“Yes,” she replied.
“For a client or for personal reasons?”
“It is none of your business,” she said.
“True,” he said, and sat down without asking for permission. “Cigar?” He took out two cigars from his breast pocket. “My friend can’t stand the smell. He used to have asthma.”
Ulli took the cigar and watched as he flicked open his lighter in that way men think is so gallant. She leaned toward the flame and breathed in. “Cigarette smoke doesn’t bother him?” she asked.
“It bothers him, but cigars he can’t tolerate at all.” During this exchange Ulli was waiting for Isaac to turn around to see what kind of progress Leo was making, but he had taken out a book and was reading. She wondered how he could read a book in a noisy bar. Perhaps he was only pretending.
“You’re a natural,” Leo said.
“A natural what?” Ulli asked.
“A natural cigar smoker. Never trust a cigar smoker, you know.”
“Why not?” she asked.
“Because they’re not trustworthy. It’s a known fact.”
“Thank you for the advice,” she said, which made him laugh. Every time he tried to speak, he would break out into laughter. Finally he said, “My name’s Leo.”
“Ulli,” she said, extending her hand across the table.
“Isaac,” he called to his friend. “Isaac, come over here and meet my friend Ulli.”
Isaac waved and went back to his book.
“He’s always got his nose in a book,” Leo explained.
“There’s nothing wrong with reading,” Ulli said.
“I didn’t say there was anything wrong with reading. I was just trying to explain his rudeness.”
“Rudeness?”
“You don’t think it’s rude to sit there reading a book when I’ve very nicely asked him to make your acquaintance?”
“No.”
That made him laugh again. “Would you like to take a walk?” he suggested.
“No, thank you,” Ulli replied.
“Well. Then we’ll just have to order another drink.” He called the waitress over and ordered a round of drinks for them and for Isaac at the other table. “So,” he continued, “tell me the truth. Who is this person you’re waiting for?”
“I’m not waiting for anyone,” Ulli answered.
“But you told Isaac you were waiting for someone.”
“Yes, but I’m not. I just said I was in order to be rid of you.”
“Well, I’m glad you told me.”
“Why?”
“Because I like to know where I stand in situations like this.”
“Situations like what?” Ulli asked.
“Complicated ones.”
“I don’t think this situation is at all complicated,” Ulli answered. Now it was her turn to laugh.
“What’s so funny?” he asked.
“The situation,” she said, and they both laughed, but she didn’t really know why she was laughing, only that she wanted to, that it had been a long time since she had done so.
“Excuse me a moment,” he said, getting up and returning to the table where Isaac sat. They talked for a while, but Leo kept watching her out of the corner of his eye, as if doing so would keep her from leaving. Ulli had time to smoke a cigarette before he returned to her table with Isaac in tow.
He formally introduced them to each other, and Isaac and Ulli shook hands. Leo pulled his chair up next to Ulli’s, and Isaac sat across from them.
“What were you reading?” Ulli asked Isaac.
“Oh, some kind of French poetry,” Leo answered for him. “He takes that book everywhere he goes.”
“You speak French too?” she asked.
“Yes,” Isaac answered.
“I don’t know why he needs the book,” Leo said. “He knows all the poems by heart.”
“Not all of them,” Isaac said. “I don’t have a photographic memory like you do. All he has to do is look at a page once, and it’s in his head.”
“I always thought there wasn’t really such a thing as a photographic memory,” Ulli said.
“Well, there is,” Isaac said. “Show her.”
“Now come on; it’s not really so interesting. Why don’t we all go for a walk? I’m getting tired of this place.”
“But it is interesting. I’m sure she would be interested, wouldn’t you?”
“Her name is Ulli, Isaac.”
“I’m sorry. Of course. Ulli. You would be interested, wouldn’t you, Ulli?”
“It’s not necessary,” she said, realizing only then that Isaac was drunk. He had seemed so quiet, so steady, sitting th
ere reading his book, so she had attributed his awkwardness to his height, not to alcohol.
“Nothing is necessary, except for food and shelter,” Isaac said.
“And love,” Leo said, turning to Ulli. “Don’t you think love is necessary?”
“Not in the same way as food and shelter,” she replied. Isaac was looking away, watching the dancers.
“But necessary in some way, right?” Leo continued.
“Well,” Isaac interrupted. “I thought we were going for a walk.”
“Then let’s go,” Leo said, jumping up and grabbing Ulli’s hand, whisking her toward the door. Isaac grabbed their coats and followed.
It had been snowing for quite some time and the snow was accumulating rapidly. Isaac walked ahead, his long legs making faster progress so that he had to stop every so often to let Leo and Ulli catch up. But as soon as they were at his side, off he would go again at his long-legged pace.
“He doesn’t usually drink so much,” Leo told her. “I’m the one who always ends up not remembering what happened the night before. If it weren’t for him, half my life would be a total mystery to me.”
“He seems angry with you,” Ulli said.
“Angry?” Leo laughed.
“Why is that funny?” she asked.
“I don’t know. It just is,” he said.
At some point, Isaac started running. Ulli and Leo watched him take off at full speed, his unbuttoned army coat billowing behind him. He fell and picked himself up and started running again, only to fall a few steps later. “Stop!” Leo called after him, but Isaac kept running and falling, running and falling. “Let’s just sleep out here,” Isaac said. He lay in the snow, out of breath, his arms and legs spread out. He seemed thinner lying in the snow like that, a stick man in a child’s painting, and Leo grabbed her hand and twirled her round and round, first in one direction, then the other so that she would not get dizzy and fall. Isaac began clapping faster and faster, so they spun faster and faster. Then they fell to the ground next to Isaac, and the three of them lay there looking up at the sky. “It’s always warmer when it’s snowing,” Isaac said.
