“I figured they’d cancel one another out.”
“That’s exactly what they seem to be doing. We’re either going to have an impartial newspaper or a totally nonfunctioning one.”
“Does that mean I can come back?”
“It means you’re not such a lousy judge of character after all, though sometimes the process damn near kills you. How would you like to go to work finding people to translate American books into German?”
“Another attempt at persuading Germans that all Americans are not barbarians?”
“It seems American literature is not as well-known to Germans as the government would like. In Munich the powers that be hired Erich Kästner to run Neue Zeitung. I assume you know the name.”
“Emil and the Detectives, not to mention a lot of other novels and poetry the Nazis burned.”
“Despite that, he stayed in Germany, but let’s not go into that again. It turns out he’d never heard of John Steinbeck. Then again he was shocked to hear that New York City had a permanent symphony orchestra.”
“He probably would have fainted if anyone told him about the Philadelphia Orchestra.”
He smiled. “So you have a home after all, or at least some civic pride. The point is the government wants to start bringing out German editions of American books. It’s not my purview, but Colonel Coffin asked me for some suggestions. He’s setting up a team to find translators. They would have already been cleared, so you wouldn’t have to get mixed up in that. Only in finding the right fit for a particular book. Hell, you might even try your hand at it yourself. Didn’t you write a couple of pieces for that swanky magazine before you were dispossessed of your job?”
“While the men were away, we girls got to play.”
“There’s that tone again. Anyway, if you’re interested I’ll set up an interview with Colonel Coffin for you.”
She said she was interested.
* * *
A week later she went to work in a cubby in a makeshift office on the second floor of the building where she’d worked in the denazification department. There was no crowd of Germans waiting to be interrogated. There were no Frauleins Schmidt and Weber. There were no secretaries at all, only stacks of American books, piles of German books and magazines and journals, files on the authors and translators of the latter, and two male colleagues, one of whom she’d swear was working for the Office of Strategic Services, but then again she’d been wrong about David’s intelligence work.
The job was a relief. The printed word was easier to deal with than human beings. Dodsworth and Babbitt were better company than toadying or combative German petitioners. Dodsworth and Babbitt took her back to those days at Bryn Mawr when Miss Albright had held forth on Sinclair Lewis’s view of small-town America. The Jungle, The Brass Check, and The Flivver King gave her hope that society might be capable of reforming itself after all, if someone like Upton Sinclair appeared on the scene at the right moment. She was especially eager to find the right translator for The Flivver King with its portrayal of the Henry Ford–inspired character’s virulent anti-Semitism.
* * *
She’d been working in her new job for a few weeks when Harry Sutton turned up one Friday afternoon just as she was about to leave. She hadn’t seen him since the day she’d tracked him down in the officers’ mess. He asked how things were going, and she said they were going just fine. He went on looking at her for a moment, as if he didn’t believe her. She hated when he did that.
“Since you’re flourishing here, since we’re no longer at loggerheads over collective guilt and other major policy matters of the Occupation, how would you like to drive out to Wannsee tomorrow afternoon? No arguments, no Fragebogen, just an afternoon in the open air. We can bury a metaphorical hatchet in the sand.”
The invitation caught her off guard. Her acceptance surprised her even more. Then she remembered the night in his flat. She was getting better at keeping that at bay.
“Only an afternoon in the fresh air,” he said, and she wondered if her expression had given her away.
The next day they set out under a cloudless sky through a city that was finally greening. Here and there a gritty wisteria vine, lilac bush, and even an undaunted wild rose fought its way through the rubble, insisting, in the face of all evidence to the contrary, on hope. They were both out of uniform, though he was still in khakis, and no one would mistake the yellow sundress she’d found at the PX for the pricey outfits from Nan Duskin in Philadelphia that the Bennetts used to give her for birthdays, Christmas, and no occasion other than their innate generosity. Still, the effect felt odd, as if they were masquerading as normal people in normal times.
They had no trouble finding a space to park the jeep. Except for military vehicles, Berlin was still empty of traffic. The beach, however, was crowded with GIs strolling arm in arm with Frauleins, sprawled on blankets with Frauleins, and tangled in embraces that stopped just short of fornication with Frauleins. The war, the camps, even the Wannsee Conference to hammer out the final solution to the Jewish problem that had taken place in one of the nearby buildings might never have happened.
They started walking, but the sand made it difficult. She stopped to take off one of her shoes and shake it out, then a few steps later repeated the gesture with the other. He bent, unlaced his oxfords, and pulled them off. The big toe of his left foot poked through a hole in his sock. “No cracks,” he said when he saw her look at it.
“I know a Frau who will darn that for three cigarettes, two if they’re Pall Malls.”
“And have you turn me in for employing a German? Not on your life.”
She kicked off her own shoes, then instinctively turned her back to him as she unhooked her stockings from her garter belt. When she turned back, she couldn’t see his eyes behind his dark glasses, but he was smiling.
“What’s so amusing?”
“Your modesty.”
She waited for him to make a comment about its being a little after the fact. He didn’t.
They started walking again. The farther they got from the long, low pavilion, the thinner the crowd on the sand grew, though they had to swerve their course to avoid a GI and a Fraulein on a blanket. He had one hand up her skirt and the other down her blouse.
“I have a feeling this wasn’t a good idea,” Harry said, “in view of your feelings about fraternization.”
“I can’t help wondering what’s going to happen in nine months, or sooner, depending on when these romances started.”
“I don’t think there are going to be a lot of half-German babies going back to the States, if that’s what you mean. The Army makes it hard enough for the men to marry. They’re not going to encourage them to take the kids home, even if they want to, which is unlikely. And I’m talking about the white soldiers. They’re already making it impossible for the Negroes. The white GIs are mad as hell that they’re with the Frauleins in the first place. The brass isn’t about to let them sully the country they fought for with miscegenation.”
“So the Frauleins will have to raise the babies on their own.”
“That’s the first time I heard you use the word without wrapping it in venom. Is it possible Millie Mosbach is going soft on Germans?”
“Possible, but not bloody likely, as you would say.”
They walked on in silence for a while until they reached a grassy area beyond the beach with a small, pastel-painted pavilion. She stopped and stood staring at it.
It was Sarah’s fifth birthday. Their mother had packed a picnic basket complete with a cake from Kranzler’s. She could still see Sarah’s eyes as their mother lifted it out of the hamper. The strains of “Hoch Sollst du Leben” floated over the water. Happy birthday, dear Sarah.
She sat down hard on the steps.
He sat beside her and took off his dark glasses to look at her. “Are you all right?”
She closed her eyes. The image faded. The music died. She opened them. The sun beat down through the newly leafed trees, da
ppling the wide expanse of lawn, bouncing off the surface of the lake, and splintering into blinding facets.
“I’m fine.”
“You keep saying that. You also keep saying you don’t want to go home. But maybe you should try London or Paris or Timbuktu, because I know one thing for sure. Berlin isn’t doing you any good.”
She didn’t say anything to that.
“In the beginning, when you first showed up, I thought you were here for vengeance.”
She hugged her knees and went on staring out at the water. “You weren’t entirely wrong.”
“Then I realized that was only part of it.”
She didn’t answer.
“You were searching.”
“I’ve stopped that. Thanks to you.” She swiveled to face him. “I didn’t mean that the way it sounded. I’m grateful.” She turned back to the lake. “In a way.”
He waited, and when she didn’t say anything else, he went on. “Now I think it’s more than both those things.” He hesitated. “Now I think it has to do with penance.”
She glanced at him briefly. “I thought we came out here for a day in the fresh air, not another session with Major Freud of the U.S. Army Medical Corps.”
“I ran into David at the officers’ club the other night. We had a drink. He told me what happened in the station.”
“The doctor told you what happened in the station. Both times.”
“I mean what happened in the station originally.”
She started to stand. He put his hand on her arm to stop her.
She sat again and turned back to the lake. “He shouldn’t have.”
“I asked him.”
“He didn’t have to answer.”
“He’s worried about you. He may be a wiz at enemy interrogation and aerial interpretation, but when it comes to the human condition, he’s in over his head and he knows it.”
It was what she’d thought that first night when she’d gone through the apartment looking for him, but that was different.
“Whereas you’re an expert.”
“Maybe I’m worried about you too.”
“He still shouldn’t have told you.”
“You mean he let the cat out of the bag? Revealed your deep, dark secret.”
“It’s not exactly something to be proud of.”
“I’m not so sure.”
“Okay, I’m proud of myself for quick thinking. Being so fast on my feet. Now can we drop it?”
“I don’t think you were so fast on your feet.”
“You’re wrong. I didn’t hesitate for a moment.”
“How did you manage to get to the Netherlands after the incident in the station?”
She whirled from the lake to him. “The incident! Talk about euphemisms.”
“The tragedy, the crisis, the crime, whatever you want to call it.”
“The betrayal.”
“Okay, have it your way. How did you manage to get to the Netherlands after it?”
“Didn’t David tell you that too? While he was recounting the story of my life?”
“He said you took the train and crossed the border into the Netherlands.”
She turned back to the lake, its surface broken into shimmering pieces by the glare of the sun. “We did. End of story.”
“Didn’t you have to show your passports when you got to the border?”
“Only on the Netherlands side.”
“Not on the German? Isn’t that a little unusual? It’s not my point, but still.”
“Something happened on the train. With a man in our compartment. He was a Jew. The guards decided he was smuggling something. He probably was. We all were. But when they couldn’t find anything, they got angry. Hustled him off the train and beat the living daylights out of him for outsmarting them.”
“But they didn’t hustle you and David off? Despite the telltale J on your passports?”
“They never bothered to check our passports. They were too busy saving face by beating up the man. Once again, another Jew’s misfortune was our good luck.”
“But you had your passports. You were ready to hand them over.”
“We didn’t exactly have a choice.”
“What I mean is you and David were each carrying your own papers as well as your own suitcases.”
“We all were, except my sister, Sarah. She was too little.”
“Was that usual?”
“Was what usual?”
“When you went on family holidays, did you each carry your own papers?”
“Of course not. We’d have our own luggage, but my father would carry all the papers. Even the maps.” She shook her head at the memory. It almost made her smile. “He was very orderly. And we were only kids. He didn’t trust us not to lose things.”
“Exactly. But this was a special instance.”
“That’s one way to put it.”
“According to David, when your father gave the two of you your papers, he also gave you instructions.”
She was silent.
“Didn’t he?”
“I know what you’re driving at. David’s been saying it for years. But he’s wrong. I don’t remember any instructions.”
“Talk about selective memory. Come on, Millie. You just said he was very careful. Very orderly. He wouldn’t have just handed you your passports without giving you instructions about them, and I don’t mean only warning you not to lose them. According to David, he told you that if any of you was stopped, the others must pretend not to know him and keep going. According to David, he told you that again and again.”
“He wouldn’t have denied us. My mother wouldn’t have either.”
“That’s different.”
She was still staring out over the water, but she shook her head. “No, it’s not.”
“As you said, you and David were kids. The future. His and your mother’s hope.”
“What about our sister? Wasn’t she the future? Wasn’t she their hope?”
“I’m sure that broke his heart. Just as it’s breaking yours. But better to save two of you than none. All I’m trying to say is I wouldn’t take too much credit for being so fast on your feet. You’re a quick thinker, but not that quick. It wasn’t your idea. It was your father’s. You were only following his orders, like any good German daughter. If anything, he’d be proud of you.”
“You want me to take a bow for betraying them?”
“I want you to stop wallowing in self-pity. We’re all ashamed. It’s a condition of our survival.”
“What do you have to be ashamed of? And don’t tell me about that incident in the schoolyard when you didn’t stand up for the crippled boy. That was omission, not commission.”
He was silent for a moment, and she turned to look at him just as he slipped his dark glasses back on and turned away from her to the lake. She looked away again too. She’d gotten only a glimpse of his expression, but it seemed indecent to go on watching him.
* * *
“There’s no point in each of us having dinner alone,” he said on the way back.
“You’re not exactly alone in an officers’ mess or club.”
“Don’t you believe it. Loneliest place in the world. Come on, I’ll make you dinner.”
“You know how to cook?”
“Don’t sound so surprised. One of the jobs that got me through college was in a diner. I started out as a dishwasher and worked my way up to the lofty position of short order cook. I turn out a mean eggs over easy with bacon. But I can do better than that tonight. I just happen to have a couple of steaks from the PX languishing in my refrigerator. And before you say anything, yes, that was forethought. I was counting on the combination of a day at Wannsee and my innate charm to lure you up for dinner.”
“It’s the word lure that worries me.”
“Okay, how do you feel about just letting me make you dinner?”
“I think I can handle that.”
The impersonality of the flat struck her aga
in. She didn’t expect a domestic touch, but most men, even men in the military, would leave some imprint, if only a mess. He wasn’t particularly neat—magazines and books were strewn around, opened packs of cigarettes lay on tables, ashtrays looked as if they hadn’t been emptied since the last time the Fraulein or Frau he wasn’t supposed to employ had come through—but the impression was of an apartment that could be vacated in half an hour. For the first time it occurred to her that he wasn’t as easygoing about the situation as he pretended. He couldn’t wait to say goodbye to Berlin.
The last rays of the afternoon sun spilled through the tall windows and cast an unforgiving light on bare walls hung with a few insipid prints of German landscapes inhabited by rosy-faced boys and girls—he couldn’t possibly have chosen those—a couple of chairs, an upholstery-sprung sofa, and two cheap wood veneer end tables. The only personal effect besides the books and magazines, packs of cigarettes, and overflowing ashtrays was a tennis racket in a wooden press leaning against one wall. He watched her taking it in.
“Not exactly Biedermeier elegance,” he said.
“At least there are no stolen goods.”
“You’re sure the piece in your flat is a confiscated real McCoy, not a reproduction?”
“Absolutely.”
“I take my hat off to Bryn Mawr’s art history department.”
She hesitated. “It’s a bit more than that,” she said finally. “We had a piece like that, exactly like that, in our apartment. I don’t know how it ended up in the one we’re in now, but I can guess.”
“Have you thought of trying to reclaim it?”
“More impeccable German records?”
“They exist.”
“I’m not sure I have the stomach for them.”
“That sounds promising. In fact, I’ll drink to it. Gin and tonics or martinis?”
“Whatever you’re making.”
“Gin and tonics. First of summer.” He started out of the room, and as she wandered the space picking up the books he’d left around and paging through them, she heard the sound of him chipping ice in the kitchen. She was still leafing through one of the volumes when she looked up and saw him standing in the doorway watching her.
The Living and the Lost Page 23
