“Stop!” says Stefano, who has just arrived.
In the meantime, the thief has thrown a cloth over the head of the goose.
“Give it to me!” says Stefano in German. The small boy stands a safe distance behind him.
The older man doesn’t respond at first but then sees the height of Stefano and throws the goose toward the gate of the pen. The bird falls sideways, protesting loudly at her badly damaged leg, allowing Stefano to usher her, risking her snapping beak, back into the pen. Rosalind hastily closes the gate, and the goose limps away toward her tin enclosure, her grumblings more muted now.
“Where are you from?” asks Stefano.
The man steps closer to the girl. He looks worried now, perhaps more so for the girl.
“France,” says the man.
Stefano says something in French, and then a conversation between them ensues. Rosalind doesn’t know enough French to understand.
Stefano turns to Rosalind. “They are French Jews. The girl is his granddaughter. They were in a concentration camp and then after the war in a hospital in Poland for several months before the man could walk again. The man’s wife, daughter, and his two other grandchildren were killed in the concentration camp . . . They are traveling back to France and have not eaten a proper meal in days.”
The pair stares bleakly at Rosalind.
“Do they have any other family they can go to?” says Rosalind.
Stefano asks them, then reports their response.
“He says his son who was taken to a different camp might have survived, but he is no longer hopeful, not after the things he witnessed.”
Rosalind wills herself to feel something, but she can’t. She has had little to do with Jews, has distanced herself from news of their fates.
“I can’t help them,” says Rosalind.
“They are starving,” he says.
“They hurt the goose. They were about to steal it. Why should I offer them any charity? They look at me as if they want to kill me.”
“They are starving. People do crazy things. They look at you, at your health, at what you have. They can only envy.”
“They would not envy me if they knew the truth.”
Rosalind looks at the girl, who doesn’t look so alien now, and the grandfather, who appears not as hostile. She is remembering a time on her way from Berlin when she had nothing, when she ate the potato peels she found on the ground.
“They can’t have a goose.”
Stefano reaches into his satchel and pulls out a chocolate bar, which he breaks, and hands a piece to each of them.
“Can you spare anything else?” Stefano says to Rosalind.
Rosalind walks angrily inside the house to the pantry and cuts a portion of rye bread, only enough for one. She is not yet over the damage to the goose.
When she comes out she hands the bread to the girl, not the man, who is likely to snatch, she thinks. She does not want to touch him. The girl takes it cautiously from her.
Stefano shrugs at something the Jew says in French before he nods in reluctant gratitude to Stefano only, and turns to leave.
“What did he say?”
“He guesses now we will eat the goose that they should have.”
“He sounds ungrateful,” says Rosalind.
Once the man and his granddaughter are out of sight, Rosalind turns back to check on the goose. It squawks and pecks at her as she tries to examine the leg. She is not sure if it is broken. She still feels only anger, not pity for the vagrants.
“That was generous of you,” says Stefano as she walks past him. His words affect her, and she is suddenly ashamed that she hasn’t been generous at all. She could have given them more. She has some vegetables in the garden and a bag of rye to grind for bread.
“Have there been many?” he asks.
“A few.” Though she does not tell of the ones she turned away.
1938
Monique stopped suddenly and crouched behind a tree, putting her fingers to her lips for Rosalind to be quiet.
She was about to tell Monique to stop being childish, thinking that Monique was playing a silly game, when she saw the reason for her cousin’s odd behavior. Georg was in the shallows of the river, shirt off. His hair was cut short on the sides and longer on the top, his normally soft waves flattened from the water. But Georg wasn’t alone. Beside him was another boy, this one in a singlet and shorts. They were soaking, the newcomer drenched by Georg, who was splashing him to death.
Monique put her hand across her mouth to stop herself from laughing. She wore shorts and a light-green button-up blouse, and her breasts strained against the buttons.
“That must be Erich,” whispered Monique.
“Who? How do you know?”
“Georg wrote and told me he was bringing a new friend home for the summer.”
Before Rosalind could process the fact that Georg wrote to Monique and not her, Monique had already rushed forward and announced herself.
“Hello, fellow owl!” she shouted.
Georg rushed out of the water and wrapped his wet body around Monique, who protested with squeals to escape; however, her laughter suggested she was enjoying every moment. Georg then stepped forward and gave Rosalind a brief hug, not wanting to dampen her clothes. She didn’t want him to treat her differently, but he did. At the time she had hoped it was because he had more respect for her.
Erich disappeared into the background, but he had watched the whole thing, studied everyone, and seen for himself in the first few minutes the dynamics of the group.
“What took you so long to get here?” Georg asked playfully while he picked up a towel off the ground and furiously dried his hair. Erich also toweled his hair, though his movements were more intentional.
“Erich and I met at a Hitler Youth camp, and he used to live not far from here,” said Georg directly to Rosalind. She presumed this was because Monique had known already, and during the hours together on their long train journey, Monique had not bothered to tell Rosalind anything, preferring to write her private letters. “He is almost as clever as me! He is nearly as fast as me at running, too. He is nearly as good looking.”
Erich stepped forward, pushing his friend out of the way in jest, his hand out formally to Rosalind. Erich’s hand was cold and bumpy from the water. She did not like the feel of it. Monique stretched her hand out to him more eagerly, and their hands touched for longer.
“Nice to meet you,” he said, his eyes lingering on Monique. He was good at speaking, his voice rich and deep, thought Rosalind. She could imagine him on the radio.
“Erich is off to study engineering next year.”
“That sounds very interesting!” said Monique.
“I want to build machinery with my father.”
“That sounds fascinating! What does your father do?”
Rosalind knew that Monique would not find any subject to do with machinery fascinating, but she was good at pretense. Good at making people believe her.
“He designs vehicles.”
Erich was not shy, but he was not like Georg, either, who could butt into a conversation without offending. The newcomer stepped back from the group, hardly noticeable to all but Rosalind, to get a clearer view of the overall scene, a habit that she would come to recognize. Rosalind could feel that he was appraising each of them, weighing their value. Once his hair was dry, it was revealed that, like that of most Hitler boys, it was straight and fair, hanging fashionably over to one side of his forehead, and shaved on the sides.
“Tell Rosa what you are planning to do, Georg!” said Monique.
And once again Rosalind tasted the bitterness of exclusion.
“I am joining the military. I will be a member of Hitler’s army.”
“Do you think you will see actual fighting?” asked Monique suddenly, the alarm in her voice at least genuine this time.
“I hope so. I don’t want to do all this for no cause.”
The foursome sat on a patch of e
mbankment beside the river and listened briefly to Georg tell tales from the youth camp. Georg had poked fun the previous year at the systems and the Nazi salute they had to perform at the camp, though this year there was a change. There seemed to be more pride, perhaps for Erich’s benefit. They talked of the food, which was adequate, and the way they had to present themselves perfectly pressed, up early, beds made. Of teachers who fashioned their mustaches like Hitler, of another boy who had broken his leg sneaking out of a window at night, of boys who were sent away for unruly behavior and others turned away because of their race.
“Their race?” said Monique. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Where have you been hiding? Siberia?” joked Georg.
“They found Jews in the middle of the camp pretending they were German,” explained Erich. “It was humiliating for the officials who had accepted them into the camp.”
“If they were born here, then they are likely German anyway, so what does it matter?” said Monique.
“It is about being loyal to one’s true race,” said Erich decisively, as if he were more in the know about the subject. “And Jews will most likely agree that going back to their own country eventually, which our führer encourages, will be better for them.”
“Where is that?” Monique asked.
Erich paused briefly before answering. “Somewhere far away,” he said with less conclusiveness, because he hadn’t been told exactly.
“Oh, I see,” said Monique. But she didn’t really want to. They had discussed the laws over the dinner table in Berlin with Rosalind’s parents. Rosalind had said it was for the best, and Monique had said it was stupid, but she could not come up with a good-enough reason at the time to say why she thought that way.
“Adolf Hitler has been to inspect our camp,” said Erich. “He has torn up the Treaty of Versailles, so Germany can become a free and powerful country again. First we took Austria, and there is talk that Czechoslovakia could be next. The führer said he will fight any country that opposes his decisions.”
“I don’t like this talk of fighting,” said Monique. She had asked her aunt and uncle whether Germany’s occupation of Austria meant that her father would be freed. Max had then made further inquiries, but no one could tell him where Gustav had been imprisoned, and whether he was still alive. Though this last inquiry was never mentioned in front of Monique.
“I will give you a tour of our secret hideaway in the woods,” Monique said to Erich to change the conversation. “And I will tell you bad things about Georg that you didn’t know.” She winked playfully.
“Best idea!” Georg said to Erich, encouraging him to go.
Monique linked arms with Erich, and Georg and Rosalind watched the other pair leave. “What made you choose to bring Erich? You have lots of friends by the sound of it.”
“He is a present for you and a good match.”
“For me?” Rosalind spun her head suddenly around to face him, shocked.
“I thought you needed some male distraction, Rosa. You need a life.”
“I have a life!” she said. “I’m starting my nurse’s training soon.”
“But you need a boyfriend, someone to dream about when you are in that horrible, smelly Berlin. Erich lives there, too, you know!”
“But I have someone. I have you . . .” And it was out before she could control it.
“You never get my jokes,” he said. “He’s a good friend. I brought him for me, not you!” He looked down, afraid to meet her eyes. She wished she could take back what she had said. Wished that she had said nothing, but it would have been in vain. Her eyes had been saying how she felt for years.
“Let’s go find the others!” said Georg. She sensed his longing to dispense with idle conversation.
“No, I think I’ll stay awhile here.” She felt suddenly awkward and sad. She did not feel like seeing Monique and having her steer their conversations. She did not feel like being insignificant that day.
“No, you won’t!” said Georg, and he picked her up and carried her along the leafy pathway toward the sounds of conversation happening deeper in the wood.
She protested weakly, though liking his arms around her, and she turned her face into his chest to avoid the pine needles whipping her face as he ran. Perhaps he was testing her with what he’d just said. Perhaps he really liked her but couldn’t say it. She modestly pulled down her skirt, which had risen up when he had lifted her.
Georg stopped suddenly several yards back from the riverbank, and she looked up at his face, at the line of his jaw, at the hollow of his throat. She wondered about his sudden intensity and turned then to follow his gaze.
Monique and Erich were sitting close together, dangling their legs off the platform. They talked in hushed tones as if they had known each other for years. Monique had her hand on his shoulder.
Georg gently placed Rosalind down on the ground and turned his focus back on her, giving her a hug.
“It is good to see my Rosa. It is so good to be here.” Though it did not feel genuine to Rosalind, merely a mask to cover whatever it was that disturbed him.
He called out to the couple, who had surely heard them pounding the earth, but they were too interested in their own private conversation.
Monique finally acknowledged them there, and they moved to allow the others room to sit also.
“It feels much colder today,” said Monique, who had wrapped her arms around herself and leaned closer to Erich. “I don’t think I’ll swim today.”
“Since when has the cold ever stopped you?” asked Georg.
Monique picked up a fallen leaf and tickled Georg under his nose as he sat beside her.
“Stop it!” he said suddenly. And she appeared shocked at the sullenness in his tone, which he rarely used.
“I don’t want you to go to join the military, Georgie!” she said suddenly, perhaps recognizing the change, perhaps even guessing the reason. He was jealous of Erich’s attention, something Georg had not prepared for. “Like I told you in the letter I wrote you, I couldn’t stand it if something happened to you.”
One would expect the thought of something bad happening to dampen the mood, but these words lifted Georg again. Rosalind had been watching him each summer for years now, and never had she seen him affected by something as small as Monique’s attention on Erich.
Georg’s face brightened. He picked Monique up and jumped with her into the river.
Rosalind sat a foot away from Erich at the edge of the embankment, her legs dangling, her feet not touching the water. Erich was watching them. And no one was watching her. And things seemed different, and Rosalind suspected something awful would come. Not necessarily the war that would alter all of them, but that her relationship with Georg was diminishing to merely childhood fantasies.
Present-day 1945
Even thin-faced and worn, he is handsome, but his dark eyes under a heavy forehead unsettle her, and more so than the fact he is a man, and that the foreign men she has met are volatile, unpredictable, sometimes callous.
Rosalind looks at the boy, at his joyless face covered in dirt. He needs to be washed and fed. And Stefano came to her aid at least. She owes him something.
“Do you have any food?” She knows there is nothing in the house next door.
“We have some rations,” he says.
She looks down, pinches her top lip again between her teeth. He is also harmless, she thinks, and vulnerable in a strange country. Erich has seen the surrender in Stefano, has been quickly able to see things that others can’t, has been able to smell the air for any traces of betrayal. It is this that probably seals the trust.
“I have some more bread,” she says to Stefano. “Perhaps the boy would like some, too.”
Stefano looks behind him at the child.
“Thank you,” he says. “If you have some to spare. I have money—”
“No,” she says, shaking her head. “Please come.”
They follow her into the h
ouse, and Stefano surveys the room at first before looking upward to the top of the stairs, perhaps to see any sign of Georg.
“My husband is asleep,” she says, filling the kettle from a water jug near the sink and lighting the stove.
“Have you always lived here?”
“Yes, and no. I spent many childhood summers here, but mostly we lived in Berlin.”
“Were you there at the end?”
“Berlin? Yes.”
She walks to the room at the end of the house and quickly returns with a clean bandage.
“You are kind,” he says. “Thank you.” Though there is an undertone, she speculates, of cynicism in the words. She pushes the thought from her head. It is her nature to overanalyze.
She serves them some tea and a piece of rye bread, and Michal eats quickly, afraid it will be snatched away at any moment. They sit at the table, and the light falls across Stefano, illuminating the small, round sunken marks from his youth, like tiny bullet wounds, around his jawline.
Their talk is awkward, sentences stopped short, in case too much is given away.
The clock makes its sound, and the boy startles.
Rosalind asks the boy where he is from, to smother the jarring silence, but he answers only with stares.
“He does not talk much,” says Stefano, who then explains the child’s circumstances, before opening the conversation further to talk about himself. He mentions briefly his mother and sisters, and then his capture by the Germans toward the close of the war, when they no longer knew who or what they were fighting for. That by then he fought for nothing but survival. How he was sent to Sachsenhausen, and after the war, he was kept imprisoned by the Russians, just to make certain he wasn’t a spy. He says that the walk from Berlin has been difficult with the aching in his lower leg worse than it has felt for months. But it matters not the trail behind him, he tells her, it is the destination now that features in his head.
He is different from most. He carries something that her own soldiers in the hospital in those final days no longer carried. Hope.
The Road Beyond Ruin Page 10
