Stefano has washed up in the bathroom tub behind the kitchen and looks at the mirror, at the richer color of his skin finally returning. I can survive, he thinks. There were days when he existed on just a few vegetables, but the smells on the stove are making him hungry. Rosalind has fried some potatoes with pieces of speck, and the smell of salted pig is making him salivate. She also boils some spinach taken from her garden. She has invited him to stay for supper, payment for all his work.
“I can stay, but if I’m not home by nightfall, my mother will share her best descriptive words.”
She smiles. “You have a sense of humor. That is interesting.”
“Interesting?”
“Yes.”
“You don’t think Italians have a sense of humor?”
He can see she finds this amusing also. She tips some water from the saucepan. She has also gone a little pink, though he can’t tell if it is from the steam or their banter.
“No. I meant there has been no reason to have a sense of humor. I had forgotten what it sounded like.”
He ponders this. She is right. The Allies were dancing in the streets, but he has seen little joy among the defeated.
“Excuse me for being so casual about your generous offer since you have so little. I gratefully accept.”
“Good,” she says. “I know what it is like to go hungry. When my parents died, I was forced to make do. With few rations after the war, I would spend much time searching for mushrooms, berries, and anything I could make into meals. I became creative. But I’m afraid that meat is still a luxury, and I don’t have much of it to offer you.”
“I am grateful for anything. Where did you go after . . . ?” he asks.
“After my parents were bombed? I came here.”
“You were there at the very end.”
“Yes. The hospital was being evacuated, and the city fell in pieces around me. It was carnage, trucks full of casualties who were left to die, some still caked in mud from the battlefields, because even the medics and doctors in field hospitals were being killed. And then the last line of German defense . . . untrained and not the age for such work . . . were brought in also. We worked hard to save many but lost many, too, and then suddenly it went quiet and then noisy again as truckloads of Russians came through. I was luckier than some . . .” She breaks off.
Stefano knows the other dead that she talks about: young boys unprepared for war and the elderly too old to hold a rifle steady were abandoned with firearms and waited, trapped in Berlin for their own disposal.
“Do you have any idea where your cousin might have gone?” He takes another look at the portrait as if Monique might answer the question herself.
“I don’t know,” she says, looking toward the front door. “She married an officer and moved away. We weren’t communicating much, but in one letter several months before the war ended, she said she was trying to get back here. I don’t like to speculate. It is difficult with Monique. She may have changed her mind. She was flighty.”
Stefano has noted her use of the past tense.
In the photo, Monique sits at an angle, just her head and shoulders visible, and she is turned slightly to look into the lens. The camera loves her. He looks away. He does not want to be distracted from the relationship he is building here.
Rosalind serves up food portions, keeping the chipped plate for herself.
“So, Michal, did you have jam where you were from?” she says curtly, as one would expect from a nurse on duty.
“Yes,” he whispers.
“So, you do talk then,” she says, turning to Stefano. “I could not get him to speak earlier.”
“He prefers to talk in the dark, to whisper. It is his memories he is most afraid of,” explains Stefano, “though he is becoming more brave.” Rosalind understands. She has been to hell also.
“Do you have a big family?” asks Rosalind.
And the boy is back to silence with his things, though he is thinking, now frowning, remembering.
Stefano asks to borrow the pipe Michal salvaged from the ruins. Michal hands it to him reluctantly, fearing it won’t return. Stefano pretends to light invisible tobacco in the pipe bowl and puts his mouth on the bit to make the puffing action, and Michal is absorbed in the display, his expression open. When Stefano gives the pipe back to him, the boy mimics the actions he just witnessed.
During supper Rosalind is courteous; the fact that he is working for her has released some of the tension in their conversations, and her eyes tend to linger on him longer. She doesn’t volunteer information, yet she answers everything. She knows a lot. She can describe places in Berlin. She can describe the people, patients she met. But throughout she is looking over his shoulder at the door that Georg has exited. And only a short time later Georg walks inside and sits next to them at the table to stare at the empty table space in front of him.
Rosalind stands up quickly and moves to the bench near the sink. Her own meal not quite finished, she prepares a plate of food for Georg and places it in front of him.
Stefano can see that Rosalind’s breathing is more rapid, her movements more erratic. She is nervous about Georg.
“Hello, Georg,” says Stefano, but he doesn’t respond, his eyes following Rosalind’s hands as she fusses with his utensils. Rosalind looks at Stefano and shakes her head. It is best he doesn’t speak to him.
Georg is tall with a long neck. His pale red-gold hair is kept short, his features fine: small nose, girlish lips, pointed chin. He might have been handsome once before the scar, before the damage forced his head to droop, his mouth to drool.
Without warning Georg picks up his plate and throws it on the floor. Michal jumps beneath the table in fear, and Stefano stands suddenly, in readiness to protect the others.
“No,” says Rosalind to Stefano, stopping him from interfering. “Everything is all right. You must go. I will fix this.”
He looks from Georg to Rosalind, attempting to determine whether she is safe. But he must also protect the boy. He talks softly to him under the table in an effort to coax him out. Michal doesn’t move, still staring up at Stefano, too afraid. Stefano reaches for his arm and pulls him out gently, then puts one arm around him protectively as he remembers the smashed things next door, an act of rage, and wonders now if Georg was responsible for the damage—not squatters as he was told.
Georg remains seated, his head back to drooping.
“I appreciate what you’ve done, but after tomorrow, once you are finished, I think you should move on without Erich’s help,” she says curtly, perhaps for Georg’s benefit. “This place is not for you. It was not a good idea to have you here. You should not be staying in the house with Erich.”
Her tone and words confound him, giving him the feeling of a cold shower directly after a warm one.
He nods. “Thank you for supper,” he says. Though there is still food on his plate.
Georg starts to sob and moan, and Rosalind turns to the sound. It is a long-drawn, desperate cry for help, thinks Stefano.
Michal pushes forward the marble from his basket, which rolls shakily across the table toward Georg and stops in front of him, and everyone watches Georg, curiously, wondering, waiting to hear thunder. And Georg raises his head, crying stopped suddenly, picks up the marble to examine it, then rolls it gently back across the table toward Michal. The boy doesn’t catch it; instead he watches it roll slowly off the table and fall to the ground.
Michal moves to pick it up, and Stefano nearly stops him, not wanting any sudden movement, but Georg’s expression is now one of curiosity. Michal picks it up and rolls it back toward Georg, but the push is too forceful, and it bounces, landing on Rosalind’s plate that still has food.
Georg stares at it a moment before breaking into laughter, and Rosalind looks at Stefano as if she has never seen him before, and then they hear it, too—small gurgles of laughter from Michal. And the laughter continues for several more moments, and Stefano’s half smile turns nearly into
a full one, and Rosalind, uncertainly at first, can’t help but smile, too, to see Georg happy, to hear the joy. And the clock makes its plocking sound, and Georg laughs again, when he never once noticed the clock’s sound before.
Stefano stands and reaches for the boy and says good night to Georg, who is smiling with the marble that he still has in his hand, which Michal has left for him.
Stefano shuts the door and walks to the dark house next door, listening for sounds of breaking and crashing behind him that do not come. He looks at the boy and wonders at the power of children that he has never known before.
22 April 1940
Dear Papa,
You should see the pile of letters I have for you now. I like to reread them, and occasionally I correct a word here and there. I guess I have Rosalind to thank for that. She was always pedantic about my spelling. I’m sorry it has been many months since I have written.
We did not go to the river house last summer. Georg has left to fight somewhere, though he would not say where. I miss him so terribly. I miss all the wonderful times that we had. Sometimes I think I will go mad if he doesn’t send me a letter. He thinks about lots of things. He looks at the bigger picture. He makes fun of the situation. He showed me a paper that is run by an underground organization. It had funny pictures of Hitler in extra-large boots and behind him an army of tin soldiers who had fallen over. He had to throw it away, of course. It is a severely punishable offense to make fun of our leader.
I have a new job as a shorthand typist for one of the Reich officers, which pays quite well. It was Erich, Georg’s friend, who recommended me for the job. The education reports I type are rather dull, but I discovered after a couple of weeks that some people in the office have a sense of humor at least, and even joked about the assassination attempt on our führer that happened last year. But when the minister is in attendance, we pretend that life has no joy, and we stare at our typewriters as if our lives depend on it. Perhaps they do. It seems you are punished, shot, sent to prison, for anything these days.
You would not recognize me in my dresses and suits. I sometimes worry that if you are released and we pass each other in the street, you will not recognize me. Uncle Max says I look like Mama, but when I look in the mirror, I see both of you.
I wrote and told you that Rosa is madly in love with Georg, though she always denies it. She is so strange, Papa, like a frightened little mouse too afraid to tell people how she feels.
I do have to tell you that I have lots of friends, and I have grown close to one in particular. He is not what you would expect, Papa. Alain is half African, and he is a performer in an African troupe that sings and dances; there are acrobatics, and their music is truly unique, and the whole show is vibrant and colorful. I have played matchmaker between him and Emmanuelle, my friend. Alain said his father is French, but he does not remember him.
Alain is not allowed in any bars. In fact, he is only to stay with his troupe. Rosalind tells me that I should not be seeing Alain or Emmanuelle. She says that I will get in trouble, and we are not allowed to mingle. But they break the monotony that is this new Berlin, now filled with dreary, awful conversations about war.
Anyway, the war is here to stay for a while yet it seems, though the war for you started long before now. I wish to never hear the transmissions that burst into our living rooms. I heard the propaganda minister, Goebbels, talking about our nation gathering strength, about our future shining victory, and about our desire to trust “our Hitler.” With you in prison I see no reason to trust. You saw this coming. I now understand a lot more clearly what you were trying to do. You could see where our country was headed; perhaps you could see that somehow it would become part of Germany. I hope that people out there will remember what you did and what you tried to do. When the war is over, I am sure that people will see sense, and you will be released.
I know that I appear flippant to some, but I care about you and everyone. I really do. I want to make my life count for something, Papa. Berlin is stifling here.
Oh, Papa, why aren’t you here?
I wish that you were reading these. I wish that you were writing to me. I wish I knew what was going on. But I am hopeful most of the time. If I’m not, I will go mad, and that would not help anyone.
I miss you.
Till I see you again,
Yours forever,
Love always,
Moni
CHAPTER 16
ERICH
Vivi is pretty with fair hair. Erich kisses the top of her head. She smiles, lips pressed together into a thin line. She has deep dimples of pleasure, so like her mother, and eyes that view with skepticism, those from Claudine. When she looks at Erich, she conflicts him, tests his strength. It is often good to get away from her to keep his head clear of things that link him to a life before.
“Do you have important business?” asks Marceline.
“Yes, I have. I will be back very late.”
“I understand.”
Marceline always does. She is used to secrets. She was apparently good at keeping them when she worked for other members of the Reich.
“I am boiling some eggs. You can take some with you if you wish.”
He thinks about Stefano and the orphaned boy. He nods, and Marceline exits to the kitchen. Erich turns toward his mother at her seat by the window.
He wants to touch her shoulder, to show he is there for her, but it is pointless. The light inside of her is all but extinguished. He thought he would never say it, but he is beginning to despise her being in this room. It feels as if she dwarfs everything in it, drains it of all life just with her presence. He knows there are ill feelings growing toward her, something he has tried to quash.
He has been thinking much about her final decision. Why she did what she did. Why she didn’t fight harder. She was so weak in one moment, whereas she had been nothing but strong for all of his life. He moves away toward the door before his thoughts become too vivid. She had always been a constant in his life. When he’d first had doubts toward the end of the war, she had been the one to return him to his path. She had known him better than anyone.
Erich stands beside the door, and Marceline hands him a small cloth bag that holds the eggs while they discuss some household matters. Vivi sits down on the floor. She has grown bored of the adults and has taken a pencil to paper.
“Say goodbye to your papa,” says Marceline in an abrupt tone. She does not like that the girl sits on the floor between them. It is not proper.
Vivi jumps up quickly to attention, like she has been taught. She is also being taught not to expect or demand things from people. Erich is teaching her that. Success can only come from patience and study. You cannot expect it from others. Though he learned that from his father, did he not? His father who made a good life, then made a bad choice.
There can be no mistakes if they are to survive this, if he is to successfully disappear, find a new place, begin again. His mind then turns to Stefano. The newcomer has rarely strayed from his thoughts. He worked with Italian soldiers and found them disorganized, purposely sloppy at times. They talked among themselves too much. Many of them resented the Germans, something they couldn’t hide. There was one instance where he found some apart from their group, drinking smuggled beer. He had told them all to return to their hut. They had joked in their own language and sauntered away, without respect. Though Stefano is different. He is careful, cautious, and diligent. One can tell this. He let his guard down with his satchel, but now it is never out of his sight. He learns.
Erich stops first at the pharmacy and hands the owner a list. The man puts on his glasses and scans it.
“I will try,” Elias says, “but it is getting harder. I cannot guarantee a permanent supply. These have been stolen, and sooner or later supplies will run out.”
“You will do everything you can, yes?”
“Yes,” says the pharmacist.
“Don’t let me down,” says Erich, and the tone, though amia
ble, still carries a certain amount of threat, which Elias detects.
Erich walks briskly along the road near dusk and detours to a narrow path between trees that run alongside the river. The path finishes at a clearing across from which is the gravel road toward the river houses he has grown to despise. But now at least there is something to go there for, and lately a reprieve from the town where he has had to hide or pretend. Rosalind doesn’t want him here. He would sooner leave and never see her again. Too much has happened to make some sort of amends. It is easier with strangers now. People like Stefano that he was ordered to destroy. People like Stefano that he has to learn to live with now.
When he arrives, Stefano is washing his hair in the tub at the back of the house. He does not look surprised, as if he has been listening out for Erich this time. He has rolled up his trousers and his sleeves, and his shirt hangs unbuttoned at the front. Erich does not show that he has noticed the scarring up Stefano’s forearm and part of his torso with pink puckered skin, though the skin of his neck and other arm is smooth and undamaged.
“Where is Michal?”
“I have put him to bed already.”
Stefano’s eyes are so black they can’t be distinguished from the pupils. He would have been quite handsome once, thinks Erich, if one is not comparing Aryan traits. Even the small indents of his youth do not detract from the fineness of his features and the golden-brown color of his skin.
“You are back early today. How was your work?” Stefano asks. The Italian rubs his hair with a towel, and droplets from the ends of his thick mass of hair darken the patch of ground he stands on.
“It was fine, though I am on double shifts while the factory recovers, and the Russians keep us busy. I have to work late again tonight, but I am back tomorrow. Perhaps we can share a meal together tomorrow evening.” Erich is thinking it might then be a good time to discuss his idea of traveling together. “I was paid today, and I have brought some eggs and more bread.”
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